The day arrived when the Duke of York was to find himself free to apply without stint his theories of government. The king seemed weary and languishing. His humor, habitually cheerful in exile and in the midst of the crudest misfortunes, had for a short time past become gloomy. On the 2nd of February, 1685, at the moment of his rising from bed, the courtiers around him were struck by his altered looks. His utterance was embarrassed; his intelligence seemed clouded. A doctor who happened to be at hand to assist the king in his chemical experiments bled him without delay. Charles recovered his senses. A second attack soon put an end to all hope of cure. The Duke of York had already taken possession of the government. He gave his orders in all directions. It was the king's favorite, the Duchess of Portsmouth, who, in the heart of this depraved court, took care of the soul of the expiring monarch. She apprised Barillon, who hastened to inform the Duke of York. "It is true," cried James, "my brother is a Catholic at heart; he will assuredly declare it, and fulfill the rites of his religion; there is not a moment to lose." Some difficulty was experienced in procuring a priest. The Anglican bishops had not delayed so long to press the king to be mindful of his spiritual welfare. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Sancroft, and the Bishop of Bath, the pious Ken, had addressed Charles in the firmest language. "It is time to speak, Sire, for you are about to appear before a Judge who is no respecter of persons." The king made no reply.
The Duke of York at last succeeded in finding a priest; it was a poor Benedictine monk, named Huddleston, who had saved the king immediately after the battle of Worcester. Charles had a grateful remembrance of this circumstance. Huddleston had been excepted by name from all the proceedings against the Catholics. James himself introduced him into his brother's chamber. All present were desired to retire with the exception of the Frenchman, Louis de Duras, Earl of Feversham, and of the Earl of Bath. They could count on the fidelity of each other. "Sire," said the duke, "this holy man once saved your life; he comes to-day to save your soul." "He is welcome," said the king in a feeble voice. The poor monk had never fulfilled the holy offices. He had just taken instructions hurriedly from a Portuguese ecclesiastic in the suite of the Count de Castelmelhor. When the pious ceremonies were completed, all the natural children of the king were admitted to his presence. Monmouth alone was absent. He had sought his safety in exile; the king did not mention his name.
The queen was in too much trouble and suffering to appear at the bedside of the dying monarch. She sent her excuses by Halifax, asking pardon of the king. "Poor woman," murmured Charles, "I ask hers with all my heart!"
The agony was protracted. The king asked that the curtains might be drawn, so that he could see once more the light of day. "I beg your pardon for giving you so much trouble," he said to those who stood around him; "I am a very long time dying." His utterance failed him; at noon on the 6th of February, 1685, King Charles II. expired gently. He was not yet fifty-five years of age.
"He had received from nature," says Lord Macaulay, "excellent parts and a happy temper. His education had been such as might have been expected to develop his understanding, and to form him to the practice of every public and private virtue. … He had been taught by bitter experience how much baseness, perfidy, and ingratitude may lie hid under the obsequious demeanor of courtiers. He had found, on the other hand, in the huts of the poorest, true nobility of soul. … From such a school it might have been expected that a young man, who wanted neither abilities nor amiable qualities, would have come forth a great and good king. Charles came forth from that school with social habits, with polite and engaging manners, and with some talent for lively conversation, addicted beyond measure to sensual indulgence, fond of sauntering and of frivolous amusements, incapable of self-denial and of exertion, without faith in human virtue or in human attachment, without desire of renown, and without sensibility to reproach. According to him, every person was to be bought, but some people haggled more about their price than others. … Thinking thus of mankind, Charles naturally cared very little what they thought of him. … He was a slave without being a dupe. … He detested business. … He wished merely to be a king such as Louis XV. of France afterwards was." Without regard for the state of his kingdom, shut up in the selfish circle of his material pleasures, indifferent to all religion, hostile to the Puritans from memory of the past, from contempt for their ridiculous characteristics, and from fear of their austerity; without faith or rule of conduct; absolutely wanting in principles and moral sense, he had worn out the respect of the nation without completely exhausting its affection, for he was sagacious, prudent, little addicted to hazardous enterprises; and he had measured with a cool and practical judgment the degree of oppression which his people were capable of enduring. The popular saying did him injustice in affirming that "he never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one." He was wise enough more than once to stop in the path of despotism. His brother, who had often impelled him in this direction, was now about to advance to the brink of the abyss. England wept for the loss of Charles II. Without being fully conscious of the feeling, she regarded James II. with presentiment and with dread.
