No More Learning

The place is marked by an obelisk, built while
many veterans who could well remember the events of that day were still
living.

While William was at his repast, a group of horsemen appeared close to
the water on the opposite shore. Among them his attendants could discern
some who had once been conspicuous at reviews in Hyde Park and at balls
in the gallery of Whitehall, the youthful Berwick, the small, fairhaired
Lauzun, Tyrconnel, once admired by maids of honour as the model of manly
vigour and beauty, but now bent down by years and crippled by gout, and,
overtopping all, the stately head of Sarsfield.

The chiefs of the Irish army soon discovered that the person who,
surrounded by a splendid circle, was breakfasting on the opposite bank,
was the Prince of Orange. They sent for artillery. Two field pieces,
screened from view by a troop of cavalry, were brought down almost to
the brink of the river, and placed behind a hedge. William, who had just
risen from his meal, and was again in the saddle, was the mark of both
guns. The first shot struck one of the holsters of Prince George of
Hesse, and brought his horse to the ground. "Ah! " cried the King; "the
poor Prince is killed. " As the words passed his lips, he was himself
hit by a second ball, a sixpounder. It merely tore his coat, grazed his
shoulder, and drew two or three ounces of blood. Both armies saw that
the shot had taken effect; for the King sank down for a moment on his
horse's neck. A yell of exultation rose from the Irish camp. The English
and their allies were in dismay. Solmes flung himself prostrate on the
earth, and burst into tears. But William's deportment soon reassured his
friends. "There is no harm done," he said: "but the bullet came quite
near enough. " Coningsby put his handkerchief to the wound: a surgeon was
sent for: a plaster was applied; and the King, as soon as the dressing
was finished, rode round all the posts of his army amidst loud
acclamations. Such was the energy of his spirit that, in spite of his
feeble health, in spite of his recent hurt, he was that day nineteen
hours on horseback, [693]

A cannonade was kept up on both sides till the evening. William observed
with especial attention the effect produced by the Irish shots on the
English regiments which had never been in action, and declared himself
satisfied with the result. "All is right," he said; "they stand fire
well. " Long after sunset he made a final inspection of his forces by
torchlight, and gave orders that every thing should be ready for forcing
a passage across the river on the morrow. Every soldier was to put a
green bough in his hat. The baggage and great coats were to be left
under a guard. The word was Westminster.

The King's resolution to attack the Irish was not approved by all his
lieutenants. Schomberg, in particular, pronounced the experiment too
hazardous, and, when his opinion was overruled, retired to his tent in
no very good humour. When the order of battle was delivered to him, he
muttered that he had been more used to give such orders than to receive
them. For this little fit of sullenness, very pardonable in a general
who had won great victories when his master was still a child, the brave
veteran made, on the following morning, a noble atonement.

The first of July dawned, a day which has never since returned without
exciting strong emotions of very different kinds in the two populations
which divide Ireland. The sun rose bright and cloudless. Soon after four
both armies were in motion. William ordered his right wing, under the
command of Meinhart Schomberg, one of the Duke's sons, to march to the
bridge of Slane, some miles up the river, to cross there, and to turn
the left flank of the Irish army. Meinhart Schomberg was assisted by
Portland and Douglas. James, anticipating some such design, had already
sent to the bridge a regiment of dragoons, commanded by Sir Neil O'Neil.
O'Neil behaved himself like a brave gentleman: but he soon received a
mortal wound; his men fled; and the English right wing passed the river.

This move made Lauzun uneasy. What if the English right wing should get
into the rear of the army of James? About four miles south of the Boyne
was a place called Duleek, where the road to Dublin was so narrow, that
two cars could not pass each other, and where on both sides of the
road lay a morass which afforded no firm footing. If Meinhart Schomberg
should occupy this spot, it would be impossible for the Irish to
retreat. They must either conquer, or be cut off to a man. Disturbed by
this apprehension, the French general marched with his countrymen and
with Sarsfield's horse in the direction of Slane Bridge. Thus the fords
near Oldbridge were left to be defended by the Irish alone.

It was now near ten o'clock. William put himself at the head of his left
wing, which was composed exclusively of cavalry, and prepared to
pass the river not far above Drogheda. The centre of his army, which
consisted almost exclusively of foot, was entrusted to the command of
Schomberg, and was marshalled opposite to Oldbridge. At Oldbridge the
whole Irish infantry had been collected. The Meath bank bristled with
pikes and bayonets. A fortification had been made by French engineers
out of the hedges and buildings; and a breastwork had been thrown up
close to the water side, [694] Tyrconnel was there; and under him were
Richard Hamilton and Antrim.

Schomberg gave the word. Solmes's Blues were the first to move. They
marched gallantly, with drums beating, to the brink of the Boyne. Then
the drums stopped; and the men, ten abreast, descended into the water.
Next plunged Londonderry and Enniskillen. A little to the left of
Londonderry and Enniskillen, Caillemot crossed, at the head of a long
column of French refugees. A little to the left of Caillemot and his
refugees, the main body of the English infantry struggled through the
river, up to their armpits in water. Still further down the stream the
Danes found another ford. In a few minutes the Boyne, for a quarter of a
mile, was alive with muskets and green boughs.

