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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of
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
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
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