An abridgment of the History of England: from the invasion of Julius Cæsar, to the death of George II. By Dr. Goldsmith.

THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

CHAP. I. Of BRITAIN, from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Abdication of the Romans.

BRITAIN was but very little known to the rest of the world before the time of the Romans. The coasts opposite Gaul were frequented by mer|chants who traded thither for such commodities as the natives were able to produce. These, it is thought, after a time possessed themselves of all the maritime places where they had at first been permit|ted to reside. There, finding the country fertile, and commodiously situated for trade, they settled upon the sea-side, and introduced the practice of agricul|ture. But it was very different with the inland inha|bitants of the country, who considered themselves as the lawful possessors of the soil. These avoided all

correspondence with the new comers, whom they considered as intruders upon their property.

The inland inhabitants are represented as extremely numerous, living in cottages thatched with straw, and feeding large herds of cattle. They lived mostly up|on milk, or flesh procured by the chace. What cloaths they wore to cover any part of their bodies, were usually the skins of beasts; but much of their bodies, as the arms, legs, and thighs, was left naked, and those parts were usually painted blue. Their hair, which was long, flowed down upon their backs and shoulders, while their beards were kept close shaven, except upon the upper lip, where it was suf|fered to grow. The dress of savage nations is every where pretty much the same, being calculated rather to inspire terror than to excite love or respect.

As to their government, it consisted of several small principalities, each under its respective leader; and this seems to be the earliest mode of dominion with which mankind are acquainted, and deduced from the natural privileges of paternal authority. Upon great, or uncommon dangers, a commander in chief was chosen by common consent, in a general assembly; and to him was committed the conduct of the general interest, the power of making peace, or leading to war.

Their forces consisted chiefly of foot, and yet they could bring a considerable number of horse into the field upon great occasions. They likewise used cha|riots in battle, which, with short scythes fastened to the ends of the axle-trees, inflicted terrible wounds, spreading terror and devastation wheresoever they drove. Nor while the chariots were thus destroying, were the warriors who conducted them unemployed. These darted their javelins against the enemy, ran along the beam, leapt on the ground, resumed their seat, stopt, or turned their horses at full speed, and

sometimes cunningly retreated, to draw the enemy into confusion.

The religion of the Britons was one of the most considerable parts of their government; and the Druids, who were the guardians of it, possessed great authority among them. No species of superstition was ever more terrible than theirs; besides the severe penalties which they were permitted to inflict in this world, they inculcated the eternal transmigration of souls, and thus extended their authority as far as the fears of their votaries. They sacrificed human vic|tims, which they burned in large wicker idols, made so capacious as to contain a multitude of persons at once, who were thus consumed together. To these rites, tending to impress ignorance with awe, they added the austerity of their manners, and the sim|plicity of their lives. They lived in woods, caves, and hollow trees; their food was acorns and berries, and their drink water; by these arts, they were not only respected, but almost adored by the people.

It may be easily supposed, that the manners of the people took a tincture from the discipline of their teach|ers. Their lives were simple, but they were mark|ed with cruelty and fierceness; their courage was great, but neither dignified by mercy nor perseve|rance.

The Britons had long remained in this rude but in|dependent state, when Caesar having over-run Gaul with his victories, and willing still farther to extend his fame, determined upon the conquest of a country that seemed to promise an easy triumph. When the troops destined for the expedition were embarked, he set sail for Britain about midnight, and the next morning arrived on the coast near Dover, where he saw the rocks and cliffs covered with armed men to oppose his landing.

The Britons had chosen Cassibelaunus for their commander in chief, but the petty princes under

his command, either desiring his station, or suspect|ing his fidelity, threw off their allegiance. Some of them fled with their forces into the internal parts of the kingdom, others submitted to Caesar, till at length Caffibelaunus himself, weakened by so many deser|tions, resolved upon making what terms he was able while he yet had power to keep the field. The con|ditions offered by Caesar, and accepted by him were, that he should send to the continent double the num|ber of hostages at first demanded, and that he should acknowledge subjection to the Romans. Caesar, however, was obliged to return once more to com|pel the Britons to compleat their stipulated treaty.

Upon the accession of Augustus, that emperor had formed a design of visiting Britain, but was diverted from it by an unexpected revolt of the Pannoni|ans.

Tiberius, wisely judging the empire already too ex|tensive, made no attempt upon Britain. From that time the natives began to improve in all the arts which contribute to the advancement of human nature.

The wild extravagancies of Caligula, by which he threatened Britain with an invasion, served rather to expose him to ridicule than the island to danger. At length the Romans, in the reign of Claudius, began to think seriously of reducing them under their domi|nion. The expedition for this purpose was conducted in the beginning by Plautius and other commanders, with that success which usually attended the Roman arms.

Caractacus was the first who seemed willing, by a vigorous effort, to rescue his country and repel its in|sulting and rapacious conquerors. This rude soldier, though with inferior forces, continued, for above nine years, to oppose and harrass the Romans; till at length he was totally routed, and taken prisoner by Ostorius Scapula, who sent him in triumph to Rome. While Caractacus was leading thro' Rome,

he appeared no way dejected at the amazing con|course of spectators that were gathered upon this oc|casion, but casting his eyes on the splendours that surrounded him, "Alas, cried he, how is it possible that a people possessed of such magnificence at home could envy me an humble cottage in Britain!" The emperor was affected with the British hero's misfor|tunes, and won by his address. He ordered him to be unchained upon the spot, and set at liberty with the rest of the captives.

The cruel treatment of Boadicea, queen of the Iceni, drove the Britons once more into open rebellion. Pra|satagus, king of the Iceni, at his death had bequeath|ed one-half of his dominions to the Romans, and the other to his daughters, thus hoping by the sacrifice of a part, to secure the rest in his family: but it had a different effect; for the Roman procurator immedi|ately took possession of the whole; and when Boadi|cea, the widow of the deceased, attempted to remon|strate, he ordered her to be scourged like a slave, and violated the chastity of her daughters. These outra|ges were sufficient to produce a revolt throughout the island. The Iceni, as being the most deeply interested in the quarrel, were the first to take arms; all the other states soon followed the example; and Boadi|cea, a woman of great beauty and masculine spirit, was appointed to head the common forces, which a|mounted to two hundred and thirty thousand fight|ing men. These, exasperated by their wrongs, at|tacked several of the Roman settlements and colonies with success. Paulinus, who commanded the Ro|man forces, hastened to relieve London, which was already a flourishing colony; but found on his arri|val that it would be requisite for the general safety to abandon that place to the merciless fury of the ene|my. London was soon therefore reduced to ashes; such of the inhabitants as remained in it were mas|sacred; and the Romans, with all other strangers,

to the number of seventy thousand, were cruelly put to the sword. Flushed with these successes, the Bri|tons no longer sought to avoid the enemy, but boldly came to the place where Paulinus awaited their arri|val, posted in a very advantageous manner with a body of ten thousand men. The battle was obstinate and bloody. Boadicea herself appeared in a chariot with her two daughters, and harrangued her army with masculine intrepidity; but the irregular and un|disciplined bravery of her troops was unable to resist the cool intrepidity of the Romans. They were rout|ed with great slaughter, eighty thousand perished in the field, and an infinite number were made priso|ners, while Boadicea herself, fearing to fall into the hands of the enraged victor, put an end to her life by poison.

The general who finally established the dominion of the Romans in this island was Julius Agricola, who governed it during the reigns of Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian, and distinguished himself as well by his courage as humanity.

For several years after the time of Agricola, a pro|found peace seems to have prevailed in Britain, and little mention is made of the affairs of the island by any historian.

At length, however, Rome, that had for ages given laws to nations, and diffused slavery and oppression over the known world, at length began to sink under her own magnificence. Mankind, as if by a general consent, rose up to vindicate their natural freedom; almost every nation asserting that independence which they had been long so unjustly deprived of.

During these struggles the British youth were fre|quently drawn away into Gaul, to give ineffectual succour to the various contenders for the empire, who, falling in every attempt, only left the name of ty|rants behind them. In the mean time, as the Roman forces decreased in Britain, the Picts and Scots con|tinued

still more boldly to infest the northern parts; and crossing the friths, which the Romans could not guard, in little wicker boats, covered with leather, filled the country wherever they came with slaughter and consternation.

The Romans, therefore, finding it impossible to stand their ground in Britain, in the reign of the em|peror Valentinian took their last leave of the island, after being masters of it for ne•••• four hundred years, and now left the natives to the choice of their own government and kings. They gave them the best in|structions the calamitous times would permit, for ex|ercising their arms, and repairing their ramparts, and helped them to erect a-new a wall of stone built by the emperor Severus across the island, which they had not at that time artizans skilful enough among them|selves to repair.

CHAP. II. THE SAXONS.

THE Britons being now left to themselves, con|sidered their new liberties as their greatest cala|mity.

The Picts and Scots uniting together, began to look upon Britain as their own, and attacked the northern wall which the Romans had built to keep off their incursions, with success. Having thus opened to themselves a passage, they ravaged the whole country with impunity, while the Britons sought precarious shelter in their woods and mountains.

It was in this deplorable and enfeebled state that the Britons had recourse to the Saxons, a brave peo|ple; who, for their strength and valour, were formi|able to all the German nations around them, and sup|posed to be more than a match for the gods them|selves.

They were a people restless and bold, who considered war as their trade; and were, in conse|quence, taught to consider victory as a doubtful ad|vantage, but courage as a certain good. A nation, however, entirely addicted to war, has seldom wanted the imputation of cruelty, as those terrors which are opposed without fear, are often inflicted without re|gret. The Saxons are represented as a very cruel na|tion; but we must remember that their enemies have drawn the picture.

It was no disagreeable circumstance to these ambi|tious people to be invited into a country upon which they had, for ages before, been forming designs. In consequence, therefore, of Vortigern's solemn invi|tation, who was then king of Britain, they arrived with fifteen hundred men, under the command of Hengist and Horsa, who were brothers, and landed on the isle of Thanet. There they did not long re|main inactive; but, being joined by the British for|ces, they boldly marched against the Picts and Scots, who had advanced as far as Lincolnshire, and soon gained a compleat victory over them.

The Saxons, however, being sensible of the fertility of the country to which they came, and the barrenness of that which they had left behind, invited over great numbers of their countrymen to become sharers in their new expedition. Accordingly they received a fresh supply of five thousand men, who passed over in seventeen vessels, and soon made a permanent esta|blishment in the island.

The British historians, in order to account for the easy conquest of their country by the Saxons, assign their treachery, not less than their valour, as a princi|pal cause. They alledge that Vortigern was artfully inveigled into a passion for Rowena, the daughter of Hengist; and, in order to marry her, was induced to settle the fertile province of Kent upon her father, from whence the Saxons could never after be removed.

It is alledged also that, upon the death of Vortimer, which shortly happened after the victory he obtained at Eglesford, Vortigern his father was reinstated up|on the throne. It is added that this weak monarch accepting of a festival from Hengist, three hundred of his nobility were treacherously slaughtered, and himself detained as a captive.

After the death of Hengist, several other German tribes, allured by the success of their countrymen, went over in great numbers. A body of their coun|trymen, under the conduct of Aella and his three sons, had some time before laid the foundation of the kingdom of the South Saxons, though not without great opposition and bloodshed. This new kingdom included Surry, Sussex, and the New Forest: and extended to the frontiers of Kent.

Another tribe of Saxons, under the command of Cerdic and his son Kenric, landed in the West, and from thence took the name of West Saxons. These met a very vigorous opposition from the natives, but being reinforced from Germany, and assisted by their countrymen on the island, they routed the Britons; and although retarded in their progress by the cele|brated king Arthur, they had strength enough to keep possession of the conquests they had already made. Cerdic, therefore, with his son Kenric, esta|blished the third Saxon kingdom in the island, name|ly, that of the West Saxons, including the counties of Hants, Dorset, Wilts, Berks, and the isle of Wight.

It was in opposing this Saxon invader that the ce|lebrated prince Arthur acquired his fame. Howso|ever unsuccessful all his valour might have been in the end, yet his name makes so great a figure in the fabulous annals of the times, that some notice must be taken of him. This prince is of such obscure ori|ginal, that some authors suppose him to be the son of king Ambrosius, and others only his nephew; others

again affim that he was a Cornish prince, and son of Gurlois, king of that province. However this be, it is certain he was a commander of great valour, and could courage alone repair the miserable state of the Britons, his might have been effectual. According to the most authentic historians, he is said to have worsted the Saxons in twelve successive battles. In one of these, namely, that fought at Caerbadon, in Berks, it is asserted that he killed no less than four hundred and forty of the enemy with his own hand. But the Saxons were too numerous and powerful to be extirpated by the desultory efforts of single valour; so that a peace, and not conquest, were the immedi|ate fruits of his victories. The enemy, therefore, still gained ground; and this prince, in the decline of life, had the mortification, from some domestic troubles of his own, to be a patient spectator of their encroachments. His first wise had been carried off by Melnas, king of Somersetshire, who detained her a whole year at Glastonbury, until Arthur, discover|ing the place of her retreat, advanced with an army against the ravisher, and obliged him to give her back. In his second wife, perhaps, he might have been more fortunate, as we have no mention made of her, but it was otherwise with his third consort, who was debauched by his own nephew, Mordred. This produced a rebellion, in which the king and his traiterous kinsman meeting in battle, slew each other.

In the mean time, while the Saxons were thus gaining ground in the West, their countrymen were not less active in other parts of the island. Adventu|rers still continuing to pour over from Germany, one body of them, under the command of Ussa, seized upon the counties of Cambridge, Suffolk, and Nor|folk, and gave their commander the title of king of the East Angles, which was the fourth Saxon king|dom founded in Britain

Another body of these adventurers formed a kingdom under the title of East Saxony, or Essex, comprehending Essex, Middlesex, and part of Hert|fordshire. This kingdom, which was dismembered from that of Kent, formed the fifth Saxon principa|lity founded in Britain.

The kingdom of Mercia was the sixth which was established by these fierce invaders, comprehending all the middle counties, from the banks of the Severn to the frontiers of the two last named kingdoms.

The seventh and last kingdom which they obtained was that of Northumberland, one of the most power|ful and extensive of them all. This was formed from the union of two smaller Saxon kingdoms, the one called Bernicia, containing the present county of Northumberland and the bishoprick of Durham; the subjects of the other, called the Deiri, extending them|selves over Lancashire and Yorkshire. These king|doms were united in the person of Ethelfrid, king of Northumberland, by the expulsion of Edwin, his brother-in-law, from the kingdom of the Deiri, and the seizure of his dominions. In this manner the natives being overpowered, or entirely expelled, seven kingdoms were established in Britain, which have been since well known by the name of the Saxon Heptarchy.

The Saxons being thus established in all the de|sirable parts of the island, and having no longer the Britons to contend with, began to quarrel among themselves. A country divided into a number of petty independent principalities, must ever be subject to contention, as jealously and ambition have more frequent incentives to operate. After a series, there|fore, of battles, treasons, and stratagems, all these petty principalities fell under the power of Egbert, king of Wessex, whose merits deserved dominion, and whose prudence secured his conquests. By him all the kingdoms of the Heptarchy were united un|der

one common jurisdiction; but, to give splendour to his authority, a general council of the clergy and laity was summoned at Winchester, where he was so|lemnly crowned king of England, by which name the united kingdom was thenceforward called.

Thus, about four hundred years after the first ar|rival of the Saxons in Britain, all their petty settle|ments were united into one great state, and nothing offered but prospects of peace, security, and increas|ing refinement.

It was about this period that St. Gregory undertook to send missionaries among the Saxons to convert them to Christianity. It is said, that before his elevation to the papal chair, he chanced one day to pass thro' the slave-market at Rome, and perceiving some chil|dren of great beauty who were set up for sale, he en|quired about their country, and finding they were English pages, be is said to have cried out, in the Latin language, Non Angli, sed Angeli forent, si essent Christiani; They would not be English, but Angels, had they been Christians. From that time he was struck with an ardent desire to convert that unenlight|ened nation, and ordered a monk, named Augustine, and others of the same fraternity, to undertake the mission into Britain.

This pious monk, upon his first landing in the isle of Thanet, sent one of his interpreters to Ethel|bert, the Kentish king, declaring he was come from Rome with offers of eternal salvation. The king immediately ordered them to be furnished with all necessaries, and even visited them, though without declaring himself as yet in their favour. Augustine, however, encouraged by this favourable reception, and now seeing a prospect of success, proceeded with redoubled zeal to preach the gospel. The king openly espoused the Christian religion, while his example wrought so succesfully on his subjects, that numbers of them came voluntarily to be baptized, their missi|oner

loudly declaring against any coercive means towards their conversion. In this manner the other kingdoms, one after the other, embraced the faith; and England was soon as famous for its superstition as it had once been for its averseness to Christianity.

CHAP. III. THE INVASION OF THE DANES.

PEACE and unanimity had been scarcely establish|ed in England when a mighty swarm of those nations called Danes, who had possessed the coun|tries bordering on the Baltic, began to level their fu|ry against England. A small body of them at first landed on the coasts, with a view to learn the state of the country; and having committed some small depredations, fled to their ships for safety. About seven years after this first attempt, they made a de|scent upon the kingdom of Northumberland, where they pillaged a monastery; but their fleet being shat|tered by a storm, they were defeated by the inhabi|tants, and put to the sword. It was not till about five years after the accession of Egbert, that their in|vasions became truly formidable. From that time they continued, with unceasing ferocity, until the whole kingdom was reduced to a state of the most distressful bondage.

Though often repulsed, they always obtained their end, of spoiling the country, and carrying the plun|der away. It was their method to avoid coming, if possible, to a general engagement; but scattering themselves over the face of the country, they carried away, indiscriminately, as well the inhabitants them|selves, as all their moveable possessions.

At length, however, they resolved upon making a settlement in the country, and landing on the isle

of Thanet, stationed themselves there. In this place they kept their ground, notwithstanding a bloody vic|tory gained over them by Ethelwolf. The reign of Ethelbald, his successor, was of no long continuance; however, in so short space, he crouded a number of vices sufficient to render his name odious to poste|rity.

This prince was succeeded by his brother Ethelred, a brave commander, but whose valour was insufficient to repress the Danish incursions. In these exploits he was always assisted by his younger brother, Alfred, afterwards surnamed the Great, who sacrificed all private resentment to the public good, having been deprived by the king of a large patrimony. It was during Ethelred's reign, that the Danes, penetrating into Mercia, took up their winter quarters at Not|tingham; from whence, the king, attempting to dis|lodge them, received a wound in the battle, of which he died, leaving his brother, Alfred, the inheritance of a kingdom that was now reduced to the brink of ruin.