It was not till the assailants had reached the middle of the channel
that they became aware of the whole difficulty and danger of the service
in which they were engaged. They had as yet seen little more than half
the hostile army. Now whole regiments of foot and horse seemed to start
out of the earth. A wild shout of defiance rose from the whole shore:
during one moment the event seemed doubtful: but the Protestants pressed
resolutely forward; and in another moment the whole Irish line gave
way. Tyrconnel looked on in helpless despair. He did not want personal
courage; but his military skill was so small that he hardly ever
reviewed his regiment in the Phoenix Park without committing some
blunder; and to rally the ranks which were breaking all round him was
no task for a general who had survived the energy of his body and of
his mind, and yet had still the rudiments of his profession to learn.
Several of his best officers fell while vainly endeavouring to prevail
on their soldiers to look the Dutch Blues in the face. Richard Hamilton
ordered a body of foot to fall on the French refugees, who were still
deep in water. He led the way, and, accompanied by several courageous
gentlemen, advanced, sword in hand, into the river. But neither
his commands nor his example could infuse courage into that mob of
cowstealers. He was left almost alone, and retired from the bank in
despair. Further down the river Antrim's division ran like sheep at the
approach of the English column. Whole regiments flung away arms, colours
and cloaks, and scampered off to the hills without striking a blow or
firing a shot, [695]

It required many years and many heroic exploits to take away the
reproach which that ignominious rout left on the Irish name. Yet, even
before the day closed, it was abundantly proved that the reproach was
unjust. Richard Hamilton put himself at the head of the cavalry, and,
under his command, they made a gallant, though an unsuccessful attempt
to retrieve the day. They maintained a desperate fight in the bed of the
river with Sulmes's Blues. They drove the Danish brigade back into the
stream. They fell impetuously on the Huguenot regiments, which, not
being provided with pikes, then ordinarily used by foot to repel horse,
began to give ground. Caillemot, while encouraging his fellow exiles,
received a mortal wound in the thigh. Four of his men carried him back
across the ford to his tent. As he passed, he continued to urge forward
the rear ranks which were still up to the breast in the water. "On;
on; my lads: to glory; to glory. " Schomberg, who had remained on the
northern bank, and who had thence watched the progress of his troops
with the eye of a general, now thought that the emergency required
from him the personal exertion of a soldier. Those who stood about him
besought him in vain to put on his cuirass. Without defensive armour
he rode through the river, and rallied the refugees whom the fall of
Caillemot had dismayed. "Come on," he cried in French, pointing to the
Popish squadrons; "come on, gentlemen; there are your persecutors. "
Those were his last words. As he spoke, a band of Irish horsemen rushed
upon him and encircled him for a moment. When they retired, he was on
the ground. His friends raised him; but he was already a corpse. Two
sabre wounds were on his head; and a bullet from a carbine was lodged
in his neck. Almost at the same moment Walker, while exhorting the
colonists of Ulster to play the men, was shot dead. During near half an
hour the battle continued to rage along the southern shore of the river.
All was smoke, dust and din. Old soldiers were heard to say that they
had seldom seen sharper work in the Low Countries. But, just at this
conjuncture, William came up with the left wing. He had found much
difficulty in crossing. The tide was running fast. His charger had been
forced to swim, and had been almost lost in the mud. As soon as the King
was on firm ground he took his sword in his left hand,--for his right
arm was stiff with his wound and his bandage,--and led his men to the
place where the fight was the hottest. His arrival decided the fate of
the day. Yet the Irish horse retired fighting obstinately. It was long
remembered among the Protestants of Ulster that, in the midst of the
tumult, William rode to the head of the Enniskilleners. "What will
you do for me? " he cried. He was not immediately recognised; and one
trooper, taking him for an enemy, was about to fire. William gently put
aside the carbine. "What," said he, "do you not know your friends? " "It
is His Majesty;" said the Colonel. The ranks of sturdy Protestant yeomen
set up a shout of joy. "Gentlemen," said William, "you shall be my
guards to day. I have heard much of you. Let me see something of you. "
One of the most remarkable peculiarities of this man, ordinarily so
saturnine and reserved, was that danger acted on him like wine,
opened his heart, loosened his tongue, and took away all appearance of
constraint from his manner. On this memorable day he was seen wherever
the peril was greatest. One ball struck the cap of his pistol: another
carried off the heel of his jackboot: but his lieutenants in vain
implored him to retire to some station from which he could give his
orders without exposing a life so valuable to Europe. His troops,
animated by his example, gained ground fast. The Irish cavalry made
their last stand at a house called Plottin Castle, about a mile and a
half south of Oldbridge. There the Enniskilleners were repelled with the
loss of fifty men, and were hotly pursued, till William rallied them and
turned the chase back. In this encounter Richard Hamilton, who had done
all that could be done by valour to retrieve a reputation forfeited by
perfidy, [696] was severely wounded, taken prisoner, and instantly brought,
through the smoke and over the carnage, before the prince whom he had
foully wronged. On no occasion did the character of William show itself
in a more striking manner. "Is this business over? " he said; "or will
your horse make more fight? " "On my honour, Sir," answered Hamilton, "I
believe that they will. " "Your honour! " muttered William; "your honour! "
That half suppressed exclamation was the only revenge which he
condescended to take for an injury for which many sovereigns, far more
affable and gracious in their ordinary deportment, would have exacted
a terrible retribution. Then, restraining himself, he ordered his own
surgeon to look to the hurts of the captive, [697]

And now the battle was over. Hamilton was mistaken in thinking that his
horse would continue to fight. Whole troops had been cut to pieces. One
fine regiment had only thirty unwounded men left. It was enough that
these gallant soldiers had disputed the field till they were left
without support, or hope, or guidance, till their bravest leader was a
captive, and till their King had fled.

