No More Learning

Dartmouth,
though he had sworn allegiance to the sovereigns who were in possession,
was one of their most active enemies, and undertook what may be called
the maritime department of the plot. His mind was constantly occupied
by schemes, disgraceful to an English seaman, for the destruction of
the English fleets and arsenals. He was in close communication with some
naval officers, who, though they served the new government, served
it sullenly and with half a heart; and he flattered himself that by
promising these men ample rewards, and by artfully inflaming the jealous
animosity with which they regarded the Dutch flag, he should prevail on
them to desert and to carry their ships into some French or Irish port,
[634]

The conduct of Penn was scarcely less scandalous. He was a zealous and
busy Jacobite; and his new way of life was even more unfavourable than
his late way of life had been to moral purity. It was hardly possible
to be at once a consistent Quaker and a courtier: but it was utterly
impossible to be at once a consistent Quaker and a conspirator. It
is melancholy to relate that Penn, while professing to consider even
defensive war as sinful, did every thing in his power to bring a foreign
army into the heart of his own country. He wrote to inform James that
the adherents of the Prince of Orange dreaded nothing so much as an
appeal to the sword, and that, if England were now invaded from France
or from Ireland, the number of Royalists would appear to be greater than
ever. Avaux thought this letter so important, that he sent a translation
of it to Lewis, [635] A good effect, the shrewd ambassador wrote, had
been produced, by this and similar communications, on the mind of King
James. His Majesty was at last convinced that he could recover his
dominions only sword in hand. It is a curious fact that it should have
been reserved for the great preacher of peace to produce this conviction
in the mind of the old tyrant, [636] Penn's proceedings had not escaped
the observation of the government. Warrants had been out against him;
and he had been taken into custody; but the evidence against him had not
been such as would support a charge of high treason: he had, as with
all his faults he deserved to have, many friends in every party; he
therefore soon regained his liberty, and returned to his plots, [637]

But the chief conspirator was Richard Graham, Viscount Preston, who had,
in the late reign, been Secretary of State. Though a peer in Scotland,
he was only a baronet in England. He had, indeed, received from Saint
Germains an English patent of nobility; but the patent bore a date
posterior to that flight which the Convention had pronounced an
abdication. The Lords had, therefore, not only refused to admit him to
a share of their privileges, but had sent him to prison for presuming to
call himself one of their order. He had, however, by humbling himself,
and by withdrawing his claim, obtained his liberty, [638] Though the
submissive language which he had condescended to use on this occasion
did not indicate a spirit prepared for martyrdom, he was regarded by his
party, and by the world in general, as a man of courage and honour. He
still retained the seals of his office, and was still considered by
the adherents of indefeasible hereditary right as the real Secretary of
State. He was in high favour with Lewis, at whose court he had formerly
resided, and had, since the Revolution, been intrusted by the French
government with considerable sums of money for political purposes, [639]

While Preston was consulting in the capital with the other heads of the
faction, the rustic Jacobites were laying in arms, holding musters, and
forming themselves into companies, troops, and regiments. There were
alarming symptoms in Worcestershire. In Lancashire many gentlemen had
received commissions signed by James, called themselves colonels and
captains, and made out long lists of noncommissioned officers and
privates. Letters from Yorkshire brought news that large bodies of men,
who seemed to have met for no good purpose, had been seen on the moors
near Knaresborough. Letters from Newcastle gave an account of a great
match at football which had been played in Northumberland, and was
suspected to have been a pretext for a gathering of the disaffected. In
the crowd, it was said, were a hundred and fifty horsemen well mounted
and armed, of whom many were Papists, [640]

Meantime packets of letters full of treason were constantly passing and
repassing between Kent and Picardy, and between Wales and Ireland.
Some of the messengers were honest fanatics; but others were mere
mercenaries, and trafficked in the secrets of which they were the
bearers.

Of these double traitors the most remarkable was William Fuller. This
man has himself told us that, when he was very young, he fell in with a
pamphlet which contained an account of the flagitious life and horrible
death of Dangerfield. The boy's imagination was set on fire; he devoured
the book; he almost got it by heart; and he was soon seized, and ever
after haunted, by a strange presentiment that his fate would resemble
that of the wretched adventurer whose history he had so eagerly read,
[641] It might have been supposed that the prospect of dying in Newgate,
with a back flayed and an eye knocked out, would not have seemed very
attractive. But experience proves that there are some distempered minds
for which notoriety, even when accompanied with pain and shame, has an
irresistible fascination. Animated by this loathsome ambition, Fuller
equalled, and perhaps surpassed, his model. He was bred a Roman
Catholic, and was page to Lady Melfort, when Lady Melfort shone at
Whitehall as one of the loveliest women in the train of Mary of Modena.
After the Revolution, he followed his mistress to France, was repeatedly
employed in delicate and perilous commissions, and was thought at Saint
Germains to be a devoted servant of the House of Stuart. In truth,
however, he had, in one of his journeys to London, sold himself to the
new government, and had abjured the faith in which he had been brought
up. The honour, if it is to be so called, of turning him from a
worthless Papist into a worthless Protestant he ascribed, with
characteristic impudence, to the lucid reasoning and blameless life of
Tillotson.

In the spring of 1690, Mary of Modena wished to send to her
correspondents in London some highly important despatches. As these
despatches were too bulky to be concealed in the clothes of a single
messenger, it was necessary to employ two confidential persons. Fuller
was one. The other was a zealous young Jacobite called Crone. Before
they set out, they received full instructions from the Queen herself.
Not a scrap of paper was to be detected about them by an ordinary
search: but their buttons contained letters written in invisible ink.

The pair proceeded to Calais. The governor of that town furnished them
with a boat, which, under cover of the night, set them on the low
marshy coast of Kent, near the lighthouse of Dungeness. They walked to
a farmhouse, procured horses, and took different roads to London. Fuller
hastened to the palace at Kensington, and delivered the documents
with which he was charged into the King's hand. The first letter which
William unrolled seemed to contain only florid compliments: but a pan
of charcoal was lighted: a liquor well known to the diplomatists of that
age was applied to the paper: an unsavoury steam filled the closet; and
lines full of grave meaning began to appear.