The Danes had already subdued Northumberland and East Anglia, and had penetrated into the very heart of Wessex. The Mercians were united against Alfred; the dependence upon the other provinces of the empire was but precarious: the lands lay un|cultivated, through fears of continual incursions; and all the churches and monasteries were burned to the ground. In this terrible situation of affairs, nothing appeared but objects of terror, and every hope was lost in despair. The wisdom and virtues of one man alone were sound sufficient to bring back happiness, security, and order; and all the calamities of the times found redress from Alfred.

This prince seemed born not only to defend his bleeding country, but even to adorn humanity. He had given very early instances of those great virtues which afterwards gave splendour to his reign; and

was anointed by pope Leo, as future king, when he was sent by his father for his education to Rome. On his return from thence, he became every day more the object of his father's fond affections; and that, per|haps, was the reason why his education was at first neglected. He had attained the age of twelve, before he was made acquainted with the lowest elements of literature; but hearing some Saxon poems read, which recounted the praise of heroes, his whole mind was roused, not only to obtain a similtude of glory, but also to be able to transmit that glory to posterity. Encouraged by the queen, his mother, and assisted by a penetrating genius, he soon learned to read these compositions, and proceeded from thence to a knowledge of Latin authors, who directed his taste, and rectified his ambition.

He was scarce come to the crown, when he was obliged to oppose the Danes, who had seized Wil|ton, and were exercising their usual ravages on the country around. He marched against them with the few troops he could assemble on a sudden, and a desperate battle was sought, to the disadvantage of the English. But it was not in the power of misfortune to abate the king's diligence, though it repressed his power to do good. He was in a little time enabled to hazard another engagement; so that the enemy, dreading his courage and activity, proposed terms of peace, which he did not think proper to refuse. They, by this treaty, agreed to relinquish the kingdom; but, instead of complying with their engagements, they only removed from one place to another, burn|ing and destroying wherever they came.

Alfred, thus opposed to an enemy whom no stati|onary force could resist, nor no treaty could bind, found himself unable to repel the efforts of those ra|vagers, who from all quarters invaded him. New swarms of the enemy arrived every year upon the coast, and fresh invasions were still projected. Some

of his subjects therefore left their country, and retir|ed into Wales, or fled to the continent. Others sub|mitted to the conquerors, and purchased their lives by their freedom. In this universal defection, Alfred vainly attempted to remind them of the duty they owed their country and their king; but finding his remonstrances ineffectual, he was obliged to give way to the wretched necessity of the times. Accord|ingly, relinquishing the ensigns of his dignity, and dismissing his servants, he dressed himself in the ha|bit of a peasant, and lived for some time in the house of an herdsman, who had been entrusted with the care of his cattle. In this manner, though abandon|ed by the world, and fearing an enemy in every quarter, still he resolved to continue in his country, to catch the slightest occasions for bringing it relief. In his solitary retreat, which was in the county of Somerset, at the confluence of the rivers Parret and Thone, he amused himself with music, and support|ed his humble lot with the hopes of better fortune. It is said, that, one day, being commanded by the herdsman's wife, who was ignorant of his quality, to take care of some cakes which were baking by the fire, he happened to let them burn, for which she severely upbraided him for neglect.

Previous to his retirement, Alfred had concerted measures for assembing a few trusty friends, when|ever an opportunity should offer of annoying the ene|my, who were now in possession of all the coun|try. This chosen band, still faithful to their mo|narch, took shelter in the forests and marshes of So|merset, and from thence made occasional irruptions upon straggling parties of the enemy. Their success, in this rapacious and dreary method of living, encou|raged many more to join their society, till at length sufficiently augmented, they repaired to their mo|narch, who had by that time been reduced by famine to the last extremity.

Mean while Ubba, the chief of the Danish command|ers, carried terror over the whole land, and now ra|vaged the country of Wales without opposition. The only place where he found resistance was, in his re|turn, from the castle of Kenwith, into which the earl of Devonshire had retired with a small body of troops. This gallant soldier finding himself unable to sustain a siege, and knowing the danger of surrendering to a perfidious enemy, was resolved, by one desperate effort, to sally out and force his way through the be|siegers, sword in hand. The proposal was embraced by all his followers, while the Danes, secure in their numbers, and in their contempt of the enemy, were not only routed with great slaughter, but Ubba, their general, was slain.

This victory once more restored courage to the dispirited Saxons; and Alfred, taking advantage of their favourable disposition, prepared to animate them to a vigorous exertion of their superiority. He soon therefore apprized them of the place of his retreat, and instructed them to be ready with all their strength at a minute's warning. But still none was found who would undertake to give intelligence of the for|ces, and posture of the enemy: not knowing, there|fore, a person in whom he could confide, he under|took this dangerous task himself. In the simple dress of a shepherd, with an harp in his hand, he entered the Danish camp, tried all his musical arts to please, and was so much admired, that he was brought even into the presence of Guthrum, the Danish prince, with whom he remained some days. There he remark|ed the supine security of the Danes, their contempt of the English, their negligence in foraging and plun|dering, and their dissolute wasting of such ill-gotten booty. Having made his observations, he returned to his retreat, and detaching proper emissaries among his subjects, appointed them to meet him in arms in

the forest of Selwood, a summons which they gladly obeyed.

It was against the most unguarded quarter of the enemy that Alfred made his most violent attack, while the Danes, surprized to behold an army of English, whom they considered as totally subdued, made but a faint resistance. Notwithstanding the su|periority of their number, they were routed with great slaughter; and, though such as escaped fled for refuge into a fortified camp in the neighbourhood, being unprovided for a siege, in less than a fortnight they were compelled to surrender at discretion. By the conqueror's permission, those who did not chuse to embrace Christianity embarked for Flanders, under the command of one of their generals, called Hast|ings. Guthrum, their prince, became a convert, with thirty of his nobles, and the king himself an|swered for him at the font.

Alfred had now attained the meridian of glory; he possessed a greater extent of territory than had ever been enjoyed by any of his predecessors; the kings of Wales did him homage for their possessions, the Northumbrians received a king of his appointing, and no enemy appeared to give him the least apprehen|sions, or excite an alarm. In this state of prosperity and profound tranquility, which lasted for twelve years, Alfred was diligently employed in cultivating the arts of peace, and in repairing the damages which the kingdom had sustained by war.

His care was to polish the country by arts, as he had protected it by arms. He is said to have drawn up a body of laws. His care for the encouragement of learning did not a little tend to improve the morals and restrain the barbarous habits of the people. When he came to the throne, he found the English sunk into the grossest ignorance and barbarism, proceeding from the continued disorders of the government, and from the ravages of the Danes. He himself

complains, that, on his accession, he knew not one person south of the Thames who could so much as interpret the Latin service. To remedy this defi|ciency, he invited over the most celebrated scholars from all parts of Europe; he founded, or at least re|established, the university of Oxford, and endowed it with many privileges, and he gave, in his own ex|ample, the strongest incentives to study. He usually divided his time into three equal portions; one was given to sleep, and the refection of his body, diet, and exercise; another to the dispatch of business; and the third to study and devotion. He made a con|siderable progress in the different studies of grammar, rhetoric, philosophy, architecture, and geometry. He was an excellent historian, he understood music, he was acknowledged to be the best Saxon poet of the age, and left many works behind him, some of which remain to this day. To give a character of this prince would only be, to sum up those qualities which constitute perfection. Even virtues seemingly opposite, were happily blended in his disposition; persevering, yet flexible; moderate, yet enterprising; just, yet merciful; stern in command, yet gentle in conversation. Nature also, as if desirous that such admirable qualities of mind should be set off to the greatest advantage, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments, vigour, dignity, and an engaging, open countenance.

His second son, Edward, succeeded him on the throne. To him succeeded Athelstan, his natural son, the illegitimacy of his birth not being then deemed a sufficient obstacle to his inheriting the crown. He died at Gloucester, after a reign of sixteen years, and was succeeded by his brother, Edmund, who, like the rest of his predecessors, met with disturbance from the Northumbrians on his accession to the throne; but his activity soon defeated their attempts. The resentment this monarch bore to men of an abandoned

way of living was the cause of his death. He was killed by Leolff, a robber, at a feast, where this vil|lain had the insolence to intrude into the king's pre|sence. His brother, Edred, was appointed to suc|ceed, and like his predecessors, this monarch found himself at the head of a rebellious and refractory people. Edred implicitly submitted to the directions of Dunstan the monk, both in church and state; and the kingdom was in a fair way of being turned into a papal province by this zealous ecclesiastic; but he was checked in the midst of his career, by the death of the king, who died of a quinsey, in the tenth year of his reign.

Edwy, his nephew, who ascended the throne, his own sons being yet unfit to govern, was a prince of great personal accomplishments, and a martial dispo|sition. But he was now come to the government of a kingdom, in which he had an enemy to contend with, against whom all military virtues could be of little service. Dunstan, who had governed during the former reign, was resolved to omit nothing of his authority in this; and Edwy, immediately up|on his accession, found himself involved in a quar|rel with the monks, whose rage, neither his ac|complishments, nor his virtues could mitigate.

Among other instances of their cruelty, the fol|lowing is recorded. There was a lady of the royal blood, named Elgiva, whose beauty had made a strong impression upon the young monarch's heart. He had even ventured to marry her, contrary to the advice of his counsellors, as she was within the degrees of assinity prohibited by the canon law. On the day of his coronation, while his nobility were giving a loose to the more noisy pleasures of wine and festivity in the great hall, Edwy retired to his wife's apartment; where, in company with her mother, he enjoyed the more pleasing satisfaction of her con|versation. Dunstan no sooner perceived his absence,

than conjecturing the reason, he rushed furiously in|to the apartment, and upbraiding him with all the bitterness of ecclesiastical rancour, dragged him forth in the most outrageous manner. Dunstan, it seems, was not without his enemies, for the king was ad|vised to punish this insult, by bringing him to ac|count for the money with which he had been entrust|ed during the last reign. This account, the haughty monk refused to give in; wherefore, he was deprived of all the ecclesiastical and civil emoluments of which he had been in possession, and banished the kingdom. His exile only served to encrease the reputation of his sanctity with the people; among the rest Odo, arch|bishop of Canterbury, was so far transported with the spirit of the party, that he pronounced a divorce between Edwy and Elgiva. The king was unable to resist the indignation of the church, and consented to sur|render his beautiful wife to its fury. Accordingly, Odo sent into the palace a party of soldiers, who seized the queen; and, by his orders, branded her on the face with an hot iron. Not contented with this cruel vengeance, they carried her by force into Ireland, and there commanded her to remain in per|petual exile. This injunction, however, was too distressing for that faithful woman to comply with; for, being cured of her wound, and having obliterated the marks which had been made to deface her beauty, she once more ventured to return to the king, whom she still regarded as her husband. But misfortune continued to pursue her. She was taken prisoner by a party whom the archbishop had appointed to ob|serve her conduct, and was put to death in the most cruel manner; the sinews of her legs being cut, and her body mangled, she was thus left to expire in the most cruel agony. In the mean time, a secret revolt against Edwy became almost general; and Dunstan put himself at the head of the party. The malecon|tents at last proceeded to open rebellion; and having

placed Edgar, the king's younger brother, a boy of about thirteen years of age, at their head, they soon put him in possession of all the northern parts of the kingdom. Edwy's power and the number of his ad|herents every day declining, he was at last obliged to consent to a partition of the kingdom; but his death, which happened soon after, freed his enemies from all further inquietude, and gave Edgar peaceable pos|session of the government.

Edgar being placed on the throne by the influence of the monks, affected to be entirely guided by their directions in all his succeeding transactions.

Little worthy of notice is mentioned of this mo|narch except his amour with Elfrida, which is of too singular a nature to be omitted. Edgar had long heard of the beauty of a young lady, whose name was Elfrida, daughter to the earl of Devonshire; but, unwilling to credit common fame, in this particular, he sent Athelwald, his favourite friend, to see, and inform him, if Elfrida was indeed that incomparable woman report had described her. Ethelwald arriving at the earl's, had no sooner cast his eyes upon that nobleman's daughter, than he became desperately ena|moured of her himself. Such was the violence of his passion, that, forgetting his master's intentions, he so|licited only his own interests, and demanded for him|self the beautiful Elfrida, from her father in mar|riage. The favourite of a king was not likely to find a refusal; the earl gave his consent, and their nupti|als were performed in private. Upon his return to court, which was shortly after, he assured the king, that her riches alone, and her high quality had been the cause of her fame, and he appeared amazed how the world could talk so much, and so unjustly of her charms. The king was satisfied, and no longer felt any curiosity, while Ethelwald secretly triumphed in his address. When he had, by this deceit, weaned the king from his purpose, he took an opportunity,

after some time, of turning the conversation on El|frida, representing, that though the fortune of the earl of Devonshire's daughter would be a trifle to a king, yet it would be an immense acquisition to a needy subject. He, therefore, humbly entreated per|mission to pay his addresses to her, as she was the richest heiress in the kingdom. A request so seem|ingly reasonable, was readily complied with; Ethel|wald returned to his wife, and their nuptials were so|lemnized in public. His greatest care, however, was employed in keeping her from court; and he took every precaution to prevent her from appearing be|fore a king so susceptible of love, while she was so ca|pable of inspiring that passion. But it was impossible to keep his treachery long concealed. Edgar was soon informed of the whole transaction; but dissembling his resentment, he took occasion to visit that part of the country, where this miracle of beauty was detain|ed, accompanied by Ethelwald, who reluctantly attend|ed him thither. Upon coming near the lady's habita|tion he told him, that he had a curiosity to see his wife, of whom he had formerly heard so much, and desired to be introduced as his acquaintance. Ethelwald, thunder-struck at the proposal, did all in his power, but in vain, to dissuade him. All he could obtain, was permission to go before, on pretence of preparing for the king's reception. On his arrival, he fell at his wife's feet, confessing what he had done to be pos|sessed of her charms, and conjuring her to conceal, as much as possible, her beauty from the king, who was but too susceptible of its power. Elfrida, little obliged to him for a passion that had deprived her of a crown, promised compliance; but, prompted ei|ther by vanity, or revenge, adorned her person with the most exquisite art, and called up all her beauty on the occasion. The event answered her expecta|tions; the king, no sooner saw, than he loved her, and was instantly resolved to obtain her. The better

to effect his intentions, he concealed his passion from the husband, and took leave with a seeming indiffe|rence; but his revenge was not the less certain and fatal. Ethelwald was some time after sent into Nor|thumberland, upon pretence of urgent affairs, and was found murdered in a wood by the way. Some say be was stabbed by the king's own hand; some, that he only commanded the assassinaton; however this be, Elfrida was invited soon after to court, by the king's own order, and their nuptials were performed with the usual solemnity.

This monarch died, after a reign of sixteen years, in the thirty-third year of his age, being succeeded by his son, Edward, whom he had by his first mar|riage, with the daughter of the earl of Ordmer.

Edward, surnamed the Martyr, was made king by the interest of the monks, and lived but four years after his accession. In his reign there is nothing remarkable, if we except his tragical and memorable end. Hunting one day near Corfe castle, where Elfrida, his mother-in-law resided, he thought it his duty to pay her a visit, although he was not attended by any of his retinue. There desiring some liquor to be brought him, as he was thirsty, while she was yet holding the cup to his head, one of Elfrida's domes|tics, instructed for that purpose, stabbed him in the back. The king, finding himself wounded, put spurs to his horse; but, fainting with the loss of blood, he fell from the saddle, and his foot sticking in the stirrup, he was dragged along by his horse, till he died.

Ethelred the Second, the son of Edgar and Elfrida, succeeded; a weak and irresolute monarch, inca|pable of governing the kingdom, or of providing for its safety. During his reign the old and terrible enemies, the Danes, who seemed not to be loaded with the same accumulation of vice and folly as the English, were daily gaining ground. The weakness and the inexperience of Ethelred appeared to give a favour|able

opportunity for renewing their depredations; and, accordingly, they landed on several parts of the coast, spreading their usual terror and devastation.

As they lived indiscriminately among the English, a resolution was taken for a general massacre; and Ethelred, by a policy incident to weak princes, em|braced the cruel resolution of putting them all to the sword. This plot was carried on with such secrecy, that it was executed in one day, and all the Danes in England were destroyed without mercy. But this massacre so perfidious in the contriving, and so cruel in the execution, instead of ending the long miseries of the people, only prepared the way for greater cala|mities.

While the English were yet congratulating each other upon their late deliverance from an inveterate enemy, Sweyn, king of Denmark, who had been in|formed of their treacherous cruelties, appeared off the western coasts with a large fleet, meditating slaughter, and furious with revenge. Ethelred was obliged to fly into Normandy, and the whole country thus came under the power of Sweyn, his victorious rival.

Canute, afterwards surnamed the Great, succeeded Sweyn as king of Denmark, and also as general of the Danish forces in England. The contest be|tween him and Edmund Ironside, successor to Ethel|red, was managed with great obstinacy and persever|ance; the first battle that was sought appeared un|decisive; a second followed, in which the Danes were victorious; but Edmund still having interest enough to bring a third army into the field, the Danish and English nobility, equally harrassed by these convulsi|ons, obliged their kings to come to a compromise, and to divide the kingdom between them by treaty. Canute reserved to himself the northern parts of the kingdom, the southern parts were left to Edmund; but this prince being murdered about a month after the treaty by his two chamberlains, at Oxford, Ca|nute

was left in peaceable possession of the whole kingdom.

Canute is represented by some historians as one of the first characters in those barbarous ages. The piety of the latter part of his life, and the reso|lute valour of the former, were topics that filled the mouths of his courtiers with flattery and praise. They even affected to think his power uncontroulable, and that all things would be obedient to his com|mand. Canute, sensible of their adulation, is said to have taken the following method to reprove them. He ordered his chair to be set on the sea-shore while the tide was coming in, and commanded the sea to retire. "Thou art under my dominion, cried he; the land upon which I sit is mine; I charge thee therefore to approach no farther, nor dare to wet the feet of thy sovereign." He feigned to sit some time in expectation of submission, till the waves began to surround him: then, turning to his courtiers, he observed that the titles of Lord and Master, belonged only to him whom both earth and seas were ready to obey. Thus feared and respected, he lived many years, honoured with the surname of Great for his power, but deserving it still more for his virtues. He died at Shaftsbury, in the nineteenth year of his reign, leaving behind him three sons, Sweyn, Ha|rold, and Hardicnute. Sweyn was crowned king of Norway, Hardicnute was put in possession of Den|mark, and Harold succeeded his father on the Eng|lish throne.