Whether James had owed his early reputation for valour to accident and
flattery, or whether, as he advanced in life, his character underwent
a change, may be doubted. But it is certain that, in his youth, he
was generally believed to possess, not merely that average measure of
fortitude which qualifies a soldier to go through a campaign without
disgrace, but that high and serene intrepidity which is the virtue of
great commanders, [698] It is equally certain that, in his later years,
he repeatedly, at conjunctures such as have often inspired timorous and
delicate women with heroic courage, showed a pusillanimous anxiety about
his personal safety. Of the most powerful motives which can induce human
beings to encounter peril none was wanting to him on the day of the
Boyne. The eyes of his contemporaries and of posterity, of friends
devoted to his cause and of enemies eager to witness his humiliation,
were fixed upon him. He had, in his own opinion, sacred rights to
maintain and cruel wrongs to revenge. He was a King come to fight for
three kingdoms. He was a father come to fight for the birthright of his
child. He was a zealous Roman Catholic, come to fight in the holiest of
crusades. If all this was not enough, he saw, from the secure position
which he occupied on the height of Donore, a sight which, it might have
been thought, would have roused the most torpid of mankind to emulation.
He saw his rival, weak, sickly, wounded, swimming the river, struggling
through the mud, leading the charge, stopping the flight, grasping the
sword with the left hand, managing the bridle with a bandaged arm. But
none of these things moved that sluggish and ignoble nature. He watched,
from a safe distance, the beginning of the battle on which his fate and
the fate of his race depended. When it became clear that the day was
going against Ireland, he was seized with an apprehension that his
flight might be intercepted, and galloped towards Dublin. He was
escorted by a bodyguard under the command of Sarsfield, who had, on that
day, had no opportunity of displaying the skill and courage which his
enemies allowed that he possessed, [699] The French auxiliaries, who
had been employed the whole morning in keeping William's right wing in
check, covered the flight of the beaten army. They were indeed in some
danger of being broken and swept away by the torrent of runaways, all
pressing to get first to the pass of Duleek, and were forced to fire
repeatedly on these despicable allies, [700] The retreat was, however,
effected with less loss than might have been expected. For even the
admirers of William owned that he did not show in the pursuit the energy
which even his detractors acknowledged that he had shown in the battle.
Perhaps his physical infirmities, his hurt, and the fatigue which he had
undergone, had made him incapable of bodily or mental exertion. Of the
last forty hours he had passed thirty-five on horseback. Schomberg, who
might have supplied his place, was no more. It was said in the camp that
the King could not do every thing, and that what was not done by him was
not done at all.

The slaughter had been less than on any battle field of equal importance
and celebrity. Of the Irish only about fifteen hundred had fallen; but
they were almost all cavalry, the flower of the army, brave and well
disciplined men, whose place could not easily be supplied. William
gave strict orders that there should be no unnecessary bloodshed,
and enforced those orders by an act of laudable severity. One of his
soldiers, after the fight was over, butchered three defenceless Irishmen
who asked for quarter. The King ordered the murderer to be hanged on the
spot, [701]

The loss of the conquerors did not exceed five hundred men but among
them was the first captain in Europe. To his corpse every honour was
paid. The only cemetery in which so illustrious a warrior, slain in arms
for the liberties and religion of England, could properly be laid
was that venerable Abbey, hallowed by the dust of many generations
of princes, heroes and poets. It was announced that the brave veteran
should have a public funeral at Westminster. In the mean time his corpse
was embalmed with such skill as could be found in the camp, and was
deposited in a leaden coffin, [702]

Walker was treated less respectfully. William thought him a busybody who
had been properly punished for running into danger without any call of
duty, and expressed that feeling, with characteristic bluntness, on the
field of battle. "Sir," said an attendant, "the Bishop of Derry has been
killed by a shot at the ford. " "What took him there? " growled the King.

The victorious army advanced that day to Duleek, and passed the warm
summer night there under the open sky. The tents and the baggage waggons
were still on the north of the river. William's coach had been brought
over; and he slept in it surrounded by his soldiers. On the following
day, Drogheda surrendered without a blow, and the garrison, thirteen
hundred strong, marched out unarmed, [703]