The first thing to be done was to secure Crone. He had unfortunately had
time to deliver his letters before he was caught: but a snare was laid
for him into which he easily fell. In truth the sincere Jacobites were
generally wretched plotters. There was among them an unusually large
proportion of sots, braggarts, and babblers; and Crone was one of these.
Had he been wise, he would have shunned places of public resort, kept
strict guard over his lips, and stinted himself to one bottle at a meal.
He was found by the messengers of the government at a tavern table in
Gracechurch Street, swallowing bumpers to the health of King James,
and ranting about the coming restoration, the French fleet, and the
thousands of honest Englishmen who were awaiting the signal to rise in
arms for their rightful Sovereign. He was carried to the Secretary's
office at Whitehall. He at first seemed to be confident and at his
ease: but when Fuller appeared among the bystanders at liberty, and in a
fashionable garb, with a sword, the prisoner's courage fell; and he was
scarcely able to articulate, [642]

The news that Fuller had turned king's evidence, that Crone had been
arrested, and that important letters from Saint Germains were in the
hands of William, flew fast through London, and spread dismay among all
who were conscious of guilt, [643] It was true that the testimony of one
witness, even if that witness had been more respectable than Fuller, was
not legally sufficient to convict any person of high treason. But Fuller
had so managed matters that several witnesses could be produced to
corroborate his evidence against Crone; and, if Crone, under the strong
terror of death, should imitate Fuller's example, the heads of all the
chiefs of the conspiracy would be at the mercy of the government. The
spirits of the Jacobites rose, however, when it was known that Crone,
though repeatedly interrogated by those who had him in their power, and
though assured that nothing but a frank confession could save his life,
had resolutely continued silent. What effect a verdict of Guilty and the
near prospect of the gallows might produce on him remained to be seen.
His accomplices were by no means willing that his fortitude should be
tried by so severe a test. They therefore employed numerous artifices,
legal and illegal, to avert a conviction. A woman named Clifford, with
whom he had lodged, and who was one of the most active and cunning
agents of the Jacobite faction, was entrusted with the duty of keeping
him steady to the cause, and of rendering to him services from which
scrupulous or timid agents might have shrunk. When the dreaded day
came, Fuller was too ill to appear in the witness box, and the trial
was consequently postponed. He asserted that his malady was not natural,
that a noxious drug had been administered to him in a dish of porridge,
that his nails were discoloured, that his hair came off, and that able
physicians pronounced him poisoned. But such stories, even when they
rest on authority much better than that of Fuller, ought to be received
with great distrust.

While Crone was awaiting his trial, another agent of the Court of
Saint Germains, named Tempest, was seized on the road between Dover and
London, and was found to be the bearer of numerous letters addressed to
malecontents in England, [644]

Every day it became more plain that the State was surrounded by dangers:
and yet it was absolutely necessary that, at this conjuncture, the able
and resolute Chief of the State should quit his post.

William, with painful anxiety, such as he alone was able to conceal
under an appearance of stoical serenity, prepared to take his departure.
Mary was in agonies of grief; and her distress affected him more than
was imagined by those who judged of his heart by his demeanour, [645] He
knew too that he was about to leave her surrounded by difficulties
with which her habits had not qualified her to contend. She would be in
constant need of wise and upright counsel; and where was such counsel to
be found? There were indeed among his servants many able men and a
few virtuous men. But, even when he was present, their political and
personal animosities had too often made both their abilities and their
virtues useless to him. What chance was there that the gentle Mary would
be able to restrain that party spirit and that emulation which had been
but very imperfectly kept in order by her resolute and politic lord?
If the interior cabinet which was to assist the Queen were composed
exclusively either of Whigs or of Tories, half the nation would be
disgusted. Yet, if Whigs and Tories were mixed, it was certain that
there would be constant dissension. Such was William's situation that he
had only a choice of evils.

All these difficulties were increased by the conduct of Shrewsbury. The
character of this man is a curious study. He seemed to be the petted
favourite both of nature and of fortune. Illustrious birth, exalted
rank, ample possessions, fine parts, extensive acquirements, an
agreeable person, manners singularly graceful and engaging, combined
to make him an object of admiration and envy. But, with all these
advantages, he had some moral and intellectual peculiarities which made
him a torment to himself and to all connected with him. His conduct
at the time of the Revolution had given the world a high opinion, not
merely of his patriotism, but of his courage, energy and decision. It
should seem, however, that youthful enthusiasm and the exhilaration
produced by public sympathy and applause had, on that occasion, raised
him above himself. Scarcely any other part of his life was of a piece
with that splendid commencement. He had hardly become Secretary of State
when it appeared that his nerves were too weak for such a post. The
daily toil, the heavy responsibility, the failures, the mortifications,
the obloquy, which are inseparable from power, broke his spirit,
soured his temper, and impaired his health. To such natures as his the
sustaining power of high religious principle seems to be peculiarly
necessary; and unfortunately Shrewsbury had, in the act of shaking off
the yoke of that superstition in which he had been brought up, liberated
himself also from more salutary bands which might perhaps have braced
his too delicately constituted mind into stedfastness and uprightness.
Destitute of such support, he was, with great abilities, a weak man,
and, though endowed with many amiable and attractive qualities, could
not be called an honest man. For his own happiness, he should either
have been much better or much worse. As it was, he never knew either
that noble peace of mind which is the reward of rectitude, or that
abject peace of mind which springs from impudence and insensibility. Few
people who have had so little power to resist temptation have suffered
so cruelly from remorse and shame.

