The States General gave the
necessary
orders.
Macaulay
When the day broke, only five hundred fugitives, wearied and
dispirited, assembled at Kilpatrick.
All thought of prosecuting the war was at an end: and it was plain
that the chiefs of the expedition would have sufficient difficulty
in escaping with their lives. They fled in different directions. Hume
reached the Continent in safety. Cochrane was taken and sent up to
London. Argyle hoped to find a secure asylum under the roof of one
of his old servants who lived near Kilpatrick. But this hope was
disappointed; and he was forced to cross the Clyde. He assumed the dress
of a peasant and pretended to be the guide of Major Fullarton, whose
courageous fidelity was proof to all danger. The friends journeyed
together through Renfrewshire as far as Inchinnan. At that place the
Black Cart and the White Cart, two streams which now flow through
prosperous towns, and turn the wheels of many factories, but which then
held their quiet course through moors and sheepwalks, mingle before they
join the Clyde. The only ford by which the travellers could cross was
guarded by a party of militia. Some questions were asked. Fullarton
tried to draw suspicion on himself, in order that his companion might
escape unnoticed. But the minds of the questioners misgave them that the
guide was not the rude clown that he seemed. They laid hands on him.
He broke loose and sprang into the water, but was instantly chased. He
stood at bay for a short time against five assailants. But he had no
arms except his pocket pistols, and they were so wet, in consequence of
his plunge, that they would not go off. He was struck to the ground with
a broadsword, and secured.
He owned himself to be the Earl of Argyle, probably in the hope that his
great name would excite the awe and pity of those who had seized him.
And indeed they were much moved. For they were plain Scotchmen of humble
rank, and, though in arms for the crown, probably cherished a preference
for the Calvinistic church government and worship, and had been
accustomed to reverence their captive as the head of an illustrious
house and as a champion of the Protestant religion But, though they
were evidently touched, and though some of them even wept, they were not
disposed to relinquish a large reward and to incur the vengeance of
an implacable government. They therefore conveyed their prisoner
to Renfrew. The man who bore the chief part in the arrest was named
Riddell. On this account the whole race of Riddells was, during more
than a century, held in abhorrence by the great tribe of Campbell.
Within living memory, when a Riddell visited a fair in Argyleshire, he
found it necessary to assume a false name.
And now commenced the brightest part of Argyle's career. His enterprise
had hitherto brought on him nothing but reproach and derision. His great
error was that he did not resolutely refuse to accept the name without
the power of a general. Had he remained quietly at his retreat in
Friesland, he would in a few years have been recalled with honour to
his country, and would have been conspicuous among the ornaments and
the props of constitutional monarchy. Had he conducted his expedition
according to his own views, and carried with him no followers but such
as were prepared implicitly to obey all his orders, he might possibly
have effected something great. For what he wanted as a captain seems to
have been, not courage, nor activity, nor skill, but simply authority.
He should have known that of all wants this is the most fatal.
Armies have triumphed under leaders who possessed no very eminent
qualifications. But what army commanded by a debating club ever escaped
discomfiture and disgrace?
The great calamity which had fallen on Argyle had this advantage, that
it enabled him to show, by proofs not to be mistaken, what manner of
man he was. From the day when he quitted. Friesland to the day when his
followers separated at Kilpatrick, he had never been a free agent. He
had borne the responsibility of a long series of measures which his
judgment disapproved. Now at length he stood alone. Captivity had
restored to him the noblest kind of liberty, the liberty of governing
himself in all his words and actions according to his own sense of the
right and of the becoming. From that moment he became as one inspired
with new wisdom and virtue. His intellect seemed to be strengthened and
concentrated, his moral character to be at once elevated and softened.
The insolence of the conquerors spared nothing that could try the temper
of a man proud of ancient nobility and of patriarchal dominion. The
prisoner was dragged through Edinburgh in triumph. He walked on
foot, bareheaded, up the whole length of that stately street which,
overshadowed by dark and gigantic piles of stone, leads from Holyrood
House to the Castle. Before him marched the hangman, bearing the ghastly
instrument which was to be used at the quartering block. The victorious
party had not forgotten that, thirty-five years before this time, the
father of Argyle had been at the head of the faction which put Montrose
to death. Before that event the houses of Graham and Campbell had borne
no love to each other; and they had ever since been at deadly feud. Care
was taken that the prisoner should pass through the same gate and the
same streets through which Montrose had been led to the same doom. [349]
When the Earl reached the Castle his legs were put in irons, and he was
informed that he had but a few days to live. It had been determined not
to bring him to trial for his recent offence, but to put him to death
under the sentence pronounced against him several years before, a
sentence so flagitiously unjust that the most servile and obdurate
lawyers of that bad age could not speak of it without shame.
But neither the ignominious procession up the High Street, nor the near
view of death, had power to disturb the gentle and majestic patience of
Argyle. His fortitude was tried by a still more severe test. A paper of
interrogatories was laid before him by order of the Privy Council. He
replied to those questions to which he could reply without danger to
any of his friends, and refused to say more. He was told that unless he
returned fuller answers he should be put to the torture. James, who was
doubtless sorry that he could not feast his own eyes with the sight of
Argyle in the boots, sent down to Edinburgh positive orders that nothing
should be omitted which could wring out of the traitor information
against all who had been concerned in the treason. But menaces were
vain. With torments and death in immediate prospect Mac Callum More
thought far less of himself than of his poor clansmen. "I was busy this
day," he wrote from his cell, "treating for them, and in some hopes. But
this evening orders came that I must die upon Monday or Tuesday; and I
am to be put to the torture if I answer not all questions upon oath. Yet
I hope God shall support me. "
The torture was not inflicted. Perhaps the magnanimity of the victim had
moved the conquerors to unwonted compassion. He himself remarked that at
first they had been very harsh to him, but that they soon began to treat
him with respect and kindness. God, he said, had melted their hearts. It
is certain that he did not, to save himself from the utmost cruelty of
his enemies, betray any of his friends. On the last morning of his life
he wrote these words: "I have named none to their disadvantage. I thank
God he hath supported me wonderfully! "
He composed his own epitaph, a short poem, full of meaning and spirit,
simple and forcible in style, and not contemptible in versification. In
this little piece he complained that, though his enemies had repeatedly
decreed his death, his friends had been still more cruel. A comment on
these expressions is to be found in a letter which he addressed to a
lady residing in Holland. She had furnished him with a large sum
of money for his expedition, and he thought her entitled to a full
explanation of the causes which had led to his failure. He acquitted his
coadjutors of treachery, but described their folly, their ignorance,
and their factious perverseness, in terms which their own testimony has
since proved to have been richly deserved. He afterwards doubted whether
he had not used language too severe to become a dying Christian, and,
in a separate paper, begged his friend to suppress what he had said of
these men "Only this I must acknowledge," he mildly added; "they were
not governable. "
Most of his few remaining hours were passed in devotion, and in
affectionate intercourse with some members of his family. He professed
no repentance on account of his last enterprise, but bewailed, with
great emotion, his former compliance in spiritual things with the
pleasure of the government He had, he said, been justly punished. One
who had so long been guilty of cowardice and dissimulation was not
worthy to be the instrument of salvation to the State and Church. Yet
the cause, he frequently repeated, was the cause of God, and would
assuredly triumph. "I do not," he said, "take on myself to be a prophet.
But I have a strong impression on my spirit, that deliverance will come
very suddenly. " It is not strange that some zealous Presbyterians should
have laid up his saying in their hearts, and should, at a later period,
have attributed it to divine inspiration.
So effectually had religious faith and hope, co-operating with natural
courage and equanimity, composed his spirits, that, on the very day on
which he was to die, he dined with appetite, conversed with gaiety at
table, and, after his last meal, lay down, as he was wont, to take a
short slumber, in order that his body and mind might be in full vigour
when he should mount the scaffold. At this time one of the Lords of the
Council, who had probably been bred a Presbyterian, and had been seduced
by interest to join in oppressing the Church of which he had once been
a member, came to the Castle with a message from his brethren, and
demanded admittance to the Earl. It was answered that the Earl was
asleep. The Privy Councillor thought that this was a subterfuge, and
insisted on entering. The door of the cell was softly opened; and there
lay Argyle, on the bed, sleeping, in his irons, the placid sleep of
infancy. The conscience of the renegade smote him. He turned away sick
at heart, ran out of the Castle, and took refuge in the dwelling of a
lady of his family who lived hard by. There he flung himself on a couch,
and gave himself up to an agony of remorse and shame. His kinswoman,
alarmed by his looks and groans, thought that he had been taken with
sudden illness, and begged him to drink a cup of sack. "No, no," he
said; "that will do me no good. " She prayed him to tell her what had
disturbed him. "I have been," he said, "in Argyle's prison. I have seen
him within an hour of eternity, sleeping as sweetly as ever man did. But
as for me -------"
And now the Earl had risen from his bed, and had prepared himself for
what was yet to be endured. He was first brought down the High Street
to the Council House, where he was to remain during the short interval
which was still to elapse before the execution. During that interval
he asked for pen and ink, and wrote to his wife: "Dear heart, God is
unchangeable: He hath always been good and gracious to me: and no place
alters it. Forgive me all my faults; and now comfort thyself in Him, in
whom only true comfort is to be found. The Lord be with thee, bless and
comfort thee, my dearest. Adieu. "
It was now time to leave the Council House. The divines who attended the
prisoner were not of his own persuasion; but he listened to them with
civility, and exhorted them to caution their flocks against those
doctrines which all Protestant churches unite in condemning. He mounted
the scaffold, where the rude old guillotine of Scotland, called the
Maiden, awaited him, and addressed the people in a speech, tinctured
with the peculiar phraseology of his sect, but breathing the spirit
of serene piety. His enemies, he said, he forgave, as he hoped to be
forgiven. Only a single acrimonious expression escaped him. One of the
episcopal clergymen who attended him went to the edge of the scaffold,
and called out in a loud voice, "My Lord dies a Protestant. " "Yes," said
the Earl, stepping forward, "and not only a Protestant, but with a heart
hatred of Popery, of Prelacy, and of all superstition. " He then embraced
his friends, put into their hands some tokens of remembrance for his
wife and children, kneeled down, laid his head on the block, prayed
during a few minutes, and gave the signal to the executioner. His head
was fixed on the top of the Tolbooth, where the head of Montrose had
formerly decayed. [350]
The head of the brave and sincere, though not blameless Rumbold, was
already on the West Port of Edinburgh. Surrounded by factious and
cowardly associates, he had, through the whole campaign, behaved himself
like a soldier trained in the school of the great Protector, had in
council strenuously supported the authority of Argyle, and had in the
field been distinguished by tranquil intrepidity. After the dispersion
of the army he was set upon by a party of militia. He defended himself
desperately, and would have cut his way through them, had they not
hamstringed his horse. He was brought to Edinburgh mortally wounded. The
wish of the government was that he should be executed in England. But he
was so near death, that, if he was not hanged in Scotland, he could
not be hanged at all; and the pleasure of hanging him was one which the
conquerors could not bear to forego. It was indeed not to be expected
that they would show much lenity to one who was regarded as the chief
of the Rye House plot, and who was the owner of the building from which
that plot took its name: but the insolence with which they treated the
dying man seems to our more humane age almost incredible. One of the
Scotch Privy Councillors told him that he was a confounded villain.
