No More Learning

Morley were Queen. But
that Mr. Freeman should ever see Mrs. Morley Queen had till lately been
not very probable. Mary's life was a much better life than his, and
quite as good a life as her sister's. That William would have issue
seemed unlikely. But it was generally expected that he would soon die.
His widow might marry again, and might leave children who would succeed
her. In these circumstances Marlborough might well think that he had
very little interest in maintaining that settlement of the Crown which
had been made by the Convention. Nothing was so likely to serve his
purpose as confusion, civil war, another revolution, another abdication,
another vacancy of the throne. Perhaps the nation, incensed against
William, yet not reconciled to James, and distracted between hatred of
foreigners and hatred of Jesuits, might prefer both to the Dutch King
and to the Popish King one who was at once a native of our country and
a member of our Church. That this was the real explanation of
Marlborough's dark and complicated plots was, as we have seen, firmly
believed by some of the most zealous Jacobites, and is in the highest
degree probable. It is certain that during several years he had spared
no efforts to inflame the army and the nation against the government.
But all was now changed. Mary was gone. By the Bill of Rights the Crown
was entailed on Anne after the death of William. The death of William
could not be far distant. Indeed all the physicians who attended him
wondered that he was still alive; and, when the risks of war were added
to the risks of disease, the probability seemed to be that in a few
months he would be in his grave. Marlborough saw that it would now be
madness to throw every thing into disorder and to put every thing
to hazard. He had done his best to shake the throne while it seemed
unlikely that Anne would ever mount it except by violent means. But he
did his best to fix it firmly, as soon as it became highly probably that
she would soon be called to fill it in the regular course of nature and
of law.

The Princess was easily induced by the Churchills to write to the King
a submissive and affectionate letter of condolence. The King, who was
never much inclined to engage in a commerce of insincere compliments,
and who was still in the first agonies of his grief, showed little
disposition to meet her advances. But Somers, who felt that every
thing was at stake, went to Kensington, and made his way into the royal
closet.

William was sitting there, so deeply sunk in melancholy that he did not
seem to perceive that any person had entered the room. The Lord Keeper,
after a respectful pause, broke silence, and, doubtless with all that
cautious delicacy which was characteristic of him, and which eminently
qualified him to touch the sore places of the mind without hurting them,
implored His Majesty to be reconciled to the Princess. "Do what you
will," said William; "I can think of no business. " Thus authorised, the
mediators speedily concluded a treaty. [587] Anne came to Kensington,
and was graciously received; she was lodged in Saint James's Palace; a
guard of honour was again placed at her door; and the Gazettes again,
after a long interval, announced that foreign ministers had had the
honour of being presented to her. [588] The Churchills were again
permitted to dwell under the royal roof. But William did not at first
include them in the peace which he had made with their mistress.
Marlborough remained excluded from military and political employment;
and it was not without much difficulty that he was admitted into the
circle at Kensington, and permitted to kiss the royal hand. [589] The
feeling with which he was regarded by the King explains why Anne was
not appointed Regent. The Regency of Anne would have been the Regency
of Marlborough; and it is not strange that a man whom it was not thought
safe to entrust with any office in the State or the army should not have
been entrusted with the whole government of the kingdom.

Had Marlborough been of a proud and vindictive nature he might have
been provoked into raising another quarrel in the royal family, and into
forming new cabals in the army. But all his passions, except ambition
and avarice, were under strict regulation. He was destitute alike of the
sentiment of gratitude and of the sentiment of revenge. He had conspired
against the government while it was loading him with favours. He
now supported it, though it requited his support with contumely. He
perfectly understood his own interest; he had perfect command of his
temper; he endured decorously the hardships of his present situation,
and contented himself by looking forward to a reversion which would
amply repay him for a few years of patience. He did not indeed cease
to correspond with the Court of Saint Germains; but the correspondence
gradually became more and more slack, and seems, on his part, to have
been made up of vague professions and trifling excuses.

The event which had changed all Marlborough's views had filled the
minds of fiercer and more pertinacious politicians with wild hopes and
atrocious projects.

During the two years and a half which followed the execution of
Grandval, no serious design had been formed against the life of William.
Some hotheaded malecontents had indeed laid schemes for kidnapping
or murdering him; but those schemes were not, while his wife lived,
countenanced by her father. James did not feel, and, to do him justice,
was not such a hypocrite as to pretend to feel, any scruple about
removing his enemies by those means which he had justly thought base and
wicked when employed by his enemies against himself. If any such scruple
had arisen in his mind, there was no want, under his roof, of casuists
willing and competent to soothe his conscience with sophisms such as had
corrupted the far nobler natures of Anthony Babington and Everard
Digby. To question the lawfulness of assassination, in cases where
assassination might promote the interests of the Church, was to question
the authority of the most illustrious Jesuits, of Bellarmine and Suarez,
of Molina and Mariana; nay, it was to rebel against the Chair of Saint
Peter. One Pope had walked in procession at the head of his cardinals,
had proclaimed a jubilee, had ordered the guns of Saint Angelo to
be fired, in honour of the perfidious butchery in which Coligni had
perished. Another Pope had in a solemn allocution hymned the murder of
Henry the Third of France in rapturous language borrowed from the ode of
the prophet Habakkuk, and had extolled the murderer above Phinehas
and Judith. [590] William was regarded at Saint Germains as a monster
compared with whom Coligni and Henry the Third were saints. Nevertheless
James, during some years, refused to sanction any attempt on his
nephew's person. The reasons which he assigned for his refusal have come
down to us, as he wrote them with his own hand. He did not affect to
think that assassination was a sin which ought to be held in horror by a
Christian, or a villany unworthy of a gentleman; he merely said that
the difficulties were great, and that he would not push his friends
on extreme danger when it would not be in his power to second them
effectually. [591] In truth, while Mary lived, it might well be doubted
whether the murder of her husband would really be a service to the
Jacobite cause. By his death the government would lose indeed the
strength derived from his eminent personal qualities, but would at the
same time be relieved from the load of his personal unpopularity. His
whole power would at once devolve on his widow; and the nation would
probably rally round her with enthusiasm. If her political abilities
were not equal to his, she had not his repulsive manners, his foreign
pronunciation, his partiality for every thing Dutch and for every thing
Calvinistic. Many, who had thought her culpably wanting in filial piety,
would be of opinion that now at least she was absolved from all duty to
a father stained with the blood of her husband. The whole machinery
of the administration would continue to work without that interruption
which ordinarily followed a demise of the Crown. There would be no
dissolution of the Parliament, no suspension of the customs and excise;
commissions would retain their force; and all that James would have
gained by the fall of his enemy would have been a barren revenge.

