As to the citizens,
he now understood what their huzzas and bonfires were worth.
he now understood what their huzzas and bonfires were worth.
Macaulay
[583]
Many years later Hugh Speke affirmed that the Irish Night was his work,
that he had prompted the rustics who raised London, and that he was the
author of the letters which had spread dismay through the country. His
assertion is not intrinsically improbable: but it rests on no evidence
except his own word. He was a man quite capable of committing such
a villany, and quite capable also of falsely boasting that he had
committed it. [584]
At London William was impatiently expected: for it was not doubted that
his vigour and ability would speedily restore order and security. There
was however some delay for which the Prince cannot justly be blamed. His
original intention had been to proceed from Hungerford to Oxford, where
he was assured of an honourable and affectionate reception: but the
arrival of the deputation from Guildhall induced him to change his
intention and to hasten directly towards the capital. On the way he
learned that Feversham, in pursuance of the King's orders, had dismissed
the royal army, and that thousands of soldiers, freed from restraint and
destitute of necessaries, were scattered over the counties through
which the road to London lay. It was therefore impossible for William
to proceed slenderly attended without great danger, not only to his own
person, about which he was not much in the habit of being solicitous,
but also to the great interests which were under his care. It was
necessary that he should regulate his own movements by the movements of
his troops; and troops could then move but slowly over the highways of
England in midwinter. He was, on this occasion, a little moved from his
ordinary composure. "I am not to be thus dealt with," he exclaimed
with bitterness; "and that my Lord Feversham shall find. " Prompt and
judicious measures were taken to remedy the evils which James
had caused. Churchill and Grafton were entrusted with the task of
reassembling the dispersed army and bringing it into order. The English
soldiers were invited to resume their military character. The Irish were
commanded to deliver up their arms on pain of being treated as banditti,
but were assured that, if they would submit quietly, they should be
supplied with necessaries. [585]
The Prince's orders were carried into effect with scarcely any
opposition, except from the Irish soldiers who had been in garrison at
Tilbury. One of these men snapped a pistol at Grafton. It missed fire,
and the assassin was instantly shot dead by an Englishman. About two
hundred of the unfortunate strangers made a gallant attempt to return
to their own country. They seized a richly laden East Indiaman which
had just arrived in the Thames, and tried to procure pilots by force at
Gravesend. No pilot, however was to be found; and they were under the
necessity of trusting to their own skill in navigation. They soon ran
their ship aground, and, after some bloodshed, were compelled to lay
down their arms. [586]
William had now been five weeks on English ground; and during the whole
of that time his good fortune had been uninterrupted. His own prudence
and firmness had been conspicuously displayed, and yet had done less for
him than the folly and pusillanimity of others. And now, at the moment
when it seemed that his plans were about to be crowned with entire
success, they were disconcerted by one of those strange incidents which
so often confound the most exquisite devices of human policy.
On the morning of the thirteenth of December the people of London,
not yet fully recovered from the agitation of the Irish Night, were
surprised by a rumour that the King had been detained, and was still in
the island. The report gathered strength during the day, and was fully
confirmed before the evening.
James had travelled with relays of coach horses along the southern shore
of the Thames, and on the morning of the twelfth had reached Emley Ferry
near the island of Sheppey. There lay the hoy in which he was to sail.
He went on board: but the wind blew fresh; and the master would not
venture to put to sea without more ballast. A tide was thus lost.
Midnight was approaching before the vessel began to float. By that time
the news that the King had disappeared, that the country was without a
government, and that London was in confusion, had travelled fast down
the Thames, and wherever it spread had produced outrage and misrule. The
rude fishermen of the Kentish coast eyed the hoy with suspicion and with
cupidity. It was whispered that some persons in the garb of gentlemen
had gone on board of her in great haste. Perhaps they were Jesuits:
perhaps they were rich. Fifty or sixty boatmen, animated at once by
hatred of Popery and by love of plunder, boarded the hoy just as she was
about to make sail. The passengers were told that they must go on
shore and be examined by a magistrate. The King's appearance excited
suspicion. "It is Father Petre," cried one ruffian; "I know him by his
lean jaws. " "Search the hatchet faced old Jesuit," became the general
cry. He was rudely pulled and pushed about. His money and watch were
taken from him. He had about him his coronation ring, and some other
trinkets of great value: but these escaped the search of the robbers,
who indeed were so ignorant of jewellery that they took his diamond
buckles for bits of glass.
At length the prisoners were put on shore and carried to an inn. A crowd
had assembled there to see them; and James, though disguised by a wig of
different shape and colour from that which he usually wore, was at
once recognised. For a moment the rabble seemed to be overawed: but the
exhortations of their chiefs revived their courage; and the sight of
Hales, whom they well knew and bitterly hated, inflamed their fury. His
park was in the neighbourhood; and at that very moment a band of rioters
was employed in pillaging his house and shooting his deer. The multitude
assured the King that they would not hurt him: but they refused to let
him depart. It chanced that the Earl of Winchelsea, a Protestant, but
a zealous royalist, head of the Finch family, and a near kinsman of
Nottingham, was then at Canterbury. As soon as he learned what
had happened he hastened to the coast, accompanied by some Kentish
gentlemen. By their intervention the King was removed to a more
convenient lodging: but he was still a prisoner. The mob kept constant
watch round the house to which he had been carried; and some of the
ringleaders lay at the door of his bedroom. His demeanour meantime was
that of a man, all the nerves of whose mind had been broken by the load
of misfortunes. Sometimes he spoke so haughtily that the rustics who had
charge of him were provoked into making insolent replies. Then he betook
himself to supplication. "Let me go," he cried; "get me a boat. The
Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now,
it will be too late. My blood will be on your heads. He that is not with
me is against me. " On this last text he preached a sermon half an hour
long. He harangued on a strange variety of subjects, on the disobedience
of the fellows of Magdalene College, on the miracles wrought by Saint
Winifred's well, on the disloyalty of the black coats, and on the
virtues of a piece of the true cross which he had unfortunately lost.
"What have I done? " he demanded of the Kentish squires who attended him.
"Tell me the truth. What error have I committed? " Those to whom he put
these questions were too humane to return the answer which must have
risen to their lips, and listened to his wild talk in pitying silence.
[587]
When the news that he had been stopped, insulted, roughly handled, and
plundered, and that he was still a prisoner in the hands of rude churls,
reached the capital, many passions were roused. Rigid Churchmen, who
had, a few hours before, begun to think that they were freed from their
allegiance to him, now felt misgivings. He had not quitted his kingdom.
He had not consummated his abdication. If he should resume his regal
office, could they, on their principles, refuse to pay him obedience?
Enlightened statesmen foresaw with concern that all the disputes which
his flight had for a moment set at rest would be revived and exasperated
by his return. Some of the common people, though still smarting from
recent wrongs, were touched with compassion for a great prince outraged
by ruffians, and were willing to entertain a hope, more honourable to
their good nature than to their discernment, that he might even now
repent of the errors which had brought on him so terrible a punishment.
From the moment when it was known that the King was still in England,
Sancroft, who had hitherto acted as chief of the provisional government,
absented himself from the sittings of the Peers. Halifax, who had just
returned from the Dutch head quarters, was placed in the chair. His
sentiments had undergone a great change in a few hours. Both public and
private feelings now impelled him to join the Whigs. Those who candidly
examine the evidence which has come down to us will be of opinion that
he accepted the office of royal Commissioner in the sincere hope of
effecting an accommodation between the King and the Prince on fair
terms. The negotiation had commenced prosperously: the Prince had
offered terms which the King could not but acknowledge to be fair: the
eloquent and ingenious Trimmer might flatter himself that he should be
able to mediate between infuriated factions, to dictate a compromise
between extreme opinions, to secure the liberties and religion of his
country, without exposing her to the risks inseparable from a change of
dynasty and a disputed succession. While he was pleasing himself
with thoughts so agreeable to his temper, he learned that he had been
deceived, and had been used as an instrument for deceiving the nation.
His mission to Hungerford had been a fool's errand. The King had never
meant to abide by the terms which he had instructed his Commissioners
to propose. He had charged them to declare that he was willing to submit
all the questions in dispute to the Parliament which he had summoned;
and, while they were delivering his message, he had burned the
writs, made away with the seal, let loose the army, suspended the
administration of justice, dissolved the government, and fled from
the capital. Halifax saw that an amicable arrangement was no longer
possible. He also felt, it may be suspected, the vexation natural to a
man widely renowned for wisdom, who finds that he has been duped by an
understanding immeasurably inferior to his own, and the vexation natural
to a great master of ridicule, who finds himself placed in a ridiculous
situation. His judgment and his resentment alike induced him to
relinquish the schemes of reconciliation on which he had hitherto been
intent, and to place himself at the head of those who were bent on
raising William to the throne. [588]
A journal of what passed in the Council of Lords while Halifax presided
is still extant in his own handwriting. [589] No precaution, which
seemed necessary for the prevention of outrage and robbery, was omitted.
The Peers took on themselves the responsibility of giving orders
that, if the rabble rose again, the soldiers should fire with bullets.
Jeffreys was brought to Whitehall and interrogated as to what had become
of the Great Seal and the writs. At his own earnest request he was
remanded to the Tower, as the only place where his life could be
safe; and he retired thanking and blessing those who had given him the
protection of a prison. A Whig nobleman moved that Oates should be set
at liberty: but this motion was overruled. [590]
The business of the day was nearly over, and Halifax was about to rise,
when he was informed that a messenger from Sheerness was in attendance.