England never loved James II.: she dreaded his religion and that unfeeling character of which he had so many times given proof. The shrewd and liberal politicians had made great efforts to exclude him from the throne; he was nevertheless proclaimed without tumult and accepted peaceably by the nation. The great revolution which was to be accomplished under his reign, and which was to make England forever a free country, had not yet begun, nor was there any presentiment of its approach.
This drama was to unfold itself slowly, and to display in its progress successively the tyranny of the king and the resistance of the nation. At the outset, James II. profited by the absolute victory obtained by Charles II. in the last years of his reign. It was an epoch of tranquillity and of good appearances, false at the foundation, notwithstanding the royal protestations and the assurances of confidence lavished on the new monarch. Already, in the month of November, 1685, many disquieting acts and fatal prognostics began to alarm the friends of liberty; and from this time we may date the commencement of that progressive tyranny which was to develop conspiracies and at the same time arouse lively opposition and legal resistance throughout the country, both within and without Parliament.
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James II.
In the third period of the reign of James II. from July, 1687, to December, 1688, the nation and the king had evidently broken all ties: the one aspired without reserve to the absolute triumph of his will, the other defended proudly its attacked liberties. The contest ended only with the overthrow of James II. and his flight from England. It is necessary to follow step by step the episodes of this great conflict—a conflict unavoidable from the nature of the monarch who had just taken possession of the crown. To the far-seeing eye, the accession of James II. was the sure pledge of tyranny.
The mass of the nation was contented; the disquiet of political plots had counterbalanced the indignation caused by the Papist conspiracies, and public sentiment rallied around the throne; the great national calamities which signalized some years of the reign of Charles II.—war, pestilence, and fire—did not return to scourge the people. No hardy innovator among the literary or philosophical writers threw among the public such brands of agitation and of discord as Lilburne had scattered in spite of Cromwell or the Long Parliament. Milton died in 1674, having been solely occupied since the Restoration with his great poem, Paradise Lost, that masterpiece of religious and philosophical poetry alone worthy of saluting Dante in his sublime pilgrimage into the invisible world. The political pamphlets which had but recently served his cause and which had placed Milton in the front rank of English prose writers were eclipsed, if not forgotten, by the brilliancy of that poetical genius which had kept almost entirely silent during the ardent contests for liberty. Cowley and Butler were also dead; Otway and Waller mingled politics with their poetry. Hobbes opened the door to a dangerous school of philosophy, against which Bunyan, a poor laborer and strolling preacher, defended his country without knowing it, by writing in the depths of his prison the "Pilgrim's Progress," that strange and profound book destined to take the first rank after the Bible in the popular libraries of England. Dryden alone occupied a brilliant position: his verse and prose were elegant, powerful, rich, and energetic; but personally he was often corrupt, without principle and without respect for himself or for his fame, as his pretended conversion to Catholicism subsequently proved. Minds were contemplative without being active: the revolution and the Republic had not been propitious to literary development; while the Restoration had profited by the leisure of Milton, it did not at first realize his value; it was during a period of intellectual calm as well as of political quiet that James II. ascended the throne. The treaty of Ratisbon gave Europe hope for some relaxation of the ambition of Louis XIV. The Emperor and Spain had accepted his new conquests, "recognizing" said the Marquis de la Fare, "that the empire of the French was a necessary evil to the other nations." After so many and such cruel blows, a moment of calm seemed to rest upon the world.
James II. was destined ere long to trouble this repose. It seemed when he ascended the throne that his only desire was to render his people happy. "They have spread abroad the report that I have a desire for arbitrary power," said he, February 6th, in the council which had assembled a few hours after the death of Charles II., "but it is not the only calumny that they have invented against me. I will do my utmost to maintain the government of the State and the Church as I find it to-day. I know that the principles of the Church of England are favorable to monarchy, and that its members have proved themselves true and loyal subjects; I shall therefore defend and sustain it. I know also that the laws of England are sufficient to elevate a monarch as high as I should desire. I have often risked my life to defend this nation; I shall use the utmost of my power to preserve its rights and liberties."
This declaration was received with applause. Already the courtiers of Charles II. seemed to have lost the royal favor. James II., though as debauched as his brother, did not affect his license of conduct. "The appearance of the court changed immediately," wrote Evelyn; "the aspect is more grave and moral, the new king likes neither buffoons nor scoffers." Parliament was convoked for the 15th of May.
