No More Learning

The wind blew fresh from the east. The armament, during twelve
hours, held a course towards the north west. The light vessels sent out
by the English Admiral for the purpose of obtaining intelligence brought
back news which confirmed the prevailing opinion that the enemy would
try to land in Yorkshire. All at once, on a signal from the Prince's
ship, the whole fleet tacked, and made sail for the British Channel.
The same breeze which favoured the voyage of the invaders prevented
Dartmouth from coming out of the Thames. His ships were forced to strike
yards and topmasts; and two of his frigates, which had gained the open
sea, were shattered by the violence of the weather and driven back into
the river. [502]

The Dutch fleet ran fast before the gale, and reached the Straits at
about ten in the morning of Saturday the third of November. William
himself, in the Brill, led the way. More than six hundred vessels,
with canvass spread to a favourable wind, followed in his train. The
transports were in the centre. The men of war, more than fifty in
number, formed an outer rampart. Herbert, with the title of Lieutenant
Admiral General, commanded the whole fleet. His post was in the rear,
and many English sailors, inflamed against Popery, and attracted by
high pay, served under him. It was not without great difficulty that the
Prince had prevailed on some Dutch officers of high reputation to
submit to the authority of a stranger. But the arrangement was eminently
judicious. There was, in the King's fleet, much discontent and an ardent
zeal for the Protestant faith. But within the memory of old mariners
the Dutch and English navies had thrice, with heroic spirit and various
fortune, contended for the empire of the sea. Our sailors had not
forgotten the broom with which Tromp had threatened to sweep the
Channel, or the fire which De Ruyter had lighted in the dockyards of the
Medway. Had the rival nations been once more brought face to face on the
element of which both claimed the sovereignty, all other thoughts might
have given place to mutual animosity. A bloody and obstinate battle
might have been fought. Defeat would have been fatal to William's
enterprise. Even victory would have deranged all his deeply meditated
schemes of policy. He therefore wisely determined that the pursuers,
if they overtook him, should be hailed in their own mother tongue,
and adjured, by an admiral under whom they had served, and whom they
esteemed, not to fight against old mess-mates for Popish tyranny. Such
an appeal might possibly avert a conflict. If a conflict took place, one
English commander would be opposed to another; nor would the pride of
the islanders be wounded by learning that Dartmouth had been compelled
to strike to Herbert. [503]

Happily William's precautions were not necessary. Soon after midday he
passed the Straits. His fleet spread to within a league of Dover on the
north and of Calais on the south. The men of war on the extreme right
and left saluted both fortresses at once. The troops appeared under arms
on the decks. The flourish of trumpets, the clash of cymbals, and the
rolling of drums were distinctly heard at once on the English and French
shores. An innumerable company of gazers blackened the white beach of
Kent. Another mighty multitude covered the coast of Picardy. Rapin de
Thoyras, who, driven by persecution from his country, had taken service
in the Dutch army and accompanied the Prince to England, described the
spectacle, many years later, as the most magnificent and affecting that
was ever seen by human eyes. At sunset the armament was off Beachy Head.
Then the lights were kindled. The sea was in a blaze for many miles. But
the eyes of all the steersmen were fixed throughout the night on three
huge lanterns which flamed on the stern of the Brill. [504]

Meanwhile a courier bad been riding post from Dover Castle to Whitehall
with news that the Dutch had passed the Straits and were steering
westward. It was necessary to make an immediate change in all the
military arrangements. Messengers were despatched in every direction.
Officers were roused from their beds at dead of night. At three on the
Sunday morning there was a great muster by torchlight in Hyde Park.
The King had sent several regiments northward in the expectation that
William would land in Yorkshire. Expresses were despatched to recall
them. All the forces except those which were necessary to keep the peace
of the capital were ordered to move to the west. Salisbury was appointed
as the place of rendezvous: but, as it was thought possible that
Portsmouth might be the first point of attack, three battalions of
guards and a strong body of cavalry set out for that fortress. In a few
hours it was known that Portsmouth was safe; and these troops received
orders to change their route and to hasten to Salisbury. [505]

When Sunday the fourth of November dawned, the cliffs of the Isle
of Wight were full in view of the Dutch armament. That day was the
anniversary both of William's birth and of his marriage. Sail was
slackened during part of the morning; and divine service was performed
on board of the ships. In the afternoon and through the night the fleet
held on its course. Torbay was the place where the Prince intended to
land. But the morning of Monday the fifth of November was hazy. The
pilot of the Brill could not discern the sea marks, and carried the
fleet too far to the west. The danger was great. To return in the face
of the wind was impossible. Plymouth was the next port. But at Plymouth
a garrison had been posted under the command of Lord Bath. The landing
might be opposed; and a check might produce serious consequences. There
could be little doubt, moreover, that by this time the royal fleet had
got out of the Thames and was hastening full sail down the Channel.
Russell saw the whole extent of the peril, and exclaimed to Burnet,
"You may go to prayers, Doctor. All is over. " At that moment the wind
changed: a soft breeze sprang up from the south: the mist dispersed; the
sun shone forth and, under the mild light of an autumnal noon, the fleet
turned back, passed round the lofty cape of Berry Head, and rode safe in
the harbour of Torbay. [506]