No occurrence could be more perplexing or annoying. To do anything,
to do nothing, was to incur a grave responsibility. Halifax, wishing
probably to obtain time for communication with the Prince, would have
adjourned the meeting; but Mulgrave begged the Lords to keep their
seats, and introduced the messenger. The man told his story with many
tears, and produced a letter written in the King's hand, and addressed
to no particular person, but imploring the aid of all good Englishmen.
[591]
Such an appeal it was hardly possible to disregard. The Lords ordered
Feversham to hasten with a troop of the Life Guards to the place where
the King was detained, and to set his Majesty at liberty.
Already Middleton and a few other adherents of the royal cause had set
out to assist and comfort their unhappy master. They found him strictly
confined, and were not suffered to enter his presence till they had
delivered up their swords. The concourse of people about him was by this
time immense. Some Whig gentlemen of the neighbourhood had brought a
large body of militia to guard him. They had imagined most erroneously
that by detaining him they were ingratiating themselves with his
enemies, and were greatly disturbed when they learned that the treatment
which the King had undergone was disapproved by the Provisional
Government in London, and that a body of cavalry was on the road
to release him. Feversham soon arrived. He had left his troop at
Sittingbourne; but there was no occasion to use force. The King was
suffered to depart without opposition, and was removed by his friends to
Rochester, where he took some rest, which he greatly needed. He was in
a pitiable state. Not only was his understanding, which had never been
very clear, altogether bewildered: but the personal courage which, when
a young man, he had shown in several battles, both by sea and by land,
had forsaken him. The rough corporal usage which he had now, for the
first time, undergone, seems to have discomposed him more than any
other event of his chequered life. The desertion of his army, of his
favourites, of his family, affected him less than the indignities
which he suffered when his hoy was boarded. The remembrance of those
indignities continued long to rankle in his heart, and on one occasion
showed itself in a way which moved all Europe to contemptuous mirth. In
the fourth year of his exile he attempted to lure back his subjects by
offering them an amnesty. The amnesty was accompanied by a long list
of exceptions; and in this list the poor fishermen who had searched his
pockets rudely appeared side by side with Churchill and Danby. From this
circumstance we may judge how keenly he must have felt the outrage while
it was still recent. [592]
Yet, had he possessed an ordinary measure of good sense, he would have
seen that those who had detained him had unintentionally done him a
great service. The events which had taken place during his absence from
his capital ought to have convinced him that, if he had succeeded in
escaping, he never would have returned. In his own despite he had been
saved from ruin. He had another chance, a last chance. Great as his
offences had been, to dethrone him, while he remained in his kingdom and
offered to assent to such conditions as a free Parliament might impose,
would have been almost impossible.
During a short time he seemed disposed to remain. He sent Feversham from
Rochester with a letter to William. The substance of the letter was that
His Majesty was on his way back to Whitehall, that he wished to have
a personal conference with the Prince, and that Saint James's Palace
should be fitted up for his Highness. [593]
William was now at Windsor. He had learned with deep mortification the
events which had taken place on the coast of Kent. Just before the
news arrived, those who approached him observed that his spirits were
unusually high. He had, indeed, reason to rejoice. A vacant throne was
before him. All parties, it seemed, would, with one voice, invite him
to mount it. On a sudden his prospects were overcast. The abdication,
it appeared, had not been completed. A large proportion of his own
followers would have scruples about deposing a King who remained among
them, who invited them to represent their grievances in a parliamentary
way, and who promised full redress. It was necessary that the Prince
should examine his new position, and determine on a new line of action.
No course was open to him which was altogether free from objections,
no course which would place him in a situation so advantageous as that
which he had occupied a few hours before. Yet something might be done.
The King's first attempt to escape had failed. What was now most to be
desired was that he should make a second attempt with better success. He
must be at once frightened and enticed. The liberality with which he had
been treated in the negotiation at Hungerford, and which he had
requited by a breach of faith, would now be out of season. No terms of
accommodation must be proposed to him. If he should propose terms he
must be coldly answered. No violence must be used towards him, or even
threatened. Yet it might not be impossible, without either using or
threatening violence, to make so weak a man uneasy about his personal
safety. He would soon be eager to fly. All facilities for flight must
then be placed within his reach; and care must be taken that he should
not again be stopped by any officious blunderer.
Such was William's plan: and the ability and determination with which
he carried it into effect present a strange contrast to the folly
and cowardice with which he had to deal. He soon had an excellent
opportunity of commencing his system of intimidation. Feversham
arrived at Windsor with James's letter. The messenger had not been very
judiciously selected. It was he who had disbanded the royal army. To
him primarily were to be imputed the confusion and terror of the Irish
Night. His conduct was loudly blamed by the public. William had been
provoked into muttering a few words of menace: and a few words of menace
from William's lips generally meant something. Feversham was asked for
his safe conduct. He had none. By coming without one into the midst of a
hostile camp, he had, according to the laws of war, made himself liable
to be treated with the utmost severity. William refused to see him,
and ordered him to be put under arrest. [594] Zulestein was instantly
despatched to inform James that the Prince declined the proposed
conference, and desired that His Majesty would remain at Rochester.
But it was too late. James was already in London. He had hesitated about
the journey, and had, at one time, determined to make another attempt to
reach the Continent. But at length he yielded to the urgency of friends
who were wiser than himself, and set out for Whitehall. He arrived
there on the afternoon of Sunday, the sixteenth of December. He had been
apprehensive that the common people, who, during his absence, had
given so many proofs of their aversion to Popery, would offer him some
affront. But the very violence of the recent outbreak had produced
a remission. The storm had spent itself. Good humour and pity had
succeeded to fury. In no quarter was any disposition shown to insult the
King. Some cheers were raised as his coach passed through the City. The
bells of some churches were rung; and a few bonfires were lighted in
honour of his return. [595] His feeble mind, which had just before been
sunk in despondency, was extravagantly elated by these unexpected signs
of popular goodwill and compassion. He entered his dwelling in high
spirits. It speedily resumed its old aspect. Roman Catholic priests, who
had, during the preceding week, been glad to hide themselves from the
rage of the multitude in vaults and cocklofts, now came forth from their
lurking places, and demanded possession of their old apartments in the
palace. Grace was said at the royal table by a Jesuit. The Irish
brogue, then the most hateful of all sounds to English ears, was heard
everywhere in the courts and galleries. The King himself had resumed all
his old haughtiness. He held a Council, his last Council, and, even in
that extremity, summoned to the board persons not legally qualified to
sit there. He expressed high displeasure at the conduct of those
Lords who, during his absence, had dared to take the administration
on themselves. It was their duty, he conceived, to let society be
dissolved, to let the houses of Ambassadors be pulled down, to let
London be set on fire, rather than assume the functions which he had
thought fit to abandon. Among those whom he thus censured were some
nobles and prelates who, in spite of all his errors, had been constantly
true to him, and who, even after this provocation, never could be
induced by hope or fear to transfer their allegiance from him to any
other sovereign. [596]
But his courage was soon cast down. Scarcely had he entered his palace
when Zulestein was announced. William's cold and stern message was
delivered. The King still pressed for a personal conference with his
nephew. "I would not have left Rochester," he said, "if I had known that
he wished me not to do so: but, since I am here, I hope that he will
come to Saint James's. " "I must plainly tell your Majesty," said
Zulestein, "that His Highness will not come to London while there are
any troops here which are not under his orders. " The King, confounded
by this answer, remained silent. Zulestein retired; and soon a gentleman
entered the bedchamber with the news that Feversham had been put under
arrest. [597] James was greatly disturbed. Yet the recollection of the
applause with which he had been greeted still buoyed up his spirits.
A wild hope rose in his mind. He fancied that London, so long the
stronghold of Protestantism and Whiggism, was ready to take arms in his
defence. He sent to ask the Common Council whether, if he took up his
residence in the City, they would engage to defend him against the
Prince. But the Common Council had not forgotten the seizure of the
charter and the judicial murder of Cornish, and refused to give the
pledge which was demanded. Then the King's heart again sank within him.
Where, he asked, was he to look for protection? He might as well have
Dutch troops about him as his own Life Guards.
As to the citizens,
he now understood what their huzzas and bonfires were worth. Nothing
remained but flight: and yet, he said, he knew that there was nothing
which his enemies so much desired as that he would fly. [598]
While he was in this state of trepidation, his fate was the subject of
a grave deliberation at Windsor. The court of William was now crowded to
overflowing with eminent men of all parties. Most of the chiefs of the
Northern insurrection had joined him. Several of the Lords, who had,
during the anarchy of the preceding week, taken upon themselves to act
as a provisional government, had, as soon as the King returned, quitted
London for the Dutch head quarters. One of these was Halifax. William
had welcomed him with great satisfaction, but had not been able to
suppress a sarcastic smile at seeing the ingenious and accomplished
politician, who had aspired to be the umpire in that great contention,
forced to abandon the middle course and to take a side. Among those who,
at this conjuncture, repaired to Windsor were some men who had purchased
the favour of James by ignominious services, and who were now impatient
to atone, by betraying their master, for the crime of having betrayed
their country. Such a man was Titus, who had sate at the Council board
in defiance of law, and who had laboured to unite the Puritans with the
Jesuits in a league against the constitution. Such a man was Williams,
who had been converted by interest from a demagogue into a champion of
prerogative, and who was now ready for a second apostasy. These men
the Prince, with just contempt, suffered to wait at the door of his
apartment in vain expectation of an audience. [599]
On Monday, the seventeenth of December, all the Peers who were at
Windsor were summoned to a solemn consultation at the Castle. The
subject proposed for deliberation was what should be done with the King.