"I am at peace with God," answered Rumbold, calmly; "how then can I be
confounded? "
He was hastily tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged and
quartered within a few hours, near the City Cross in the High Street.
Though unable to stand without the support of two men, he maintained
his fortitude to the last, and under the gibbet raised his feeble voice
against Popery and tyranny with such vehemence that the officers ordered
the drums to strike up, lest the people should hear him. He was a
friend, he said, to limited monarchy. But he never would believe that
Providence had sent a few men into the world ready booted and spurred to
ride, and millions ready saddled and bridled to be ridden. "I desire,"
he cried, "to bless and magnify God's holy name for this, that I stand
here, not for any wrong that I have done, but for adhering to his cause
in an evil day. If every hair of my head were a man, in this quarrel I
would venture them all. "
Both at his trial and at his execution he spoke of assassination with
the abhorrence which became a good Christian and a brave soldier. He had
never, he protested, on the faith of a dying man, harboured the thought
of committing such villany. But he frankly owned that, in conversation
with his fellow conspirators, he had mentioned his own house as a place
where Charles and James might with advantage be attacked, and that much
had been said on the subject, though nothing had been determined. It may
at first sight seem that this acknowledgment is inconsistent with his
declaration that he had always regarded assassination with horror. But
the truth appears to be that he was imposed upon by a distinction which
deluded many of his contemporaries. Nothing would have induced him to
put poison into the food of the two princes, or to poinard them in their
sleep. But to make an unexpected onset on the troop of Life Guards which
surrounded the royal coach, to exchange sword cuts and pistol shots,
and to take the chance of slaying or of being slain, was, in his view,
a lawful military operation. Ambuscades and surprises were among the
ordinary incidents of war. Every old soldier, Cavalier or Roundhead,
had been engaged in such enterprises. If in the skirmish the King should
fall, he would fall by fair fighting and not by murder. Precisely the
same reasoning was employed, after the Revolution, by James himself and
by some of his most devoted followers, to justify a wicked attempt on
the life of William the Third. A band of Jacobites was commissioned to
attack the Prince of Orange in his winter quarters. The meaning latent
under this specious phrase was that the Prince's throat was to be cut
as he went in his coach from Richmond to Kensington. It may seem strange
that such fallacies, the dregs of the Jesuitical casuistry, should have
had power to seduce men of heroic spirit, both Whigs and Tories, into a
crime on which divine and human laws have justly set a peculiar note of
infamy. But no sophism is too gross to delude minds distempered by party
spirit. [351]
Argyle, who survived Rumbold a few hours, left a dying testimony to the
virtues of the gallant Englishman. "Poor Rumbold was a great support to
me, and a brave man, and died Christianly. " [352]
Ayloffe showed as much contempt of death as either Argyle or Rumbold:
but his end did not, like theirs, edify pious minds. Though political
sympathy had drawn him towards the Puritans, he had no religious
sympathy with them, and was indeed regarded by them as little better
than an atheist. He belonged to that section of the Whigs which sought
for models rather among the patriots of Greece and Rome than among the
prophets and judges of Israel. He was taken prisoner, and carried to
Glasgow. There he attempted to destroy himself with a small penknife:
but though he gave himself several wounds, none of them proved mortal,
and he had strength enough left to bear a journey to London. He was
brought before the Privy Council, and interrogated by the King, but had
too much elevation of mind to save himself by informing against others.
A story was current among the Whigs that the King said, "You had better
be frank with me, Mr. Ayloffe. You know that it is in my power to pardon
you. " Then, it was rumoured, the captive broke his sullen silence, and
answered, "It may be in your power; but it is not in your nature. " He
was executed under his old outlawry before the gate of the Temple, and
died with stoical composure. [353]
In the meantime the vengeance of the conquerors was mercilessly wreaked
on the people of Argyleshire. Many of the Campbells were hanged by Athol
without a trial; and he was with difficulty restrained by the Privy
Council from taking more lives. The country to the extent of thirty
miles round Inverary was wasted. Houses were burned: the stones of mills
were broken to pieces: fruit trees were cut down, and the very roots
seared with fire. The nets and fishing boats, the sole means by which
many inhabitants of the coast subsisted, were destroyed. More than three
hundred rebels and malecontents were transported to the colonies. Many
of them were also Sentenced to mutilation. On a single day the hangman
of Edinburgh cut off the ears of thirty-five prisoners. Several women
were sent across the Atlantic after being first branded in the cheek
with a hot iron. It was even in contemplation to obtain an act of
Parliament proscribing the name of Campbell, as the name of Macgregor
had been proscribed eighty years before. [354]
Argyle's expedition appears to have produced little sensation in the
south of the island. The tidings of his landing reached London just
before the English Parliament met. The King mentioned the news from the
throne; and the Houses assured him that they would stand by him against
every enemy. Nothing more was required of them. Over Scotland they had
no authority; and a war of which the theatre was so distant, and of
which the event might, almost from the first, be easily foreseen,
excited only a languid interest in London.
But, a week before the final dispersion of Argyle's army England was
agitated by the news that a more formidable invader had landed on her
own shores. It had been agreed among the refugees that Monmouth should
sail from Holland six days after the departure of the Scots. He had
deferred his expedition a short time, probably in the hope that most
of the troops in the south of the island would be moved to the north as
soon as war broke out in the Highlands, and that he should find no force
ready to oppose him. When at length he was desirous to proceed, the wind
had become adverse and violent.
While his small fleet lay tossing in the Texel, a contest was going on
among the Dutch authorities. The States General and the Prince of Orange
were on one side, the Town Council and Admiralty of Amsterdam on the
other.
Skelton had delivered to the States General a list of the refugees whose
residence in the United Provinces caused uneasiness to his master. The
States General, anxious to grant every reasonable request which James
could make, sent copies of the list to the provincial authorities. The
provincial authorities sent copies to the municipal authorities. The
magistrates of all the towns were directed to take such measures
as might prevent the proscribed Whigs from molesting the English
government. In general those directions were obeyed. At Rotterdam
in particular, where the influence of William was all powerful, such
activity was shown as called forth warm acknowledgments from James. But
Amsterdam was the chief seat of the emigrants; and the governing body
of Amsterdam would see nothing, hear nothing, know of nothing. The
High Bailiff of the city, who was himself in daily communication with
Ferguson, reported to the Hague that he did not know where to find a
single one of the refugees; and with this excuse the federal government
was forced to be content. The truth was that the English exiles were
as well known at Amsterdam, and as much stared at in the streets, as if
they had been Chinese. [355]
A few days later, Skelton received orders from his Court to request
that, in consequence of the dangers which threatened his master's
throne, the three Scotch regiments in the service of the United
Provinces might be sent to Great Britain without delay. He applied to
the Prince of Orange; and the prince undertook to manage the matter,
but predicted that Amsterdam would raise some difficulty. The prediction
proved correct. The deputies of Amsterdam refused to consent, and
succeeded in causing some delay. But the question was not one of those
on which, by the constitution of the republic, a single city could
prevent the wish of the majority from being carried into effect. The
influence of William prevailed; and the troops were embarked with great
expedition. [356]
Skelton was at the same time exerting himself, not indeed very
judiciously or temperately, to stop the ships which the English refugees
had fitted out. He expostulated in warm terms with the Admiralty of
Amsterdam. The negligence of that board, he said, had already enabled
one band of rebels to invade Britain. For a second error of the same
kind there could be no excuse. He peremptorily demanded that a large
vessel, named the Helderenbergh, might be detained. It was pretended
that this vessel was bound for the Canaries. But in truth, she had been
freighted by Monmouth, carried twenty-six guns, and was loaded with arms
and ammunition. The Admiralty of Amsterdam replied that the liberty of
trade and navigation was not to be restrained for light reasons, and
that the Helderenbergh could not be stopped without an order from the
States General. Skelton, whose uniform practice seems to have been to
begin at the wrong end, now had recourse to the States General.
The States General gave the necessary orders. Then the Admiralty of
Amsterdam pretended that there was not a sufficient naval force in
the Texel to seize so large a ship as the Helderenbergh, and suffered
Monmouth to sail unmolested. [357]
The weather was bad: the voyage was long; and several English men-of-war
were cruising in the channel. But Monmouth escaped both the sea and
the enemy. As he passed by the cliffs of Dorsetshire, it was thought
desirable to send a boat to the beach with one of the refugees named
Thomas Dare. This man, though of low mind and manners, had great
influence at Taunton. He was directed to hasten thither across the
country, and to apprise his friends that Monmouth would soon be on
English ground. [358]
On the morning of the eleventh of June the Helderenbergh, accompanied by
two smaller vessels, appeared off the port of Lyme. That town is a
small knot of steep and narrow alleys, lying on a coast wild, rocky, and
beaten by a stormy sea. The place was then chiefly remarkable for a pier
which, in the days of the Plantagenets, had been constructed of stones,
unhewn and uncemented. This ancient work, known by the name of the Cob,
enclosed the only haven where, in a space of many miles, the fishermen
could take refuge from the tempests of the Channel.
