On the way he
learned that Feversham, in pursuance of the King's orders, had dismissed
the royal army, and that thousands of soldiers, freed from restraint and
destitute of necessaries, were scattered over the counties through
which the road to London lay.
learned that Feversham, in pursuance of the King's orders, had dismissed
the royal army, and that thousands of soldiers, freed from restraint and
destitute of necessaries, were scattered over the counties through
which the road to London lay.
Macaulay
--Flight of James from
Rochester--Debates and Resolutions of the Lords--Debates and Resolutions
of the Commoners summoned by the Prince--Convention called; Exertions of
the Prince to restore Order--His tolerant Policy--Satisfaction of Roman
Catholic Powers; State of Feeling in France--Reception of the Queen of
England in France--Arrival of James at Saint Germains--State of
Feeling in the United Provinces--Election of Members to serve in the
Convention--Affairs of Scotland--State of Parties in England--Sherlock's
Plan--Sancroft's Plan--Danby's Plan--The Whig Plan--Meeting of the
Convention; leading Members of the House of Commons--Choice of a
Speaker--Debate on the State of the Nation--Resolution declaring the
Throne vacant--It is sent up to the Lords; Debate in the Lords on
the Plan of Regency--Schism between the Whigs and the Followers of
Danby--Meeting at the Earl of Devonshire's--Debate in the Lords on
the Question whether the Throne was vacant--Majority for the Negative;
Agitation in London--Letter of James to the Convention--Debates;
Negotiations; Letter of the Princess of Orange to Danby--The Princess
Anne acquiesces in the Whig Plan--William explains his views--The
Conference between the houses--The Lords yield--New Laws proposed for
the Security of Liberty--Disputes and Compromise--The Declaration of
Right--Arrival of Mary--Tender and Acceptance of the Crown--William and
Mary proclaimed; peculiar Character of the English Revolution
NORTHUMBERLAND strictly obeyed the injunction which had been laid on
him, and did not open the door of the royal apartment till it was broad
day. The antechamber was filled with courtiers who came to make their
morning bow and with Lords who had been summoned to Council. The news of
James's flight passed in an instant from the galleries to the streets;
and the whole capital was in commotion.
It was a terrible moment. The King was gone. The Prince had not
arrived. No Regency had been appointed. The Great Seal, essential to the
administration of ordinary justice, had disappeared. It was soon
known that Feversham had, on the receipt of the royal order, instantly
disbanded his forces. What respect for law or property was likely to
be found among soldiers, armed and congregated, emancipated from the
restraints of discipline, and destitute of the necessaries of life? On
the other hand, the populace of London had, during some weeks, shown a
strong disposition to turbulence and rapine. The urgency of the crisis
united for a short time all who had any interest in the peace of
society. Rochester had till that day adhered firmly to the royal cause.
He now saw that there was only one way of averting general confusion.
"Call your troop of Guards together," he said to Northumberland, "and
declare for the Prince of Orange. " The advice was promptly followed. The
principal officers of the army who were then in London held a meeting at
Whitehall, and resolved that they would submit to William's authority,
and would, till his pleasure should be known, keep their men together
and assist the civil power to preserve order. [575] The Peers repaired
to Guildhall, and were received there with all honour by the magistracy
of the city. In strictness of law they were no better entitled than any
other set of persons to assume the executive administration. But it
was necessary to the public safety that there should be a provisional
government; and the eyes of men naturally turned to the hereditary
magnates of the realm. The extremity of the danger drew Sancroft forth
from his palace. He took the chair; and, under his presidency, the
new Archbishop of York, five Bishops, and twenty-two temporal Lords,
determined to draw up, subscribe, and publish a Declaration.
By this instrument they declared that they were firmly attached to the
religion and constitution of their country, and that they had cherished
the hope of seeing grievances redressed and tranquillity restored by the
Parliament which the King had lately summoned, but that this hope had
been extinguished by his flight. They had therefore determined to join
with the Prince of Orange, in order that the freedom of the nation might
be vindicated, that the rights of the Church might be secured, that a
just liberty of conscience might be given to Dissenters, and that the
Protestant interest throughout the world might be strengthened. Till
His Highness should arrive, they were prepared to take on themselves the
responsibility of giving such directions as might be necessary for
the preservation of order. A deputation was instantly sent to lay this
Declaration before the Prince, and to inform him that he was impatiently
expected in London. [576]
The Lords then proceeded to deliberate on the course which it was
necessary to take for the prevention of tumult. They sent for the two
Secretaries of State. Middleton refused to submit to what he regarded as
an usurped authority: but Preston, astounded by his master's flight, and
not knowing what to expect, or whither to turn, obeyed the summons. A
message was sent to Skelton, who was Lieutenant of the Tower, requesting
his attendance at Guildhall. He came, and was told that his services
were no longer wanted, and that he must instantly deliver up his keys.
He was succeeded by Lord Lucas. At the same time the Peers ordered a
letter to be written to Dartmouth, enjoining him to refrain from all
hostile operations against the Dutch fleet, and to displace all the
Popish officers who held commands under him. [577]
The part taken in these proceedings by Sancroft, and by some other
persons who had, up to that day, been strictly faithful to the principle
of passive obedience, deserves especial notice. To usurp the command of
the military and naval forces of the state, to remove the officers whom
the King had set over his castles and his ships, and to prohibit his
Admiral from giving battle to his enemies, was surely nothing less than
rebellion. Yet several honest and able Tories of the school of Filmer
persuaded themselves that they could do all these things without
incurring the guilt of resisting their Sovereign. The distinction
which they took was, at least, ingenious. Government, they said, is the
ordinance of God. Hereditary monarchical government is eminently the
ordinance of God. While the King commands what is lawful we must
obey him actively. When he commands what is unlawful we must obey him
passively. In no extremity are we justified in withstanding him by
force. But, if he chooses to resign his office, his rights over us are
at an end. While he governs us, though he may govern us ill, we are
bound to submit: but, if he refuses to govern us at all, we are not
bound to remain for ever without a government. Anarchy is not the
ordinance of God; nor will he impute it to us as a sin that, when a
prince, whom, in spite of extreme provocations, we have never ceased
to honour and obey, has departed we know not whither, leaving no
vicegerent, we take the only course which can prevent the entire
dissolution of society. Had our Sovereign remained among us, we were
ready, little as he deserved our love, to die at his feet. Had he, when
he quitted us, appointed a regency to govern us with vicarious authority
during his absence, to that regency alone should we have looked for
direction. But he has disappeared, having made no provision for the
preservation of order or the administration of justice. With him,
and with his Great Seal, has vanished the whole machinery by which
a murderer can be punished, by which the right to an estate can be
decided, by which the effects of a bankrupt can be distributed. His
last act has been to free thousands of armed men from the restraints
of military discipline, and to place them in such a situation that they
must plunder or starve. Yet a few hours, and every man's hand will be
against his neighbour. Life, property, female honour, will be at the
mercy of every lawless spirit. We are at this moment actually in that
state of nature about which theorists have written so much; and in
that state we have been placed, not by our fault, but by the voluntary
defection of him who ought to have been our protector. His defection may
be justly called voluntary: for neither his life nor his liberty was
in danger. His enemies had just consented to treat with him on a basis
proposed by himself, and had offered immediately to suspend all hostile
operations, on conditions which he could not deny to be liberal. In such
circumstances it is that he has abandoned his trust. We retract nothing.
We are in nothing inconsistent. We still assert our old doctrines
without qualification. We still hold that it is in all cases sinful to
resist the magistrate: but we say that there is no longer any magistrate
to resist. He who was the magistrate, after long abusing his powers, has
at last abdicated them. The abuse did not give us a right to depose him:
but the abdication gives us a right to consider how we may best supply
his place.
It was on these grounds that the Prince's party was now swollen by many
adherents who had previously stood aloof from it. Never, within the
memory of man, had there been so near an approach to entire concord
among all intelligent Englishmen as at this conjuncture: and never had
concord been more needed. Legitimate authority there was none. All those
evil passions which it is the office of government to restrain, and
which the best governments restrain but imperfectly, were on a sudden
emancipated from control; avarice, licentiousness, revenge, the hatred
of sect to sect, the hatred of nation to nation. On such occasions it
will ever be found that the human vermin which, neglected by ministers
of state and ministers of religion, barbarous in the midst of
civilisation, heathen in the midst of Christianity, burrows among all
physical and all moral pollution, in the cellars and garrets of great
cities, will at once rise into a terrible importance. So it was now in
London. When the night, the longest night, as it chanced, of the year,
approached, forth came from every den of vice, from the bear garden at
Hockley, and from the labyrinth of tippling houses and brothels in
the Friars, thousands of housebreakers and highwaymen, cutpurses and
ringdroppers. With these were mingled thousands of idle apprentices, who
wished merely for the excitement of a riot. Even men of peaceable and
honest habits were impelled by religious animosity to join the lawless
part of the population. For the cry of No Popery, a cry which has more
than once endangered the existence of London, was the signal for outrage
and rapine. First the rabble fell on the Roman Catholic places of
worship. The buildings were demolished. Benches, pulpits, confessionals,
breviaries were heaped up and set on fire. A great mountain of books and
furniture blazed on the site of the convent at Clerkenwell. Another pile
was kindled before the ruins of the Franciscan house in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. The chapel in Lime Street, the chapel in Bucklersbury, were
pulled down. The pictures, images and crucifixes were carried along
the streets in triumph, amidst lighted tapers torn from the altars. The
procession bristled thick with swords and staves, and on the point of
every sword and of every staff was an orange. The King's printing house,
whence had issued, during the preceding three years, innumerable tracts
in defence of Papal supremacy, image worship, and monastic vows, was,
to use a coarse metaphor which then, for the first time, came into use,
completely gutted. The vast stock of paper, much of which was still
unpolluted by types, furnished an immense bonfire. From monasteries,
temples, and public offices, the fury of the multitude turned to private
dwellings. Several houses were pillaged and destroyed: but the smallness
of the booty disappointed the plunderers; and soon a rumour was spread
that the most valuable effects of the Papists had been placed under the
care of the foreign Ambassadors. To the savage and ignorant populace
the law of nations and the risk of bringing on their country the just
vengeance of all Europe were as nothing. The houses of the Ambassadors
were besieged. A great crowd assembled before Barillon's door in St.
