The History of England, Chapter 9, Part 10. It was, indeed, impossible, that a design so vast as that which had been formed against the King of England should remain during many weeks a secret. No art could prevent intelligent men from perceiving that William was making great military and naval preparations, and from suspecting the object with which these preparations were made. Early in August hints that some great event was approaching were whispered up and down London. The weak and corrupt Albeville was then on a visit to England, and was, or affected to be, certain that the Dutch government entertained no design unfriendly to James. But during the absence of Albeville from his post, Avaux performed with eminence skill the duties both of French and English ambassador to the States, and supplied Berylion as well as Lewis with ample intelligence. Avaux was satisfied that a descent on England was in contemplation, and succeeded in convincing his master of the truth. Every courier who arrived at Westminster, either from the Hague or from Versailles, brought earnest warnings. But James was under a delusion which appears to have been artfully encouraged by Sunderland. The Prince of Orange, said the cunning minister, would never dare to engage in an expedition beyond sea, leaving Holland defenseless. The States, remembering what they had suffered and what they had been in danger of suffering during the Great Agony of 1672, would never incur the risk of again seeing an invading army encamped on the plain between Utrecht and Amsterdam. There was doubtless much discontent in England, but the interval was immense between discontent and rebellion. Men of rank and fortune were not disposed lightly to hazard their honors, their estates, and their lives. How many eminent wigs had held high language when Monmouth was in the Netherlands! And yet, when he set up his standard, what eminent wig had joined it? It was easy to understand why Lewis affected to give credit to these idle rumours. He doubtless hoped to frighten the King of England into taking the French side in the dispute about Cologne.  The alarm and indignation of Lewis increased daily. The style of his letters became sharp and vehement. He could not understand, he wrote, this lethargy on the eve of a terrible crisis. Was the King bewitched? Were his ministers blind? Was it possible that no one at Whitehall was aware of what was passing in England and on the Continent? Such foolhardy security could scarcely be the effect of mere improvidence. There must be foul play. James was evidently in bad hands. Barry Long was earnestly cautioned not to repose implicit confidence in the English But he was cautioned in vain. On him, as on James, Sunderland had cast a spell which no exhortation could break. Lewis bestirred himself vigorously. Bon repos, who was far superior to Barry Long in shrewdness and who had always disliked and distrusted Sunderland, was dispatched to London with an offer of naval assistance. A vote was at the same time ordered to declare to the State's General that France had taken James under her protection. A large body of troops was held in readiness to march towards the Dutch frontier. This bold attempt to save the infatuated tyrant in his own despite was made with the full concurrence of Skelton, who was now envoy from England to the Court of Versailles. A vote, in conformity with his instructions, demanded an audience of the States. It was readily granted. The Assembly was unusually large. The general belief was that some overture respecting commerce was about to be made, and the President brought a written answer framed on that supposition, as soon as Auvre began to disclose his errand. Signs of uneasiness were discernible. Those who were believed to enjoy the confidence of the Prince of Orange cast down their eyes. The agitation became great when the envoy announced that his master was strictly bound by the ties of friendship and alliance to his Britannic Majesty, and that any attack on England would be considered as a declaration of war against France. The President, completely taken by surprise, stammered out a few evasive phrases, and the conference terminated. It was at the same time notified to the States that Louis had taken under his protection Cardinal Fürstenberg and the Chapter of Cologne. The deputies were in great agitation. Some recommended caution and delay. Others breathed nothing but war. Louis spoke vehemently of the French insolence, and implored his brethren not to be daunted by threats. The proper answer to such a communication, he said, was to levy more soldiers, and to equip more ships. A courier was instantly dispatched to recall William from Minden, where he was holding a consultation of high moment with the elector of Brandenburg. But there was no cause for alarm. James was bent on ruining himself, and every attempt to stop him only made him rush more eagerly to his doom. When his throne was secure, when his people were submissive, when the most obsequious of parliaments was eager to anticipate all his reasonable wishes, when foreign kingdoms and common wealths paid emulous court to him, when it depended only on himself whether he would be the arbiter of Christendom, he had stooped to be the slave and hireling of France. And now, when by a series of crimes and follies he had succeeded in alienating his neighbors, his subjects, his soldiers, his sailors, his children, and had left himself no refuge but the protection of France, he was taken with a fit of pride, and determined to assert his independence. That help which, when he did not want it, he had accepted with ignominious tears, he now, when it was indispensable to him, threw contemptuously away. Having been abject, when he might, with propriety have been punctilious in maintaining his dignity, he became ungratefully haughty at a moment when haughtiness must bring on him at once derision and ruin. He resented the friendly intervention which might have saved him. Was ever king so used?  Was he a petty prince, a cardinal Furstenberg, who must fall, if not upheld, by a powerful patron? Was he to be degraded in the estimation of all Europe by an ostentatious patronage which he had never asked? Skelton was recalled to answer for his conduct, and as soon as he arrived was committed prisoner to the tower. Sitters was well received at Whitehall, and had a long audience. He could, with more truth than diplomatists on such occasions think at all necessary, disclaim on the part of the State's general any hostile project. For the State's general had as yet no official knowledge of the design of William, nor was it by any means impossible that they might even now refuse to sanction that design. James declared that he gave not the least credit to the rumours of a Dutch invasion, and that the conduct of the French government had surprised and annoyed him. Middleton was directed to assure all the foreign ministers that there existed no such alliance between France and England as the court of Versailles had, for its own ends, pretended. To the Nuncio the King said that the designs of Louis were palpable and should be frustrated. This officious protection was at once an insult and a snare. My good brother, said James, has excellent qualities, but flattery and vanity have turned his head. Ada, who was much more anxious about Cologne than about England, encouraged this strange delusion. Albaville, who had now returned to his post, was commanded to give friendly assurances to the State's general, and to add some high language which might have been becoming in the mouth of Elizabeth or Oliver. My master, he said, is raised alike by his power and by his spirit above the position which France affects to assign to him. There is some difference between a King of England and an Archbishop of Cologne. The reception of Bonn-Rippo at Whitehall was cold. The naval suckers which he offered were not absolutely declined, but he was forced to return without having settled anything, and the envoys, both of the United Provinces and of the House of Austria, were informed that his mission had been disagreeable to the King, and had produced no result. After the revolution Sunderland boasted, and probably with truth that he had induced his master to reject the proffered assistance of France. The perverse folly of James naturally excited the indignation of his powerful neighbor. This complained that, in return for the greatest service which he could render to the English government, that government had given him the lie in the face of all Christendom. He justly remarked that what Avau had said, touching the alliance between France and Great Britain, was true according to the spirit, though perhaps not according to the letter. There was not indeed a treaty digested into articles, signed, sealed, and ratified, but assurances equivalent in the estimation of honourable men to such a treaty had during some years been constantly exchanged between the two courts. Louis added that, high as was his own place in Europe, he should never be so absurdly jealous of his dignity as to see an insult in any act prompted by friendship. But James was in a very different situation, and would soon learn the value of that aid which he had so ungraciously rejected. Yet, notwithstanding the stupidity and ingratitude of James, it would have been wise in Louis to persist in the resolution which had been notified to the State's General. Avau, whose sagacity and judgment made him an antagonist worthy of William, was decidedly of this opinion. The first object of the French government, so the skillful envoy reasoned, ought to be to prevent the intended dissent on England. The way to prevent that dissent was to invade the Spanish Netherlands, and to menace the Batavian frontier. The Prince of Orange indeed was so bent on his darling enterprise that he would persist, even if the white flag were flying on the walls of Brussels. He had actually said that, if the Spaniards could only manage to keep Austin to Mons and Nemours till the next spring, he would then return from England with a force which would soon recover all that had been lost. But though such was the Prince's opinion, it was not the opinion of the States. They would not readily consent to send their Captain General and the flower of their army across the German Ocean, while a formidable enemy threatened their own territory. Lewis admitted the force of these reasonings. But he had already resolved on a different line of action. Perhaps he had been provoked by the discurtecy and wrongheadedness of the English government, and indulged his temper at the expense of his interest. Perhaps he was misled by the counsels of his ministers of war, Levoix, whose influence was great, and who regarded Avau with no friendly feeling. It was determined to strike in a quarter remote from Holland a great and unexpected blow. Lewis suddenly withdrew his troops from Flanders and poured them into Germany. One army, placed under the nominal command of the Dauphin, but really directed by the Duke of Duras and by Volban, the father of the science of fortification, invested Philipsburg. Another, led by the Marquess of Beauflures, seized verms, ments, and treves. A third, commanded by the Marquess of Humieres, entered Bonn. All down the Rhine, from Karlsruhe to Cologne, the French arms were victorious. The news of the fall of Philipsburg reached Versailles on All Saints' Day, while the court was listening to a sermon in the chapel. The king made a sign to the preacher to stop, announced the good news to the congregation, and kneeling down returned thanks to God for this great success. The audience wept for joy. The tidings were eagerly welcomed by the sanguine and susceptible people of France. Poets celebrated the triumphs of their magnificent patron. Orators extolled from the pulpit the wisdom and magnanimity of the eldest son of the church. The Tadeum was sung with unwanted pomp, and the solemn notes of the organ were mingled with the clash of the symbol and the blast of the trumpet. But there was little cause for rejoicing. The great statesman, who was at the head of the European coalition, smiled inwardly at the misdirected energy of his foe. Lewis had, indeed, by his promptitude gained some advantages on the side of Germany. But those advantages would avail little if England, inactive and inglorious under four successive kings, should suddenly resume her old rank in Europe. A few weeks would suffice for the enterprise on which the fate of the world depended. And for a few weeks the United Provinces were in security. William now urged on his preparations with indefatigable activity, and with less secrecy than he had hitherto thought necessary. Assurances of support came pouring in daily from foreign courts. Opposition had become extinct at the hog. It was in vain that a foe, even at this last moment, exerted all his skill to reanimate the faction which had contended against three generations of the House of Orange. The chiefs of that faction indeed still regarded the stat holder with no friendly feeling. They had reason to fear that if he prospered in England he would become absolute master of Holland. Nevertheless the errors of the