Since William looked on that harbour its aspect has greatly changed. The
amphitheatre which surrounds the spacious basin now exhibits everywhere
the signs of prosperity and civilisation. At the northeastern extremity
has sprung up a great watering place, to which strangers are attracted
from the most remote parts of our island by the Italian softness of the
air; for in that climate the myrtle flourishes unsheltered; and even the
winter is milder than the Northumbrian April. The inhabitants are about
ten thousand in number. The newly built churches and chapels, the baths
and libraries, the hotels and public gardens, the infirmary and the
museum, the white streets, rising terrace above terrace, the gay
villas peeping from the midst of shrubberies and flower beds, present
a spectacle widely different from any that in the seventeenth century
England could show. At the opposite end of the bay lies, sheltered by
Berry head, the stirring market town of Brixham, the wealthiest seat of
our fishing trade. A pier and a haven were formed there at the beginning
of the present century, but have been found insufficient for the
increasing traffic. The population is about six thousand souls. The
shipping amounts to more than two hundred sail. The tonnage exceeds many
times the tonnage of the port of Liverpool under the Kings of the House
of Stuart. But Torbay, when the Dutch fleet cast anchor there, was known
only as a haven where ships sometimes took refuge from the tempests of
the Atlantic. Its quiet shores were undisturbed by the bustle either
of commerce or of pleasure and the huts of ploughmen and fishermen
were thinly scattered over what is now the site of crowded marts and of
luxurious pavilions.

The peasantry of the coast of Devonshire remembered the name of Monmouth
with affection, and held Popery in detestation. They therefore
crowded down to the seaside with provisions and offers of service. The
disembarkation instantly commenced. Sixty boats conveyed the troops to
the coast. Mackay was sent on shore first with the British regiments.
The Prince soon followed. He landed where the quay of Brixham now
stands. The whole aspect of the place has been altered. Where we now see
a port crowded with shipping, and a market place swarming with buyers
and sellers, the waves then broke on a desolate beach: but a fragment of
the rock on which the deliverer stepped from his boat has been carefully
preserved, and is set up as an object of public veneration in the centre
of that busy wharf.

As soon as the Prince had planted his foot on dry ground he called for
horses. Two beasts, such as the small yeomen of that time were in the
habit of riding, were procured from the neighbouring village. William
and Schomberg mounted and proceeded to examine the country.

As soon as Burnet was on shore he hastened to the Prince. An
amusing dialogue took place between them. Burnet poured forth his
congratulations with genuine delight, and then eagerly asked what were
His Highness's plans. Military men are seldom disposed to take counsel
with gownsmen on military matters; and William regarded the interference
of unprofessional advisers, in questions relating to war, with even more
than the disgust ordinarily felt by soldiers on such occasions. But he
was at that moment in an excellent humour, and, instead of signifying
his displeasure by a short and cutting reprimand, graciously extended
his hand, and answered his chaplain's question by another question:
"Well, Doctor, what do you think of predestination now? " The reproof was
so delicate that Burnet, whose perceptions were not very fine, did not
perceive it. He answered with great fervour that he should never forget
the signal manner in which Providence had favoured their undertaking.
[507]

During the first day the troops who had gone on shore had many
discomforts to endure. The earth was soaked with rain. The baggage was
still on board of the ships. Officers of high rank were compelled to
sleep in wet clothes on the wet ground: the Prince himself had no better
quarters than a hut afforded. His banner was displayed on the thatched
roof; and some bedding brought from his ship was spread for him on the
floor. [508] There was some difficulty about landing the horses; and it
seemed probable that this operation would occupy several days. But on
the following morning the prospect cleared. The wind was gentle. The
water in the bay was as even as glass. Some fishermen pointed out a
place where the ships could be brought within sixty feet of the beach.
This was done; and in three hours many hundreds of horses swam safely to
shore.