The death of the Queen changed every thing. If a dagger or a bullet
should now reach the heart of William, it was probable that there would
instantly be general anarchy. The Parliament and the Privy Council would
cease to exist. The authority of ministers and judges would expire with
him from whom it was derived. It might seem not improbable that at such
a moment a restoration might be effected without a blow.

Scarcely therefore had Mary been laid in the grave when restless and
unprincipled men began to plot in earnest against the life of William.
Foremost among these men in parts, in courage and in energy was Robert
Charnock. He had been liberally educated, and had, in the late reign,
been a fellow of Magdalene College, Oxford. Alone in that great society
he had betrayed the common cause, had consented to be the tool of the
High Commission, had publicly apostatized from the Church of England,
and, while his college was a Popish seminary, had held the office of
Vice President. The Revolution came, and altered at once the whole
course of his life. Driven from the quiet cloister and the old grove of
oaks on the bank of the Cherwell, he sought haunts of a very different
kind. During several years he led the perilous and agitated life of a
conspirator, passed and repassed on secret errands between England and
France, changed his lodgings in London often, and was known at different
coffeehouses by different names. His services had been requited with a
captain's commission signed by the banished King.

With Charnock was closely connected George Porter, an adventurer who
called himself a Roman Catholic and a Royalist, but who was in truth
destitute of all religious and of all political principle. Porter's
friends could not deny that he was a rake and a coxcomb, that he drank,
that he swore, that he told extravagant lies about his amours, and that
he had been convicted of manslaughter for a stab given in a brawl at
the playhouse. His enemies affirmed that he was addicted to nauseous
and horrible kinds of debauchery, and that he procured the means of
indulging his infamous tastes by cheating and marauding; that he was one
of a gang of clippers; that he sometimes got on horseback late in the
evening and stole out in disguise, and that, when he returned from these
mysterious excursions, his appearance justified the suspicion that he
had been doing business on Hounslow Heath or Finchley Common. [592]

Cardell Goodman, popularly called Scum Goodman, a knave more abandoned,
if possible, than Porter, was in the plot. Goodman had been on the
stage, had been kept, like some much greater men, by the Duchess of
Cleveland, had been taken into her house, had been loaded by her with
gifts, and had requited her by bribing an Italian quack to poison two of
her children. As the poison had not been administered, Goodman could
be prosecuted only for a misdemeanour. He was tried, convicted and
sentenced to a ruinous fine. He had since distinguished himself as one
of the first forgers of bank notes. [593]

Sir William Parkyns, a wealthy knight bred to the law, who had been
conspicuous among the Tories in the days of the Exclusion Bill, was one
of the most important members of the confederacy. He bore a much fairer
character than most of his accomplices; but in one respect he was more
culpable than any of them. For he had, in order to retain a lucrative
office which he held in the Court of Chancery, sworn allegiance to the
Prince against whose life he now conspired.

The design was imparted to Sir John Fenwick, celebrated on account of
the cowardly insult which he had offered to the deceased Queen. Fenwick,
if his own assertion is to be trusted, was willing to join in an
insurrection, but recoiled from the thought of assassination, and showed
so much of what was in his mind as sufficed to make him an object of
suspicion to his less scrupulous associates. He kept their secret,
however, as strictly as if he had wished them success.

It should seem that, at first, a natural feeling restrained the
conspirators from calling their design by the proper name. Even in their
private consultations they did not as yet talk of killing the Prince of
Orange. They would try to seize him and to carry him alive into France.
If there were any resistance they might be forced to use their swords
and pistols, and nobody could be answerable for what a thrust or a
shot might do. In the spring of 1695, the scheme of assassination, thus
thinly veiled, was communicated to James, and his sanction was earnestly
requested. But week followed week; and no answer arrived from him. He
doubtless remained silent in the hope that his adherents would, after
a short delay, venture to act on their own responsibility, and that he
might thus have the advantage without the scandal of their crime. They
seem indeed to have so understood him. He had not, they said, authorised
the attempt; but he had not prohibited it; and, apprised as he was of
their plan, the absence of prohibition was a sufficient warrant. They
therefore determined to strike; but before they could make the necessary
arrangements William set out for Flanders; and the plot against his life
was necessarily suspended till his return.

It was on the twelfth of May that the King left Kensington for
Gravesend, where he proposed to embark for the Continent. Three days
before his departure the Parliament of Scotland had, after a recess
of about two years, met again at Edinburgh. Hamilton, who had, in the
preceding session, sate on the throne and held the sceptre, was dead;
and it was necessary to find a new Lord High Commissioner. The person
selected was John Hay, Marquess of Tweedale, Chancellor of the Realm, a
man grown old in business, well informed, prudent, humane, blameless in
private life, and, on the whole, as respectable as any Scottish lord
who had been long and deeply concerned in the politics of those troubled
times.