court of Versailles and the dexterity with which he had availed himself of those errors made it impossible to continue the struggle against him. He saw that the time had come for demanding the sanction of the states. Amsterdam was the headquarters of the party hostile to his line, his office and his person, and even from Amsterdam he had at this moment nothing to apprehend. Some of the chief functionaries of that city had been repeatedly closeted with him, with Dickfelt, and with Bentink, and had been induced to promise that they would promote, or at least they would not oppose, the great design. Some were exasperated by the commercial edicts of Louis. Some were in deep distress for kinsmen and friends who were harassed by the French dragoons. Some shrank from the responsibility of causing a schism which might be fatal to the Batavian Federation, and some were afraid of the common people, who stimulated by the exhortations of zealous preachers were ready to execute summary justice on any traitor to the Protestant cause. The majority therefore of that town council which had long been devoted to France pronounced in favour of William's undertaking. Thenceforth all fear of opposition in any part of the United Provinces was at an end, and the full sanction of the Federation to his enterprise was, in secret sittings, formally given. The Prince had already fixed upon a general well qualified to be second in command. This was indeed no light matter. A random shot, or the dagger of an assassin, might in a moment leave the expedition without a head. It was necessary that a successor should be ready to fill the vacant place, yet it was impossible to make choice of any Englishman without giving a fence either to the wigs or to the tories. Nor had any Englishman then living shown that he possessed the military skill necessary for the conduct of a campaign. On the other hand, it was not easy to assign preeminence to a foreigner without wounding the national sensibility of the haughty islanders. One man there was, and only one in Europe to whom no objection could be found. Frederick, Count of Schomburg, a German, sprung from a noble house of the Palatinate. He was generally esteemed the greatest living master of the art of war. His rectitude and piety, tried by strong temptations and never found wanting, commanded general respect and confidence. Though a Protestant, he had been through many years in the service of Louis, and had in spite of the ill offices of the Jesuits extorted from his employer by a series of great actions, the staff of a marshal from France. When persecution began to rage, the brave veterans steadfastly refused to purchase the royal favour by apostasy, resigned without one murmur all his honours and commands, quitted his adopted country for ever, and took refuge at the court of Berlin. He had passed his seventieth year, but both his mind and his body were still in full vigor. He had been in England, and was much loved and honoured there. He had indeed a recommendation of which very few foreigners could then boast, for he spoke our language not only intelligibly, but with grace and purity. He was, with the consent of the elector of Brandenburg, and with the warm approbation of the chiefs of all English parties, appointed William Sliftenand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by John Leader Bloomington, Illinois. History of England, from the accession of James II by Thomas Babington Macaulay, Chapter 9, Part XI. And now the Hague was crowded with British adventurers of all the various parties which the tyranny of James had united in a strange coalition. Old royalists who had shed their blood for the throne. Old agitators of the army of the Parliament. Tories who had been persecuted in the days of the Exclusion Bill. Wigs who had fled to the continent for their share in the Rye House plot. Conspicuous in this great assemblage were Charles Gerard, Earl of Macclesfield, an ancient cavalier who had fought for Charles I, and had shared the exile of Charles II. Archibald Campbell, who was the eldest son of the unfortunate Argyle, but had inherited nothing except an illustrious name and the inalienable affection of a numerous clan. Charles Paulette, Earl of Wiltshire, heir-apparent of the Marquesset of Winchester, and Peregrin Osborn, Lord Dumblane, heir-apparent of the Earl-dom of Danby. Mordont, exalting in the prospect of Ventures irresistibly attractive to his fiery nature, was among the foremost volunteers. Fletcher of Salton had learned, while guarding the frontier of Christendom against the Infidels, that there was once more a hope of deliverance for his country, and had hastened to offer the help of his sword. Sir Patrick Hume, who had, since his flight from Scotland, lived humbly at Utrecht, now emerged from his obscurity, but, fortunately, his eloquence, could on this occasion do little mischief, for the Prince of Orange was by no means disposed to be the lieutenant of a debating society such as that which had ruined the enterprise of Argyle. The subtle and rustless wildman, who had some time before found England an unsafe residence, and had retired to Germany, now repaired from Germany to the Prince's court. There, too, was Carstairs, a Presbyterian minister from Scotland, who, in craft and courage, had no superior among the politicians of his age. He had been entrusted some years before by Fagel, with important secrets, and had resolutely kept them in spite of the most horrible torments which could be inflicted by boot and thumbscrew. His rare fortitude had earned for him as large a share of the Prince's confidence and esteem as it was granted to any man except venting. Ferguson could not remain quiet when a revolution was preparing. He secured for himself a passage in the fleet, and made himself busy among his fellow immigrants. But he found himself generally distrusted and despised. He had been a great man in the knot of ignorant and hot-headed outlaws, who had urged the feeble Monmouth to destruction. But there was no place for a low-minded agitator, half maniac and half-nave, among the grave statesmen and generals, who partook the cares of the resolute and sagacious William. The difference between the expedition of 1685 and the expedition of 1688 was sufficiently marked by the difference between the manifestos which the leaders of those expeditions published. For Monmouth Ferguson had scribbled an absurd and brutal libel about the burning of London, the strangling of Godfrey, the butchering of Essex, and the poisoning of Charles. The declaration of William was drawn up by the grand pensionary Fagal, who was highly renowned as a publicist. Though weighty and learned, it was, in its original form, much too Prolex, but it was abridged and translated into English by Burnett, who well understood the art of popular composition. It began by a solemn preamble, setting forth that in every community the strict observance of the law was necessary alike to the happiness of nations and to the security of governments. The Prince of Orange had therefore seen with deep concern that the fundamental laws of a kingdom with which he was by blood and by marriage closely connected had, by the advice of evil councilors, been grossly and systematically violated. The power of dispensing with acts of parliament had been strained to such a point that the whole legislative authority had been transferred to the crown. Decisions at variance with the spirit of the Constitution had been obtained from the tribunals by turning out judge after judge to the bench had been filled with men ready to obey implicitly the directions of the government. Notwithstanding the king's repeated assurances that he would maintain the established religion, persons notoriously hostile to that religion had been promoted not only to civil offices, but also to ecclesiastical benefits. The government of the church had, in defiance of express statutes, been entrusted to a new court of high commission, and in that court one avowed papest had a seat. Good subjects, for refusing to violate their duty and their oaths, had been ejected from their property in contempt of the great charter of the liberties of England. Meanwhile, persons who could not legally set foot on the island had been placed at the head of seminaries for the corruption of youth. Lieutenants, deputy lieutenants, justices of the peace, had been dismissed in multitudes for refusing to support a pernicious and unconstitutional policy. The franchises of almost every borough in the realm had been invaded. The courts of justice were in such a state that their decisions, even in civil matters, had ceased to inspire confidence, and that their servility in criminal cases had brought on the kingdom the stain of innocent blood. All these abuses, loath by the English nation, were to be defended, it seemed by an army of Irish papists. Nor was this all. The most arbitrary princes had never accounted in offense in a subject modestly and peaceably to represent his grievances and to ask for relief. But supplication was now treated as a high misdemeanor in England. For no crime but that of offering to the sovereign a petition drawn up in the most respectful terms, the fathers of the church had been imprisoned and prosecuted, and every judge who gave his voice in their favor had instantly been turned out. The calling of a free and lawful parliament might indeed be an effectual remedy for all these evils, but such a parliament, unless the whole spirit of the administration were changed, the nation could not hope to see. It was evidently the intention of the court to bring together by means of regulated corporations and of popish returning officers a body which would be a house of commons in name alone. Lastly, there were circumstances which raised a grave suspicion that the child who was called Prince of Wales was not really born of the Queen. For these reasons the Prince, mindful of his near relation to the royal house, and grateful for the affection which the English people had ever shown to his beloved wife and to himself, had resolved in compliance with the request of many lords spiritual and temporal, and of many other persons of all ranks, to go over at the head of a force sufficient to repel violence. He abjured all thought of conquest. He protested that, while his troops remained in the island, they should be kept under the strictest restraints of discipline, and that, as soon as the nation had been delivered from tyranny, they should be sent back. His single object was to have a free and legal parliament assembled, and to the decision of such a parliament he solemnly pledged himself to leave all questions, both public and private. As soon as copies of this declaration were banded about the Hague, signs of dissension began to appear among the English. Wildman, indefatigable and mischief, prevailed on some of his countrymen, and among others, on the headstrong and volatile mordant, to declare that they would not take up arms on such grounds. The paper had been drawn up merely to please the Cavaliers and the Parsons. The injuries of the church and the trial of the bishops had been put too prominently forward, and nothing had been said of the tyrannical manner in which the Tories, before their rupture with the court, had treated the Whigs. Wildman then brought forward a counter-project, prepared by himself which, if it had been adopted, would have disgusted all the Anglican clergy, and four-fifths of the landed aristocracy. The leading Whigs strongly opposed him. Russell in particular declared that, if such an insane course were taken, there would be an end of the coalition from which alone the nation could expect deliverance. The dispute was at length settled by the authority of William, who, with his usual good sense, determined that the manifesto should stand nearly as fable and Burnett had framed it. While these things were passing in Holland, James had at length become sensible of his danger. Intelligence which could not be disregarded came pouring in from various quarters. At length a despatch from Albaville removed all doubts. It is said that, when the King had read it, the blood left his cheeks, and he remained sometimes speechless. He might indeed well be appalled. The first easterly wind would bring a hostile armament to the shores of Israel. All Europe, one single power alone accepted, was impatiently waiting for the news of his downfall. The help of that single power he had madly rejected, nay, he had requited with insult the friendly intervention which might have saved him. The French armies, which, but for his own folly, might have been employed in overhauling the State's general, were besieging Philipsburg or garrisoning Ments. In a few days he might have to fight on English ground for his crown and for the birthright of his infant son. His means were indeed in appearance great. The Navy was in a much more efficient state than at the time of his accession, and the improvement is partly to be attributed to his own exertions. He had appointed no Lord High Admiral or Boards of Admiralty, but had kept the chief direction of Maritime Affairs in his own hands, and had been strenuously assisted by Pepis. It is a