To a man of this temper the situation of a minister of state during the
year which followed the Revolution must have been constant torture.
The difficulties by which the government was beset on all sides, the
malignity of its enemies, the unreasonableness of its friends, the
virulence with which the hostile factions fell on each other and on
every mediator who attempted to part them, might indeed have discouraged
a more resolute spirit. Before Shrewsbury had been six months in office,
he had completely lost heart and head. He began to address to William
letters which it is difficult to imagine that a prince so strongminded
can have read without mingled compassion and contempt. "I am
sensible,"--such was the constant burden of these epistles,--"that I am
unfit for my place. I cannot exert myself. I am not the same man that I
was half a year ago. My health is giving way. My mind is on the rack.
My memory is failing. Nothing but quiet and retirement can restore me. "
William returned friendly and soothing answers; and, for a time, these
answers calmed the troubled mind of his minister, [646] But at length
the dissolution, the general election, the change in the Commissions
of Peace and Lieutenancy, and finally the debates on the two Abjuration
Bills, threw Shrewsbury into a state bordering on distraction. He was
angry with the Whigs for using the King ill, and yet was still more
angry with the King for showing favour to the Tories. At what moment and
by what influence, the unhappy man was induced to commit a treason, the
consciousness of which threw a dark shade over all his remaining years,
is not accurately known. But it is highly probable that his mother, who,
though the most abandoned of women, had great power over him, took a
fatal advantage of some unguarded hour when he was irritated by finding
his advice slighted, and that of Danby and Nottingham preferred. She was
still a member of that Church which her son had quitted, and may have
thought that, by reclaiming him from rebellion, she might make some
atonement for the violation of her marriage vow and the murder of her
lord, [647] What is certain is that, before the end of the spring of
1690, Shrewsbury had offered his services to James, and that James had
accepted them. One proof of the sincerity of the convert was demanded.
He must resign the seals which he had taken from the hand of the
usurper, [648] It is probable that Shrewsbury had scarcely committed his
fault when he began to repent of it. But he had not strength of mind to
stop short in the path of evil. Loathing his own baseness, dreading
a detection which must be fatal to his honour, afraid to go forward,
afraid to go back, he underwent tortures of which it is impossible to
think without commiseration. The true cause of his distress was as yet
a profound secret; but his mental struggles and changes of purpose were
generally known, and furnished the town, during some weeks, with topics
of conversation. One night, when he was actually setting out in a state
of great excitement for the palace, with the seals in his hand, he was
induced by Burnet to defer his resignation for a few hours. Some days
later, the eloquence of Tillotson was employed for the same purpose,
[649] Three or four times the Earl laid the ensigns of his office on the
table of the royal closet, and was three or four times induced, by
the kind expostulations of the master whom he was conscious of having
wronged, to take them up and carry them away. Thus the resignation was
deferred till the eve of the King's departure. By that time agitation
had thrown Shrewsbury into a low fever. Bentinck, who made a last effort
to persuade him to retain office, found him in bed and too ill for
conversation, [650] The resignation so often tendered was at length
accepted; and during some months Nottingham was the only Secretary of
State.

It was no small addition to William's troubles that, at such a moment,
his government should be weakened by this defection. He tried, however,
to do his best with the materials which remained to him, and finally
selected nine privy councillors, by whose advice he enjoined Mary to be
guided. Four of these, Devonshire, Dorset, Monmouth, and Edward
Russell, were Whigs. The other five, Caermarthen, Pembroke, Nottingham,
Marlborough, and Lowther, were Tories, [651]

William ordered the Nine to attend him at the office of the Secretary of
State. When they were assembled, he came leading in the Queen, desired
them to be seated, and addressed to them a few earnest and weighty
words. "She wants experience," he said; "but I hope that, by choosing
you to be her counsellors, I have supplied that defect. I put my kingdom
into your hands. Nothing foreign or domestic shall be kept secret from
you. I implore you to be diligent and to be united. " [652] In private
he told his wife what he thought of the characters of the Nine; and it
should seem, from her letters to him, that there were few of the number
for whom he expressed any high esteem. Marlborough was to be her guide
in military affairs, and was to command the troops in England. Russell,
who was Admiral of the Blue, and had been rewarded for the service which
he had done at the time of the Revolution with the lucrative place
of Treasurer of the Navy, was well fitted to be her adviser on all
questions relating to the fleet. But Caermarthen was designated as the
person on whom, in case of any difference of opinion in the council,
she ought chiefly to rely. Caermarthen's sagacity and experience were
unquestionable; his principles, indeed, were lax; but, if there was any
person in existence to whom he was likely to be true, that person was
Mary. He had long been in a peculiar manner her friend and servant: he
had gained a high place in her favour by bringing about her marriage;
and he had, in the Convention, carried his zeal for her interests to a
length which she had herself blamed as excessive. There was, therefore,
every reason to hope that he would serve her at this critical
conjuncture with sincere good will, [653]

One of her nearest kinsmen, on the other hand, was one of her bitterest
enemies. The evidence which was in the possession of the government
proved beyond dispute that Clarendon was deeply concerned in the
Jacobite schemes of insurrection. But the Queen was most unwilling that
her kindred should be harshly treated; and William, remembering through
what ties she had broken, and what reproaches she had incurred, for his
sake, readily gave her uncle's life and liberty to her intercession.
But, before the King set out for Ireland, he spoke seriously to
Rochester. "Your brother has been plotting against me. I am sure of it.
I have the proofs under his own hand. I was urged to leave him out of
the Act of Grace; but I would not do what would have given so much pain
to the Queen. For her sake I forgive the past; but my Lord Clarendon
will do well to be cautious for the future. If not, he will find that
these are no jesting matters. " Rochester communicated the admonition to
Clarendon. Clarendon, who was in constant correspondence with Dublin and
Saint Germains, protested that his only wish was to be quiet, and that,
though he had a scruple about the oaths, the existing government had not
a more obedient subject than he purposed to be, [654]

Among the letters which the government had intercepted was one from
James to Penn. That letter, indeed, was not legal evidence to prove that
the person to whom it was addressed had been guilty of high treason; but
it raised suspicions which are now known to have been well founded. Penn
was brought before the Privy Council, and interrogated. He said very
truly that he could not prevent people from writing to him, and that he
was not accountable for what they might write to him. He acknowledged
that he was bound to the late King by ties of gratitude and affection
which no change of fortune could dissolve. "I should be glad to do
him any service in his private affairs: but I owe a sacred duty to
my country; and therefore I was never so wicked as even to think of
endeavouring to bring him back. " This was a falsehood; and William was
probably aware that it was so. He was unwilling however to deal harshly
with a man who had many titles to respect, and who was not likely to be
a very formidable plotter. He therefore declared himself satisfied,
and proposed to discharge the prisoner. Some of the Privy Councillors,
however, remonstrated; and Penn was required to give bail, [655]

On the day before William's departure, he called Burnet into his closet,
and, in firm but mournful language, spoke of the dangers which on every
side menaced the realm, of the fury or the contending factions, and of
the evil spirit which seemed to possess too many of the clergy. "But my
trust is in God. I will go through with my work or perish in it. Only
I cannot help feeling for the poor Queen;" and twice he repeated with
unwonted tenderness, "the poor Queen. " "If you love me," he added, "wait
on her often, and give her what help you can. As for me, but for one
thing, I should enjoy the prospect of being on horseback and under
canvass again. For I am sure I am fitter to direct a campaign than to
manage your House of Lords and Commons. But, though I know that I am in
the path of duty, it is hard on my wife that her father and I must be
opposed to each other in the field. God send that no harm may happen to
him. Let me have your prayers, Doctor. " Burnet retired greatly moved,
and doubtless put up, with no common fervour, those prayers for which
his master had asked, [656]