The disembarkation had hardly been effected when the wind rose again,
and swelled into a fierce gale from the west. The enemy coming in
pursuit down the Channel had been stopped by the same change of weather
which enabled William to land. During two days the King's fleet lay on
an unruffled sea in sight of Beachy Head. At length Dartmouth was able
to proceed. He passed the Isle of Wight, and one of his ships came
in sight of the Dutch topmasts in Torbay. Just at this moment he was
encountered by the tempest, and compelled to take shelter in the harbour
of Portsmouth. [509] At that time James, who was not incompetent to
form a judgment on a question of seamanship, declared himself perfectly
satisfied that his Admiral had done all that man could do, and had
yielded only to the irresistible hostility of the winds and waves. At
a later period the unfortunate prince began, with little reason, to
suspect Dartmouth of treachery, or at least of slackness. [510]

The weather had indeed served the Protestant cause so well that some men
of more piety than judgment fully believed the ordinary laws of nature
to have been suspended for the preservation of the liberty and religion
of England. Exactly a hundred years before, they said, the Armada,
invincible by man, had been scattered by the wrath of God. Civil freedom
and divine truth were again in jeopardy; and again the obedient elements
had fought for the good cause. The wind had blown strong from the east
while the Prince wished to sail down the Channel, had turned to the
south when he wished to enter Torbay, had sunk to a calm during the
disembarkation, and, as soon as the disembarkation was completed, had
risen to a storm, and had met the pursuers in the face. Nor did men omit
to remark that, by an extraordinary coincidence, the Prince had reached
our shores on a day on which the Church of England commemorated, by
prayer and thanksgiving, the wonderful escape of the royal House and
of the three Estates from the blackest plot ever devised by Papists.
Carstairs, whose suggestions were sure to meet with attention from the
Prince, recommended that, as soon as the landing had been effected,
public thanks should be offered to God for the protection so
conspicuously accorded to the great enterprise. This advice was taken,
and with excellent effect. The troops, taught to regard themselves as
favourites of heaven, were inspired with new courage; and the English
people formed the most favourable opinion of a general and an army so
attentive to the duties of religion.

On Tuesday, the sixth of November, William's army began to march up the
country. Some regiments advanced as far as Newton Abbot. A stone, set
up in the midst of that little town, still marks the spot where the
Prince's Declaration was solemnly read to the people. The movements of
the troops were slow: for the rain fell in torrents; and the roads
of England were then in a state which seemed frightful to persons
accustomed to the excellent communications of Holland. William took
up his quarters, during two days, at Ford, a seat of the ancient and
illustrious family of Courtenay, in the neighbourhood of Newton Abbot.
He was magnificently lodged and feasted there; but it is remarkable that
the owner of the house, though a strong Whig, did not choose to be the
first to put life and fortune in peril, and cautiously abstained from
doing anything which, if the King should prevail, could be treated as a
crime.