To Harold succeeded his brother, Hardicnute, whose title was readily acknowledged both by the Danes and the English; and, upon his arrival from the continent, he was received with the most extra|vagant demonstrations of joy. This king's violent and unjust government was but of short duration. He died two years after his accession, in consequence

of excess at the marriage of a Danish lord, which was celebrated at Lambeth.

The disorders of the Danish monarchs once more induced the English to place a monarch of the Sax|on line upon the throne, and accordingly Edward, surnamed the Confessor, was by the general consent crowned king.

The English, who had long groaned under a fo|reign yoke, now set no bounds to their joy, at find|ing the line of their ancient monarchs restored.

As he had been bred in the Norman court, he shewed, in every instance, a predilection for the cus|toms, laws, and even the natives of that country; and among the rest of his faults, though he had married Editha, the daughter of Godwin, yet, either from mistaken piety, or fixed aversion, during his whole reign he abstained from her bed.

Thus having no legitimate issue, and being whol|ly engrossed, during the continuance of a long reign, with the visions of superstition, he was at last sur|prized by sickness, which brought him to his end, on the fifth of January, in the sixty-fifth year of his age, and twenty-fifth of his reign.

Harold, the son of a popular nobleman, whose name was Godwin, and whose intrigues and virtues seemed to give a right to his pretensions, ascended the throne without any opposition.

But neither his valour, his justice, nor his popula|rity, were able to secure him from the misfortunes at|tendant upon an ill-grounded title. His pretensions were opposed by William duke of Normandy, who insisted that the crown belonged of right to him, it being bequeathed to him by Edward the Confessor.

William, who was afterwards called the Conquer|or, was the natural son of Robert duke of Normandy. His mother's name was Arlette, a beautiful maid of Falaize, whom Robert fell in love with as she stood gazing at her door whilst he passed through the

town. William, who was the offspring of this amour, owed a part of his greatness to his birth, but still more to his own personal merit. His body was vigorous, his mind capacious and noble, and his cour|age not to be repressed by apparent danger. Upon coming to his dukedom of Normandy, though yet very young, he on all sides opposed his rebellious subjects, and repressed foreign invaders, while his valour and conduct prevailed in every action. The tranquility which he had thus established in his do|minions, induced him to extend his views; and some overtures made him by Edward the Confessor, in the latter part of his reign, who was wavering in the choice of a successor, enflamed his ambition with a desire of succeeding to the English throne. The pope himself was not behind the rest in favouring his pretensions; but, either influenced by the apparent justice of his claims, or by the hopes of extending the authority of the church, he immediately pro|nounced Harold an usurper. With such favourable incentives, William soon found himself at the head of a chosen army of sixty thousand men, all equipped in the most warlike and splendid manner. It was in the beginning of summer that he embarked this pow|erful body on board a fleet of three hundred sail; and, after some small opposition from the weather, landed at Pevensy on the coast of Sussex, with resolute tran|quility.

Harold, who seemed resolved to defend his right to the crown, and retain that sovereignty which he had received from the people, who only had a right to be|stow it, was now returning, flushed with conquest from defeating the Norwegians, who had invaded the kingdom, with all the forces he had employed in that expedition, and all he could invite or collect in the country through which he passed. His army was composed of active and valiant troops, in high spirits, strongly attached to their king, and eager to engage.

On the other hand, the army of William consisted of the flower of all the continent, and had been long enured to danger. The men of Bretagne, Bologne, Flanders, Poictou, Maine, Orleans, France, and Normandy, were all voluntarily united under his command. England never before, nor never since, saw two such armies drawn up to dispute its crown. The day before the battle, William sent an offer to Harold to decide the quarrel between them by single combat, and thus to spare the blood of thousands; but Harold refused, and said, he would leave it to the god of armies to determine. Both armies therefore, that night, pitched in sight of each other, expecting the dawning of the next day with impatience. The English pas|sed the night in songs and feasting; the Normans in devotion and prayer.

The next morning, at seven, as soon as day appear|ed, both armies were drawn up in array against each other. Harold appeared in the center of his forces, leading on his army on foot, that his men might be more encouraged, by seeing their king exposed to an equality of danger. William fought on horseback, leading on his army that moved at once, singing the song of Roland, one of the famous chiefs of their country. The Normans began the sight with their cross-bows, which, at first, galled, and surprized the English, and as their ranks were close, their ar|rows did great execution. But soon they came to clo|se fight, and the English with their bills, hewed down their adversaries with great slaughter. Confu|sion was spreading among the ranks, when William, who found himself on the brink of destruction, hasten|ed, with a select band, to the relief of his forces. His presence restored the suspense of battle; he was seen in every place, endeavouring to pierce the ranks of the enemy, and had three horses slain under him. At length perceiving that the English line continued im|penetrable, he pretended to give ground, which, as

he expected, drew the enemy from their ranks, and he was instantly ready to take advantage of their disor|der. Upon a signal given, the Normans immediately returned to the charge with greater fury than be|fore, broke the English troops, and pursued them to a rising ground. It was in this extremity, that Harold was seen flying from rank to rank, rallying and in|spiring his troops with vigour; and, though he had toiled all day, till near night-fall, in the front of his Kentish men, yet he still seemed unabated in force or courage, keeping his men to the post of honour. Once more, therefore, the victory seemed to turn against the Normans, and they fell in great numbers, so that the fierceness and obstinacy of this memorable battle, was often renewed by the courage of the lead|ers, whenever that of the soldiers began to slacken. Fortune, at length, determined a victory that valour was unable to decide. Harold making a furious on|set at the head of his troops, against the Norman hea|vy armed infantry, was shot into the brains by an arrow; and his two valiant brothers, fighting by his side, shared the same fate. He fell with his sword in his hand, amidst heaps of slain, and after the battle, the royal corpse could hardly be distinguished among the dead.

This was the end of the Saxon monarchy in En|gland, which had continued for more than six hun|dred years.

CHAP. IV. WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

AS soon as William passed the Thames, at Wallingford, Stigand the primate, made submissions to him in the name of the clergy; and before he came within sight of the city, all the chief nobility came into his camp, and declared an intenti|on of yielding to his authority. William was glad of being thus peaceably put in possession of a throne which several of his predecessors had not gained without repeated victories.

But in order to give his invasion all the sanction possible, he was crowned at Westminster by the archbishop of York, and took the oath usual in the times of the Saxon and Danish kings, which was, to protect and defend the church, to observe the laws of the realm, and to govern the people with impartiality. Having thus secured the government, and, by a mix|ture of vigour and lenity brought the English to an entire submission, he resolved to return to the con|tinent, there to enjoy the triumph and congratula|tion of his ancient subjects.

In the mean time, the absence of the Conqueror in England produced the most fatal effects. His offi|cers being no longer controlled by his justice, thought this a fit opportunity for extortion; while the English, no longer awed by his presence, thought it the happiest occasion for vindicating their freedom.

The English had entered into a conspiracy to cut off their invaders, and fixed the day for their intended massacre, which was to be on Ash-Wednesday, du|ring the time of divine service, when all the Nor|mans would be unarmed as penitents, according to the discipline of the times. But William's return quickly

disconcerted all their schemes. And from that time forward he began to lose all confidence in his Eng|lish subjects, and to regard them as inveterate and ir|reconcileable enemies. He had already raised such a number of fortresses in the kingdom, that he no lon|ger dreaded the tumultuous or transient efforts of a discontented multitude; he therefore determined to treat them as a conquered nation, to indulge his own ava|rice, and that of his followers, by numerous confisca|tions, and to secure his power by humbling all who were able to make any resistance. He proceeded to con|fiscate all the estates of the English gentry, and to grant them liberally to his Norman followers. Thus all the ancient and honourable families were reduced to beggary, and the English found themselves entire|ly excluded from every road that led either to honour or preferment.

To keep the clergy as much as possible in his inte|rests, he appointed none but his own countrymen to the most considerable church-dignities, and even dis|placed Stigand archbishop of Canterbury, upon some frivolous pretences.

William, having crushed several conspiracies, and by punishing the malecontents, thus secured the peace of his dominions, now expected rest from his labours; and finding none either willing or powerful enough to oppose him, he hoped that the end of his reign would be marked with prosperity and peace. But such is the blindness of human hope, that he found enemies where he least expected them, and such too as served to embitter all the latter part of his life. His last troubles were excited by his own chil|dren, from the opposing of whom he could expect to reap neither glory nor gain. He had three sons, Ro|bert, William and Henry, besides several daughters. Robert, his eldest son, surnamed Curthose, from the shortness of his legs, was a prince who inherited all the bravery of his family and nation, but was rather

bold than prudent; and was often heard to express his jealousy of his two brothers, William and Henry. These, by greater assiduity, had wrought upon the credulity and affections of the king, and consequent|ly were the more obnoxious to Robert. A mind, therefore, so well prepared for resentment, soon found or made a cause for an open rupture. The princes were one day in sport together, and in the idle petu lance of play, took it into their head to throw water upon their elder brother as he passed through the court, on leaving their apartment. Robert, all alive to suspicion, quickly turned this frolic into a studied indignity; and having these jealousies still farther enflamed by one of his favourites, he drew his sword, and ran up stairs with an intent to take revenge. The whole castle was quickly filled with tumult, and it was not without some difficulty, that the king himself was able to appease it. But he could not allay the animosity, which from that moment, ever after prevailed in his family. Robert, attended by several of his confederates, withdrew to Rouen that very night, hoping to surprize the castle, but his design was defeated by the governor.

The flame being thus kindled, the popular charac|ter of the prince, and a sympathy of manners, engaged all the young nobility of Normandy and Maine, as well as of Anjou and Brittany, to espouse his quarrel; even his mother, it is said, supported him by secret remittances, and aided him in this obstinate resistance by private encouragement. This unnatural contest continued for several years to enflame the Norman state; and William was at last obliged to have recourse to England for supporting his authority against his son. Accordingly drawing an army of Englishmen toge|ther, he led them over into Normandy, where he soon compelled Robert and his adherents to quit the field, and he was quickly reinstated in all his domi|nions.

William had scarcely put an end to this transaction, when he felt a very severe blow in the death of Ma|tilda, his queen; and, as misfortunes generally come together, he received information of a general insurrection in Maine, the nobility of which had been always averse to the Norman government. Up|on his arrival on the continent, he found, that the in|surgents had been secretly assisted and excited by the king of France, whose policy consisted in thus les|sening the Norman power, by creating dissentions among the nobles of its different provinces. William's displeasure was not a little increased by the account he received of some railleries which that monarch had thrown out against him. It seems that William, who was become corpulent, had been detained in bed some time by sickness; and Philip was heard to say, that he only lay in of a big belly. This so provoked the English monarch, that he sent him word, he would soon be up, and would at his churching pre|sent such a number of tapers, as would set the king|dom of France in a flame.

In order to perform this promise, he levied a strong army, and entering the isle of France, de|stroyed and burned all the villages and houses without opposition, and took the town of Mante, which he reduced to ashes. But the progress of these hostilities was stopped by an accident which shortly after put an end to William's life. His horse chancing to place his fore-feet on some hot ashes, plunged so vio|lently, that the rider was thrown forward, and bruised upon the pummel of the saddle to such a degree that he suffered a relapse, of which he died shortly after at a little village near Rouen.

CHAP. V. WILLIAM RUFUS.

WILLIAM, surnamed RUFUS, from the colour of his hair, was appointed by the king's will, his successor, while the elder son, Robert, was left in possession of Normandy. Nevertheless, the Norman barons were, from the beginning, dis|pleased at the division of the empire by the late king; they eagerly desired an union as before, and looked upon Robert as the proper owner of the whole. A powerful conspiracy was therefore carried on against William; and Odo, the late king's brother, under|took to conduct it to maturity.

William, sensible of the danger that threatened him, endeavoured to gain the affections of the native Eng|lish, whom he prevailed upon by promises of future good treatment, and preference in the distribution of his favours, to espouse his interests. He was soon therefore in the field; and at the head of a numerous army, shewed himself in readiness to oppose all who should dispute his pretensions. In the mean time, Robert instead of employing his money in levies, to support his friends in England, squandered it away in idle expences, and unmerited benefits, so that he procrastinated his departure till the opportunity was lost; while William exerted himself with incredible activity to dissipate the confederacy before his brother could arrive. Nor was this difficult to effect: the conspirators had in consequence of Robert's as|surances, taken possession of some fortresses; but the appearance of the king, soon reduced them to implore for mercy. He granted them their lives but confiscated all their estates, and banished them the kingdom.

A new breach was made some time after between the brothers, in which Rufus found means to en|croach still farther upon Robert's possessions. Every conspiracy thus detected, served to enrich the king, who took care to apply to his own use those treasures which had been amassed for the purpose of dethroning him.

But the memory of these transient broils and unsuc|cessful treasons, were now totally eclipsed by one of the most noted enterprizes that ever adorned the an|nals of nations, or excited the attention of mankind. I mean the Crusades, which were now first project|ed. Peter the Hermit, a native of Amiens in Pi|cardy, was a man of great zeal, courage, and piety. He had made a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre at Je|rusalem, and beheld, with indignation, the cruel manner in which the Christians were treated by the Infidels, who were in possession of that place. He preached the crusade over Europe by the Pope's per|mission, and men of all ranks slew to arms with the utmost alacrity, to rescue the Holy Land from the In|fidels, and each bore the sign of the cross upon their right shoulder, as a mark of their devotion to the cause. In the midst of this universal ardour that was diffused over Europe, men were not entirely forgetful of their temporal interests; for some, hoping a more magnificent settlement in the soft regions of Asia, sold their European property for whatever they could obtain, contented with receiving any thing for what they were predetermined to relinquish. Among the princes who felt and acknowledged this general spirit of enterprize, was Robert duke of Normandy. The Crusade was entirely adapted to his inclinations, and his circumstances; he was brave, zealous, co|vetous of glory, poor, harrassed by insurrections, and, what was more than all, naturally fond of change. In order, therefore, to supply money to defray the necessary charges of so expensive an undertaking, he

offered to mortgage his dukedom of Normandy to his brother Rufus for a stipulated sum of money. This sum, which was no greater than ten thousand marks, was readily promised by Rufus, whose ambi|tion was upon the watch to seize every advantage.

But though the cessation of Maine and Normandy, greatly increased the king's territories, they added but little to his real power, as his new subjects were composed of men of independent spirits, more ready to dispute than to obey his commands. Many were the revolts and insurrections which he was obliged to quell in person; and no sooner was one conspiracy suppressed than another rose to give him fresh dis|quietude.

However Rufus proceeded, careless of approbation or censure; and only intent upon extending his domi|nions, either by purchase or conquest. The earl of Poictiers and Guienne, enflamed with a desire of going upon the Crusade, had gather|ed an immense multitude for that expedition, but wanted money to forward his preparations. He had recourse, therefore, to Rufus; and offered to mort|gage all his dominions, without much considering what would become of his unhappy subjects that he thus disposed of. The king accepted this offer with his usual avidity; and had prepared a fleet, and an army, in order to take possession, of the rich pro|vinces thus consigned to his trust. But an accident put an end to all his ambitious projects; he was shot by an arrow that Sir Walter Tyrrel discharged at a deer in the New Forest, which glancing from a tree, struck the king to the heart. He dropt dead instantaneously; while the innocent author of his death, terrified at the accident, put spurs to his horse, hastened to the sea-shore, embarked for France, and joined the Crusade that was then setting out for Jeru|salem.

CHAP. VI. HENRY I. surnamed BEAUCLERC.

HENRY, the late king's younger brother, who had been hunting in the New Forest, when Rufus was slain, took the earliest advantage of the occasion, and hastening to Winches|ter, resolved to secure the royal treasure, which he knew to be the best assistant in seconding his aims. The barons, as well as the people, acquies|ced in a claim which they were unprovided to resist, and yielded obedience, from the fears of immediate danger.

Henry, to ingratiate himself with the people, ex|pelled from court all the ministers of his brother's de|bauchery and arbitrary power. One thing only re|mained to confirm his claims without danger of a rival. The English still remembered their Saxon mo|narchs with gratitude, and beheld them excluded the throne with regret. There still remained some of the descendants of that favourite line; and, among others, Matilda, the niece of Edgar Atheling, which lady, having declined all pretensions to royalty, was bred up in a convent, and had actually taken the veil. Upon her Henry first fixed his eyes as a proper con|sort, by whose means, the long breach between the Saxon and Norman interests would be finally united. It only remained to get over the scruple of her being a nun: but this a council, devoted to his interests, readily admitted; and Matilda being pronounced free to marry, the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and solemnity.

It was at this unfavourable juncture, that Robert returned from abroad, and after taking possession of

his native dominions, laid his claim to the crown of England. But, proposals for an accommodation being made, it was stipulated, that Robert, upon the pay|ment of a certain sum, should resign his pretensions to England; and that if either of the princes died without issue, the other should succeed to his domi|nions. This treaty being ratified, the armies on each side were disbanded; and Robert, having lived two months in the utmost harmony with his brother, re|turned in peacc to his own dominions.

But Robert's indiscretion soon rendered him unfit to govern any state: he was totally averse to business, and only studious of the more splendid amusements or employments of life. His servants pillaged him without compunction; and he is described as lying whole days a-bed for want of cloaths, of which they had robbed him. His subjects were treated still more deplorably, for being under the command of petty and rapacious tyrants, who plundered them without mercy, the whole country was become a scene of vio|lence and depredation. It was in this miserable exi|gence, that the Normans at length had recourse to Henry, from whose wise administration of his own dominions, they expected a similitude of prosperity, should he take the reins of theirs. Henry very readily promised to redress their grievances, as he knew it would be the direct method to second his own ambition. The year ensuing, therefore, he landed in Normandy with a strong army, took some of the principal towns; and a battle ensu|ing, Robert's forces were totally overthrown, and he himself taken prisoner, with near ten thousand of his men, and all the considerable barons who had adhered to his misfortunes. This victory was fol|lowed by the final reduction of Normandy, while Henry returned in triumph to England, leading with him his captive brother, who, after a life of bravery, generosity, and truth, now found himself not only

deprived of his patrimony and his friends, but also of his freedom. Henry, unmindful of his brother's for|mer magnanimity with regard to him, detained him a prisoner during the remainder of his life, which was no less than twenty-eight years; and he died in the castle of Cardiff, in Glamorganshire. It is even said by some, that he was deprived of his sight by a red|hot copper bason applied to his eyes; while his bro|ther attempted to stifle the reproaches of his con|science, by founding the abbey of Reading, which was then considered as a sufficient atonement for every degree of barbarity.