proverb that the eye of a master is more to be trusted than that of a deputy, and in an age of corruption and peculation, a department on which his sovereign, even of very slender capacity, bestows close personal attention, is likely to be comparatively free from abuses. It would have been easy to find an abler minister of Marine than James, but it would not have been easy to find, among the public men of that age, any minister of Marine except James, who had not have embezzled stores, taken bribes from contractors, and charged the crown with the cost of repairs which had never been made. The King was, in truth, almost the only person who could be trusted not to rob the King. There had therefore been, during the last three years, much less waste and pilfering in the dockyards than formerly. Ships had been built which were fit to go to sea. An excellent order had been issued, increasing the allowances of captains, and at the same time strictly forbidding them to carry merchandise from port to port without the royal permission. The effect of these reforms was already perceptible, and James found no difficulty in fitting out, at short notice, a considerable fleet. Thirty ships of the line, all third-rates and fourth-rates, were collected in the Thames under the command of Lord Dartmouth. The loyalty of Dartmouth was above suspicion, and he was thought to have as much professional skill and knowledge as any of the patrician sailors who, in that age, rose to the highest naval commands without a regular naval training, and who were at once flag officers on the sea and colonels of infantry on shore. The regular army was the largest that any King of England had ever commanded, and was rapidly augmented. New companies were incorporated with the existing regiments. Commissions for the raising of fresh regiments were issued. Four thousand men were added to the English establishment. Three thousand were sent for with all speed from Ireland. As many more were ordered to march southward from Scotland. James estimated the force with which he should be able to meet the invaders at near 40,000 troops exclusive of the militia. The navy and army were therefore far more than sufficient to repel a Dutch invasion. But could the navy, could the army, be trusted? Would not the train bands flock by thousands to the standard of the deliverer? The party which had, a few years before, drawn the sword for Monmouth would undoubtedly be eager to welcome the Prince of Orange. And what had become of the party which had, during seven and forty years, been the bulwark of monarchy. Where were now those gallant gentlemen who had ever been ready to shed their blood for the crown? Outraged and insulted, driven from the bench of justice and deprived of all military command, they saw the peril of their ungrateful sovereign with undisguised delight. Where were those priests and prelates who had from 10,000 pulpits proclaimed the duty of obeying the anointed delegate of God? Some of them had been imprisoned. Some had been plundered. All had been placed under the iron rule of the High Commission and had been an hourly fear lest some new freak of tyranny should deprive them of their freeholds and leave them without a morsel of bread. That churchman would even now so completely forget the doctrine which had been their peculiar boast as to join in active resistance seemed incredible. But could the repressor expect to find among them the spirit which in the preceding generation had triumphed over the armies of Essex and Waller, and had yielded only after a desperate struggle to the genius and vigor of Cromwell? The tyrant was overcome by fear. He ceased to repeat that concession had always ruined the princes, and so only owned that he must stoop to court the Tories once more. There was reason to believe that Halifax was, at this time, invited to return to office, and that he was not unwilling to do so. The part of mediator between the throne and the nation was, of all parts, that for which he was best qualified, and of which he was most ambitious. How the negotiation with him was broken off is not known, but it is not improbable that the question of the dispensing power was the insurmountable difficulty. His hostility to that power had caused his disgrace three years before, and nothing that had since happened had been of a nature to change his views. James, on the other hand, was fully determined to make no concession on that point. As to other matters he was less pertenacious. He put forth the proclamation in which he solemnly promised to protect the Church of England and to maintain the act of uniformity. He declared himself willing to make great sacrifices for the sake of conquered. He would no longer insist that Roman Catholic should be admitted into the House of Commons, and he trusted that his people would justly appreciate such a proof of his disposition to meet their wishes. Three days later he notified his intention to replace all the magistrates and deputy lieutenants who had been dismissed for refusing to support his policy. On the day after the appearance of this notification, competent suspension was taken off. At the same time, the King gave an audience to all the bishops who were then in London. They had requested admittance to his presence for the purpose of tendering their council in this emergency. The primate was spokesman. He respectfully asked that the administration might be put into the hands of persons duly qualified, that all acts done under pretense of the dispensing power might be revoked, that the ecclesiastical commission might be annulled, that the wrongs of Magdalene College might be redressed, and that the old franchises of the municipal corporations might be restored. He hinted very intelligibly that there was one most desirable event which would completely secure the throne and quiet the distracted realm. If his majesty would reconsider the points in dispute between the Churches of Rome and England, perhaps by the divine blessing on the arguments which the bishops wished to lay before him, he might be convinced that it was his duty to return to the religion of his father and of his grandfather. Thus far, Sankrov said, he had spoken the sense of his brethren. There remained a subject on which he had not taken counsel with them, but to which he thought it his duty to advert. He was indeed the only man of his profession who could advert to that subject without being suspected of an interested motive. The Metropolitan Sea of York had been three years vacant. The Archbishop implored the king to fill it speedily with a pious and learned divine, and added that such a divine might without difficulty be found among those who then stood in the royal presence. The king commanded himself sufficiently to return thanks for this unpalatable counsel and promised to consider what had been said. Of the dispensing power he would not yield one tittle. No unqualified person was removed from any civil or military office, but some of Sankrov's suggestions were adopted. Within four to eight hours the Court of High Commission was abolished. It was determined that the Charter of the City of London, which had been forfeited six years before, should be restored, and the Chancellor was sent in state to carry back the venerable parchment to Guildhall. A week later the public was informed that the Bishop of Winchester, who was by virtue of his office visitor of Magdalen College, had it in charge from the king to correct whatever was amiss in that society. It was not without a long struggle and a bitter pang that James stooped to this last humiliation. Indeed, he did not yield to the vicar apostolic laborer, who seems to have behaved on all occasions like a wise and honest man, declared that in his judgment the ejected president and fellows had been wronged, and that on religious as well as on political grounds restitution ought to be made to them. In a few days appeared a proclamation restoring the forfeited franchises of all the municipal corporations. James flattered himself that concessions so great, made in the short space of a month, would bring back to him the hearts of his people. Nor can it be doubted that such concessions made before there was reason to expect an invasion from Holland would have done much to conciliate the Tories. But gratitude is not to be expected by rulers who give to fear what they have refused to justice.  Every minister who had dared to raise his voice in favor of the civil and ecclesiastical constitution of the realm had been disgraced. A parliament eminently loyal had ventured to protest gently and respectfully against the violation of the fundamental laws of England, and had been sternly reprimanded, prorogued, and dissolved. Judge after judge had been stripped of the ermine for declining to give decisions opposed to the whole common and statute law. The most respectable cavaliers had been excluded from all share in the government of their counties for refusing to betray the public liberties. Scores of clergymen had been deprived of their livelihood for observing their oaths. Prelates, to whose steadfast fidelity the king owed the crown which he wore, had on their knees besought him not to command them to violate the laws of God and of the land. Their modest petition had been treated as a seditious libel. They had been brown-beaten, threatened, imprisoned, prosecuted, and had narrowly escaped utter ruin. Then at length the nation, fighting that Wright was born down by might, and that even supplication was regarded as a crime, began to think of trying the chances of war. The oppressor learned that an armed deliverer was at hand and would be eagerly welcomed by wigs and tories, dissenters, and churchmen. All was immediately changed. That government which had required constant and zealous service with spoliation and persecution, that government which, to weighty reasons and pathetic entreaties, had replied only by injuries and insults, became in a moment strangely gracious. Evergazette now announced the removal of some grievance. It was then evident that on the equity the humanity depleted word of the king no reliance could be placed, and that he would govern well only so long as he was under the strong dread of resistance. His subjects were therefore by no means disposed to restore him a confidence which he had justly forfeited, or to relax the pressure which had wrung from him the only good acts of his whole reign. The general impatience for the arrival of the Dutch became every day stronger. The gales which at this time blew obstinately from the west, and which at once prevented the prince's armament from sailing and brought fresh Irish regiments from Dublin to Chester, were bitterly cursed and reviled by the common people. The weather, it was said, was popish. Crowds stood and cheapside gazing intently at the weather-cock on the graceful steeple of Bow Church, and praying for a Protestant wind. End of Part 11. History of England. Chapter 9. Part 12 The general feeling was strengthened by an event which, though merely accidental, was not unnaturally ascribed to the perfidy of the king. The Bishop of Winchester announced that, in obedience to the royal commands, he designed to restore the ejected members of modelling college. He fixed the 21st of October for this ceremony, and on the 20th went down to Oxford. The whole university was in expectation. The expelled fellows had arrived from all parts of the kingdom, eager to take possession of their beloved home. Three hundred gentlemen on horseback escorted the visitor to his lodgings. As he passed, the bells rang and the high street was crowded with shouting spectators. He retired to rest. The next morning a joyous crowd assembled at the gates of Maudlin. But the bishop did not make his appearance, and soon it was known that he had been roused from his bed by a royal messenger, and had been directed to repair immediately to Whitehall. This strange disappointment caused much wonder and anxiety, but in a few hours came news which, to minds disposed not without reason to think the worst, seemed completely to explain the king's change of purpose. The Dutch armament had put out to sea, and had been driven back by a storm. The disaster was exaggerated by rumour. Many ships it was said had been lost. Thousands of horses had perished. All thought of a design on England must be relinquished at least for the present year. Here was a lesson for the nation. While James expected immediate invasion and rebellion, he had given orders that reparations should be made to those whom he had unlawfully despoiled. As soon as he found himself safe, these orders had been revoked. This imputation, though at that time generally believed, and though since that time repeated by writers who ought to have been well informed, was without foundation. It is certain that the mishap of the Dutch fleet could not, by any mode of communication, have been known at Westminster till some hours after the Bishop of Winchester had received the summons which called him away from Oxford. The king, however, had little right to complain of the suspicions of his people. If they sometimes without severely examining evidence ascribed to his dishonest policy