His task was not without difficulty. It was indeed well known that the
Estates were generally inclined to support the government. But it was
also well known that there was one subject which would require the most
dexterous and delicate management. The cry of the blood shed more than
three years before in Glencoe had at length made itself heard. Towards
the close of the year 1693, the reports, which had at first been
contemptuously derided as factious calumnies, began to be generally
thought deserving of serious attention. Many people little disposed to
place confidence in any thing that came forth from the secret presses of
the Jacobites owned that, for the honour of the government, some inquiry
ought to be instituted. The amiable Mary had been much shocked by what
she heard. William had, at her request, empowered the Duke of Hamilton
and several other Scotchmen of note to investigate the whole matter.
But the Duke died; his colleagues were slack in the performance of their
duty; and the King, who knew little and cared little about Scotland,
forgot to urge them. [594]

It now appeared that the government would have done wisely as well as
rightly by anticipating the wishes of the country. The horrible story
repeated by the nonjurors pertinaciously, confidently, and with so
many circumstances as almost enforced belief, had at length roused all
Scotland. The sensibility of a people eminently patriotic was galled by
the taunts of southern pamphleteers, who asked whether there was on the
north of the Tweed, no law, no justice, no humanity, no spirit to demand
redress even for the foulest wrongs. Each of the two extreme parties,
which were diametrically opposed to each other in general politics, was
impelled by a peculiar feeling to call for inquiry. The Jacobites were
delighted by the prospect of being able to make out a case which would
bring discredit on the usurper, and which might be set off against the
many offences imputed by the Whigs to Claverhouse and Mackenzie. The
zealous Presbyterians were not less delighted at the prospect of being
able to ruin the Master of Stair. They had never forgotten or forgiven
the service which he had rendered to the House of Stuart in the time of
the persecution. They knew that, though he had cordially concurred in
the political revolution which had freed them from the hated dynasty, he
had seen with displeasure that ecclesiastical revolution which was, in
their view, even more important. They knew that church government was
with him merely an affair of State, and that, looking at it as an affair
of State, he preferred the episcopal to the synodical model. They could
not without uneasiness see so adroit and eloquent an enemy of pure
religion constantly attending the royal steps and constantly breathing
counsel in the royal ear. They were therefore impatient for an
investigation, which, if one half of what was rumoured were true, must
produce revelations fatal to the power and fame of the minister whom
they distrusted. Nor could that minister rely on the cordial support
of all who held office under the Crown. His genius and influence had
excited the jealousy of many less successful courtiers, and especially
of his fellow secretary, Johnstone.

Thus, on the eve of the meeting of the Scottish Parliament, Glencoe
was in the mouths of all Scotchmen of all factions and of all sects.
William, who was just about to start for the Continent, learned that, on
this subject, the Estates must have their way, and that the best thing
that he could do would be to put himself at the head of a movement which
it was impossible for him to resist. A Commission authorising Tweedale
and several other privy councillors to examine fully into the matter
about which the public mind was so strongly excited was signed by the
King at Kensington, was sent down to Edinburgh, and was there sealed
with the Great Seal of the realm. This was accomplished just in time.
[595] The Parliament had scarcely entered on business when a member
rose to move for an inquiry into the circumstances of the slaughter
of Glencoe. Tweedale was able to inform the Estates that His Majesty's
goodness had prevented their desires, that a Commission of Precognition
had, a few hours before, passed in all the forms, and that the lords and
gentlemen named in that instrument would hold their first meeting before
night. [596] The Parliament unanimously voted thanks to the King for
this instance of his paternal care; but some of those who joined in the
vote of thanks expressed a very natural apprehension that the second
investigation might end as unsatisfactorily as the first investigation
had ended. The honour of the country, they said, was at stake; and the
Commissioners were bound to proceed with such diligence that the result
of the inquest might be known before the end of the session. Tweedale
gave assurances which, for a time, silenced the murmurers. [597] But,
when three weeks had passed away, many members became mutinous
and suspicious. On the fourteenth of June it was moved that the
Commissioners should be ordered to report. The motion was not carried;
but it was renewed day after day. In three successive sittings Tweedale
was able to restrain the eagerness of the assembly. But, when he at
length announced that the report had been completed; and added that it
would not be laid before the Estates till it had been submitted to the
King, there was a violent outcry. The public curiosity was intense;
for the examination had been conducted with closed doors; and both
Commissioners and clerks had been sworn to secrecy. The King was in the
Netherlands. Weeks must elapse before his pleasure could be taken; and
the session could not last much longer. In a fourth debate there were
signs which convinced the Lord High Commissioner that it was expedient
to yield; and the report was produced. [598]

It is a paper highly creditable to those who framed it, an excellent
digest of evidence, clear, passionless, and austerely just. No source
from which valuable information was likely to be derived had been
neglected. Glengarry and Keppoch, though notoriously disaffected to the
government, had been permitted to conduct the case on behalf of their
unhappy kinsmen. Several of the Macdonalds who had escaped from the
havoc of that night had been examined, and among them the reigning Mac
Ian, the eldest son of the murdered Chief. The correspondence of the
Master of Stair with the military men who commanded in the Highlands had
been subjected to a strict but not unfair scrutiny. The conclusion to
which the Commissioners came, and in which every intelligent and candid
inquirer will concur, was that the slaughter of Glencoe was a barbarous
murder, and that of this barbarous murder the letters of the Master of
Stair were the sole warrant and cause.

