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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judgment, he was about to die in a perilous state
of mind, and that, if they attended him it would be their duty to
exhort him to the last. As he passed along the ranks of the
guards he saluted them with a smile; and he mounted the scaffold
with a firm tread. Tower Hill was covered up to the chimney tops
with an innumerable multitude of gazers, who, in awful silence,
broken only by sighs and the noise of weeping, listened for the
last accents of the darling of the people. "I shall say little,"
he began. "I come here, not to speak, but to die. I die a
Protestant of the Church of England." The Bishops interrupted
him, and told him that, unless he acknowledged resistance to be
sinful, he was no member of their church He went on to speak of
his Henrietta. She was, he said, a young lady of virtue and
honour. He loved her to the last, and he could not die without
giving utterance to his feelings The Bishops again interfered,
and begged him not to use such language. Some altercation
followed. The divines have been accused of dealing harshly with
the dying man. But they appear to have only discharged what, in
their view, was a sacred duty. Monmouth knew their principles,
and, if he wished to avoid their importunity, should have
dispensed with their attendance. Their general arguments against
resistance had no effect on him. But when they reminded him of
the ruin which he had brought on his brave and loving followers,
of the blood which had been shed, of the souls which had been
sent unprepared to the great account, he was touched, and said,
in a softened voice, "I do own that. I am sorry that it ever
happened." They prayed with him long and fervently; and he joined
in their petitions till they invoked a blessing on the King. He
remained silent. "Sir," said one of the Bishops, "do you not pray
for the King with us?" Monmouth paused some time, and, after an
internal struggle, exclaimed "Amen." But it was in vain that the
prelates implored him to address to the soldiers and to the
people a few words on the duty of obedience to the government. "I
will make no speeches," he exclaimed. "Only ten words, my Lord."
He turned away, called his servant, and put into the man's hand a
toothpick case, the last token of ill starred love. "Give it," he
said, "to that person." He then accosted John Ketch the
executioner, a wretch who had butchered many brave and noble
victims, and whose name has, during a century and a half, been
vulgarly given to all who have succeeded him in his odious
office.430 "Here," said the Duke, "are six guineas for you. Do
not hack me as you did my Lord Russell. I have heard that you
struck him three or four times. My servant will give you some
more gold if you do the work well." He then undressed, felt the
edge of the axe, expressed some fear that it was not sharp
enough, and laid his head on the block. The divines in the
meantime continued to ejaculate with great energy: "God accept
your repentance! God accept your imperfect repentance!"
The hangman addressed himself to his office. But he had been
disconcerted by what the Duke had said. The first blow inflicted
only a slight wound. The Duke struggled, rose from the block, and
looked reproachfully at the executioner. The head sunk down once
more. The stroke was repeated again and again; but still the neck
was not severed, and the body continued to move. Yells of rage
and horror rose from the crowd. Ketch flung down the axe with a
curse. "I cannot do it," he said; "my heart fails me." "Take up
the axe, man," cried the sheriff. "Fling him over the rails,"
roared the mob. At length the axe was taken up. Two more blows
extinguished the last remains of life; but a knife was used to
separate the head from the shoulders. The crowd was wrought up to
such an ecstasy of rage that the executioner was in danger of
being torn in pieces, and was conveyed away under a strong
guard.431
In the meantime many handkerchiefs were dipped in the Duke's
blood; for by a large part of the multitude he was regarded as a
martyr who had died for the Protestant religion. The head and
body were placed in a coffin covered with black velvet, and were
laid privately under the communion table of Saint Peter's Chapel
in the Tower. Within four years the pavement of the chancel was
again disturbed, and hard by the remains of Monmouth were laid
the remains of Jeffreys. In truth there is no sadder spot on the
earth than that little cemetery. Death is there associated, not,
as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue,
with public veneration and imperishable renown; not, as in our
humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most
endearing in social and domestic charities; but with whatever is
darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage
triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the
ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of
fallen greatness and of blighted fame. Thither have been carried,
through successive ages, by the rude hands of gaolers, without
one mourner following, the bleeding relics of men who had been
the captains of armies, the leaders of parties, the oracles of
senates, and the ornaments of courts. Thither was borne, before
the window where Jane Grey was praying, the mangled corpse of
Guilford Dudley. Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, and Protector
of the realm, reposes there by the brother whom he murdered.