On the following day, the fourth of June, the King set out for Ireland.
Prince George had offered his services, had equipped himself at great
charge, and fully expected to be complimented with a seat in the royal
coach. But William, who promised himself little pleasure or advantage
from His Royal Highness's conversation, and who seldom stood on
ceremony, took Portland for a travelling companion, and never once,
during the whole of that eventful campaign, seemed to be aware of the
Prince's existence, [657] George, if left to himself, would hardly have
noticed the affront. But, though he was too dull to feel, his wife felt
for him; and her resentment was studiously kept alive by mischiefmakers
of no common dexterity. On this, as on many other occasions, the
infirmities of William's temper proved seriously detrimental to the
great interests of which he was the guardian. His reign would have been
far more prosperous if, with his own courage, capacity and elevation of
mind, he had had a little of the easy good humour and politeness of his
uncle Charles.

In four days the King arrived at Chester, where a fleet of transports
was awaiting the signal for sailing. He embarked on the eleventh of
June, and was convoyed across Saint George's Channel by a squadron of
men of war under the command of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, [658]

The month which followed William's departure from London was one of the
most eventful and anxious months in the whole history of England. A
few hours after he had set out, Crone was brought to the bar of the Old
Bailey. A great array of judges was on the Bench. Fuller had recovered
sufficiently to make his appearance in court; and the trial proceeded.
The Jacobites had been indefatigable in their efforts to ascertain the
political opinions of the persons whose names were on the jury list.
So many were challenged that there was some difficulty in making up the
number of twelve; and among the twelve was one on whom the malecontents
thought that they could depend. Nor were they altogether mistaken; for
this man held out against his eleven companions all night and half the
next day; and he would probably have starved them into submission had
not Mrs. Clifford, who was in league with him, been caught throwing
sweetmeats to him through the window. His supplies having been cut off,
he yielded; and a verdict of Guilty, which, it was said, cost two of the
jurymen their lives, was returned. A motion in arrest of judgment was
instantly made, on the ground that a Latin word indorsed on the back
of the indictment was incorrectly spelt. The objection was undoubtedly
frivolous. Jeffreys would have at once overruled it with a torrent of
curses, and would have proceeded to the most agreeable part of his duty,
that of describing to the prisoner the whole process of half hanging,
disembowelling, mutilating, and quartering. But Holt and his brethren
remembered that they were now for the first time since the Revolution
trying a culprit on a charge of high treason. It was therefore desirable
to show, in a manner not to be misunderstood, that a new era had
commenced, and that the tribunals would in future rather err on the side
of humanity than imitate the cruel haste and levity with which Cornish
had, when pleading for his life, been silenced by servile judges. The
passing of the sentence was therefore deferred: a day was appointed
for considering the point raised by Crone; and counsel were assigned to
argue in his behalf. "This would not have been done, Mr. Crone,"
said the Lord Chief Justice significantly, "in either of the last two
reigns. " After a full hearing, the Bench unanimously pronounced the
error to be immaterial; and the prisoner was condemned to death.
He owned that his trial had been fair, thanked the judges for their
patience, and besought them to intercede for him with the Queen, [659]

He was soon informed that his fate was in his own hands. The government
was willing to spare him if he would earn his pardon by a full
confession. The struggle in his mind was terrible and doubtful. At one
time Mrs. Clifford, who had access to his cell, reported to the Jacobite
chiefs that he was in a great agony. He could not die, he said; he was
too young to be a martyr, [660] The next morning she found him cheerful
and resolute, [661] He held out till the eve of the day fixed for his
execution. Then he sent to ask for an interview with the Secretary of
State. Nottingham went to Newgate; but, before he arrived, Crone
had changed his mind and was determined to say nothing. "Then," said
Nottingham, "I shall see you no more--for tomorrow will assuredly be
your last day. " But, after Nottingham had departed, Monmouth repaired
to the gaol, and flattered himself that he had shaken the prisoner's
resolution. At a very late hour that night came a respite for a week,
[662] The week however passed away without any disclosure; the gallows
and quartering block were ready at Tyburn; the sledge and axe were at
the door of Newgate; the crowd was thick all up Holborn Hill and along
the Oxford Road; when a messenger brought another respite, and Crone,
instead of being dragged to the place of execution, was conducted to the
Council chamber at Whitehall. His fortitude had been at last overcome
by the near prospect of death; and on this occasion he gave important
information, [663]

Such information as he had it in his power to give was indeed at that
moment much needed. Both an invasion and an insurrection were hourly
expected, [664] Scarcely had William set out from London when a great
French fleet commanded by the Count of Tourville left the port of Brest
and entered the British Channel. Tourville was the ablest maritime
commander that his country then possessed. He had studied every part
of his profession. It was said of him that he was competent to fill any
place on shipboard from that of carpenter up to that of admiral. It was
said of him, also, that to the dauntless courage of a seaman he united
the suavity and urbanity of an accomplished gentleman, [665] He now
stood over to the English shore, and approached it so near that his
ships could be plainly descried from the ramparts of Plymouth.
From Plymouth he proceeded slowly along the coast of Devonshire and
Dorsetshire. There was great reason to apprehend that his movements had
been concerted with the English malecontents, [666]

The Queen and her Council hastened to take measures for the defence of
the country against both foreign and domestic enemies.
Torrington took
the command of the English fleet which lay in the Downs, and sailed to
Saint Helen's. He was there joined by a Dutch squadron under the command
of Evertsen. It seemed that the cliffs of the Isle of Wight would
witness one of the greatest naval conflicts recorded in history. A
hundred and fifty ships of the line could be counted at once from the
watchtower of Saint Catharine's. On the cast of the huge precipice of
Black Gang Chine, and in full view of the richly wooded rocks of Saint
Lawrence and Ventnor, were mustered the maritime forces of England and
Holland. On the west, stretching to that white cape where the waves roar
among the Needles, lay the armament of France.