James's Square. He, however, fared better than might have been expected.
For, though the government which he represented was held in abhorrence,
his liberal housekeeping and exact payments had made him personally
popular. Moreover he had taken the precaution of asking for a guard of
soldiers; and, as several men of rank, who hued near him, had done the
same, a considerable force was collected in the Square. The rioters,
therefore, when they were assured that no arms or priests were concealed
under his roof, left him unmolested. The Venetian Envoy was protected
by a detachment of troops: but the mansions occupied by the ministers
of the Elector Palatine and of the Grand Duke of Tuscany were destroyed.
One precious box the Tuscan minister was able to save from the
marauders. It contained nine volumes of memoirs, written in the hand of
James himself. These volumes reached France in safety, and, after
the lapse of more than a century, perished there in the havoc of a
revolution far more terrible than that from which they had escaped.
But some fragments still remain, and, though grievously mutilated,
and imbedded in great masses of childish fiction, well deserve to be
attentively studied.
The rich plate of the Chapel Royal had been deposited at Wild House,
near Lincoln's Inn Fields, the residence of the Spanish ambassador
Ronquillo. Ronquillo, conscious that he and his court had not deserved
ill of the English nation, had thought it unnecessary to ask for
soldiers: but the mob was not in a mood to make nice distinctions.
The name of Spain had long been associated in the public mind with the
Inquisition and the Armada, with the cruelties of Mary and the plots
against Elizabeth. Ronquillo had also made himself many enemies among
the common people by availing himself of his privilege to avoid the
necessity of paying his debts. His house was therefore sacked without
mercy; and a noble library, which he had collected, perished in the
flames. His only comfort was that the host in his chapel was rescued
from the same fate. [578]
The morning of the twelfth of December rose on a ghastly sight. The
capital in many places presented the aspect of a city taken by
storm. The Lords met at Whitehall, and exerted themselves to restore
tranquillity. The trainbands were ordered under arms. A body of cavalry
was kept in readiness to disperse tumultuous assemblages. Such atonement
as was at that moment possible was made for the gross insults which
had been offered to foreign governments. A reward was promised for the
discovery of the property taken from Wild House; and Ronquillo, who
had not a bed or an ounce of plate left, was splendidly lodged in the
deserted palace of the Kings of England. A sumptuous table was kept for
him; and the yeomen of the guard were ordered to wait in his antechamber
with the same observance which they were in the habit of paying to the
Sovereign. These marks of respect soothed even the punctilious pride of
the Spanish court, and averted all danger of a rupture. [579]
In spite, however, of the well meant efforts of the provisional
government, the agitation grew hourly more formidable. It was heightened
by an event which, even at this distance of time, can hardly be related
without a feeling of vindictive pleasure. A scrivener who lived at
Wapping, and whose trade was to furnish the seafaring men there with
money at high interest, had some time before lent a sum on bottomry. The
debtor applied to equity for relief against his own bond; and the case
came before Jeffreys. The counsel for the borrower, having little else
to say, said that the lender was a Trimmer. The Chancellor instantly
fired. "A Trimmer! where is he? Let me see him. I have heard of that
kind of monster. What is it made like? " The unfortunate creditor was
forced to stand forth. The Chancellor glared fiercely on him, stormed at
him, and sent him away half dead with fright. "While I live," the poor
man said, as he tottered out of the court, "I shall never forget that
terrible countenance. " And now the day of retribution had arrived.
The Trimmer was walking through Wapping, when he saw a well known face
looking out of the window of an alehouse. He could not be deceived. The
eyebrows, indeed, had been shaved away. The dress was that of a common
sailor from Newcastle, and was black with coal dust: but there was no
mistaking the savage eye and mouth of Jeffreys. The alarm was given.
In a moment the house was surrounded by hundreds of people shaking
bludgeons and bellowing curses. The fugitive's life was saved by a
company of the trainbands; and he was carried before the Lord Mayor. The
Mayor was a simple man who had passed his whole life in obscurity,
and was bewildered by finding himself an important actor in a mighty
revolution. The events of the last twenty-four hours, and the perilous
state of the city which was under his charge, had disordered his mind
and his body. When the great man, at whose frown, a few days before, the
whole kingdom had trembled, was, dragged into the justice room begrimed
with ashes, half dead with fright, and followed by a raging multitude,
the agitation of the unfortunate Mayor rose to the height. He fell into
fits, and was carried to his bed, whence he never rose. Meanwhile the
throng without was constantly becoming more numerous and more savage.
Jeffreys begged to be sent to prison. An order to that effect was
procured from the Lords who were sitting at Whitehall; and he was
conveyed in a carriage to the Tower. Two regiments of militia were drawn
out to escort him, and found the duty a difficult one. It was repeatedly
necessary for them to form, as if for the purpose of repelling a charge
of cavalry, and to present a forest of pikes to the mob. The thousands
who were disappointed of their revenge pursued the coach, with howls
of rage, to the gate of the Tower, brandishing cudgels, and holding up
halters full in the prisoner's view. The wretched man meantime was
in convulsions of terror. He wrung his hands; he looked wildly out,
sometimes at one window, sometimes at the other, and was heard even
above the tumult, crying "Keep them off, gentlemen! For God's sake keep
them off! " At length, having suffered far more than the bitterness
of death, he was safely lodged in the fortress where some of his most
illustrious victims had passed their last days, and where his own life
was destined to close in unspeakable ignominy and horror. [580]
All this time an active search was making after Roman Catholic priests.
Many were arrested. Two Bishops, Ellis and Leyburn, were sent to
Newgate. The Nuncio, who had little reason to expect that either
his spiritual or his political character would be respected by the
multitude, made his escape disguised as a lacquey in the train of the
minister of the Duke of Savoy. [581]
Another day of agitation and terror closed, and was followed by a night
the strangest and most terrible that England had ever seen. Early in the
evening an attack was made by the rabble on a stately house which had
been built a few months before for Lord Powis, which in the reign of
George the Second was the residence of the Duke of Newcastle, and which
is still conspicuous at the northwestern angle of Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Some troops were sent thither: the mob was dispersed, tranquillity
seemed to be restored, and the citizens were retiring quietly to their
beds. Just at this time arose a whisper which swelled fast into a
fearful clamour, passed in an hour from Piccadilly to Whitechapel, and
spread into every street and alley of the capital. It was' said that
the Irish whom Feversham had let loose were marching on London and
massacring every man, woman, and child on the road. At one in the
morning the drums of the militia beat to arms. Everywhere terrified
women were weeping and wringing their hands, while their fathers and
husbands were equipping themselves for fight. Before two the capital
wore a face of stern preparedness which might well have daunted a real
enemy, if such an enemy had been approaching. Candles were blazing at
all the windows. The public places were as bright as at noonday. All
the great avenues were barricaded. More than twenty thousand pikes and
muskets lined the streets. The late daybreak of the winter solstice
found the whole City still in arms. During many years the Londoners
retained a vivid recollection of what they called the Irish Night. When
it was known that there had been no cause of alarm, attempts were
made to discover the origin of the rumour which had produced so much
agitation. It appeared that some persons who had the look and dress of
clowns just arrived from the country had first spread the report in the
suburbs a little before midnight: but whence these men came, and by whom
they were employed, remained a mystery. And soon news arrived from many
quarters which bewildered the public mind still more. The panic had
not been confined to London. The cry that disbanded Irish soldiers were
coming to murder the Protestants had, with malignant ingenuity, been
raised at once in many places widely distant from each other. Great
numbers of letters, skilfully framed for the purpose of frightening
ignorant people, had been sent by stage coaches, by waggons, and by the
post, to various parts of England. All these letters came to hand almost
at the same time. In a hundred towns at once the populace was possessed
with the belief that armed barbarians were at hand, bent on perpetrating
crimes as foul as those which had disgraced the rebellion of Ulster. No
Protestant would find mercy. Children would be compelled by torture to
murder their parents. Babes would be stuck on pikes, or flung into the
blazing ruins of what had lately been happy dwellings. Great multitudes
assembled with weapons: the people in some places began to pull down
bridges, and to throw up barricades: but soon the excitement went down.