The appearance of the three ships, foreign built and without colours,
perplexed the inhabitants of Lyme; and the uneasiness increased when it
was found that the Customhouse officers, who had gone on board according
to usage, did not return. The town's people repaired to the cliffs, and
gazed long and anxiously, but could find no solution of the mystery. At
length seven boats put off from the largest of the strange vessels, and
rowed to the shore. From these boats landed about eighty men, well armed
and appointed. Among them were Monmouth, Grey, Fletcher, Ferguson, Wade,
and Anthony Buyse, an officer who had been in the service of the Elector
of Brandenburg. [359]
Monmouth commanded silence, kneeled down on the shore, thanked God
for having preserved the friends of liberty and pure religion from the
perils of the sea, and implored the divine blessing on what was yet to
be done by land. He then drew his sword, and led his men over the cliffs
into the town.
As soon as it was known under what leader and for what purpose the
expedition came, the enthusiasm of the populace burst through all
restraints. The little town was in an uproar with men running to and
fro, and shouting "A Monmouth! a Monmouth! the Protestant religion! "
Meanwhile the ensign of the adventurers, a blue flag, was set up in the
marketplace. The military stores were deposited in the town hall; and
a Declaration setting forth the objects of the expedition was read from
the Cross. [360]
This Declaration, the masterpiece of Ferguson's genius, was not a grave
manifesto such as ought to be put forth by a leader drawing the sword
for a great public cause, but a libel of the lowest class, both in
sentiment and language. [361] It contained undoubtedly many just charges
against the government. But these charges were set forth in the prolix
and inflated style of a bad pamphlet; and the paper contained other
charges of which the whole disgrace falls on those who made them. The
Duke of York, it was positively affirmed, had burned down London, had
strangled Godfrey, had cut the throat of Essex, and had poisoned the
late King. On account of those villanous and unnatural crimes, but
chiefly of that execrable fact, the late horrible and barbarous
parricide,--such was the copiousness and such the felicity of Ferguson's
diction,--James was declared a mortal and bloody enemy, a tyrant, a
murderer, and an usurper. No treaty should be made with him. The sword
should not be sheathed till he had been brought to condign punishment as
a traitor. The government should be settled on principles favourable
to liberty. All Protestant sects should be tolerated. The forfeited
charters should be restored. Parliament should be held annually, and
should no longer be prorogued or dissolved by royal caprice. The only
standing force should be the militia: the militia should be commanded
by the Sheriffs; and the Sheriffs should be chosen by the freeholders.
Finally Monmouth declared that he could prove himself to have been born
in lawful wedlock, and to be, by right of blood, King of England, but
that, for the present, he waived his claims, that he would leave them to
the judgment of a free Parliament, and that, in the meantime, he desired
to be considered only as the Captain General of the English Protestants,
who were in arms against tyranny and Popery.
Disgraceful as this manifesto was to those who put it forth, it was not
unskilfully framed for the purpose of stimulating the passions of the
vulgar. In the West the effect was great. The gentry and clergy of
that part of England were indeed, with few exceptions, Tories. But the
yeomen, the traders of the towns, the peasants, and the artisans were
generally animated by the old Roundhead spirit. Many of them were
Dissenters, and had been goaded by petty persecution into a temper fit
for desperate enterprise. The great mass of the population abhorred
Popery and adored Monmouth. He was no stranger to them. His progress
through Somersetshire and Devonshire in the summer of 1680 was still
fresh in the memory of all men.
He was on that occasion sumptuously entertained by Thomas Thynne at
Longleat Hall, then, and perhaps still, the most magnificent country
house in England. From Longleat to Exeter the hedges were lined with
shouting spectators. The roads were strewn with boughs and flowers. The
multitude, in their eagerness to see and touch their favourite, broke
down the palings of parks, and besieged the mansions where he was
feasted. When he reached Chard his escort consisted of five thousand
horsemen. At Exeter all Devonshire had been gathered together to welcome
him. One striking part of the show was a company of nine hundred young
men who, clad in a white uniform, marched before him into the city.
[362] The turn of fortune which had alienated the gentry from his cause
had produced no effect on the common people. To them he was still the
good Duke, the Protestant Duke, the rightful heir whom a vile conspiracy
kept out of his own. They came to his standard in crowds. All the
clerks whom he could employ were too few to take down the names of the
recruits. Before he had been twenty-four hours on English ground he was
at the head of fifteen hundred men. Dare arrived from Taunton with
forty horsemen of no very martial appearance, and brought encouraging
intelligence as to the state of public feeling in Somersetshire. As Yet
all seemed to promise well. [363]
But a force was collecting at Bridport to oppose the insurgents. On the
thirteenth of June the red regiment of Dorsetshire militia came pouring
into that town. The Somersetshire, or yellow regiment, of which Sir
William Portman, a Tory gentleman of great note, was Colonel, was
expected to arrive on the following day. [364] The Duke determined to
strike an immediate blow. A detachment of his troops was preparing to
march to Bridport when a disastrous event threw the whole camp into
confusion.
Fletcher of Saltoun had been appointed to command the cavalry under
Grey. Fletcher was ill mounted; and indeed there were few chargers in
the camp which had not been taken from the plough. When he was ordered
to Bridport, he thought that the exigency of the case warranted him in
borrowing, without asking permission, a fine horse belonging to Dare.
Dare resented this liberty, and assailed Fletcher with gross abuse.
Fletcher kept his temper better than any one who knew him expected. At
last Dare, presuming on the patience with which his insolence had been
endured, ventured to shake a switch at the high born and high spirited
Scot Fletcher's blood boiled. He drew a pistol and shot Dare dead.
Such sudden and violent revenge would not have been thought strange in
Scotland, where the law had always been weak, where he who did not right
himself by the strong hand was not likely to be righted at all, and
where, consequently, human life was held almost as cheap as in the worst
governed provinces of Italy. But the people of the southern part of the
island were not accustomed to see deadly weapons used and blood spilled
on account of a rude word or gesture, except in duel between gentlemen
with equal arms. There was a general cry for vengeance on the foreigner
who had murdered an Englishman. Monmouth could not resist the clamour.
Fletcher, who, when his first burst of rage had spent itself, was
overwhelmed with remorse and sorrow, took refuge on board of the
Helderenbergh, escaped to the Continent, and repaired to Hungary, where
he fought bravely against the common enemy of Christendom. [365]
Situated as the insurgents were, the loss of a man of parts and energy
was not easily to be repaired. Early on the morning of the following
day, the fourteenth of June, Grey, accompanied by Wade, marched with
about five hundred men to attack Bridport. A confused and indecisive
action took place, such as was to be expected when two bands of
ploughmen, officered by country gentlemen and barristers, were opposed
to each other. For a time Monmouth's men drove the militia before them.
Then the militia made a stand, and Monmouth's men retreated in some
confusion. Grey and his cavalry never stopped till they were safe at
Lyme again: but Wade rallied the infantry and brought them off in good
order. [366]
There was a violent outcry against Grey; and some of the adventurers
pressed Monmouth to take a severe course. Monmouth, however, would not
listen to this advice. His lenity has been attributed by some writers
to his good nature, which undoubtedly often amounted to weakness. Others
have supposed that he was unwilling to deal harshly with the only peer
who served in his army. It is probable, however, that the Duke, who,
though not a general of the highest order, understood war very much
better than the preachers and lawyers who were always obtruding their
advice on him, made allowances which people altogether inexpert in
military affairs never thought of making. In justice to a man who has
had few defenders, it must be observed that the task, which, throughout
this campaign, was assigned to Grey, was one which, if he had been the
boldest and most skilful of soldiers, he would scarcely have performed
in such a manner as to gain credit. He was at the head of the cavalry.
It is notorious that a horse soldier requires a longer training than a
foot soldier, and that the war horse requires a longer training than his
rider. Something may be done with a raw infantry which has enthusiasm
and animal courage: but nothing can be more helpless than a raw cavalry,
consisting of yeomen and tradesmen mounted on cart horses and post
horses; and such was the cavalry which Grey commanded. The wonder is,
not that his men did not stand fire with resolution, not that they did
not use their weapons with vigour, but that they were able to keep their
seats.
Still recruits came in by hundreds. Arming and drilling went on all day.
Meantime the news of the insurrection had spread fast and wide. On
the evening on which the Duke landed, Gregory Alford, Mayor of Lyme, a
zealous Tory, and a bitter persecutor of Nonconformists, sent off
his servants to give the alarm to the gentry of Somersetshire and
Dorsetshire, and himself took horse for the West. Late at night he
stopped at Honiton, and thence despatched a few hurried lines to London
with the ill tidings. [367] He then pushed on to Exeter, where he found
Christopher Monk, Duke of Albemarle. This nobleman, the son and heir
of George Monk, the restorer of the Stuarts, was Lord Lieutenant of
Devonshire, and was then holding a muster of militia. Four thousand men
of the trainbands were actually assembled under his command. He seems to
have thought that, with this force, he should be able at once to crush
the rebellion. He therefore marched towards Lyme.
But when, on the afternoon of Monday the fifteenth of June, he reached
Axminster, he found the insurgents drawn up there to encounter him. They
presented a resolute front. Four field pieces were pointed against the
royal troops. The thick hedges, which on each side overhung the narrow
lanes, were lined with musketeers. Albemarle, however, was less alarmed
by the preparations of the enemy than by the spirit which appeared in
his own ranks. Such was Monmouth's popularity among the common people
of Devonshire that, if once the trainbands had caught sight of his well
known face and figure, they would have probably gone over to him in a
body.