It was on the twenty-sixth of June, less than a fortnight after William
had sailed for Ireland, that the hostile fleets took up these positions.
A few hours earlier, there had been an important and anxious sitting of
the Privy Council at Whitehall. The malecontents who were leagued with
France were alert and full of hope. Mary had remarked, while taking her
airing, that Hyde Park was swarming with them. The whole board was of
opinion that it was necessary to arrest some persons of whose guilt the
government had proofs. When Clarendon was named, something was said
in his behalf by his friend and relation, Sir Henry Capel. The other
councillors stared, but remained silent. It was no pleasant task to
accuse the Queen's kinsman in the Queen's presence. Mary had scarcely
ever opened her lips at Council; but now, being possessed of clear
proofs of her uncle's treason in his own handwriting, and knowing that
respect for her prevented her advisers from proposing what the public
safety required, she broke silence. "Sir Henry," she said, "I know, and
every body here knows as well as I, that there is too much against my
Lord Clarendon to leave him out. " The warrant was drawn up; and Capel
signed it with the rest. "I am more sorry for Lord Clarendon," Mary
wrote to her husband, "than, may be, will be believed. " That evening
Clarendon and several other noted Jacobites were lodged in the Tower,
[667]

When the Privy Council had risen, the Queen and the interior Council of
Nine had to consider a question of the gravest importance. What orders
were to be sent to Torrington? The safety of the State might depend
on his judgment and presence of mind; and some of Mary's advisers
apprehended that he would not be found equal to the occasion. Their
anxiety increased when news came that he had abandoned the coast of the
Isle of Wight to the French, and was retreating before them towards
the Straits of Dover. The sagacious Caermarthen and the enterprising
Monmouth agreed in blaming these cautious tactics. It was true that
Torrington had not so many vessels as Tourville; but Caermarthen thought
that, at such a time, it was advisable to fight, although against odds;
and Monmouth was, through life, for fighting at all times and against
all odds. Russell, who was indisputably one of the best seamen of the
age, held that the disparity of numbers was not such as ought to cause
any uneasiness to an officer who commanded English and Dutch sailors. He
therefore proposed to send to the Admiral a reprimand couched in terms
so severe that the Queen did not like to sign it. The language was much
softened; but, in the main, Russell's advice was followed. Torrington
was positively ordered to retreat no further, and to give battle
immediately. Devonshire, however, was still unsatisfied. "It is my duty,
Madam," he said, "to tell Your Majesty exactly what I think on a matter
of this importance; and I think that my Lord Torrington is not a man to
be trusted with the fate of three kingdoms. " Devonshire was right; but
his colleagues were unanimously of opinion that to supersede a commander
in sight of the enemy, and on the eve of a general action, would be a
course full of danger, and it is difficult to say that they were wrong.
"You must either," said Russell, "leave him where he is, or send for him
as a prisoner. " Several expedients were suggested. Caermarthen proposed
that Russell should be sent to assist Torrington. Monmouth passionately
implored permission to join the fleet in any capacity, as a captain, or
as a volunteer. "Only let me be once on board; and I pledge my life that
there shall be a battle. " After much discussion and hesitation, it was
resolved that both Russell and Monmouth should go down to the coast,
[668] They set out, but too late. The despatch which ordered Torrington
to fight had preceded them. It reached him when he was off Beachy Head.
He read it, and was in a great strait. Not to give battle was to be
guilty of direct disobedience. To give battle was, in his judgment, to
incur serious risk of defeat. He probably suspected,--for he was of a
captious and jealous temper,--that the instructions which placed him in
so painful a dilemma had been framed by enemies and rivals with a
design unfriendly to his fortune and his fame. He was exasperated by the
thought that he was ordered about and overruled by Russell, who, though
his inferior in professional rank, exercised, as one of the Council of
Nine, a supreme control over all the departments of the public service.
There seems to be no ground for charging Torrington with disaffection.
Still less can it be suspected that an officer, whose whole life had
been passed in confronting danger, and who had always borne himself
bravely, wanted the personal courage which hundreds of sailors on board
of every ship under his command possessed. But there is a higher
courage of which Torrington was wholly destitute. He shrank from all
responsibility, from the responsibility of fighting, and from the
responsibility of not fighting; and he succeeded in finding out a middle
way which united all the inconveniences which he wished to avoid. He
would conform to the letter of his instructions; yet he would not put
every thing to hazard. Some of his ships should skirmish with the enemy;
but the great body of his fleet should not be risked. It was evident
that the vessels which engaged the French would be placed in a most
dangerous situation, and would suffer much loss; and there is but too
good reason to believe that Torrington was base enough to lay his plans
in such a manner that the danger and loss might fall almost exclusively
to the share of the Dutch. He bore them no love; and in England they
were so unpopular that the destruction of their whole squadron was
likely to cause fewer murmurs than the capture of one of our own
frigates.

It was on the twenty-ninth of June that the Admiral received the order
to fight. The next day, at four in the morning, he bore down on the
French fleet, and formed his vessels in order of battle. He had not
sixty sail of the line, and the French had at least eighty; but his
ships were more strongly manned than those of the enemy. He placed the
Dutch in the van and gave them the signal to engage. That signal was
promptly obeyed. Evertsen and his countrymen fought with a courage to
which both their English allies and their French enemies, in spite of
national prejudices, did full justice. In none of Van Tromp's or De
Ruyter's battles had the honour of the Batavian flag been more gallantly
upheld. During many hours the van maintained the unequal contest with
very little assistance from any other part of the fleet. At length the
Dutch Admiral drew off, leaving one shattered and dismasted hull to
the enemy. His second in command and several officers of high rank had
fallen. To keep the sea against the French after this disastrous and
ignominious action was impossible. The Dutch ships which had come out of
the fight were in lamentable condition. Torrington ordered some of them
to be destroyed: the rest he took in tow: he then fled along the coast
of Kent, and sought a refuge in the Thames. As soon as he was in the
river, he ordered all the buoys to be pulled up, and thus made the
navigation so dangerous, that the pursuers could not venture to follow
him, [669]

It was, however, thought by many, and especially by the French
ministers, that, if Tourville had been more enterprising, the allied
fleet might have been destroyed. He seems to have borne, in one respect,
too much resemblance to his vanquished opponent. Though a brave man, he
was a timid commander. His life he exposed with careless gaiety; but it
was said that he was nervously anxious and pusillanimously cautious when
his professional reputation was in danger. He was so much annoyed by
these censures that he soon became, unfortunately for his country, bold
even to temerity, [670]