Fortune now seemed to smile upon Henry, and promise a long succession of felicity. He was in peaceable possession of two powerful states, and had a son who was acknowledged undisputed heir, arrived at his eighteenth year, whom he loved most tenderly. His daughter, Matilda, was also married to the empe|ror Henry V. of Germany, and she had been sent to that court while yet but eight years old, for her edu|cation. All his prospects, however, were at once clouded by unforeseen misfortunes and accidents, which tinctured his remaining years with misery. The king, from the facility with which he usurped the crown, dreading that his family might be subvert|ed with the same ease, took care to have his son re|cognized as his successor by the states of England, and carried him over to Normandy to receive the homage of the barons of that duchy. After performing this requisite ceremony, Henry, returning triumphantly to England, brought with him a numerous retinue of the chief nobility, who seemed to share in his succes|ses. In one of the vessels of the fleet, his son, and se|veral young noblemen, the companions of his plea|sures, went together to render the passage more agree|able. The king set sail for Barfleur, and was soon carried by a fair wind out of sight of land. The prince was detained by some accident; and his sailors, as

well as their captain, Fitz-Stephen, having spent the interval in drinking, became so disordered, that they ran the ship upon a rock, and immediately it was dash|ed to pieces. The prince was put into the boat, and might have escaped, had he not been called back by the cries of Maude, his natural sister. He was at first conveyed out of danger himself, but could not leave a person so dear to perish without an effort to save her. He, therefore, prevailed upon the sailors to row back and take her in. The approach of the boat, giv|ing several others, who had been left upon the wreck, the hopes of saving their lives, numbers leaped in, and the whole went to the bottom. Above an hun|dred and forty young noblemen of the principal fami|lies of England and Normandy, were lost on this oc|casion. A butcher of Rouen was the only person on board who escaped; he clung to the mast, and was taken up the next morning by some fishermen. Fitz-Stephen, the captain, while the butcher was thus buf|fetting the waves for his life, swam up to him, and en|quired if the prince was yet living; when being told that he had perished, then I will not out-live him, said the captain, and immediately sunk to the bottom. The shrieks of these unfortunate people were heard from the shore, and the noise even reached the king's ship, but the cause was then unknown. Henry en|tertained hopes for three days, that his son had put into some distant port of England; but when cer|tain intelligence of the calamity was brought him, he fainted away, and was never seen to smile from that moment to the day of his death, which followed some time after at St. Dennis, a little town in Nor|mandy, from eating too plentiful of lampreys, a dish he was particularly fond of. He died in the sixty-se|venth year of his age, and the thirty-fifth of his reign, leaving by will, his daughther Matilda, heiress of all his dominions.

CHAP. VII. STEPHEN.

NO sooner was the king known to be dead, than Stephen, son of Adela, the king's sister, and the count of Blois, conscious of his own power and in|fluence, resolved to secure to himself the possession of what he so long desired. He immediately hastened from Normandy, and arriving at London, was imme|diately saluted king by all the lower ranks of peo|ple. Being thus secured of the people, his next step was to gain over the clergy; and, for that purpose, his brother, the bishop of Winchester, exerted all his influence among them, with good success. Thus was Stephen made king, by one of those speedy revolu|tions which ever mark the barbarity of a state in which they are customary.

The first acts of an usurper are always popular. Stephen, in order to secure his tottering throne, passed a charter, granting several privileges to the different orders of the state. To the nobility, a permission to hunt in their own forests; to the clergy, a speedy fill|ing of all vacant benefices; and to the people, a res|toration of the laws of Edward the Confessor. To fix himself still more securely, he took possession of the royal treasures at Winchester, and had his title rati|fied by the pope with a part of the money.

It was not long, however, that Matilda delayed as|serting her claim to the crown. She landed upon the coast of Sussex, assisted by Robert, earl of Glou|cester, natural son to the late king. The whole of Matilda's retinue, upon this occasion, amounted to no more than an hundred and forty knights, who imme|diately took possession of Arundel castle; but the na|ture of her claims soon encreased the number of her

partizans, and her forces every day seemed to gain ground upon those of her antagonist. Mean time Stephen, being assured of her arrival, flew to besiege Arundel, where she had taken refuge, and where she was protected by the queen dowager, who secretly favoured her pretensions. This fortress was too feeble to promise a long defence; and would have been soon taken, had it not been represented to the king, that, as it was a castle belonging to the queen dowager, it would be an infringement on the respect due to her to attempt taking it by force. There was a spirit of ge|nerosity mixed with the rudeness of the times, that unaccountably prevailed in many transactions; Ste|phen permitted Matilda to come forth in safety, and had her conveyed with security to Bristol, another fortress equally strong with that from whence he per|mitted her to retire. It would be tedious to relate the various skirmishes on either side, in pursuance of their respective pretensions; it will suffice to say, that Matilda's forces encreased every day, while her antagonist seemed every hour to become weaker, and a victory gained by the queen threw Stephen from the throne, and exalted Matilda in his room. Ma|tilda was crowned at Winchester with all imaginable selemnity.

Matilda, however, was unfit for government. She affected to treat the nobility with a degree of dis|dain, to which they had long been unaccustomed; so that the fickle nation once more began to pity their deposed king, and to repent the steps they had taken in her favour. The bishop of Winchester was not re|miss in somenting these discontents; and when he found the people ripe for a tumult, detached a party of his friends and vassals to block up the city of Lon|don, where the queen then resided. At the same time, measures were taken to instigate the Londoners to a revolt, and to seize her person. Matilda having timely notice of this conspiracy, fled to Winchester,

whither the bishop, still her secret enemy, followed her, watching an opportunity to ruin her cause. His party was soon sufficiently strong to bid the queen open defiance; and to besiege her in the very place where she first received his benediction. There she continued for some time, but the town being pressed by famine, she was obliged to escape, while her bro|ther, the earl of Gloucester, endeavouring to follow, was taken prisoner, and exchanged for Stephen, who still continued a captive. Thus a sudden revolution once more took place; Matilda was deposed, and obliged to seek for safety in Oxford. Stephen was again recognized as king, and taken from his dun|geon to be placed on the throne!

But he was now to enter the lists with a new op|poser, who was every day coming to maturity, and growing more formidable. This was Henry, the son of Matilda, who had now reached his sixteenth year; and gave the greatest hopes of being one day a valiant leader, and a consummate politician.

With the wishes of the people in his favour, young Henry was resolved to reclaim his hereditary king|dom▪ and to dispute once more Stephen's usurped pretensions, and accordingly made an invasion on England, where he was immediately joined by almost all the barons of the kingdom.

In the mean time Stephen, alarmed at the power and popularity of his young rival, tried every method to anticipate the purpose of his invasion; but find|ing it impossible to turn the torrent, he was oblig|ed to have recourse to treaty. It was, therefore, agreed by all parties, that Stephen should reign during his life; and that justice should be administered in his name. That Henry should, on Stephen's death, succeed to the kingdom; and William, Stephen's son, should inherit Boulogne and his patrimonial estate. After all the barons had sworn to this treaty, which filled the whole kingdom with joy, Henry evacuated

England; and Stephen returned to the peaceable en|joyment of his throne. His reign, however, was soon after terminated by his death, which happened about a year after the treaty, at Canterbury, where he was interred.

CHAP. VIII. HENRY II.

THE first act of Henry's government gave the people an happy omen of his future wise admi|nistration. Conscious of his power, he began to cor|rect those abuses, and to resume those privileges, which had been extorted from the weakness or the credulity of his predecessors. He immediately dis|missed all those mercenary soldiers who committed in|finite disorders in the nation. He resumed many of those benefactions which had been made to churches and monasteries in the former reigns. He gave char|ters to several towns, by which the citizens claimed their freedom and privileges, independent of any su|perior but himself. These charters were the ground|work of English liberty. The struggles which had before this time been, whether the king or the barons, or the clergy, should be despotic over the people, now began to assume a new aspect; and a fourth order, namely, that of the more opulent of the peo|ple, began to claim a share in administration. Thus was the feudal government at first impaired; and liberty began to be more equally diffused throughout the nation.

Henry being thus become the most powerful prince of his age, the undisputed monarch of England, pos|sessed o•• more than a third of France, and having humbled the barons that would circumscribe his pow|er, he might naturally be expected to reign with

very little opposition for the future. But it happened otherwise. He found the severest mortifications from a quarter where he least expected resistance.

The famous Thomas a Becket, the first man of English extraction, who had since the Norman con|quest, risen to any share of power, was the son of a citizen of London. Having received his early edu|cation in the schools of that metropolis, he resided some time at Paris; and on his return became clerk in the sheriff's office. From that humble station he rose through the gradations of office, until at last he was made archbishop of Canterbury, a dignity se|cond only to that of the king.

No sooner was he fixed in this high station, which rendered him for life the second person in the king|dom, than he endeavoured to retrieve the character of sanctity, which his former levities might have appear|ed to oppose. He was in his person the most mortifi|ed man that could be seen. He wore sackcloth next his skin. He changed it so seldom, that it was filled with dirt and vermin. His usual diet was bread, his drink water; which he rendered further unpalatable, by the mixture of unfavoury herbs. His back was mangled with frequent discipline. He every day washed on his knees the feet of thirteen beggars. Thus pretending to sanctity, he set up for being a de|fender of the privileges of the clergy, which had for a long time become enormous, and which it was Henry's aim to abridge.

An opportunity soon offered, that gave him a popular pretext for beginning his intended reforma|tion. A man in holy orders had debauched the daughter of a gentleman in Worcestershire; and then murdered the father, to prevent the effects of his resentment. The atrociousness of the crime produ|ced a spirit of indignation among the people; and the king insisted that the assassin should be tried by

the civil magistrate. This Becket opposed, alledging the privileges of the church.

In order to determine this matter, the king sum|moned a general council of the nobility and prelates at Clarendon, to whom he submitted this great and important affair, and desired their concurrence. These councils seem at that time convened rather to give authenticity to the king's decrees, than to enact laws that were to bind their posterity. A number of regulations were there drawn up, which were after|wards well known under the title of the Constitutions of Clarendon, and were then voted without opposition. By these regulations, it was enacted, that clergymen accused of any crime should be tried in the civil courts; that laymen should not be tried in the spiritual courts, except by legal and reputable wit|nesses. These with some others of less consequence, or implied in the above to the number of sixteen, were readily subscribed to by all the bishops present; Becket himself, who at first shewed some reluctance, added his name to the number. But Alexander, who was then pope, condemned them in the strongest terms, abrogated, annulled, and rejected them.

This produced a contest between the king and Becket, who having attained the highest honours the monarch could bestow, took part with his holiness. In the midst of this dispute Becket, with an intrepidity peculiar to himself, arraying himself in his episcopal vestments, and with the cross in his hand, went for|ward to the king's palace, and entering the royal apartments, sate down, holding up the cross as his banner of protection. There he put himself, in the most solemn manner, under the protection of the su|preme pontiff; and upon receiving a refusal to leave the kindom, he secretly withdrew in disguise, and at last sound means to cross over to the conti|nent.

The intrepidity of Becket, joined to his apparent sanctity, gained him a very favourable reception up|on the continent, both from the people and their go|vernors.

The pope and he were not remiss to retort their ful|minations, and to shake the very foundation of the king's authority. Becket compared himself to Christ, who had been condemned by a lay tribunal; and who was crucified a-new in the present oppressions un|der which the church laboured. But he did not rest in complaints only. He issued out a censure, excommunicating the king's chief ministers by name, all that were concerned in sequestring the revenues of his see, and all who obeyed or favoured the con|stitutions of Clarendon.

Frequent attempts, indeed, were made towards an accommodation; but the mutual jealousies that each bore to the other, and their anxiety not to lose the least advantage in the negociation, often protract|ed this desirable treaty.

At length, however, the mutual aim of both made a reconciliation necessary; but nothing could exceed the insolence with which Becket conducted himself upon his first landing in England. Instead of re|tiring quietly to his diocese, with that modesty which became a man just pardoned by his king, he made a progress through Kent, in all the splendor and magni|ficence of a sovereign pontiff. As he approached South|wark, the clergy, the laity, men of all ranks and ages, came forth to meet him, and celebrated his triumphal entry with hymns of joy. Thus, confident of the voice and the hearts of the people, he began to launch forth his thunders against those who had been his former opposers. The archbishop of York, who had crowned Henry's-eldest son in his ab|sence, was the first against whom he denounced sen|tence of suspension. The bishops of London and Salisbury he actually excommunicated. One man

he excommunicated for having spoken against him; and another, for having cut off the tail of one of his horses.

Henry was then in Normandy, while the pri|mate was thus triumphantly parading through the kingdom; and it was not without the utmost in|dignation that he received information of his turbu|lent insolence. When the suspended and excom|municated prelates arrived with their complaints, his anger knew no bounds. He broke forth into the most acrimonious expressions against that arrogant churchman, whom he had raised from the lowest station, to be the plague of his life, and the conti|nual disturber of his government. The archbishop of York remarked to him, that so long as Becket lived, he could never expect to enjoy peace or tran|quility; and the king himself burst out into an ex|clamation, that he had no friends about him, or he would not so long have been exposed to the insults of that ungrateful hypocrite. These words excited the at|tention of the whole court; and armed four of his most resolute attendants, to gratify their monarch's secret inclinations. The conspirators being joined by some assistants at the place of their meeting, proceeded to Canterbury with all that haste their bloody inten|tions required. Advancing directly to Becket's house, and entering his apartment, they reproached him very fiercely for the rashness and the insolence of his con|duct. During their altercation, the time approached for Becket to assist at vespers, whither he went un|guarded, the conspirators following and preparing for their attempt. As soon as he had reached the altar, where it is just to think he aspired at the glory of martyrdom, they all fell upon him; and having cloven his head with repeated blows, he dropt down dead before the altar of St. Benedict, which was be|smeared with his blood and brains.

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Nothing could exceed the king's consternation up|on receiving the first news of this prelate's catas|trophe. He was instantly sensible that the murder would be ultimately imputed to him; and at length, in order to divert the minds of the people to a different object, he undertook an expedition against Ireland.

Ireland was at that time in pretty much the same situation that England had been, after the first in|vasion of the Saxons. They had been early con|verted to Christianity; and, for three or four centu|ries after, possessed a very large proportion of the learn|ing of the times. Being undisturbed by foreign in|vasions, and perhaps too poor to invite the rapacity of conquerors, they enjoyed a peaceful life, which they gave up to piety, and such learning as was then thought necessary to promote it. Of their learning, their arts, their piety, and even their polished man|ners, too many monuments remain to this day for us to make the least doubt concerning them; but it is equally true, that in time they fell from these advantages; and their degenerate posterity, at the period we are now speaking of, were wrapt in the darkest barbarity.

At the time when Henry first planned the in|vasion of the island, it was divided into five prin|cipalities, namely, Leinster, Meath, Munster, Ul|ster, and Connaught; each governed by its respec|tive monarch. As it had been usual for one or other of those to take the lead in their wars, he was deno|minated sole monarch of the kingdom, and possessed of a power resembling that of the early Saxon mo|narchs in England. Roderic O Connor, king of Connaught, was then advanced to this dignity, and Dermot M'Morrogh was king of Leinster. This last named prince, a weak, licentious tyrant, had carried off and ravished the daughter of the king of Meath, who being strengthened by the alliance of the king

of Connaught, invaded the ravisher's dominions, and expelled him from his kingdom. This prince, thus justly punished, had recourse to Henry, who was at that time in Guienne; and offered to hold his king|dom of the English crown, in case he recovered it by the king's assistance. Henry readily accepted the offer; but being at that time embarrassed by more near interests, he only gave Dermot letters patent, by which he empowered all his subjects to aid the Irish prince in the recovery of his dominions. Der|mot, relying on this authority, returned to Bristol, where, after some difficulty, he formed a treaty with Richard, surnamed Strongbow, earl of Pembroke, who agreed to re-instate him in his dominions, upon condition of his being married to his daughter Eva, and declared heir of all his territory. Being thus as|sured of assistance, he returned privately to Ireland, and concealed himself during the winter, in the mo|nastery of Ferns, which he had founded. Robert Fitzstephens was the first knight who was able, the ensuing spring, to fulfil his engagements, by landing with an hundred and thirty knights, sixty esquires, and three hundred archers. They were soon after joined by Maurice Pendergast, who, about the same time, brought over ten knights, and sixty archers; and with this small body of forces they resolved on besieging Wexford, which was to be theirs by treaty. This town was quickly reduced; and the adventu|rers being reinforced by another body of men to the amount of an hundred and fifty, under the com|mand of Maurice Fitzgerald, composed an army that struck the barbarous natives with awe. Roderic, the chief monarch of the island, ventured to oppose them, but he was defeated; and soon after the prince of Ossory was obliged to submit, and give hostages for his future conduct.

Dermot being thus re-instated in his hereditary dominions, soon began to conceive hopes of extend|ing

the limits of his power, and making himself master of Ireland. With these views, he endeavour|ed to expedite Strongbow; who, being personally prohibited by the king, was not yet come over. Dermot tried to inflame his ambition by the glory of the conquest; and his avarice by the advantages it would procure. He expatiated on the cowardice of the natives, and the certainty of his success. Strongbow first sent over Raymond, one of his retinue, with ten knights and seventy archers; and receiving permission shortly after for himself, he landed with two hundred horse, and an hundred archers. All these English forces now joining together, became irresistible; and though the whole number did not amount to a thou|sand, yet such was the barbarous state of the natives, that they were every where put to the rout. The city of Waterford quickly surrendered; Dublin was taken by assault; and Strongbow, soon after marry|ing Eva according to treaty, became master of the kingdom of Leinster upon Dermot's decease.

The island being thus in a manner wholly subdued, for nothing was capable of opposing the further pro|gress of the English arms, Henry became willing to share in person those honours, which the adventurers had already secured. He, therefore, shortly after landed in Ireland, at the head of five hundred knights and some soldiers; not so much to conquer a disputed territory, as to take possession of a subjected kingdom. Thus after a trifling effort, in which very lit|tle money was expended, and little blood shed, that beautiful island became an appendage to the En|glish crown, and as such it has ever since conti|nued, with unshaken fidelity.

The joy which this conquest diffused was very great; but troubles of a domestic nature served to render the remaining part of Henry's life a scene of turbulence and disquietude.

