The History of England, from the Accession of James the Second - Volume 1 by Thomas Babington Macaulay (diy ebook reader .txt) π
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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
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
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