There has mouldered away the headless trunk of John Fisher,
Bishop of Rochester and Cardinal of Saint Vitalis, a man worthy
to have lived in a better age and to have died in a better cause.
There are laid John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, Lord High
Admiral, and Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Lord High Treasurer.
There, too, is another Essex, on whom nature and fortune had
lavished all their bounties in vain, and whom valour, grace,
genius, royal favour, popular applause, conducted to an early and
ignominious doom. Not far off sleep two chiefs of the great house
of Howard, Thomas, fourth Duke of Norfolk, and Philip, eleventh
Earl of Arundel. Here and there, among the thick graves of
unquiet and aspiring statesmen, lie more delicate sufferers;
Margaret of Salisbury, the last of the proud name of Plantagenet;
and those two fair Queens who perished by the jealous rage of
Henry. Such was the dust with which the dust of Monmouth
mingled.432
Yet a few months, and the quiet village of Toddington, in
Bedfordshire, witnessed a still sadder funeral. Near that village
stood an ancient and stately hall, the seat of the Wentworths.
The transept of the parish church had long been their burial
place. To that burial place, in the spring which followed the
death of Monmouth, was borne the coffin of the young Baroness
Wentworth of Nettlestede. Her family reared a sumptuous mausoleum
over her remains: but a less costly memorial of her was long
contemplated with far deeper interest. Her name, carved by the
hand of him whom she loved too well, was, a few years ago, still
discernible on a tree in the adjoining park.
It was not by Lady Wentworth alone that the memory of Monmouth
was cherished with idolatrous fondness. His hold on the hearts of
the people lasted till the generation which had seen him had
passed away. Ribands, buckles, and other trifling articles of
apparel which he had worn, were treasured up as precious relics
by those who had fought under him at Sedgemoor. Old men who long
survived him desired, when they were dying, that these trinkets
might be buried with them. One button of gold thread which
narrowly escaped this fate may still be seen at a house which
overlooks the field of battle. Nay, such was the devotion of the
people to their unhappy favourite that, in the face of the
strongest evidence by which the fact of a death was ever
verified, many continued to cherish a hope that he was still
living, and that he would again appear in arms. A person, it was
said, who was remarkably like Monmouth, had sacrificed himself to
save the Protestant hero. The vulgar long continued, at every
important crisis, to whisper that the time was at hand, and that
King Monmouth would soon show himself. In 1686, a knave who had
pretended to be the Duke, and had levied contributions in several
villages of Wiltshire, was apprehended, and whipped from Newgate
to Tyburn. In 1698, when England had long enjoyed constitutional
freedom under a new dynasty, the son of an innkeeper passed
himself on the yeomanry of Sussex as their beloved Monmouth, and
defrauded many who were by no means of the lowest class. Five
hundred pounds were collected for him. The farmers provided him
with a horse. Their wives sent him baskets of chickens and ducks,
and were lavish, it was said, of favours of a more tender kind;
for in gallantry at least, the counterfeit was a not unworthy
representative of the original. When this impostor was thrown
into prison for his fraud, his followers maintained him in
luxury. Several of them appeared at the bar to countenance him
when he was tried at the Horsham assizes. So long did this
delusion last that, when George the Third had been some years on
the English throne, Voltaire thought it necessary gravely to
confute the hypothesis that the man in the iron mask was the Duke
of Monmouth.433
It is, perhaps, a fact scarcely less remarkable that, to this
day, the inhabitants of some parts of the West of England, when
any bill affecting their interest is before the House of Lords,
think themselves entitled to claim the help of the Duke of
Buccleuch, the descendant of the unfortunate leader for whom
their ancestors bled.