That Breadalbane was an accomplice in the crime was not proved; but he
did not come off quite clear. In the course of the investigation it was
incidentally discovered that he had, while distributing the money of
William among the Highland Chiefs, professed to them the warmest zeal
for the interest of James, and advised them to take what they could get
from the usurper, but to be constantly on the watch for a favourable
opportunity of bringing back the rightful King. Breadalbane's defence
was that he was a greater villain than his accusers imagined, and that
he had pretended to be a Jacobite only in order to get at the bottom
of the Jacobite plans. In truth the depths of this man's knavery were
unfathomable. It was impossible to say which of his treasons were, to
borrow the Italian classification, single treasons, and which double
treasons. On this occasion the Parliament supposed him to have
been guilty only of a single treason, and sent him to the Castle of
Edinburgh. The government, on full consideration, gave credit to his
assertion that he had been guilty of a double treason, and let him out
again. [599]

The Report of the Commission was taken into immediate consideration
by the Estates. They resolved, without one dissentient voice, that the
order signed by William did not authorise the slaughter of Glencoe. They
next resolved, but, it should seem, not unanimously, that the slaughter
was a murder. [600] They proceeded to pass several votes, the sense of
which was finally summed up in an address to the King. How that part of
the address which related to the Master of Stair should be framed was a
question about which there was much debate. Several of his letters were
called for and read; and several amendments were put to the vote. It
should seem that the Jacobites and the extreme Presbyterians were, with
but too good cause, on the side of severity. The majority, under the
skilful management of the Lord High Commissioner, acquiesced in words
which made it impossible for the guilty minister to retain his office,
but which did not impute to him such criminality as would have affected
his life or his estate. They censured him, but censured him in terms far
too soft. They blamed his immoderate zeal against the unfortunate clan,
and his warm directions about performing the execution by surprise. His
excess in his letters they pronounced to have been the original cause
of the massacre; but, instead of demanding that he should be brought to
trial as a murderer, they declared that, in consideration of his absence
and of his great place, they left it to the royal wisdom to deal with
him in such a manner as might vindicate the honour of the government.

The indulgence which was shown to the principal offender was not
extended to his subordinates. Hamilton, who had fled and had been vainly
cited by proclamation at the City Cross to appear before the Estates,
was pronounced not to be clear of the blood of the Glencoe men.
Glenlyon, Captain Drummond, Lieutenant Lindsey, Ensign Lundie, and
Serjeant Barbour, were still more distinctly designated as murderers;
and the King was requested to command the Lord Advocate to prosecute
them.

The Parliament of Scotland was undoubtedly, on this occasion, severe in
the wrong place and lenient in the wrong place. The cruelty and baseness
of Glenlyon and his comrades excite, even after the lapse of a hundred
and sixty years, emotions which make it difficult to reason calmly.
Yet whoever can bring himself to look at the conduct of these men with
judicial impartiality will probably be of opinion that they could
not, without great detriment to the commonwealth, have been treated
as assassins. They had slain nobody whom they had not been positively
directed by their commanding officer to slay. That subordination without
which an army is the worst of all rabbles would be at an end, if every
soldier were to be held answerable for the justice of every order
in obedience to which he pulls his trigger. The case of Glencoe was,
doubtless, an extreme case; but it cannot easily be distinguished in
principle from cases which, in war, are of ordinary occurrence. Very
terrible military executions are sometimes indispensable. Humanity
itself may require them. Who then is to decide whether there be an
emergency such as makes severity the truest mercy? Who is to determine
whether it be or be not necessary to lay a thriving town in ashes, to
decimate a large body of mutineers, to shoot a whole gang of banditti?
Is the responsibility with the commanding officer, or with the rank and
file whom he orders to make ready, present and fire? And if the general
rule be that the responsibility is with the commanding officer, and
not with those who obey him, is it possible to find any reason for
pronouncing the case of Glencoe an exception to that rule? It is
remarkable that no member of the Scottish Parliament proposed that any
of the private men of Argyle's regiment should be prosecuted for murder.
Absolute impunity was granted to everybody below the rank of Serjeant.
Yet on what principle? Surely, if military obedience was not a valid
plea, every man who shot a Macdonald on that horrible night was a
murderer. And, if military obedience was a valid plea for the musketeer
who acted by order of Serjeant Barbour, why not for Barbour who acted
by order of Glenlyon? And why not for Glenlyon who acted by order of
Hamilton? It can scarcely be maintained that more deference is due
from a private to a noncommissioned officer than from a noncommissioned
officer to his captain, or from a captain to his colonel.

It may be said that the orders given to Glenlyon were of so peculiar a
nature that, if he had been a man of virtue, he would have thrown up his
commission, would have braved the displeasure of colonel, general, and
Secretary of State, would have incurred the heaviest penalty which
a Court Martial could inflict, rather than have performed the part
assigned to him; and this is perfectly true; but the question is not
whether he acted like a virtuous man, but whether he did that for which
he could, without infringing a rule essential to the discipline of camps
and to the security of nations, be hanged as a murderer. In this case,
disobedience was assuredly a moral duty; but it does not follow that
obedience was a legal crime.

It seems therefore that the guilt of Glenlyon and his fellows was not
within the scope of the penal law. The only punishment which could
properly be inflicted on them was that which made Cain cry out that
it was greater than he could bear; to be vagabonds on the face of the
earth, and to carry wherever they went a mark from which even bad men
should turn away sick with horror.