In many districts those who had been so foully imposed upon learned with
delight, alloyed by shame, that there was not a single Popish soldier
within a week's march. There were places, indeed, where some straggling
bands of Irish made their appearance and demanded food: but it can
scarcely be imputed to them as a crime that they did not choose to
die of hunger; and there is no evidence that they committed any wanton
outrage. In truth they were much less numerous than was commonly
supposed; and their spirit was cowed by finding themselves left on
a sudden without leaders or provisions, in the midst of a mighty
population which felt towards them as men feel towards a drove of
wolves. Of all the subjects of James none had more reason to execrate
him than these unfortunate members of his church and defenders of his
throne. [582]
It is honourable to the English character that, notwithstanding the
aversion with which the Roman Catholic religion and the Irish race were
then regarded, notwithstanding the anarchy which was the effect of the
flight of James, notwithstanding the artful machinations which were
employed to scare the multitude into cruelty, no atrocious crime was
perpetrated at this conjuncture. Much property, indeed, was destroyed
and carried away. The houses of many Roman Catholic gentlemen were
attacked. Parks were ravaged. Deer were slain and stolen. Some venerable
specimens of the domestic architecture of the middle ages bear to this
day the marks of popular violence. The roads were in many places made
impassable by a selfappointed police, which stopped every traveller till
he proved that he was not a Papist. The Thames was infested by a set
of pirates who, under pretence of searching for arms or delinquents,
rummaged every boat that passed. Obnoxious persons were insulted and
hustled. Many persons who were not obnoxious were glad to ransom their
persons and effects by bestowing some guineas on the zealous Protestants
who had, without any legal authority, assumed the office of inquisitors.
But in all this confusion, which lasted several days and extended over
many counties, not a single Roman Catholic lost his life. The mob showed
no inclination to blood, except in the case of Jeffreys; and the hatred
which that bad man inspired had more affinity with humanity than with
cruelty. [583]
Many years later Hugh Speke affirmed that the Irish Night was his work,
that he had prompted the rustics who raised London, and that he was the
author of the letters which had spread dismay through the country. His
assertion is not intrinsically improbable: but it rests on no evidence
except his own word. He was a man quite capable of committing such
a villany, and quite capable also of falsely boasting that he had
committed it. [584]
At London William was impatiently expected: for it was not doubted that
his vigour and ability would speedily restore order and security. There
was however some delay for which the Prince cannot justly be blamed. His
original intention had been to proceed from Hungerford to Oxford, where
he was assured of an honourable and affectionate reception: but the
arrival of the deputation from Guildhall induced him to change his
intention and to hasten directly towards the capital.
On the way he
learned that Feversham, in pursuance of the King's orders, had dismissed
the royal army, and that thousands of soldiers, freed from restraint and
destitute of necessaries, were scattered over the counties through
which the road to London lay. It was therefore impossible for William
to proceed slenderly attended without great danger, not only to his own
person, about which he was not much in the habit of being solicitous,
but also to the great interests which were under his care. It was
necessary that he should regulate his own movements by the movements of
his troops; and troops could then move but slowly over the highways of
England in midwinter. He was, on this occasion, a little moved from his
ordinary composure. "I am not to be thus dealt with," he exclaimed
with bitterness; "and that my Lord Feversham shall find. " Prompt and
judicious measures were taken to remedy the evils which James
had caused. Churchill and Grafton were entrusted with the task of
reassembling the dispersed army and bringing it into order. The English
soldiers were invited to resume their military character. The Irish were
commanded to deliver up their arms on pain of being treated as banditti,
but were assured that, if they would submit quietly, they should be
supplied with necessaries. [585]
The Prince's orders were carried into effect with scarcely any
opposition, except from the Irish soldiers who had been in garrison at
Tilbury. One of these men snapped a pistol at Grafton. It missed fire,
and the assassin was instantly shot dead by an Englishman. About two
hundred of the unfortunate strangers made a gallant attempt to return
to their own country. They seized a richly laden East Indiaman which
had just arrived in the Thames, and tried to procure pilots by force at
Gravesend. No pilot, however was to be found; and they were under the
necessity of trusting to their own skill in navigation. They soon ran
their ship aground, and, after some bloodshed, were compelled to lay
down their arms. [586]
William had now been five weeks on English ground; and during the whole
of that time his good fortune had been uninterrupted. His own prudence
and firmness had been conspicuously displayed, and yet had done less for
him than the folly and pusillanimity of others. And now, at the moment
when it seemed that his plans were about to be crowned with entire
success, they were disconcerted by one of those strange incidents which
so often confound the most exquisite devices of human policy.
On the morning of the thirteenth of December the people of London,
not yet fully recovered from the agitation of the Irish Night, were
surprised by a rumour that the King had been detained, and was still in
the island. The report gathered strength during the day, and was fully
confirmed before the evening.
James had travelled with relays of coach horses along the southern shore
of the Thames, and on the morning of the twelfth had reached Emley Ferry
near the island of Sheppey. There lay the hoy in which he was to sail.
He went on board: but the wind blew fresh; and the master would not
venture to put to sea without more ballast. A tide was thus lost.
Midnight was approaching before the vessel began to float. By that time
the news that the King had disappeared, that the country was without a
government, and that London was in confusion, had travelled fast down
the Thames, and wherever it spread had produced outrage and misrule. The
rude fishermen of the Kentish coast eyed the hoy with suspicion and with
cupidity. It was whispered that some persons in the garb of gentlemen
had gone on board of her in great haste. Perhaps they were Jesuits:
perhaps they were rich. Fifty or sixty boatmen, animated at once by
hatred of Popery and by love of plunder, boarded the hoy just as she was
about to make sail. The passengers were told that they must go on
shore and be examined by a magistrate. The King's appearance excited
suspicion. "It is Father Petre," cried one ruffian; "I know him by his
lean jaws. " "Search the hatchet faced old Jesuit," became the general
cry. He was rudely pulled and pushed about. His money and watch were
taken from him. He had about him his coronation ring, and some other
trinkets of great value: but these escaped the search of the robbers,
who indeed were so ignorant of jewellery that they took his diamond
buckles for bits of glass.
At length the prisoners were put on shore and carried to an inn. A crowd
had assembled there to see them; and James, though disguised by a wig of
different shape and colour from that which he usually wore, was at
once recognised. For a moment the rabble seemed to be overawed: but the
exhortations of their chiefs revived their courage; and the sight of
Hales, whom they well knew and bitterly hated, inflamed their fury. His
park was in the neighbourhood; and at that very moment a band of rioters
was employed in pillaging his house and shooting his deer. The multitude
assured the King that they would not hurt him: but they refused to let
him depart. It chanced that the Earl of Winchelsea, a Protestant, but
a zealous royalist, head of the Finch family, and a near kinsman of
Nottingham, was then at Canterbury. As soon as he learned what
had happened he hastened to the coast, accompanied by some Kentish
gentlemen. By their intervention the King was removed to a more
convenient lodging: but he was still a prisoner. The mob kept constant
watch round the house to which he had been carried; and some of the
ringleaders lay at the door of his bedroom. His demeanour meantime was
that of a man, all the nerves of whose mind had been broken by the load
of misfortunes. Sometimes he spoke so haughtily that the rustics who had
charge of him were provoked into making insolent replies. Then he betook
himself to supplication. "Let me go," he cried; "get me a boat. The
Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now,
it will be too late. My blood will be on your heads. He that is not with
me is against me. " On this last text he preached a sermon half an hour
long. He harangued on a strange variety of subjects, on the disobedience
of the fellows of Magdalene College, on the miracles wrought by Saint
Winifred's well, on the disloyalty of the black coats, and on the
virtues of a piece of the true cross which he had unfortunately lost.
"What have I done? " he demanded of the Kentish squires who attended him.
"Tell me the truth. What error have I committed? " Those to whom he put
these questions were too humane to return the answer which must have
risen to their lips, and listened to his wild talk in pitying silence.
[587]
When the news that he had been stopped, insulted, roughly handled, and
plundered, and that he was still a prisoner in the hands of rude churls,
reached the capital, many passions were roused. Rigid Churchmen, who
had, a few hours before, begun to think that they were freed from their
allegiance to him, now felt misgivings. He had not quitted his kingdom.
He had not consummated his abdication. If he should resume his regal
office, could they, on their principles, refuse to pay him obedience?
Enlightened statesmen foresaw with concern that all the disputes which
his flight had for a moment set at rest would be revived and exasperated
by his return. Some of the common people, though still smarting from
recent wrongs, were touched with compassion for a great prince outraged
by ruffians, and were willing to entertain a hope, more honourable to
their good nature than to their discernment, that he might even now
repent of the errors which had brought on him so terrible a punishment.
From the moment when it was known that the King was still in England,
Sancroft, who had hitherto acted as chief of the provisional government,
absented himself from the sittings of the Peers. Halifax, who had just
returned from the Dutch head quarters, was placed in the chair. His
sentiments had undergone a great change in a few hours. Both public and
private feelings now impelled him to join the Whigs. Those who candidly
examine the evidence which has come down to us will be of opinion that
he accepted the office of royal Commissioner in the sincere hope of
effecting an accommodation between the King and the Prince on fair
terms. The negotiation had commenced prosperously: the Prince had
offered terms which the King could not but acknowledge to be fair: the
eloquent and ingenious Trimmer might flatter himself that he should be
able to mediate between infuriated factions, to dictate a compromise
between extreme opinions, to secure the liberties and religion of his
country, without exposing her to the risks inseparable from a change of
dynasty and a disputed succession. While he was pleasing himself
with thoughts so agreeable to his temper, he learned that he had been
deceived, and had been used as an instrument for deceiving the nation.
His mission to Hungerford had been a fool's errand. The King had never
meant to abide by the terms which he had instructed his Commissioners
to propose. He had charged them to declare that he was willing to submit
all the questions in dispute to the Parliament which he had summoned;
and, while they were delivering his message, he had burned the
writs, made away with the seal, let loose the army, suspended the
administration of justice, dissolved the government, and fled from
the capital. Halifax saw that an amicable arrangement was no longer
possible. He also felt, it may be suspected, the vexation natural to a
man widely renowned for wisdom, who finds that he has been duped by an
understanding immeasurably inferior to his own, and the vexation natural
to a great master of ridicule, who finds himself placed in a ridiculous
situation. His judgment and his resentment alike induced him to
relinquish the schemes of reconciliation on which he had hitherto been
intent, and to place himself at the head of those who were bent on
raising William to the throne. [588]
A journal of what passed in the Council of Lords while Halifax presided
is still extant in his own handwriting. [589] No precaution, which
seemed necessary for the prevention of outrage and robbery, was omitted.