Exeter, in the meantime, was greatly agitated. Lamplugh, the bishop, as
soon as he heard that the Dutch were at Torbay, set off in terror for
London. The Dean fled from the deanery. The magistrates were for the
King, the body of the inhabitants for the Prince. Every thing was in
confusion when, on the morning of Thursday, the eighth of November, a
body of troops, under the command of Mordaunt, appeared before the city.
With Mordaunt came Burnet, to whom William had entrusted the duty of
protecting the clergy of the Cathedral from injury and insult. [511] The
Mayor and Aldermen had ordered the gates to be closed, but yielded on
the first summons. The deanery was prepared for the reception of
the Prince. On the following day, Friday the ninth, he arrived. The
magistrates had been pressed to receive him in state at the entrance of
the city, but had steadfastly refused. The pomp of that day, however,
could well spare them. Such a sight had never been seen in Devonshire.
Many went forth half a day's journey to meet the champion of their
religion. All the neighbouring villages poured forth their inhabitants.
A great crowd, consisting chiefly of young peasants, brandishing their
cudgels, had assembled on the top of Haldon Hill, whence the army,
marching from Chudleigh, first descried the rich valley of the Exe, and
the two massive towers rising from the cloud of smoke which overhung the
capital of the West. The road, all down the long descent, and through
the plain to the banks of the river, was lined, mile after mile, with
spectators. From the West Gate to the Cathedral Close, the pressing and
shouting on each side was such as reminded Londoners of the crowds on
the Lord Mayor's day. The houses were gaily decorated. Doors, windows,
balconies, and roofs were thronged with gazers. An eye accustomed to
the pomp of war would have found much to criticize in the spectacle.
For several toilsome marches in the rain, through roads where one who
travelled on foot sank at every step up to the ancles in clay, had not
improved the appearance either of the men or of their accoutrements.
But the people of Devonshire, altogether unused to the splendour of well
ordered camps, were overwhelmed with delight and awe. Descriptions of
the martial pageant were circulated all over the kingdom. They contained
much that was well fitted to gratify the vulgar appetite for the
marvellous. For the Dutch army, composed of men who had been born in
various climates, and had served under various standards, presented an
aspect at once grotesque, gorgeous, and terrible to islanders who had,
in general, a very indistinct notion of foreign countries. First rode
Macclesfield at the head of two hundred gentlemen, mostly of English
blood, glittering in helmets and cuirasses, and mounted on Flemish war
horses. Each was attended by a negro, brought from the sugar plantations
on the coast of Guiana. The citizens of Exeter, who had never seen so
many specimens of the African race, gazed with wonder on those black
faces set off by embroidered turbans and white feathers. Then with drawn
broad swords came a squadron of Swedish horsemen in black armour and fur
cloaks. They were regarded with a strange interest; for it was rumoured
that they were natives of a land where the ocean was frozen and where
the night lasted through half the year, and that they had themselves
slain the huge bears whose skins they wore. Next, surrounded by a goodly
company of gentlemen and pages, was borne aloft the Prince's banner. On
its broad folds the crowd which covered the roofs and filled the windows
read with delight that memorable inscription, "The Protestant religion
and the liberties of England. " But the acclamations redoubled when,
attended by forty running footmen, the Prince himself appeared, armed on
back and breast, wearing a white plume and mounted on a white charger.
With how martial an air he curbed his horse, how thoughtful and
commanding was the expression of his ample forehead and falcon eye,
may still be seen on the canvass of Kneller. Once those grave features
relaxed into a smile. It was when an ancient woman, perhaps one of
the zealous Puritans who through twenty-eight years of persecution had
waited with firm faith for the consolation of Israel, perhaps the mother
of some rebel who had perished in the carnage of Sedgemoor, or in the
more fearful carnage of the Bloody Circuit, broke from the crowd, rushed
through the drawn swords and curvetting horses, touched the hand of the
deliverer, and cried out that now she was happy. Near to the Prince was
one who divided with him the gaze of the multitude. That, men said, was
the great Count Schomberg, the first soldier in Europe, since Turenne
and Conde were gone, the man whose genius and valour had saved the
Portuguese monarchy on the field of Montes Claros, the man who had
earned a still higher glory by resigning the truncheon of a Marshal of
France for the sake of the true religion. It was not forgotten that the
two heroes who, indissolubly united by their common Protestantism, were
entering Exeter together, had twelve years before been opposed to each
other under the walls of Maestricht, and that the energy of the young
Prince had not then been found a match for the cool science of the
veteran who now rode in friendship by his side. Then came a long column
of the whiskered infantry of Switzerland, distinguished in all the
continental wars of two centuries by preeminent valour and discipline,
but never till that week seen on English ground. And then marched a
succession of bands designated, as was the fashion of that age, after
their leaders, Bentinck, Solmes and Ginkell, Talmash and Mackay. With
peculiar pleasure Englishmen might look on one gallant regiment which
still bore the name of the honoured and lamented Ossory. The effect of
the spectacle was heightened by the recollection of the renowned events
in which many of the warriors now pouring through the West Gate had
borne a share. For they had seen service very different from that of the
Devonshire militia or of the camp at Hounslow. Some of them had repelled
the fiery onset of the French on the field of Seneff; and others had
crossed swords with the infidels in the cause of Christendom on that
great day when the siege of Vienna was raised. The very senses of the
multitude were fooled by imagination. Newsletters conveyed to every
part of the kingdom fabulous accounts of the size and strength of the
invaders. It was affirmed that they were, with scarcely an exception,
above six feet high, and that they wielded such huge pikes, swords, and
muskets, as had never before been seen in England. Nor did the wonder
of the population diminish when the artillery arrived, twenty-one huge
pieces of brass cannon, which were with difficulty tugged along by
sixteen cart horses to each. Much curiosity was excited by a strange
structure mounted on wheels. It proved to be a moveable smithy,
furnished with all tools and materials necessary for repairing arms and
carriages. But nothing raised so much admiration as the bridge of
boats, which was laid with great speed on the Exe for the conveyance of
waggons, and afterwards as speedily taken to pieces and carried away.
It was made, if report said true, after a pattern contrived by the
Christians who were warring against the Great Turk on the Danube. The
foreigners inspired as much good will as admiration. Their politic
leader took care to distribute the quarters in such a manner as to cause
the smallest possible inconvenience to the inhabitants of Exeter and of
the neighbouring villages. The most rigid discipline was maintained. Not
only were pillage and outrage effectually prevented, but the troops were
required to demean themselves with civility towards all classes. Those
who had formed their notions of an army from the conduct of Kirke and
his Lambs were amazed to see soldiers who never swore at a landlady or
took an egg without paying for it. In return for this moderation the
people furnished the troops with provisions in great abundance and at
reasonable prices. [512]