It was not so with the Master of Stair. He had been solemnly pronounced,
both by the Commission of Precognition and by the Estates of the Realm
in full Parliament, to be the original author of the massacre. That it
was not advisable to make examples of his tools was the strongest reason
for making an example of him. Every argument which can be urged against
punishing the soldier who executes the unjust and inhuman orders of his
superior is an argument for punishing with the utmost rigour of the law
the superior who gives unjust and inhuman orders. Where there can be no
responsibility below, there should be double responsibility above. What
the Parliament of Scotland ought with one voice to have demanded was,
not that a poor illiterate serjeant, who was hardly more accountable
than his own halbert for the bloody work which he had done, should be
hanged in the Grassmarket, but that the real murderer, the most politic,
the most eloquent, the most powerful, of Scottish statesmen, should be
brought to a public trial, and should, if found guilty, die the death of
a felon. Nothing less than such a sacrifice could expiate such a crime.
Unhappily the Estates, by extenuating the guilt of the chief offender,
and, at the same time, demanding that his humble agents should be
treated with a severity beyond the law, made the stain which the
massacre had left on the honour of the nation broader and deeper than
before.

Nor is it possible to acquit the King of a great breach of duty.
It
is, indeed, highly probable that, till he received the report of
his Commissioners, he had been very imperfectly informed as to the
circumstances of the slaughter. We can hardly suppose that he was much
in the habit of reading Jacobite pamphlets; and, if he did read them,
he would have found in them such a quantity of absurd and rancorous
invective against himself that he would have been very little inclined
to credit any imputation which they might throw on his servants. He
would have seen himself accused, in one tract, of being a concealed
Papist, in another of having poisoned Jeffreys in the Tower, in a third
of having contrived to have Talmash taken off at Brest. He would have
seen it asserted that, in Ireland, he once ordered fifty of his wounded
English soldiers to be burned alive. He would have seen that the
unalterable affection which he felt from his boyhood to his death for
three or four of the bravest and most trusty friends that ever prince
had the happiness to possess was made a ground for imputing to him
abominations as foul as those which are buried under the waters of the
Dead Sea. He might therefore naturally be slow to believe frightful
imputations thrown by writers whom he knew to be habitual liars on a
statesman whose abilities he valued highly, and to whose exertions he
had, on some great occasions, owed much. But he could not, after he
had read the documents transmitted to him from Edinburgh by Tweedale,
entertain the slightest doubt of the guilt of the Master of Stair. To
visit that guilt with exemplary punishment was the sacred duty of a
Sovereign who had sworn, with his hand lifted up towards heaven, that he
would, in his kingdom of Scotland, repress, in all estates and degrees,
all oppression, and would do justice, without acceptance of persons,
as he hoped for mercy from the Father of all mercies. William contented
himself with dismissing the Master from office. For this great fault, a
fault amounting to a crime, Burnet tried to frame, not a defence, but an
excuse. He would have us believe that the King, alarmed by finding how
many persons had borne a part in the slaughter of Glencoe, thought
it better to grant a general amnesty than to punish one massacre by
another. But this representation is the very reverse of the truth.
Numerous instruments had doubtless been employed in the work of death;
but they had all received their impulse, directly or indirectly, from
a single mind. High above the crowd of offenders towered one offender,
preeminent in parts, knowledge, rank and power. In return for many
victims immolated by treachery, only one victim was demanded by justice;
and it must ever be considered as a blemish on the fame of William that
the demand was refused.

On the seventeenth of July the session of the Parliament of Scotland
closed. The Estates had liberally voted such a supply as the poor
country which they represented could afford. They had indeed been put
into high good humour by the notion that they had found out a way of
speedily making that poor country rich. Their attention had been divided
between the inquiry into the slaughter of Glencoe and some specious
commercial projects of which the nature will be explained and the fate
related in a future chapter.

Meanwhile all Europe was looking anxiously towards the Low Countries.
The great warrior who had been victorious at Fleurus, at Steinkirk and
at Landen had not left his equal behind him. But France still possessed
Marshals well qualified for high command. Already Catinat and Boufflers
had given proofs of skill, of resolution, and of zeal for the interests
of the state. Either of those distinguished officers would have been a
successor worthy of Luxemburg and an antagonist worthy of William; but
their master, unfortunately for himself, preferred to both the Duke of
Villeroy. The new general had been Lewis's playmate when they were both
children, had then become a favourite, and had never ceased to be so.
In those superficial graces for which the French aristocracy was then
renowned throughout Europe, Villeroy was preeminent among the French
aristocracy. His stature was tall, his countenance handsome, his manners
nobly and somewhat haughtily polite, his dress, his furniture, his
equipages, his table, magnificent. No man told a story with more
vivacity; no man sate his horse better in a hunting party; no man made
love with more success; no man staked and lost heaps of gold with more
agreeable unconcern; no man was more intimately acquainted with the
adventures, the attachments, the enmities of the lords and ladies
who daily filled the halls of Versailles. There were two characters
especially which this fine gentleman had studied during many years, and
of which he knew all the plaits and windings, the character of the King,
and the character of her who was Queen in every thing but name. But
there ended Villeroy's acquirements. He was profoundly ignorant both of
books and of business. At the Council Board he never opened his mouth
without exposing himself. For war he had not a single qualification
except that personal courage which was common to him with the whole
class of which he was a member. At every great crisis of his political
and of his military life he was alternately drunk with arrogance
and sunk in dejection. Just before he took a momentous step his
selfconfidence was boundless; he would listen to no suggestion; he would
not admit into his mind the thought that failure was possible. On
the first check he gave up every thing for lost, became incapable of
directing, and ran up and down in helpless despair. Lewis however loved
him; and he, to do him justice, loved Lewis. The kindness of the master
was proof against all the disasters which were brought on his kingdom
by the rashness and weakness of the servant; and the gratitude of the
servant was honourably, though not judiciously, manifested on more than
one occasion after the death of the master. [601]

Such was the general to whom the direction of the campaign in the
Netherlands was confided. The Duke of Maine was sent to learn the art of
war under this preceptor. Maine, the natural son of Lewis by the Duchess
of Montespan, had been brought up from childhood by Madame de Maintenon,
and was loved by Lewis with the love of a father, by Madame de Maintenon
with the not less tender love of a foster mother.