Meanwhile Dublin had been in violent commotion. On the thirtieth of June
it was known that the armies were face to face with the Boyne between
them, and that a battle was almost inevitable. The news that William had
been wounded came that evening. The first report was that the wound was
mortal. It was believed, and confidently repeated, that the usurper was
no more; and couriers started bearing the glad tidings of his death to
the French ships which lay in the ports of Munster. From daybreak on
the first of July the streets of Dublin were filled with persons eagerly
asking and telling news. A thousand wild rumours wandered to and fro
among the crowd. A fleet of men of war under the white flag had been
seen from the hill of Howth. An army commanded by a Marshal of France
had landed in Kent. There had been hard fighting at the Boyne; but
the Irish had won the day; the English right wing had been routed; the
Prince of Orange was a prisoner. While the Roman Catholics heard and
repeated these stories in all the places of public resort, the few
Protestants who were still out of prison, afraid of being torn to
pieces, shut themselves up in their inner chambers. But, towards five
in the afternoon, a few runaways on tired horses came straggling in with
evil tidings. By six it was known that all was lost. Soon after sunset,
James, escorted by two hundred cavalry, rode into the Castle. At
the threshold he was met by the wife of Tyrconnel, once the gay and
beautiful Fanny Jennings, the loveliest coquette in the brilliant
Whitehall of the Restoration. To her the vanquished King had to announce
the ruin of her fortunes and of his own. And now the tide of fugitives
came in fast. Till midnight all the northern avenues of the capital were
choked by trains of cars and by bands of dragoons, spent with running
and riding, and begrimed with dust. Some had lost their fire arms, and
some their swords. Some were disfigured by recent wounds. At two in the
morning Dublin was still: but, before the early dawn of midsummer, the
sleepers were roused by the peal of trumpets; and the horse, who had, on
the preceding day, so well supported the honour of their country,
came pouring through the streets, with ranks fearfully thinned, yet
preserving, even in that extremity, some show of military order. Two
hours later Lauzun's drums were heard; and the French regiments, in
unbroken array, marched into the city, [704] Many thought that, with
such a force, a stand might still be made. But, before six o'clock,
the Lord Mayor and some of the principal Roman Catholic citizens were
summoned in haste to the Castle. James took leave of them with a speech
which did him little honour. He had often, he said, been warned that
Irishmen, however well they might look, would never acquit themselves
well on a field of battle; and he had now found that the warning was but
too true. He had been so unfortunate as to see himself in less than
two years abandoned by two armies. His English troops had not wanted
courage; but they had wanted loyalty. His Irish troops were, no doubt,
attached to his cause, which was their own. But as soon as they were
brought front to front with an enemy, they ran away. The loss indeed had
been little. More shame for those who had fled with so little loss. "I
will never command an Irish army again. I must shift for myself; and so
must you.
" After thus reviling his soldiers for being the rabble which
his own mismanagement had made them, and for following the example of
cowardice which he had himself set them, he uttered a few words more
worthy of a King. He knew, he said, that some of his adherents had
declared that they would burn Dublin down rather than suffer it to fall
into the hands of the English. Such an act would disgrace him in the
eyes of all mankind: for nobody would believe that his friends would
venture so far without his sanction. Such an act would also draw on
those who committed it severities which otherwise they had no cause to
apprehend: for inhumanity to vanquished enemies was not among the faults
of the Prince of Orange. For these reasons James charged his hearers on
their allegiance neither to sack nor to destroy the city, [705] He then
took his departure, crossed the Wicklow hills with all speed, and never
stopped till he was fifty miles from Dublin. Scarcely had he alighted
to take some refreshment when he was scared by an absurd report that the
pursuers were close upon him. He started again, rode hard all night,
and gave orders that the bridges should be pulled down behind him. At
sunrise on the third of July he reached the harbour of Waterford.
Thence he went by sea to Kinsale, where he embarked on board of a French
frigate, and sailed for Brest, [706]

After his departure the confusion in Dublin increased hourly. During the
whole of the day which followed the battle, flying foot soldiers,
weary and soiled with travel, were constantly coming in. Roman Catholic
citizens, with their wives, their families and their household stuff,
were constantly going out. In some parts of the capital there was still
an appearance of martial order and preparedness. Guards were posted at
the gates: the Castle was occupied by a strong body of troops; and it
was generally supposed that the enemy would not be admitted without a
struggle. Indeed some swaggerers, who had, a few hours before, run from
the breastwork at Oldbridge without drawing a trigger, now swore that
they would lay the town in ashes rather than leave it to the Prince of
Orange. But towards the evening Tyrconnel and Lauzun collected all their
forces, and marched out of the city by the road leading to that vast
sheepwalk which extends over the table land of Kildare. Instantly the
face of things in Dublin was changed. The Protestants every where came
forth from their hiding places. Some of them entered the houses of their
persecutors and demanded arms. The doors of the prisons were opened.
The Bishops of Meath and Limerick, Doctor King, and others, who had
long held the doctrine of passive obedience, but who had at length been
converted by oppression into moderate Whigs, formed themselves into a
provisional government, and sent a messenger to William's camp, with the
news that Dublin was prepared to welcome him. At eight that evening a
troop of English dragoons arrived. They were met by the whole Protestant
population on College Green, where the statue of the deliverer now
stands. Hundreds embraced the soldiers, hung fondly about the necks of
the horses, and ran wildly about, shaking hands with each other. On the
morrow a large body of cavalry arrived; and soon from every side came
news of the effects which the victory of the Boyne had produced.
James had quitted the island. Wexford had declared for William. Within
twenty-five miles of the capital there was not a Papist in arms. Almost
all the baggage and stores of the defeated army had been seized by the
conquerors. The Enniskilleners had taken not less than three hundred
cars, and had found among the booty ten thousand pounds in money,
much plate, many valuable trinkets, and all the rich camp equipage of
Tyrconnel and Lauzun, [707]