Albemarle, therefore, though he had a great superiority of force,
thought it advisable to retreat. The retreat soon became a rout. The
whole country was strewn with the arms and uniforms which the fugitives
had thrown away; and, had Monmouth urged the pursuit with vigour, he
would probably have taken Exeter without a blow. But he was satisfied
with the advantage which he had gained, and thought it desirable that
his recruits should be better trained before they were employed in
any hazardous service. He therefore marched towards Taunton, where he
arrived on the eighteenth of June, exactly a week after his landing.
[368]
The Court and the Parliament had been greatly moved by the news from
the West. At five in the morning of Saturday the thirteenth of June, the
King had received the letter which the Mayor of Lyme had despatched from
Honiton. The Privy Council was instantly called together. Orders were
given that the strength of every company of infantry and of every troop
of cavalry should be increased. Commissions were issued for the levying
of new regiments. Alford's communication was laid before the Lords; and
its substance was communicated to the Commons by a message. The Commons
examined the couriers who had arrived from the West, and instantly
ordered a bill to be brought in for attainting Monmouth of high treason.
Addresses were voted assuring the King that both his peers and his
people were determined to stand by him with life and fortune against
all his enemies. At the next meeting of the Houses they ordered the
Declaration of the rebels to be burned by the hangman, and passed the
bill of attainder through all its stages. That bill received the
royal assent on the same day; and a reward of five thousand pounds was
promised for the apprehension of Monmouth. [369]
The fact that Monmouth was in arms against the government was so
notorious that the bill of attainder became a law with only a faint
show of opposition from one or two peers, and has seldom been severely
censured even by Whig historians. Yet, when we consider how important it
is that legislative and judicial functions should be kept distinct, how
important it is that common fame, however strong and general, should not
be received as a legal proof of guilt, how important it is to maintain
the rule that no man shall be condemned to death without an opportunity
of defending himself, and how easily and speedily breaches in great
principles, when once made, are widened, we shall probably be disposed
to think that the course taken by the Parliament was open to some
objection. Neither House had before it anything which even so corrupt
a judge as Jeffreys could have directed a jury to consider as proof of
Monmouth's crime. The messengers examined by the Commons were not on
oath, and might therefore have related mere fictions without incurring
the penalties of perjury. The Lords, who might have administered an
oath, appeared not to have examined any witness, and to have had no
evidence before them except the letter of the Mayor of Lyme, which, in
the eye of the law, was no evidence at all. Extreme danger, it is true,
justifies extreme remedies. But the Act of Attainder was a remedy which
could not operate till all danger was over, and which would become
superfluous at the very moment at which it ceased to be null. While
Monmouth was in arms it was impossible to execute him. If he should
be vanquished and taken, there would be no hazard and no difficulty in
trying him. It was afterwards remembered as a curious circumstance that,
among zealous Tories who went up with the bill from the House of
Commons to the bar of the Lords, was Sir John Fenwick, member for
Northumberland. This gentleman, a few years later, had occasion to
reconsider the whole subject, and then came to the conclusion that acts
of attainder are altogether unjustifiable. [370]
The Parliament gave other proofs of loyalty in this hour of peril.
The Commons authorised the King to raise an extraordinary sum of four
hundred thousand pounds for his present necessities, and that he
might have no difficulty in finding the money, proceeded to devise new
imposts. The scheme of taxing houses lately built in the capital was
revived and strenuously supported by the country gentlemen. It was
resolved not only that such houses should be taxed, but that a bill
should be brought in prohibiting the laying of any new foundations
within the bills of mortality. The resolution, however, was not carried
into effect. Powerful men who had land in the suburbs and who hoped to
see new streets and squares rise on their estates, exerted all their
influence against the project. It was found that to adjust the details
would be a work of time; and the King's wants were so pressing that he
thought it necessary to quicken the movements of the House by a gentle
exhortation to speed. The plan of taxing buildings was therefore
relinquished; and new duties were imposed for a term of five years on
foreign silks, linens, and spirits. [371]
The Tories of the Lower House proceeded to introduce what they called
a bill for the preservation of the King's person and government.
They proposed that it should be high treason to say that Monmouth was
legitimate, to utter any words tending to bring the person or government
of the sovereign into hatred or contempt, or to make any motion
in Parliament for changing the order of succession. Some of these
provisions excited general disgust and alarm. The Whigs, few and weak
as they were, attempted to rally, and found themselves reinforced by a
considerable number of moderate and sensible Cavaliers. Words, it was
said, may easily be misunderstood by a dull man. They may be easily
misconstrued by a knave. What was spoken metaphorically may be
apprehended literally. What was spoken ludicrously may be apprehended
seriously. A particle, a tense, a mood, an emphasis, may make the whole
difference between guilt and innocence. The Saviour of mankind himself,
in whose blameless life malice could find no acts to impeach, had been
called in question for words spoken. False witnesses had suppressed
a syllable which would have made it clear that those words were
figurative, and had thus furnished the Sanhedrim with a pretext under
which the foulest of all judicial murders had been perpetrated. With
such an example on record, who could affirm that, if mere talk were
made a substantive treason, the most loyal subject would be safe? These
arguments produced so great an effect that in the committee amendments
were introduced which greatly mitigated the severity of the bill. But
the clause which made it high treason in a member of Parliament to
propose the exclusion of a prince of the blood seems to have raised no
debate, and was retained. That clause was indeed altogether unimportant,
except as a proof of the ignorance and inexperience of the hotheaded
Royalists who thronged the House of Commons. Had they learned the first
rudiments of legislation, they would have known that the enactment
to which they attached so much value would be superfluous while the
Parliament was disposed to maintain the order of succession, and would
be repealed as soon as there was a Parliament bent on changing the order
of succession. [372]
The bill, as amended, was passed and carried up to the Lords, but
did not become law. The King had obtained from the Parliament all the
pecuniary assistance that he could expect; and he conceived that, while
rebellion was actually raging, the loyal nobility and gentry would be
of more use in their counties than at Westminster. He therefore hurried
their deliberations to a close, and, on the second of July, dismissed
them. On the same day the royal assent was given to a law reviving that
censorship of the press which had terminated in 1679. This object was
affected by a few words at the end of a miscellaneous statute which
continued several expiring acts. The courtiers did not think that they
had gained a triumph. The Whigs did not utter a murmur. Neither in the
Lords nor in the Commons was there any division, or even, as far as
can now be learned, any debate on a question which would, in our age,
convulse the whole frame of society. In truth, the change was slight and
almost imperceptible; for, since the detection of the Rye House plot,
the liberty of unlicensed printing had existed only in name. During many
months scarcely one Whig pamphlet had been published except by stealth;
and by stealth such pamphlets might be published still. [373]
The Houses then rose. They were not prorogued, but only adjourned,
in order that, when they should reassemble, they might take up their
business in the exact state in which they had left it. [374]
While the Parliament was devising sharp laws against Monmouth and his
partisans, he found at Taunton a reception which might well encourage
him to hope that his enterprise would have a prosperous issue. Taunton,
like most other towns in the south of England, was, in that age, more
important than at present. Those towns have not indeed declined. On the
contrary, they are, with very few exceptions, larger and richer, better
built and better peopled, than in the seventeenth century. But, though
they have positively advanced, they have relatively gone back. They have
been far outstripped in wealth and population by the great manufacturing
and commercial cities of the north, cities which, in the time of the
Stuarts, were but beginning to be known as seats of industry. When
Monmouth marched into Taunton it was an eminently prosperous place.
Its markets were plentifully supplied. It was a celebrated seat of
the woollen manufacture. The people boasted that they lived in a land
flowing with milk and honey. Nor was this language held only by partial
natives; for every stranger who climbed the graceful tower of St. Mary
Magdalene owned that he saw beneath him the most fertile of English
valleys. It was a country rich with orchards and green pastures, among
which were scattered, in gay abundance, manor houses, cottages, and
village spires. The townsmen had long leaned towards Presbyterian
divinity and Whig politics. In the great civil war Taunton had, through
all vicissitudes, adhered to the Parliament, had been twice closely
besieged by Goring, and had been twice defended with heroic valour by
Robert Blake, afterwards the renowned Admiral of the Commonwealth.
Whole streets had been burned down by the mortars and grenades of
the Cavaliers. Food had been so scarce that the resolute governor had
announced his intention of putting the garrison on rations of horse
flesh. But the spirit of the town had never been subdued either by fire
or by hunger. [375]
The Restoration had produced no effect on the temper of the Taunton men.
They had still continued to celebrate the anniversary of the happy day
on which the siege laid to their town by the royal army had been raised;
and their stubborn attachment to the old cause had excited so much fear
and resentment at Whitehall that, by a royal order, their moat had
been filled up, and their wall demolished to the foundation. [376] The
puritanical spirit had been kept up to the height among them by the
precepts and example of one of the most celebrated of the dissenting
clergy, Joseph Alleine. Alleine was the author of a tract, entitled, An
Alarm to the Unconverted, which is still popular both in England and
in America. From the gaol to which he was consigned by the victorious
Cavaliers, he addressed to his loving friends at Taunton many epistles
breathing the spirit of a truly heroic piety. His frame soon sank under
the effects of study, toil, and persecution: but his memory was long
cherished with exceeding love and reverence by those whom he had
exhorted and catechised. [377]
The children of the men who, forty years before, had manned the ramparts
of Taunton against the Royalists, now welcomed Monmouth with transports
of joy and affection. Every door and window was adorned with wreaths
of flowers. No man appeared in the streets without wearing in his hat
a green bough, the badge of the popular cause. Damsels of the best
families in the town wove colours for the insurgents. One flag in
particular was embroidered gorgeously with emblems of royal dignity, and
was offered to Monmouth by a train of young girls. He received the gift
with the winning courtesy which distinguished him. The lady who headed
the procession presented him also with a small Bible of great price.
dispirited, assembled at Kilpatrick.