Grave men were scandalized by the ostentatious manner in which the King,
while making a high profession of piety, exhibited his partiality for
this offspring of a double adultery. Kindness, they said, was doubtless
due from a parent to a child; but decency was also due from a Sovereign
to his people. In spite of these murmurs the youth had been publicly
acknowledged, loaded with wealth and dignities, created a Duke and Peer,
placed, by an extraordinary act of royal power, above Dukes and Peers of
older creation, married to a Princess of the blood royal, and appointed
Grand Master of the Artillery of the Realm. With abilities and courage
he might have played a great part in the world. But his intellect was
small; his nerves were weak; and the women and priests who had educated
him had effectually assisted nature. He was orthodox in belief, correct
in morals, insinuating in address, a hypocrite, a mischiefmaker and a
coward.

It was expected at Versailles that Flanders would, during this year, be
the chief theatre of war. Here, therefore, a great army was collected.
Strong lines were formed from the Lys to the Scheld, and Villeroy fixed
his headquarters near Tournay. Boufflers, with about twelve thousand
men, guarded the banks of the Sambre.

On the other side the British and Dutch troops, who were under
`-William's immediate command, mustered in the neighbourhood of Ghent.
The Elector of Bavaria, at the head of a great force, lay near Brussels.
A smaller army, consisting chiefly of Brandenburghers was encamped not
far from Huy.

Early in June military operations commenced. The first movements of
William were mere feints intended to prevent the French generals from
suspecting his real purpose. He had set his heart on retaking Namur.
The loss of Namur had been the most mortifying of all the disasters of a
disastrous war. The importance of Namur in a military point of view had
always been great, and had become greater than ever during the
three years which had elapsed since the last siege. New works, the
masterpieces of Vauban, had been added to the old defences which had
been constructed with the utmost skill of Cohorn. So ably had the two
illustrious engineers vied with each other and cooperated with nature
that the fortress was esteemed the strongest in Europe. Over one gate
had been placed a vaunting inscription which defied the allies to wrench
the prize from the grasp of France.

William kept his own counsel so well that not a hint of his intention
got abroad. Some thought that Dunkirk, some that Ypres was his object.
The marches and skirmishes by which he disguised his design were
compared by Saint Simon to the moves of a skilful chess player.
Feuquieres, much more deeply versed in military science than Saint
Simon, informs us that some of these moves were hazardous, and that such
a game could not have been safely played against Luxemburg; and this is
probably true, but Luxemburg was gone; and what Luxemburg had been to
William, William now was to Villeroy.

While the King was thus employed, the Jacobites at home, being unable,
in his absence, to prosecute their design against his person, contented
themselves with plotting against his government. They were somewhat less
closely watched than during the preceding year; for the event of
the trials at Manchester had discouraged Aaron Smith and his agents.
Trenchard, whose vigilance and severity had made him an object of terror
and hatred, was no more, and had been succeeded, in what may be called
the subordinate Secretaryship of State, by Sir William Trumball, a
learned civilian and an experienced diplomatist, of moderate opinions,
and of temper cautious to timidity. [602] The malecontents were
emboldened by the lenity of the administration. William had scarcely
sailed for the Continent when they held a great meeting at one of their
favourite haunts, the Old King's Head in Leadenhall Street. Charnock,
Porter, Goodman, Parkyns and Fenwick were present. The Earl of Aylesbury
was there, a man whose attachment to the exiled house was notorious, but
who always denied that he had ever thought of effecting a restoration
by immoral means. His denial would be entitled to more credit if he
had not, by taking the oaths to the government against which he was
constantly intriguing, forfeited the right to be considered as a man of
conscience and honour. In the assembly was Sir John Friend, a nonjuror
who had indeed a very slender wit, but who had made a very large fortune
by brewing, and who spent it freely in sedition. After dinner,--for the
plans of the Jacobites were generally laid over wine, and generally bore
some trace of the conviviality in which they had originated,--it
was resolved that the time was come for an insurrection and a French
invasion, and that a special messenger should carry the sense of the
meeting to Saint Germains. Charnock was selected. He undertook the
commission, crossed the Channel, saw James, and had interviews with the
ministers of Lewis, but could arrange nothing. The English malecontents
would not stir till ten thousand French troops were in the island; and
ten thousand French troops could not, without great risk, be withdrawn
from the army which was contending against William in the Low Countries.
When Charnock returned to report that his embassy had been unsuccessful,
he found some of his confederates in gaol. They had during his absence
amused themselves, after their fashion, by trying to raise a riot in
London on the tenth of June, the birthday of the unfortunate Prince
of Wales. They met at a tavern in Drury Lane, and, when hot with
wine, sallied forth sword in hand, headed by Porter and Goodman, beat
kettledrums, unfurled banners, and began to light bonfires. But the
watch, supported by the populace, was too strong for the revellers. They
were put to rout; the tavern where they had feasted was sacked by the
mob; the ringleaders were apprehended, tried, fined and imprisoned, but
regained their liberty in time to bear a part in a far more criminal
design. [603]

By this time all was ready for the execution of the plan which William
had formed. That plan had been communicated to the other chiefs of
the allied forces, and had been warmly approved. Vaudemont was left in
Flanders with a considerable force to watch Villeroy. The King, with
the rest of his army, marched straight on Namur. At the same moment the
Elector of Bavaria advanced towards the same point on one side, and the
Brandenburghers on another. So well had these movements been concerted,
and so rapidly were they performed, that the skilful and energetic
Boufflers had but just time to throw himself into the fortress. He was
accompanied by seven regiments of dragoons, by a strong body of gunners,
sappers and miners, and by an officer named Megrigny, who was esteemed
the best engineer in the French service with the exception of Vauban.
A few hours after Boufflers had entered the place the besieging forces
closed round it on every side; and the lines of circumvallation were
rapidly formed.