The elections assured to the Tories an overwhelming majority. "There are not more than forty members of the House of Commons that I have not chosen myself," said the king. At the opening of the session he repeated the promises he had already made before the council; a word only betrayed the absolute temper of the new monarch; in demanding that they accord him a fixed revenue for life, as they had done to the king, his brother, he added, "They may say to you that the best means of securing the frequent assembling of Parliament will be to allow me means only according to your will, and as you may think suitable; speaking today from the throne, I respond, once for all, to this argument. This will be a bad plan to adopt with me; the best means of securing frequent assemblings is to treat me well." Parliament voted the subsidies demanded. Already James II. had performed an act of absolute power in continuing to collect the custom duties, but recently accorded by the Houses to Charles II. for life. Even the Whigs did not protest; they trusted to the sincerity of the king. "We have for the protection of our church the promise of a king," said a zealous preacher, "and of a king who never belied his word." So soon were forgotten the perfidy and faithlessness of the House of Stuart, of which James II. was soon to show himself a worthy son.
Already some disquieting symptoms began to alarm the far-seeing politicians. The king had thrown open the doors of his private chapel, establishing thus at the outset his right of hearing mass publicly. When Holy Week arrived and the services multiplied, James required the most considerable personages of his household to assist him in the ceremonies of his worship. Lord Godolphin, who was a member of the queen's household, and accustomed to accompanying her to the chapel, made no resistance. Lord Rochester, although corrupt and arrogant, had nevertheless been educated by his father, Lord Clarendon, to show a profound respect for the Anglican Church; he refused to follow the king to mass and obtained permission to retire to the country during Easter. The Dukes of Ormond and Halifax remained in the ante-chamber. The Duke of Norfolk, recently appointed to carry the sword of the crown before the king, stopped at the door of the chapel. "Your father would have gone farther, my lord," said James. "Yours, who valued mine much, would not have come so far. Sire," responded the duke. The religious pomps of the coronation, celebrated after the Protestant ritual, did not suffice to reassure their minds. Some remarked that the crown was too large for the head of the king, and was also badly placed upon his head. The supports of the dais gave way. Superstition, united to forebodings of evil, began to awaken in the public the first germs of an increasing restlessness.
It was nevertheless with a true though confused sincerity that king James had promised religious liberty to his people. In his desire to protect the English Church and to allow freedom to the persecuted Dissenters, James II. had first in view the relief of the Catholics, so long and so cruelly oppressed. This was precisely what the Church and the Nonconformists equally feared. One of the first acts of the king was to open the doors of the prisons to all those who were detained by questions of conscience. Scarcely had Parliament assembled when a bill was presented begging of the crown the rigid enforcement of the laws against all Dissenters, whoever they might be. James opposed this measure, which would impose persecution on the Catholics; the motion was modified. "The House trusts to the oft-repeated promises of his Majesty to sustain and defend the religion of the Church of England as established by law, which is more dear to us than life." The king made no reply to this address; the persecution of the Scotch Puritans was the only favor that he granted.
The Scotch Parliament surpassed the English in submission and zeal. The resources of the hereditary kingdom of the Stuarts were limited; to the small subsidies which they were able to grant, the Scotch Parliament added a decree which they believed would satisfy King James: any preacher in a private meeting, any preacher or auditor in a public assembly was to be from this fact alone liable to the penalty of death. Persecution was redoubled. Graham of Claverhouse overran the country at the head of his dragoons, dispersing assemblies and seizing, even in their homes, suspected persons. A poor carter of the county of Lanark was shot down in the presence of his wife, who clasped her terrified children in her arms. The fervent prayers of the victim already troubled and alarmed Claverhouse. "The day will come when you will have to render an account of this to God and to men," cried the unhappy widow. "I will know well how to account for my actions to men," replied the madman, "and as for God, I challenge him."
Men and women died with equal courage. A young girl was fastened to a post in the sea and left for the rising tide to engulf. "Abjure, abjure!" they cried to her. "Leave me in peace," responded she; "I belong to Jesus Christ." The waves swept over her.
The rigors exercised against the Scotch Presbyterians were not, however, prejudicial to the king's cause. In England the idea of liberty of conscience sometimes struck the persecuted. James himself had been impressed by it when he suffered the penalties imposed upon those of the Catholic faith. Having acquired power, he soon forgot the sublime principle, and his people likewise ignored it. The composition of his council, the want of favor that he manifested towards certain popular men, the confidence that he placed in others disliked by the people, occupied the public mind more seriously than the sufferings of a few Covenanters revolted from the Episcopal yoke. On ascending the throne, James II. had openly announced his intention of maintaining near his person all the councillors of his brother; only a small number, however, were his friends. They soon perceived this. Sunderland and Godolphin had lately voted for the bill of exclusion that Halifax had defeated by the force of his eloquence. These two ministers nevertheless were less suspected by James than the brilliant chief of the Trimmers.