The Peers took on themselves the responsibility of giving orders
that, if the rabble rose again, the soldiers should fire with bullets.
Jeffreys was brought to Whitehall and interrogated as to what had become
of the Great Seal and the writs. At his own earnest request he was
remanded to the Tower, as the only place where his life could be
safe; and he retired thanking and blessing those who had given him the
protection of a prison. A Whig nobleman moved that Oates should be set
at liberty: but this motion was overruled. [590]
The business of the day was nearly over, and Halifax was about to rise,
when he was informed that a messenger from Sheerness was in attendance.
No occurrence could be more perplexing or annoying. To do anything,
to do nothing, was to incur a grave responsibility. Halifax, wishing
probably to obtain time for communication with the Prince, would have
adjourned the meeting; but Mulgrave begged the Lords to keep their
seats, and introduced the messenger. The man told his story with many
tears, and produced a letter written in the King's hand, and addressed
to no particular person, but imploring the aid of all good Englishmen.
[591]
Such an appeal it was hardly possible to disregard. The Lords ordered
Feversham to hasten with a troop of the Life Guards to the place where
the King was detained, and to set his Majesty at liberty.
Already Middleton and a few other adherents of the royal cause had set
out to assist and comfort their unhappy master. They found him strictly
confined, and were not suffered to enter his presence till they had
delivered up their swords. The concourse of people about him was by this
time immense. Some Whig gentlemen of the neighbourhood had brought a
large body of militia to guard him. They had imagined most erroneously
that by detaining him they were ingratiating themselves with his
enemies, and were greatly disturbed when they learned that the treatment
which the King had undergone was disapproved by the Provisional
Government in London, and that a body of cavalry was on the road
to release him. Feversham soon arrived. He had left his troop at
Sittingbourne; but there was no occasion to use force. The King was
suffered to depart without opposition, and was removed by his friends to
Rochester, where he took some rest, which he greatly needed. He was in
a pitiable state. Not only was his understanding, which had never been
very clear, altogether bewildered: but the personal courage which, when
a young man, he had shown in several battles, both by sea and by land,
had forsaken him. The rough corporal usage which he had now, for the
first time, undergone, seems to have discomposed him more than any
other event of his chequered life. The desertion of his army, of his
favourites, of his family, affected him less than the indignities
which he suffered when his hoy was boarded. The remembrance of those
indignities continued long to rankle in his heart, and on one occasion
showed itself in a way which moved all Europe to contemptuous mirth. In
the fourth year of his exile he attempted to lure back his subjects by
offering them an amnesty. The amnesty was accompanied by a long list
of exceptions; and in this list the poor fishermen who had searched his
pockets rudely appeared side by side with Churchill and Danby. From this
circumstance we may judge how keenly he must have felt the outrage while
it was still recent. [592]
Yet, had he possessed an ordinary measure of good sense, he would have
seen that those who had detained him had unintentionally done him a
great service. The events which had taken place during his absence from
his capital ought to have convinced him that, if he had succeeded in
escaping, he never would have returned. In his own despite he had been
saved from ruin. He had another chance, a last chance. Great as his
offences had been, to dethrone him, while he remained in his kingdom and
offered to assent to such conditions as a free Parliament might impose,
would have been almost impossible.
During a short time he seemed disposed to remain. He sent Feversham from
Rochester with a letter to William. The substance of the letter was that
His Majesty was on his way back to Whitehall, that he wished to have
a personal conference with the Prince, and that Saint James's Palace
should be fitted up for his Highness. [593]
William was now at Windsor. He had learned with deep mortification the
events which had taken place on the coast of Kent. Just before the
news arrived, those who approached him observed that his spirits were
unusually high. He had, indeed, reason to rejoice. A vacant throne was
before him. All parties, it seemed, would, with one voice, invite him
to mount it. On a sudden his prospects were overcast. The abdication,
it appeared, had not been completed. A large proportion of his own
followers would have scruples about deposing a King who remained among
them, who invited them to represent their grievances in a parliamentary
way, and who promised full redress. It was necessary that the Prince
should examine his new position, and determine on a new line of action.
No course was open to him which was altogether free from objections,
no course which would place him in a situation so advantageous as that
which he had occupied a few hours before. Yet something might be done.
The King's first attempt to escape had failed. What was now most to be
desired was that he should make a second attempt with better success. He
must be at once frightened and enticed. The liberality with which he had
been treated in the negotiation at Hungerford, and which he had
requited by a breach of faith, would now be out of season. No terms of
accommodation must be proposed to him. If he should propose terms he
must be coldly answered. No violence must be used towards him, or even
threatened. Yet it might not be impossible, without either using or
threatening violence, to make so weak a man uneasy about his personal
safety. He would soon be eager to fly. All facilities for flight must
then be placed within his reach; and care must be taken that he should
not again be stopped by any officious blunderer.
Such was William's plan: and the ability and determination with which
he carried it into effect present a strange contrast to the folly
and cowardice with which he had to deal. He soon had an excellent
opportunity of commencing his system of intimidation. Feversham
arrived at Windsor with James's letter. The messenger had not been very
judiciously selected. It was he who had disbanded the royal army. To
him primarily were to be imputed the confusion and terror of the Irish
Night. His conduct was loudly blamed by the public. William had been
provoked into muttering a few words of menace: and a few words of menace
from William's lips generally meant something. Feversham was asked for
his safe conduct. He had none. By coming without one into the midst of a
hostile camp, he had, according to the laws of war, made himself liable
to be treated with the utmost severity. William refused to see him,
and ordered him to be put under arrest. [594] Zulestein was instantly
despatched to inform James that the Prince declined the proposed
conference, and desired that His Majesty would remain at Rochester.
But it was too late. James was already in London. He had hesitated about
the journey, and had, at one time, determined to make another attempt to
reach the Continent. But at length he yielded to the urgency of friends
who were wiser than himself, and set out for Whitehall. He arrived
there on the afternoon of Sunday, the sixteenth of December. He had been
apprehensive that the common people, who, during his absence, had
given so many proofs of their aversion to Popery, would offer him some
affront. But the very violence of the recent outbreak had produced
a remission. The storm had spent itself. Good humour and pity had
succeeded to fury. In no quarter was any disposition shown to insult the
King. Some cheers were raised as his coach passed through the City. The
bells of some churches were rung; and a few bonfires were lighted in
honour of his return. [595] His feeble mind, which had just before been
sunk in despondency, was extravagantly elated by these unexpected signs
of popular goodwill and compassion. He entered his dwelling in high
spirits. It speedily resumed its old aspect. Roman Catholic priests, who
had, during the preceding week, been glad to hide themselves from the
rage of the multitude in vaults and cocklofts, now came forth from their
lurking places, and demanded possession of their old apartments in the
palace. Grace was said at the royal table by a Jesuit. The Irish
brogue, then the most hateful of all sounds to English ears, was heard
everywhere in the courts and galleries. The King himself had resumed all
his old haughtiness. He held a Council, his last Council, and, even in
that extremity, summoned to the board persons not legally qualified to
sit there. He expressed high displeasure at the conduct of those
Lords who, during his absence, had dared to take the administration
on themselves. It was their duty, he conceived, to let society be
dissolved, to let the houses of Ambassadors be pulled down, to let
London be set on fire, rather than assume the functions which he had
thought fit to abandon. Among those whom he thus censured were some
nobles and prelates who, in spite of all his errors, had been constantly
true to him, and who, even after this provocation, never could be
induced by hope or fear to transfer their allegiance from him to any
other sovereign. [596]
But his courage was soon cast down. Scarcely had he entered his palace
when Zulestein was announced. William's cold and stern message was
delivered. The King still pressed for a personal conference with his
nephew. "I would not have left Rochester," he said, "if I had known that
he wished me not to do so: but, since I am here, I hope that he will
come to Saint James's. " "I must plainly tell your Majesty," said
Zulestein, "that His Highness will not come to London while there are
any troops here which are not under his orders. " The King, confounded
by this answer, remained silent. Zulestein retired; and soon a gentleman
entered the bedchamber with the news that Feversham had been put under
arrest. [597] James was greatly disturbed. Yet the recollection of the
applause with which he had been greeted still buoyed up his spirits.
A wild hope rose in his mind. He fancied that London, so long the
stronghold of Protestantism and Whiggism, was ready to take arms in his
defence. He sent to ask the Common Council whether, if he took up his
residence in the City, they would engage to defend him against the
Prince. But the Common Council had not forgotten the seizure of the
charter and the judicial murder of Cornish, and refused to give the
pledge which was demanded. Then the King's heart again sank within him.
Where, he asked, was he to look for protection? He might as well have
Dutch troops about him as his own Life Guards. As to the citizens,
he now understood what their huzzas and bonfires were worth. Nothing
remained but flight: and yet, he said, he knew that there was nothing
which his enemies so much desired as that he would fly. [598]
While he was in this state of trepidation, his fate was the subject of
a grave deliberation at Windsor. The court of William was now crowded to
overflowing with eminent men of all parties. Most of the chiefs of the
Northern insurrection had joined him. Several of the Lords, who had,
during the anarchy of the preceding week, taken upon themselves to act
as a provisional government, had, as soon as the King returned, quitted
London for the Dutch head quarters. One of these was Halifax.