The history of Monmouth would alone suffice to refute the
Imputation of inconstancy which is so frequently thrown on the
common people. The common people are sometimes inconstant; for
they are human beings. But that they are inconstant as compared
with the educated classes, with aristocracies, or with princes,
may be confidently denied. It would be easy to name demagogues
whose popularity has remained undiminished while sovereigns and
parliaments have withdrawn their confidence from a long
succession of statesmen. When Swift had survived his faculties
many years, the Irish populace still continued to light bonfires
on his birthday, in commemoration of the services which they
fancied that he had rendered to his country when his mind was in
full vigour. While seven administrations were raised to power
of mind, and that, if they attended him it would be their duty to
exhort him to the last. As he passed along the ranks of the
guards he saluted them with a smile; and he mounted the scaffold
with a firm tread. Tower Hill was covered up to the chimney tops
with an innumerable multitude of gazers, who, in awful silence,
broken only by sighs and the noise of weeping, listened for the
last accents of the darling of the people. "I shall say little,"
he began. "I come here, not to speak, but to die. I die a
Protestant of the Church of England." The Bishops interrupted
him, and told him that, unless he acknowledged resistance to be
sinful, he was no member of their church He went on to speak of
his Henrietta. She was, he said, a young lady of virtue and
honour. He loved her to the last, and he could not die without
giving utterance to his feelings The Bishops again interfered,
and begged him not to use such language. Some altercation
followed. The divines have been accused of dealing harshly with
the dying man. But they appear to have only discharged what, in
their view, was a sacred duty. Monmouth knew their principles,
and, if he wished to avoid their importunity, should have
dispensed with their attendance. Their general arguments against
resistance had no effect on him. But when they reminded him of
the ruin which he had brought on his brave and loving followers,
of the blood which had been shed, of the souls which had been
sent unprepared to the great account, he was touched, and said,
in a softened voice, "I do own that. I am sorry that it ever
happened." They prayed with him long and fervently; and he joined
in their petitions till they invoked a blessing on the King. He
remained silent. "Sir," said one of the Bishops, "do you not pray
for the King with us?" Monmouth paused some time, and, after an
internal struggle, exclaimed "Amen." But it was in vain that the
prelates implored him to address to the soldiers and to the
people a few words on the duty of obedience to the government. "I
will make no speeches," he exclaimed. "Only ten words, my Lord."
He turned away, called his servant, and put into the man's hand a
toothpick case, the last token of ill starred love. "Give it," he
said, "to that person." He then accosted John Ketch the
executioner, a wretch who had butchered many brave and noble
victims, and whose name has, during a century and a half, been
vulgarly given to all who have succeeded him in his odious
office.430 "Here," said the Duke, "are six guineas for you. Do
not hack me as you did my Lord Russell. I have heard that you
struck him three or four times. My servant will give you some
more gold if you do the work well." He then undressed, felt the
edge of the axe, expressed some fear that it was not sharp
enough, and laid his head on the block. The divines in the
meantime continued to ejaculate with great energy: "God accept
your repentance! God accept your imperfect repentance!"
The hangman addressed himself to his office. But he had been
disconcerted by what the Duke had said. The first blow inflicted
only a slight wound. The Duke struggled, rose from the block, and
looked reproachfully at the executioner. The head sunk down once
more. The stroke was repeated again and again; but still the neck
was not severed, and the body continued to move. Yells of rage
and horror rose from the crowd. Ketch flung down the axe with a
curse. "I cannot do it," he said; "my heart fails me." "Take up
the axe, man," cried the sheriff. "Fling him over the rails,"
roared the mob. At length the axe was taken up. Two more blows
extinguished the last remains of life; but a knife was used to
separate the head from the shoulders. The crowd was wrought up to
such an ecstasy of rage that the executioner was in danger of
being torn in pieces, and was conveyed away under a strong
guard.431
In the meantime many handkerchiefs were dipped in the Duke's
blood; for by a large part of the multitude he was regarded as a
martyr who had died for the Protestant religion. The head and
body were placed in a coffin covered with black velvet, and were
laid privately under the communion table of Saint Peter's Chapel
in the Tower. Within four years the pavement of the chancel was
again disturbed, and hard by the remains of Monmouth were laid
the remains of Jeffreys. In truth there is no sadder spot on the
earth than that little cemetery. Death is there associated, not,
as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue,
with public veneration and imperishable renown; not, as in our
humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most
endearing in social and domestic charities; but with whatever is
darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage
triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the
ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of
fallen greatness and of blighted fame. Thither have been carried,
through successive ages, by the rude hands of gaolers, without
one mourner following, the bleeding relics of men who had been
the captains of armies, the leaders of parties, the oracles of
senates, and the ornaments of courts. Thither was borne, before
the window where Jane Grey was praying, the mangled corpse of
Guilford Dudley. Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, and Protector
of the realm, reposes there by the brother whom he murdered.
