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

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religion, or all that kindness which is the glory of her sex. The

French ambassador Barillon, who had come to the palace to enquire

after the King, paid her a visit. He found her in an agony of

sorrow. She took him into a secret room, and poured out her whole

heart to him. "I have," she said, "a thing of great moment to

tell you. If it were known, my head would be in danger. The King

is really and truly a Catholic; but he will die without being

reconciled to the Church. His bedchamber is full of Protestant

clergymen. I cannot enter it without giving scandal. The Duke is

thinking only of himself. Speak to him. Remind him that there is

a soul at stake. He is master now. He can clear the room. Go this

instant, or it will be too late."


Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the Duke aside, and

delivered the message of the mistress. The conscience of James

smote him. He started as if roused from sleep, and declared that

nothing should prevent him from discharging the sacred duty which

had been too long delayed. Several schemes were discussed and

rejected. At last the Duke commanded the crowd to stand aloof,

went to the bed, stooped down, and whispered something which none

of the spectators could hear, but which they supposed to be some

question about affairs of state. Charles answered in an audible

voice, "Yes, yes, with all my heart." None of the bystanders,

except the French Ambassador, guessed that the King was declaring

his wish to be admitted into the bosom of the Church of Rome.


"Shall I bring a priest?" said the Duke. "Do, brother," replied

the Sick man. "For God's sake do, and lose no time. But no; you

will get into trouble." "If it costs me my life," said the Duke,

"I will fetch a priest."


To find a priest, however, for such a purpose, at a moment's

notice, was not easy. For, as the law then stood, the person who

admitted a proselyte into the Roman Catholic Church was guilty of

a capital crime. The Count of Castel Melhor, a Portuguese

nobleman, who, driven by political troubles from his native land,

had been hospitably received at the English court, undertook to

procure a confessor. He had recourse to his countrymen who

belonged to the Queen's household; but he found that none of her

chaplains knew English or French enough to shrive the King. The

Duke and Barillon were about to send to the Venetian Minister for

a clergyman when they heard that a Benedictine monk, named John

Huddleston, happened to be at Whitehall. This man had, with great

risk to himself, saved the King's life after the battle of

Worcester, and had, on that account, been, ever since the

Restoration, a privileged person. In the sharpest proclamations

which had been put forth against Popish priests, when false

witnesses had inflamed the nation to fury, Huddleston had been

excepted by name.219 He readily consented to put his life a

second time in peril for his prince; but there was still a

difficulty. The honest monk was so illiterate that he did not

know what he ought to say on an occasion of such importance. He

however obtained some hints, through the intervention of Castel

Melhor, from a Portuguese ecclesiastic, and, thus instructed, was

brought up the back stairs by Chiffinch, a confidential servant,

who, if the satires of that age are to be credited, had often

introduced visitors of a very different description by the same

entrance. The Duke then, in the King's name, commanded all who

were present to quit the room, except Lewis Duras, Earl of

Feversham, and John Granville, Earl of Bath. Both these Lords

professed the Protestant religion; but James conceived that he

could count on their fidelity. Feversham, a Frenchman of noble

birth, and nephew of the great Turenne, held high rank in the

English army, and was Chamberlain to the Queen. Bath was Groom of

the Stole.


The Duke's orders were obeyed; and even the physicians withdrew.

The back door was then opened; and Father Huddleston entered. A

cloak had been thrown over his sacred vestments; and his shaven

crown was concealed by a flowing wig. "Sir," said the Duke, "this

good man once saved your life. He now comes to save your soul."

Charles faintly answered, "He is welcome." Huddleston went

through his part better than had been expected. He knelt by the

bed, listened to the confession, pronounced the absolution, and

administered extreme unction. He asked if the King wished to

receive the Lord's supper. "Surely," said Charles, "if I am not

unworthy." The host was brought in. Charles feebly strove to rise

and kneel before it. The priest made him lie still, and assured

him that God would accept the humiliation of the soul, and would

not require the humiliation of the body. The King found so much

difficulty in swallowing the bread that it was necessary to open

the door and procure a glass of water. This rite ended, the monk

held up a crucifix before the penitent, charged him to fix his

last thoughts on the sufferings of the Redeemer, and withdrew.

The whole ceremony had occupied about three quarters of an hour;

and, during that time, the courtiers who filled the outer room

had communicated their suspicions to each other by whispers and

significant glances. The door was at length thrown open, and the

crowd again filled the chamber of death.