Among the few vices ascribed to this monarch,

unlimited gallantry was one. Queen Eleanor, whom he had married from motives of ambition, and who had been divorced from her former royal consort for her incontinence, was long become disagreeable to Henry; and he sought in others those satisfactions he could not find with her. Among the number of his mistresses, Rosamond Clifford, better known by the name of Fair Rosamond, whose personal charms, and whose death make so conspicuous a figure in the romances, and the ballads of the times, was the most remarkable. She is said to have been the most beau|tiful woman that was ever seen in England, and that Henry loved her with a long and faithful attachment.

In order to secure her from the resentment of his queen, who, from having been formerly incontinent herself, now became jealous of his incontinence, he concealed her in a labyrinth in Woodstock Park, where he passed in her company his hours of vacancy and pleasure. How long this secret intercourse con|tinued is not told us; but it was not so closely con|cealed but that it came to the queen's knowlege, who, as the accounts add, being guided by a clew of silk to her fair rival's retreat, obliged her, by holding a drawn dagger to her breast, to swallow poison. What|ever may be the veracity of this story, certain it is, that this haughty woman, though formerly offensive by her own gallantries, was now no less so by her jealousy; and she it was who first sowed the seeds of dissension between the king and his children.

Young Henry, the king's eldest son, was taught to believe himself injured; when, upon being crown|ed as partner in the kingdom, he was not admitted into a share of the administration. His discontents were shared by his brothers Geossry and Richard, whom the queen persuaded to assert their title to the territories assigned them. Queen Eleanor herself was meditating an escape to the court of France whi|ther her sons had retired, and had put on man's apparel

for that purpose when she was seized by the king's order and put into confinement. Thus Henry saw all his long perspective of future happiness totally clouded; his sons, scarce yet arrived at manhood, eager to share the spoils of their father's possessions; his queen warmly encouraging those undutiful princes in their rebellion, and many potentates of Europe not ashamed to lend them assistance to support their pretensions.

It was not long before the young princes had suf|ficient influence upon the continent to raise a pow|erful confederacy in their favour.

Henry, therefore, knowing the influence of su|perstition over the minds of the people, and perhaps, apprehensive that a part of his troubles arose from the displeasure of heaven, resolved to do penance at the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury, for that was the name given to Becket upon his canonization. As soon as he came within sight of the church of Canter|bury, alighting from his horse, he walked barefoot towards the town, and prostrated himself before the shrine of the saint. Next day he received absolution; and, departing for London, was acquainted with the agreeable news of a victory over the Scots, obtained on the very day of his absolution.

From that time Henry's affairs began to wear a bet|ter aspect; the barons, who had revolted, or were pre|paring for a revolt, made instant submission, they delivered up their castles to the victor, and Eng|land, in a few weeks, was restored to perfect tran|quility. Young Henry, who was ready to embark with a large army, to second the efforts of the En|glish insurgents, finding all disturbances quieted at home, abandoned all thoughts of the expedition.

This prince died soon after, in the twenty-sixth year of his age, of a fever, at Martel, not with|out the deepest remorse for his undutiful conduct towards his father.

As this prince lest no posterity, Richard was be|come

heir in his room; and he soon discovered the same ardent ambition that had misled his elder brother.

A crusade having been once more projected, Ri|chard, who had long wished to have all the glory of such an expedition to himself, and who could not bear to have even his father a partner in his victories, en|tered into a confederacy with the king of France, who promised to confirm him in those wishes, at which he so ardently aspired. By this, Henry found him|self obliged to give up all hopes of taking the cross, and compelled to enter upon a war with France and his eldest son, who were unnaturally leagued against him.

At last, however, a treaty was concluded, in which he was obliged to submit to many mortifying con|cessions. But still more so, when upon demanding a list of the barons that it was stipulated he should pardon, he found his son John, his favourite child, among the number. He had long borne an infirm state of body with calm resignation; he had seen his children rebel without much emotion; but when he saw that child, whose interest always lay next his heart, among the number of those who were in rebellion against him, he could no longer con|tain his indignation. He broke out into expres|sions of the utmost despair; cursed the day in which he had received his miserable being; and bestowed on his ungrateful children a malediction, which he never after could be prevailed upon to retract. The more his heart was disposed to friendship and affec|tion, the more he resented this barba••ous return; and now, not having one corner in his heart where he could look for comfort, or sly for refuge from his conflicting passions, he lost all his former vi|vacity. A lingering sever, caused by a broken heart, soon after terminated his life and his miseries. He died at the castle of Chinon, near Saumur, in the fifty-eighth year of his age, and the thirty-fifth of

his reign; in the course of which he displayed all the abilities of a politician, all the sagacity of a legis|lator, and all the magnanimity of an hero.

CHAP. IX. RICHARD I. surnamed COEUR DE LION.

RICHARD, upon his accession to the throne, was still inflamed with the desire of going upon the crusade, and at length, the king having got to|gether a sufficient supply for his undertaking; hav|ing even sold his superiority over the kingdom of Scotland, which had been acquired in the last reign, for a moderate sum, he set out for the Holy Land, whither he was impelled by repeated messages from the king of France, who was ready to embark in the same enterprize.

The first place of rendzvous for the two armies of England and France was the plain of Verelay, on the borders of Burgundy, where, when Richard and Philip arrived, they found their armies amount|ing to an hundred thousand fighting men. Here the French prince and the English entered into the the most solemn engagements of mutual support; and having determined to conduct their armies to the Holy Land by sea, they were obliged, however, by stress of weather, to take shelter, in Messina, the ca|pital of Sicily, where they were detained during the whole winter. Richard took up his quarters in the suburbs, and possessed himself of a small fort, which commanded the harbour. Philip quartered his troops in the town, and lived upon good terms with the Sicilian king.

Many were the mistrusts, and the mutual recon|ciliations between these two monarchs, which were very probably inflamed by the Sicilian king's endea|vours.

At length, however, having settled all con|troversies, they set sail for the Holy Land, where the French arrived long before the English.

Upon the arrival of the English army in Pales|tine, however, fortune was seen to declare more openly in favour of the common cause. The French and English princes seemed to forget their seeret jealousies, and to act in concert. But shortly af|ter, Philip, from the bad state of his health, re|turned to France, leaving Richard ten thousand of his troops under the command of the duke of Bur|gundy. Richard, being now left sole conductor of the war, went on from victory to victory. The Christian adventurers, under his command, deter|mined to besiege the renowned city of Asealon, in order to prepare the way for attacking Jeru|salem with greater advantage. Saladin, the most heroic of all the Saracen monarchs, was resolved to dispute their march, and placed himself up on the road with an army of three hundred thousand men. This was a day equal to Richard's wishes, this an enemy worthy his highest ambition. The English crusaders were victorious. Richard, when the wings of his army were defeated, led on the main body in person, and restored the battle. The Saracens fled in the utmost confusion; and no less than for|ty thousand of their number perished in the field of battle. Ascalon soon surrendered after this vic|tory; other cities of less note followed the exam|ple, and Richard was at last able to advance with|in sight of Jerusalem, the object of his long and ardent expectations. But, just at this glorious junc|ture his ambition was to suffer a total overthrow; upon reviewing his forces, and considering his abi|lities to prosecute the siege, he found that his army was so wasted with famine, fatigue, and even with victory, that they were neither able nor willing to second the views of their commander. It appeared,

therefore, absolutely necessary to come to an accom|modation with Saladin; and a truce for three years was accordingly concluded; in which it was agreed, that the sea-port towns of Palestine should remain in the hands of the Christians; and that all of that religion should be permitted to make their pilgrimage to Jerusalem in perfect security.

Richard, having thus concluded his expedition with more glory than advantage, began to think of returning home: but being obliged to take the road through Germany, in the habit of a pilgrim, he was arrested by Leopold, duke of Austria, who com|manded him to be imprisoned and loaded with shac|kles, to the disgrace of honour and humanity. The emperor soon after required the prisoner to be de|livered up to him, and stipulated a large sum of money to the duke as a reward for this service. Thus the king of England, who had long filled the world with his fame, was basely thrown into a dun|geon, and loaded with irons, by those who expect|ed to reap a sordid advantage from his misfortunes. It was a long time before his subjects in England knew what was become of their beloved monarch. So little intercourse was there between different na|tions at that time, that this discovery is said by some to have been made by a poor French minstrel, who playing upon his harp near the fortress in which Richard was confined, a tune which he knew that unhappy monarch was fond of, he was answered by the king from within, who with his harp played the same tune; and thus discovered the place of his confinement.

However, the English, at length, prevailed upon this barbarous monarch, who now saw that he could no longer detain his prisoner, to listen to terms of accommodation. A ransom was agreed upon, which amounted to an hundred and fifty thousand marks, or about three hundred thousand pounds of our mo|ney;

upon the payment of which Richard was once more restored to his expecting subjects.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the English, upon seeing their monarch return, after all his atchieve|ments and sufferings. He made his entry into Lon|don in triumph; and such was the profusion of wealth shewn by the citizens, that the German lords, who attended him, were heard to say, that if the emperor had known of their affluence, he would not so easily have parted with their king. He soon after ordered himself to be crowned a-new at Win|chester. He convoked a general council at Not|tingham, at which he confiscated all his brother John's possessions, who had basely endeavoured to prolong his captivity, and gone over to the king of France with that intent. However, he pardoned him soon after, with this generous remark, I wish I could as easily forget my brother's offence as he will my pardon.

Richard's death was occasioned by a singular ac|cident. A vassal of the crown had taken posses|sion of a treasure, which was found by one of his peasants in digging a field in France; and to secure the remainder, he sent a part of it to the king. Ri|chard, as superior lord, sensible that he had a right to the whole, insisted on its being sent him; and, upon refusal, attacked the castle of Chalus, where he understood this treasure had been deposited. On the fourth day of the siege, as he was riding round the place to observe where the assault might be given with the fairest probability of success, he was aim|ed at by one Bertram de Jourdon, an archer, from the castle, and pierced in the shoulder with an ar|row. The wound was not in itself dangerous; but an unskilful surgeon endeavouring to disengage the arrow from the flesh, so rankled the wound that it mortified, and brought on fatal symptoms. Richard, when he found his end approaching, made a will,

in which he bequeathed the kingdom, with all his treasure, to his brother John, except a fourth part, which he distributed among his servants. He ordered also, that the archer who had shot him, should be brought into his presence, and demanded what injury he had done him that he should take away his life? The prisoner answered with delibe|rate intrepidity; "You killed, with your own hands, my father, and my two brothers, and you in|tended to have hanged me. I am now in your power, and my torments may give you revenge; but I will endure them with pleasure, since it is my consolation, that I have rid the world of a ty|rant." Richard, struck with this answer, ordered the soldier to be presented with one hundred shil|lings, and set at liberty; but Marcade, the general, who commanded under him, like a true ruf|fian, ordered him to be stead alive, and then hanged. Richard died in the tenth year of his reign, and the forty-second of his age, leaving only one natu|ral son, called Philip, behind him.

CHAP. X. JOHN.

JOHN, who was readily put in possession of the English throne, lost no time to second his in|terest on the continent; and his first care was to re|cover the revolted provinces from young Arthur, his nephew. But from the pride and cruelty of his temper, he soon became hateful to his subjects; and his putting his nephew, Arthur, who had a right to the crown, to death, with his own hands, in prison, served to render him completely hate|ful.

Hitherto John was rather hateful to his subjects than contemptible; they rather dreaded than despised him. But he soon shewed that he might be offended. if not without resentment at least with impunity. It was the fate of this vicious prince to make those the enemies of himself whom he wanted abilities to make the enemies of each other. The clergy had for some time acted as a community independent on the crown, and had their elections of each other generally con|firmed by the pope, to whom alone they owned sub|jection. However, the election of archbishops had for some time been a continual subject of dispute be|tween the suffragan bishops and the Augustine monks, and both had precedents to confirm their pretensions. John sided with the bishops, and sent two knights of his train, who were fit instruments for such a prince, to expel the monks from their convent, and to take possession of their revenues. The pope was not dis|pleased at these divisions, and instead of electing either of the persons appointed by the contending parties, he appointed Stephen Langton, as archbishop of Can|terbury. John, however, refusing to admit the man of the pope's chusing, the kingdom was put under an|interdict. This instrument of terror in the hands of the see of Rome, was calculated to strike the senses in the highest degree, and to operate upon the super|stitious minds of the people. By it a stop was imme|diately put to divine service, and to the administration of all the sacraments, but baptism. The church doors were shut, the statues of the saints were laid on the ground. The dead were refused Christian burial, and were thrown into ditches and on the highways, without the usual rites, or any funeral solemnity.

No situation could be more deplorable than that of John upon this occasion. Furious at his indig|nities, jealous of his subjects, and apprehending an enemy in every face; it is said, that fearing a con|spiracy against his life, he shut himself up a whole

night in the castle of Nottingham, and suffered none to approach his person. But what was his conster|nation when he found that the pope had actually given away his kingdom to the monarch of France, and that the prince of that country was actually prepar|ing with an army to take possession of his crown!

John, who, unsettled and apprehensive, scarcely knew where to turn, was still able to make an ex|piring effort to receive the enemy. All hated as he was, the natural enmity between the French and the English, the name of king, which he still retained, and some remaining power, put him at the head of sixty thousand men, a sufficient number indeed, but not to be relied on, and with these he advanced to Dover. Europe now regarded the important prepa|rations on both sides with impatience; and the de|cisive blow was soon expected, in which the church was to triumph, or to be overthrown. But neither Philip nor John had ability equal to the pontiff by whom they were actuated; he appeared on this oc|casion too refined a politician for either. He only intended to make use of Philip's power to intimidate his refractory son, not to destroy him. He intimated, therefore, to John by his legate, that there was but one way to secure himself from impending danger; which was, to put himself under the pope's protection, who was a merciful father, and still willing to receive a repentant sinner to his bosom. John was too much intimidated, by the manifest danger of his situation, not to embrace every means offered for his safety. He assented to the truthof the legate's remonstrances, and took an oath to perform whatever stipulations the pope should impose. Having thus sworn to the performance of an unknown command, the artful Italian so well managed the barons, and so effectually intimidated the king, that he persuaded him to take the most extraordinary oath in all the records of his|tory, before all the people, kneeling upon his knees,

[figure]

King John Signing Magna Charta.

Isaac Taylor del et sculp.

Published by G. Kearsley in Fleet Street as the Act directs July 2^d. 1774.

and with his hands held up between those of the legate.

"I John, by the grace of God, king of England, and lord of Ireland, in order to expiate my sins, from my own free will, and the advice of my ba|rons, give to the church of Rome, to pope Inno|cent, and his successors, the kingdom of England, and all other prerogatives of my crown. I will hereafter hold them as the pope's vassal. I will be faithful to God, to the church of Rome, to the pope my master, and his successors legitimately e|lected. I promise to pay him a tribute of a thou|sand marks yearly; to wit, seven hundred for the kingdom of England, and three hundred for the kingdom of Ireland."

Having thus done homage to the legate, and agreed to reinstate Langton in the primacy, he received the crown, which he had been supposed to have forfeited, while the legate trampled under his feet the tribute which John had consented to pay. Thus by this most scandalous concession John for once more averted the threatened blow.

In this manner, by repeated acts of cruelty, by expeditions without effect, and humiliations with|out reserve, John was become the detestation of all mankind.

The barons had been long forming a confederacy against him; but their union was broken, or their aims disappointed, by various and unforeseen acci|dents. At length, however, they assembled a large body of men at Stamford, and from thence, elated with their power, they marched to Brackley, about fifteen miles from Oxford, the place where the court then resided. John, hearing of their approach, sent the archbishop of Canterbury, the earl of Pembroke, and others of his council, to know the particulars of their request, and what those liberties were which they so earnestly importuned him to grant. The barons delivered a schedule, containing the chief ar|ticles

of their demands, and of which the former charters of Henry and Edward formed the groundwork. No sooner were these shewn to the king, than he burst into a furious passion, and asked why the barons did not also demand his kingdom, swearing that he would never comply with such exorbitant demands? But the confederacy was now too strong to fear much from the consequences of his resentment? They chose Robert Fitzwalter for their general, whom they dignified with the titles of

"Mareschal of the army of God, and of the holy church,"

and proceeded without further ceremony to make war upon the king. They besieged Northampton, they took Bed|ford, they were joyfully received in London. They wrote circular letters to all the nobility and gentle|men who had not yet declared in their savour, and menaced their estates with devastation, in case of re|fusal or delay.

John, struck with terror, first offered to refer all differences to the pope alone, or to eight barons, four to be chosen by himself, and four by the con|federates. This the barons scornfully rejected. He then assured them, that he would submit at discretion; and that it was his supreme pleasure to grant all their demands: a conference was accordingly appointed, and all things adjusted for this most important treaty.

The ground where the king's commissioners met the barons was between Staines and Windsor, at a place called Runimede, still held in reverence by posterity, as the spot where the standard of freedom was first erected in England. There the barons ap|peared, with a vast number of knights and warriors, on the fifteenth day of June, while those on the king's part, came a day or two after. Both sides en|camped apart, like open enemies. The debate be|tween power and precedent are generally but of short continuance. The barons, determined on carrying their aims, would admit of few abatements; and

the king's agents being for the most part in their in|terests, few debates ensued. After some days, the king, with a facility that was somewhat suspicious, signed and sealed the charter required of him; a charter which continues in force to this day, and is the famous bulwark of English liberty, which now goes by the name of MAGNA CHARTA. This fa|mous deed, either granted or secured freedom to those orders of the kingdom that were already possessed of freedom, namely, to the clergy, the barons, and the gentlemen; as for the inferior, and the greatest part of the people, they were as yet held as slaves, and it was long before they could come to a participation of legal protection.

John however could not well brook those conces|sions that were extorted from his fears, he therefore took the first opportunity of denying to be in the least governed by them. This produced a second civil war, in which the barons were obliged to have re|course to the king of France for assistance. Thus England saw nothing but a prospect of being every way undone. If John succeeded, a tyrannical and implacable monarch was to be their tormentor; if the French king should prevail, the country was ever after to submit to a more powerful monarchy, and was to become a province of France. What neither human prudence could foresee, nor policy suggest, was brought about by an happy and unexpected event.