Irrevocably enrolled against the Papacy and tyranny, Halifax was received by the king with flattering words. "I remember but a single day in your life, my lord," said James; "it is that on which you spoke against the Exclusion Bill." He said at the same time to Barillon: "I know him; I cannot trust him. He shall not employ his hand in public affairs."
Halifax soon succeeded, as president of the council, Lord Rochester, who was placed at the head of the finances. The latter alone shared with the Judge, Jeffreys, the confidence of the king. His eldest brother, Lord Clarendon, replaced in Ireland the old Duke of Ormond, a veteran of devotion to monarchy, honored by all, too sincere in his Protestantism, too independent of character, to please the government and serve the views of King James. When he learned of his disgrace, the old servitor of Charles I. gathered around him at a banquet all the officers of the garrison at Dublin. He drank the health of the king, raising with a firm hand his glass filled to the very brim. "I have not spilled a single drop, gentlemen; my heart is as firm as my hand, still they accuse me at court of having fallen into my dotage. Long live King James!" His return to London resembled a triumph; a crowd of gentlemen claimed the honor of escorting him.
Although disturbed by the religious and political tendencies of its king, the English nation regarded with pleasure the proud and independent attitude that he seemed to assume towards France and Louis XIV. England had never pardoned Charles II. the sale of Dunkirk, the treaty of Dover, nor any of the disgraceful bargains so often negotiated between the two monarchs. A few days after the accession of King James, Barillon received from his court a sum of five hundred thousand pounds, destined to be immediately delivered to the new sovereign. James II. was grateful, and at first modest and flattering in his language towards the ambassador of France. He excused himself for having convoked Parliament without the advice of Louis XIV. "I know that I am able to do nothing without the protection of the king, and that it would be a wrong to my brother not to remain always faithful to France. I will take care that Parliament does not meddle with foreign affairs. If I see them disposed to act ill, I will send them about their business." As testimony of his devotion, James broke the engagements that bound him to Spain for the protection of the Low Countries. Lord Churchill, the young favorite of the new king, destined to become known throughout the entire world under the name of the Duke of Marlborough, was charged with a solemn embassy to carry to Louis XIV. the homage of the King of England. "My attachment will endure as long as my life," were the words used by James II. to the Grand Monarch. He was ignorant as yet of all the claims to his devotion that Louis XIV. was to acquire.
Parliament had scarcely assembled when King James already changed a little his tone towards France; he had found among his people more docility and generosity than he had expected; his revenues were assured to him during his life; he raised his head, assumed boldly the equality due his rank, and resolved, he said, to maintain with a firm hand the equilibrium of Europe. When the Marshal of Lorge came to London to repay the visit of the embassy of Lord Churchill, James received him, seated and covered, as his envoy had been received at Versailles. "Our brother the King of England speaks rather loftily," said Louis XIV. smiling, "but he nevertheless loves well the guineas." A few months only elapsed before James II. asked for new subsidies. The resources furnished him by Parliament were no longer sufficient for his expenses. He was in the face of an insurrection, and believed himself obliged henceforth to maintain a standing army—a constant object of terror in England. The Duke of Argyll and the Duke of Monmouth lived as exiles in Holland, that refuge for all men driven from their country on account of their political or religious opinions. The Duke of Argyll had been there already four years; the Duke of Monmouth only a few months. They were surrounded by a certain number of the proscribed of all parties. Their origin and conditions were diverse—men of law, as Ayloffe and Wade, compromised in the Whig conspiracies; old Cromwellians like Rumboldt; gentlemen of the court, as Lord Grey of Wark; ecclesiastics and pamphleteers, as Ferguson. On the death of King Charles, the ambitious projects of Monmouth were reawakened. The restless spirits among the exiles conceived the idea of creating an insurrection in England, and securing the aid of Monmouth by dazzling him with the prospect of a crown.
He had already quitted The Hague; always prudent and circumspect, William of Orange had given a refuge at his court to the well-beloved son of Charles II. When James II. ascended the throne he requested him to withdraw. The conspirators found him at Brussels. He had retired there with Lady Wentworth, to whom he was passionately attached, and it was with great difficulty that they induced him to place himself at the head of the insurrection. He had little confidence in the enterprise, and from the beginning had but faint hopes of its success. At the same time it was determined to make an attempt upon Scotland.