The news excited no alarm at the French Court. There it was not doubted
that William would soon be compelled to abandon his enterprise with
grievous loss and ignominy. The town was strong; the castle was believed
to be impregnable; the magazines were filled with provisions and
ammunition sufficient to last till the time at which the armies of that
age were expected to retire into winter quarters; the garrison consisted
of sixteen thousand of the best troops in the world; they were commanded
by an excellent general; he was assisted by an excellent engineer; nor
was it doubted that Villeroy would march with his great army to the
assistance of Boufflers, and that the besiegers would then be in much
more danger than the besieged.

These hopes were kept up by the despatches of Villeroy. He proposed,
he said, first to annihilate the army of Vaudemont, and then to drive
William from Namur. Vaudemont might try to avoid an action; but he could
not escape. The Marshal went so far as to promise his master news of a
complete victory within twenty-four hours. Lewis passed a whole day
in impatient expectation. At last, instead of an officer of high rank
loaded with English and Dutch standards, arrived a courier bringing news
that Vaudemont had effected a retreat with scarcely any loss, and was
safe under the walls of Ghent. William extolled the generalship of his
lieutenant in the warmest terms. "My cousin," he wrote, "you have shown
yourself a greater master of your art than if you had won a pitched
battle. " [604] In the French camp, however, and at the French Court it
was universally held that Vaudemont had been saved less by his own skill
than by the misconduct of those to whom he was opposed. Some threw
the whole blame on Villeroy; and Villeroy made no attempt to vindicate
himself. But it was generally believed that he might, at least to a
great extent, have vindicated himself, had he not preferred royal favour
to military renown. His plan, it was said, might have succeeded, had not
the execution been entrusted to the Duke of Maine. At the first glimpse
of danger the bastard's heart had died within him. He had not been able
to conceal his poltroonery. He had stood trembling, stuttering, calling
for his confessor, while the old officers round him, with tears in their
eyes, urged him to advance. During a short time the disgrace of the son
was concealed from the father. But the silence of Villeroy showed
that there was a secret; the pleasantries of the Dutch gazettes soon
elucidated the mystery; and Lewis learned, if not the whole truth, yet
enough to make him miserable. Never during his long reign had he been so
moved. During some hours his gloomy irritability kept his servants, his
courtiers, even his priests, in terror. He so far forgot the grace and
dignity for which he was renowned throughout the world that, in the
sight of all the splendid crowd of gentlemen and ladies who came to see
him dine at Marli, he broke a cane on the shoulders of a lacquey, and
pursued the poor man with the handle. [605]

The siege of Namur meanwhile was vigorously pressed by the allies. The
scientific part of their operations was under the direction of Cohorn,
who was spurred by emulation to exert his utmost skill. He had suffered,
three years before, the mortification of seeing the town, as he had
fortified it, taken by his great master Vauban. To retake it, now that
the fortifications had received Vauban's last improvements, would be a
noble revenge.

On the second of July the trenches were opened. On the eighth a gallant
sally of French dragoons was gallantly beaten back; and, late on the
same evening, a strong body of infantry, the English footguards leading
the way, stormed, after a bloody conflict, the outworks on the Brussels
side. The King in person directed the attack; and his subjects were
delighted to learn that, when the fight was hottest, he laid his hand on
the shoulder of the Elector of Bavaria, and exclaimed, "Look, look at
my brave English! " Conspicuous in bravery even among those brave English
was Cutts. In that bulldog courage which flinches from no danger,
however terrible, he was unrivalled. There was no difficulty in finding
hardy volunteers, German, Dutch and British, to go on a forlorn hope;
but Cutts was the only man who appeared to consider such an expedition
as a party of pleasure. He was so much at his ease in the hottest
fire of the French batteries that his soldiers gave him the honourable
nickname of the Salamander. [606]

On the seventeenth the first counterscarp of the town was attacked.
The English and Dutch were thrice repulsed with great slaughter, and
returned thrice to the charge. At length, in spite of the exertions of
the French officers, who fought valiantly sword in hand on the glacis,
the assailants remained in possession of the disputed works. While the
conflict was raging, William, who was giving his orders under a shower
of bullets, saw with surprise and anger, among the officers of his
staff, Michael Godfrey the Deputy Governor of the Bank of England. This
gentleman had come to the King's headquarters in order to make some
arrangements for the speedy and safe remittance of money from England
to the army in the Netherlands, and was curious to see real war. Such
curiosity William could not endure. "Mr. Godfrey," he said, "you ought
not to run these hazards; you are not a soldier; you can be of no use
to us here. " "Sir," answered Godfrey, "I run no more hazard than Your
Majesty. " "Not so," said William; "I am where it is my duty to be; and
I may without presumption commit my life to God's keeping; but you--"
While they were talking a cannon ball from the ramparts laid Godfrey
dead at the King's feet. It was not found however that the fear of being
Godfreyed,--such was during some time the cant phrase,--sufficed to
prevent idle gazers from coming to the trenches. [607] Though William
forbade his coachmen, footmen and cooks to expose themselves, he
repeatedly saw them skulking near the most dangerous spots and trying to
get a peep at the fighting. He was sometimes, it is said, provoked into
horsewhipping them out of the range of the French guns; and the story,
whether true or false, is very characteristic.