William did not think it advisable to be present during the discussion.
He retired; and Halifax was called to the chair. On one point the Lords
were agreed. The King could not be suffered to remain where he was. That
one prince should fortify himself in Whitehall and the other in Saint
James's, that there should be two hostile garrisons within an area of
a hundred acres, was universally felt to be inexpedient. Such an
arrangement could scarcely fail to produce suspicions, insults, and
bickerings which might end in blood. The assembled Lords, therefore,
thought it advisable that James should be sent out of London. Ham, which
had been built and decorated by Lauderdale, on the banks of the Thames,
out of the plunder of Scotland and the bribes of France, and which was
regarded as the most luxurious of villas, was proposed as a convenient
retreat. When the Lords had come to this conclusion, they requested
the Prince to join them. Their opinion was then communicated to him, by
Halifax. William listened and approved. A short message to the King was
drawn up. "Whom," said William, "shall we send with it? " "Ought it not,"
said Halifax, "to be conveyed by one of your Highness's officers? " "Nay,
my Lord," answered the Prince; "by your favour, it is sent by the advice
of your Lordships, and some of you ought to carry it. " Then, without
pausing to give time for remonstrance, he appointed Halifax, Shrewsbury,
and Delamere to be the messengers. [600]
The resolution of the Lords appeared to be unanimous. But there were
in the assembly those who by no means approved of the decision in which
they affected to concur, and who wished to see the King treated with
a severity which they did not venture openly to recommend. It is a
remarkable fact that the chief of this party was a peer who had been
a vehement Tory, and who afterwards died a Nonjuror, Clarendon. The
rapidity, with which, at this crisis, he went backward and forward from
extreme to extreme, might seem incredible to people living in quiet
times, but will not surprise those who have had an opportunity of
watching the course of revolutions. He knew that the asperity, with
which he had, in the royal presence, censured the whole system of
government, had given mortal offence to his old master. On the other
hand he might, as the uncle of the Princesses, hope to be great and
rich in the new world which was about to commence. The English colony
in Ireland regarded him as a friend and patron; and he felt that on the
confidence and attachment of that great interest much of his importance
depended. To such considerations as these the principles, which he
had, during his whole life, ostentatiously professed, now gave way. He
repaired to the Prince's closet, and represented the danger of leaving
the King at liberty. The Protestants of Ireland were in extreme peril.
There was only one way to secure their estates and their lives; and that
was to keep His Majesty close prisoner. It might not be prudent to shut
him up in an English castle. But he might be sent across the sea and
confined in the fortress of Breda till the affairs of the British
Islands were settled. If the Prince were in possession of such a
hostage, Tyrconnel would probably lay down the sword of state; and the
English ascendency would be restored to Ireland without a blow. If, on
the other hand, James should escape to France and make his appearance
at Dublin, accompanied by a foreign army, the consequences must be
disastrous. William owned that there was great weight in these reasons,
but it could not be. He knew his wife's temper; and he knew that she
never would consent to such a step. Indeed it would not be for his own
honour to treat his vanquished kinsman so ungraciously. Nor was it quite
clear that generosity might not be the best policy. Who could say what
effect such severity as Clarendon recommended might produce on the
public mind of England? Was it impossible that the loyal enthusiasm,
which the King's misconduct had extinguished, might revive as soon as it
was known that he was within the walls of a foreign fortress? On these
grounds William determined not to subject his father in law to personal
restraint; and there can be little doubt that the determination was
wise. [601]
James, while his fate was under discussion, remained at Whitehall,
fascinated, as it seemed, by the greatness and nearness of the danger,
and unequal to the exertion of either struggling or flying. In the
evening news came that the Dutch had occupied Chelsea and Kensington.
The King, however, prepared to go to rest as usual. The Coldstream
Guards were on duty at the palace. They were commanded by William Earl
of Craven, an aged man who, more than fifty years before, had been
distinguished in war and love, who had led the forlorn hope at
Creutznach with such courage that he had been patted on the shoulder
by the great Gustavus, and who was believed to have won from a thousand
rivals the heart of the unfortunate Queen of Bohemia. Craven was now in
his eightieth year; but time had not tamed his spirit. [602]
It was past ten o'clock when he was informed that three battalions of
the Prince's foot, mingled with some troops of horse, were pouring down
the long avenue of St. James's Park, with matches lighted, and in full
readiness for action. Count Solmes, who commanded the foreigners, said
that his orders were to take military possession of the posts round
Whitehall, and exhorted Craven to retire peaceably. Craven swore that
he would rather be cut in pieces: but, when the King, who was undressing
himself, learned what was passing, he forbade the stout old soldier to
attempt a resistance which must have been ineffectual. By eleven the
Coldstream Guards had withdrawn; and Dutch sentinels were pacing the
rounds on every side of the palace. Some of the King's attendants asked
whether he would venture to lie down surrounded by enemies. He answered
that they could hardly use him worse than his own subjects had done,
and, with the apathy of a man stupified by disasters, went to bed and to
sleep. [603]
Scarcely was the palace again quiet when it was again roused. A little
after midnight the three Lords arrived from Windsor. Middleton was
called up to receive them. They informed him that they were charged with
an errand which did not admit of delay. The King was awakened from his
first slumber; and they were ushered into his bedchamber. They delivered
into his hand the letter with which they had been entrusted, and
informed him that the Prince would be at Westminster in a few hours,
and that His Majesty would do well to set out for Ham before ten in the
morning. James made some difficulties. He did not like Ham. It was a
pleasant place in the summer, but cold and comfortless at Christmas,
and was moreover unfurnished. Halifax answered that furniture should
be instantly sent in. The three messengers retired, but were speedily
followed by Middleton, who told them that the King would greatly prefer
Rochester to Ham. They answered that they had not authority to accede to
His Majesty's wish, but that they would instantly send off an express to
the Prince, who was to lodge that night at Sion House. A courier started
immediately, and returned before daybreak with William's consent.
That consent, indeed, was most gladly given: for there could be no doubt
that Rochester had been named because it afforded facilities for flight;
and that James might fly was the first wish of his nephew. [604]
On the morning of the eighteenth of December, a rainy and stormy
morning, the royal barge was early at Whitehall stairs; and round it
were eight or ten boats filled with Dutch soldiers. Several noblemen and
gentlemen attended the King to the waterside. It is said, and may well
be believed, that many tears were shed. For even the most zealous friend
of liberty could scarcely have seen, unmoved, the sad and ignominious
close of a dynasty which might have been so great. Shrewsbury did all in
his power to soothe the fallen Sovereign. Even the bitter and vehement
Delamere was softened. But it was observed that Halifax, who was
generally distinguished by his tenderness to the vanquished, was, on
this occasion, less compassionate than his two colleagues. The mock
embassy to Hungerford was doubtless still rankling in his mind. [605]
While the King's barge was slowly working its way on rough billows down
the river, brigade after brigade of the Prince's troops came pouring
into London from the west. It had been wisely determined that the duty
of the capital should be chiefly done by the British soldiers in
the service of the States General. The three English regiments were
quartered in and round the Tower, the three Scotch regiments in
Southwark. [606]
In defiance of the weather a great multitude assembled between Albemarle
House and Saint James's Palace to greet the Prince. Every hat, every
cane, was adorned with an orange riband. The bells were ringing all
over London. Candles for an illumination were disposed in the windows.
Faggots for bonfires were heaped up in the streets. William, however,
who had no taste for crowds and shouting, took the road through the
Park. Before nightfall he arrived at Saint James's in a light carriage,
accompanied by Schomberg. In a short time all the rooms and staircases
in the palace were thronged by those who came to pay their court. Such
was the press, that men of the highest rank were unable to elbow their
way into the presence chamber. [607] While Westminster was in this state
of excitement, the Common Council was preparing at Guildhall an address
of thanks and congratulation. The Lord Major was unable to preside. He
had never held up his head since the Chancellor had been dragged into
the justice room in the garb of a collier. But the Aldermen and the
other officers of the corporation were in their places. On the following
day the magistrates of the City went in state to pay their duty to their
deliverer. Their gratitude was eloquently expressed by their Recorder,
Sir George Treby. Some princes of the House of Nassau, he said, had been
the chief officers of a great republic. Others had worn the imperial
crown. But the peculiar title of that illustrious line to the public
veneration was this, that God had set it apart and consecrated it to
the high office of defending truth and freedom against tyrants from
generation to generation. On the same day all the prelates who were in
town, Sancroft excepted, waited on the Prince in a body. Then came the
clergy of London, the foremost men of their profession in knowledge,
eloquence, and influence, with their bishop at their head. With them
were mingled some eminent dissenting ministers, whom Compton, much to
his honour, treated with marked courtesy. A few months earlier, or a few
months later, such courtesy would have been considered by many Churchmen
as treason to the Church. Even then it was but too plain to a discerning
eye that the armistice to which the Protestant sects had been forced
would not long outlast the danger from which it had sprung. About a
hundred Nonconformist divines, resident in the capital, presented a
separate address. They were introduced by Devonshire, and were received
with every mark of respect and kindness. The lawyers paid their homage,
headed by Maynard, who, at ninety years of age, was as alert and
clearheaded as when he stood up in Westminster Hall to accuse Strafford.