There has scarcely ever been so sad a day in London as that on which the
news of the Battle of Beachy Head arrived. The shame was insupportable;
the peril was imminent. What if the victorious enemy should do what
De Ruyter had done? What if the dockyards of Chatham should again be
destroyed? What if the Tower itself should be bombarded? What if the
vast wood of masts and yardarms below London Bridge should be in ablaze?
Nor was this all. Evil tidings had just arrived from the Low Countries.
The allied forces under Waldeck had, in the neighbourhood of Fleurus,
encountered the French commanded by the Duke of Luxemburg. The day
had been long and fiercely disputed. At length the skill of the French
general and the impetuous valour of the French cavalry had prevailed,
[671] Thus at the same moment the army of Lewis was victorious in
Flanders, and his navy was in undisputed possession of the Channel.
Marshal Humieres with a considerable force lay not far from the Straits
of Dover. It had been given out that he was about to join Luxemburg. But
the information which the English government received from able military
men in the Netherlands and from spies who mixed with the Jacobites, and
which to so great a master of the art of war as Marlborough seemed
to deserve serious attention, was, that the army of Humieres would
instantly march to Dunkirk and would there be taken on board of the
fleet of Tourville, [672] Between the coast of Artois and the Nore not a
single ship bearing the red cross of Saint George could venture to show
herself. The embarkation would be the business of a few hours. A few
hours more might suffice for the voyage. At any moment London might be
appalled by the news that thirty thousand French veterans were in Kent,
and that the Jacobites of half the counties of the kingdom were in arms.
All the regular troops who could be assembled for the defence of the
island did not amount to more than ten thousand men. It may be doubted
whether our country has ever passed through a more alarming crisis than
that of the first week of July 1690.

But the evil brought with it its own remedy. Those little knew England
who imagined that she could be in danger at once of rebellion and
invasion; for in truth the danger of invasion was the best security
against the danger of rebellion. The cause of James was the cause of
France; and, though to superficial observers the French alliance seemed
to be his chief support, it really was the obstacle which made his
restoration impossible. In the patriotism, the too often unamiable
and unsocial patriotism of our forefathers, lay the secret at once of
William's weakness and of his strength. They were jealous of his love
for Holland; but they cordially sympathized with his hatred of Lewis.
To their strong sentiment of nationality are to be ascribed almost all
those petty annoyances which made the throne of the Deliverer, from his
accession to his death, so uneasy a seat. But to the same sentiment it
is to be ascribed that his throne, constantly menaced and frequently
shaken, was never subverted. For, much as his people detested his
foreign favourites, they detested his foreign adversaries still more.
The Dutch were Protestants; the French were Papists. The Dutch were
regarded as selfseeking, grasping overreaching allies; the French were
mortal enemies. The worst that could be apprehended from the Dutch was
that they might obtain too large a share of the patronage of the Crown,
that they might throw on us too large a part of the burdens of the war,
that they might obtain commercial advantages at our expense. But the
French would conquer us; the French would enslave us; the French would
inflict on us calamities such as those which had turned the fair fields
and cities of the Palatinate into a desert. The hopgrounds of Kent would
be as the vineyards of the Neckar. The High Street of Oxford and the
close of Salisbury would be piled with ruins such as those which covered
the spots where the palaces and churches of Heidelberg and Mannheim had
once stood. The parsonage overshadowed by the old steeple, the farmhouse
peeping from among beehives and appleblossoms, the manorial hall
embosomed in elms, would be given up to a soldiery which knew not what
it was to pity old men or delicate women or sticking children. The
words, "The French are coming," like a spell, quelled at once all
murmur about taxes and abuses, about William's ungracious manners
and Portland's lucrative places, and raised a spirit as high and
unconquerable as had pervaded, a hundred years before, the ranks which
Elizabeth reviewed at Tilbury. Had the army of Humieres landed, it would
assuredly have been withstood by almost every male capable of bearing
arms. Not only the muskets and pikes but the scythes and pitchforks
would have been too few for the hundreds of thousands who, forgetting
all distinction of sect or faction, would have risen up like one man to
defend the English soil.

The immediate effect therefore of the disasters in the Channel and in
Flanders was to unite for a moment the great body of the people. The
national antipathy to the Dutch seemed to be suspended. Their gallant
conduct in the fight off Beachy Head was loudly applauded. The inaction
of Torrington was loudly condemned. London set the example of concert
and of exertion. The irritation produced by the late election at once
subsided. All distinctions of party disappeared. The Lord Mayor was
summoned to attend the Queen. She requested him to ascertain as soon
as possible what the capital would undertake to do if the enemy should
venture to make a descent. He called together the representatives of
the wards, conferred with them, and returned to Whitehall to report that
they had unanimously bound themselves to stand by the government with
life and fortune; that a hundred thousand pounds were ready to be
paid into the Exchequer; that ten thousand Londoners, well armed and
appointed, were prepared to march at an hour's notice; and that an
additional force, consisting of six regiments of foot, a strong regiment
of horse, and a thousand dragoons, should be instantly raised without
costing the Crown a farthing. Of Her Majesty the City had nothing to
ask, but that she would be pleased to set over these troops officers in
whom she could confide. The same spirit was shown in every part of the
country. Though in the southern counties the harvest was at hand,
the rustics repaired with unusual cheerfulness to the musters of the
militia. The Jacobite country gentlemen, who had, during several months,
been making preparations for the general rising which was to take place
as soon as William was gone and as help arrived from France, now that
William was gone, now that a French invasion was hourly expected, burned
their commissions signed by James, and hid their arms behind wainscots
or in haystacks. The Jacobites in the towns were insulted wherever they
appeared, and were forced to shut themselves up in their houses from the
exasperated populace, [673]

Nothing is more interesting to those who love to study the intricacies
of the human heart than the effect which the public danger produced
on Shrewsbury. For a moment he was again the Shrewsbury of 1688. His
nature, lamentably unstable, was not ignoble; and the thought, that, by
standing foremost in the defence of his country at so perilous a crisis,
he might repair his great fault and regain his own esteem, gave new
energy to his body and his mind. He had retired to Epsom, in the hope
that quiet and pure air would produce a salutary effect on his shattered
frame and wounded spirit. But a few hours after the news of the Battle
of Beachy Head had arrived, he was at Whitehall, and had offered his
purse and sword to the Queen. It had been in contemplation to put the
fleet under the command of some great nobleman with two experienced
naval officers to advise him. Shrewsbury begged that, if such an
arrangement were made, he might be appointed. It concerned, he said, the
interest and the honour of every man in the kingdom not to let the enemy
ride victorious in the Channel; and he would gladly risk his life to
retrieve the lost fame of the English flag, [674]