William fixed his head quarters at Ferns, about two miles from Dublin.
Thence, on the morning of Sunday, the sixth of July, he rode in great
state to the cathedral, and there, with the crown on his head, returned
public thanks to God in the choir which is now hung with the banners of
the Knights of Saint Patrick. King preached, with all the fervour of a
neophyte, on the great deliverance which God had wrought for the Church.
The Protestant magistrates of the city appeared again, after a long
interval, in the pomp of office. William could not be persuaded to
repose himself at the Castle, but in the evening returned to his camp,
and slept there in his wooden cabin, [708]

The fame of these great events flew fast, and excited strong emotions
all over Europe. The news of William's wound every where preceded by a
few hours the news of his victory. Paris was roused at dead of night by
the arrival of a courier who brought the joyful intelligence that the
heretic, the parricide, the mortal enemy of the greatness of France, had
been struck dead by a cannon ball in the sight of the two armies. The
commissaries of police ran about the city, knocked at the doors, and
called the people up to illuminate. In an hour streets, quays and
bridges were in a blaze: drums were beating and trumpets sounding: the
bells of Notre Dame were ringing; peals of cannon were resounding from
the batteries of the Bastile. Tables were set out in the streets; and
wine was served to all who passed. A Prince of Orange, made of straw,
was trailed through the mud, and at last committed to the flames. He was
attended by a hideous effigy of the devil, carrying a scroll, on which
was written, "I have been waiting for thee these two years. " The shops
of several Huguenots who had been dragooned into calling themselves
Catholics, but were suspected of being still heretics at heart, were
sacked by the rabble. It was hardly safe to question the truth of
the report which had been so eagerly welcomed by the multitude. Soon,
however, some coolheaded people ventured to remark that the fact of the
tyrant's death was not quite so certain as might be wished. Then arose
a vehement controversy about the effect of such wounds; for the vulgar
notion was that no person struck by a cannon ball on the shoulder could
recover. The disputants appealed to medical authority; and the doors of
the great surgeons and physicians were thronged, it was jocosely said,
as if there had been a pestilence in Paris. The question was soon
settled by a letter from James, which announced his defeat and his
arrival at Brest, [709]

At Rome the news from Ireland produced a sensation of a very different
kind. There too the report of William's death was, during a short
time, credited. At the French embassy all was joy and triumph: but the
Ambassadors of the House of Austria were in despair; and the aspect of
the Pontifical Court by no means indicated exultation, [710] Melfort,
in a transport of joy, sate down to write a letter of congratulation to
Mary of Modena. That letter is still extant, and would alone suffice
to explain why he was the favourite of James. Herod,--so William was
designated, was gone. There must be a restoration; and that restoration
ought to be followed by a terrible revenge and by the establishment of
despotism. The power of the purse must be taken away from the Commons.
Political offenders must be tried, not by juries, but by judges on whom
the Crown could depend. The Habeas Corpus Act must be rescinded. The
authors of the Revolution must be punished with merciless severity.
"If," the cruel apostate wrote, "if the King is forced to pardon, let
it be as few rogues as he can. " [711] After the lapse of some anxious
hours, a messenger bearing later and more authentic intelligence
alighted at the palace occupied by the representative of the Catholic
King. In a moment all was changed. The enemies of France,--and all the
population, except Frenchmen and British Jacobites, were her enemies,
eagerly felicitated one another. All the clerks of the Spanish legation
were too few to make transcripts of the despatches for the Cardinals and
Bishops who were impatient to know the details of the victory. The first
copy was sent to the Pope, and was doubtless welcome to him, [712]

The good news from Ireland reached London at a moment when good news
was needed. The English flag had been disgraced in the English seas.
A foreign enemy threatened the coast. Traitors were at work within the
realm. Mary had exerted herself beyond her strength. Her gentle nature
was unequal to the cruel anxieties of her position; and she complained
that she could scarcely snatch a moment from business to calm herself by
prayer. Her distress rose to the highest point when she learned that the
camps of her father and her husband were pitched near to each other, and
that tidings of a battle might be hourly expected. She stole time for a
visit to Kensington, and had three hours of quiet in the garden, then a
rural solitude, [713] But the recollection of days passed there with him
whom she might never see again overpowered her. "The place," she wrote
to him, "made me think how happy I was there when I had your dear
company. But now I will say no more; for I shall hurt my own eyes, which
I want now more than ever. Adieu. Think of me, and love me as much as I
shall you, whom I love more than my life. " [714]

