The History of England, from the Accession of James the Second - Volume 1, Thomas Babington Macaulay [ebook pc reader txt] 📗

must degrade, but could not save him.


As soon as he reached Ringwood he wrote to the King. The letter

was that of a man whom a craven fear had made insensible to

shame. He professed in vehement terms his remorse for his

treason. He affirmed that, when be promised his cousins at the

Hague not to raise troubles in England, he had fully meant to

keep his word. Unhappily he had afterwards been seduced from his

allegiance by some horrid people who had heated his mind by

calumnies and misled him by sophistry; but now he abhorred them:

he abhorred himself. He begged in piteous terms that he might be

admitted to the royal presence. There was a secret which he could

not trust to paper, a secret which lay in a single word, and

which, if he spoke that word, would secure the throne against all

danger. On the following day he despatched letters, imploring the

Queen Dowager and the Lord Treasurer to intercede in his

behalf.421


When it was known in London how he had abased himself the general

surprise was great; and no man was more amazed than Barillon, who

had resided in England during two bloody proscriptions, and had

seen numerous victims, both of the Opposition and of the Court,

submit to their fate without womanish entreaties and

lamentations.422


Monmouth and Grey remained at Ringwood two days. They were then

carried up to London, under the guard of a large body of regular

troops and militia. In the coach with the Duke was an officer

whose orders were to stab the prisoner if a rescue were

attempted. At every town along the road the trainbands of the

neighbourhood had been mustered under the command of the

principal gentry. The march lasted three days, and terminated at

Vauxhall, where a regiment, commanded by George Legge, Lord

Dartmouth, was in readiness to receive the prisoners. They were

put on board of a state barge, and carried down the river to

Whitehall Stairs. Lumley and Portman had alternately watched the

Duke day and night till they had brought him within the walls of

the palace.423


Both the demeanour of Monmouth and that of Grey, during the

journey, filled all observers with surprise. Monmouth was

altogether unnerved. Grey was not only calm but cheerful, talked

pleasantly of horses, dogs, and field sports, and even made

jocose allusions to the perilous situation in which he stood.


The King cannot be blamed for determining that Monmouth should

suffer death. Every man who heads a rebellion against an

established government stakes his life on the event; and

rebellion was the smallest part of Monmouth's crime. He had

declared against his uncle a war without quarter. In the

manifesto put forth at Lyme, James had been held up to execration

as an incendiary, as an assassin who had strangled one innocent

man and cut the throat of another, and, lastly, as the poisoner

of his own brother. To spare an enemy who had not scrupled to

resort to such extremities would have been an act of rare,

perhaps of blamable generosity. But to see him and not to spare

him was an outrage on humanity and decency.424 This outrage the

King resolved to commit. The arms of the prisoner were bound

behind him with a silken cord; and, thus secured, he was ushered

into the presence of the implacable kinsman whom he had wronged.


Then Monmouth threw himself on the ground, and crawled to the

King's feet. He wept. He tried to embrace his uncle's knees with

his pinioned arms. He begged for life, only life, life at any

price. He owned that he had been guilty of a greet crime, but

tried to throw the blame on others, particularly on Argyle, who

would rather have put his legs into the boots than have saved his

own life by such baseness. By the ties of kindred, by the memory

of the late King, who had been the best and truest of brothers,

the unhappy man adjured James to show some mercy. James gravely

replied that this repentance was of the latest, that he was sorry

for the misery which the prisoner had brought on himself, but

that the case was not one for lenity. A Declaration, filled with

atrocious calumnies, had been put forth. The regal title had been

assumed. For treasons so aggravated there could be no pardon on

this side of the grave. The poor terrified Duke vowed that he had

never wished to take the crown, but had been led into that fatal

error by others. As to the Declaration, he had not written it: he

had not read it: he had signed it without looking at it: it was

all the work of Ferguson, that bloody villain Ferguson. "Do you

expect me to believe," said James, with contempt but too well

merited, "that you set your hand to a paper of such moment

without knowing what it contained?" One depth of infamy only

remained; and even to that the prisoner descended. He was

preeminently the champion of the Protestant religion. The

interest of that religion had been his plea for conspiring

against the government of his father, and for bringing on his

country the miseries of civil war; yet he was not ashamed to hint

that he was inclined to be reconciled to the Church of Rome. The

King eagerly offered him spiritual assistance, but said nothing

of pardon or respite. "Is there then no hope?" asked Monmouth.