It was now late in the evening. The King seemed much relieved by

what had passed. His natural children were brought to his

bedside, the Dukes of Grafton, Southampton, and Northumberland,

sons of the Duchess of Cleveland, the Duke of Saint Albans, son

of Eleanor Gwynn, and the Duke of Richmond, son of the Duchess of

Portsmouth. Charles blessed them all, but spoke with peculiar

tenderness to Richmond. One face which should have been there was

wanting. The eldest and best loved child was an exile and a

wanderer. His name was not once mentioned by his father.


During the night Charles earnestly recommended the Duchess of

Portsmouth and her boy to the care of James; "And do not," he

good-naturedly added, "let poor Nelly starve." The Queen sent

excuses for her absence by Halifax. She said that she was too

much disordered to resume her post by the couch, and implored

pardon for any offence which she might unwittingly have given.

"She ask my pardon, poor woman!" cried Charles; "I ask hers with

all my heart."


The morning light began to peep through the windows of Whitehall;

and Charles desired the attendants to pull aside the curtains,

that he might have one more look at the day. He remarked that it

was time to wind up a clock which stood near his bed. These

little circumstances were long remembered because they proved

beyond dispute that, when he declared himself a Roman Catholic,

he was in full possession of his faculties. He apologised to

those who had stood round him all night for the trouble which he

had caused. He had been, he said. a most unconscionable time

dying; but he hoped that they would excuse it. This was the last

glimpse of the exquisite urbanity, so often found potent to charm

away the resentment of a justly incensed nation. Soon after dawn

the speech of the dying man failed. Before ten his senses were

gone. Great numbers had repaired to the churches at the hour of

morning service. When the prayer for the King was read, loud

groans and sobs showed how deeply his people felt for him. At

noon on Friday, the sixth of February, he passed away without a

struggle.220


At that time the common people throughout Europe, and nowhere

more than in England, were in the habit of attributing the death

of princes, especially when the prince was popular and the death

unexpected, to the foulest and darkest kind of assassination.

Thus James the First had been accused of poisoning Prince Henry.

Thus Charles the First had been accused of poisoning James the

First. Thus when, in the time of the Commonwealth, the Princess

Elizabeth died at Carisbrook, it was loudly asserted that

Cromwell had stooped to the senseless and dastardly wickedness of

mixing noxious drugs with the food of a young girl whom he had no

conceivable motive to injure.221 A few years later, the rapid

decomposition of Cromwell's own corpse was ascribed by many to a

deadly potion administered in his medicine. The death of Charles

the Second could scarcely fail to occasion similar rumours. The

public ear had been repeatedly abused by stories of Popish plots

against his life. There was, therefore, in many minds, a strong

predisposition to suspicion; and there were some unlucky

circumstances which, to minds so predisposed, might seem to

indicate that a crime had been perpetrated. The fourteen Doctors

who deliberated on the King's case contradicted each other and

themselves. Some of them thought that his fit was epileptic, and

that he should be suffered to have his doze out. The majority

pronounced him apoplectic, and tortured him during some hours

like an Indian at a stake. Then it was determined to call his

complaint a fever, and to administer doses of bark. One

physician, however, protested against this course, and assured

the Queen that his brethren would kill the King among them.

Nothing better than dissension and vacillation could be expected

from such a multitude of advisers. But many of the vulgar not

unnaturally concluded, from the perplexity of the great masters

of the healing art, that the malady had some extraordinary

origin. There is reason to believe that a horrible suspicion did

actually cross the mind of Short, who, though skilful in his

profession, seems to have been a nervous and fanciful man, and

whose perceptions were probably confused by dread of the odious

imputations to which he, as a Roman Catholic, was peculiarly

exposed. We cannot, therefore, wonder that wild stories without

number were repeated and believed by the common people. His

Majesty's tongue had swelled to the size of a neat's tongue. A

cake of deleterious powder had been found in his brain. There

were blue spots on his breast, There were black spots on his

shoulder. Something had been, put in his snuff-box. Something had

been put into his broth. Something had been put into his

favourite dish of eggs and ambergrease. The Duchess of Portsmouth

had poisoned him in a cup of chocolate. The Queen had poisoned

him in a jar of dried pears. Such tales ought to be preserved;

for they furnish us with a measure of the intelligence and virtue

of the generation which eagerly devoured them. That no rumour of

the same kind has ever, in the present age, found credit among

us, even when