His offer was not accepted. Indeed, the plan of dividing the naval
command between a man of quality who did not know the points of the
compass, and two weatherbeaten old seamen who had risen from being cabin
boys to be Admirals, was very wisely laid aside. Active exertions were
made to prepare the allied squadrons for service. Nothing was omitted
which could assuage the natural resentment of the Dutch. The Queen
sent a Privy Councillor, charged with a special mission to the States
General. He was the bearer of a letter to them in which she extolled the
valour of Evertsen's gallant squadron. She assured them that their
ships should be repaired in the English dockyards, and that the wounded
Dutchmen should be as carefully tended as wounded Englishmen. It was
announced that a strict inquiry would be instituted into the causes of
the late disaster; and Torrington, who indeed could not at that moment
have appeared in public without risk of being torn in pieces, was sent
to the Tower, [675]

During the three days which followed the arrival of the disastrous
tidings from Beachy Head the aspect of London was gloomy and agitated.
But on the fourth day all was changed. Bells were pealing: flags were
flying: candles were arranged in the windows for an illumination; men
were eagerly shaking hands with each other in the streets. A courier had
that morning arrived at Whitehall with great news from Ireland.




CHAPTER XVI

William lands at Carrickfergus, and proceeds to Belfast--State of
Dublin; William's military Arrangements--William marches southward--The
Irish Army retreats--The Irish make a Stand at the Boyne--The Army of
James--The Army of William--Walker, now Bishop of Derry, accompanies
the Army--William reconnoitres the Irish Position; William is
wounded--Battle of the Boyne--Flight of James--Loss of the two
Armies--Fall of Drogheda; State of Dublin--James flies to France;
Dublin evacuated by the French and Irish Troops--Entry of William into
Dublin--Effect produced in France by the News from Ireland--Effect
produced at Rome by the News from Ireland--Effect produced in London
by the News from Ireland--James arrives in France; his Reception
there--Tourville attempts a Descent on England--Teignmouth
destroyed--Excitement of the English Nation against the French--The
Jacobite Press--The Jacobite Form of Prayer and Humiliation--Clamour
against the nonjuring Bishops--Military Operations in Ireland; Waterford
taken--The Irish Army collected at Limerick; Lauzun pronounces that
the Place cannot be defended--The Irish insist on defending
Limerick--Tyrconnel is against defending Limerick; Limerick defended by
the Irish alone--Sarsfield surprises the English Artillery--Arrival
of Baldearg O'Donnel at Limerick--The Besiegers suffer from the
Rains--Unsuccessful Assault on Limerick; The Siege raised--Tyrconnel and
Lauzun go to France; William returns to England; Reception of William
in England--Expedition to the South of Ireland--Marlborough takes
Cork--Marlborough takes Kinsale--Affairs of Scotland; Intrigues of
Montgomery with the Jacobites--War in the Highlands--Fort William built;
Meeting of the Scottish Parliament--Melville Lord High Commissioner; the
Government obtains a Majority--Ecclesiastical Legislation--The Coalition
between the Club and the Jacobites dissolved--The Chiefs of the Club
betray each other--General Acquiescence in the new Ecclesiastical
Polity--Complaints of the Episcopalians--The Presbyterian
Conjurors--William dissatisfied with the Ecclesiastical Arrangements
in Scotland--Meeting of the General Assembly of the Church of
Scotland--State of Affairs on the Continent--The Duke of Savoy joins
the Coalition--Supplies voted; Ways and Means--Proceedings against
Torrington--Torrington's Trial and Acquittal--Animosity of the
Whigs against Caermarthen--Jacobite Plot--Meeting of the leading
Conspirators--The Conspirators determine to send Preston to Saint
Germains--Papers entrusted to Preston--Information of the Plot given to
Caermarthen--Arrest of Preston and his Companions

WILLIAM had been, during the whole spring, impatiently expected in
Ulster. The Protestant settlements along the coast of that province had,
in the course of the month of May, been repeatedly agitated by false
reports of his arrival. It was not, however, till the afternoon of the
fourteenth of June that he landed at Carrickfergus. The inhabitants of
the town crowded the main street and greeted him with loud acclamations:
but they caught only a glimpse of him. As soon as he was on dry ground
he mounted and set off for Belfast. On the road he was met by Schomberg.
The meeting took place close to a white house, the only human dwelling
then visible, in the space of many miles, on the dreary strand of the
estuary of the Laggan. A village and a cotton mill now rise where the
white house then stood alone; and all the shore is adorned by a gay
succession of country houses, shrubberies and flower beds. Belfast has
become one of the greatest and most flourishing seats of industry in the
British isles. A busy population of eighty thousand souls is collected
there. The duties annually paid at the Custom House exceed the duties
annually paid at the Custom House of London in the most prosperous years
of the reign of Charles the Second. Other Irish towns may present more
picturesque forms to the eye. But Belfast is the only large Irish town
in which the traveller is not disgusted by the loathsome aspect
and odour of long lines of human dens far inferior in comfort and
cleanliness to the dwellings which, in happier countries, are provided
for cattle. No other large Irish town is so well cleaned, so well paved,
so brilliantly lighted. The place of domes and spires is supplied
by edifices, less pleasing to the taste, but not less indicative of
prosperity, huge factories, towering many stories above the chimneys of
the houses, and resounding with the roar of machinery. The Belfast which
William entered was a small English settlement of about three hundred
houses, commanded by a stately castle which has long disappeared, the
seat of the noble family of Chichester. In this mansion, which is said
to have borne some resemblance to the palace of Whitehall, and which was
celebrated for its terraces and orchards stretching down to the river
side, preparations had been made for the King's reception. He was
welcomed at the Northern Gate by the magistrates and burgesses in their
robes of office. The multitude pressed on his carriage with shouts of
"God save the Protestant King. " For the town was one of the strongholds
of the Reformed Faith, and, when, two generations later, the inhabitants
were, for the first time, numbered, it was found that the Roman
Catholics were not more than one in fifteen, [676]

The night came; but the Protestant counties were awake and up. A royal
salute had been fired from the castle of Belfast. It had been echoed and
reechoed by guns which Schomberg had placed at wide intervals for the
purpose of conveying signals from post to post. Wherever the peal was
heard, it was known that King William was come. Before midnight all the
heights of Antrim and Down were blazing with bonfires. The light was
seen across the bays of Carlingford and Dundalk, and gave notice to
the outposts of the enemy that the decisive hour was at hand. Within
forty-eight hours after William had landed, James set out from Dublin
for the Irish camp, which was pitched near the northern frontier of
Leinster, [677]