Early on the morning after these tender lines had been despatched,
Whitehall was roused by the arrival of a post from Ireland. Nottingham
was called out of bed. The Queen, who was just going to the chapel where
she daily attended divine service, was informed that William had been
wounded. She had wept much; but till that moment she had wept alone, and
had constrained herself to show a cheerful countenance to her Court and
Council. But when Nottingham put her husband's letter into her hands,
she burst into tears. She was still trembling with the violence of her
emotions, and had scarcely finished a letter to William in which she
poured out her love, her fears and her thankfulness, with the sweet
natural eloquence of her sex, when another messenger arrived with the
news that the English army had forced a passage across the Boyne, that
the Irish were flying in confusion, and that the King was well. Yet she
was visibly uneasy till Nottingham had assured her that James was safe.
The grave Secretary, who seems to have really esteemed and loved her,
afterwards described with much feeling that struggle of filial duty with
conjugal affection. On the same day she wrote to adjure her husband to
see that no harm befell her father. "I know," she said, "I need not beg
you to let him be taken care of; for I am confident you will for your
own sake; yet add that to all your kindness; and, for my sake, let
people know you would have no hurt happen to his person. " [715] This
solicitude, though amiable, was superfluous. Her father was perfectly
competent to take care of himself. He had never, during the battle, run
the smallest risk of hurt; and, while his daughter was shuddering at the
dangers to which she fancied that he was exposed in Ireland, he was half
way on his voyage to France.

It chanced that the glad tidings arrived at Whitehall on the day to
which the Parliament stood prorogued. The Speaker and several members of
the House of Commons who were in London met, according to form, at ten
in the morning, and were summoned by Black Rod to the bar of the Peers.
The Parliament was then again prorogued by commission. As soon as this
ceremony had been performed, the Chancellor of the Exchequer put into
the hands of the Clerk the despatch which had just arrived from Ireland,
and the Clerk read it with a loud voice to the lords and gentlemen
present, [716] The good news spread rapidly from Westminster Hall to
all the coffeehouses, and was received with transports of joy. For
those Englishmen who wished to see an English army beaten and an English
colony extirpated by the French and Irish were a minority even of the
Jacobite party.

On the ninth day after the battle of the Boyne James landed at Brest,
with an excellent appetite, in high spirits, and in a talkative humour.
He told the history of his defeat to everybody who would listen to him.
But French officers who understood war, and who compared his story with
other accounts, pronounced that, though His Majesty had witnessed the
battle, he knew nothing about it, except that his army had been routed,
[717] From Brest he proceeded to Saint Germains, where, a few hours
after his arrival, he was visited by Lewis. The French King had too much
delicacy and generosity to utter a word which could sound like reproach.
Nothing, he declared, that could conduce to the comfort of the royal
family of England should be wanting, as far as his power extended. But
he was by no means disposed to listen to the political and military
projects of his unlucky guest. James recommended an immediate descent
on England. That kingdom, he said, had been drained of troops by the
demands of Ireland. The seven or eight thousand regular soldiers who
were left would be unable to withstand a great French army. The people
were ashamed of their error and impatient to repair it. As soon as their
rightful King showed himself, they would rally round him in multitudes,
[718] Lewis was too polite and goodnatured to express what he must
have felt. He contented himself with answering coldly that he could not
decide upon any plan about the British islands till he had heard from
his generals in Ireland. James was importunate, and seemed to think
himself ill used, because, a fortnight after he had run away from one
army, he was not entrusted with another. Lewis was not to be provoked
into uttering an unkind or uncourteous word: but he was resolute and,
in order to avoid solicitation which gave him pain, he pretended to
be unwell. During some time, whenever James came to Versailles, he was
respectfully informed that His Most Christian Majesty was not equal to
the transaction of business. The highspirited and quickwitted nobles who
daily crowded the antechambers could not help sneering while they bowed
low to the royal visitor, whose poltroonery and stupidity had a second
time made him an exile and a mendicant. They even whispered their
sarcasms loud enough to call up the haughty blood of the Guelphs in
the cheeks of Mary of Modena. But the insensibility of James was of no
common kind. It had long been found proof against reason and against
pity. It now sustained a still harder trial, and was found proof even
against contempt, [719]

While he was enduring with ignominious fortitude the polite scorn of
the French aristocracy, and doing his best to weary out his benefactor's
patience and good breeding by repeating that this was the very moment
for an invasion of England, and that the whole island was impatiently
expecting its foreign deliverers, events were passing which signally
proved how little the banished oppressor understood the character of his
countrymen.

Tourville had, since the battle of Beachy Head, ranged the Channel
unopposed. On the twenty-first of July his masts were seen from the
rocks of Portland. On the twenty-second he anchored in the harbour
of Torbay, under the same heights which had, not many months before,
sheltered the armament of William. The French fleet, which now had
a considerable number of troops on board, consisted of a hundred and
eleven sail. The galleys, which formed a large part of this force,
resembled rather those ships with which Alcibiades and Lysander disputed
the sovereignty of the Aegean than those which contended at the Nile
and at Trafalgar. The galley was very long and very narrow, the deck
not more than two feet from the water edge. Each galley was propelled by
fifty or sixty huge oars, and each oar was tugged by five or six
slaves. The full complement of slaves to a vessel was three hundred and
thirty-six; the full complement of officers and soldiers a hundred and
fifty. Of the unhappy rowers some were criminals who had been justly
condemned to a life of hardship and danger; a few had been guilty only
of adhering obstinately to the Huguenot worship; the great majority
were purchased bondsmen, generally Turks and Moors. They were of course
always forming plans for massacring their tyrants and escaping from
servitude, and could be kept in order only by constant stripes and by
the frequent infliction of death in horrible forms. An Englishman, who
happened to fall in with about twelve hundred of these most miserable
and most desperate of human beings on their road from Marseilles to join
Tourville's squadron, heard them vowing that, if they came near a man
of war bearing the cross of Saint George, they would never again see a
French dockyard, [720]