Rochester--Debates and Resolutions of the Lords--Debates and Resolutions
of the Commoners summoned by the Prince--Convention called; Exertions of
the Prince to restore Order--His tolerant Policy--Satisfaction of Roman
Catholic Powers; State of Feeling in France--Reception of the Queen of
England in France--Arrival of James at Saint Germains--State of
Feeling in the United Provinces--Election of Members to serve in the
Convention--Affairs of Scotland--State of Parties in England--Sherlock's
Plan--Sancroft's Plan--Danby's Plan--The Whig Plan--Meeting of the
Convention; leading Members of the House of Commons--Choice of a
Speaker--Debate on the State of the Nation--Resolution declaring the
Throne vacant--It is sent up to the Lords; Debate in the Lords on
the Plan of Regency--Schism between the Whigs and the Followers of
Danby--Meeting at the Earl of Devonshire's--Debate in the Lords on
the Question whether the Throne was vacant--Majority for the Negative;
Agitation in London--Letter of James to the Convention--Debates;
Negotiations; Letter of the Princess of Orange to Danby--The Princess
Anne acquiesces in the Whig Plan--William explains his views--The
Conference between the houses--The Lords yield--New Laws proposed for
the Security of Liberty--Disputes and Compromise--The Declaration of
Right--Arrival of Mary--Tender and Acceptance of the Crown--William and
Mary proclaimed; peculiar Character of the English Revolution
NORTHUMBERLAND strictly obeyed the injunction which had been laid on
him, and did not open the door of the royal apartment till it was broad
day. The antechamber was filled with courtiers who came to make their
morning bow and with Lords who had been summoned to Council. The news of
James's flight passed in an instant from the galleries to the streets;
and the whole capital was in commotion.
It was a terrible moment. The King was gone. The Prince had not
arrived. No Regency had been appointed. The Great Seal, essential to the
administration of ordinary justice, had disappeared. It was soon
known that Feversham had, on the receipt of the royal order, instantly
disbanded his forces. What respect for law or property was likely to
be found among soldiers, armed and congregated, emancipated from the
restraints of discipline, and destitute of the necessaries of life? On
the other hand, the populace of London had, during some weeks, shown a
strong disposition to turbulence and rapine. The urgency of the crisis
united for a short time all who had any interest in the peace of
society. Rochester had till that day adhered firmly to the royal cause.
He now saw that there was only one way of averting general confusion.
"Call your troop of Guards together," he said to Northumberland, "and
declare for the Prince of Orange. " The advice was promptly followed. The
principal officers of the army who were then in London held a meeting at
Whitehall, and resolved that they would submit to William's authority,
and would, till his pleasure should be known, keep their men together
and assist the civil power to preserve order. [575] The Peers repaired
to Guildhall, and were received there with all honour by the magistracy
of the city. In strictness of law they were no better entitled than any
other set of persons to assume the executive administration. But it
was necessary to the public safety that there should be a provisional
government; and the eyes of men naturally turned to the hereditary
magnates of the realm. The extremity of the danger drew Sancroft forth
from his palace. He took the chair; and, under his presidency, the
new Archbishop of York, five Bishops, and twenty-two temporal Lords,
determined to draw up, subscribe, and publish a Declaration.
By this instrument they declared that they were firmly attached to the
religion and constitution of their country, and that they had cherished
the hope of seeing grievances redressed and tranquillity restored by the
Parliament which the King had lately summoned, but that this hope had
been extinguished by his flight. They had therefore determined to join
with the Prince of Orange, in order that the freedom of the nation might
be vindicated, that the rights of the Church might be secured, that a
just liberty of conscience might be given to Dissenters, and that the
Protestant interest throughout the world might be strengthened. Till
His Highness should arrive, they were prepared to take on themselves the
responsibility of giving such directions as might be necessary for
the preservation of order. A deputation was instantly sent to lay this
Declaration before the Prince, and to inform him that he was impatiently
expected in London. [576]
The Lords then proceeded to deliberate on the course which it was
necessary to take for the prevention of tumult. They sent for the two
Secretaries of State. Middleton refused to submit to what he regarded as
an usurped authority: but Preston, astounded by his master's flight, and
not knowing what to expect, or whither to turn, obeyed the summons. A
message was sent to Skelton, who was Lieutenant of the Tower, requesting
his attendance at Guildhall. He came, and was told that his services
were no longer wanted, and that he must instantly deliver up his keys.
He was succeeded by Lord Lucas. At the same time the Peers ordered a
letter to be written to Dartmouth, enjoining him to refrain from all
hostile operations against the Dutch fleet, and to displace all the
Popish officers who held commands under him. [577]
The part taken in these proceedings by Sancroft, and by some other
persons who had, up to that day, been strictly faithful to the principle
of passive obedience, deserves especial notice. To usurp the command of
the military and naval forces of the state, to remove the officers whom
the King had set over his castles and his ships, and to prohibit his
Admiral from giving battle to his enemies, was surely nothing less than
rebellion. Yet several honest and able Tories of the school of Filmer
persuaded themselves that they could do all these things without
incurring the guilt of resisting their Sovereign. The distinction
which they took was, at least, ingenious. Government, they said, is the
ordinance of God. Hereditary monarchical government is eminently the
ordinance of God. While the King commands what is lawful we must
obey him actively. When he commands what is unlawful we must obey him
passively. In no extremity are we justified in withstanding him by
force. But, if he chooses to resign his office, his rights over us are
at an end. While he governs us, though he may govern us ill, we are
bound to submit: but, if he refuses to govern us at all, we are not
bound to remain for ever without a government. Anarchy is not the
ordinance of God; nor will he impute it to us as a sin that, when a
prince, whom, in spite of extreme provocations, we have never ceased
to honour and obey, has departed we know not whither, leaving no
vicegerent, we take the only course which can prevent the entire
dissolution of society. Had our Sovereign remained among us, we were
ready, little as he deserved our love, to die at his feet. Had he, when
he quitted us, appointed a regency to govern us with vicarious authority
during his absence, to that regency alone should we have looked for
direction. But he has disappeared, having made no provision for the
preservation of order or the administration of justice. With him,
and with his Great Seal, has vanished the whole machinery by which
a murderer can be punished, by which the right to an estate can be
decided, by which the effects of a bankrupt can be distributed. His
last act has been to free thousands of armed men from the restraints
of military discipline, and to place them in such a situation that they
must plunder or starve. Yet a few hours, and every man's hand will be
against his neighbour. Life, property, female honour, will be at the
mercy of every lawless spirit. We are at this moment actually in that
state of nature about which theorists have written so much; and in
that state we have been placed, not by our fault, but by the voluntary
defection of him who ought to have been our protector. His defection may
be justly called voluntary: for neither his life nor his liberty was
in danger. His enemies had just consented to treat with him on a basis
proposed by himself, and had offered immediately to suspend all hostile
operations, on conditions which he could not deny to be liberal. In such
circumstances it is that he has abandoned his trust. We retract nothing.
We are in nothing inconsistent. We still assert our old doctrines
without qualification. We still hold that it is in all cases sinful to
resist the magistrate: but we say that there is no longer any magistrate
to resist. He who was the magistrate, after long abusing his powers, has
at last abdicated them. The abuse did not give us a right to depose him:
but the abdication gives us a right to consider how we may best supply
his place.
It was on these grounds that the Prince's party was now swollen by many
adherents who had previously stood aloof from it. Never, within the
memory of man, had there been so near an approach to entire concord
among all intelligent Englishmen as at this conjuncture: and never had
concord been more needed. Legitimate authority there was none. All those
evil passions which it is the office of government to restrain, and
which the best governments restrain but imperfectly, were on a sudden
emancipated from control; avarice, licentiousness, revenge, the hatred
of sect to sect, the hatred of nation to nation. On such occasions it
will ever be found that the human vermin which, neglected by ministers
of state and ministers of religion, barbarous in the midst of
civilisation, heathen in the midst of Christianity, burrows among all
physical and all moral pollution, in the cellars and garrets of great
cities, will at once rise into a terrible importance. So it was now in
London. When the night, the longest night, as it chanced, of the year,
approached, forth came from every den of vice, from the bear garden at
Hockley, and from the labyrinth of tippling houses and brothels in
the Friars, thousands of housebreakers and highwaymen, cutpurses and
ringdroppers. With these were mingled thousands of idle apprentices, who
wished merely for the excitement of a riot. Even men of peaceable and
honest habits were impelled by religious animosity to join the lawless
part of the population. For the cry of No Popery, a cry which has more
than once endangered the existence of London, was the signal for outrage
and rapine. First the rabble fell on the Roman Catholic places of
worship. The buildings were demolished. Benches, pulpits, confessionals,
breviaries were heaped up and set on fire. A great mountain of books and
furniture blazed on the site of the convent at Clerkenwell. Another pile
was kindled before the ruins of the Franciscan house in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. The chapel in Lime Street, the chapel in Bucklersbury, were
pulled down. The pictures, images and crucifixes were carried along
the streets in triumph, amidst lighted tapers torn from the altars. The
procession bristled thick with swords and staves, and on the point of
every sword and of every staff was an orange. The King's printing house,
whence had issued, during the preceding three years, innumerable tracts
in defence of Papal supremacy, image worship, and monastic vows, was,
to use a coarse metaphor which then, for the first time, came into use,
completely gutted. The vast stock of paper, much of which was still
unpolluted by types, furnished an immense bonfire. From monasteries,
temples, and public offices, the fury of the multitude turned to private
dwellings. Several houses were pillaged and destroyed: but the smallness
of the booty disappointed the plunderers; and soon a rumour was spread
that the most valuable effects of the Papists had been placed under the
care of the foreign Ambassadors. To the savage and ignorant populace
the law of nations and the risk of bringing on their country the just
vengeance of all Europe were as nothing. The houses of the Ambassadors
were besieged. A great crowd assembled before Barillon's door in St.