what was really the effect of accident or inadvertence, the fault was his own. That men who are in the habit of breaking faith should be distrusted when they mean to keep it is part of their just and natural punishment. It is remarkable that James, on this occasion, incurred one unmerited imputation solely in consequence of his eagerness to clear himself from another imputation equally unmerited. The Bishop of Winchester had been hastily summoned from Oxford to attend an extraordinary meeting of the privy council, or rather an assembly of notables which had been convoked at Whitehall. With the privy councillors were joined in this solemn sitting all the peers spiritual and temporal who chanced to be in or near the capital, the judges, the crowned lawyers, the Lord Mayor, and the alderman of the City of London. A hint had been given to Peter that he would do well to absent himself. In truth few of the peers would have chosen to sit with him. Near the head of the board a chair of state was placed for the Queen Dowager. The Princess Anne had been requested to attend, but had excused herself on the plea of delicate health. James informed this great assembly that he thought it necessary to produce proofs of the birth of his son. The arts of bad men had poisoned the public mind to such an extent that very many believed the Prince of Wales to be a suppositious child. But Providence had graciously ordered things so that scarcely any Prince had come into the world in the presence of so many witnesses. Those witnesses then appeared and gave their evidence. After all the depositions had been taken James with great solemnity declared that the imputation thrown on him was utterly false, and that he would rather die a thousand deaths than wrong any of his children. All who were present appeared to be satisfied. The evidence was instantly published and was allowed by judicious and impartial persons to be decisive. But the judicious are always a minority, and scarcely any body then was impartial. The whole nation was convinced that all sincere papists thought it a duty to purger themselves whenever they could by perjury serve the interests of their church. Men who, having been bred Protestants, had for the sake of Lucca, pretended to be converted to papery were, if possible, less trustworthy than sincere papists. The depositions of all who belonged to these two classes were therefore regarded as mere nullities. Thus the weight of the testimony on which James had relied was greatly reduced. What remained was malignantly scrutinized. To every one of the few Protestant witnesses who had said anything material some exception was taken. One was notoriously a greedy sycophant, another had not indeed yet apostatized but was nearly related to an apostate. The people asked, as they had asked from the first, why, if all was right the king, knowing as he knew that many doubted the reality of his wise pregnancy, had not taken care that the birth should be more satisfactorily proved. Was there nothing suspicious in the false reckoning, in the sudden change of abode, in the absence of the Princess Anne and of the Archbishop of Canterbury? Why was no prelet of the established church in attendance? Why was not the Dutch ambassador summoned? Why, above all, were not the hides? Loyal servants of the crown, faithful sons of the church, and natural guardians of the interests of their nieces, suffered to mingle with the crowd of papists which was assembled in and near the royal bedchamber? Why, in short, was there in the long list of assistants not a single name which commanded public confidence and respect? The true answer to these questions was that the king's understanding was weak, that his temper was despotic, and that he had willingly seized an opportunity of manifesting his contempt for the opinion of his subjects. But the multitude, not contented with this explanation, attributed to deep-laid villainy what was rarely the effect of folly and perverseness. Nor was this opinion confined to the multitude. The Lady Anne, at her toilet on the morning after the council, spoke of the investigation with such scorn, as emboldened the very tire women who were dressing her to put in their jests. Some of the lords, who heard the examination and had appeared to be satisfied, were really unconvinced. Lloyd, Bishop of St. Assoff, whose piety and learning commanded general respect, continued to the end of his life to believe that a fraud had been practised. The depositions taken before the council had not been many hours in the hands of the public when it was noised abroad that Sunderland had been dismissed from all his places. The news of his disgrace seems to have taken the politicians of the coffee-houses by surprise, but did not astonish those who had observed what was passing in the palace. Treason had not been brought home to him by legal or even by tangible evidence, but there was a strong suspicion among those who watched him closely that, through some channel or other, he was in communication with the enemies of that government in which he occupied so high a place. He, with unabashed for it, implicated on his own head all evil here and hereafter if he was guilty. His only fault, he protested, was that he had served the crown too well. Had he not given hostages to the royal cause? Had he not broken down every bridge by which he could in case of a disaster effect his retreat? Had he not gone all lengths in favour of the dispensing power, sat in the High Commission, signed the warrant for the commitment of the bishops, appeared as a witness against them at the hazard of his life amidst the hisses and curses of the thousands who filled Westminster Hall? Had he not given the last proof of fidelity by renouncing his religion and publicly joining a church which the nation detested? What had he to hope from a change? What had he not to dread? These arguments, though plausible and though set off by the most insinuating address, could not remove the impression which whispers and reports arriving at once from a hundred different quarters had produced. The King became daily colder and colder. Sunderland attempted to support himself by the Queen's help, obtained an audience of Her Majesty, and was actually in her apartment when Middleton entered and by the King's orders demanded the seals. That evening the fallen minister was for the last time closeted with the Prince whom he had flattered and betrayed. The interview was a strange one. Sunderland acted columniated virtue to perfection. He regretted not, he said, the secretarieship of state or the presidency of the council, if only he retained his sovereign's esteem. Do not, sir, do not make me the most unhappy gentleman in your dominions by refusing to declare that you will quit me of disloyalty. The King hardly knew what to believe. There was no positive proof of guilt, and the energy and pathos with which Sunderland lied might have imposed on a keener understanding than that with which he had to deal. At the French Embassy his profession still found credit. There he declared that he should remain a few days in London and show himself at court. He would then retire to his country seat at Allthorpe and try to repair his dilapidated fortunes by economy. If a revolution should take place he must fly to France. His ill-requited loyalty had left him no other place of refuge. The seals which had been taken from Sunderland were delivered to Preston. The same gazette which announced this change contained the official intelligence of the disaster which had befallen the Dutch fleet. That disaster was serious, though far less serious than the King, and his few adherents misled by their wishes were disposed to believe. On the 16th of October, according to the English Reckoning, was held a solemn sitting of the States of Holland. The Prince came to bid them farewell. He thanked them for the kindness with which they had watched over him when he was left an orphan child, for the confidence which they had reposed in him during his administration, and for the assistance which they had granted to him at this momentous crisis. He entreated them to believe that he had always meant and endeavoured to promote the interest of his country. He was now quitting them, perhaps never to return. If he should fall in defence of the reformed religion and of the independence of Europe, he commended his beloved wife to their care. The grand pensionary answered in a faltering voice, and in all that grave senate there was none who could refrain from shedding tears. But the iron stoicism of William never gave way, and he stood among his weeping friends, calm and austere, as if he had been about to leave them only for a short visit to his hunting grounds at Lou. The deputies of the principal towns accompanied him to his yacht. Even the representatives of Amsterdam, so long the chief seat of opposition to his administration, joined in paying him this compliment. Public prayers were offered for him on that day in all the churches of the Hague. In the evening he arrived at Helvetseleis and went on board of a frigate called the Brill. His flag was immediately hoisted. It displayed the arms of Nassau, quartered with those of England. The motto, embroidered in letters three feet long, was happily chosen. The house of Orange had long used the elliptical device, I will maintain. The ellipsis was now filled up with words of high import, the liberties of England and the Protestant religion. The prince had not been many hours on board when the wind became fair. On the nineteenth the armament put to sea, and traversed before a strong breeze about half the distance between the Dutch and English coasts. Then the wind changed, blew hard from the west, and swelled into a violent tempest. The ships, scattered and in great distress, regained the shore of Holland as they best might. The Brill reached Helvetseleis on the twenty-first. The prince's fellow passengers had observed with admiration that neither peril nor mortification had for one moment disturbed his composure. He now, though suffering from seasickness, refused to go on shore, for he conceived that by remaining on board he should in the most effectual manner notify to Europe that the late Miss Fortune had only delayed for a very short time the execution of his purpose. In two or three days the fleet reassembled. One vessel only had been cast away, not a single soldier or sailor was missing. Some horses had perished, but this lost the prince with great expedition repaired, and before the London Gazette had spread the news of his mishap, he was again ready to sail. His declaration preceded him only by a few hours. On the first of November it began to be mentioned in mysterious whispers by the politicians of London, was passed secretly from man to man, and was slipped into the boxes of the post-office. One of the agents was arrested, and the packets of which he was in charge were carried to Whitehall. The king read, and was greatly troubled. His first impulse was to hide the paper from all human eyes. He threw into the fire every copy which had been brought to him except one, and that one he would scarcely trust out of his own hands. The paragraph in the manifesto which disturbed him most was that in which it was said that some of the peers, spiritual and temporal, had invited the Prince of Orange to invade England. Halifax, Clarendon and Nottingham were then in London. They were immediately summoned to the palace and interrogated. Halifax, though conscious of innocence, refused at first to make any answer. Your Majesty asks me, said he, whether I have committed high treason. If I am suspected, let me be brought before my peers. And how can Your Majesty place any dependence on the answer of a culprit whose life is at stake? Even if I had invited his Highness over, I should without scruple plead not guilty. The king declared that he did not at all consider Halifax as a culprit, and that he had asked the question as one gentleman asks another, who has been culminated whether there is the least foundation for the column name. In that case, said Halifax, I have no objection to a ver as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman on my honour, which is as sacred as my oath that I have not invited the Prince of Orange over. Clarendon and Nottingham said the same. The king was still more anxious to ascertain the temper of the prelates. If they were hostile to him, his throne was indeed in danger. But it could not be. There was something monstrous in the supposition that any bishop of the Church of England could rebel against his sovereign. Compton was called into the royal closet, and was asked whether he believed that there was the slightest ground for the Prince's assertion. The bishop was in a strait, for he himself was one of the seven who had signed the invitation, and his conscience, not a very enlightened conscience, would not suffer him, it seems, to utter a direct falsehood. Sir, he said, I am quite confident that there is not one of my brethren who is not as guiltless as myself in this matter. The equivocation was ingenious, but whether the difference between the sin of such an equivocation and the sin of a lie be worth any expensive ingenuity may perhaps be doubted. The king was satisfied. I fully acquit you all, he said, but I think it necessary that you should publicly contradict the slanderous charge brought against you in the Prince's declaration. The bishop very naturally begged that he might be allowed to read the paper which he was required to contradict, but the king would not suffer him to look at it. On the following day appeared a proclamation threatening with the severest punishment, all who should circulate or who should even dare to read William's manifesto. The primate and the few spiritual peers who happened to be then in London had orders to wait upon the king. Preston was in attendance with the Prince's declaration in his hand. My lords, said James, listen to this passage. It concerns you. Preston then read the sentence in which the spiritual peers were mentioned. The king proceeded, I do not believe one word of this. I am satisfied of your innocence. But I think it fit to let you know of what you are accused. The primate, with many dutiful expressions, protested that the king did him no more than justice. I was born in your Majesty's allegiance. I have repeatedly confirmed that allegiance by my oath. I can have but one king at a time. I have not invited the Prince over, and I do not believe that a single one of my brethren has done so. I am sure I have not, said crew of Durham. Nor I, said Cartwright of Chester. Crew and Cartwright might well be believed, for both had sat in the ecclesiastical commission. When Compton's turn came, he parried the question, with an adroitness which a Jesuit might have envied. I gave your Majesty my answer yesterday.  