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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across the
moors, and led the army into boggy ground. Military order could
not be preserved by undisciplined and disheartened soldiers under
a dark sky, and on a treacherous and uneven soil. Panic after
panic spread through the broken ranks. Every sight and sound was
thought to indicate the approach of pursuers. Some of the
officers contributed to spread the terror which it was their duty
to calm. The army had become a mob; and the mob melted fast away.
Great numbers fled under cover of the night. Rumbold and a few
other brave men whom no danger could have scared lost their way,
and were unable to rejoin the main body. When the day broke, only
five hundred fugitives, wearied and dispirited, assembled at
Kilpatrick.
All thought of prosecuting the war was at an end: and it was
plain that the chiefs of the expedition would have sufficient
difficulty in escaping with their lives. They fled in different
directions. Hume reached the Continent in safety. Cochrane was
taken and sent up to London. Argyle hoped to find a secure asylum
under the roof of one of his old servants who lived near
Kilpatrick. But this hope was disappointed; and he was forced to
cross the Clyde. He assumed the dress of a peasant and pretended
to be the guide of Major Fullarton, whose courageous fidelity was
proof to all danger. The friends journeyed together through
Renfrewshire as far as Inchinnan. At that place the Black Cart
and the White Cart, two streams which now flow through prosperous
towns, and turn the wheels of many factories, but which then held
their quiet course through moors and sheepwalks, mingle before
they join the Clyde. The only ford by which the travellers could
cross was guarded by a party of militia. Some questions were
asked. Fullarton tried to draw suspicion on himself, in order
that his companion might escape unnoticed. But the minds of the
questioners misgave them that the guide was not the rude clown
that he seemed. They laid hands on him. He broke loose and sprang
into the water, but was instantly chased. He stood at bay for a
short time against five assailants. But he had no arms except his
pocket pistols, and they were so wet, in consequence of his
plunge, that they would not go off. He was struck to the ground
with a broadsword, and secured.
He owned himself to be the Earl of Argyle, probably in the hope
that his great name would excite the awe and pity of those who
had seized him. And indeed they were much moved. For they were
plain Scotchmen of humble rank, and, though in arms for the
crown, probably cherished a preference for the Calvinistic church
government and worship, and had been accustomed to reverence
their captive as the head of an illustrious house and as a
champion of the Protestant religion But, though they were
evidently touched, and though some of them even wept, they were
not disposed to relinquish a large reward and to incur the
vengeance of an implacable government. They therefore conveyed
their prisoner to Renfrew. The man who bore the chief part in the
arrest was named Riddell. On this account the whole race of
Riddells was, during more than a century, held in abhorrence by
the great tribe of Campbell. Within living memory, when a Riddell
visited a fair in Argyleshire, he found it necessary to assume a
false name.
And now commenced the brightest part of Argyle's career. His
enterprise had hitherto brought on him nothing but reproach and
derision. His great error was that he did not resolutely refuse
to accept the name without the power of a general. Had he
remained quietly at his retreat in Friesland, he would in a few
years have been recalled with honour to his country, and would
have been conspicuous among the ornaments and the props of
constitutional monarchy. Had he conducted his expedition
according to his own views, and carried with him no followers but
such as were prepared implicitly to obey all his orders, he might
possibly have effected something great. For what he wanted as a
captain seems to have been, not courage, nor activity, nor skill,
but simply authority. He should have known that of all wants this
is the most fatal. Armies have triumphed under leaders who
possessed no very eminent qualifications. But what army commanded
by a debating club ever escaped discomfiture and disgrace?