Argyll counted upon the fidelity of his clan; he knew that the Campbells would sacrifice themselves, to the last man, in his name and for his cause; he also believed himself assured of the rising of the persecuted Presbyterians. The two conspiracies, at first distinct and almost hostile, finally united. They resolved to make a descent upon the west coast of Scotland. This movement, headed by Argyll, was to be supported by a descent on England under the leadership of Monmouth. Ayloffe and Rumboldt accompanied the Scottish expedition. Fletcher of Saltoun, republican and aristocrat, eloquent and learned, was to follow the fortunes of Monmouth. The young chief became encouraged. Ambitious hopes were awakened in his breast. He received letters from England urging him to action. "The Earl of Richmond had but a handful of men when he landed in England two hundred years ago," wrote Wildman, one of the most dangerous instigators of this plot; "yet a few days later, after the battle of Bosworth, he was proclaimed king as Henry VII." "True," responded Fletcher of Saltoun, "but Richmond had the support of the barons and their retainers, while Richard III. had not at his disposal a single regiment of regular troops." On May 2, 1685, Argyll set sail with a fleet of three small vessels. King James, informed of the preparations, demanded of the States of Holland that measures should be taken to prevent the departure of the expedition. The city of Amsterdam was hostile to the House of Nassau, and her magistrates took pleasure in thwarting the plans and wishes of the Prince of Orange, who was very desirous at this time to maintain amicable relations with his father-in-law. The Scotch expedition was consequently able to depart without molestation. On the 6th, Argyll touched at the Orkney Islands.
The duke was nominally at the head of the expedition, but in reality the control of the same was in the hands of a commission, charged to watch and direct it actions. While they were wasting their valuable time in discussions and quarrels. King James, with prudent activity, occupied the country adjacent to the territory of Argyll. He roused the peasantry by his appeals, but the gentry were either absent or secretly favorable to the invaders; eighteen hundred men only united themselves to Tarbet. The "fiery cross" had overrun the country. A manifesto, prepared by James Stewart, a Scotch lawyer, recalled the grievances of the nation against King James. It was in the name of the persecuted Presbyterian Church, so dear to its followers, that the Scotch were called upon to revolt. Against his better judgment, Argyll was obliged to divide his little army; he remained in the Highlands with Rumboldt, while Sir Patrick Hume and Cochrane, more jealous of their chief than ardent for combat, directed a small expedition towards the Lowlands. Their expectation was that the entire people would rise at their approach.
The conspirators and their friends were deceived concerning the temper of the persecuted Covenanters; they had no more confidence in the religious faith of Argyll than in the Papacy of James; persecuted, hunted, massacred, they hoped only for a miraculous deliverance; they neither desired nor expected any other; "the sword of the Lord and of Gideon" appeared alone worthy to save the Church; they did not recognize these invaders as a holy army come to their relief. The enthusiasts who had defended their assemblies with the sword failed to join the army of Cochrane; in vain the two detachments rejoined the Duke of Argyll at Bute; disorder only increased, and each day some new defection diminished the forces of the insurgents. The castle of Ealan Ghineg, which contained all the provisions and supplies, was delivered without a blow to the royal troops; their boats having been captured, a panic seized the insurgents—the most ardent refused to march on Glasgow, as Argyll desired. A strong detachment of red-coats appearing on the horizon, both leaders and followers sought safety in flight. Hume fled to the Continent; Cochrane was arrested and sent to London; the Duke of Argyll, after wandering many days about the country, was finally surrounded by a few straggling militiamen; he endeavored to defend himself; when captured and bound he disclosed his name to his countrymen; tears filled their eyes on beholding the misfortunes of their celebrated chief; but the love of gain soon caused them to stifle the feelings of compassion, and they led Argyll to Renfrew. The duke was condemned in advance; an unjust sentence of death had been for a long time hanging over his head. "I know nothing about Scotch law," said Halifax; "but I am well assured that here we would not hang a dog on such evidence as they have employed to condemn the Duke of Argyll." As the prisoner entered the Castle of Edinburgh, after having passed through the city on foot and with head uncovered, he received the announcement of his speedy death; he was threatened at the same time with torture. They wished at any price to extort from him information concerning his countrymen; as to who were accomplices or abettors of the insurrection.