"Mr. Serjeant," said the Prince, "you must have survived all the lawyers
of your standing. " "Yes, sir," said the old man, "and, but for your
Highness, I should have survived the laws too. " [608]
But, though the addresses were numerous and full of eulogy, though the
acclamations were loud, though the illuminations were splendid, though
Saint James's Palace was too small for the crowd of courtiers, though
the theatres were every night, from the pit to the ceiling, one blaze
of orange ribands, William felt that the difficulties of his enterprise
were but beginning. He had pulled a government down. The far harder
task of reconstruction was now to be performed. From the moment of his
landing till he reached London he had exercised the authority which, by
the laws of war, acknowledged throughout the civilised world, belongs
to the commander of an army in the field. It was now necessary that he
should exchange the character of a general for that of a magistrate; and
this was no easy task. A single false step might be fatal; and it was
impossible to take any step without offending prejudices and rousing
angry passions.
Some of the Prince's advisers pressed him to assume the crown at once as
his own by right of conquest, and then, as King, to send out, under
his Great Seal, writs calling a Parliament. This course was strongly
recommended by some eminent lawyers. It was, they said, the shortest
way to what could otherwise be attained only through innumerable
difficulties and disputes. It was in strict conformity with the
auspicious precedent set after the battle of Bosworth by Henry the
Seventh. It would also quiet the scruples which many respectable people
felt as to the lawfulness of transferring allegiance from one ruler to
another. Neither the law of England nor the Church of England recognised
any right in subjects to depose a sovereign. But no jurist, no divine,
had ever denied that a nation, overcome in war, might, without sin,
submit to the decision of the God of battles. Thus, after the Chaldean
conquest, the most pious and patriotic Jews did not think that they
violated their duty to their native King by serving with loyalty the new
master whom Providence had set over them. The three confessors, who
had been marvellously preserved in the furnace, held high office in the
province of Babylon. Daniel was minister successively of the Assyrian
who subjugated Judah, and of the Persian who subjugated Assyria. Nay,
Jesus himself, who was, according to the flesh, a prince of the house
of David, had, by commanding his countrymen to pay tribute to Caesar,
pronounced that foreign conquest annuls hereditary right and is a
legitimate title to dominion. It was therefore probable that great
numbers of Tories, though they could not, with a clear conscience,
choose a King for themselves, would accept, without hesitation, a King
given to them by the event of war. [609]
On the other side, however, there were reasons which greatly
preponderated. The Prince could not claim the crown as won by his sword
without a gross violation of faith. In his Declaration he had protested
that he had no design of conquering England; that those who imputed
to him such a design foully calumniated, not only himself, but the
patriotic noblemen and gentlemen who had invited him over; that
the force which he brought with him was evidently inadequate to an
enterprise so arduous; and that it was his full resolution to refer
all the public grievances, and all his own pretensions, to a free
Parliament. For no earthly object could it be right or wise that he
should forfeit his word so solemnly pledged in the face of all Europe.
Nor was it certain that, by calling himself a conqueror, he would have
removed the scruples which made rigid Churchmen unwilling to acknowledge
him as King. For, call himself what he might, all the world knew that
he was not really a conqueror. It was notoriously a mere fiction to say
that this great kingdom, with a mighty fleet on the sea, with a regular
army of forty thousand men, and with a militia of a hundred and thirty
thousand men, had been, without one siege or battle, reduced to the
state of a province by fifteen thousand invaders. Such a fiction was not
likely to quiet consciences really sensitive, but it could scarcely
fail to gall the national pride, already sore and irritable. The English
soldiers were in a temper which required the most delicate management.
They were conscious that, in the late campaign, their part had not been
brilliant. Captains and privates were alike impatient to prove that they
had not given way before an inferior force from want of courage. Some
Dutch officers had been indiscreet enough to boast, at a tavern over
their wine, that they had driven the King's army before them. This
insult had raised among the English troops a ferment which, but for the
Prince's prompt interference, would probably have ended in a terrible
slaughter. [610] What, in such circumstances, was likely to be the
effect of a proclamation announcing that the commander of the foreigners
considered the whole island as lawful prize of war?
It was also to be remembered that, by putting forth such a proclamation,
the Prince would at once abrogate all the rights of which he had
declared himself the champion. For the authority of a foreign conqueror
is not circumscribed by the customs and statutes of the conquered
nation, but is, by its own nature, despotic. Either, therefore, it was
not competent to William to declare himself King, or it was competent to
him to declare the Great Charter and the Petition of Right nullifies,
to abolish trial by jury, and to raise taxes without the consent of
Parliament. He might, indeed, reestablish the ancient constitution of
the realm. But, if he did so, he did so in the exercise of an arbitrary
discretion. English liberty would thenceforth be held by a base tenure.
It would be, not, as heretofore, an immemorial inheritance, but a recent
gift which the generous master who had bestowed it might, if such had
been his pleasure, have withheld.
William therefore righteously and prudently determined to observe the
promises contained in his Declaration, and to leave to the legislature
the office of settling the government. So carefully did he avoid
whatever looked like usurpation that he would not, without some
semblance of parliamentary authority, take upon himself even to convoke
the Estates of the Realm, or to direct the executive administration
during the elections. Authority strictly parliamentary there was none
in the state: but it was possible to bring together, in a few hours, an
assembly which would be regarded by the nation with a large portion
of the respect due to a Parliament. One Chamber might be formed of
the numerous Lords Spiritual and Temporal who were then in London, and
another of old members of the House of Commons and of the magistrates of
the City. The scheme was ingenious, and was promptly executed. The Peers
were summoned to St. James's on the twenty-first of December. About
seventy attended. The Prince requested them to consider the state of
the country, and to lay before him the result of their deliberations.
Shortly after appeared a notice inviting all gentlemen who had sate in
the House of Commons during the reign of Charles the Second to attend
His Highness on the morning of the twenty-sixth. The Aldermen of London
were also summoned; and the Common Council was requested to send a
deputation. [611]
It has often been asked, in a reproachful tone, why the invitation was
not extended to the members of the Parliament which had been dissolved
in the preceding year. The answer is obvious. One of the chief
grievances of which the nation complained was the manner in which that
Parliament had been elected. The majority of the burgesses had been
returned by constituent bodies remodelled in a manner which was
generally regarded as illegal, and which the Prince had, in his
Declaration, condemned. James himself had, just before his downfall,
consented to restore the old municipal franchises. It would surely have
been the height of inconsistency in William, after taking up arms for
the purpose of vindicating the invaded charters of corporations, to
recognise persons chosen in defiance of those charters as the legitimate
representatives of the towns of England.
On Saturday the twenty-second the Lords met in their own house. That day
was employed in settling the order of proceeding. A clerk was appointed:
and, as no confidence could be placed in any of the twelve judges, some
serjeants and barristers of great note were requested to attend, for the
purpose of giving advice on legal points. It was resolved that on the
Monday the state of the kingdom should be taken into consideration.
[612]
The interval between the sitting of Saturday and the sitting of Monday
was anxious and eventful. A strong party among the Peers still cherished
the hope that the constitution and religion of England might be secured
without the deposition of the King. This party resolved to move a solemn
address to him, imploring him to consent to such terms as might remove
the discontents and apprehensions which his past conduct had excited.
Sancroft, who, since the return of James from Kent to Whitehall, had
taken no part in public affairs, determined to come forth from his
retreat on this occasion, and to put himself at the head of the
Royalists. Several messengers were sent to Rochester with letters
for the King. He was assured that his interests would be strenuously
defended, if only he could, at this last moment, make up his mind
to renounce designs abhorred by his people. Some respectable Roman
Catholics followed him, in order to implore him, for the sake of their
common faith, not to carry the vain contest further. [613]
The advice was good; but James was in no condition to take it. His
understanding had always been dull and feeble; and, such as it was,
womanish tremors and childish fancies now disabled him from using it. He
was aware that his flight was the thing which his adherents most dreaded
and which his enemies most desired. Even if there had been serious
personal risk in remaining, the occasion was one on which he ought to
have thought it infamous to flinch: for the question was whether he and
his posterity should reign on an ancestral throne or should be vagabonds
and beggars. But in his mind all other feelings had given place to a
craven fear for his life. To the earnest entreaties and unanswerable
arguments of the agents whom his friends had sent to Rochester, he had
only one answer. His head was in danger. In vain he was assured that
there was no ground for such an apprehension, that common sense, if not
principle, would restrain the Prince of Orange from incurring the guilt
and shame of regicide and parricide, and that many, who never would
consent to depose their Sovereign while he remained on English ground,
would think themselves absolved from their allegiance by his desertion.
Fright overpowered every other feeling. James determined to depart; and
it was easy for him to do so. He was negligently guarded: all persons
were suffered to repair to him: vessels ready to put to sea lay at no
great distance; and their boats might come close to the garden of the
house in which he was lodged. Had he been wise, the pains which his
keepers took to facilitate his escape would have sufficed to convince
him that he ought to stay where he was. In truth the snare was so
ostentatiously exhibited that it could impose on nothing but folly
bewildered by terror.
The arrangements were expeditiously made. On the evening of Saturday the
twenty-second the King assured some of the gentlemen, who had been sent
to him from London with intelligence and advice, that he would see
them again in the morning.