The great calamity which had fallen on Argyle had this advantage,
that it enabled him to show, by proofs not to be mistaken, what
manner of man he was. From the day when he quitted. Friesland to
the day when his followers separated at Kilpatrick, he had never
been a free agent. He had borne the responsibility of a long
series of measures which his judgment disapproved. Now at length
he stood alone. Captivity had restored to him the noblest kind of
liberty, the liberty of governing himself in all his words and
actions according to his own sense of the right and of the
becoming. From that moment he became as one inspired with new
wisdom and virtue. His intellect seemed to be strengthened and
concentrated, his moral character to be at once elevated and
softened. The insolence of the conquerors spared nothing that
could try the temper of a man proud of ancient nobility and of
patriarchal dominion. The prisoner was dragged through Edinburgh
in triumph. He walked on foot, bareheaded, up the whole length of
that stately street which, overshadowed by dark and gigantic
piles of stone, leads from Holyrood House to the Castle. Before
him marched the hangman, bearing the ghastly instrument which was
to be used at the quartering block. The victorious party had not
forgotten that, thirty-five years before this time, the father of
Argyle had been at the head of the faction which put Montrose to
death. Before that event the houses of Graham and Campbell had
borne no love to each other; and they had ever since been at
deadly feud. Care was taken that the prisoner should pass through
the same gate and the same streets through which Montrose had
been led to the same doom.349 When the Earl reached the Castle
his legs were put in irons, and he was informed that he had but a
few days to live. It had been determined not to bring him to
trial for his recent offence, but to put him to death under the
sentence pronounced against him several years before, a sentence
so flagitiously unjust that the most servile and obdurate lawyers
of that bad age could not speak of it without shame.
But neither the ignominious procession up the High Street, nor
the near view of death, had power to disturb the gentle and
majestic patience of Argyle. His fortitude was tried by a still
more severe test. A paper of interrogatories was laid before him
by order of the Privy Council. He replied to those questions to
which he could reply without danger to any of his friends, and
refused to say more. He was told that unless he returned fuller
answers he should be put to the torture. James, who was doubtless
sorry that he could not feast his own eyes with the sight of
Argyle in the boots, sent down to Edinburgh positive orders that
nothing should be omitted which could wring out of the traitor
information against all who had been concerned in the treason.
But menaces were vain. With torments and death in immediate
prospect Mac Callum More thought far less of himself than of his
poor clansmen. "I was busy this day," he wrote from his cell,
"treating for them, and in some hopes. But this evening orders
came that I must die upon Monday or Tuesday; and I am to be put
to the torture if I answer not all questions upon oath. Yet I
hope God shall support me."
The torture was not inflicted. Perhaps the magnanimity of the
victim had moved the conquerors to unwonted compassion. He
himself remarked that at first they had been very harsh to him,
but that they soon began to treat him with respect and kindness.
God, he said, had melted their hearts. It is certain that he did
not, to save himself from the utmost cruelty of his enemies,
betray any of his friends. On the last morning of his life he
wrote these words: "I have named none to their disadvantage. I
thank God he hath supported me wonderfully!"
He composed his own epitaph, a short poem, full of meaning and
spirit, simple and forcible in style, and not contemptible in
versification. In this little piece he complained that, though
his enemies had repeatedly decreed his death, his friends had
been still more cruel. A comment on these expressions is to be
found in a letter which he addressed to a lady residing in
Holland. She had furnished him with a large sum of money for his
expedition, and he thought her entitled to a full explanation of
the causes which had led to his failure. He acquitted his
coadjutors of treachery, but described their folly, their
ignorance, and their factious perverseness, in terms which their
own testimony has since proved to have been richly deserved. He
afterwards doubted whether he had not used language too severe to
become a dying Christian, and, in a separate paper, begged his
friend to suppress what he had said of these men "Only this I
must acknowledge," he mildly added; "they were not governable."
Most of his few remaining hours were passed in devotion, and in
affectionate intercourse with some members of his family. He
professed no repentance on account of his last enterprise, but
bewailed, with great emotion, his former compliance in spiritual
things with the pleasure of the government He had, he said, been
justly punished. One who had so long been guilty of cowardice and
dissimulation was not worthy to be the instrument of salvation to
the State and Church. Yet the cause, he frequently repeated, was
the cause of God, and would assuredly triumph. "I do not," he
said, "take on myself to be a prophet. But I have a strong
impression on my spirit, that deliverance will come very
suddenly." It is not strange that some zealous Presbyterians
should have laid up his saying in their hearts, and should, at a
later period, have attributed it to divine inspiration.