On the twentieth of July the Bavarians and Brandenburghers, under the
direction of Cohorn, made themselves masters, after a hard fight, of a
line of works which Vauban had cut in the solid rock from the Sambre to
the Meuse. Three days later, the English and Dutch, Cutts, as usual, in
the front, lodged themselves on the second counterscarp. All was ready
for a general assault, when a white flag was hung out from the ramparts.
The effective strength of the garrison was now little more than one half
of what it had been when the trenches were opened. Boufflers apprehended
that it would be impossible for eight thousand men to defend the whole
circuit of the walls much longer; but he felt confident that such a
force would be sufficient to keep the stronghold on the summit of the
rock. Terms of capitulation were speedily adjusted. A gate was delivered
up to the allies. The French were allowed forty-eight hours to retire
into the castle, and were assured that the wounded men whom they left
below, about fifteen hundred in number, should be well treated. On the
sixth the allies marched in. The contest for the possession of the
town was over; and a second and more terrible contest began for the
possession of the citadel. [608]

Villeroy had in the meantime made some petty conquests. Dixmuyde, which
might have offered some resistance, had opened its gates to him, not
without grave suspicion of treachery on the part of the governor.
Deynse, which was less able to make any defence, had followed the
example. The garrisons of both towns were, in violation of a convention
which had been made for the exchange of prisoners, sent into France. The
Marshal then advanced towards Brussels in the hope, as it should seem,
that, by menacing that beautiful capital, he might induce the allies
to raise the siege of the castle of Namur. During thirty-six hours he
rained shells and redhot bullets on the city. The Electress of Bavaria,
who was within the walls, miscarried from terror. Six convents perished.
Fifteen hundred houses were at once in flames. The whole lower town
would have been burned to the ground, had not the inhabitants stopped
the conflagration by blowing up numerous buildings. Immense quantities
of the finest lace and tapestry were destroyed; for the industry and
trade which made Brussels famous throughout the world had hitherto been
little affected by the war. Several of the stately piles which looked
down on the market place were laid in ruins. The Town Hall itself, the
noblest of the many noble senate houses reared by the burghers of the
Netherlands, was in imminent peril. All this devastation, however,
produced no effect except much private misery. William was not to be
intimidated or provoked into relaxing the firm grasp with which he held
Namur. The fire which his batteries kept up round the castle was such as
had never been known in war. The French gunners were fairly driven from
their pieces by the hail of balls, and forced to take refuge in vaulted
galleries under the ground. Cohorn exultingly betted the Elector
of Bavaria four hundred pistoles that the place would fall by the
thirty-first of August, New Style. The great engineer lost his wager
indeed, but lost it only by a few hours. [609]

Boufflers now began to feel that his only hope was in Villeroy. Villeroy
had proceeded from Brussels to Enghien; he had there collected all the
French troops that could be spared from the remotest fortresses of the
Netherlands; and he now, at the head of more than eighty thousand men,
marched towards Namur. Vaudemont meanwhile joined the besiegers. William
therefore thought himself strong enough to offer battle to Villeroy,
without intermitting for a moment the operations against Boufflers. The
Elector of Bavaria was entrusted with the immediate direction of the
siege. The King of England took up, on the west of the town, a strong
position strongly intrenched, and there awaited the French, who were
advancing from Enghien. Every thing seemed to indicate that a great
day was at hand. Two of the most numerous and best ordered armies that
Europe had ever seen were brought face to face. On the fifteenth of
August the defenders of the castle saw from their watchtowers the mighty
host of their countrymen. But between that host and the citadel was
drawn up in battle order the not less mighty host of William. Villeroy,
by a salute of ninety guns, conveyed to Boufflers the promise of a
speedy rescue; and at night Boufflers, by fire signals which were seen
far over the vast plain of the Meuse and Sambre, urged Villeroy to
fulfil that promise without delay. In the capitals both of France and
England the anxiety was intense. Lewis shut himself up in his oratory,
confessed, received the Eucharist, and gave orders that the host should
be exposed in his chapel. His wife ordered all her nuns to their knees.
[610] London was kept in a state of distraction by a succession of
rumours fabricated some by Jacobites and some by stockjobbers. Early one
morning it was confidently averred that there had been a battle, that
the allies had been beaten, that the King had been killed, that the
siege had been raised. The Exchange, as soon as it was opened, was
filled to overflowing by people who came to learn whether the bad news
was true. The streets were stopped up all day by groups of talkers and
listeners. In the afternoon the Gazette, which had been impatiently
expected, and which was eagerly read by thousands, calmed the
excitement, but not completely; for it was known that the Jacobites
sometimes received, by the agency of privateers and smugglers who put to
sea in all weathers, intelligence earlier than that which came through
regular channels to the Secretary of State at Whitehall. Before night,
however, the agitation had altogether subsided; but it was suddenly
revived by a bold imposture. A horseman in the uniform of the Guards
spurred through the City, announcing that the King had been killed. He
would probably have raised a serious tumult, had not some apprentices,
zealous for the Revolution and the Protestant religion, knocked him down
and carried him to Newgate. The confidential correspondent of the
States General informed them that, in spite of all the stories which the
disaffected party invented and circulated, the general persuasion was
that the allies would be successful. The touchstone of sincerity in
England, he said, was the betting. The Jacobites were ready enough
to prove that William must be defeated, or to assert that he had been
defeated; but they would not give the odds, and could hardly be induced
to take any moderate odds. The Whigs, on the other hand, were ready to
stake thousands of guineas on the conduct and good fortune of the King.
[611]

The event justified the confidence of the Whigs and the backwardness of
the Jacobites. On the sixteenth, the seventeenth, and the eighteenth
of August the army of Villeroy and the army of William confronted each
other. It was fully expected that the nineteenth would be the decisive
day. The allies were under arms before dawn. At four William mounted,
and continued till eight at night to ride from post to post, disposing
his own troops and watching the movements of the enemy. The enemy
approached his lines in several places, near enough to see that it would
not be easy to dislodge him; but there was no fighting. He lay down to
rest, expecting to be attacked when the sun rose.