Nevertheless it would, in his judgment, be for his service and for their own honour, that they should publicly vindicate themselves. He therefore required them to draw up a paper, setting forth their abhorrence of the Prince's design. They remained silent. Their silence was supposed to imply consent, and they were suffered to withdraw. Meanwhile the fleet of William was on the germination. It was on the evening of Thursday the 1st of November that he put to sea the second time. The wind blew fresh from the east. The armament, during twelve hours, held a course towards the north-west. The light vessels sent out by the English admiral for the purpose of obtaining intelligence, brought back news which confirmed the prevailing opinion that the enemy would try to land in Yorkshire. All at once, on a signal from the Prince's ship, the whole fleet tacked and made sail for the British Channel. The same breeze which favoured the voyage of the invaders prevented Dartmouth from coming out of the Thames. His ships were forced to strike yards and topmasts, and two of his frigates, which gained the open sea, were shattered by the violence of the weather and driven back into the river. End of Part 12 History of England Chapter 9 Part 13 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. History of England From the Accession of James II by Thomas Bavingdon Macaulay Chapter 9 Part 13 The Dutch fleet ran fast before the gale, and reached the straits at about ten in the morning of Saturday the 3rd of November. William himself, in the brill, led the way. More than six hundred vessels with canvas spread to a favourable wind followed in his train. The transports were in the centre. The men of war, more than fifty in number, formed an outer rampart. Herbert, with the title of Lieutenant Admiral General, commanded the whole fleet. His post was in the rear, and many English sailors, inflamed against papery and, attracted by high pay, served under him. It was not without great difficulty that the Prince had prevailed on some Dutch officers of a high reputation to submit to the authority of a stranger. But the arrangement was eminently judicious. There was, in the King's fleet, much discontent and an ardent zeal for the Protestant faith. But, within the memory of old mariners, the Dutch and English navies had thrice, with heroic spirit and various fortune, contended for the Empire of the Sea. Our sailors had not forgotten the broom with which Trump had threatened to sweep the Channel, or the fire which De Reuter had lighted in the dockyards of the Medway. Had the rival nations been once more brought face to face on the element of which both claimed the sovereignty, all other thoughts might have given place to mutual animosity.  Defeat would have been fatal to William's Enterprise. Even victory would have deranged all his deeply meditated schemes of policy. He therefore wisely determined that the pursuers, if they overtook him, should be hailed in their own mother tongue and adjured by an admiral under whom they had served and whom they esteemed, not to fight against old messmates for popish tyranny. Such an appeal might possibly avert a conflict. If a conflict took place, one English commander would be opposed to another, nor would the pride of the Islanders be wounded by learning that Dartmouth had been compelled to strike to Herbert. Happily, William's precautions were not necessary. Soon after midday he passed the straits. His fleet spread to within a league of Dover on the north and of Calais on the south. The men of war on the extreme right and left saluted both fortresses at once. The troops appeared under arms on the decks, the flourish of trumpets, the clash of symbols, and the rolling of drums were distinctly heard at once on the English and the French shores. An innumerable company of gazers blackened the white beach of Kent. Another mighty multitude covered the coast of Piccadilly. Rapa de Soiras, who, driven by persecution from his country, had taken service in the Dutch army and accompanied the Prince to England, described the spectacle many years later as the most magnificent and affecting that was ever seen by human eyes. At sunset the armament was off beachy head. Then the lights were kindled. The sea was in a blaze for many miles, but the eyes of all the steersmen were fixed throughout the night on three huge lanterns which flamed on the stern of the brill. Meanwhile a courier had been riding post from Dovercastle to Whitehall with news that the Dutch had passed the straits and were steering westward. It was necessary to make an immediate change in all the military arrangements. Messengers were dispatched in every direction. Officers were roused from their beds at the dead of night. At three on the Sunday morning there was a great muster by torchlight in Hyde Park. The King had sent several regiments northward in the expectation that William would land in Yorkshire. Expresses were dispatched to recall them. All the forces, except those which were necessary to keep the peace of the capital, were ordered to move to the west. Salisbury was appointed as the place of the rendezvous, but as it was thought possible that Portsmouth might be the first point of attack, three battalions of guards and a strong body of cavalry set out for that fortress. In a few hours it was known that Portsmouth was safe, and these troops received orders to change their route and hasten to Salisbury. When Sunday the 4th of November dawned, the cliffs of the Isle of Wight were full in view of the Dutch armament. That day was the anniversary, both of William's birth and of his marriage. Sail was slackened during part of the morning, and divine service was performed on board of the ships. In the afternoon and through the night the fleet held on its course. Torbay was the place where the Prince intended to land. But the morning of Monday the 5th of November was hazy. The pilot of the Brille could not discern the sea-marks and carried the fleet too far to the west. The danger was great. To return in the face of the wind was impossible. Plymouth was the next port, but at Plymouth a garrison had been posted under the command of Lord Bath. The landing might be opposed, and a check might produce serious consequences. There could be little doubt moreover that by this time the Royal Fleet got out of the Thames and was hastening full sail down the Channel. Russell saw the whole extent of the peril and exclaimed to Burnett, You may go to prayers, Doctor, all is over. At that moment the wind changed. A soft breeze sprang up from the south, the mist dispersed, the sun shone forth, and under the mild light of an autumnal noon the fleet turned back, passed round the lofty Cape of Berry Head, and rode safely in the harbour of Torbay. Since William looked on that harbour its aspect has greatly changed. The amphitheatre which surrounds the spacious base now exhibits everywhere the signs of prosperity and civilisation. At the north-eastern extremity has sprung up a great watering-place to which strangers are attracted from the most remote parts of our island by the Italian softness of the air, for in that climate the myrtle slurrish is unsheltered and even the winter is milder than the Northumbry in April. The inhabitants are about ten thousand in number. The newly built churches and chapels, the baths and libraries, the hotels and public gardens, the infirmary and the museum, the white streets rising terrace above terrace, the gay villas peeping from the midst of shrubberies and flowerbeds present a spectacle widely different from any that in the seventeenth century England could show. At the opposite end of the bay lies, sheltered by Berry Head, the stirring market-town of Bricsome, the wealthiest seat of our fishing trade. A pier and a haven were formed there at the beginning of the present century and have been found insufficient for the increasing traffic. The population is about six thousand cells. The shipping amounts to more than two hundred sail. Tunnage exceeds many times the tunnage of the port of Liverpool under the kings of the house of Stuart. But Torbay, when the Dutch fleet cast anchor there, was known only as a haven where ships sometimes took refuge from the tempests of the Atlantic. Its quiet shores were undisturbed by the bustle either of commerce or of pleasure, and the huts of ploughmen and fishermen were thinly scattered over what is now the site of crowded marts and of luxurious pavilions. The peasantry of the coast of Devonshire remembered the name of Monmouth with affection and held potpourri in detestation. They therefore crowded down to the seaside with provisions and offers of service. The disembarkation instantly commenced. Sixty boats conveyed the troops to the coast. Mackay was sent on shore first with the British regiments. The prince soon followed. He landed where the key of bricksome now stands. The whole aspect of the place has been altered. Where we now see a port crowded with shipping and a market place swarming with buyers and sellers, the waves then broke on a desolate beach. But a fragment of the rock on which the deliverer stepped from his boat has been carefully preserved, and is set up as an object of public veneration in the centre of that busy wharf. As soon as the prince had planted his foot on dry ground, he called for horses. Two beasts, such as the small yeoman of that time were in the habit of riding, were procured from the neighbouring village. William and Schomburg mounted and proceeded to examine the country. As soon as Burnett was on shore, he hastened to the prince. An amusing dialogue took place between them. Burnett poured forth his congratulations with genuine delight, and then eagerly asked what were his highness's plans. Military men are seldom disposed to take counsel with gunsmen on military matters, and William regarded the interference of unprofessional advisers in questions relating to war with even more than disgust ordinarily felt by soldiers on such occasions. But he was at that moment in an excellent humour, and instead of signifying his displeasure by a short and cutting reprimand, graciously extended his hand and answered his chaplain's question by another question. Well, doctor, what do you think of predestination now? The reproof was so delicate that Burnett, whose perceptions were not very fine, did not perceive it. He answered with great fervour that he should never forget the signal manner in which providence had favoured their undertaking. During the first day, the troops who had gone on shore had many discomforts to endure. The earth was soaked with rain. The baggage was still on board the ships. Officers of high rank were compelled to sleep in wet clothes on the wet ground. The prince himself had no better quarters than hut afforded. His banner was displayed on the thatched roof, and some bedding brought from his ship was spread for him on the floor. There was some difficulty about landing the horses, and it seemed probable that this operation would occupy several days. But on the following morning the prospect cleared. The wind was gentle. The water in the bay was as even as glass. Some fishermen pointed out a place where the ships could be brought within sixty feet of the beach. This was done, and in three hours many hundreds of horses swam safely to shore. The disembarkation had hardly been affected when the wind rose again and swelled into a fierce gale from the west. The enemy, coming in pursuit down the channel, had been stopped by the same change of weather which