So effectually had religious faith and hope, co-operating with
natural courage and equanimity, composed his spirits, that, on
the very day on which he was to die, he dined with appetite,
conversed with gaiety at table, and, after his last meal, lay
down, as he was wont, to take a short slumber, in order that his
body and mind might be in full vigour when he should mount the
moors, and led the army into boggy ground. Military order could
not be preserved by undisciplined and disheartened soldiers under
a dark sky, and on a treacherous and uneven soil. Panic after
panic spread through the broken ranks. Every sight and sound was
thought to indicate the approach of pursuers. Some of the
officers contributed to spread the terror which it was their duty
to calm. The army had become a mob; and the mob melted fast away.
Great numbers fled under cover of the night. Rumbold and a few
other brave men whom no danger could have scared lost their way,
and were unable to rejoin the main body. When the day broke, only
five hundred fugitives, wearied and dispirited, assembled at
Kilpatrick.
All thought of prosecuting the war was at an end: and it was
plain that the chiefs of the expedition would have sufficient
difficulty in escaping with their lives. They fled in different
directions. Hume reached the Continent in safety. Cochrane was
taken and sent up to London. Argyle hoped to find a secure asylum
under the roof of one of his old servants who lived near
Kilpatrick. But this hope was disappointed; and he was forced to
cross the Clyde. He assumed the dress of a peasant and pretended
to be the guide of Major Fullarton, whose courageous fidelity was
proof to all danger. The friends journeyed together through
Renfrewshire as far as Inchinnan. At that place the Black Cart
and the White Cart, two streams which now flow through prosperous
towns, and turn the wheels of many factories, but which then held
their quiet course through moors and sheepwalks, mingle before
they join the Clyde. The only ford by which the travellers could
cross was guarded by a party of militia. Some questions were
asked. Fullarton tried to draw suspicion on himself, in order
that his companion might escape unnoticed. But the minds of the
questioners misgave them that the guide was not the rude clown
that he seemed. They laid hands on him. He broke loose and sprang
into the water, but was instantly chased. He stood at bay for a
short time against five assailants. But he had no arms except his
pocket pistols, and they were so wet, in consequence of his
plunge, that they would not go off. He was struck to the ground
with a broadsword, and secured.
He owned himself to be the Earl of Argyle, probably in the hope
that his great name would excite the awe and pity of those who
had seized him. And indeed they were much moved. For they were
plain Scotchmen of humble rank, and, though in arms for the
crown, probably cherished a preference for the Calvinistic church
government and worship, and had been accustomed to reverence
their captive as the head of an illustrious house and as a
champion of the Protestant religion But, though they were
evidently touched, and though some of them even wept, they were
not disposed to relinquish a large reward and to incur the
vengeance of an implacable government. They therefore conveyed
their prisoner to Renfrew. The man who bore the chief part in the
arrest was named Riddell. On this account the whole race of
Riddells was, during more than a century, held in abhorrence by
the great tribe of Campbell. Within living memory, when a Riddell
visited a fair in Argyleshire, he found it necessary to assume a
false name.
And now commenced the brightest part of Argyle's career. His
enterprise had hitherto brought on him nothing but reproach and
derision. His great error was that he did not resolutely refuse
to accept the name without the power of a general. Had he
remained quietly at his retreat in Friesland, he would in a few
years have been recalled with honour to his country, and would
have been conspicuous among the ornaments and the props of
constitutional monarchy. Had he conducted his expedition
according to his own views, and carried with him no followers but
such as were prepared implicitly to obey all his orders, he might
possibly have effected something great. For what he wanted as a
captain seems to have been, not courage, nor activity, nor skill,
but simply authority. He should have known that of all wants this
is the most fatal. Armies have triumphed under leaders who
possessed no very eminent qualifications. But what army commanded
by a debating club ever escaped discomfiture and disgrace?