Much depended on the course which, at this great crisis, the clergy
of the Church of England might take; and the members of the Chapter of
Exeter were the first who were called upon to declare their sentiments.
Burnet informed the Canons, now left without a head by the flight of the
Dean, that they could not be permitted to use the prayer for the Prince
of Wales, and that a solemn service must be performed in honour of the
safe arrival of the Prince. The Canons did not choose to appear in their
stalls; but some of the choristers and prebendaries attended. William
repaired in military state to the Cathedral. As he passed under the
gorgeous screen, that renowned organ, scarcely surpassed by any of those
which are the boast of his native Holland, gave out a peal of triumph.
He mounted the Bishop's seat, a stately throne rich with the carving of
the fifteenth century. Burnet stood below; and a crowd of warriors and
nobles appeared on the right hand and on the left. The singers, robed
in white, sang the Te Deum. When the chaunt was over, Burnet read the
Prince's Declaration: but as soon as the first words were uttered,
prebendaries and singers crowded in all haste out of the choir. At the
close Burnet cried in a loud voice, "God save the Prince of Orange! " and
many fervent voices answered, "Amen. " [513]

On Sunday, the eleventh of November, Burnet preached before the Prince
in the Cathedral, and dilated on the signal mercy vouchsafed by God
to the English Church and nation. At the same time a singular event
happened in a humbler place of worship.
Ferguson resolved to preach
at the Presbyterian meeting house. The minister and elders would not
consent but the turbulent and halfwitted knave, fancying that the times
of Fleetwood and Harrison were come again, forced the door, went through
the congregation sword in hand, mounted the pulpit, and there poured
forth a fiery invective against the King. The time for such follies had
gone by; and this exhibition excited nothing but derision and disgust.
[514]

While these things were passing in Devonshire the ferment was great in
London. The Prince's Declaration, in spite of all precautions, was now
in every man's hands. On the sixth of November James, still uncertain on
what part of the coast the invaders had landed, summoned the Primate and
three other Bishops, Compton of London, White of Peterborough, and
Sprat of Rochester, to a conference in the closet. The King listened
graciously while the prelates made warm professions of loyalty, and
assured them that he did not suspect them. "But where," said he, "is
the paper that you were to bring me? " "Sir," answered Sancroft, "we have
brought no paper. We are not solicitous to clear our fame to the
world. It is no new thing to us to be reviled and falsely accused. Our
consciences acquit us: your Majesty acquits us: and we are satisfied. "
"Yes," said the King; "but a declaration from you is necessary to my
service. " He then produced a copy of the Prince's manifesto. "See," he
said, "how you are mentioned here. " "Sir," answered one of the Bishops,
"not one person in five hundred believes this manifesto to be genuine. "
"No! " cried the King fiercely; "then those five hundred would bring the
Prince of Orange to cut my throat. " "God forbid," exclaimed the prelates
in concert. But the King's understanding, never very clear, was now
quite bewildered. One of his peculiarities was that, whenever his
opinion was not adopted, he fancied that his veracity was questioned.
"This paper not genuine! " he exclaimed, turning over the leaves with his
hands. "Am I not worthy to be believed? Is my word not to be taken? "
"At all events, sir," said one of the Bishops, "this is not an
ecclesiastical matter. It lies within the sphere of the civil power.
God has entrusted your Majesty with the sword: and it is not for us
to invade your functions. " Then the Archbishop, with that gentle and
temperate malice which inflicts the deepest wounds, declared that he
must be excused from setting his hand to any political document. "I and
my brethren, sir," he said, "have already smarted severely for meddling
with affairs of state; and we shall be very cautious how we do so again.
We once subscribed a petition of the most harmless kind: we presented it
in the most respectful manner; and we found that we had committed a high
offence. We were saved from ruin only by the merciful protection of God.
And, sir, the ground then taken by your Majesty's Attorney and Solicitor
was that, out of Parliament, we were private men, and that it was
criminal presumption in private men to meddle with politics. They
attacked us so fiercely that for my part I gave myself over for lost. "
"I thank you for that, my Lord of Canterbury," said the King; "I should
have hoped that you would not have thought yourself lost by falling
into my hands. " Such a speech might have become the mouth of a merciful
sovereign, but it came with a bad grace from a prince who had burned
a woman alive for harbouring one of his flying enemies, from a
prince round whose knees his own nephew had clung in vain agonies of
supplication. The Archbishop was not to be so silenced. He resumed his
story, and recounted the insults which the creatures of the court had
offered to the Church of England, among which some ridicule thrown on
his own style occupied a conspicuous place. The King had nothing to say
but that there was no use in repeating old grievances, and that he had
hoped that these things had been quite forgotten. He, who never forgot
the smallest injury that he had suffered, could not understand how
others should remember for a few weeks the most deadly injuries that he
had inflicted.