enabled William to land. During two days the king's fleet lay on an unruffled sea in sight of beachy head. At length Dartmouth was able to proceed. He passed the Isle of Wight, and one of his ships came in sight of the Dutch topmasts in Torbay. Just at this moment he was encountered by the Tempest and was compelled to take shelter in the harbour of Portsmouth. At that time, James, who was not incompetent for judgment on a question of seamanship, declared himself perfectly satisfied that his admiral had done all that men could do, and he'd yielded only to the irresistible hostility of the winds and waves. At a later period the unfortunate prince began, with little reason, to suspect Dartmouth of Treachery, or at least of slackness. The weather had indeed served the Protestant cause so well that some men of more piety than judgment fully believed the ordinary laws of nature to have been suspended for the preservation of the liberty and religion of England. Exactly a hundred years before they said the armada invincible by man had been scattered by the wrath of God. Civil freedom and divine truth were again in jeopardy and again the obedient elements had fought for the good cause. The wind had blown strong from the east while the prince wished to sail down the channel, had turned to the south when he wished to enter Torbay, had sunk to a calm during the disembarkation, and, as soon as the disembarkation was completed, had risen to a storm and had met the pursuers in the face. Nor did men omit to remark that, by an extraordinary coincidence, the prince had reached our shores on a day on which the Church of England commemorated, by prayer and thanksgiving, the wonderful escape of the royal house and of the three estates from the blackest plot ever devised by papists. Castares, whose suggestions were sure to meet with attention from the prince, recommended that, as soon as the landing had been effected, public thanks should be offered to God for the protection so conspicuously accorded to the great enterprise. This advice was taken and with excellent effect. The troops, taught to regard themselves as favourites of heaven, were inspired with new courage, and the English people formed the most favourable opinion of a general and an army so attentive to the duties of religion. On Tuesday the 6th of November, William's army began to march up the country. Some regiments advanced as far as Newton Abbot. A stone set up in the midst of that little town still marks the spot where the prince's declaration was solemnly read to the people. The movements of the troops were slow, for the rain fell in torrents, and the roads of England were then in a state which seemed frightful to persons accustomed to the excellent communications of Holland. William took up his quarters during two days at Ford, a seat of the ancient and illustrious family of Courtney, in the neighbourhood of Newton Abbot. He was magnificently lodged and feasted there, but it is remarkable that the owner of the house, though a strong weak, did not choose to be the first to put life and fortune in peril, and cautiously abstained from doing anything which, if the king should prevail, could be treated as a crime. Exeter, in the meantime, was greatly agitated. Lample, the bishop, as soon as he heard that the Dutch were at Torbay, set off in terror for London, the dean fled from the denary. The magistrates were for the king, the body of the inhabitants for the prince. Everything was in confusion when, on the morning of Thursday, the 8th of November, a body of troops under the command of Mordent appeared before the city. With Mordent came Burnett, to whom William had entrusted the duty of protecting the clergy of the cathedral from injury and insult. The mayor and alderman had ordered the gates to be closed, but yielded on the first summons. The denary was prepared for the reception of the prince. On the following day, Friday the 9th, he arrived. The magistrates had been pressed to receive him in state at the entrance of the city, but had steadfastly refused. The pomp of that day, however, could well spare them. Such a sight had never been seen in Devonshire. Many went forth half a day's journey to meet the champion of their religion. All the neighbouring villages poured forth their inhabitants. A great crowd, consisting chiefly of young peasants, brandishing their cudgels, had assembled on the top of Helden Hill, whence the army, marching from Chudley, first described the rich valley of the X, and the two massive towers rising from the cloud of smoke which overhung the capital of the West. The road, all down the long descent, and through the plain to the banks of the river, was lined, mile after mile, with spectators. From the west gate to the cathedral close, the pressing and shouting on each side was such as reminded Londoners of the crowds on the Lord Mayor's Day. The houses were gaily decorated. Doors, windows, balconies and roofs were thronged with gazes. An eye accustomed to the pomp of war would have found much to criticise in spectacle. For several toilsome marches in the rain, through roads where one who travelled on foot sank at every step up to the ankles in clay, had not improved the appearance either of the men or of their accoutrements. But the people of Devonshire, altogether unused to the splendour of well-ordered camps, were overwhelmed with delight and awe. Descriptions of the marshal pageant were circulated all over the kingdom. They contained much that was well fitted to gratify the vulgar appetite for the marvellous. For the Dutch army, composed of men who had been born in various climates and had served under various standards, presented an aspect at once grotesque, gorgeous and terrible to islanders who had in general a very indistinct notion of foreign countries. First rode Macklesfield, at the head of two hundred gentlemen, mostly of English blood, glittering in helmets and caresses and mounted on Flemish war-horses. Each was attended by a negro, brought from the sugar plantations, on the coast of Guyana. The citizens of Exeter, who had never seen so many specimens of the African race, gazed with wonder on those black faces set off by embroidered turbans and white feathers. Then, with drawn broad swords came a squadron of Swedish horsemen in black armour and fur cloaks. They were regarded with a strange interest, for it was rumoured that they were natives of a land where the ocean was frozen and where the night lasted through half the year and that they themselves had slain the huge bears whose skins they wore. Next, surrounded by a goodly company of gentlemen and pages, was born aloft the Princess Banner. On its broad folds the crowd which covered the roofs and filled the windows read with delight that memorable inscription, the Protestant Religion and the Liberties of England. But the acclamations redoubled when, attended by forty running footmen, the Prince himself appeared, armed on back and breast, wearing a white plume and mounted on a white charger. With how martial in air he curbed his horse, how thoughtful and commanding was the expression of his ample forehead and falcon eye may still be seen on the canvas of Kneller. Once those grave features relaxed into a smile. It was when an ancient woman, perhaps one of the zealous Puritans who, through twenty-eight years of persecution, had waited with firm faith for the consolation of Israel. Perhaps the mother of some rebel who had perished in the carnage of Sedgemore, or in the more fearful carnage of the Bloody Circuit, broke from the crowd, rushed through the drawn swords and cavetting horses, touched the hand of the deliverer, and cried out that now she was happy. Near to the Prince was one who divided with him the gaze of the multitude. That, men said, was the great Count Schomburg, the first soldier in Europe since Turen and Kond were gone, the man whose genius and valor had saved the Portuguese monarchy on the field of Montes-Claros, the man who had earned a still higher glory by resigning the truncheon of a Marshal of France for the sake of the true religion. It was not forgotten that the two heroes who, indissolubly united by their common Protestantism, were entering Exeter together, had twelve years before been opposed to each other under the walls of Maastricht, and that the energy of the young Prince had not then been found a match for the cool science of the veteran who now rode in friendship by his side. Then came a long column of the whiskered infantry of Switzerland, distinguished in all the continental wars of two centuries by preeminent valor and discipline, but never till that week seen on English ground, and then marched a succession of bands designated, as was the fashion of that age, after their leaders, Bentinck, Soames and Ginkel, Talmars and Mackay. With peculiar pleasure, Englishmen might look on one gallant regiment which still bore the name of the honoured and lamented Ossary. The effect of the spectacle was heightened by the recollection of the renowned events in which many of the warriors now pouring through the Westgate had borne a share, for they had seen service very different from that of the Devonshire militia or of the camp at Hounslow. Some of them had repelled the fiery onset of the French on the field of Sinef. Others had crossed swords with the infidels in the cause of Christendom on that great day when the Siege of Vienna was raised. The very senses of the multitude were fooled by imagination. Newsletters conveyed to every part of the kingdom fabulous accounts of the size and strength of the invaders. It was affirmed that they were, with scarcely an exception above six feet high, and that they wielded such huge pikes, swords, and muskets as had never before been seen in England. Nor did the wonder of the population diminish when the artillery arrived, twenty-one huge pieces of brass cannon, which were with difficulty tugged along by sixteen cart-horses to each. Much curiosity was excited by a strange structure mounted on wheels. It proved to be a movable smithy, furnished with all tools and materials necessary for repairing arms and carriages. But nothing raised so much admiration as the bridge of boats, which was laid with great speed on the X for the conveyance of wagons, and afterwards as speedily taken to pieces and carried away. It was made, if reports said true, after a pattern contrived by the Christians who were warring against the great Turk on the Danube. The foreigners inspired as much goodwill as admiration. Their politic leader took care to distribute the quarters in such a manner as to cause the smallest possible inconvenience to the inhabitants of Exeter and of the neighbouring villages. The most rigid discipline was maintained. Not only were pillage and outrage effectually prevented, but the troops were required to demean themselves with civility towards all classes. Those who had formed their notions of an army from the conduct of Kirk and his lambs were amazed to see soldiers who never swore at a landlady or took an egg without paying for it. In return for this moderation the people furnished the troops with provisions in great abundance and at reasonable prices. Much depended on the course which, at this great crisis, the clergy of the Church of England might take, and the members of the chapter of Exeter were the first who were called upon to declare their sentiments. Burnett informed the cannons, now left without a head by the flight of the dean, that they could not be permitted to use the prayer for the Prince of Wales, and that a solemn service must be performed in honour of the safe arrival of the Prince. The cannons did not choose to appear in their stalls, but some of the choristers and preventaries attended. William repaired in military state to the cathedral. As he passed under the gorgeous screen, that renowned organ, scarcely surpassed by any of those which are the boast of his native Holland, gave out a peel of triumph. He mounted the bishop's seat, a stately throne rich with the carving of the 15th century. Burnett stood below, and a crowd of warriors and nobles appeared on the right hand and on the left. The singers, robed in white, sang the tedium. When the chant was over, Burnett read the Prince's declaration. But as soon as the first words were uttered, preventaries and singers crowded in all haste out of the choir. At the close, Burnett cried in a loud voice, God save the Prince of Orange! And many fervent voices answered, Amen. History of England, from the accession of James II, by Thomas Babington Macaulay, Chapter 9, Part 15 On Sunday the 11th of November, Burnett preached before the Prince in the cathedral, and dilated on the signal mercy vouchsafed by God to the English church and nation. At the same time a singular event happened in a humbler place of worship. Ferguson resolved to preach at the Presbyterian meeting-house. The minister and elders would not consent, but the turbulent and half-witted knave, fancying that the times of Fleetwood and Harrison were come again, forced the door, went through the congregation's sword in hand, mounted the pulpit, and there poured forth a fiery invective against the king. The time for such follies had gone by, and this exhibition excited nothing but derision and disgust. While these things were passing in Devonshire, the ferment was greater in London. The Prince's declaration, in spite of all precautions, was now in every man's hands. On the 6th of November, James, still uncertain on what part of the coast the invaders had landed, summoned the primate and three other bishops, Compton of London, White of Peterborough, and Spratt of Rochester, to a conference in the closet. The king listened graciously while the prelates made warm professions of loyalty, and assured them that he did not suspect them. But where, said he, is the paper that you were to bring me? Sir, answered Sancroft, we brought no paper. We are not solicitors to clear our fame to the world. It is no new thing to us to be reviled and falsely accused. Our conscience is acquittus. Your Majesty acquits us, and we are satisfied. Yes, said the king, but a declaration from you is necessary to my service. He then produced a copy of the Prince's manifesto. See, he said, how you are mentioned here. Sir, answered one of the bishops, not one person in 500 believes this manifesto to be genuine. No, cried the king fiercely. Then those 500 would bring the Prince of Orange to cut my throat. God forbid! exclaimed the prelates in concert. But the king's understanding, never very clear, was now quite bewildered. One of his peculiarities was that, whenever his opinion was not adopted, he fancied that his veracity was questioned. This paper not genuine, he exclaimed, turning over the leaves with his hands. Am I not worthy to be believed? Is my word not to be taken? At all events, sir, said one of the bishops, this is not an ecclesiastical matter. It lies within the sphere of the civil power.  