John had assembled a considerable army, with a view to make one great effort for the crown; and at the head of a large body of troops, resolved to pene|trate into the heart of the kingdom. With these re|solutions he departed from Lyn, which, for its fidelity, he had distinguished with many marks of favour, and directed his route towards Lincolnshire. His road lay along the shore, which was overflowed at high water; but not being apprised of this, or being ig|norant

of the tide of the place, he lost all his carriages, treasure, and baggage, by its influx. He himself es|caped with the greatest difficulty, and arrived at the abbey of Swinstead, where his grief for the loss he had sustained, and the distracted state of his affairs, threw him into a fever, which soon appeared to be fatal. Next day, being unable to ride on horseback, he was carried in a litter to the castle of Seaford, and from thence removed to Newark, where, after having made his will, he died in the fifty-first year of his age, and the eighteenth of his detested reign.

CHAP. XI. HENRY III.

A CLAIM was, upon the death of John, made in favour of young Henry, the son of the late king, who was now but nine years of age. The earl of Pembroke, a nobleman of great worth and valour, who had faithfully adhered to John in all the fluctuations of his fortune, determined to support his declining interests, and had him solemnly crowned by the bishops of Winchester and Bath, at Glou|cester.

The young king was of a character the very oppo|site of his father; as he grew up to man's estate, he was found to be gentle, merciful, and humane; he appeared easy and good natured to his dependents, but no way formidable to his enemies. Without ac|tivity or vigour, he was unfit to conduct in war; without distrust or suspicion, he was imposed upon in times of peace.

As weak princes are never without governing fa|vourites, he first placed his affections on Hubert de Burgh, and he becoming obnoxious to the people, the place was soon supplied by Peter de Roches,

bishop of Winchester, a Poictevin by birth, a man remarkable for his arbitrary conduct, for his courage, and his abilities. Henry, in pursuance of this pre|late's advice, invited over a great number of Poicte|vins, and other foreigners, who having neither prin|ciples nor fortunes at home, were willing to adopt whatever schemes their employer should propose. Every office and command was bestowed on these un|principled strangers, whose avarice and rapacity were exceeded only by their pride and insolence. So un|just a partiality to strangers very naturally excited the jealousy of the barons; and they even ventured to assure the king, that if he did not dismiss all fo|reigners from court, they would drive both him and them out of the kingdom; but their anger was scarce kept within bounds when they saw a new swarm of these intruders come over from Gascony, with Isa|bella, the king's mother, who had been some time before married to the count de la Marche. To these just causes of complaint were added the king's un|successful expeditions to the continent, his total want of oeconomy, and his oppressive exactions, which were but the result of the former. The kingdom therefore waited with gloomy resolution, resolving to take vengeance, when the general discontent was ar|rived at maturity.

This imprudent preference, joined to a thousand other illegal evasions of justice, at last impelled Si|mon Montsort, earl of Leicester, to attempt an in|novation in the government, and to wrest the sceptre from the feeble hand that held it. This nobleman was the son of the famous general who commanded against the Albigenses, a sect of enthusiasts that had been destroyed some time before in the kingdom of Savoy. He was married to the king's sister; and, by his power and address, was possessed of a strong interest in the nation, having gained equally the af|fections of the great and the little.

The first place where the formidable confederacy which he formed first discovered itself, was in the par|liament-house, where the barons appeared in com|plete armour. The king, upon his entry, asked them what was their intention; to which they submissively replied, to make him their sovereign, by confirming his power, and to have their grievances redressed. Henry, who was ready enough to promise whatever was demanded, instantly assured them of his intenti|ons to give all possible satisfaction; and for that pur|pose, summoned a parliament at Oxford, to digest a new plan of government, and to elect proper per|sons, who were to be entrusted with the chief autho|rity. This parliament, afterwards called the mad parliament, went expeditiously to work upon the busi|ness of reformation. Twenty-four barons were ap|pointed, with supreme authority, to reform the a|buses of the state, and Leicester was placed at their head. The whole state in their hands underwent a complete alteration; all its former officers were dis|placed, and creatures of the twenty-four barons were put in their room. They not only abridged the au|thority of the king, but the efficacy of parliament, giving up to twelve persons all parliamentary power between each session. Thus these insolent nobles, after having trampled upon the crown, threw pros|trate all the rights of the people, and a vile oli|garchy was on the point of being established for ever.

The first opposition that was made to these usur|pations, was from a power, which but lately began to take place in the constitution. The knights of the shire, who, for some time, had begun to be regu|larly assembled in a separate house, now first per|ceived those grievances, and complained against them. They represented, that their own interests and power seemed the only aim of all their decrees; and they even called upon the king's eldest son, prince Ed|ward,

to interpose his authority, and save the sinking nation.

Prince Edward was at this time about twenty-two years of age. The hopes which were conceived of his abilities and his integrity rendered him an impor|tant personage in the transactions of the times, and in some measure atoned for his father's imbecility. He had at a very early age, given the strongest proofs of courage, of wisdom, and of constancy. At first, indeed, when applied to, appearing sensible of what his father had suffered by levity and breach of pro|mise, he refused some time to listen to the people's earnest application; but being at last persuaded to concur, a parliament was called, in which the king resumed his former authority.

This being considered as a breach of the late con|vention, a civil war ensued, in which in a pitched battle, the earl of Leicester became victorious, and the king was taken prisoner, but soon after exchanged for prince Edward, who was to remain as an hostage to ensure the punctual observance of the former agreement.

With all these advantages however, Leicester was not so entirely secure, but that he still feared the com|binations of the foreign states against him, as well as the internal machinations of the royal party. In or|der therefore to secure his ill-acquired power, he was obliged to have recourse to an aid till now entirely unknown in England, namely, that of the body of the people. He called a parliament, where, besides the barons of his own party, and several ecclesiastics, who were not immediate tenants of the crown, he or|dered returns to be made of two knights from every shire; and also deputies from the boroughs, which had been hitherto considered as too inconsiderable to have a voice in legislation. This is the first confirmed outline of an English house of commons. The people

had been gaining some consideration since the gradual diminution of the force of the feudal system.

This parliament, however, was found not so very complying as he expected. Many of the barons, who had hitherto stedfastly adhered to his party, appeared disgusted at his immoderate ambition; and many of the people, who found that a change of masters was not a change for happiness, began to wish for the re|establishment of the royal family. In this exigence, Leicester finding himself unable to oppose the con|curring wishes of the nation, was resolved to make a merit of what he could not prevent; and he accord|ingly released prince Edward from confinement, and had him introduced at Westminster hall, where his freedom was confirmed by the unanimous voice of the barons. But though Leicester had all the popu|larity of restoring the prince, yet he was politic enough to keep him still guarded by his emissaries, who watched all his motions, and frustrated all his aims.

Wherefore the prince upon bearing that the duke of Gloucester was up in arms in his cause, he took an opportunity to escape from his guards, and put himself at the head of his party. A battle soon af|ter ensued; but the earl's army having been ex|hausted by famine on the mountains of Wales, were but ill able to sustain the impetuosity of young Ed|ward's attack, who bore down upon them with incre|dible fury. During this terrible day, Leicester be|haved with astonishing intrepidity; and kept up the spirit of the action from two o'clock in the afternoon, till nine at night. At last, his horse being killed un|der him, he was compelled to fight on foot; and tho' he demanded quarter, the adverse party refused it, with a barbarity common enough in the times we are describing. The old king, who was placed in the front of the battle, was soon wounded in the shoul|der; and not being known by his friends, he was on

the point of being killed by a soldier; but crying out, I am Henry of Winchester the king, he was saved by a knight of the royal army. Prince Edward hearing the voice of his father, instantly ran to the spot where he lay, and had him conducted to a place of safety. The body of Leicester being found among the dead, was barbarously mangled by one Roger Mortimer; and then, with an accumulation of in|humanity, sent to the wretched widow, as a testi|mony of the royal party's success.

This victory proved decisive; and the prince hav|ing thus restored peace to the kingdom, found his af|fairs so firmly established, that he resolved upon taking the cross, which was at that time the highest object of human ambition.

In pursuance of this resolution, Edward sailed from England with a large army, and arrived at the camp of Lewis, the king of France, which lay before Tu|nis; and where he had the misfortune to hear of that good monarch's death before his arrival. The prince, however, no way discouraged by this event, conti|nued his voyage, and arrived at the Holy Land in safety.

He was scarce departed upon this pious expedi|tion, when the health of the old king began to decline; and he found not only his own constitution, but also that of the state, in such a dangerous situation, that he wrote letters to his son, pressing him to return with all dispatch. At last being overcome by the cares of government, and the infirmities of age, he ordered himself to be removed, by easy journies, from St. Edmund's to Westminster, and that same night expired, in the sixty-fourth year of his age, and the fifty-sixth of his reign, the longest to be met with in the annals of England.

CHAP. XII. EDWARD I.

WHILE the unfortunate Henry was thus vainly struggling with the ungovernable spi|rit of his subjects, his son and successor, Edward, was employed in the Holy Wars, where he revived the glory of the English name, and made the ene|mies of Christianity tremble. He was stabbed how|ever, by one of those Mahometan enthusiasts, called Assassins, as he was one day sitting in his tent, and was cured not without great difficulty. Some say that he owed his safety to the piety of Eleanora his wife, who sucked the poison from the wound to save his life, at the hazard of her own.

Though the death of the late king happened while the successor was so far from home, yet measures had been so well taken, that the crown was transferred with the greatest tranquility.

As Edward was now come to an undisputed throne, the opposite interests were proportionably feeble. The barons were exhausted by long mutual dissen|sions; the clergy were divided in their interests, and agreed only in one point, to hate the pope, who had for some time drained them, with impunity: the peo|ple, by some insurrections against the convents, appear to hate the clergy with equal animosity. These disagreeing orders only concurred in one point, that of esteeming and reverencing the king. He therefore thought this the most favourable conjunc|ture of uniting England with Wales. The Welsh had for many ages enjoyed their own laws, language, customs, and opinions. They were the remains of the ancient Britons, who had escaped the Roman and Saxon invasions, and still preserved their freedom and

their country, uncontaminated by the admission of foreign conquerors. But as they were, from their number, incapable of withstanding their more power|ful neighbours on the plain, their chief defence lay in their inaccessible mountains, those natural bulwarks of the country. Whenever England was distressed by factions at home, or its forces called off to wars abroad, the Welsh made it a constant practice to pour in their irregular troops, and lay the open country waste where-ever they came. Nothing could be more pernicious to a country than several neighbour|ing independent principalities, under different com|manders, and pursuing different interests; the mu|tual jealousies of such were sure to harrass the people; and wherever victory was purchased, it was always at the expence of the general welfare. Sensible of this, Edward had long wished to reduce that incur|sive people, and had ordered Lewellyn to do homage for his territories; which summons the Welsh prince refused to obey, unless the king's own son should be delivered as an hostage for his safe return. The king was not displeased at this refusal, as it served to give him a pretext for his intended invasion. He there|fore levied an army against Lewellyn, and marched into his country with certain assurance of success. Upon the approach of Edward, the Welsh prince took refuge among the inaccessible mountains of Snowdon, and there resolved to maintain his ground, without trusting to the chance of a battle. These were the steep retreats, that had for many ages be|fore defended his ancestors against all the attempts of the Norman and Saxon conquerors. But Edward, equally vigorous and cautious, having explored every part of his way, pierced into the very center of Le|wellyn's territories, and approached the Welsh army in its last retreats. Here after extorting submission from the Welsh prince the king retired. But an idle prophecy, in which it was foretold by Merlin,

that Lewellyn was to be the restorer of Brutus's em|pire in Britain, was an inducement sufficiently strong to persuade this prince to revolt once more and hazard a decisive battle against the English. With this view he marched into Radnorshire; and passing the river Wey, his troops were surprised and defeated by Ed|ward Mortimer, while he himself was absent from his army, upon a conference with some of the barons of that country. Upon his return, seeing the dreadful situation of his affairs, he ran desperately into the midst of the enemy, and quickly found that death he so ardently sought for. David, the brother of this unfortunate prince, soon after fell in the same cause; and with him expired the government, and the distinction of the Welsh nation. It was soon af|ter united to the kingdom of England, made a prin|cipality, and given to the eldest son of the crown. Foreign conquests might add to the glory, but this added to the felicity of the kingdom. The Welsh were now blended with the conquerors; and in the revolution of a few ages, all national animosity was entirely forgotten.

Soon after the death of Margaret, queen of Scot|land, gave him hopes of adding also Scotland to his dominion. The death of this princess produced a most ardent dispute about the succession to the Scottish throne, being claimed by no less than twelve competitors. The claims however of all the other can|didates were reduced to three; who were the de|scendants of the earl of Huntington by three daugh|ters; John Hastings, who claimed in right of his mother, as one of the co-heiresses of the crown; John Baliol, who alledged his right, as being de|scended from the eldest daughter, who was his grand|mother; and Robert Bruce, who was the actual son of the second daughter. This dispute being referred to Edwards decision, with a strong degree of assurance, he claimed the crown for himself, and appointed Baliol his deputy.

Baliol being thus placed upon the Scottish throne, less as a king than as a vassal, Edward's first step was sufficient to convince that people of his intentions to stretch the prerogative to the utmost. Upon the most frivolous pretences, he sent six different summonses for Baliol to appear in London at different times, in one year; so that the poor Scottish king soon per|ceived that he was possessed of the name only, but not the authority of a sovereign. Willing, therefore, to shake off the yoke of so troublesome a master, Ba|liol revolted, and procured the pope's absolution from his former oaths of homage.

But no power the Scotch could bring into the field was able to withstand the victorious army of Edward. He overthrew their forces in many engagements, and thus becoming undisputed master of the kingdom, he took every precaution to secure his title, and to abo|lish those distinctions, which might be apt to keep the nation in its former independence. Baliol was car|ried a prisoner to London, and he carefully destroyed all records and monuments of antiquity, that inspired the Scotch with a spirit of national pride.

These expeditions, however, terminated rather in glory than advantage: the expences which were re|quisite for carrying on the war, were not only bur|thensome to the king, but even, in the event, threat|ened to shake him on his throne. In order at first to set the great machine in movement, he raised consider|able supplies by means of his parliament; and that august body was then first modelled by him into the form in which it continues to this day. As a great part of the property of the kingdom was, by the in|troduction of commerce, and the improvement of agriculture, transferred from the barons to the lower classes of the people, so their consent was thought necessary for the raising any considerable supplies. For this reason, he issued writs to the sheriffs, en|joining them to send to parliament along with two

knights of the shire, (as in the former reign) two de|puties from each borough within their county; and these provided with sufficient powers from their con|stituents, to grant such demands as they should think reasonable for the safety of the state. One of the first efforts, therefore, was to oblige the king's coun|cil to sign the Magna Charta, and to add a clause, to secure the nation for ever against all impositions and taxes, without the consent of parliament. This the king's council (for Edward was at that time in Flan|ders) readily agreed to sign; and the king himself, when it was sent over to him, after some hesitation, thought proper to do the same. These concessions he again confirmed upon his return; and though it is probable he was averse to granting them, yet he was at last brought to give a plenary consent to all the articles that were demanded of him. Thus, after the contest of an age, the Magna Charta was finally estab|lished: nor was it the least circumstance in its favour, that its confirmation was procured from one of the greatest and boldest princes that ever swayed the Eng|lish sceptre.

In the mean time, William Wallace, so celebrated in Scottish story, attempted to rescue Scotland from the English yoke He was younger son of a gentle|man, who lived in the western part of the kingdom. He was a man of a gigantic stature, incredible strength, and amazing intrepidity; eagerly desirous of independence, and possessed with the most disin|terested spirit of patriotism. To this man had re|sorted all those who were obnoxious to the English go|vernment; the proud, the bold, the criminal, and the ambitious. These, bred among dangers and hardships themselves, could not forbear admiring in their leader a degree of patience, under fatigue and famine, which they supposed beyond the power of human nature to endure; he soon, therefore, became the principal object of their affection and their esteem.

His first exploits were confined to petty ravages, and occasional attacks upon the English; but he soon over|threw the English armies, and slew their generals.

Edward, who had been over in Flanders, while these misfortunes happened in England, hastened back with impatience to restore his authority, and secure his former conquests. He quickly levied the whole force of his dominions; and at the head of an hun|dred thousand men, directed his march to the North, fully resolved to take vengeance upon the Scots for their late defection.

A battle was fought at Falkirk, in which Edward gained a complete victory, leaving twelve thousand of the Scotch, or, as some will have it, fifty thousand, dead upon the field, while the English had not an hundred slain.

A blow so dreadful, had not as yet entirely crushed the spirit of the Scotch nation; and after a short in|terval, they began to breathe from their calamities. Wallace, who had gained all their regards by his va|lour, shewed that he still merited them more by his declining the rewards of ambition. Perceiving how much he was envied by the nobility, and know|ing how prejudicial that envy would prove to the in|terests of his country, he resigned the regency of the kingdom, and humbled himself to a private station. He proposed Cummin as the properest person to sup|ply his room; and that nobleman endeavoured to shew himself worthy of this pre-eminence. He soon began to annoy the enemy; and not content with a defensive war, made incursions into the southern counties of the kingdom, which Edward had ima|gined wholly subdued. They attacked an army of the English lying at Roslin, near Edinburgh, and gained a complete victory.

But it was not easy for any circumstances of bad fortune to repress the enterprizing spirit of the king. He assembled a great sleet and army; and, entering

the frontiers of Scotland, appeared with a force which the enemy could not think of resisting in the open field. Assured of success, he marched along, and traversed the kingdom from one end to the other, ravaging the open country, taking all the castles, and receiving the submissions of all the nobles. There seemed to remain only one obstacle to the final de|struction of the Scottish monarchy, and that was William Wallace, who still continued refractory; and wandering with a few forces from mountain to moun|tain, preserved his native independence and usual good fortune. But even their feeble hopes from him were soon disappointed; he was betrayed into the king's hands by Sir John Monteith, his friend, whom he had made acquainted with the place of his con|cealment, being surprized by him as he lay asleep in the neighbourhood of Glasgow. The king, willing to strike the Scotch with an example of severity, or|dered him to be conducted in chains to London, where he was hanged, drawn and quartered, with the most brutal ferocity.