All thought of prosecuting the war was at an end: and it was plain
that the chiefs of the expedition would have sufficient difficulty
in escaping with their lives. They fled in different directions. Hume
reached the Continent in safety. Cochrane was taken and sent up to
London. Argyle hoped to find a secure asylum under the roof of one
of his old servants who lived near Kilpatrick. But this hope was
disappointed; and he was forced to cross the Clyde. He assumed the dress
of a peasant and pretended to be the guide of Major Fullarton, whose
courageous fidelity was proof to all danger. The friends journeyed
together through Renfrewshire as far as Inchinnan. At that place the
Black Cart and the White Cart, two streams which now flow through
prosperous towns, and turn the wheels of many factories, but which then
held their quiet course through moors and sheepwalks, mingle before they
join the Clyde. The only ford by which the travellers could cross was
guarded by a party of militia. Some questions were asked. Fullarton
tried to draw suspicion on himself, in order that his companion might
escape unnoticed. But the minds of the questioners misgave them that the
guide was not the rude clown that he seemed. They laid hands on him.
He broke loose and sprang into the water, but was instantly chased. He
stood at bay for a short time against five assailants. But he had no
arms except his pocket pistols, and they were so wet, in consequence of
his plunge, that they would not go off. He was struck to the ground with
a broadsword, and secured.
He owned himself to be the Earl of Argyle, probably in the hope that his
great name would excite the awe and pity of those who had seized him.
And indeed they were much moved. For they were plain Scotchmen of humble
rank, and, though in arms for the crown, probably cherished a preference
for the Calvinistic church government and worship, and had been
accustomed to reverence their captive as the head of an illustrious
house and as a champion of the Protestant religion But, though they
were evidently touched, and though some of them even wept, they were not
disposed to relinquish a large reward and to incur the vengeance of
an implacable government. They therefore conveyed their prisoner
to Renfrew. The man who bore the chief part in the arrest was named
Riddell. On this account the whole race of Riddells was, during more
than a century, held in abhorrence by the great tribe of Campbell.
Within living memory, when a Riddell visited a fair in Argyleshire, he
found it necessary to assume a false name.
And now commenced the brightest part of Argyle's career. His enterprise
had hitherto brought on him nothing but reproach and derision. His great
error was that he did not resolutely refuse to accept the name without
the power of a general. Had he remained quietly at his retreat in
Friesland, he would in a few years have been recalled with honour to
his country, and would have been conspicuous among the ornaments and
the props of constitutional monarchy. Had he conducted his expedition
according to his own views, and carried with him no followers but such
as were prepared implicitly to obey all his orders, he might possibly
have effected something great. For what he wanted as a captain seems to
have been, not courage, nor activity, nor skill, but simply authority.
He should have known that of all wants this is the most fatal.
Armies have triumphed under leaders who possessed no very eminent
qualifications. But what army commanded by a debating club ever escaped
discomfiture and disgrace?
The great calamity which had fallen on Argyle had this advantage, that
it enabled him to show, by proofs not to be mistaken, what manner of
man he was. From the day when he quitted. Friesland to the day when his
followers separated at Kilpatrick, he had never been a free agent. He
had borne the responsibility of a long series of measures which his
judgment disapproved. Now at length he stood alone. Captivity had
restored to him the noblest kind of liberty, the liberty of governing
himself in all his words and actions according to his own sense of the
right and of the becoming. From that moment he became as one inspired
with new wisdom and virtue. His intellect seemed to be strengthened and
concentrated, his moral character to be at once elevated and softened.
The insolence of the conquerors spared nothing that could try the temper
of a man proud of ancient nobility and of patriarchal dominion. The
prisoner was dragged through Edinburgh in triumph. He walked on
foot, bareheaded, up the whole length of that stately street which,
overshadowed by dark and gigantic piles of stone, leads from Holyrood
House to the Castle. Before him marched the hangman, bearing the ghastly
instrument which was to be used at the quartering block. The victorious
party had not forgotten that, thirty-five years before this time, the
father of Argyle had been at the head of the faction which put Montrose
to death. Before that event the houses of Graham and Campbell had borne
no love to each other; and they had ever since been at deadly feud. Care
was taken that the prisoner should pass through the same gate and the
same streets through which Montrose had been led to the same doom. [349]
When the Earl reached the Castle his legs were put in irons, and he was
informed that he had but a few days to live. It had been determined not
to bring him to trial for his recent offence, but to put him to death
under the sentence pronounced against him several years before, a
sentence so flagitiously unjust that the most servile and obdurate
lawyers of that bad age could not speak of it without shame.
But neither the ignominious procession up the High Street, nor the near
view of death, had power to disturb the gentle and majestic patience of
Argyle. His fortitude was tried by a still more severe test. A paper of
interrogatories was laid before him by order of the Privy Council. He
replied to those questions to which he could reply without danger to
any of his friends, and refused to say more. He was told that unless he
returned fuller answers he should be put to the torture. James, who was
doubtless sorry that he could not feast his own eyes with the sight of
Argyle in the boots, sent down to Edinburgh positive orders that nothing
should be omitted which could wring out of the traitor information
against all who had been concerned in the treason. But menaces were
vain. With torments and death in immediate prospect Mac Callum More
thought far less of himself than of his poor clansmen. "I was busy this
day," he wrote from his cell, "treating for them, and in some hopes. But
this evening orders came that I must die upon Monday or Tuesday; and I
am to be put to the torture if I answer not all questions upon oath. Yet
I hope God shall support me. "
The torture was not inflicted. Perhaps the magnanimity of the victim had
moved the conquerors to unwonted compassion. He himself remarked that at
first they had been very harsh to him, but that they soon began to treat
him with respect and kindness. God, he said, had melted their hearts. It
is certain that he did not, to save himself from the utmost cruelty of
his enemies, betray any of his friends. On the last morning of his life
he wrote these words: "I have named none to their disadvantage. I thank
God he hath supported me wonderfully! "
He composed his own epitaph, a short poem, full of meaning and spirit,
simple and forcible in style, and not contemptible in versification. In
this little piece he complained that, though his enemies had repeatedly
decreed his death, his friends had been still more cruel. A comment on
these expressions is to be found in a letter which he addressed to a
lady residing in Holland. She had furnished him with a large sum
of money for his expedition, and he thought her entitled to a full
explanation of the causes which had led to his failure. He acquitted his
coadjutors of treachery, but described their folly, their ignorance,
and their factious perverseness, in terms which their own testimony has
since proved to have been richly deserved. He afterwards doubted whether
he had not used language too severe to become a dying Christian, and,
in a separate paper, begged his friend to suppress what he had said of
these men "Only this I must acknowledge," he mildly added; "they were
not governable. "
Most of his few remaining hours were passed in devotion, and in
affectionate intercourse with some members of his family. He professed
no repentance on account of his last enterprise, but bewailed, with
great emotion, his former compliance in spiritual things with the
pleasure of the government He had, he said, been justly punished. One
who had so long been guilty of cowardice and dissimulation was not
worthy to be the instrument of salvation to the State and Church. Yet
the cause, he frequently repeated, was the cause of God, and would
assuredly triumph. "I do not," he said, "take on myself to be a prophet.
But I have a strong impression on my spirit, that deliverance will come
very suddenly. " It is not strange that some zealous Presbyterians should
have laid up his saying in their hearts, and should, at a later period,
have attributed it to divine inspiration.
So effectually had religious faith and hope, co-operating with natural
courage and equanimity, composed his spirits, that, on the very day on
which he was to die, he dined with appetite, conversed with gaiety at
table, and, after his last meal, lay down, as he was wont, to take a
short slumber, in order that his body and mind might be in full vigour
when he should mount the scaffold. At this time one of the Lords of the
Council, who had probably been bred a Presbyterian, and had been seduced
by interest to join in oppressing the Church of which he had once been
a member, came to the Castle with a message from his brethren, and
demanded admittance to the Earl. It was answered that the Earl was
asleep. The Privy Councillor thought that this was a subterfuge, and
insisted on entering. The door of the cell was softly opened; and there
lay Argyle, on the bed, sleeping, in his irons, the placid sleep of
infancy. The conscience of the renegade smote him. He turned away sick
at heart, ran out of the Castle, and took refuge in the dwelling of a
lady of his family who lived hard by. There he flung himself on a couch,
and gave himself up to an agony of remorse and shame. His kinswoman,
alarmed by his looks and groans, thought that he had been taken with
sudden illness, and begged him to drink a cup of sack. "No, no," he
said; "that will do me no good. " She prayed him to tell her what had
disturbed him. "I have been," he said, "in Argyle's prison. I have seen
him within an hour of eternity, sleeping as sweetly as ever man did. But
as for me -------"
And now the Earl had risen from his bed, and had prepared himself for
what was yet to be endured. He was first brought down the High Street
to the Council House, where he was to remain during the short interval
which was still to elapse before the execution. During that interval
he asked for pen and ink, and wrote to his wife: "Dear heart, God is
unchangeable: He hath always been good and gracious to me: and no place
alters it. Forgive me all my faults; and now comfort thyself in Him, in
whom only true comfort is to be found. The Lord be with thee, bless and
comfort thee, my dearest. Adieu. "
It was now time to leave the Council House. The divines who attended the
prisoner were not of his own persuasion; but he listened to them with
civility, and exhorted them to caution their flocks against those
doctrines which all Protestant churches unite in condemning. He mounted
the scaffold, where the rude old guillotine of Scotland, called the
Maiden, awaited him, and addressed the people in a speech, tinctured
with the peculiar phraseology of his sect, but breathing the spirit
of serene piety. His enemies, he said, he forgave, as he hoped to be
forgiven. Only a single acrimonious expression escaped him. One of the
episcopal clergymen who attended him went to the edge of the scaffold,
and called out in a loud voice, "My Lord dies a Protestant. " "Yes," said
the Earl, stepping forward, "and not only a Protestant, but with a heart
hatred of Popery, of Prelacy, and of all superstition. " He then embraced
his friends, put into their hands some tokens of remembrance for his
wife and children, kneeled down, laid his head on the block, prayed
during a few minutes, and gave the signal to the executioner. His head
was fixed on the top of the Tolbooth, where the head of Montrose had
formerly decayed. [350]
The head of the brave and sincere, though not blameless Rumbold, was
already on the West Port of Edinburgh. Surrounded by factious and
cowardly associates, he had, through the whole campaign, behaved himself
like a soldier trained in the school of the great Protector, had in
council strenuously supported the authority of Argyle, and had in the
field been distinguished by tranquil intrepidity. After the dispersion
of the army he was set upon by a party of militia. He defended himself
desperately, and would have cut his way through them, had they not
hamstringed his horse. He was brought to Edinburgh mortally wounded. The
wish of the government was that he should be executed in England. But he
was so near death, that, if he was not hanged in Scotland, he could
not be hanged at all; and the pleasure of hanging him was one which the
conquerors could not bear to forego. It was indeed not to be expected
that they would show much lenity to one who was regarded as the chief
of the Rye House plot, and who was the owner of the building from which
that plot took its name: but the insolence with which they treated the
dying man seems to our more humane age almost incredible. One of the
Scotch Privy Councillors told him that he was a confounded villain.