James's Square. He, however, fared better than might have been expected.
For, though the government which he represented was held in abhorrence,
his liberal housekeeping and exact payments had made him personally
popular. Moreover he had taken the precaution of asking for a guard of
soldiers; and, as several men of rank, who hued near him, had done the
same, a considerable force was collected in the Square. The rioters,
therefore, when they were assured that no arms or priests were concealed
under his roof, left him unmolested. The Venetian Envoy was protected
by a detachment of troops: but the mansions occupied by the ministers
of the Elector Palatine and of the Grand Duke of Tuscany were destroyed.
One precious box the Tuscan minister was able to save from the
marauders. It contained nine volumes of memoirs, written in the hand of
James himself. These volumes reached France in safety, and, after
the lapse of more than a century, perished there in the havoc of a
revolution far more terrible than that from which they had escaped.
But some fragments still remain, and, though grievously mutilated,
and imbedded in great masses of childish fiction, well deserve to be
attentively studied.
The rich plate of the Chapel Royal had been deposited at Wild House,
near Lincoln's Inn Fields, the residence of the Spanish ambassador
Ronquillo. Ronquillo, conscious that he and his court had not deserved
ill of the English nation, had thought it unnecessary to ask for
soldiers: but the mob was not in a mood to make nice distinctions.
The name of Spain had long been associated in the public mind with the
Inquisition and the Armada, with the cruelties of Mary and the plots
against Elizabeth. Ronquillo had also made himself many enemies among
the common people by availing himself of his privilege to avoid the
necessity of paying his debts. His house was therefore sacked without
mercy; and a noble library, which he had collected, perished in the
flames. His only comfort was that the host in his chapel was rescued
from the same fate. [578]
The morning of the twelfth of December rose on a ghastly sight. The
capital in many places presented the aspect of a city taken by
storm. The Lords met at Whitehall, and exerted themselves to restore
tranquillity. The trainbands were ordered under arms. A body of cavalry
was kept in readiness to disperse tumultuous assemblages. Such atonement
as was at that moment possible was made for the gross insults which
had been offered to foreign governments. A reward was promised for the
discovery of the property taken from Wild House; and Ronquillo, who
had not a bed or an ounce of plate left, was splendidly lodged in the
deserted palace of the Kings of England. A sumptuous table was kept for
him; and the yeomen of the guard were ordered to wait in his antechamber
with the same observance which they were in the habit of paying to the
Sovereign. These marks of respect soothed even the punctilious pride of
the Spanish court, and averted all danger of a rupture. [579]
In spite, however, of the well meant efforts of the provisional
government, the agitation grew hourly more formidable. It was heightened
by an event which, even at this distance of time, can hardly be related
without a feeling of vindictive pleasure. A scrivener who lived at
Wapping, and whose trade was to furnish the seafaring men there with
money at high interest, had some time before lent a sum on bottomry. The
debtor applied to equity for relief against his own bond; and the case
came before Jeffreys. The counsel for the borrower, having little else
to say, said that the lender was a Trimmer. The Chancellor instantly
fired. "A Trimmer! where is he? Let me see him. I have heard of that
kind of monster. What is it made like? " The unfortunate creditor was
forced to stand forth. The Chancellor glared fiercely on him, stormed at
him, and sent him away half dead with fright. "While I live," the poor
man said, as he tottered out of the court, "I shall never forget that
terrible countenance. " And now the day of retribution had arrived.
The Trimmer was walking through Wapping, when he saw a well known face
looking out of the window of an alehouse. He could not be deceived. The
eyebrows, indeed, had been shaved away. The dress was that of a common
sailor from Newcastle, and was black with coal dust: but there was no
mistaking the savage eye and mouth of Jeffreys. The alarm was given.
In a moment the house was surrounded by hundreds of people shaking
bludgeons and bellowing curses. The fugitive's life was saved by a
company of the trainbands; and he was carried before the Lord Mayor. The
Mayor was a simple man who had passed his whole life in obscurity,
and was bewildered by finding himself an important actor in a mighty
revolution. The events of the last twenty-four hours, and the perilous
state of the city which was under his charge, had disordered his mind
and his body. When the great man, at whose frown, a few days before, the
whole kingdom had trembled, was, dragged into the justice room begrimed
with ashes, half dead with fright, and followed by a raging multitude,
the agitation of the unfortunate Mayor rose to the height. He fell into
fits, and was carried to his bed, whence he never rose. Meanwhile the
throng without was constantly becoming more numerous and more savage.
Jeffreys begged to be sent to prison. An order to that effect was
procured from the Lords who were sitting at Whitehall; and he was
conveyed in a carriage to the Tower. Two regiments of militia were drawn
out to escort him, and found the duty a difficult one. It was repeatedly
necessary for them to form, as if for the purpose of repelling a charge
of cavalry, and to present a forest of pikes to the mob. The thousands
who were disappointed of their revenge pursued the coach, with howls
of rage, to the gate of the Tower, brandishing cudgels, and holding up
halters full in the prisoner's view. The wretched man meantime was
in convulsions of terror. He wrung his hands; he looked wildly out,
sometimes at one window, sometimes at the other, and was heard even
above the tumult, crying "Keep them off, gentlemen! For God's sake keep
them off! " At length, having suffered far more than the bitterness
of death, he was safely lodged in the fortress where some of his most
illustrious victims had passed their last days, and where his own life
was destined to close in unspeakable ignominy and horror. [580]
All this time an active search was making after Roman Catholic priests.
Many were arrested. Two Bishops, Ellis and Leyburn, were sent to
Newgate. The Nuncio, who had little reason to expect that either
his spiritual or his political character would be respected by the
multitude, made his escape disguised as a lacquey in the train of the
minister of the Duke of Savoy. [581]
Another day of agitation and terror closed, and was followed by a night
the strangest and most terrible that England had ever seen. Early in the
evening an attack was made by the rabble on a stately house which had
been built a few months before for Lord Powis, which in the reign of
George the Second was the residence of the Duke of Newcastle, and which
is still conspicuous at the northwestern angle of Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Some troops were sent thither: the mob was dispersed, tranquillity
seemed to be restored, and the citizens were retiring quietly to their
beds. Just at this time arose a whisper which swelled fast into a
fearful clamour, passed in an hour from Piccadilly to Whitechapel, and
spread into every street and alley of the capital. It was' said that
the Irish whom Feversham had let loose were marching on London and
massacring every man, woman, and child on the road. At one in the
morning the drums of the militia beat to arms. Everywhere terrified
women were weeping and wringing their hands, while their fathers and
husbands were equipping themselves for fight. Before two the capital
wore a face of stern preparedness which might well have daunted a real
enemy, if such an enemy had been approaching. Candles were blazing at
all the windows. The public places were as bright as at noonday. All
the great avenues were barricaded. More than twenty thousand pikes and
muskets lined the streets. The late daybreak of the winter solstice
found the whole City still in arms. During many years the Londoners
retained a vivid recollection of what they called the Irish Night. When
it was known that there had been no cause of alarm, attempts were
made to discover the origin of the rumour which had produced so much
agitation. It appeared that some persons who had the look and dress of
clowns just arrived from the country had first spread the report in the
suburbs a little before midnight: but whence these men came, and by whom
they were employed, remained a mystery. And soon news arrived from many
quarters which bewildered the public mind still more. The panic had
not been confined to London. The cry that disbanded Irish soldiers were
coming to murder the Protestants had, with malignant ingenuity, been
raised at once in many places widely distant from each other. Great
numbers of letters, skilfully framed for the purpose of frightening
ignorant people, had been sent by stage coaches, by waggons, and by the
post, to various parts of England. All these letters came to hand almost
at the same time. In a hundred towns at once the populace was possessed
with the belief that armed barbarians were at hand, bent on perpetrating
crimes as foul as those which had disgraced the rebellion of Ulster. No
Protestant would find mercy. Children would be compelled by torture to
murder their parents. Babes would be stuck on pikes, or flung into the
blazing ruins of what had lately been happy dwellings. Great multitudes
assembled with weapons: the people in some places began to pull down
bridges, and to throw up barricades: but soon the excitement went down.
In many districts those who had been so foully imposed upon learned with
delight, alloyed by shame, that there was not a single Popish soldier
within a week's march. There were places, indeed, where some straggling
bands of Irish made their appearance and demanded food: but it can
scarcely be imputed to them as a crime that they did not choose to
die of hunger; and there is no evidence that they committed any wanton
outrage. In truth they were much less numerous than was commonly
supposed; and their spirit was cowed by finding themselves left on
a sudden without leaders or provisions, in the midst of a mighty
population which felt towards them as men feel towards a drove of
wolves. Of all the subjects of James none had more reason to execrate
him than these unfortunate members of his church and defenders of his
throne. [582]
It is honourable to the English character that, notwithstanding the
aversion with which the Roman Catholic religion and the Irish race were
then regarded, notwithstanding the anarchy which was the effect of the
flight of James, notwithstanding the artful machinations which were
employed to scare the multitude into cruelty, no atrocious crime was
perpetrated at this conjuncture. Much property, indeed, was destroyed
and carried away. The houses of many Roman Catholic gentlemen were
attacked. Parks were ravaged. Deer were slain and stolen. Some venerable
specimens of the domestic architecture of the middle ages bear to this
day the marks of popular violence. The roads were in many places made
impassable by a selfappointed police, which stopped every traveller till
he proved that he was not a Papist. The Thames was infested by a set
of pirates who, under pretence of searching for arms or delinquents,
rummaged every boat that passed. Obnoxious persons were insulted and
hustled. Many persons who were not obnoxious were glad to ransom their
persons and effects by bestowing some guineas on the zealous Protestants
who had, without any legal authority, assumed the office of inquisitors.