Many years later Hugh Speke affirmed that the Irish Night was his work,
that he had prompted the rustics who raised London, and that he was the
author of the letters which had spread dismay through the country. His
assertion is not intrinsically improbable: but it rests on no evidence
except his own word. He was a man quite capable of committing such
a villany, and quite capable also of falsely boasting that he had
committed it. [584]
At London William was impatiently expected: for it was not doubted that
his vigour and ability would speedily restore order and security. There
was however some delay for which the Prince cannot justly be blamed. His
original intention had been to proceed from Hungerford to Oxford, where
he was assured of an honourable and affectionate reception: but the
arrival of the deputation from Guildhall induced him to change his
intention and to hasten directly towards the capital. On the way he
learned that Feversham, in pursuance of the King's orders, had dismissed
the royal army, and that thousands of soldiers, freed from restraint and
destitute of necessaries, were scattered over the counties through
which the road to London lay. It was therefore impossible for William
to proceed slenderly attended without great danger, not only to his own
person, about which he was not much in the habit of being solicitous,
but also to the great interests which were under his care. It was
necessary that he should regulate his own movements by the movements of
his troops; and troops could then move but slowly over the highways of
England in midwinter. He was, on this occasion, a little moved from his
ordinary composure. "I am not to be thus dealt with," he exclaimed
with bitterness; "and that my Lord Feversham shall find. " Prompt and
judicious measures were taken to remedy the evils which James
had caused. Churchill and Grafton were entrusted with the task of
reassembling the dispersed army and bringing it into order. The English
soldiers were invited to resume their military character. The Irish were
commanded to deliver up their arms on pain of being treated as banditti,
but were assured that, if they would submit quietly, they should be
supplied with necessaries. [585]
The Prince's orders were carried into effect with scarcely any
opposition, except from the Irish soldiers who had been in garrison at
Tilbury. One of these men snapped a pistol at Grafton. It missed fire,
and the assassin was instantly shot dead by an Englishman. About two
hundred of the unfortunate strangers made a gallant attempt to return
to their own country. They seized a richly laden East Indiaman which
had just arrived in the Thames, and tried to procure pilots by force at
Gravesend. No pilot, however was to be found; and they were under the
necessity of trusting to their own skill in navigation. They soon ran
their ship aground, and, after some bloodshed, were compelled to lay
down their arms. [586]
William had now been five weeks on English ground; and during the whole
of that time his good fortune had been uninterrupted. His own prudence
and firmness had been conspicuously displayed, and yet had done less for
him than the folly and pusillanimity of others. And now, at the moment
when it seemed that his plans were about to be crowned with entire
success, they were disconcerted by one of those strange incidents which
so often confound the most exquisite devices of human policy.
On the morning of the thirteenth of December the people of London,
not yet fully recovered from the agitation of the Irish Night, were
surprised by a rumour that the King had been detained, and was still in
the island. The report gathered strength during the day, and was fully
confirmed before the evening.
James had travelled with relays of coach horses along the southern shore
of the Thames, and on the morning of the twelfth had reached Emley Ferry
near the island of Sheppey. There lay the hoy in which he was to sail.
He went on board: but the wind blew fresh; and the master would not
venture to put to sea without more ballast. A tide was thus lost.
Midnight was approaching before the vessel began to float. By that time
the news that the King had disappeared, that the country was without a
government, and that London was in confusion, had travelled fast down
the Thames, and wherever it spread had produced outrage and misrule. The
rude fishermen of the Kentish coast eyed the hoy with suspicion and with
cupidity. It was whispered that some persons in the garb of gentlemen
had gone on board of her in great haste. Perhaps they were Jesuits:
perhaps they were rich. Fifty or sixty boatmen, animated at once by
hatred of Popery and by love of plunder, boarded the hoy just as she was
about to make sail. The passengers were told that they must go on
shore and be examined by a magistrate. The King's appearance excited
suspicion. "It is Father Petre," cried one ruffian; "I know him by his
lean jaws. " "Search the hatchet faced old Jesuit," became the general
cry. He was rudely pulled and pushed about. His money and watch were
taken from him. He had about him his coronation ring, and some other
trinkets of great value: but these escaped the search of the robbers,
who indeed were so ignorant of jewellery that they took his diamond
buckles for bits of glass.
At length the prisoners were put on shore and carried to an inn. A crowd
had assembled there to see them; and James, though disguised by a wig of
different shape and colour from that which he usually wore, was at
once recognised. For a moment the rabble seemed to be overawed: but the
exhortations of their chiefs revived their courage; and the sight of
Hales, whom they well knew and bitterly hated, inflamed their fury. His
park was in the neighbourhood; and at that very moment a band of rioters
was employed in pillaging his house and shooting his deer. The multitude
assured the King that they would not hurt him: but they refused to let
him depart. It chanced that the Earl of Winchelsea, a Protestant, but
a zealous royalist, head of the Finch family, and a near kinsman of
Nottingham, was then at Canterbury. As soon as he learned what
had happened he hastened to the coast, accompanied by some Kentish
gentlemen. By their intervention the King was removed to a more
convenient lodging: but he was still a prisoner. The mob kept constant
watch round the house to which he had been carried; and some of the
ringleaders lay at the door of his bedroom. His demeanour meantime was
that of a man, all the nerves of whose mind had been broken by the load
of misfortunes. Sometimes he spoke so haughtily that the rustics who had
charge of him were provoked into making insolent replies. Then he betook
himself to supplication. "Let me go," he cried; "get me a boat. The
Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now,
it will be too late. My blood will be on your heads. He that is not with
me is against me. " On this last text he preached a sermon half an hour
long. He harangued on a strange variety of subjects, on the disobedience
of the fellows of Magdalene College, on the miracles wrought by Saint
Winifred's well, on the disloyalty of the black coats, and on the
virtues of a piece of the true cross which he had unfortunately lost.
"What have I done? " he demanded of the Kentish squires who attended him.
"Tell me the truth. What error have I committed? " Those to whom he put
these questions were too humane to return the answer which must have
risen to their lips, and listened to his wild talk in pitying silence.
[587]
When the news that he had been stopped, insulted, roughly handled, and
plundered, and that he was still a prisoner in the hands of rude churls,
reached the capital, many passions were roused. Rigid Churchmen, who
had, a few hours before, begun to think that they were freed from their
allegiance to him, now felt misgivings. He had not quitted his kingdom.
He had not consummated his abdication. If he should resume his regal
office, could they, on their principles, refuse to pay him obedience?
Enlightened statesmen foresaw with concern that all the disputes which
his flight had for a moment set at rest would be revived and exasperated
by his return. Some of the common people, though still smarting from
recent wrongs, were touched with compassion for a great prince outraged
by ruffians, and were willing to entertain a hope, more honourable to
their good nature than to their discernment, that he might even now
repent of the errors which had brought on him so terrible a punishment.
From the moment when it was known that the King was still in England,
Sancroft, who had hitherto acted as chief of the provisional government,
absented himself from the sittings of the Peers. Halifax, who had just
returned from the Dutch head quarters, was placed in the chair. His
sentiments had undergone a great change in a few hours. Both public and
private feelings now impelled him to join the Whigs. Those who candidly
examine the evidence which has come down to us will be of opinion that
he accepted the office of royal Commissioner in the sincere hope of
effecting an accommodation between the King and the Prince on fair
terms. The negotiation had commenced prosperously: the Prince had
offered terms which the King could not but acknowledge to be fair: the
eloquent and ingenious Trimmer might flatter himself that he should be
able to mediate between infuriated factions, to dictate a compromise
between extreme opinions, to secure the liberties and religion of his
country, without exposing her to the risks inseparable from a change of
dynasty and a disputed succession. While he was pleasing himself
with thoughts so agreeable to his temper, he learned that he had been
deceived, and had been used as an instrument for deceiving the nation.
His mission to Hungerford had been a fool's errand. The King had never
meant to abide by the terms which he had instructed his Commissioners
to propose. He had charged them to declare that he was willing to submit
all the questions in dispute to the Parliament which he had summoned;
and, while they were delivering his message, he had burned the
writs, made away with the seal, let loose the army, suspended the
administration of justice, dissolved the government, and fled from
the capital. Halifax saw that an amicable arrangement was no longer
possible. He also felt, it may be suspected, the vexation natural to a
man widely renowned for wisdom, who finds that he has been duped by an
understanding immeasurably inferior to his own, and the vexation natural
to a great master of ridicule, who finds himself placed in a ridiculous
situation. His judgment and his resentment alike induced him to
relinquish the schemes of reconciliation on which he had hitherto been
intent, and to place himself at the head of those who were bent on
raising William to the throne. [588]
A journal of what passed in the Council of Lords while Halifax presided
is still extant in his own handwriting. [589] No precaution, which
seemed necessary for the prevention of outrage and robbery, was omitted.
The Peers took on themselves the responsibility of giving orders
that, if the rabble rose again, the soldiers should fire with bullets.
Jeffreys was brought to Whitehall and interrogated as to what had become
of the Great Seal and the writs. At his own earnest request he was
remanded to the Tower, as the only place where his life could be
safe; and he retired thanking and blessing those who had given him the
protection of a prison. A Whig nobleman moved that Oates should be set
at liberty: but this motion was overruled. [590]
The business of the day was nearly over, and Halifax was about to rise,
when he was informed that a messenger from Sheerness was in attendance.