Although indifferent as a military commander, and ill qualified for a politician, Argyll was firm in prison, bravely confronting death, solely occupied regarding the evils that he had brought upon his clan. Disdainful of suffering, piously absorbed in the thought of soon appearing before his Maker, Argyll inspired with respect all who approached him. "God has softened their hearts," he said; "I did not expect so much kindness." He was not subjected to the torture. "I have implicated no one," wrote the duke, the morning of his execution (June 30th), "God, in his mercy, has marvellously sustained me." He walked to the scaffold, whence he wrote to his wife, "My heart, God is unchangeable; He hath always been good and gracious to me; and no place alters Him. Forgive me all my faults; and now comfort thyself in Him, in whom only true comfort is to be found. The Lord be with thee, bless and comfort thee, my dearest, adieu!"
Rumboldt died several days before his chief. Seized like him by a band of troops, he fought so valiantly that there scarcely remained a breath of life in his body. Supported under the gibbet by two men, he raised his dying voice that he might be heard by the people: "I die faithful to that which I have believed all my life," cried he. "I have always detested Papacy and tyranny; I have always been a friend to limited monarchy, but I have never believed that Providence sent a handful of men into the world booted and spurred, to ride, and millions of other beings saddled and bridled, to be ridden. I desire to bless and magnify God's holy name that I am not here for any wrong that I have done, but for adhering to His cause in an evil day. If each hair in my head were a man, in this quarrel I would venture them all." The drum of the soldiers drowned his last words. The Rye House plot was not forgotten in the repentance of the old soldier of Cromwell. "I have always held assassination in horror!" he said; nevertheless it was under his roof that they conspired to ambuscade King Charles and the Duke of York. Ayloffe opened a vein; he was carried to London and questioned by James himself. "You will find it to your advantage to be frank with me," said the king; "you know that it is in my power to pardon you." "It may be in your power, but it is not in your nature!" replied the prisoner. Many people were punished in Scotland; a great number of Campbells were executed without a trial. The Scotch rebels had not yet suffered the penalties of their rebellion when England was already agitated by the descent of Monmouth, who landed at the port of Lyme upon the coast of Dorset. Having escaped from Holland like Argyll, by the connivance of the commissaries of the admiralty at Amsterdam, he had been detained by bad weather, and it was not until the 11th of June that he reached the soil of England. The cry was raised, "A Monmouth! a Monmouth! The Protestant religion!" A declaration of the most libelous character was read at the market-cross; it was the work of Ferguson. James was accused of having burned London, having strangled Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, having cut the throat of Essex, and having poisoned King Charles. It was for all these crimes that he was declared to have forfeited his right to the throne, in the name of the menaced religion. The Duke of Monmouth, who might have proved his legitimate birth and claim to the crown, made no pretensions to any title except that of captain-general of the English Protestants-in-arms against tyranny and Papacy. The people of the west of England had not forgotten the young man who had passed triumphantly through the towns and villages so recently, by the acclamations of the people. The peasants flocked in large numbers to his standard; about fifteen hundred men had already assembled around him, when he sent, on the 14th of June, a detachment against Bridport. The royal troops began to assemble.
Parliament hurled declaration upon declaration against the pretensions of Monmouth. King James profited by the alarm of the Houses to obtain a subsidy; the members withdrew to their homes to urge the people to remain faithful to the royal cause. The Duke of Albemarle, son of General Monk, commanded a body of militia in the west; Churchill and Lord Feversham advanced against the insurgents at the head of the regular troops.
Lord Grey was easily repulsed before Bridport, and fled in a cowardly manner. Fletcher of Saltoun, having killed his adversary in a quarrel, was obliged on account of the public indignation to seek refuge on board the boats of the duke, whence he fled to Hungary, where he fought against the Turks. Nevertheless, Monmouth advanced continually; Albemarle dared not give him battle, so many of his troops seemed ill-disposed. The city of Taunton opened its gates to the insurgents; the population was wealthy, had been devoted to Parliament during the civil war, and numbered a great many Nonconformists; the daughters of the best families came before the duke offering him a standard and a Bible. He received the holy volume with reverence. "I come," he said, "to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal them, if it must be so, with my blood." Monmouth thus announced himself "Defender of the Faith"—an integral part of the royal titles. He soon went further, and on the 20th of June was proclaimed king at Taunton, not without some repugnance on his part, history has assured us. In order to avoid the confusion which must inevitably arise from his name (James II.), the most of his followers saluted him with the strange title of King Monmouth. From village to village the proclamation was repeated, to the great indignation of the partisans of the Princess Mary. The great lords and country gentlemen failed to join this small army of rebels.