But in all this confusion, which lasted several days and extended over
many counties, not a single Roman Catholic lost his life. The mob showed
no inclination to blood, except in the case of Jeffreys; and the hatred
which that bad man inspired had more affinity with humanity than with
cruelty. [583]
Many years later Hugh Speke affirmed that the Irish Night was his work,
that he had prompted the rustics who raised London, and that he was the
author of the letters which had spread dismay through the country. His
assertion is not intrinsically improbable: but it rests on no evidence
except his own word. He was a man quite capable of committing such
a villany, and quite capable also of falsely boasting that he had
committed it. [584]
At London William was impatiently expected: for it was not doubted that
his vigour and ability would speedily restore order and security. There
was however some delay for which the Prince cannot justly be blamed. His
original intention had been to proceed from Hungerford to Oxford, where
he was assured of an honourable and affectionate reception: but the
arrival of the deputation from Guildhall induced him to change his
intention and to hasten directly towards the capital.
On the way he
learned that Feversham, in pursuance of the King's orders, had dismissed
the royal army, and that thousands of soldiers, freed from restraint and
destitute of necessaries, were scattered over the counties through
which the road to London lay. It was therefore impossible for William
to proceed slenderly attended without great danger, not only to his own
person, about which he was not much in the habit of being solicitous,
but also to the great interests which were under his care. It was
necessary that he should regulate his own movements by the movements of
his troops; and troops could then move but slowly over the highways of
England in midwinter. He was, on this occasion, a little moved from his
ordinary composure. "I am not to be thus dealt with," he exclaimed
with bitterness; "and that my Lord Feversham shall find. " Prompt and
judicious measures were taken to remedy the evils which James
had caused. Churchill and Grafton were entrusted with the task of
reassembling the dispersed army and bringing it into order. The English
soldiers were invited to resume their military character. The Irish were
commanded to deliver up their arms on pain of being treated as banditti,
but were assured that, if they would submit quietly, they should be
supplied with necessaries. [585]
The Prince's orders were carried into effect with scarcely any
opposition, except from the Irish soldiers who had been in garrison at
Tilbury. One of these men snapped a pistol at Grafton. It missed fire,
and the assassin was instantly shot dead by an Englishman. About two
hundred of the unfortunate strangers made a gallant attempt to return
to their own country. They seized a richly laden East Indiaman which
had just arrived in the Thames, and tried to procure pilots by force at
Gravesend. No pilot, however was to be found; and they were under the
necessity of trusting to their own skill in navigation. They soon ran
their ship aground, and, after some bloodshed, were compelled to lay
down their arms. [586]
William had now been five weeks on English ground; and during the whole
of that time his good fortune had been uninterrupted. His own prudence
and firmness had been conspicuously displayed, and yet had done less for
him than the folly and pusillanimity of others. And now, at the moment
when it seemed that his plans were about to be crowned with entire
success, they were disconcerted by one of those strange incidents which
so often confound the most exquisite devices of human policy.
On the morning of the thirteenth of December the people of London,
not yet fully recovered from the agitation of the Irish Night, were
surprised by a rumour that the King had been detained, and was still in
the island. The report gathered strength during the day, and was fully
confirmed before the evening.
James had travelled with relays of coach horses along the southern shore
of the Thames, and on the morning of the twelfth had reached Emley Ferry
near the island of Sheppey. There lay the hoy in which he was to sail.
He went on board: but the wind blew fresh; and the master would not
venture to put to sea without more ballast. A tide was thus lost.
Midnight was approaching before the vessel began to float. By that time
the news that the King had disappeared, that the country was without a
government, and that London was in confusion, had travelled fast down
the Thames, and wherever it spread had produced outrage and misrule. The
rude fishermen of the Kentish coast eyed the hoy with suspicion and with
cupidity. It was whispered that some persons in the garb of gentlemen
had gone on board of her in great haste. Perhaps they were Jesuits:
perhaps they were rich. Fifty or sixty boatmen, animated at once by
hatred of Popery and by love of plunder, boarded the hoy just as she was
about to make sail. The passengers were told that they must go on
shore and be examined by a magistrate. The King's appearance excited
suspicion. "It is Father Petre," cried one ruffian; "I know him by his
lean jaws. " "Search the hatchet faced old Jesuit," became the general
cry. He was rudely pulled and pushed about. His money and watch were
taken from him. He had about him his coronation ring, and some other
trinkets of great value: but these escaped the search of the robbers,
who indeed were so ignorant of jewellery that they took his diamond
buckles for bits of glass.
At length the prisoners were put on shore and carried to an inn. A crowd
had assembled there to see them; and James, though disguised by a wig of
different shape and colour from that which he usually wore, was at
once recognised. For a moment the rabble seemed to be overawed: but the
exhortations of their chiefs revived their courage; and the sight of
Hales, whom they well knew and bitterly hated, inflamed their fury. His
park was in the neighbourhood; and at that very moment a band of rioters
was employed in pillaging his house and shooting his deer. The multitude
assured the King that they would not hurt him: but they refused to let
him depart. It chanced that the Earl of Winchelsea, a Protestant, but
a zealous royalist, head of the Finch family, and a near kinsman of
Nottingham, was then at Canterbury. As soon as he learned what
had happened he hastened to the coast, accompanied by some Kentish
gentlemen. By their intervention the King was removed to a more
convenient lodging: but he was still a prisoner. The mob kept constant
watch round the house to which he had been carried; and some of the
ringleaders lay at the door of his bedroom. His demeanour meantime was
that of a man, all the nerves of whose mind had been broken by the load
of misfortunes. Sometimes he spoke so haughtily that the rustics who had
charge of him were provoked into making insolent replies. Then he betook
himself to supplication. "Let me go," he cried; "get me a boat. The
Prince of Orange is hunting for my life. If you do not let me fly now,
it will be too late. My blood will be on your heads. He that is not with
me is against me. " On this last text he preached a sermon half an hour
long. He harangued on a strange variety of subjects, on the disobedience
of the fellows of Magdalene College, on the miracles wrought by Saint
Winifred's well, on the disloyalty of the black coats, and on the
virtues of a piece of the true cross which he had unfortunately lost.
"What have I done? " he demanded of the Kentish squires who attended him.
"Tell me the truth. What error have I committed? " Those to whom he put
these questions were too humane to return the answer which must have
risen to their lips, and listened to his wild talk in pitying silence.
[587]
When the news that he had been stopped, insulted, roughly handled, and
plundered, and that he was still a prisoner in the hands of rude churls,
reached the capital, many passions were roused. Rigid Churchmen, who
had, a few hours before, begun to think that they were freed from their
allegiance to him, now felt misgivings. He had not quitted his kingdom.
He had not consummated his abdication. If he should resume his regal
office, could they, on their principles, refuse to pay him obedience?
Enlightened statesmen foresaw with concern that all the disputes which
his flight had for a moment set at rest would be revived and exasperated
by his return. Some of the common people, though still smarting from
recent wrongs, were touched with compassion for a great prince outraged
by ruffians, and were willing to entertain a hope, more honourable to
their good nature than to their discernment, that he might even now
repent of the errors which had brought on him so terrible a punishment.
From the moment when it was known that the King was still in England,
Sancroft, who had hitherto acted as chief of the provisional government,
absented himself from the sittings of the Peers. Halifax, who had just
returned from the Dutch head quarters, was placed in the chair. His
sentiments had undergone a great change in a few hours. Both public and
private feelings now impelled him to join the Whigs. Those who candidly
examine the evidence which has come down to us will be of opinion that
he accepted the office of royal Commissioner in the sincere hope of
effecting an accommodation between the King and the Prince on fair
terms. The negotiation had commenced prosperously: the Prince had
offered terms which the King could not but acknowledge to be fair: the
eloquent and ingenious Trimmer might flatter himself that he should be
able to mediate between infuriated factions, to dictate a compromise
between extreme opinions, to secure the liberties and religion of his
country, without exposing her to the risks inseparable from a change of
dynasty and a disputed succession. While he was pleasing himself
with thoughts so agreeable to his temper, he learned that he had been
deceived, and had been used as an instrument for deceiving the nation.
His mission to Hungerford had been a fool's errand. The King had never
meant to abide by the terms which he had instructed his Commissioners
to propose. He had charged them to declare that he was willing to submit
all the questions in dispute to the Parliament which he had summoned;
and, while they were delivering his message, he had burned the
writs, made away with the seal, let loose the army, suspended the
administration of justice, dissolved the government, and fled from
the capital. Halifax saw that an amicable arrangement was no longer
possible. He also felt, it may be suspected, the vexation natural to a
man widely renowned for wisdom, who finds that he has been duped by an
understanding immeasurably inferior to his own, and the vexation natural
to a great master of ridicule, who finds himself placed in a ridiculous
situation. His judgment and his resentment alike induced him to
relinquish the schemes of reconciliation on which he had hitherto been
intent, and to place himself at the head of those who were bent on
raising William to the throne. [588]
A journal of what passed in the Council of Lords while Halifax presided
is still extant in his own handwriting. [589] No precaution, which
seemed necessary for the prevention of outrage and robbery, was omitted.