No occurrence could be more perplexing or annoying. To do anything,
to do nothing, was to incur a grave responsibility. Halifax, wishing
probably to obtain time for communication with the Prince, would have
adjourned the meeting; but Mulgrave begged the Lords to keep their
seats, and introduced the messenger. The man told his story with many
tears, and produced a letter written in the King's hand, and addressed
to no particular person, but imploring the aid of all good Englishmen.
[591]
Such an appeal it was hardly possible to disregard. The Lords ordered
Feversham to hasten with a troop of the Life Guards to the place where
the King was detained, and to set his Majesty at liberty.
Already Middleton and a few other adherents of the royal cause had set
out to assist and comfort their unhappy master. They found him strictly
confined, and were not suffered to enter his presence till they had
delivered up their swords. The concourse of people about him was by this
time immense. Some Whig gentlemen of the neighbourhood had brought a
large body of militia to guard him. They had imagined most erroneously
that by detaining him they were ingratiating themselves with his
enemies, and were greatly disturbed when they learned that the treatment
which the King had undergone was disapproved by the Provisional
Government in London, and that a body of cavalry was on the road
to release him. Feversham soon arrived. He had left his troop at
Sittingbourne; but there was no occasion to use force. The King was
suffered to depart without opposition, and was removed by his friends to
Rochester, where he took some rest, which he greatly needed. He was in
a pitiable state. Not only was his understanding, which had never been
very clear, altogether bewildered: but the personal courage which, when
a young man, he had shown in several battles, both by sea and by land,
had forsaken him. The rough corporal usage which he had now, for the
first time, undergone, seems to have discomposed him more than any
other event of his chequered life. The desertion of his army, of his
favourites, of his family, affected him less than the indignities
which he suffered when his hoy was boarded. The remembrance of those
indignities continued long to rankle in his heart, and on one occasion
showed itself in a way which moved all Europe to contemptuous mirth. In
the fourth year of his exile he attempted to lure back his subjects by
offering them an amnesty. The amnesty was accompanied by a long list
of exceptions; and in this list the poor fishermen who had searched his
pockets rudely appeared side by side with Churchill and Danby. From this
circumstance we may judge how keenly he must have felt the outrage while
it was still recent. [592]
Yet, had he possessed an ordinary measure of good sense, he would have
seen that those who had detained him had unintentionally done him a
great service. The events which had taken place during his absence from
his capital ought to have convinced him that, if he had succeeded in
escaping, he never would have returned. In his own despite he had been
saved from ruin. He had another chance, a last chance. Great as his
offences had been, to dethrone him, while he remained in his kingdom and
offered to assent to such conditions as a free Parliament might impose,
would have been almost impossible.
During a short time he seemed disposed to remain. He sent Feversham from
Rochester with a letter to William. The substance of the letter was that
His Majesty was on his way back to Whitehall, that he wished to have
a personal conference with the Prince, and that Saint James's Palace
should be fitted up for his Highness. [593]
William was now at Windsor. He had learned with deep mortification the
events which had taken place on the coast of Kent. Just before the
news arrived, those who approached him observed that his spirits were
unusually high. He had, indeed, reason to rejoice. A vacant throne was
before him. All parties, it seemed, would, with one voice, invite him
to mount it. On a sudden his prospects were overcast. The abdication,
it appeared, had not been completed. A large proportion of his own
followers would have scruples about deposing a King who remained among
them, who invited them to represent their grievances in a parliamentary
way, and who promised full redress. It was necessary that the Prince
should examine his new position, and determine on a new line of action.
No course was open to him which was altogether free from objections,
no course which would place him in a situation so advantageous as that
which he had occupied a few hours before. Yet something might be done.
The King's first attempt to escape had failed. What was now most to be
desired was that he should make a second attempt with better success. He
must be at once frightened and enticed. The liberality with which he had
been treated in the negotiation at Hungerford, and which he had
requited by a breach of faith, would now be out of season. No terms of
accommodation must be proposed to him. If he should propose terms he
must be coldly answered. No violence must be used towards him, or even
threatened. Yet it might not be impossible, without either using or
threatening violence, to make so weak a man uneasy about his personal
safety. He would soon be eager to fly. All facilities for flight must
then be placed within his reach; and care must be taken that he should
not again be stopped by any officious blunderer.
Such was William's plan: and the ability and determination with which
he carried it into effect present a strange contrast to the folly
and cowardice with which he had to deal. He soon had an excellent
opportunity of commencing his system of intimidation. Feversham
arrived at Windsor with James's letter. The messenger had not been very
judiciously selected. It was he who had disbanded the royal army. To
him primarily were to be imputed the confusion and terror of the Irish
Night. His conduct was loudly blamed by the public. William had been
provoked into muttering a few words of menace: and a few words of menace
from William's lips generally meant something. Feversham was asked for
his safe conduct. He had none. By coming without one into the midst of a
hostile camp, he had, according to the laws of war, made himself liable
to be treated with the utmost severity. William refused to see him,
and ordered him to be put under arrest. [594] Zulestein was instantly
despatched to inform James that the Prince declined the proposed
conference, and desired that His Majesty would remain at Rochester.
But it was too late. James was already in London. He had hesitated about
the journey, and had, at one time, determined to make another attempt to
reach the Continent. But at length he yielded to the urgency of friends
who were wiser than himself, and set out for Whitehall. He arrived
there on the afternoon of Sunday, the sixteenth of December. He had been
apprehensive that the common people, who, during his absence, had
given so many proofs of their aversion to Popery, would offer him some
affront. But the very violence of the recent outbreak had produced
a remission. The storm had spent itself. Good humour and pity had
succeeded to fury. In no quarter was any disposition shown to insult the
King. Some cheers were raised as his coach passed through the City. The
bells of some churches were rung; and a few bonfires were lighted in
honour of his return. [595] His feeble mind, which had just before been
sunk in despondency, was extravagantly elated by these unexpected signs
of popular goodwill and compassion. He entered his dwelling in high
spirits. It speedily resumed its old aspect. Roman Catholic priests, who
had, during the preceding week, been glad to hide themselves from the
rage of the multitude in vaults and cocklofts, now came forth from their
lurking places, and demanded possession of their old apartments in the
palace. Grace was said at the royal table by a Jesuit. The Irish
brogue, then the most hateful of all sounds to English ears, was heard
everywhere in the courts and galleries. The King himself had resumed all
his old haughtiness. He held a Council, his last Council, and, even in
that extremity, summoned to the board persons not legally qualified to
sit there. He expressed high displeasure at the conduct of those
Lords who, during his absence, had dared to take the administration
on themselves. It was their duty, he conceived, to let society be
dissolved, to let the houses of Ambassadors be pulled down, to let
London be set on fire, rather than assume the functions which he had
thought fit to abandon. Among those whom he thus censured were some
nobles and prelates who, in spite of all his errors, had been constantly
true to him, and who, even after this provocation, never could be
induced by hope or fear to transfer their allegiance from him to any
other sovereign. [596]
But his courage was soon cast down. Scarcely had he entered his palace
when Zulestein was announced. William's cold and stern message was
delivered. The King still pressed for a personal conference with his
nephew. "I would not have left Rochester," he said, "if I had known that
he wished me not to do so: but, since I am here, I hope that he will
come to Saint James's. " "I must plainly tell your Majesty," said
Zulestein, "that His Highness will not come to London while there are
any troops here which are not under his orders. " The King, confounded
by this answer, remained silent. Zulestein retired; and soon a gentleman
entered the bedchamber with the news that Feversham had been put under
arrest. [597] James was greatly disturbed. Yet the recollection of the
applause with which he had been greeted still buoyed up his spirits.
A wild hope rose in his mind. He fancied that London, so long the
stronghold of Protestantism and Whiggism, was ready to take arms in his
defence. He sent to ask the Common Council whether, if he took up his
residence in the City, they would engage to defend him against the
Prince. But the Common Council had not forgotten the seizure of the
charter and the judicial murder of Cornish, and refused to give the
pledge which was demanded. Then the King's heart again sank within him.
Where, he asked, was he to look for protection? He might as well have
Dutch troops about him as his own Life Guards.
As to the citizens,
he now understood what their huzzas and bonfires were worth. Nothing
remained but flight: and yet, he said, he knew that there was nothing
which his enemies so much desired as that he would fly. [598]
While he was in this state of trepidation, his fate was the subject of
a grave deliberation at Windsor. The court of William was now crowded to
overflowing with eminent men of all parties. Most of the chiefs of the
Northern insurrection had joined him. Several of the Lords, who had,
during the anarchy of the preceding week, taken upon themselves to act
as a provisional government, had, as soon as the King returned, quitted
London for the Dutch head quarters. One of these was Halifax. William
had welcomed him with great satisfaction, but had not been able to
suppress a sarcastic smile at seeing the ingenious and accomplished
politician, who had aspired to be the umpire in that great contention,
forced to abandon the middle course and to take a side. Among those who,
at this conjuncture, repaired to Windsor were some men who had purchased
the favour of James by ignominious services, and who were now impatient
to atone, by betraying their master, for the crime of having betrayed
their country. Such a man was Titus, who had sate at the Council board
in defiance of law, and who had laboured to unite the Puritans with the
Jesuits in a league against the constitution. Such a man was Williams,
who had been converted by interest from a demagogue into a champion of
prerogative, and who was now ready for a second apostasy. These men
the Prince, with just contempt, suffered to wait at the door of his
apartment in vain expectation of an audience. [599]
On Monday, the seventeenth of December, all the Peers who were at
Windsor were summoned to a solemn consultation at the Castle. The
subject proposed for deliberation was what should be done with the King.