The peasants and workmen of the villages were for the most part without arms; they had begun their undertaking at the wrong end, as the Vendéan peasants did a hundred years later. Monmouth lacked money; he meditated a surprise upon Bristol, where he hoped to find abundant resources; but the king's troops had already taken possession of that city, on their return through Wiltshire; the rebels in vain summoned Bath to open its gates. Obliged to seek refuge at Philips-Norton, into which the Duke of Grafton had forced an entrance, Monmouth felt his courage abandoning him; he thought of withdrawing and seeking safety on the Continent, in place of the glory which he had labored for in vain. He sought the advice of his adherents: Lord Grey urged him not to abandon the poor peasants who had risked all for him. Monmouth gave up his contemplated flight, but was uncertain what plan of campaign to adopt, wandering from Wells to Bridgewater, when the royal troops, commanded by Feversham, appeared in view of the insurgent army. Four thousand men were encamped upon the plain of Sedgemoor; the duke observing from afar the standards of the regiment of Dumbarton, but recently so familiar to him. "I know those men," sadly remarked the young invader; "they will fight; if I had but them, all would go well."
Feversham was an indifferent general; Monmouth possessed more than ordinary military talents, but it mattered little that his positions were well chosen and his night attack well planned; he commanded men badly armed, inexperienced and undisciplined, and no matter how great their courage, it was not enough to enable them to withstand the attack of regular troops and the discharges of artillery to which they were soon unable to respond.
Lord Grey's progress being arrested by a trench of whose existence he was not aware, immediately turned his back to the enemy. The peasants defended themselves heroically; the miners from Mendip knocked down all who approached them with the butt-end of their muskets. They were still fighting when Monmouth took to flight, abandoning his unfortunate followers. Fifteen hundred corpses of the rebels strewed the plain, and five hundred prisoners were taken before the struggle terminated. Two days later Monmouth fell into the hands of a detachment of soldiers sent in search of him. "Now," said Barillon, with a sagacity true but malicious, "all the zealous Protestants will rest their hopes on the Prince of Orange."
No one hoped for mercy from the king. If Monmouth thought for a moment that possibly his life might be spared, his interview with James II. taught him his error. "Remember, Sire, that I am the son of your brother," cried the unhappy young man, throwing himself at the feet of the monarch; "it is your own blood that you shed in shedding mine." "Your crime is too great," coldly replied the king. The queen, it was said, was even more hard-hearted. Showing great weakness at first, and apparently overcome at the thought of death, piteously begging for "life, only life, life at any price," Monmouth nevertheless recovered his firmness in the presence of such pitiless resolution. "Very well," said he at last, "I have nothing more to do but to die."
For an instant, the unfortunate prisoner was cowardly enough to seek to save his life by abjuring the Protestant faith, of which he had styled himself the "Defender." Disabused, however, of that hope, he refused the absolution offered him by the priests of the royal chapel.
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"Remember, Sire, I am your Brother's Son."
The Anglican bishops were not entirely satisfied with his repentance. They wished to obtain from him a confession of that doctrine of non-resistance which he had openly violated. The irregularities of his private life also excited their pious indignation. The duke at first refused to see his wife; when he finally received her, their interview was brief and cold. "I die penitent," repeated Monmouth; and as the bishops accompanied him to the foot of the scaffold, "I come here not to speak, but to die," said the young man; "pray for me." The name of the king was mingled in the episcopal intercessions. "Will you not pray for the king?" asked one of the clergy. Monmouth remained silent a moment; then, as if making a great effort, finally said, "Amen." He turned towards the executioner: "Look well to your axe," said he, "and do not hack me as you did my Lord Russell." He placed his head upon the block. Monmouth's appeal disconcerted the executioner; his hand trembled; blow after blow was struck, and yet the neck was not severed. The crowd were about to tear him in pieces when the head of the victim finally fell. The populace rushed up to dip their handkerchiefs in the blood of the young duke. Frivolous and superficial, without true courage or personal valor, he possessed that art of gaining hearts which seems sometimes independent of all true merit. The peasants of the western counties long worshipped Monmouth's memory; they refused to admit that he was dead, and many times impostors passed through the counties of Dorset and Wilts claiming to be the duke, miraculously raised from the dead, and were honored and feted.