At length the conversation came back to the point from which it had
wandered. The King insisted on having from the Bishops a paper declaring
their abhorrence of the Prince's enterprise. They, with many professions
of the most submissive loyalty, pertinaciously refused. The Prince,
they said, asserted that he had been invited by temporal as well as by
spiritual peers. The imputation was common. Why should not the purgation
be common also? "I see how it is," said the King. "Some of the temporal
peers have been with you, and have persuaded you to cross me in this
matter. " The Bishops solemnly averred that it was not so. But it would,
they said, seem strange that, on a question involving grave political
and military considerations, the temporal peers should be entirely
passed over, and the prelates alone should be required to take a
prominent part. "But this," said James, "is my method. I am your King.
It is for me to judge what is best. I will go my own way; and I call on
you to assist me. " The Bishops assured him that they would assist him in
their proper department, as Christian ministers with their prayers, and
as peers of the realm with their advice in his Parliament. James, who
wanted neither the prayers of heretics nor the advice of Parliaments,
was bitterly disappointed. After a long altercation, "I have done," he
said, "I will urge you no further. Since you will not help me, I must
trust to myself and to my own arms. " [515]

The Bishops had hardly left the royal presence, when a courier arrived
with the news that on the preceding day the Prince of Orange had landed
in Devonshire. During the following week London was violently agitated.
On Sunday, the eleventh of November, a rumour was circulated that
knives, gridirons, and caldrons, intended for the torturing of heretics,
were concealed in the monastery which had been established under the
King's protection at Clerkenwell. Great multitudes assembled round the
building, and were about to demolish it, when a military force arrived.
The crowd was dispersed, and several of the rioters were slain. An
inquest sate on the bodies, and came to a decision which strongly
indicated the temper of the public mind. The jury found that certain
loyal and well disposed persons, who had gone to put down the meetings
of traitors and public enemies at a mass house, had been wilfully
murdered by the soldiers; and this strange verdict was signed by all
the jurors. The ecclesiastics at Clerkenwell, naturally alarmed by these
symptoms of popular feeling, were desirous to place their property in
safety. They succeeded in removing most of their furniture before any
report of their intentions got abroad. But at length the suspicions of
the rabble were excited. The two last carts were stopped in Holborn, and
all that they contained was publicly burned in the middle of the street.
So great was the alarm among the Catholics that all their places of
worship were closed, except those which belonged to the royal family and
to foreign Ambassadors. [516]

On the whole, however, things as yet looked not unfavourably for James.
The invaders had been more than a week on English ground. Yet no man of
note had joined them. No rebellion had broken out in the north or the
east. No servant of the crown appeared to have betrayed his trust. The
royal army was assembling fast at Salisbury, and, though inferior in
discipline to that of William, was superior in numbers.

The Prince was undoubtedly surprised and mortified by the slackness
of those who had invited him to England. By the common people of
Devonshire, indeed, he had been received with every sign of good will:
but no nobleman, no gentleman of high consideration, had yet repaired
to his quarters. The explanation of this singular fact is probably to
be found in the circumstance that he had landed in a part of the island
where he had not been expected. His friends in the north had made their
arrangements for a rising, on the supposition that he would be among
them with an army. His friends in the west had made no arrangements
at all, and were naturally disconcerted at finding themselves suddenly
called upon to take the lead in a movement so important and perilous.
They had also fresh in their recollection, and indeed full in their
sight, the disastrous consequences of rebellion, gibbets, heads, mangled
quarters, families still in deep mourning for brave sufferers who had
loved their country well but not wisely. After a warning so terrible and
so recent, some hesitation was natural. It was equally natural, however,
that William, who, trusting to promises from England, had put to
hazard, not only his own fame and fortunes, but also the prosperity and
independence of his native land, should feel deeply mortified. He
was, indeed, so indignant, that he talked of falling back to Torbay,
reembarking his troops, returning to Holland, and leaving those who had
betrayed him to the fate which they deserved. At length, on Monday, the
twelfth of November, a gentleman named Burrington, who resided in the
neighbourhood of Crediton, joined the Prince's standard, and his example
was followed by several of his neighbours.

Men of higher consequence had already set out from different parts
of the country for Exeter. The first of these was John Lord Lovelace,
distinguished by his taste, by his magnificence, and by the audacious
and intemperate vehemence of his Whiggism. He had been five or six times
arrested for political offences. The last crime laid to his charge was,
that he had contemptuously denied the validity of a warrant, signed by
a Roman Catholic Justice of the Peace. He had been brought before
the Privy Council and strictly examined, but to little purpose. He
resolutely refused to criminate himself; and the evidence against
him was insufficient. He was dismissed; but, before he retired, James
exclaimed in great heat, "My Lord, this is not the first trick that you
have played me. " "Sir," answered Lovelace, with undaunted spirit, "I
never played any trick to your Majesty, or to any other person. Whoever
has accused me to your Majesty of playing tricks is a liar. " Lovelace
had subsequently been admitted into the confidence of those who planned
the Revolution. [517] His mansion, built by his ancestors out of the
spoils of Spanish galleons from the Indies, rose on the ruins of a house
of Our Lady in that beautiful valley through which the Thames, not yet
defiled by the precincts of a great capital, nor rising and falling with
the flow and ebb of the sea, rolls under woods of beech round the gentle
hills of Berkshire. Beneath the stately saloon, adorned by Italian
pencils, was a subterraneous vault, in which the bones of ancient monks
had sometimes been found. In this dark chamber some zealous and daring
opponents of the government had held many midnight conferences during
that anxious time when England was impatiently expecting the Protestant
wind. [518] The season for action had now arrived. Lovelace, with
seventy followers, well armed and mounted, quitted his dwelling,
and directed his course westward. He reached Gloucestershire without
difficulty. But Beaufort, who governed that county, was exerting all his
great authority and influence in support of the crown. The militia had
been called out. A strong party had been posted at Cirencester. When
Lovelace arrived there he was informed that he could not be suffered to
pass. It was necessary for him either to relinquish his undertaking
or to fight his way through. He resolved to force a passage; and his
friends and tenants stood gallantly by him. A sharp conflict took place.
The militia lost an officer and six or seven men; but at length the
followers of Lovelace were overpowered: he was made a prisoner, and sent
to Gloucester Castle. [519]