Robert Bruce, who had been one of the compe|titors for the crown, but was long kept a prisoner in London, at length escaping from his guards, resolved to strike for his countries freedom. Having murdered one of the king's servants, he left himself no resource, but to confirm, by desperate valour, what he had be|gun in cruelty; and he soon expelled such of the English forces, as had fixed themselves in the king|dom. Soon after, he was solemnly crowned king, by the bishop of St. Andrew's, in the abbey of Scone; and numbers flocked to his standard, resolved to con|firm his pretensions. Thus, after twice conquering the kingdom, and as often pardoning the delinquents; after having spread his victories in every quarter of the country, and receiving the most humble submis|sions, the old king saw, that his whole work was to begin afresh; and that nothing but the final destruc|tion

of the inhabitants could give him assurance of tranquility. But no difficulties could repress the ar|duous spirit of this monarch, who, tho' now verging towards his decline, yet resolved to strike a parting blow, and to make the Scotch once more tremble at his appearance. He vowed revenge against the whole nation; and averred, that nothing but reducing them to the completest bondage could satisfy his resent|ment. He summoned his prelates, nobility, and all who held by knights service, to meet him at Car|lisle, which was appointed as the general rendez|vous; and, in the mean time, he detached a body of forces before him into Scotland, under the command of Aymer de Valence, who began the threatened infliction by a terrible victory over Bruce, near Me|thuen, in Perthshire. Immediately after this dread|ful blow, the resentful king himself appeared in per|son, entering Scotland with his army divided into two parts, and expecting to find, in the opposition of the people, a pretext for punishing them. But this brave prince, who was never cruel but from motives of policy, could not strike the poor submitting na|tives, who made no resistance. His anger was dis|appointed in their humiliations; and he was ashamed to extirpate those who only opposed patience to his indignation. His death put an end to the apprehen|sions of the Scotch, and effectually rescued their country from total subjection. He sickened, and died at Carlisle, of a dysentery; enjoining his son, with his last breath, to prosecute the enterprize, and never to desist, till he had finally subdued the king|dom. He expired, July 7, 1307, in the sixty-ninth year of his age, and the thirty-fifth of his reign: after having added more to the solid interests of the kingdom, than any of those who went before, or succeeded him.

CHAP. XIII. EDWARD II. surnamed of CAERNARVON.

EDWARD was in the twenty-third year of his age when he succeeded his father, of an a|greeable figure, of a mild harmless disposition, and apparently addicted to few vices. But he soon gave symptoms of his unfitness to succeed so great a mo|narch as his father; he was rather fond of the enjoy|ment of his power, than of securing it; and, lulled by the flattery of his courtiers, he thought he had done enough for glory, when he had accepted the crown. Instead therefore of prosecuting the war a|gainst Scotland, according to the injunctions he had received from his dying father, he took no steps to check the progress of Bruce; his march into that country being rather a procession of pageantry, than a warlike expedition.

Weak monarchs are ever governed by favourites, and the first Edward placed his affections upon was Piers Gavestone, the son of a Gascon knight, who had been employed in the service of the late king. This young man was adorned with every accom|plishment of person and mind, that were capable of creating affection: but he was utterly destitute of those qualities of heart and understanding that serve to procure esteem. He was beautiful, witty, brave, and active; but then he was vicious, effeminate, de|bauched, and trifling. These were qualities entirely adapted to the taste of the young monarch, and he seemed to think no rewards equal to his deserts. Ga|vestone on the other hand intoxicated with his power, became haughty and overbearing, and treated the English nobility, from whom it is probable he received marks of contempt, with scorn and derision. A

conspiracy, therefore, was soon formed against him, at the head of which queen Isabel, and the earl of Lancaster, a nobleman of great power, were associated.

It was easy to perceive, that a combination of the nobles, while the queen secretly assisted their designs, would be too powerful against the efforts of a weak king, and a vain favourite. The king timid and wavering, banished him at their solicitation, and re|called him soon after. This was sufficient to spread an alarm over the whole kingdom;* 1.1 all the great barons flew to arms; and the earl of Lancaster put himself at the head of this irresistible confederacy. The unhappy Edward, in|stead of attempting to make resistance, sought only for safety: ever happy in the company of his fa|vourite, he embarked at Tinmouth, and sailed with him to Scarborough, where he left Gavestone, as in a place of safety; and then went back to York himself, either to raise an army to oppose his enemies; or, by his presence, to allay their ani|mosity. In the mean time, Gavestone was be|sieged in Scarborough by the earl of Pembroke; and had the garrison been sufficiently supplied with pro|visions, that place would have been impregnable. But Gavestone, sensible of the bad condition of the garrison, took the earliest opportunity to offer terms of capitulation. He stipulated, that he should re|main in Pembroke's hands as a prisoner for two months; and that endeavours should be used, in the mean time, for a general accommodation. But Pem|broke had no intention that he should escape so easily; he ordered him to be conducted to the castle of Deddington, near Banbury, where, on pretence of other business, he left him with a feeble guard, which the earl of Warwick having notice of, he attacked the castle in which the unfortunate Gavestone was confined, and quickly made himself master of his person. The earls of Lancaster, Hereford, and Arun|del, were soon apprized of Warwick's success, and

informed that their common enemy was now in cus|tody in Warwick castle. Thither, therefore, they hasted with the utmost expedition, to hold a consulta|tion upon the fate of their prisoner. This was of no long continuance; they unanimously resolved to put him to death, as an enemy to the kingdom, and gave him no time to prepare for his execution. They in|stantly had him conveyed to a place called Blacklow-hill, where a Welsh executioner, provided for that purpose, severed his head from the body.

To add to Edward's misfortunes, he soon after suf|fered a most terrible defeat from the Scotch army un|der Bruce, near Banochburn, and this drove him once more to seek for relief in some favourite's com|pany. The name of this new favourite was Hugh Despenser, a young man of a noble English family, of some merit, and very engaging accomplishments. His father was a person of a much more estimable character than the son; he was venerable for his years, and respected through life for his wisdom, his valour, and his integrity. But these excellent quali|ties were all diminished and vilified, from the mo|ment he and his son began to share the king's favour, who even dispossessed some lords unjustly of their estates, in order to accumulate them upon his favour|ite. This was a pretext the king's enemies had been long seeking for; the earls of Lancaster and Hereford flew to arms; sentence was procured from parlia|ment of perpetual exile against the two Spensers, and a forfeiture of their fortune and estates. The king however, at last rousing from his lethargy, took the field in the defence of his beloved Spenser, and at the head of thirty thousand men pressed the earl of Lan|caster so closely, that he had not time to collect his forces together; and flying from one place to another, he was at last stopt in his way towards Scotland by Sir Andrew Harcla, and made prisoner. As he had formerly shewn little mercy to Gavestone, there was

very little extended to him upon this occasion. He was condemned by a court-martial; and led, mount|ed on a lean horse, to an eminence near Pomfret, in circumstances of the greatest indignity, where he was beheaded by a Londoner.

A rebellion, thus crushed, served only to encrease the pride and rapacity of young Spenser: most of the forfeitures were seized for his use; and in his promp|titude to punish the delinquents, he was found guilty of many acts of rapine and injustice.

But he was now to oppose a more formidable ene|my in queen Isabella, a cruel haughty woman, who fled over to France, and refused to appear in England till Spenser was removed from the royal presence and banished the kingdom. By this reply she gained two very considerable advantages; she became popular in England, where Spenser was universally disliked; and she had the pleasure of enjoying the company of a young nobleman, whose name was Mortimer, upon whom she had lately placed her affections, and whom she indulged with all the familiarities that her crimi|nal passion could confer. The queen's court now, therefore, became a sanctuary for all the male-con|tents who were banished their own country, or who chose to come over. Accordingly soon after, accom|panied by three thousand men at arms, she set out from Dort harbour, and landed safely, without oppo|sition, on the coast of Suffolk. She no sooner ap|peared, than there seemed a general revolt in her sa|vour; and the unfortunate king found the spirit of disloyalty was not confined to the capital alone, but dis|fused over the whole kingdom. He had placed some de|pendence upon the garrison which was stationed in the castle of Bristol, under the command of the elder Spenser; but they mutinied against their governor, and that unfortunate favourite was delivered up, and condemned by the tumultuous barons to the most ig|nomimous death. He was hanged on a gibbet in his

armour, his body was cut in pieces, and thrown to the dogs, and his head was sent to Winchester, where it was set on a pole, and exposed to the insults of the populace.

Young Spenser, the unhappy son, did not long survive the father; he was taken, with some others who had followed the fortunes of the wretched king, in an obscure convent in Wales, and the merciless victors resolved to glut their revenge, in adding insult to cruelty. The queen had not patience to wait the formality of a trial; but ordered him immediately to be led forth before the insulting populace, and seem|ed to take a savage pleasure in feasting her eyes with his distresses. The gibbet erected for his execution was fifty feet high; his head was sent to London, where the citizens received it in brutal triumph, and fixed it on the bridge. Several other lords also shared his fate; all deserving pity indeed, had they not them|selves formerly justified the present inhumanity by setting a cruel example.

In the mean time the king, who hoped to find re|fuge in Wales, quickly was discovered, and delivered up to his adversaries, who expressed their satisfaction in the grossness of their treatment. He was conducted to the capital, amidst the insults and reproaches of the people, and confined in the Tower. A charge was soon after exhibited against him; in which no other crimes but his incapacity to govern, his indolence, his love of pleasure, and his being swayed by evil counsellors, were objected against him. His depo|sition was quickly voted by parliament; he was as|signed a pension for his support, his son Edward, a youth of fourteen, was fixed upon to succeed him, and the queen was appointed regent during the mi|nority.

* 1.2The deposed monarch but a short time sur|vived his misfortunes; he was sent from pri|son to prison, a wretched outcast, and the sport of his inhuman keepers. He had been at first

consigned to the custody of the earl of Lancaster; but this nobleman, shewing some marks of respect and pity, he was taken out of his hands, and delivered over to lord Berkeley, Montravers, and Gournay, who were entrust|ed with the charge of guarding him month about. What|ever his treatment from lord Berkeley might have been, the other two seemed resolved that he should enjoy none of the comforts of life, while in their custody. They practised every kind of indignity upon him, as if their design had been to accelerate his death by the bitter|ness of his sufferings. Among other acts of brutal oppression, it is said, that they shaved him for sport in the open fields, using water from a neighbouring ditch. He is said to have borne his former indigni|ties with patience, but all fortitude forsook him upon this occasion; he looked upon his merciless insulters with an air of fallen majesty, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, that the time might come, when he would be more decently attended. This, however, was but a vain expectation. As his persecutors saw that his death might not arrive, even under every cruelty, till a revolution had been made in his favour, they resolved to rid themselves of their fears, by destroying him at once. Acordingly, his two keepers, Gournay and Montravers, came to Berkeley castle, where Ed|ward was then confined; and having concerted a method of putting him to death without any external violence, they threw him on a bed, holding him down by a table, which they had placed over him. They then ran an horn pipe up his body, through which they conveyed a red hot iron; and thus burnt his bowels, without disfiguring his body. By this cruel artifice, they expected to have their crime conceal|ed; but his horrid shrieks, which were heard at a distance from the castle, soon gave a suspicion of the murder; and the whole was soon after divulged by the confession of one of the accomplices. Misfortunes like his must ever create pity; and a punishment so

disproportionate to the sufferer's guilt, must wipe away even many of those faults of which Edward was justly culpable.

CHAP. XIV. EDWARD III.

THE parliament, by which young Edward was raised to the throne, during the life of his fa|ther, appointed twelve persons as his privy-council, to direct the operations of government. Mortimer, the quen's paramour, who might naturally be set down as one of the members, artfully excluded him|self, under a pretended shew of moderation; but at the same time he secretly influenced all the measures that came beneath their deliberation. He caused the greatest part of the royal revenues to be settled on the queen dowager, and he seldom took the trouble to consult the ministers of government in any public undertaking. The king himself was so besieged by the favourite's creatures, that no access could be pro|cured to him, and the whole sovereign authority was shared between Mortimer and the queen, who took no care to conceal her criminal attachment.

At length, however, Edward was resolved to shake off an authority that was odious to the nation, and particularly restrictive upon him. But such was the power of the favourite, that it required as much pre|caution to overturn the usurper, as to establish the throne. The queen and Mortimer had for some time chosen the castle of Nottingham for the place of their residence; it was strictly guarded, the gates locked every evening, and the keys carried to the queen. It was, there|fore, agreed between the king, and some of his barons, who secretly entered into his designs, to seize upon them in the fortress; and for that purpose, Sir

William Eland, the governor, was induced to admit them by a secret subterraneous passage, which had been formerly contrived for an outlet, but was now hidden with rubbish, and known only to one or two. It was by this, therefore, the noblemen in the king's inter|ests entered the castle in the night; and Mortimer, without having it in his power to make any resistance, was seized in an apartment adjoining that of the queen's. It was in vain that she endeavoured to pro|tect him; in vain she entreated them to spare her "gentle Mortimer;" the barons, deaf to her entreat|ies, denied her that pity, which she had so often re|fused to others. Her paramour was condemned by the parliament, which was then sitting, without be|ing permitted to make his defence, or even examin|ing a witness against him. He was hanged on a gib|bet at a place called Elmes, about a mile from Lon|don, where his body was left hanging for two days after. The queen, who was certainly the most cul|pable, was shielded by the dignity of her situation; she was only discarded from all share of power, and confined for life, to the castle of Risings, with a pen|sion of three thousand pounds a year. From this confinement, she was never after set free; and though the king annually paid her a visit of decent cere|mony, yet she found herself abandoned to universal contempt and detestation; and continued for above twenty-five years after a miserable monument of blast|ed ambition.

In order still more to secure the people's affections, Edward made a successful irruption into Scotland, in which in one battle sought at Hallidown hill, above thirty thousand of the Scotch were slain. Soon after he turned his arms against France, which was at that time particularly unfortunate. The three sons of Philip the Fair, in full parliament, accused their wives of adultery; and in consequence of this accusation they were condemned and imprisoned for life. Lew|is

Hutin, successor to the crown of France, caused his wife to be strangled, and her lovers to be flead alive. After his death, as he left only a daughter, his next brother, Philip the Tall, assumed the crown, in prejudice of the daughter; and vindicated his title by the Salic law, which laid it down, that no female should succeed to the crown. Edward however, urged his pretensions, as being by his mother Isabella, who was daughter to Philip the Fair, and sister to the three last kings of France, rightful heir to the crown. But first, he in a formal manner, consulted his parliament on the propriety of the undertaking, obtained their approbation, received a proper supply of wool, which he intended to barter with the Flem|ings; and being attended with a body of English forces, and several of his nobility, he sailied over into Flanders, big with his intended conquests.

The first great advantage gained by the English was in a naval engagement on the coast of Flanders, in which the French lost two hundred and thirty ships, and had thirty thousand of their seamen, and two of their admirals slain.

The intelligence of Edward's landing, and the de|vastation caused by his troops, who dispersed them|selves over the whole face of the country, soon spread universal consternation through the French court. Caen was taken and plundered by the English, with|out mercy; the villages and towns, even up to Paris, shared the same fate; and the French had no other re|source but by breaking down their bridges, to attempt putting a stop to the invader's career. Philip, then king of France, was not idle in making preparations to repress the enemy. He had stationed one of his gneerals, Godemar de Faye, with an army on the opposite side of the river Somme, over which Edward was to pass; while he himself, at the head of an hundred thousand fighting men, advanced to give the English battle.

As both armies had for some time been in sight of each other, nothing was so eagerly expected on each

side as a battle; and although the forces were ex|tremely disproportioned, the English amounting only to thirty thousand, the French to an hundred and twenty thousand; yet Edward resolved to indulge the impetuosity of his troops, and put all to the hazard of a battle. He accordingly chose his ground with ad|vantage near the village of Crecy; and there deter|mined to await with tranquility the shock of the ene|my. He drew up his men on a gentle ascent, and divided them into three lines. The first was com|manded by the young prince of Wales; the second was conducted by the earls of Northampton and Arundel; and the third, which was kept as a body of reserve, was headed by the king in person.

On the other side, Philip, impelled by resentment, and confident of his numbers, was more solicitous in bring|ing the enemy to an engagement, than prudent in tak|ing measures for its success. He led on his army in three bodies opposite those of the English. The first line consisted of fifteen thousand Genoese cross-bow|men. The second body was led by the king of France's brother; and he himself was at the head of the third.

About three in the afternoon, the famous battle of Crecy began, by the French king's ordering the Gen|oese archers to charge; but they were so fatigued with their march, that they cried out for a little rest before they should engage. The count Alençon, be|ing informed of their petition, rode up and reviled them as cowards, commanding them to begin the onset without delay. Their reluctance to begin, was still more encreased by a heavy shower which fell that instant, and relaxed their bow strings; so that the discharge they made, produced but very little effect. On the other hand, the English archers, who bad kept their bows in cases, and were favoured by a sudden gleam of sunshine, that rather dazzled the enemy, let fly their arrows so thick, and with such good aim, that nothing was to be seen among the

Genoese but hurry, terror, and dismay. The young prince of Wales had presence of mind to take advan|tage of their confusion, and to lead on his line to the charge. The French cavalry, however, com|manded by the count Alençon, wheeling round sus|tained the combat, and began to hem the English in. The earls of Arundel and Northampton, now came to assist the prince, who appeared foremost in the very shock; and wherever he appeared turn|ing the fortune of the day. The thickest of the bat|tle was now gathered round him, and the valour of a boy filled even veterans with astonishment; but their surprize at his courage could not give way to their fears for his safety. Being apprehensive that some mischance might happen to him in the end, an officer was dispatched to the king, desiring that succours might be sent to the prince's relief. Edward, who had all this time, with great tranquility, viewed the engagement from a wind-mill, demanded with seem|ing deliberation if his son were dead; but being an|swered that he still lived, and was giving astonishing instances of valour; "then tell my generals, cried the king, that he shall have no assistance from me; the honour of this day shall be his, let him shew himself worthy the profession of arms, and let him be indebt|ed to his own merit alone for victory." This speech, being reported to the prince and his attendants, it inspired them with new courage; they made a fresh attack upon the French cavalry, and count Alençon, their bravest commander, was slain. This was the begining of their total overthrow: the French being now without a competent leader, were thrown into confusion; their whole army took to flight, and were put to the sword by the pursuers without mercy, till night stopped the carnage. Never was a victory more seasonable, or less bloody to the English than this. Notwithstanding the great slaughter of the

enemy, the conquerors lost but one esquire, three knights, and a few of inferior rank.

But this victory was attended with still more sub|stantial advantages; for Edward, as moderate in con|quest, as prudent in his methods to obtain it, resolv|ed to secure an easy entrance into France for the future. With this view he laid siege to Calais, that was then defended by John de Vienne, an experien|ced commander, and supplied with every thing neces|sary for defence. These operations, though slow, were at lengh successful. It was in vain that the go|vernor made a noble defence, that he excluded all the useless mouths from the city, which Edward gener|ously permitted to pass. Edward resolved to reduce it by famine, and it was at length taken after a twelve-month's siege, the defendants having been reduced to the last extremity. He resolved to punish the ob|stinacy of the townsmen, by the death of six of the most considerable citizens, who offered themselves, with ropes round their necks, to satiate his indignation; but he spared their lives, at the intercession of the queen.