Then the archbishop, with that gentle and temperate malice which inflicts the deepest wounds, declared that he must be excused from setting his hand to any political document. I and my brethren, sir, have already smarted severely for meddling with affairs of state, and we shall be very cautious how we do so again. We once subscribed a petition of the most harmless kind. We presented it in the most respectful manner, and we found that we had committed a high offense. We were saved from ruin, only by the merciful protection of God. And, sir, the ground then taken by your Majesty's attorney and solicitor was that, out of Parliament, we were private men, and that it was criminal presumption in private men to meddle with politics. They attacked us so fiercely that, for my part, I gave myself over for lost. I thank you for that, my lord of Canterbury, said the king. I should have hoped that you would not have thought yourself lost by falling into my hands.  The archbishop was not to be so silenced. He resumed his story, and recounted the insults which the creatures of the court had offered to the Church of England, among which some ridicule thrown on his own style occupied a conspicuous place. The king had nothing to say but that there was no use in repeating old grievances and that he had hoped that these things were quite forgotten. He, who never forgot the smallest injury that he had suffered, could not understand how others should remember for a few weeks the most deadly injuries that he had inflicted. At length the conversation came back to the point from which it had wandered. The king insisted on having from the bishops a paper declaring their abhorrence of the prince's enterprise. There, with many professions of the most submissive loyalty, pertinaciously refused. The prince, they said, asserted that he had been invited by temporal as well as by spiritual peers. The imputation was common. Why should not the purgation be common also? I see how it is, said the king. Some of the temporal peers have been with you, and have persuaded you to cross me in this matter. The bishops solemnly averred that it was not so. But it would, they said, seem strange that, on a question involving grave political and military considerations, the temporal peers should be entirely passed over, and the prelates alone should be required to take a prominent part. But this, said James, is my method. I am your king. It is for me to judge what is best.  The bishops assured him that they would assist him in their proper department, as Christian ministers with their prayers, and as peers of the realm with their advice in his parliament. James, who wanted neither the prayers of heretics, nor the advice of parliaments, was bitterly disappointed. After a long altercation. I have done, he said, I will urge you no further. Since you will not help me, I must trust to myself and to my own arms. The bishops had hardly left the royal presence, when a courier arrived with the news that on the preceding day the Prince of Orange had landed in Devonshire. During the following week London was violently agitated. On Sunday, the 11th of November, a rumour was circulated that knives, grid-ions, and cauldrons intended for the torturing of heretics were concealed in the monastery, which had been established under the King's protection at Clarkinwell. Great multitudes assembled round the building, and were about to demolish it when a military force arrived. The crowd was dispersed, and several of the rioters were slain. An inquest sat on the bodies and came to a decision which strongly indicated the temper of the public mind. The jury found that certain loyal and well-disposed persons, who had gone to put down the meetings of traitors and public enemies at a mass-house, had been willfully murdered by the soldiers, and this strange verdict was signed by all the jurors. The ecclesiastics at Clarkinwell naturally alarmed by these symptoms of popular feeling were desirous to place their property in safety. They succeeded in removing most of their furniture before any report of their intentions got abroad, but at length the suspicions of the rabble were excited. The last two carts were stopped in Hoban, and all that they contained was publicly burned in the middle of the street. So great was the alarm among the Catholics that all their places of worship were closed except those which belonged to the royal family and to foreign ambassadors. On the whole, however, things as yet looked not unfavorably for James. The invaders had been more than a week on English ground, yet no man of note had adjoined them. No rebellion had broken out in the north or the east. No servant of the crown appeared to have betrayed his trust. The royal army was assembling fast at Salisbury, and though inferior in discipline to that of William, was superior in numbers. The prince was undoubtedly surprised and mortified by the slackness of those who had invited him to England. By the common people of Devonshire indeed, he had been received with every sign of good will, but no nobleman, no gentleman of high consideration, had yet repaired to his quarters. The explanation of this singular fact is probably to be found in the circumstance that he had landed in a part of the island where he had not been expected. His friends in the north had made their arrangements for a rising on the supposition that he would be among them with an army. His friends in the west had made no arrangements at all, and were naturally disconcerted at finding themselves, suddenly called upon to take the lead in a movement so important and perilous. They had also, fresh in their recollection, and indeed full in their sight, the disastrous consequences of rebellion, gibbets, heads, mangled quarters, families still in deep mourning for brave sufferers who had loved their country well but not wisely. After a warning so terrible and so recent, some hesitation was natural. It was equally natural, however, that William, who, trusting to promises from England, had put to hazard not only his own fame and fortunes, but also the prosperity and independence of his native land, should feel deeply mortified. He was indeed so indignant that he talked of falling back to Torbay, re-embarking his troops, returning to Holland, and leaving those who had betrayed him to the fate which they deserved. At length, on Monday the 12th of November, a gentleman named Burrington, who resided in the neighbourhood of Creditan, joined the Prince's standard, and his example was followed by several of his neighbours. Men of higher consequence had already set out from different parts of the country for Exeter. The first of these was John Lord Loveless, distinguished by his taste, by his magnificence, and by the audacious and intemperant vehemence of his wiggism. He had been five or six times arrested for political offences. The last crime laid to his charge was that he had contemptuously denied the validity of a warrant signed by a Roman Catholic justice of the peace. He had been brought before the Privy Council and strictly examined, but to little purpose. He resolutely refused to discriminate himself, and the evidence against him was insufficient. He was dismissed, but before he retired, James exclaimed in great heat, My Lord, this is not the first trick you have played on me! Sir! answered Loveless, with undaunted spirit. I never played any trick to Your Majesty, or to any other person.  Loveless had subsequently been admitted into the confidence of those who planned the revolution. His mansion, built by his ancestors out of the spoils of Spanish galleons from the Indies, rose on the ruins of a house of our Lady, in that beautiful valley through which the Thames, not yet defiled by the precincts of a great capital, nor rising and falling with the flow and air of the sea, rolls under woods of beach, around the gentle hills of Berkshire. Beneath the stateless loon, adorned by Italian pencils, was a subterranean vault in which the bones of ancient monks had sometimes been found. In this dark chamber some zealous and daring opponents of the Government held many midnight conferences during that anxious time when England was impatiently expecting the Protestant wind. The season for action had now arrived. Loveless, with seventy followers, well armed and mounted, quitted his dwelling and directed his course westward. He reached Gloucestershire without difficulty, but Beaufort, who governed that county, was exerting all his great authority and influence in support of the crown. The militia had been called out, a strong party had been posted at our ancestor. When Loveless arrived there, he was informed that he could not be suffered to pass. It was necessary for him either to relinquish his undertaking or to fight his way through. He resolved to force a passage, and his friends and tenants stood gallantly by him. A sharp conflict took place. The militia lost an officer and six or seven men, but at length the followers of Loveless were overpowered. He was made a prisoner and sent to Gloucestershire. Others were more fortunate. On the same day in which the skirmish took place at our ancestor, Richard Savage, Lord Colchester, son and heir of the Earl Rivers, and father by a lawless Amor of that unhappy poet whose misdeeds and misfortunes form one of the darkest portions of literary history, came with between sixty and seventy horse to Exeter. With him arrived the bold and turbulent Thomas Wharton. A few hours later came Edward Russell, son of the Earl of Bedford, and brother of the virtuous nobleman whose blood had been shed on the scaffold. Another arrival, still more important, was speedily announced. Colchester, Wharton and Russell belonged to that party which had been constantly opposed to the court. James Barty, Earl of Abingdon, had, on the contrary, been regarded as a supporter of arbitrary government. He had been true to James in the days of the Exclusion Bill. He had, as Lord Lieutenant of Oxfordshire, acted with vigor and severity against the adherents of Monmouth, and had lighted bonfires to celebrate the defeat of Argyle, but dread of popery had driven him into opposition and rebellion. He was the first peer of the realm who made his appearance at the quarters of the Prince of Orange. End of Part 15 But the King had less to fear from those who openly arrayed themselves against his authority than from the dark conspiracy which had spread its ramifications through his army and his family. Of that conspiracy Churchill unrivaled insugacity and address, endowed by nature with a certain cool intrepidity which never failed him either in fighting or lying, high in military rank and high in the favour of the Princess Anne, must be regarded as the sole. It was not yet time for him to strike the decisive blow, but even thus early he inflicted by the instrumentality of a subordinate agent a wound serious, if not deadly, on the royal cause. Edward Viscount Cornbury, eldest son of the Earl of Clarendon, was a young man of slender abilities, loose principles, and violent temper. He had been early taught to consider his relationship to the Princess Anne as the groundwork of his fortunes, and had been exhorted to pay her assiduous court. It had never occurred to his father that the hereditary loyalty of the heights could run any risk of contamination in the household of the King's favourite daughter, but in that household the Churchills held absolute sway, and Cornbury