Others were more fortunate. On the day on which the skirmish took place
at Cirencester, Richard Savage, Lord Colchester, son and heir of the
Earl Rivers, and father, by a lawless amour, of that unhappy poet whose
misdeeds and misfortunes form one of the darkest portions of literary
history, came with between sixty and seventy horse to Exeter. With him
arrived the bold and turbulent Thomas Wharton. A few hours later came
Edward Russell, son of the Earl of Bedford, and brother of the virtuous
nobleman whose blood had been shed on the scaffold. Another arrival
still more important was speedily announced. Colchester, Wharton, and
Russell belonged to that party which had been constantly opposed to
the court. James Bertie, Earl of Abingdon, had, on the contrary, been
regarded as a supporter of arbitrary government. He had been true to
James in the days of the Exclusion Bill. He had, as Lord Lieutenant of
Oxfordshire, acted with vigour and severity against the adherents of
Monmouth, and had lighted bonfires to celebrate the defeat of Argyle.
But dread of Popery had driven him into opposition and rebellion. He was
the first peer of the realm who made his appearance at the quarters of
the Prince of Orange. [520]

But the King had less to fear from those who openly arrayed themselves
against his authority, than from the dark conspiracy which had spread
its ramifications through his army and his family. Of that conspiracy
Churchill, unrivalled in sagacity and address, endowed by nature with
a certain cool intrepidity which never failed him either in fighting
or lying, high in military rank, and high in the favour of the Princess
Anne, must be regarded as the soul. It was not yet time for him to
strike the decisive blow. But even thus early he inflicted, by the
instrumentality of a subordinate agent, a wound, serious if not deadly,
on the royal cause.

Edward, Viscount Cornbury, eldest son of the Earl of Clarendon, was a
young man of slender abilities, loose principles, and violent temper. He
had been early taught to consider his relationship to the Princess Anne
as the groundwork of his fortunes, and had been exhorted to pay her
assiduous court. It had never occurred to his father that the hereditary
loyalty of the Hydes could run any risk of contamination in the
household of the King's favourite daughter: but in that household
the Churchills held absolute sway; and Cornbury became their tool. He
commanded one of the regiments of dragoons which had been sent westward.
Such dispositions had been made that, on the fourteenth of November, he
was, during a few hours, the senior officer at Salisbury, and all
the troops assembled there were subject to his authority. It seems
extraordinary that, at such a crisis, the army on which every thing
depended should have been left, even for a moment, under the command of
a young Colonel who had neither abilities nor experience. There can
be little doubt that so strange an arrangement was the result of deep
design, and as little doubt to what head and to what heart the design is
to be imputed.

Suddenly three of the regiments of cavalry which had assembled at
Salisbury were ordered to march westward. Cornbury put himself at their
head, and conducted them first to Blandford and thence to Dorchester.
From Dorchester, after a halt of an hour or two, they set out for
Axminster. Some of the officers began to be uneasy, and demanded an
explanation of these strange movements. Cornbury replied that he had
instructions to make a night attack on some troops which the Prince
of Orange had posted at Honiton. But suspicion was awake. Searching
questions were put, and were evasively answered. At last Cornbury was
pressed to produce his orders. He perceived, not only that it would
be impossible for him to carry over all the three regiments, as he had
hoped, but that he was himself in a situation of considerable peril. He
accordingly stole away with a few followers to the Dutch quarters. Most
of his troops returned to Salisbury but some who had been detached
from the main body, and who had no suspicion of the designs of their
commander, proceeded to Honiton. There they found themselves in the
midst of a large force which was fully prepared to receive them.
Resistance was impossible. Their leader pressed them to take service
under William. A gratuity of a month's pay was offered to them, and was
by most of them accepted. [521]