The great calamity which had fallen on Argyle had this advantage,
that it enabled him to show, by proofs not to be mistaken, what
manner of man he was. From the day when he quitted. Friesland to
the day when his followers separated at Kilpatrick, he had never
been a free agent. He had borne the responsibility of a long
series of measures which his judgment disapproved. Now at length
he stood alone. Captivity had restored to him the noblest kind of
liberty, the liberty of governing himself in all his words and
actions according to his own sense of the right and of the
becoming. From that moment he became as one inspired with new
wisdom and virtue. His intellect seemed to be strengthened and
concentrated, his moral character to be at once elevated and
softened. The insolence of the conquerors spared nothing that
could try the temper of a man proud of ancient nobility and of
patriarchal dominion. The prisoner was dragged through Edinburgh
in triumph. He walked on foot, bareheaded, up the whole length of
that stately street which, overshadowed by dark and gigantic
piles of stone, leads from Holyrood House to the Castle. Before
him marched the hangman, bearing the ghastly instrument which was
to be used at the quartering block. The victorious party had not
forgotten that, thirty-five years before this time, the father of
Argyle had been at the head of the faction which put Montrose to
death. Before that event the houses of Graham and Campbell had
borne no love to each other; and they had ever since been at
deadly feud. Care was taken that the prisoner should pass through
the same gate and the same streets through which Montrose had
been led to the same doom.349 When the Earl reached the Castle
his legs were put in irons, and he was informed that he had but a
few days to live. It had been determined not to bring him to
trial for his recent offence, but to put him to death under the
sentence pronounced against him several years before, a sentence
so flagitiously unjust that the most servile and obdurate lawyers
of that bad age could not speak of it without shame.
But neither the ignominious procession up the High Street, nor
the near view of death, had power to disturb the gentle and
majestic patience of Argyle. His fortitude was tried by a still
more severe test. A paper of interrogatories was laid before him
by order of the Privy Council. He replied to those questions to
which he could reply without danger to any of his friends, and
refused to say more. He was told that unless he returned fuller
answers he should be put to the torture. James, who was doubtless
sorry that he could not feast his own eyes with the sight of
Argyle in the boots, sent down to Edinburgh positive orders that
nothing should be omitted which could wring out of the traitor
information against all who had been concerned in the treason.
But menaces were vain. With torments and death in immediate
prospect Mac Callum More thought far less of himself than of his
poor clansmen. "I was busy this day," he wrote from his cell,
"treating for them, and in some hopes. But this evening orders
came that I must die upon Monday or Tuesday; and I am to be put
to the torture if I answer not all questions upon oath. Yet I
hope God shall support me."
The torture was not inflicted. Perhaps the magnanimity of the
victim had moved the conquerors to unwonted compassion. He
himself remarked that at first they had been very harsh to him,
but that they soon began to treat him with respect and kindness.
God, he said, had melted their hearts. It is certain that he did
not, to save himself from the utmost cruelty of his enemies,
betray any of his friends. On the last morning of his life he
wrote these words: "I have named none to their disadvantage. I
thank God he hath supported me wonderfully!"
He composed his own epitaph, a short poem, full of meaning and
spirit, simple and forcible in style, and not contemptible in
versification. In this little piece he complained that, though
his enemies had repeatedly decreed his death, his friends had
been still more cruel. A comment on these expressions is to be
found in a letter which he addressed to a lady residing in
Holland. She had furnished him with a large sum of money for his
expedition, and he thought her entitled to a full explanation of
the causes which had led to his failure. He acquitted his
coadjutors of treachery, but described their folly, their
ignorance, and their factious perverseness, in terms which their
own testimony has since proved to have been richly deserved. He
afterwards doubted whether he had not used language too severe to
become a dying Christian, and, in a separate paper, begged his
friend to suppress what he had said of these men "Only this I
must acknowledge," he mildly added; "they were not governable."
Most of his few remaining hours were passed in devotion, and in
affectionate intercourse with some members of his family. He
professed no repentance on account of his last enterprise, but
bewailed, with great emotion, his former compliance in spiritual
things with the pleasure of the government He had, he said, been
justly punished. One who had so long been guilty of cowardice and
dissimulation was not worthy to be the instrument of salvation to
the State and Church. Yet the cause, he frequently repeated, was
the cause of God, and would assuredly triumph. "I do not," he
said, "take on myself to be a prophet. But I have a strong
impression on my spirit, that deliverance will come very
suddenly." It is not strange that some zealous Presbyterians
should have laid up his saying in their hearts, and should, at a
later period, have attributed it to divine inspiration.
So effectually had religious faith and hope, co-operating with
natural courage and equanimity, composed his spirits, that, on
the very day on which he was to die, he dined with appetite,
conversed with gaiety at table, and, after his last meal, lay
down, as he was wont, to take a short slumber, in order that his
body and mind might be in full vigour when he should mount the
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