William did not think it advisable to be present during the discussion.
He retired; and Halifax was called to the chair. On one point the Lords
were agreed. The King could not be suffered to remain where he was. That
one prince should fortify himself in Whitehall and the other in Saint
James's, that there should be two hostile garrisons within an area of
a hundred acres, was universally felt to be inexpedient. Such an
arrangement could scarcely fail to produce suspicions, insults, and
bickerings which might end in blood. The assembled Lords, therefore,
thought it advisable that James should be sent out of London. Ham, which
had been built and decorated by Lauderdale, on the banks of the Thames,
out of the plunder of Scotland and the bribes of France, and which was
regarded as the most luxurious of villas, was proposed as a convenient
retreat. When the Lords had come to this conclusion, they requested
the Prince to join them. Their opinion was then communicated to him, by
Halifax. William listened and approved. A short message to the King was
drawn up. "Whom," said William, "shall we send with it? " "Ought it not,"
said Halifax, "to be conveyed by one of your Highness's officers? " "Nay,
my Lord," answered the Prince; "by your favour, it is sent by the advice
of your Lordships, and some of you ought to carry it. " Then, without
pausing to give time for remonstrance, he appointed Halifax, Shrewsbury,
and Delamere to be the messengers. [600]
The resolution of the Lords appeared to be unanimous. But there were
in the assembly those who by no means approved of the decision in which
they affected to concur, and who wished to see the King treated with
a severity which they did not venture openly to recommend. It is a
remarkable fact that the chief of this party was a peer who had been
a vehement Tory, and who afterwards died a Nonjuror, Clarendon. The
rapidity, with which, at this crisis, he went backward and forward from
extreme to extreme, might seem incredible to people living in quiet
times, but will not surprise those who have had an opportunity of
watching the course of revolutions. He knew that the asperity, with
which he had, in the royal presence, censured the whole system of
government, had given mortal offence to his old master. On the other
hand he might, as the uncle of the Princesses, hope to be great and
rich in the new world which was about to commence. The English colony
in Ireland regarded him as a friend and patron; and he felt that on the
confidence and attachment of that great interest much of his importance
depended. To such considerations as these the principles, which he
had, during his whole life, ostentatiously professed, now gave way. He
repaired to the Prince's closet, and represented the danger of leaving
the King at liberty. The Protestants of Ireland were in extreme peril.
There was only one way to secure their estates and their lives; and that
was to keep His Majesty close prisoner. It might not be prudent to shut
him up in an English castle. But he might be sent across the sea and
confined in the fortress of Breda till the affairs of the British
Islands were settled. If the Prince were in possession of such a
hostage, Tyrconnel would probably lay down the sword of state; and the
English ascendency would be restored to Ireland without a blow. If, on
the other hand, James should escape to France and make his appearance
at Dublin, accompanied by a foreign army, the consequences must be
disastrous. William owned that there was great weight in these reasons,
but it could not be. He knew his wife's temper; and he knew that she
never would consent to such a step. Indeed it would not be for his own
honour to treat his vanquished kinsman so ungraciously. Nor was it quite
clear that generosity might not be the best policy. Who could say what
effect such severity as Clarendon recommended might produce on the
public mind of England? Was it impossible that the loyal enthusiasm,
which the King's misconduct had extinguished, might revive as soon as it
was known that he was within the walls of a foreign fortress? On these
grounds William determined not to subject his father in law to personal
restraint; and there can be little doubt that the determination was
wise. [601]
James, while his fate was under discussion, remained at Whitehall,
fascinated, as it seemed, by the greatness and nearness of the danger,
and unequal to the exertion of either struggling or flying. In the
evening news came that the Dutch had occupied Chelsea and Kensington.
The King, however, prepared to go to rest as usual. The Coldstream
Guards were on duty at the palace. They were commanded by William Earl
of Craven, an aged man who, more than fifty years before, had been
distinguished in war and love, who had led the forlorn hope at
Creutznach with such courage that he had been patted on the shoulder
by the great Gustavus, and who was believed to have won from a thousand
rivals the heart of the unfortunate Queen of Bohemia. Craven was now in
his eightieth year; but time had not tamed his spirit. [602]
It was past ten o'clock when he was informed that three battalions of
the Prince's foot, mingled with some troops of horse, were pouring down
the long avenue of St. James's Park, with matches lighted, and in full
readiness for action. Count Solmes, who commanded the foreigners, said
that his orders were to take military possession of the posts round
Whitehall, and exhorted Craven to retire peaceably. Craven swore that
he would rather be cut in pieces: but, when the King, who was undressing
himself, learned what was passing, he forbade the stout old soldier to
attempt a resistance which must have been ineffectual. By eleven the
Coldstream Guards had withdrawn; and Dutch sentinels were pacing the
rounds on every side of the palace. Some of the King's attendants asked
whether he would venture to lie down surrounded by enemies. He answered
that they could hardly use him worse than his own subjects had done,
and, with the apathy of a man stupified by disasters, went to bed and to
sleep. [603]
Scarcely was the palace again quiet when it was again roused. A little
after midnight the three Lords arrived from Windsor. Middleton was
called up to receive them. They informed him that they were charged with
an errand which did not admit of delay. The King was awakened from his
first slumber; and they were ushered into his bedchamber. They delivered
into his hand the letter with which they had been entrusted, and
informed him that the Prince would be at Westminster in a few hours,
and that His Majesty would do well to set out for Ham before ten in the
morning. James made some difficulties. He did not like Ham. It was a
pleasant place in the summer, but cold and comfortless at Christmas,
and was moreover unfurnished. Halifax answered that furniture should
be instantly sent in. The three messengers retired, but were speedily
followed by Middleton, who told them that the King would greatly prefer
Rochester to Ham. They answered that they had not authority to accede to
His Majesty's wish, but that they would instantly send off an express to
the Prince, who was to lodge that night at Sion House. A courier started
immediately, and returned before daybreak with William's consent.
That consent, indeed, was most gladly given: for there could be no doubt
that Rochester had been named because it afforded facilities for flight;
and that James might fly was the first wish of his nephew. [604]
On the morning of the eighteenth of December, a rainy and stormy
morning, the royal barge was early at Whitehall stairs; and round it
were eight or ten boats filled with Dutch soldiers. Several noblemen and
gentlemen attended the King to the waterside. It is said, and may well
be believed, that many tears were shed. For even the most zealous friend
of liberty could scarcely have seen, unmoved, the sad and ignominious
close of a dynasty which might have been so great. Shrewsbury did all in
his power to soothe the fallen Sovereign. Even the bitter and vehement
Delamere was softened. But it was observed that Halifax, who was
generally distinguished by his tenderness to the vanquished, was, on
this occasion, less compassionate than his two colleagues. The mock
embassy to Hungerford was doubtless still rankling in his mind. [605]
While the King's barge was slowly working its way on rough billows down
the river, brigade after brigade of the Prince's troops came pouring
into London from the west. It had been wisely determined that the duty
of the capital should be chiefly done by the British soldiers in
the service of the States General. The three English regiments were
quartered in and round the Tower, the three Scotch regiments in
Southwark. [606]
In defiance of the weather a great multitude assembled between Albemarle
House and Saint James's Palace to greet the Prince. Every hat, every
cane, was adorned with an orange riband. The bells were ringing all
over London. Candles for an illumination were disposed in the windows.
Faggots for bonfires were heaped up in the streets. William, however,
who had no taste for crowds and shouting, took the road through the
Park. Before nightfall he arrived at Saint James's in a light carriage,
accompanied by Schomberg. In a short time all the rooms and staircases
in the palace were thronged by those who came to pay their court. Such
was the press, that men of the highest rank were unable to elbow their
way into the presence chamber. [607] While Westminster was in this state
of excitement, the Common Council was preparing at Guildhall an address
of thanks and congratulation. The Lord Major was unable to preside. He
had never held up his head since the Chancellor had been dragged into
the justice room in the garb of a collier. But the Aldermen and the
other officers of the corporation were in their places. On the following
day the magistrates of the City went in state to pay their duty to their
deliverer. Their gratitude was eloquently expressed by their Recorder,
Sir George Treby. Some princes of the House of Nassau, he said, had been
the chief officers of a great republic. Others had worn the imperial
crown. But the peculiar title of that illustrious line to the public
veneration was this, that God had set it apart and consecrated it to
the high office of defending truth and freedom against tyrants from
generation to generation. On the same day all the prelates who were in
town, Sancroft excepted, waited on the Prince in a body. Then came the
clergy of London, the foremost men of their profession in knowledge,
eloquence, and influence, with their bishop at their head. With them
were mingled some eminent dissenting ministers, whom Compton, much to
his honour, treated with marked courtesy. A few months earlier, or a few
months later, such courtesy would have been considered by many Churchmen
as treason to the Church. Even then it was but too plain to a discerning
eye that the armistice to which the Protestant sects had been forced
would not long outlast the danger from which it had sprung. About a
hundred Nonconformist divines, resident in the capital, presented a
separate address. They were introduced by Devonshire, and were received
with every mark of respect and kindness. The lawyers paid their homage,
headed by Maynard, who, at ninety years of age, was as alert and
clearheaded as when he stood up in Westminster Hall to accuse Strafford.