There has mouldered away the headless trunk of John Fisher,
Bishop of Rochester and Cardinal of Saint Vitalis, a man worthy
to have lived in a better age and to have died in a better cause.
There are laid John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, Lord High
Admiral, and Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Lord High Treasurer.
There, too, is another Essex, on whom nature and fortune had
lavished all their bounties in vain, and whom valour, grace,
genius, royal favour, popular applause, conducted to an early and
ignominious doom. Not far off sleep two chiefs of the great house
of Howard, Thomas, fourth Duke of Norfolk, and Philip, eleventh
Earl of Arundel. Here and there, among the thick graves of
unquiet and aspiring statesmen, lie more delicate sufferers;
Margaret of Salisbury, the last of the proud name of Plantagenet;
and those two fair Queens who perished by the jealous rage of
Henry. Such was the dust with which the dust of Monmouth
mingled.432
Yet a few months, and the quiet village of Toddington, in
Bedfordshire, witnessed a still sadder funeral. Near that village
stood an ancient and stately hall, the seat of the Wentworths.
The transept of the parish church had long been their burial
place. To that burial place, in the spring which followed the
death of Monmouth, was borne the coffin of the young Baroness
Wentworth of Nettlestede. Her family reared a sumptuous mausoleum
over her remains: but a less costly memorial of her was long
contemplated with far deeper interest. Her name, carved by the
hand of him whom she loved too well, was, a few years ago, still
discernible on a tree in the adjoining park.
It was not by Lady Wentworth alone that the memory of Monmouth
was cherished with idolatrous fondness. His hold on the hearts of
the people lasted till the generation which had seen him had
passed away. Ribands, buckles, and other trifling articles of
apparel which he had worn, were treasured up as precious relics
by those who had fought under him at Sedgemoor. Old men who long
survived him desired, when they were dying, that these trinkets
might be buried with them. One button of gold thread which
narrowly escaped this fate may still be seen at a house which
overlooks the field of battle. Nay, such was the devotion of the
people to their unhappy favourite that, in the face of the
strongest evidence by which the fact of a death was ever
verified, many continued to cherish a hope that he was still
living, and that he would again appear in arms. A person, it was
said, who was remarkably like Monmouth, had sacrificed himself to
save the Protestant hero. The vulgar long continued, at every
important crisis, to whisper that the time was at hand, and that
King Monmouth would soon show himself. In 1686, a knave who had
pretended to be the Duke, and had levied contributions in several
villages of Wiltshire, was apprehended, and whipped from Newgate
to Tyburn. In 1698, when England had long enjoyed constitutional
freedom under a new dynasty, the son of an innkeeper passed
himself on the yeomanry of Sussex as their beloved Monmouth, and
defrauded many who were by no means of the lowest class. Five
hundred pounds were collected for him. The farmers provided him
with a horse. Their wives sent him baskets of chickens and ducks,
and were lavish, it was said, of favours of a more tender kind;
for in gallantry at least, the counterfeit was a not unworthy
representative of the original. When this impostor was thrown
into prison for his fraud, his followers maintained him in
luxury. Several of them appeared at the bar to countenance him
when he was tried at the Horsham assizes. So long did this
delusion last that, when George the Third had been some years on
the English throne, Voltaire thought it necessary gravely to
confute the hypothesis that the man in the iron mask was the Duke
of Monmouth.433
It is, perhaps, a fact scarcely less remarkable that, to this
day, the inhabitants of some parts of the West of England, when
any bill affecting their interest is before the House of Lords,
think themselves entitled to claim the help of the Duke of
Buccleuch, the descendant of the unfortunate leader for whom
their ancestors bled.
The history of Monmouth would alone suffice to refute the
Imputation of inconstancy which is so frequently thrown on the
common people. The common people are sometimes inconstant; for
they are human beings. But that they are inconstant as compared
with the educated classes, with aristocracies, or with princes,
may be confidently denied. It would be easy to name demagogues
whose popularity has remained undiminished while sovereigns and
parliaments have withdrawn their confidence from a long
succession of statesmen. When Swift had survived his faculties
many years, the Irish populace still continued to light bonfires
on his birthday, in commemoration of the services which they
fancied that he had rendered to his country when his mind was in
full vigour. While seven administrations were raised to power
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