James turned away in silence. Then Monmouth strove to rally his

courage, rose from his knees, and retired with a firmness which

he had not shown since his overthrow.425


Grey was introduced next. He behaved with a propriety and

fortitude which moved even the stern and resentful King, frankly

owned himself guilty, made no excuses, and did not once stoop to

ask his life. Both the prisoners were sent to the Tower by water.

There was no tumult; but many thousands of people, with anxiety

and sorrow in their faces, tried to catch a glimpse of the

captives. The Duke's resolution failed as soon as he had left the

royal presence. On his way to his prison he bemoaned himself,

accused his followers, and abjectly implored the intercession of

Dartmouth. "I know, my Lord, that you loved my father. For his

sake, for God's sake, try if there be any room for mercy."

Dartmouth replied that the King had spoken the truth, and that a

subject who assumed the regal title excluded himself from all

hope of pardon.426


Soon after Monmouth had been lodged in the Tower, he was informed

that his wife had, by the royal command, been sent to see him.

She was accompanied by the Earl of Clarendon, Keeper of the Privy

Seal. Her husband received her very coldly, and addressed almost

all his discourse to Clarendon whose intercession he earnestly

implored. Clarendon held out no hopes; and that same evening two

prelates, Turner, Bishop of Ely, and Ken, Bishop of Bath and

Wells, arrived at the Tower with a solemn message from the King.

It was Monday night. On Wednesday morning Monmouth was to die.


He was greatly agitated. The blood left his cheeks; and it was

some time before he could speak. Most of the short time which

remained to him he wasted in vain attempts to obtain, if not a

pardon, at least a respite. He wrote piteous letters to the King

and to several courtiers, but in vain. Some Roman Catholic

divines were sent to him from Whitehall. But they soon discovered

that, though he would gladly have purchased his life by

renouncing the religion of which he had professed himself in an

especial manner the defender, yet, if he was to die, he would as

soon die without their absolution as with it.427


Nor were Ken and Turner much better pleased with his frame of

mind. The doctrine of nonresistance was, in their view, as in the

view of most of their brethren, the distinguishing badge of the

Anglican Church. The two Bishops insisted on Monmouth's owning

that, in drawing the sword against the government, he had

committed a great sin; and, on this point, they found him

obstinately heterodox. Nor was this his only heresy. He

maintained that his connection with Lady Wentworth was blameless

in the sight of God. He had been married, he said, when a child.

He had never cared for his Duchess. The happiness which he had

not found at home he had sought in a round of loose amours,

condemned by religion and morality. Henrietta had reclaimed him

from a life of vice. To her he had been strictly constant. They

had, by common consent, offered up fervent prayers for the divine

guidance. After those prayers they had found their affection for

each other strengthened; and they could then no longer doubt

that, in the sight of God, they were a wedded pair. The Bishops

were so much scandalised by this view of the conjugal relation

that they refused to administer the sacrament to the prisoner.

All that they could obtain from him was a promise that, during

the single night which still remained to him, he would pray to be

enlightened if he were in error.


On the Wednesday morning, at his particular request, Doctor

Thomas Tenison, who then held the vicarage of Saint Martin's,

and, in that important cure, had obtained the high esteem of the

public, came to the Tower. From Tenison, whose opinions were

known to be moderate, the Duke expected more indulgence than Ken

and Turner were disposed to show. But Tenison, whatever might be

his sentiments concerning nonresistance in the abstract, thought

the late rebellion rash and wicked, and considered Monmouth's

notion respecting marriage as a most dangerous delusion. Monmouth

was obstinate. He had prayed, he said, for the divine direction.

His sentiments remained unchanged; and he could not doubt that

they were correct. Tenison's exhortations were in milder tone

than those of the Bishops. But he, like them, thought that he

should not be justified in administering the Eucharist to one

whose penitence was of so unsatisfactory a nature.428


The hour drew near: all hope was over; and Monmouth had passed

from pusillanimous fear to the apathy of despair. His children

were brought to his room that he might take leave of them, and

were followed by his wife. He spoke to her kindly, but without

emotion. Though she was a woman of great strength of mind, and

had little cause to love him, her misery was such that none of

the bystanders could refrain from weeping. He alone was

unmoved.429


It was ten o'clock. The coach of the Lieutenant of the Tower was

ready. Monmouth requested his spiritual advisers to accompany him

to the place of execution; and they consented: but they told him

that, in their