In the Mediterranean galleys were in ordinary use: but none had ever
before been seen on the stormy ocean which roars round our island. The
flatterers of Lewis said that the appearance of such a squadron on the
Atlantic was one of those wonders which were reserved for his reign;
and a medal was struck at Paris to commemorate this bold experiment in
maritime war, [721] English sailors, with more reason, predicted that
the first gale would send the whole of this fairweather armament to
the bottom of the Channel. Indeed the galley, like the ancient trireme,
generally kept close to the shore, and ventured out of sight of land
only when the water was unruffled and the sky serene. But the qualities
which made this sort of ship unfit to brave tempests and billows made it
peculiarly fit for the purpose of landing soldiers. Tourville determined
to try what effect would be produced by a disembarkation. The English
Jacobites who had taken refuge in France were all confident that the
whole population of the island was ready to rally round an invading
army; and he probably gave them credit for understanding the temper of
their countrymen.

Never was there a greater error. Indeed the French admiral is said by
tradition to have received, while he was still out at sea, a lesson
which might have taught him not to rely on the assurances of exiles.
He picked up a fishing boat, and interrogated the owner, a plain Sussex
man, about the sentiments of the nation. "Are you," he said, "for King
James? " "I do not know much about such matters," answered the fisherman.
"I have nothing to say against King James. He is a very worthy
gentleman, I believe. God bless him! " "A good fellow! " said Tourville:
"then I am sure you will have no objection to take service with us. "
"What! " cried the prisoner; "I go with the French to fight against the
English! Your honour must excuse me; I could not do it to save my life. "
[722] This poor fisherman, whether he was a real or an imaginary person,
spoke the sense of the nation. The beacon on the ridge overlooking
Teignmouth was kindled; the High Tor and Causland made answer; and soon
all the hill tops of the West were on re, Messengers were riding hard
all night from Deputy Lieutenant to Deputy Lieutenant. Early the next
morning, without chief, without summons, five hundred gentlemen and
yeomen, armed and mounted, had assembled on the summit of Haldon Hill.
In twenty-four hours all Devonshire was up. Every road in the county
from sea to sea was covered by multitudes of fighting men, all with
their faces set towards Torbay. The lords of a hundred manors, proud of
their long pedigrees and old coats of arms, took the field at the head
of their tenantry, Drakes, Prideauxes and Rolles, Fowell of Fowelscombe
and Fulford of Fulford, Sir Bourchier Wray of Tawstock Park and Sir
William Courtenay of Powderham Castle. Letters written by several of
the Deputy Lieutenants who were most active during this anxious week are
still preserved. All these letters agree in extolling the courage and
enthusiasm of the people. But all agree also in expressing the most
painful solicitude as to the result of an encounter between a raw
militia and veterans who had served under Turenne and Luxemburg; and all
call for the help of regular troops, in language very unlike that which,
when the pressure of danger was not felt, country gentlemen were then in
the habit of using about standing armies.

Tourville, finding that the whole population was united as one man
against him, contented himself with sending his galleys to ravage
Teignmouth, now a gay watering place consisting of twelve hundred
houses, then an obscure village of about forty cottages. The inhabitants
had fled. Their dwellings were burned; the venerable parish church was
sacked, the pulpit and the communion table demolished, the Bibles and
Prayer Books torn and scattered about the roads; the cattle and pigs
were slaughtered; and a few small vessels which were employed in fishing
or in the coasting trade, were destroyed. By this time sixteen or
seventeen thousand Devonshire men had encamped close to the shore; and
all the neighbouring counties had risen. The tin mines of Cornwall had
sent forth a great multitude of rude and hardy men mortally hostile to
Popery. Ten thousand of them had just signed an address to the Queen,
in which they had promised to stand by her against every enemy; and they
now kept their word, [723] In truth, the whole nation was stirred. Two
and twenty troops of cavalry, furnished by Suffolk, Essex, Hertfordshire
and Buckinghamshire, were reviewed by Mary at Hounslow, and were
complimented by Marlborough on their martial appearance. The militia of
Kent and Surrey encamped on Blackheath, [724] Van Citters informed the
States General that all England was up in arms, on foot or on horseback,
that the disastrous event of the battle of Beachy Head had not cowed,
but exasperated the people, and that every company of soldiers which he
passed on the road was shouting with one voice, "God bless King William
and Queen Mary. " [725]

Charles Granville, Lord Lansdowne, eldest son of the Earl of Bath, came
with some troops from the garrison of Plymouth to take the command
of the tumultuary army which had assembled round the basin of Torbay.
Lansdowne was no novice. He had served several hard campaigns against
the common enemy of Christendom, and had been created a Count of the
Roman Empire in reward of the valour which he had displayed on that
memorable day, sung by Filicaja and by Waller, when the infidels retired
from the walls of Vienna. He made preparations for action; but the
French did not choose to attack him, and were indeed impatient to
depart. They found some difficulty in getting away. One day the wind was
adverse to the sailing vessels. Another day the water was too rough for
the galleys. At length the fleet stood out to sea. As the line of ships
turned the lofty cape which overlooks Torquay, an incident happened
which, though slight in itself, greatly interested the thousands who
lined the coast. Two wretched slaves disengaged themselves from an oar,
and sprang overboard. One of them perished. The other, after struggling
more than an hour in the water, came safe to English ground, and was
cordially welcomed by a population to which the discipline of the
galleys was a thing strange and shocking. He proved to be a Turk, and
was humanely sent back to his own country.