"I am at peace with God," answered Rumbold, calmly; "how then can I be
confounded? "
He was hastily tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged and
quartered within a few hours, near the City Cross in the High Street.
Though unable to stand without the support of two men, he maintained
his fortitude to the last, and under the gibbet raised his feeble voice
against Popery and tyranny with such vehemence that the officers ordered
the drums to strike up, lest the people should hear him. He was a
friend, he said, to limited monarchy. But he never would believe that
Providence had sent a few men into the world ready booted and spurred to
ride, and millions ready saddled and bridled to be ridden. "I desire,"
he cried, "to bless and magnify God's holy name for this, that I stand
here, not for any wrong that I have done, but for adhering to his cause
in an evil day. If every hair of my head were a man, in this quarrel I
would venture them all. "
Both at his trial and at his execution he spoke of assassination with
the abhorrence which became a good Christian and a brave soldier. He had
never, he protested, on the faith of a dying man, harboured the thought
of committing such villany. But he frankly owned that, in conversation
with his fellow conspirators, he had mentioned his own house as a place
where Charles and James might with advantage be attacked, and that much
had been said on the subject, though nothing had been determined. It may
at first sight seem that this acknowledgment is inconsistent with his
declaration that he had always regarded assassination with horror. But
the truth appears to be that he was imposed upon by a distinction which
deluded many of his contemporaries. Nothing would have induced him to
put poison into the food of the two princes, or to poinard them in their
sleep. But to make an unexpected onset on the troop of Life Guards which
surrounded the royal coach, to exchange sword cuts and pistol shots,
and to take the chance of slaying or of being slain, was, in his view,
a lawful military operation. Ambuscades and surprises were among the
ordinary incidents of war. Every old soldier, Cavalier or Roundhead,
had been engaged in such enterprises. If in the skirmish the King should
fall, he would fall by fair fighting and not by murder. Precisely the
same reasoning was employed, after the Revolution, by James himself and
by some of his most devoted followers, to justify a wicked attempt on
the life of William the Third. A band of Jacobites was commissioned to
attack the Prince of Orange in his winter quarters. The meaning latent
under this specious phrase was that the Prince's throat was to be cut
as he went in his coach from Richmond to Kensington. It may seem strange
that such fallacies, the dregs of the Jesuitical casuistry, should have
had power to seduce men of heroic spirit, both Whigs and Tories, into a
crime on which divine and human laws have justly set a peculiar note of
infamy. But no sophism is too gross to delude minds distempered by party
spirit. [351]
Argyle, who survived Rumbold a few hours, left a dying testimony to the
virtues of the gallant Englishman. "Poor Rumbold was a great support to
me, and a brave man, and died Christianly. " [352]
Ayloffe showed as much contempt of death as either Argyle or Rumbold:
but his end did not, like theirs, edify pious minds. Though political
sympathy had drawn him towards the Puritans, he had no religious
sympathy with them, and was indeed regarded by them as little better
than an atheist. He belonged to that section of the Whigs which sought
for models rather among the patriots of Greece and Rome than among the
prophets and judges of Israel. He was taken prisoner, and carried to
Glasgow. There he attempted to destroy himself with a small penknife:
but though he gave himself several wounds, none of them proved mortal,
and he had strength enough left to bear a journey to London. He was
brought before the Privy Council, and interrogated by the King, but had
too much elevation of mind to save himself by informing against others.
A story was current among the Whigs that the King said, "You had better
be frank with me, Mr. Ayloffe. You know that it is in my power to pardon
you. " Then, it was rumoured, the captive broke his sullen silence, and
answered, "It may be in your power; but it is not in your nature. " He
was executed under his old outlawry before the gate of the Temple, and
died with stoical composure. [353]
In the meantime the vengeance of the conquerors was mercilessly wreaked
on the people of Argyleshire. Many of the Campbells were hanged by Athol
without a trial; and he was with difficulty restrained by the Privy
Council from taking more lives. The country to the extent of thirty
miles round Inverary was wasted. Houses were burned: the stones of mills
were broken to pieces: fruit trees were cut down, and the very roots
seared with fire. The nets and fishing boats, the sole means by which
many inhabitants of the coast subsisted, were destroyed. More than three
hundred rebels and malecontents were transported to the colonies. Many
of them were also Sentenced to mutilation. On a single day the hangman
of Edinburgh cut off the ears of thirty-five prisoners. Several women
were sent across the Atlantic after being first branded in the cheek
with a hot iron. It was even in contemplation to obtain an act of
Parliament proscribing the name of Campbell, as the name of Macgregor
had been proscribed eighty years before. [354]
Argyle's expedition appears to have produced little sensation in the
south of the island. The tidings of his landing reached London just
before the English Parliament met. The King mentioned the news from the
throne; and the Houses assured him that they would stand by him against
every enemy. Nothing more was required of them. Over Scotland they had
no authority; and a war of which the theatre was so distant, and of
which the event might, almost from the first, be easily foreseen,
excited only a languid interest in London.
But, a week before the final dispersion of Argyle's army England was
agitated by the news that a more formidable invader had landed on her
own shores. It had been agreed among the refugees that Monmouth should
sail from Holland six days after the departure of the Scots. He had
deferred his expedition a short time, probably in the hope that most
of the troops in the south of the island would be moved to the north as
soon as war broke out in the Highlands, and that he should find no force
ready to oppose him. When at length he was desirous to proceed, the wind
had become adverse and violent.
While his small fleet lay tossing in the Texel, a contest was going on
among the Dutch authorities. The States General and the Prince of Orange
were on one side, the Town Council and Admiralty of Amsterdam on the
other.
Skelton had delivered to the States General a list of the refugees whose
residence in the United Provinces caused uneasiness to his master. The
States General, anxious to grant every reasonable request which James
could make, sent copies of the list to the provincial authorities. The
provincial authorities sent copies to the municipal authorities. The
magistrates of all the towns were directed to take such measures
as might prevent the proscribed Whigs from molesting the English
government. In general those directions were obeyed. At Rotterdam
in particular, where the influence of William was all powerful, such
activity was shown as called forth warm acknowledgments from James. But
Amsterdam was the chief seat of the emigrants; and the governing body
of Amsterdam would see nothing, hear nothing, know of nothing. The
High Bailiff of the city, who was himself in daily communication with
Ferguson, reported to the Hague that he did not know where to find a
single one of the refugees; and with this excuse the federal government
was forced to be content. The truth was that the English exiles were
as well known at Amsterdam, and as much stared at in the streets, as if
they had been Chinese. [355]
A few days later, Skelton received orders from his Court to request
that, in consequence of the dangers which threatened his master's
throne, the three Scotch regiments in the service of the United
Provinces might be sent to Great Britain without delay. He applied to
the Prince of Orange; and the prince undertook to manage the matter,
but predicted that Amsterdam would raise some difficulty. The prediction
proved correct. The deputies of Amsterdam refused to consent, and
succeeded in causing some delay. But the question was not one of those
on which, by the constitution of the republic, a single city could
prevent the wish of the majority from being carried into effect. The
influence of William prevailed; and the troops were embarked with great
expedition. [356]
Skelton was at the same time exerting himself, not indeed very
judiciously or temperately, to stop the ships which the English refugees
had fitted out. He expostulated in warm terms with the Admiralty of
Amsterdam. The negligence of that board, he said, had already enabled
one band of rebels to invade Britain. For a second error of the same
kind there could be no excuse. He peremptorily demanded that a large
vessel, named the Helderenbergh, might be detained. It was pretended
that this vessel was bound for the Canaries. But in truth, she had been
freighted by Monmouth, carried twenty-six guns, and was loaded with arms
and ammunition. The Admiralty of Amsterdam replied that the liberty of
trade and navigation was not to be restrained for light reasons, and
that the Helderenbergh could not be stopped without an order from the
States General. Skelton, whose uniform practice seems to have been to
begin at the wrong end, now had recourse to the States General.
The States General gave the necessary orders. Then the Admiralty of
Amsterdam pretended that there was not a sufficient naval force in
the Texel to seize so large a ship as the Helderenbergh, and suffered
Monmouth to sail unmolested. [357]
The weather was bad: the voyage was long; and several English men-of-war
were cruising in the channel. But Monmouth escaped both the sea and
the enemy. As he passed by the cliffs of Dorsetshire, it was thought
desirable to send a boat to the beach with one of the refugees named
Thomas Dare. This man, though of low mind and manners, had great
influence at Taunton. He was directed to hasten thither across the
country, and to apprise his friends that Monmouth would soon be on
English ground. [358]
On the morning of the eleventh of June the Helderenbergh, accompanied by
two smaller vessels, appeared off the port of Lyme. That town is a
small knot of steep and narrow alleys, lying on a coast wild, rocky, and
beaten by a stormy sea. The place was then chiefly remarkable for a pier
which, in the days of the Plantagenets, had been constructed of stones,
unhewn and uncemented. This ancient work, known by the name of the Cob,
enclosed the only haven where, in a space of many miles, the fishermen
could take refuge from the tempests of the Channel.