The news of these events reached London on the fifteenth. James had been
on the morning of that day in high good humour. Bishop Lamplugh had just
presented himself at court on his arrival from Exeter, and had been most
graciously received. "My Lord," said the King, "you are a genuine old
Cavalier. " The archbishopric of York, which had now been vacant more
than two years and a half, was immediately bestowed on Lamplugh as the
reward of loyalty. That afternoon, just as the King was sitting down
to dinner, arrived an express with the tidings of Cornbury's defection.
James turned away from his untasted meal, swallowed a crust of bread and
a glass of wine, and retired to his closet. He afterwards learned that,
as he was rising from table, several of the Lords in whom he reposed the
greatest confidence were shaking hands and congratulating each other
in the adjoining gallery. When the news was carried to the Queen's
apartments she and her ladies broke out into tears and loud cries of
sorrow. [522]

The blow was indeed a heavy one. It was true that the direct loss to the
crown and the direct gain to the invaders hardly amounted to two hundred
men and as many horses. But where could the King henceforth expect to
find those sentiments in which consists the strength of states and of
armies? Cornbury was the heir of a house conspicuous for its attachment
to monarchy. His father Clarendon, his uncle Rochester, were men whose
loyalty was supposed to be proof to all temptation. What must be the
strength of that feeling against which the most deeply rooted hereditary
prejudices were of no avail, of that feeling which could reconcile a
young officer of high birth to desertion, aggravated by breach of trust
and by gross falsehood? That Cornbury was not a man of brilliant parts
or enterprising temper made the event more alarming. It was impossible
to doubt that he had in some quarter a powerful and artful prompter.
Who that prompter was soon became evident. In the meantime no man in the
royal camp could feel assured that he was not surrounded by traitors.
Political rank, military rank, the honour of a nobleman, the honour of a
soldier, the strongest professions, the purest Cavalier blood, could no
longer afford security. Every man might reasonably doubt whether every
order which he received from his superior was not meant to serve the
purposes of the enemy. That prompt obedience without which an army is
merely a rabble was necessarily at an end. What discipline could there
be among soldiers who had just been saved from a snare by refusing to
follow their commanding officer on a secret expedition, and by insisting
on a sight of his orders?

Cornbury was soon kept in countenance by a crowd of deserters superior
to him in rank and capacity: but during a few days he stood alone in
his shame, and was bitterly reviled by many who afterwards imitated his
example and envied his dishonourable precedence. Among these was his
own father. The first outbreak of Clarendon's rage and sorrow was highly
pathetic. "Oh God! " he ejaculated, "that a son of mine should be a
rebel! " A fortnight later he made up his mind to be a rebel himself. Yet
it would be unjust to pronounce him a mere hypocrite. In revolutions men
live fast: the experience of years is crowded into hours: old habits of
thought and action are violently broken; novelties, which at first sight
inspire dread and disgust, become in a few days familiar, endurable,
attractive. Many men of far purer virtue and higher spirit than
Clarendon were prepared, before that memorable year ended, to do what
they would have pronounced wicked and infamous when it began.

The unhappy father composed himself as well as he could, and sent to ask
a private audience of the King. It was granted. James said, with more
than his usual graciousness, that he from his heart pitied Cornbury's
relations, and should not hold them at all accountable for the crime of
their unworthy kinsman. Clarendon went home, scarcely daring to look his
friends in the face. Soon, however, he learned with surprise that the
act, which had, as he at first thought, for ever dishonoured his family,
was applauded by some persons of high station. His niece, the Princess
of Denmark, asked him why he shut himself up. He answered that he had
been overwhelmed with confusion by his son's villany. Anne seemed not
at all to understand this feeling. "People," she said, "are very uneasy
about Popery. I believe that many of the army will do the same. " [523]

And now the King, greatly disturbed, called together the principal
officers who were still in London. Churchill, who was about this time
promoted to the rank of Lieutenant General, made his appearance with
that bland serenity which neither peril nor infamy could ever disturb.
The meeting was attended by Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, whose
audacity and activity made him conspicuous among the natural children
of Charles the Second. Grafton was colonel of the first regiment of Foot
Guards. He seems to have been at this time completely under Churchill's
influence, and was prepared to desert the royal standard as soon as the
favourable moment should arrive. Two other traitors were in the circle,
Kirke and Trelawney, who commanded those two fierce and lawless bands
then known as the Tangier regiments. Both of them had, like the other
Protestant officers of the army, long seen with extreme displeasure the
partiality which the King had shown to members of his own Church; and
Trelawney remembered with bitter resentment the persecution of his
brother the Bishop of Bristol. James addressed the assembly in terms
worthy of a better man and of a better cause. It might be, he said, that
some of the officers had conscientious scruples about fighting for him.
If so he was willing to receive back their commissions. But he adjured
them as gentlemen and soldiers not to imitate the shameful example of
Cornbury. All seemed moved; and none more than Churchill.