A pompous description of the expedition appeared in the Paris Gazette.
But in truth Tourville's exploits had been inglorious, and yet less
inglorious than impolitic. The injury which he had done bore no
proportion to the resentment which he had roused. Hitherto the Jacobites
had tried to persuade the nation that the French would come as friends
and deliverers, would observe strict discipline, would respect the
temples and the ceremonies of the established religion, and would
depart as soon as the Dutch oppressors had been expelled and the ancient
constitution of the realm restored. The short visit of Tourville to our
coast had shown how little reason there was to expect such moderation
from the soldiers of Lewis. They had been in our island only a few
hours, and had occupied only a few acres. But within a few hours and
a few acres had been exhibited in miniature the devastation of the
Palatinate. What had happened was communicated to the whole kingdom far
more rapidly than by gazettes or news letters. A brief for the relief
of the people of Teignmouth was read in all the ten thousand parish
churches of the land. No congregation could hear without emotion that
the Popish marauders had made desolate the habitations of quiet and
humble peasants, had outraged the altars of God, had torn to pieces
the Gospels and the Communion service. A street, built out of the
contributions of the charitable, on the site of the dwellings which the
invaders had destroyed, still retains the name of French Street, [726]

The outcry against those who were, with good reason, suspected of having
invited the enemy to make a descent on our shores was vehement and
general, and was swollen by many voices which had recently been loud in
clamour against the government of William. The question had ceased to
be a question between two dynasties, and had become a question between
England and France. So strong was the national sentiment that nonjurors
and Papists shared or affected to share it. Dryden, not long after
the burning of Teignmouth, laid a play at the feet of Halifax, with
a dedication eminently ingenious, artful, and eloquent. The dramatist
congratulated his patron on having taken shelter in a calm haven from
the storms of public life, and, with great force and beauty of diction,
magnified the felicity of the statesman who exchanges the bustle of
office and the fame of oratory for philosophic studies and domestic
endearments. England could not complain that she was defrauded of the
service to which she had a right. Even the severe discipline of ancient
Rome permitted a soldier, after many campaigns, to claim his dismission;
and Halifax had surely done enough for his country to be entitled to the
same privilege. But the poet added that there was one case in which
the Roman veteran, even after his discharge, was required to resume his
shield and his pilum; and that one case was an invasion of the Gauls.
That a writer who had purchased the smiles of James by apostasy, who had
been driven in disgrace from the court of William, and who had a deeper
interest in the restoration of the exiled House than any man who made
letters his calling, should have used, whether sincerely or insincerely,
such language as this, is a fact which may convince us that the
determination never to be subjugated by foreigners was fixed in the
hearts of the people, [727]

There was indeed a Jacobite literature in which no trace of this
patriotic spirit can be detected, a literature the remains of which
prove that there were Englishmen perfectly willing to see the English
flag dishonoured, the English soil invaded, the English capital sacked,
the English crown worn by a vassal of Lewis, if only they might avenge
themselves on their enemies, and especially on William, whom they hated
with a hatred half frightful half ludicrous. But this literature was
altogether a work of darkness. The law by which the Parliament of James
had subjected the press to the control of censors was still in force;
and, though the officers whose business it was to prevent the infraction
of that law were not extreme to mark every irregularity committed by a
bookseller who understood the art of conveying a guinea in a squeeze
of the hand, they could not wink at the open vending of unlicensed
pamphlets filled with ribald insults to the Sovereign, and with direct
instigations to rebellion. But there had long lurked in the garrets of
London a class of printers who worked steadily at their calling with
precautions resembling those employed by coiners and forgers. Women were
on the watch to give the alarm by their screams if an officer appeared
near the workshop. The press was immediately pushed into a closet
behind the bed; the types were flung into the coalhole, and covered with
cinders: the compositor disappeared through a trapdoor in the roof, and
made off over the tiles of the neighbouring houses. In these dens were
manufactured treasonable works of all classes and sizes, from halfpenny
broadsides of doggrel verse up to massy quartos filled with Hebrew
quotations. It was not safe to exhibit such publications openly on a
counter. They were sold only by trusty agents, and in secret places.
Some tracts which were thought likely to produce a great effect were
given away in immense numbers at the expense of wealthy Jacobites.
Sometimes a paper was thrust under a door, sometimes dropped on the
table of a coffeehouse. One day a thousand copies of a scurrilous
pamphlet went out by the postbags. On another day, when the shopkeepers
rose early to take down their shutters, they found the whole of Fleet
Street and the Strand white with seditious handbills, [728]

Of the numerous performances which were ushered into the world by such
shifts as these, none produced a greater sensation than a little book
which purported to be a form of prayer and humiliation for the use of
the persecuted Church. It was impossible to doubt that a considerable
sum had been expended on this work.