Men long remember those for whom they have suffered. Many peasants of the west had perished on the field of battle, under the standards of Monmouth; many more were to suffer severely for their fidelity to him. Already Colonel Kirke, at the head of his regiment from Tangier, overran the insurgent counties, and his "Lambs," as his soldiers were called, in remembrance of the Pascal Lamb—represented on their banner while in Africa—spread everywhere terror and death. At each toast drunk by the officers, a rebel prisoner was executed. The toasts were numerous, the orgies prolonged. The love of money sometimes checked the cruelty of "the Butcher of Taunton." Those who possessed sufficient fortune were sometimes allowed to purchase their lives. Around the inn where Kirke had established his quarters, they waded ankle deep in blood. The country was depopulated; all those who were able to gain the coast embarked for America: they fled from the barbarity of Kirke and from the "justice" of Jeffreys.
Guilford, the Keeper of the Seals, had just died, sadly humbled and discouraged towards the end of a life of cowardly servility. King James promised the office to Jeffreys, on his return from the circuit, which he had just undertaken in the western counties—a splendid recompense for "The Bloody Assizes." The great judge resolved to merit the reward.
Naturally cruel and basely corrupt, habitually excited by continual intoxication, Jeffreys had consecrated to the service of the worst passions an indomitable energy united to rare judicial qualifications. He was never pleasing to Charles II., who had often employed him at the instigation of the Duke of York. "This man," said he, "has neither learning, good sense, nor manners, and more impudence than ten depraved women." Under the reign of the hard and cruel James, Jeffreys abandoned himself without reserve to his savage passions; he was not contented with condemning, torturing, and inflicting the extreme penalties permitted by law against his victims, but he also delighted in taunting the accused, following them with sarcasms and insults to the very foot of the scaffold. The odious task with which he was charged after the insurrection of Monmouth suited his disposition. While at London, Lord Grey, Sir John Cochrane, and a few others purchased their lives by their cowardly revelations. The great judge carried from village to village his bloody tribunal and corps of executioners. Everywhere cynical and cruel, obliging his victims to confess their guilt in order to obtain a day's respite, and executing those on the spot who protested their innocence, he surrounded himself with an atmosphere of such terror that the people dared not speak in favor of the condemned. The friends of Lady Lisle ventured, however, to plead her cause; she was the aged widow of Lord Lisle, a judge during the reign of Charles I., who was but lately assassinated in Scotland, whither he had fled. She had given an asylum to more than one Cavalier during the revolution, and "no woman in England," she said, "mourned more bitterly the death of the king."
Always compassionate, she had concealed a Nonconformist minister and an advocate compromised in the Rye House plot. Both were found in her house; she was ignorant, she declared, of what they were accused; neither of them had been brought to trial, when Lady Lisle was led before the tribunal of Jeffreys. The witnesses one after the other were terrified by the violence of the judge. The jury hesitated, recoiling before the odious sentence that was expected of them. "What liars these Presbyterians are!" cried Jeffreys; "show me a Presbyterian and I'll show thee a lying knave." He threatened to lock up the jury in the hall for the night if they did not hasten their decision. Lady Lisle was condemned to be burned. The clemency of the king mitigated the sentence. The pious woman walked without fear to the scaffold. Some months later, at London, another woman, of a more humble condition, animated by the same charitable spirit, suffered at the stake for assistance she had given to James Burton, compromised, like the protégés of Lady Lisle, in the plots of 1683. "My fault was one which a prince might well have forgiven," said Elizabeth Gaunt as they arranged the straw of her funeral pile; "I did but relieve a poor family, and lo! I must die for it." "The people were moved to tears," relates William Penn, the illustrious founder of Pennsylvania, who was present at the execution. Loud lamentations arose from the western counties. Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire, and Somersetshire were strewn with corpses, bristling with gibbets, depopulated by exile, transportation, and the sale of the condemned, some of whom, abandoned to the avidity of courtiers, were reduced to slavery in the West Indies. The ladies of honor of the queen shared the fines imposed upon the young girls of Taunton, who had made a part of the deputation sent to welcome Monmouth. Some of the accused ventured to bring their complaints to the foot of the throne. The sister of Benjamin and William Hewling, young men of great promise, presented herself at Whitehall with a petition. Lord Churchill introduced her. "I wish you well to your suit," said he, as they entered; "but do not flatter yourself with hopes; this marble," and he laid his hand on the chimney-piece, "is not harder than the king." James was inexorable. The soldiers wept while leading the young men to the gallows.