The appearance of the three ships, foreign built and without colours,
perplexed the inhabitants of Lyme; and the uneasiness increased when it
was found that the Customhouse officers, who had gone on board according
to usage, did not return. The town's people repaired to the cliffs, and
gazed long and anxiously, but could find no solution of the mystery. At
length seven boats put off from the largest of the strange vessels, and
rowed to the shore. From these boats landed about eighty men, well armed
and appointed. Among them were Monmouth, Grey, Fletcher, Ferguson, Wade,
and Anthony Buyse, an officer who had been in the service of the Elector
of Brandenburg. [359]
Monmouth commanded silence, kneeled down on the shore, thanked God
for having preserved the friends of liberty and pure religion from the
perils of the sea, and implored the divine blessing on what was yet to
be done by land. He then drew his sword, and led his men over the cliffs
into the town.
As soon as it was known under what leader and for what purpose the
expedition came, the enthusiasm of the populace burst through all
restraints. The little town was in an uproar with men running to and
fro, and shouting "A Monmouth! a Monmouth! the Protestant religion! "
Meanwhile the ensign of the adventurers, a blue flag, was set up in the
marketplace. The military stores were deposited in the town hall; and
a Declaration setting forth the objects of the expedition was read from
the Cross. [360]
This Declaration, the masterpiece of Ferguson's genius, was not a grave
manifesto such as ought to be put forth by a leader drawing the sword
for a great public cause, but a libel of the lowest class, both in
sentiment and language. [361] It contained undoubtedly many just charges
against the government. But these charges were set forth in the prolix
and inflated style of a bad pamphlet; and the paper contained other
charges of which the whole disgrace falls on those who made them. The
Duke of York, it was positively affirmed, had burned down London, had
strangled Godfrey, had cut the throat of Essex, and had poisoned the
late King. On account of those villanous and unnatural crimes, but
chiefly of that execrable fact, the late horrible and barbarous
parricide,--such was the copiousness and such the felicity of Ferguson's
diction,--James was declared a mortal and bloody enemy, a tyrant, a
murderer, and an usurper. No treaty should be made with him. The sword
should not be sheathed till he had been brought to condign punishment as
a traitor. The government should be settled on principles favourable
to liberty. All Protestant sects should be tolerated. The forfeited
charters should be restored. Parliament should be held annually, and
should no longer be prorogued or dissolved by royal caprice. The only
standing force should be the militia: the militia should be commanded
by the Sheriffs; and the Sheriffs should be chosen by the freeholders.
Finally Monmouth declared that he could prove himself to have been born
in lawful wedlock, and to be, by right of blood, King of England, but
that, for the present, he waived his claims, that he would leave them to
the judgment of a free Parliament, and that, in the meantime, he desired
to be considered only as the Captain General of the English Protestants,
who were in arms against tyranny and Popery.
Disgraceful as this manifesto was to those who put it forth, it was not
unskilfully framed for the purpose of stimulating the passions of the
vulgar. In the West the effect was great. The gentry and clergy of
that part of England were indeed, with few exceptions, Tories. But the
yeomen, the traders of the towns, the peasants, and the artisans were
generally animated by the old Roundhead spirit. Many of them were
Dissenters, and had been goaded by petty persecution into a temper fit
for desperate enterprise. The great mass of the population abhorred
Popery and adored Monmouth. He was no stranger to them. His progress
through Somersetshire and Devonshire in the summer of 1680 was still
fresh in the memory of all men.
He was on that occasion sumptuously entertained by Thomas Thynne at
Longleat Hall, then, and perhaps still, the most magnificent country
house in England. From Longleat to Exeter the hedges were lined with
shouting spectators. The roads were strewn with boughs and flowers. The
multitude, in their eagerness to see and touch their favourite, broke
down the palings of parks, and besieged the mansions where he was
feasted. When he reached Chard his escort consisted of five thousand
horsemen. At Exeter all Devonshire had been gathered together to welcome
him. One striking part of the show was a company of nine hundred young
men who, clad in a white uniform, marched before him into the city.
[362] The turn of fortune which had alienated the gentry from his cause
had produced no effect on the common people. To them he was still the
good Duke, the Protestant Duke, the rightful heir whom a vile conspiracy
kept out of his own. They came to his standard in crowds. All the
clerks whom he could employ were too few to take down the names of the
recruits. Before he had been twenty-four hours on English ground he was
at the head of fifteen hundred men. Dare arrived from Taunton with
forty horsemen of no very martial appearance, and brought encouraging
intelligence as to the state of public feeling in Somersetshire. As Yet
all seemed to promise well. [363]
But a force was collecting at Bridport to oppose the insurgents. On the
thirteenth of June the red regiment of Dorsetshire militia came pouring
into that town. The Somersetshire, or yellow regiment, of which Sir
William Portman, a Tory gentleman of great note, was Colonel, was
expected to arrive on the following day. [364] The Duke determined to
strike an immediate blow. A detachment of his troops was preparing to
march to Bridport when a disastrous event threw the whole camp into
confusion.
Fletcher of Saltoun had been appointed to command the cavalry under
Grey. Fletcher was ill mounted; and indeed there were few chargers in
the camp which had not been taken from the plough. When he was ordered
to Bridport, he thought that the exigency of the case warranted him in
borrowing, without asking permission, a fine horse belonging to Dare.
Dare resented this liberty, and assailed Fletcher with gross abuse.
Fletcher kept his temper better than any one who knew him expected. At
last Dare, presuming on the patience with which his insolence had been
endured, ventured to shake a switch at the high born and high spirited
Scot Fletcher's blood boiled. He drew a pistol and shot Dare dead.
Such sudden and violent revenge would not have been thought strange in
Scotland, where the law had always been weak, where he who did not right
himself by the strong hand was not likely to be righted at all, and
where, consequently, human life was held almost as cheap as in the worst
governed provinces of Italy. But the people of the southern part of the
island were not accustomed to see deadly weapons used and blood spilled
on account of a rude word or gesture, except in duel between gentlemen
with equal arms. There was a general cry for vengeance on the foreigner
who had murdered an Englishman. Monmouth could not resist the clamour.
Fletcher, who, when his first burst of rage had spent itself, was
overwhelmed with remorse and sorrow, took refuge on board of the
Helderenbergh, escaped to the Continent, and repaired to Hungary, where
he fought bravely against the common enemy of Christendom. [365]
Situated as the insurgents were, the loss of a man of parts and energy
was not easily to be repaired. Early on the morning of the following
day, the fourteenth of June, Grey, accompanied by Wade, marched with
about five hundred men to attack Bridport. A confused and indecisive
action took place, such as was to be expected when two bands of
ploughmen, officered by country gentlemen and barristers, were opposed
to each other. For a time Monmouth's men drove the militia before them.
Then the militia made a stand, and Monmouth's men retreated in some
confusion. Grey and his cavalry never stopped till they were safe at
Lyme again: but Wade rallied the infantry and brought them off in good
order. [366]
There was a violent outcry against Grey; and some of the adventurers
pressed Monmouth to take a severe course. Monmouth, however, would not
listen to this advice. His lenity has been attributed by some writers
to his good nature, which undoubtedly often amounted to weakness. Others
have supposed that he was unwilling to deal harshly with the only peer
who served in his army. It is probable, however, that the Duke, who,
though not a general of the highest order, understood war very much
better than the preachers and lawyers who were always obtruding their
advice on him, made allowances which people altogether inexpert in
military affairs never thought of making. In justice to a man who has
had few defenders, it must be observed that the task, which, throughout
this campaign, was assigned to Grey, was one which, if he had been the
boldest and most skilful of soldiers, he would scarcely have performed
in such a manner as to gain credit. He was at the head of the cavalry.
It is notorious that a horse soldier requires a longer training than a
foot soldier, and that the war horse requires a longer training than his
rider. Something may be done with a raw infantry which has enthusiasm
and animal courage: but nothing can be more helpless than a raw cavalry,
consisting of yeomen and tradesmen mounted on cart horses and post
horses; and such was the cavalry which Grey commanded. The wonder is,
not that his men did not stand fire with resolution, not that they did
not use their weapons with vigour, but that they were able to keep their
seats.
Still recruits came in by hundreds. Arming and drilling went on all day.
Meantime the news of the insurrection had spread fast and wide. On
the evening on which the Duke landed, Gregory Alford, Mayor of Lyme, a
zealous Tory, and a bitter persecutor of Nonconformists, sent off
his servants to give the alarm to the gentry of Somersetshire and
Dorsetshire, and himself took horse for the West. Late at night he
stopped at Honiton, and thence despatched a few hurried lines to London
with the ill tidings. [367] He then pushed on to Exeter, where he found
Christopher Monk, Duke of Albemarle. This nobleman, the son and heir
of George Monk, the restorer of the Stuarts, was Lord Lieutenant of
Devonshire, and was then holding a muster of militia. Four thousand men
of the trainbands were actually assembled under his command. He seems to
have thought that, with this force, he should be able at once to crush
the rebellion. He therefore marched towards Lyme.
But when, on the afternoon of Monday the fifteenth of June, he reached
Axminster, he found the insurgents drawn up there to encounter him. They
presented a resolute front. Four field pieces were pointed against the
royal troops. The thick hedges, which on each side overhung the narrow
lanes, were lined with musketeers. Albemarle, however, was less alarmed
by the preparations of the enemy than by the spirit which appeared in
his own ranks. Such was Monmouth's popularity among the common people
of Devonshire that, if once the trainbands had caught sight of his well
known face and figure, they would have probably gone over to him in a
body.