In Dublin the agitation was fearful. None could doubt that the decisive
crisis was approaching; and the agony of suspense stimulated to the
highest point the passions of both the hostile castes. The majority
could easily detect, in the looks and tones of the oppressed minority,
signs which indicated the hope of a speedy deliverance and of a terrible
revenge. Simon Luttrell, to whom the care of the capital was entrusted,
hastened to take such precautions as fear and hatred dictated. A
proclamation appeared, enjoining all Protestants to remain in their
houses from nightfall to dawn, and prohibiting them, on pain of death,
from assembling in any place or for any purpose to the number of more
than five. No indulgence was granted even to those divines of the
Established Church who had never ceased to teach the doctrine of non
resistance. Doctor William King, who had, after long holding out, lately
begun to waver in his political creed, was committed to custody. There
was no gaol large enough to hold one half of those whom the governor
suspected of evil designs. The College and several parish churches were
used as prisons; and into those buildings men accused of no crime but
their religion were crowded in such numbers that they could hardly
breathe, [678]

The two rival princes meanwhile were busied in collecting their forces.
Loughbrickland was the place appointed by William for the rendezvous of
the scattered divisions of his army. While his troops were assembling,
he exerted himself indefatigably to improve their discipline and to
provide for their subsistence. He had brought from England two hundred
thousand pounds in money and a great quantity of ammunition and
provisions. Pillaging was prohibited under severe penalties. At the
same time supplies were liberally dispensed; and all the paymasters
of regiments were directed to send in their accounts without delay, in
order that there might be no arrears, [679] Thomas Coningsby, Member of
Parliament for Leominster, a busy and unscrupulous Whig, accompanied the
King, and acted as Paymaster General. It deserves to be mentioned that
William, at this time, authorised the Collector of Customs at Belfast
to pay every year twelve hundred pounds into the hands of some of
the principal dissenting ministers of Down and Antrim, who were to be
trustees for their brethren. The King declared that he bestowed this
sum on the nonconformist divines, partly as a reward for their eminent
loyalty to him, and partly as a compensation for their recent losses.
Such was the origin of that donation which is still annually bestowed by
the government on the Presbyterian clergy of Ulster, [680]

William was all himself again. His spirits, depressed by eighteen months
passed in dull state, amidst factions and intrigues which he but
half understood, rose high as soon as he was surrounded by tents
and standards, [681] It was strange to see how rapidly this man, so
unpopular at Westminster, obtained a complete mastery over the hearts of
his brethren in arms. They observed with delight that, infirm as he
was, he took his share of every hardship which they underwent; that
he thought more of their comfort than of his own, that he sharply
reprimanded some officers, who were so anxious to procure luxuries for
his table as to forget the wants of the common soldiers; that he never
once, from the day on which he took the field, lodged in a house, but,
even in the neighbourhood of cities and palaces, slept in his small
moveable hut of wood; that no solicitations could induce him, on a hot
day and in a high wind, to move out of the choking cloud of dust, which
overhung the line of march, and which severely tried lungs less delicate
than his. Every man under his command became familiar with his looks and
with his voice; for there was not a regiment which he did not inspect
with minute attention. His pleasant looks and sayings were long
remembered. One brave soldier has recorded in his journal the kind and
courteous manner in which a basket of the first cherries of the year
was accepted from him by the King, and the sprightliness with which His
Majesty conversed at supper with those who stood round the table, [682]

On the twenty-fourth of June, the tenth day after William's landing, he
marched southward from Loughbrickland with all his forces. He was fully
determined to take the first opportunity of fighting. Schomberg and some
other officers recommended caution and delay. But the King answered that
he had not come to Ireland to let the grass grow under his feet. The
event seems to prove that he judged rightly as a general. That he judged
rightly as a statesman cannot be doubted. He knew that the English
nation was discontented with the way in which the war had hitherto been
conducted; that nothing but rapid and splendid success could revive the
enthusiasm of his friends and quell the spirit of his enemies; and
that a defeat could scarcely be more injurious to his fame and to his
interests than a languid and indecisive campaign.

The country through which he advanced had, during eighteen months, been
fearfully wasted both by soldiers and by Rapparees. The cattle had been
slaughtered: the plantations had been cut down: the fences and houses
were in ruins. Not a human being was to be found near the road, except a
few naked and meagre wretches who had no food but the husks of oats, and
who were seen picking those husks, like chickens, from amidst dust and
cinders, [683] Yet, even under such disadvantages, the natural fertility
of the country, the rich green of the earth, the bays and rivers so
admirably fitted for trade, could not but strike the King's observant
eye. Perhaps he thought how different an aspect that unhappy region
would have presented if it had been blessed with such a government and
such a religion as had made his native Holland the wonder of the world;
how endless a succession of pleasure houses, tulip gardens and dairy
farms would have lined the road from Lisburn to Belfast; how many
hundreds of barges would have been constantly passing up and down the
Laggan; what a forest of masts would have bristled in the desolate
port of Newry; and what vast warehouses and stately mansions would
have covered the space occupied by the noisome alleys of Dundalk. "The
country," he was heard to say, "is worth fighting for. "

The original intention of James seems to have been to try the chances
of a pitched field on the border between Leinster and Ulster. But this
design was abandoned, in consequence, apparently, of the representations
of Lauzun, who, though very little disposed and very little qualified to
conduct a campaign on the Fabian system, had the admonitions of Louvois
still in his ears, [684] James, though resolved not to give up Dublin
without a battle, consented to retreat till he should reach some spot
where he might have the vantage of ground. When therefore William's
advanced guard reached Dundalk, nothing was to be seen of the Irish
Army, except a great cloud of dust which was slowly rolling southwards
towards Ardee. The English halted one night near the ground on which
Schomberg's camp had been pitched in the preceding year; and many sad
recollections were awakened by the sight of that dreary marsh, the
sepulchre of thousands of brave men, [685]

Still William continued to push forward, and still the Irish receded
before him, till, on the morning of Monday the thirtieth of June, his
army, marching in three columns, reached the summit of a rising ground
near the southern frontier of the county of Louth. Beneath lay a valley,
now so rich and so cheerful that the Englishman who gazes on it may
imagine himself to be in one of the most highly favoured parts of his
own highly favoured country.