"Mr. Serjeant," said the Prince, "you must have survived all the lawyers
of your standing. " "Yes, sir," said the old man, "and, but for your
Highness, I should have survived the laws too. " [608]
But, though the addresses were numerous and full of eulogy, though the
acclamations were loud, though the illuminations were splendid, though
Saint James's Palace was too small for the crowd of courtiers, though
the theatres were every night, from the pit to the ceiling, one blaze
of orange ribands, William felt that the difficulties of his enterprise
were but beginning. He had pulled a government down. The far harder
task of reconstruction was now to be performed. From the moment of his
landing till he reached London he had exercised the authority which, by
the laws of war, acknowledged throughout the civilised world, belongs
to the commander of an army in the field. It was now necessary that he
should exchange the character of a general for that of a magistrate; and
this was no easy task. A single false step might be fatal; and it was
impossible to take any step without offending prejudices and rousing
angry passions.
Some of the Prince's advisers pressed him to assume the crown at once as
his own by right of conquest, and then, as King, to send out, under
his Great Seal, writs calling a Parliament. This course was strongly
recommended by some eminent lawyers. It was, they said, the shortest
way to what could otherwise be attained only through innumerable
difficulties and disputes. It was in strict conformity with the
auspicious precedent set after the battle of Bosworth by Henry the
Seventh. It would also quiet the scruples which many respectable people
felt as to the lawfulness of transferring allegiance from one ruler to
another. Neither the law of England nor the Church of England recognised
any right in subjects to depose a sovereign. But no jurist, no divine,
had ever denied that a nation, overcome in war, might, without sin,
submit to the decision of the God of battles. Thus, after the Chaldean
conquest, the most pious and patriotic Jews did not think that they
violated their duty to their native King by serving with loyalty the new
master whom Providence had set over them. The three confessors, who
had been marvellously preserved in the furnace, held high office in the
province of Babylon. Daniel was minister successively of the Assyrian
who subjugated Judah, and of the Persian who subjugated Assyria. Nay,
Jesus himself, who was, according to the flesh, a prince of the house
of David, had, by commanding his countrymen to pay tribute to Caesar,
pronounced that foreign conquest annuls hereditary right and is a
legitimate title to dominion. It was therefore probable that great
numbers of Tories, though they could not, with a clear conscience,
choose a King for themselves, would accept, without hesitation, a King
given to them by the event of war. [609]
On the other side, however, there were reasons which greatly
preponderated. The Prince could not claim the crown as won by his sword
without a gross violation of faith. In his Declaration he had protested
that he had no design of conquering England; that those who imputed
to him such a design foully calumniated, not only himself, but the
patriotic noblemen and gentlemen who had invited him over; that
the force which he brought with him was evidently inadequate to an
enterprise so arduous; and that it was his full resolution to refer
all the public grievances, and all his own pretensions, to a free
Parliament. For no earthly object could it be right or wise that he
should forfeit his word so solemnly pledged in the face of all Europe.
Nor was it certain that, by calling himself a conqueror, he would have
removed the scruples which made rigid Churchmen unwilling to acknowledge
him as King. For, call himself what he might, all the world knew that
he was not really a conqueror. It was notoriously a mere fiction to say
that this great kingdom, with a mighty fleet on the sea, with a regular
army of forty thousand men, and with a militia of a hundred and thirty
thousand men, had been, without one siege or battle, reduced to the
state of a province by fifteen thousand invaders. Such a fiction was not
likely to quiet consciences really sensitive, but it could scarcely
fail to gall the national pride, already sore and irritable. The English
soldiers were in a temper which required the most delicate management.
They were conscious that, in the late campaign, their part had not been
brilliant. Captains and privates were alike impatient to prove that they
had not given way before an inferior force from want of courage. Some
Dutch officers had been indiscreet enough to boast, at a tavern over
their wine, that they had driven the King's army before them. This
insult had raised among the English troops a ferment which, but for the
Prince's prompt interference, would probably have ended in a terrible
slaughter. [610] What, in such circumstances, was likely to be the
effect of a proclamation announcing that the commander of the foreigners
considered the whole island as lawful prize of war?
It was also to be remembered that, by putting forth such a proclamation,
the Prince would at once abrogate all the rights of which he had
declared himself the champion. For the authority of a foreign conqueror
is not circumscribed by the customs and statutes of the conquered
nation, but is, by its own nature, despotic. Either, therefore, it was
not competent to William to declare himself King, or it was competent to
him to declare the Great Charter and the Petition of Right nullifies,
to abolish trial by jury, and to raise taxes without the consent of
Parliament. He might, indeed, reestablish the ancient constitution of
the realm. But, if he did so, he did so in the exercise of an arbitrary
discretion. English liberty would thenceforth be held by a base tenure.
It would be, not, as heretofore, an immemorial inheritance, but a recent
gift which the generous master who had bestowed it might, if such had
been his pleasure, have withheld.
William therefore righteously and prudently determined to observe the
promises contained in his Declaration, and to leave to the legislature
the office of settling the government. So carefully did he avoid
whatever looked like usurpation that he would not, without some
semblance of parliamentary authority, take upon himself even to convoke
the Estates of the Realm, or to direct the executive administration
during the elections. Authority strictly parliamentary there was none
in the state: but it was possible to bring together, in a few hours, an
assembly which would be regarded by the nation with a large portion
of the respect due to a Parliament. One Chamber might be formed of
the numerous Lords Spiritual and Temporal who were then in London, and
another of old members of the House of Commons and of the magistrates of
the City. The scheme was ingenious, and was promptly executed. The Peers
were summoned to St. James's on the twenty-first of December. About
seventy attended. The Prince requested them to consider the state of
the country, and to lay before him the result of their deliberations.
Shortly after appeared a notice inviting all gentlemen who had sate in
the House of Commons during the reign of Charles the Second to attend
His Highness on the morning of the twenty-sixth. The Aldermen of London
were also summoned; and the Common Council was requested to send a
deputation. [611]
It has often been asked, in a reproachful tone, why the invitation was
not extended to the members of the Parliament which had been dissolved
in the preceding year. The answer is obvious. One of the chief
grievances of which the nation complained was the manner in which that
Parliament had been elected. The majority of the burgesses had been
returned by constituent bodies remodelled in a manner which was
generally regarded as illegal, and which the Prince had, in his
Declaration, condemned. James himself had, just before his downfall,
consented to restore the old municipal franchises. It would surely have
been the height of inconsistency in William, after taking up arms for
the purpose of vindicating the invaded charters of corporations, to
recognise persons chosen in defiance of those charters as the legitimate
representatives of the towns of England.
On Saturday the twenty-second the Lords met in their own house. That day
was employed in settling the order of proceeding. A clerk was appointed:
and, as no confidence could be placed in any of the twelve judges, some
serjeants and barristers of great note were requested to attend, for the
purpose of giving advice on legal points. It was resolved that on the
Monday the state of the kingdom should be taken into consideration.
[612]
The interval between the sitting of Saturday and the sitting of Monday
was anxious and eventful. A strong party among the Peers still cherished
the hope that the constitution and religion of England might be secured
without the deposition of the King. This party resolved to move a solemn
address to him, imploring him to consent to such terms as might remove
the discontents and apprehensions which his past conduct had excited.
Sancroft, who, since the return of James from Kent to Whitehall, had
taken no part in public affairs, determined to come forth from his
retreat on this occasion, and to put himself at the head of the
Royalists. Several messengers were sent to Rochester with letters
for the King. He was assured that his interests would be strenuously
defended, if only he could, at this last moment, make up his mind
to renounce designs abhorred by his people. Some respectable Roman
Catholics followed him, in order to implore him, for the sake of their
common faith, not to carry the vain contest further. [613]
The advice was good; but James was in no condition to take it. His
understanding had always been dull and feeble; and, such as it was,
womanish tremors and childish fancies now disabled him from using it. He
was aware that his flight was the thing which his adherents most dreaded
and which his enemies most desired. Even if there had been serious
personal risk in remaining, the occasion was one on which he ought to
have thought it infamous to flinch: for the question was whether he and
his posterity should reign on an ancestral throne or should be vagabonds
and beggars. But in his mind all other feelings had given place to a
craven fear for his life. To the earnest entreaties and unanswerable
arguments of the agents whom his friends had sent to Rochester, he had
only one answer. His head was in danger. In vain he was assured that
there was no ground for such an apprehension, that common sense, if not
principle, would restrain the Prince of Orange from incurring the guilt
and shame of regicide and parricide, and that many, who never would
consent to depose their Sovereign while he remained on English ground,
would think themselves absolved from their allegiance by his desertion.
Fright overpowered every other feeling. James determined to depart; and
it was easy for him to do so. He was negligently guarded: all persons
were suffered to repair to him: vessels ready to put to sea lay at no
great distance; and their boats might come close to the garden of the
house in which he was lodged. Had he been wise, the pains which his
keepers took to facilitate his escape would have sufficed to convince
him that he ought to stay where he was. In truth the snare was so
ostentatiously exhibited that it could impose on nothing but folly
bewildered by terror.
The arrangements were expeditiously made. On the evening of Saturday the
twenty-second the King assured some of the gentlemen, who had been sent
to him from London with intelligence and advice, that he would see
them again in the morning.