The Peers took on themselves the responsibility of giving orders
that, if the rabble rose again, the soldiers should fire with bullets.
Jeffreys was brought to Whitehall and interrogated as to what had become
of the Great Seal and the writs. At his own earnest request he was
remanded to the Tower, as the only place where his life could be
safe; and he retired thanking and blessing those who had given him the
protection of a prison. A Whig nobleman moved that Oates should be set
at liberty: but this motion was overruled. [590]
The business of the day was nearly over, and Halifax was about to rise,
when he was informed that a messenger from Sheerness was in attendance.
No occurrence could be more perplexing or annoying. To do anything,
to do nothing, was to incur a grave responsibility. Halifax, wishing
probably to obtain time for communication with the Prince, would have
adjourned the meeting; but Mulgrave begged the Lords to keep their
seats, and introduced the messenger. The man told his story with many
tears, and produced a letter written in the King's hand, and addressed
to no particular person, but imploring the aid of all good Englishmen.
[591]
Such an appeal it was hardly possible to disregard. The Lords ordered
Feversham to hasten with a troop of the Life Guards to the place where
the King was detained, and to set his Majesty at liberty.
Already Middleton and a few other adherents of the royal cause had set
out to assist and comfort their unhappy master. They found him strictly
confined, and were not suffered to enter his presence till they had
delivered up their swords. The concourse of people about him was by this
time immense. Some Whig gentlemen of the neighbourhood had brought a
large body of militia to guard him. They had imagined most erroneously
that by detaining him they were ingratiating themselves with his
enemies, and were greatly disturbed when they learned that the treatment
which the King had undergone was disapproved by the Provisional
Government in London, and that a body of cavalry was on the road
to release him. Feversham soon arrived. He had left his troop at
Sittingbourne; but there was no occasion to use force. The King was
suffered to depart without opposition, and was removed by his friends to
Rochester, where he took some rest, which he greatly needed. He was in
a pitiable state. Not only was his understanding, which had never been
very clear, altogether bewildered: but the personal courage which, when
a young man, he had shown in several battles, both by sea and by land,
had forsaken him. The rough corporal usage which he had now, for the
first time, undergone, seems to have discomposed him more than any
other event of his chequered life. The desertion of his army, of his
favourites, of his family, affected him less than the indignities
which he suffered when his hoy was boarded. The remembrance of those
indignities continued long to rankle in his heart, and on one occasion
showed itself in a way which moved all Europe to contemptuous mirth. In
the fourth year of his exile he attempted to lure back his subjects by
offering them an amnesty. The amnesty was accompanied by a long list
of exceptions; and in this list the poor fishermen who had searched his
pockets rudely appeared side by side with Churchill and Danby. From this
circumstance we may judge how keenly he must have felt the outrage while
it was still recent. [592]
Yet, had he possessed an ordinary measure of good sense, he would have
seen that those who had detained him had unintentionally done him a
great service. The events which had taken place during his absence from
his capital ought to have convinced him that, if he had succeeded in
escaping, he never would have returned. In his own despite he had been
saved from ruin. He had another chance, a last chance. Great as his
offences had been, to dethrone him, while he remained in his kingdom and
offered to assent to such conditions as a free Parliament might impose,
would have been almost impossible.
During a short time he seemed disposed to remain. He sent Feversham from
Rochester with a letter to William. The substance of the letter was that
His Majesty was on his way back to Whitehall, that he wished to have
a personal conference with the Prince, and that Saint James's Palace
should be fitted up for his Highness. [593]
William was now at Windsor. He had learned with deep mortification the
events which had taken place on the coast of Kent. Just before the
news arrived, those who approached him observed that his spirits were
unusually high. He had, indeed, reason to rejoice. A vacant throne was
before him. All parties, it seemed, would, with one voice, invite him
to mount it. On a sudden his prospects were overcast. The abdication,
it appeared, had not been completed. A large proportion of his own
followers would have scruples about deposing a King who remained among
them, who invited them to represent their grievances in a parliamentary
way, and who promised full redress. It was necessary that the Prince
should examine his new position, and determine on a new line of action.
No course was open to him which was altogether free from objections,
no course which would place him in a situation so advantageous as that
which he had occupied a few hours before. Yet something might be done.
The King's first attempt to escape had failed. What was now most to be
desired was that he should make a second attempt with better success. He
must be at once frightened and enticed. The liberality with which he had
been treated in the negotiation at Hungerford, and which he had
requited by a breach of faith, would now be out of season. No terms of
accommodation must be proposed to him. If he should propose terms he
must be coldly answered. No violence must be used towards him, or even
threatened. Yet it might not be impossible, without either using or
threatening violence, to make so weak a man uneasy about his personal
safety. He would soon be eager to fly. All facilities for flight must
then be placed within his reach; and care must be taken that he should
not again be stopped by any officious blunderer.
Such was William's plan: and the ability and determination with which
he carried it into effect present a strange contrast to the folly
and cowardice with which he had to deal. He soon had an excellent
opportunity of commencing his system of intimidation. Feversham
arrived at Windsor with James's letter. The messenger had not been very
judiciously selected. It was he who had disbanded the royal army. To
him primarily were to be imputed the confusion and terror of the Irish
Night. His conduct was loudly blamed by the public. William had been
provoked into muttering a few words of menace: and a few words of menace
from William's lips generally meant something. Feversham was asked for
his safe conduct. He had none. By coming without one into the midst of a
hostile camp, he had, according to the laws of war, made himself liable
to be treated with the utmost severity. William refused to see him,
and ordered him to be put under arrest. [594] Zulestein was instantly
despatched to inform James that the Prince declined the proposed
conference, and desired that His Majesty would remain at Rochester.
But it was too late. James was already in London. He had hesitated about
the journey, and had, at one time, determined to make another attempt to
reach the Continent. But at length he yielded to the urgency of friends
who were wiser than himself, and set out for Whitehall. He arrived
there on the afternoon of Sunday, the sixteenth of December. He had been
apprehensive that the common people, who, during his absence, had
given so many proofs of their aversion to Popery, would offer him some
affront. But the very violence of the recent outbreak had produced
a remission. The storm had spent itself. Good humour and pity had
succeeded to fury. In no quarter was any disposition shown to insult the
King. Some cheers were raised as his coach passed through the City. The
bells of some churches were rung; and a few bonfires were lighted in
honour of his return. [595] His feeble mind, which had just before been
sunk in despondency, was extravagantly elated by these unexpected signs
of popular goodwill and compassion. He entered his dwelling in high
spirits. It speedily resumed its old aspect. Roman Catholic priests, who
had, during the preceding week, been glad to hide themselves from the
rage of the multitude in vaults and cocklofts, now came forth from their
lurking places, and demanded possession of their old apartments in the
palace. Grace was said at the royal table by a Jesuit. The Irish
brogue, then the most hateful of all sounds to English ears, was heard
everywhere in the courts and galleries. The King himself had resumed all
his old haughtiness. He held a Council, his last Council, and, even in
that extremity, summoned to the board persons not legally qualified to
sit there. He expressed high displeasure at the conduct of those
Lords who, during his absence, had dared to take the administration
on themselves. It was their duty, he conceived, to let society be
dissolved, to let the houses of Ambassadors be pulled down, to let
London be set on fire, rather than assume the functions which he had
thought fit to abandon. Among those whom he thus censured were some
nobles and prelates who, in spite of all his errors, had been constantly
true to him, and who, even after this provocation, never could be
induced by hope or fear to transfer their allegiance from him to any
other sovereign. [596]
But his courage was soon cast down. Scarcely had he entered his palace
when Zulestein was announced. William's cold and stern message was
delivered. The King still pressed for a personal conference with his
nephew. "I would not have left Rochester," he said, "if I had known that
he wished me not to do so: but, since I am here, I hope that he will
come to Saint James's. " "I must plainly tell your Majesty," said
Zulestein, "that His Highness will not come to London while there are
any troops here which are not under his orders. " The King, confounded
by this answer, remained silent. Zulestein retired; and soon a gentleman
entered the bedchamber with the news that Feversham had been put under
arrest. [597] James was greatly disturbed. Yet the recollection of the
applause with which he had been greeted still buoyed up his spirits.
A wild hope rose in his mind. He fancied that London, so long the
stronghold of Protestantism and Whiggism, was ready to take arms in his
defence. He sent to ask the Common Council whether, if he took up his
residence in the City, they would engage to defend him against the
Prince. But the Common Council had not forgotten the seizure of the
charter and the judicial murder of Cornish, and refused to give the
pledge which was demanded. Then the King's heart again sank within him.
Where, he asked, was he to look for protection? He might as well have
Dutch troops about him as his own Life Guards. As to the citizens,
he now understood what their huzzas and bonfires were worth. Nothing
remained but flight: and yet, he said, he knew that there was nothing
which his enemies so much desired as that he would fly. [598]
While he was in this state of trepidation, his fate was the subject of
a grave deliberation at Windsor. The court of William was now crowded to
overflowing with eminent men of all parties. Most of the chiefs of the
Northern insurrection had joined him. Several of the Lords, who had,
during the anarchy of the preceding week, taken upon themselves to act
as a provisional government, had, as soon as the King returned, quitted
London for the Dutch head quarters. One of these was Halifax.