became their tool. He commanded one of the regiments of Dragoons which had been sent westward. Such dispositions had been made that on the 14th of November he was, during a few hours, the senior officer at Salisbury, and all the troops assembled there were subject to his authority. It seems extraordinary that at such a crisis the army on which everything depended should have been left even for a moment under the command of a young colonel who had neither abilities nor experience. There can be little doubt that, say, strange an arrangement was the result of deeper design, and as little doubt to what head and to what heart the design is to be imputed. Suddenly three of the regiments of Cavalry which had assembled at Salisbury were ordered to march westward. Cornbury put himself at their head and conducted them first to Blandford and then to Dorchester. From Dorchester, after a whole of an hour or two, they set out for Axe Minster. Some of the officers began to be uneasy and demanded an explanation of these strange movements. Cornbury replied that he had instructions to make a night attack on some truths which the Prince of Orange had posted at Honerton. But suspicion was awake. Searching questions were put and were evasively answered. At last Cornbury was pressed to produce his orders. He perceived, not only, that it would be impossible for him to carry over all three regiments as he had hoped, but that he was himself in a situation of considerable peril. He accordingly stole away with a few followers to the Dutch quarters. Most of his troops returned to Salisbury, but some who had been detached from the main body and who had no suspicion of the designs of their commander proceeded to Honerton. There they found themselves in the midst of a large force which was fully prepared to receive them. Resistance was impossible. Their leader pressed them to take service under William. A gratuity of a month's pay was offered to them and was, by most of them, accepted. The news of these events reached London on the fifteenth. James had been, in the morning of that day, in high good humour. Bishop Lamplew had just presented himself at court on his arrival from Exeter, and had been most graciously received.  The Archbishopric of York, which had now been vacant more than two years and a half, was immediately bestowed on Lamplew as the reward of loyalty. That afternoon, just as the King was sitting down to dinner, arrived in express with the tidings of Cornbury's defection. James turned away from his untasted meal, swallowed a crust of bread and a glass of wine, and retired to his closet. He afterwards learned that, as he was rising from table several of the lords in whom he reposed the greatest confidence, were shaking hands and congratulating each other in the adjoining gallery. When the news was carried to the Queen's apartments, she and her ladies broke out into tears and loud cries of sorrow. The blow was indeed a heavy one. It was true that the direct loss to the crown and the direct gain to the invaders hardly amounted to two hundred men and as many horses, but work of the King henceforth expect to find those sentiments in which consists the strength of states and of armies. Cornbury was the heir of a house conspicuous for its attachment to monarchy. His father Clarendon, his uncle Rochester, were men whose loyalty was supposed to be proof to all temptation. What must be the strength of that feeling against which the most deeply rooted hereditary prejudices were of no avail, of that feeling which caught reconciled a young officer of high birth to desertion, aggravated by breach of trust and by gross falsehood? That Cornbury was not a man of brilliant parts or enterprising temper made the event more alarming. It was impossible to doubt that he had in some quarter a powerful and artful prompter. Who that prompter was, soon became evident. In the meantime no man in the royal camp could feel assured that he was not surrounded by traitors. Political rank, military rank, the honour of a nobleman, the honour of a soldier, the strongest professions, the purest cavalier blood could no longer afford security. Every man might reasonably doubt whether every order which he received from his superior was not meant to serve the purposes of the enemy. That prompt obedience without which an army is merely a rabble was necessarily at an end. What discipline could there be among soldiers who had just been saved from a snare by refusing to follow their commanding officer on a secret expedition and by insisting on a sight of his orders? Cornbury was soon kept incontinence by a crowd of deserters superior to him in rank and capacity, but during a few days he stood alone in his shame and was bitterly reviled by many who afterwards imitated his example and envied his dishonourable residence. Among these was his own father. The first outbreak of Clarendon's rage and sorrow was highly apathetic. Oh God! he ejaculated, that a son of mine could be a rebel! A fortnight later he made up his mind to be a rebel himself. Yet it would be unjust to pronounce him a mere hypocrite. In revolutions men live fast. The experience of years is crowded into hours. Old habits of thought and action are violently broken. Novelties which at first sight inspire dread and disgust become, in a few days, familiar, endureable, attractive. Many men of far purer virtue and higher spirit than Clarendon were prepared before that memorable year ended to do what they would have pronounced wicked and infamous when it began. The unhappy father composed himself as well as he could and sent to ask a private audience of the king. It was granted. James said, with more than his usual graciousness, that he from his heart pitied Cornbury's relations and should not hold them at all accountable for the crime of their unworthy kinsmen. Clarendon went home, scarcely daring to look his friends in the face. Soon, however, he learned with surprise that the act which had, as he had first thought, forever dishonoured his family, was applauded by some persons of high station. His niece, the princess of Denmark, asked him why he shut himself up. He answered that he had been overwhelmed with confusion by his son's villainy. Anne seemed not at all to understand this feeling. People, she said, are very uneasy about Popery. I believe that many of the army will do the same. And now the king, greatly disturbed, called together the principal officers who were still in London. Churchill, who was about this time promoted to the rank of Lieutenant General, made his appearance with that bland serenity which neither peril nor infamy could ever disturb. The meeting was attended by Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, whose audacity and activity made him conspicuous among the natural children of Charles II. Grafton was Colonel of the First Regiment Footguards. He seems to have been at this time completely under Churchill's influence, and was prepared to desert the royal standard as soon as the favourable moment should arrive. Two other traitors were in the circle, Kirk and Trelawney, who commanded those two fierce and lawless bands, then known as the Tangier Regiments. Both of them had, like the other Protestant officers of the army, long seen with extreme displeasure the partiality which the king had shown to members of his own church, and Trelawney remembered with bitter resentment the persecution of his brother, the Bishop of Bristol. James addressed the assembly in terms worthy of a better man and of a better cause. It might be, he said, that some of the officers had conscientious scruples about fighting for him. If so, he was willing to receive back their commissions, but he adjured them as gentlemen and soldiers not to imitate shameful example of cornbread, all seemed moved and none more than Churchill. He was the first to vow with well-famed enthusiasm that he would shed the last drop of his blood in the service of his gracious master. Grafton was loud and forward in similar protestations, and the example was followed by Kirk and Trelawney. Deceived by these professions, the king prepared to set out for Salisbury. Before his departure he was informed that a considerable number of peers, temporal and spiritual, desired to be admitted to an audience. They came, with Sancroft at their head, to present a petition, praying that a free and legal parliament might be called, and that a negotiation might be opened with the Prince of Orange. The history of this petition is curious. The thought seems to have occurred at once to two great chiefs of parties who had long been rivals and enemies, Rochester and Halifax. They both, independently of one another, consulted the bishops. The bishops warmly approved of the suggestion. It was then proposed that a general meeting of peers should be called to deliberate on the form of an address to the king. It was term time, and in term time men of rank and fashion then lounged every day in Westminster Hall, as they now lounge, in the clubs of Palmael and St James Street. Nothing could be easier than for the lords who assembled there to step aside into some adjoining room and to hold a consultation. But, unexpected difficulties arose. Halifax became first cold and then adverse. It was his nature to discover objections to everything, and on this occasion his sagacity was quickened by rivalry. The scheme, which he had approved while he regarded it as his own, began to displease him as soon as he found that it was also the scheme of Rochester, by whom he had been long thwarted and at length supplanted, and whom he disliked as much as it was in his easy nature to dislike anybody. Nottingham was at that time much under the influence of Halifax. They both declared that they would not join in the address if Rochester signed it. I mean no disrespect, said Halifax to my Lord Rochester, but he has been a member of the Ecclesiastical Commission. The proceedings of that court must soon be the subject of a very serious inquiry, and it is not fit that one who has sat there should take any part in our petition. Nottingham, with strong expressions of personal esteem for Rochester, avowed the same opinion. The authority of the two dissentient lords prevented several other noblemen from subscribing the address, but the hides and the bishops persisted. Nineteen signatures were procured, and the petitioners waited in a body on the King. He received their address ungraciously. He assured them, indeed, that he passionately desired the meeting of a free parliament, and he promised them, on the faith of a King, that he would call one as soon as the Prince of Rochester came to the King, that he would call one as soon as the Prince of Orange should have left the island. But how, said he, can a parliament be free when an enemy is in the Kingdom, and can return near a hundred votes? To the prelates, he spoke with peculiar acrimony. I could not, he said, prevail on you the other day to declare against this invasion, but you are ready enough to declare against me. Then you would not meddle with politics. You have no scruple about meddling now. You have excited this rebellious temper among your flocks, and now you ferment it. You would be much better employed in teaching them how to obey, than in teaching me how to govern. He was much incensed against his nephew Grafton, whose signature stood next to that of Sancroft, and said to the young man with great asperity, You know nothing about religion. You care nothing about it. And yet, forsooth, you must pretend to have a conscience. It is true, sir, answered Grafton, with impudent frankness, that I have very little conscience, that I belong to a party which has a great deal. Bitter as was the king's language to the petitioners, it was far less bitter than that which he held after they had withdrawn. He had done, he said, far too much already in the hope of satisfying an undutiful and ungrateful people. He had always hated the thought of concession, but he had suffered himself to be talked over, and now he, like his father before him, had found that concession only made subjects more encroaching. He would yield nothing more, not an atom, and after his fashion he vehemently repeated many times not an atom. Not only would he make no overtures to the invaders, but he would receive none. If the Dutch sent flags of truce, the first messenger shall be dismissed without an answer, the second shall be hanged. In such mood, James set out for Salisbury. His last act, before his departure, was to appoint a council of five lords to represent him in London during his absence. Of the five, two were papists, and by law incapable of office. Joined with them was Jeffries, a Protestant indeed, but more detested by the nation than any papist. To the other two members of the board, Preston and Godolphin, no serious objection could be made. On the day on which the king left London, the Prince of Wales was sent to Portsmouth. That fortress was strongly garrisoned, and was under the government of Berwick. The fleet commanded by Dartmouth lay close at hand, and it was supposed that, if things went ill, the royal infant would, without difficulty, be conveyed from Portsmouth to France. End of Part 16