Albemarle, therefore, though he had a great superiority of force,
thought it advisable to retreat. The retreat soon became a rout. The
whole country was strewn with the arms and uniforms which the fugitives
had thrown away; and, had Monmouth urged the pursuit with vigour, he
would probably have taken Exeter without a blow. But he was satisfied
with the advantage which he had gained, and thought it desirable that
his recruits should be better trained before they were employed in
any hazardous service. He therefore marched towards Taunton, where he
arrived on the eighteenth of June, exactly a week after his landing.
[368]
The Court and the Parliament had been greatly moved by the news from
the West. At five in the morning of Saturday the thirteenth of June, the
King had received the letter which the Mayor of Lyme had despatched from
Honiton. The Privy Council was instantly called together. Orders were
given that the strength of every company of infantry and of every troop
of cavalry should be increased. Commissions were issued for the levying
of new regiments. Alford's communication was laid before the Lords; and
its substance was communicated to the Commons by a message. The Commons
examined the couriers who had arrived from the West, and instantly
ordered a bill to be brought in for attainting Monmouth of high treason.
Addresses were voted assuring the King that both his peers and his
people were determined to stand by him with life and fortune against
all his enemies. At the next meeting of the Houses they ordered the
Declaration of the rebels to be burned by the hangman, and passed the
bill of attainder through all its stages. That bill received the
royal assent on the same day; and a reward of five thousand pounds was
promised for the apprehension of Monmouth. [369]
The fact that Monmouth was in arms against the government was so
notorious that the bill of attainder became a law with only a faint
show of opposition from one or two peers, and has seldom been severely
censured even by Whig historians. Yet, when we consider how important it
is that legislative and judicial functions should be kept distinct, how
important it is that common fame, however strong and general, should not
be received as a legal proof of guilt, how important it is to maintain
the rule that no man shall be condemned to death without an opportunity
of defending himself, and how easily and speedily breaches in great
principles, when once made, are widened, we shall probably be disposed
to think that the course taken by the Parliament was open to some
objection. Neither House had before it anything which even so corrupt
a judge as Jeffreys could have directed a jury to consider as proof of
Monmouth's crime. The messengers examined by the Commons were not on
oath, and might therefore have related mere fictions without incurring
the penalties of perjury. The Lords, who might have administered an
oath, appeared not to have examined any witness, and to have had no
evidence before them except the letter of the Mayor of Lyme, which, in
the eye of the law, was no evidence at all. Extreme danger, it is true,
justifies extreme remedies. But the Act of Attainder was a remedy which
could not operate till all danger was over, and which would become
superfluous at the very moment at which it ceased to be null. While
Monmouth was in arms it was impossible to execute him. If he should
be vanquished and taken, there would be no hazard and no difficulty in
trying him. It was afterwards remembered as a curious circumstance that,
among zealous Tories who went up with the bill from the House of
Commons to the bar of the Lords, was Sir John Fenwick, member for
Northumberland. This gentleman, a few years later, had occasion to
reconsider the whole subject, and then came to the conclusion that acts
of attainder are altogether unjustifiable. [370]
The Parliament gave other proofs of loyalty in this hour of peril.
The Commons authorised the King to raise an extraordinary sum of four
hundred thousand pounds for his present necessities, and that he
might have no difficulty in finding the money, proceeded to devise new
imposts. The scheme of taxing houses lately built in the capital was
revived and strenuously supported by the country gentlemen. It was
resolved not only that such houses should be taxed, but that a bill
should be brought in prohibiting the laying of any new foundations
within the bills of mortality. The resolution, however, was not carried
into effect. Powerful men who had land in the suburbs and who hoped to
see new streets and squares rise on their estates, exerted all their
influence against the project. It was found that to adjust the details
would be a work of time; and the King's wants were so pressing that he
thought it necessary to quicken the movements of the House by a gentle
exhortation to speed. The plan of taxing buildings was therefore
relinquished; and new duties were imposed for a term of five years on
foreign silks, linens, and spirits. [371]
The Tories of the Lower House proceeded to introduce what they called
a bill for the preservation of the King's person and government.
They proposed that it should be high treason to say that Monmouth was
legitimate, to utter any words tending to bring the person or government
of the sovereign into hatred or contempt, or to make any motion
in Parliament for changing the order of succession. Some of these
provisions excited general disgust and alarm. The Whigs, few and weak
as they were, attempted to rally, and found themselves reinforced by a
considerable number of moderate and sensible Cavaliers. Words, it was
said, may easily be misunderstood by a dull man. They may be easily
misconstrued by a knave. What was spoken metaphorically may be
apprehended literally. What was spoken ludicrously may be apprehended
seriously. A particle, a tense, a mood, an emphasis, may make the whole
difference between guilt and innocence. The Saviour of mankind himself,
in whose blameless life malice could find no acts to impeach, had been
called in question for words spoken. False witnesses had suppressed
a syllable which would have made it clear that those words were
figurative, and had thus furnished the Sanhedrim with a pretext under
which the foulest of all judicial murders had been perpetrated. With
such an example on record, who could affirm that, if mere talk were
made a substantive treason, the most loyal subject would be safe? These
arguments produced so great an effect that in the committee amendments
were introduced which greatly mitigated the severity of the bill. But
the clause which made it high treason in a member of Parliament to
propose the exclusion of a prince of the blood seems to have raised no
debate, and was retained. That clause was indeed altogether unimportant,
except as a proof of the ignorance and inexperience of the hotheaded
Royalists who thronged the House of Commons. Had they learned the first
rudiments of legislation, they would have known that the enactment
to which they attached so much value would be superfluous while the
Parliament was disposed to maintain the order of succession, and would
be repealed as soon as there was a Parliament bent on changing the order
of succession. [372]
The bill, as amended, was passed and carried up to the Lords, but
did not become law. The King had obtained from the Parliament all the
pecuniary assistance that he could expect; and he conceived that, while
rebellion was actually raging, the loyal nobility and gentry would be
of more use in their counties than at Westminster. He therefore hurried
their deliberations to a close, and, on the second of July, dismissed
them. On the same day the royal assent was given to a law reviving that
censorship of the press which had terminated in 1679. This object was
affected by a few words at the end of a miscellaneous statute which
continued several expiring acts. The courtiers did not think that they
had gained a triumph. The Whigs did not utter a murmur. Neither in the
Lords nor in the Commons was there any division, or even, as far as
can now be learned, any debate on a question which would, in our age,
convulse the whole frame of society. In truth, the change was slight and
almost imperceptible; for, since the detection of the Rye House plot,
the liberty of unlicensed printing had existed only in name. During many
months scarcely one Whig pamphlet had been published except by stealth;
and by stealth such pamphlets might be published still. [373]
The Houses then rose. They were not prorogued, but only adjourned,
in order that, when they should reassemble, they might take up their
business in the exact state in which they had left it. [374]
While the Parliament was devising sharp laws against Monmouth and his
partisans, he found at Taunton a reception which might well encourage
him to hope that his enterprise would have a prosperous issue. Taunton,
like most other towns in the south of England, was, in that age, more
important than at present. Those towns have not indeed declined. On the
contrary, they are, with very few exceptions, larger and richer, better
built and better peopled, than in the seventeenth century. But, though
they have positively advanced, they have relatively gone back. They have
been far outstripped in wealth and population by the great manufacturing
and commercial cities of the north, cities which, in the time of the
Stuarts, were but beginning to be known as seats of industry. When
Monmouth marched into Taunton it was an eminently prosperous place.
Its markets were plentifully supplied. It was a celebrated seat of
the woollen manufacture. The people boasted that they lived in a land
flowing with milk and honey. Nor was this language held only by partial
natives; for every stranger who climbed the graceful tower of St. Mary
Magdalene owned that he saw beneath him the most fertile of English
valleys. It was a country rich with orchards and green pastures, among
which were scattered, in gay abundance, manor houses, cottages, and
village spires. The townsmen had long leaned towards Presbyterian
divinity and Whig politics. In the great civil war Taunton had, through
all vicissitudes, adhered to the Parliament, had been twice closely
besieged by Goring, and had been twice defended with heroic valour by
Robert Blake, afterwards the renowned Admiral of the Commonwealth.
Whole streets had been burned down by the mortars and grenades of
the Cavaliers. Food had been so scarce that the resolute governor had
announced his intention of putting the garrison on rations of horse
flesh. But the spirit of the town had never been subdued either by fire
or by hunger. [375]
The Restoration had produced no effect on the temper of the Taunton men.
They had still continued to celebrate the anniversary of the happy day
on which the siege laid to their town by the royal army had been raised;
and their stubborn attachment to the old cause had excited so much fear
and resentment at Whitehall that, by a royal order, their moat had
been filled up, and their wall demolished to the foundation. [376] The
puritanical spirit had been kept up to the height among them by the
precepts and example of one of the most celebrated of the dissenting
clergy, Joseph Alleine. Alleine was the author of a tract, entitled, An
Alarm to the Unconverted, which is still popular both in England and
in America. From the gaol to which he was consigned by the victorious
Cavaliers, he addressed to his loving friends at Taunton many epistles
breathing the spirit of a truly heroic piety. His frame soon sank under
the effects of study, toil, and persecution: but his memory was long
cherished with exceeding love and reverence by those whom he had
exhorted and catechised. [377]
The children of the men who, forty years before, had manned the ramparts
of Taunton against the Royalists, now welcomed Monmouth with transports
of joy and affection. Every door and window was adorned with wreaths
of flowers. No man appeared in the streets without wearing in his hat
a green bough, the badge of the popular cause. Damsels of the best
families in the town wove colours for the insurgents. One flag in
particular was embroidered gorgeously with emblems of royal dignity, and
was offered to Monmouth by a train of young girls. He received the gift
with the winning courtesy which distinguished him. The lady who headed
the procession presented him also with a small Bible of great price.