While Edward was reaping victories upon the con|tinent, the Scotch, ever willing to embrace a favour|able opportunity of rapine and revenge, invaded the frontiers with a numerous army, headed by David Bruce their king. This unexpected invasion, at such a juncture, alarmed the English, but was not capable of intimidating them. Lionel, Edward's son, who was left guardian of England during his father's ab|sence, was yet too young to take upon him the com|mand of an army; but the victories on the continent seemed to inspire even women with valour: Philippa, Edward's queen, took upon her the conduct of the field, and prepared to re|pulse the enemy in person. According|ly,* 1.3 having made lord Percy general under her, she met the Scots at a place called Nevill's Cross near Durham, and offered them bat|tle.

The Scotch king was no less impatient to en|gage; he imagined that he might obtain an easy vic|tory against undisciplined troops and headed by a wo|man. But he was miserably deceived. His army was quickly routed and driven from the field. Fif|teen thousand of his men were cut to pieces; and he himself, with many of his nobles and knights, were taken prisoners, and carried in triumph to London.

A victory gained by the Black Prince near Poictiers followed not long after, in which John king of France was taken prisoner, and led in triumph through Lon|don amidst an amazing concourse of spectators. Two kings prisoners in the same court, and at the same time, were considered as glorious atchievements; but all that England gained by them was only glory. What|ever was won in France, with all the dangers of war, and the expence of preparation, was successively, and in a manner silently, lost, without the mortification of a defeat.

The English, by their frequent supplies, had been quite exhausted, and were unable to continue an army in the field. Charles, who had succeeded his father John, who died a prisoner in the Savoy, on the other hand, cautiously forbore coming to any de|cisive engagement; but was contented to let his enemies waste their strength in attempts to plunder a fortified country. When they were retired, he then was sure to sally forth, and possess himself of such pla|ces as they were not strong enough to defend. He first fell upon Ponthieu; the citizens of Abbeville opened their gates to him; those of St. Valois, Rue, and Crotoy, imitated the example; and the whole country was, in a little time, reduced to total submis|sion. The southern provinces were, in the same manner, invaded by his generals with equal success; while the Black Prince, destitute of supplies from England, and wasted by a cruel and consumptive disorder, was obliged to return to his native coun|try,

leaving the affairs of the south of France in a most desperate condition.

But what of all other things served to gloom the latter part of this splendid reign, was the approaching death of the Black Prince, whose constitution shewed but too manifesty the symptoms of a speedy dissolution. This valiant and accomplished prince died in the forty-sixth year of his age, leaving behind him a cha|racter without a single blemish; and a degree of sorrow among the people, that time could scarcely alleviate.

The king was most sensibly affected with the loss of his son; and tried every art to allay his un|easiness. He removed himself entirely from the du|ties and burdens of the state, and left his kingdom to be plundered by a set of rapacious ministers. He did not survive the consequences of his bad conduct; but died about a year after the prince, at Shene, in Surry, deserted by all his courtiers, even by those who had grown rich by his bounty. He expired in the sixty-fifth year of his age and fifty first of his reign, 1377; a prince more admired than beloved by his subjects, and more an object of their applause, than their sorrow.

It was in this reign that the order of the garter was instituted;* 1.4 the number was to consist of twenty four persons beside the king. A story prevails, but unsupport|ed by any ancient authority, that the countess of Salisbury, at a ball, happening to drop her garter, the king took it up, and presented it to her with these words, "Honi soit qui mal y pense;" Evil be to him that evil thinks. This accident it is said gave rise to the order and the motto.

Edward left many children by his queen Philippa of Hainault: his eldest son, the Black P••ince, died before him, but he left a son, named Richard, who succeeded to the throne.

CHAP. XV. RICHARD II.

RICHARD II. was but eleven years old when he came to the throne of his grandfather, and found the people discontented and poor, the nobles proud and rebellious. As he was a minor, the go|vernment was vested in the hands of his three un|cles, the dukes of Lancaster, York, and Gloucester; and as the late king had left the kingdom involved in many dangerous and expensive wars, which demand|ed large and constant supplies, the murmurs of the people encreased in proportion. The expences of armaments to face the enemy on every side, and a want of oeconomy in the administration, entirely ex|hausted the treasury; and a new tax of three groats on every person above fifteen, was granted by parlia|ment as a supply. The indignation of the people had been for some time encreasing; but a tax so un|equitable, in which the rich paid no more than the poor, kindled the resentment of the latter into flame. It began in Essex, where a report was industriously spread, that the peasants were to be destroyed, their houses burned, and their farms plundered. A black-smith, well known by the name of Wat Tyler, was the first that excited them to arms. The tax gather|ers coming to this man's house while he was at work, demanded payment for his daughter, which he re|fused, alledging she was under the age mentioned in the act. One of the brutal collectors insisted on her being a full grown woman; and immediately attempt|ed a very indecent proof of his assertion. This pro|voked the father to such a degree, that he instantly struck him dead with a blow of his hammer. The standers by applauded his spirit, and, one and all,

resolved to defend his conduct. He was considered as a champion in the cause, and appointed the leader and spokesman of the people. It is easy to imagine the disorders committed by this tumultuous rabble; the whole neighbourhood rose in arms; they burnt and plundered wherever they came, and revenged upon their former masters, all those insults which they had long sustained with impunity. As the dis|content was general, the insurgents encreased in pro|portion as they approached the capital. The flame soon propagated itself into Kent, Hertfordshire, Surry, Sussex, Suffolk, Norfolk, Cambridge, and Lincoln. They were found to amount to above an hundred thousand men, by the time they were arrived at Blackheath. At the head of one party of these was Wat Tyler, who led his men into Smithfield, where he was met by the king, who invited him to a con|ference, under a pretence of hearing and redressing his grievances. Tyler ordering his companions to retire, till he should give them a signal, boldly ven|tured to meet the king in the midst of his retinue, and accordingly began the conference. The de|mands of this demagogue are censured by all the his|torians of the time, as insolent and extravagant; and yet nothing can be more just than those they have delivered for him. He required that all slaves should be set free; that all commonages should be open to the poor as well as rich; and that a general pardon should be passed for the late outrages. Whilst he made these demands, he now and then lifted up his sword in a menacing manner; which insolence so raised the in|dignation of William Walworth, then mayor of Lon|don, attending on the king, that, without consider|ing the danger to which he exposed his majesty, he stunned Tyler with a blow of his mace; while one of the king's knights, riding up, dispatched him with his sword. The mutineers, seeing their leader fall, prepar|ed themselves to take revenge; and their bows were now

bent for execution, when Richard, though not yet quite sixteen years of age, rode up to the rebels, and, with admirable presence of mind, cried out, "What my people, will you then kill your king? Be not con|cerned for the loss of your leader; I myself will now be your general; follow me into the field, and you shall have whatever you desire." The awed multi|tude immediatly desisted; they followed the king as if mechanically into the fields, and there he granted them the same charter that he had before given to their companions, but which he soon after revoked in parliament.

Hitherto the king had acted under the controle of the regency, who did all they could devise to abridge his power; however, in an extraordinary council of the nobility, assembled after Easter, he, to the asto|nishment of all present, desired to know his age; and being told that he was turned of two and twenty, he alledged, that it was time then for him to govern without help; and that there was no reason that he should be deprived of those rights which the mean|est of his subjects enjoyed.

Being thus left at liberty to conduct the business of government at discretion,* 1.5 it quickly appeared that he wanted those arts that are usually found to procure a lasting respect; he was fond of luxurious pleasures and idle ostentation; he admitted the meanest ranks to his familiarity; and his conversation was not adapted to impress them with a reverence for his morals or abili|ties. The cruelty shewn to the duke of Gloucester, who upon slight suspicions was sent to confinement in Calais, and there murdered in prison, with some other acts equally arbitrary, did not fail to encrease those ani|mosities which had already taken deep root in the kingdom. The aggrandisement of some new favour|ites, contributed still more to make the king odious; but though he seemed resolved, by all his actions, to set his subjects against him, it was accident that

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[figure]

Wat Tyler threatening Richard II.

Isaac Taylor del. et sculp.

Published by G. Kearsley in Fleet Street, as the Act directs. July 2^d. 1774.

gave the occasion for his overthrow. The duke of Hereford appeared in parliament, and accused the duke of Norfolk of having spoken seditious word a|gainst his majesty, in a private conversation. Nor|folk denied the charge, gave Hereford the lie, and offered to prove his innocence by single combat. As proofs were wanting for legal trial, the lords readily acquiesced in that mode of determination; the time and place were appointed; and the whole nation waited with anxious suspense for the event. At length the day arrived on which this duel was to be fought, and the champions having just began their career, the king stopped the combat, and ordered both the combatants to leave the kingdom. The duke of Norfolk he banished for life, but the duke of Hereford only for ten years. Thus the one was condemned to exile without being charged with any offence, and the other without being convicted of any crime. The duke of Norfolk was overwhelmed with grief and despondence at the judgment awarded against him; he retired to Venice, where, in a little time after, he died of a broken heart. Hereford's behaviour on this occasion was resigned and submis|sive, which so pleased the king, that he consented to shorten the date of his banishment four years; and he also granted him letters patent, ensuring him the enjoyment of any inheritance which should fall to him during his absence; but upon the death of his father, the duke of Lancaster, which happened shortly after, Richard revoked those letters, and re|tained the possession of the Lancaster estate to him|self.

Such complicated injuries served to enflame the resentment of Hereford against the king; and al|though he had hitherto concealed it, he now set no bounds to his indignation, but even conceived a desire of dethroning a person who had shewn him|self so unworthy of power. Indeed no man could

be better qualified for an enterprize of this nature than the earl of Hereford: he was cool, cautious, discerning, and resolute. He had served with dis|tinction against the infidels of Lithuania; and he had thus joined to his other merits those of piety and valour. He was stimulated by private injuries; and had alliances and fortune sufficient to give weight to his measures. He only waited for the absence of the king from England to put his schemes in execu|tion; and Richard's going over into Ireland to quell an insurrection there was the opportunity he long had looked for.

Accordingly he instantly embarked at Nantz, with a retinue of sixty persons; in three small vessels, and landed at Ravenspur in Yorkshire. The earl of Nor|thumberland, who had long been a malecontent, to|gether with Henry Percy, his son, who, from his ardent valour, was surnamed Hotspur, immediately joined him with their forces. After this junction the concourse of people coming to list under his ban|ner was so great, that in a few days his army amounted to threescore thousand men.

Whilst these things were transacting in England, Richard continued in Ireland in perfect security. Contrary winds, for three weeks together, prevented his receiving any news of the rebellion which was begun in his native dominions; wherefore upon landing at Milford-haven with a body of twenty thousand men, he saw himself in a dreadful situation, in the midst of an enraged people, without any friend on whom to rely; and forsaken by those, who, in the sunshine of his power, had only contributed to fan his follies. His little army gradually began to desert him, till at last he found that he had not above six thousand men, who followed his standard. Thus, not knowing whom to trust to, or where to turn, he saw no other hopes of safety, but to throw himself upon the generosity of his enemy, and to gain from

pity what he could not obtain by arms. He, therefore, sent Hereford word, that he was ready to submit to whatever terms he thought proper to prescribe, and that he earnestly desired a conference. For this pur|pose, the earl appointed him to meet at a castle with|in about ten miles of Chester, where he came the next day with his whole army. Richard, who the day before had been brought thither by the duke of Northumberland, descrying his rival's approach from the walls, went down to receive him; while Here|ford, after some ceremony, entered the castle in com|plete armour, only his head was bare, in compliment to the fallen king. Richard received him with that open air for which he had been remarkable, and kind|ly bade him welcome. "My lord, the king, return|ed the earl, with a cool respectful bow, I am come sooner than you appointed, because your people say, that for one and twenty years you have governed with rigour and indiscretion. They are very ill satis|fied with your conduct; but, if it please God, I will help you to govern them better for the time to come."

To this declaration the king made no other answer, but, "Fair cousin, since it pleases you, it pleases us likewise."

But Hereford's haughty answer was not the only mortification the unfortunate Richard was to endure. After a short conversation with some of the king's attendants, Hereford ordered the king's horses to be brought out of the stable; and two wretched ani|mals being produced, Richard was placed upon one, and his favourite, the earl of Salisbury, upon the other. In this mean equipage they rode to Chester; and were conveyed to the castle, with a great noise of trumpets, and through a vast concourse of people, who were no way moved at the sight. In this man|ner he was led triumphantly along, from town to town, amidst multitudes who scoffed at him and extolled his rival. Long live the good duke of Lancaster out

deliverer! was the general cry; but as for the king, to use the pathetic words of the poet, "None cried God bless him." Thus after repeated indignites, he was confined a close prisoner in the Tower; there, if possible, to undergo a still greater variety of studied insolence, and flagrant contempt. The wretched monarch, humbled in this manner, began to lose the pride of a king with the splendours of royalty, and his spirits funk to his circumstances. There was no great difficulty, therefore, in inducing him to sign a deed, by which he renounced his crown, as being unqualified for governing the kingdom. Upon this resignation Hereford founded his principal claim; but willing to fortify his pretensions with every ap|pearance of justice, he called a parliament, which was readily brought to approve and confirm his claims. A frivolous charge of thirty three articles was drawn up, and found valid against the king; upon which he was solemnly deposed, and the earl of Hereford elected in his stead, by the title of Henry IV. Thus began the contest between the houses of York and Lancaster; which, for several years after, deluged the kingdom with blood; and yet, in the end, con|tributed to settle and confirm the constitution.

When Richard was deposed, the earl of Northum|berland made a motion in the house of peers, de|manding the advice of parliament, with regard to the future treatment of the deposed king. To this they replied, that he should be imprisoned in some secure place, where his friends and partizans should not be able to find him. This was accordingly put in practice; but while he still continued alive, the usurper could not remain in safety. Indeed some conspiracies and commotions, which followed soon after, induced Henry to wish for Richard's death; inconsequence of which, one of those assassins that are found in every court, ready to commit the most horrid crimes for reward, went down to the place of

this unfortunate monarch's confinement, in the castle of Pomfret, and, with eight of his followers, rushed into his apartment. The king concluding their design was to take away his life, resolved not to fall unrevenged, but to sell it as dearly as he could; wherefore, wresting a pole-ax from one of the mur|derers, he soon laid four of their number dead at his feet. But he was at length overpowered, and struck dead by the blow of a pole-ax; although some assert, that he was starved in prison. Thus died the unfortunate Richard, in the thirty fourth year of his age, and the twenty-third of his reign. Though his conduct was blameable, yet the punishment he suf|fered was greater than his offences; and in the end, his sufferings made more converts to his family and cause, than ever his most meritorious actions could have procured them. He left no posterity, either legitimate or otherwise.

CHAP. XVI. HENRY IV.

HENRY soon found that the throne of an usurper is but a bed of thorns.* 1.6 Such violent animosities broke out among the barons in the first session of his parlia|ment, that forty challenges were given and re|ceived, and forty gauntlets thrown down, as pled|ges of the sincerity of their resentment. But though these commotions were seemingly suppressed by his moderation for that time, yet one conspiracy broke out after another, and were detected in the formation, or actually punished in the field.

That formed against him by the earl of Northumberland was the most formidable.* 1.7 It was in a skirmish between the Scotch and

English, that Archibald, earl of Douglas, with many of the Scotch nobility, were taken prisoners by the earl of Northumberland, and carried to Aln|wick castle. When Henry received intelligence of this victory, he sent the earl orders not to ran|som his prisoners, as he intended to detain them, in order to encrease his demands, in making peace with Scotland. This message was highly resented by the earl of Northumberland, who, by the laws of war that prevailed in that age, had a right to the ran|som of all such as he had taken in battle. The com|mand was still more irksome, as he considered the king as his debtor both for security and his crown. Accordingly, stung with this supposed injury, he re|solved to overturn a throne which he had the chief hand in establishing. A scheme was laid, in which the Scotch and Welsh were to unite their forces, and to assist Northumberland in elevating Mortimer, as the true heir, to the crown of England. When all things were prepared for the intended insurrection, the earl had the mortification to find himself unable to lead on the troops, being seized with a sudden illness at Ber|wick. But the want of his presence was well sup|plied by his son Harry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, who took the command of the troops, and marched them towards Shrewsbury, in order to join his forces with those of Glendour, a Welsh chieftain, who, some time before had been exchanged from prison, and had now advanced with his forces as far as Shropshire. Upon the junction of these two armies, they pub|lished a manifesto, which aggravated their real griev|ances, and invented more. In the mean time, Henry, who had recieved no intelligence of their de|signs, was at first greatly surprized at the news of this rebellion. But fortune seemed to befriend him on this occasion; he had a small army in readiness, which he had intended against the Scotch, and knowing the importance of dispatch against such active ene|mies,

he instantly hurried down to Shrewsbury, that he might give the rebels battle.

Upon the approach of the two armies, both sides seemed willing to give a colour to their cause, by shewing a desire of reconciliation; but when they came to open their mutual demands, the treaty was turned into abuse and recrimination. On one side was objected rebellion and ingratitude; on the other, tyranny and usurpation. The two armies were pretty nearly equal, each consisting of about twelve thousand men; the animosity on both sides was inflamed to the highest pitch; and no prudence nor military skill could determine on which side the victory might incline. Accordingly, a very bloody engagement ensued, in which the generals on both sides exerted themselves with great bravery. Henry was seen every where in the thickest of the fight; while his valiant son, who was afterwards the re|nowned conqueror of France, fought by his side, and, though wounded in the face by an arrow, still kept the field, and performed astonishing acts of valour. On the other side, the daring Hotspur sup|ported that renown which he had acquired in so many bloody engagements, and every where sought out the king as a noble object of his indignation. At last, however, his death, from an unknown hand, decided the victory; and the fortune of Henry once more prevailed. On that bloody day, it is said, that no less than two thousand three hundred gentlemen were slain, and about six thousand private men, of whom two thirds were of Hotspur's army.

While this furious transaction was going forward, Northumberland, who was lately recovered from his indisposition, was advancing with a body of troops to reinforce the army of the malecontents, and take upon him the command. But hearing by the way of his son's and brother's misfortune, he dismissed his troops, not daring to keep the field with so small a force,

before an army superior in numberand slushed with re|cent victory. The earl, therefore, for a while attempt|ed to find safety by flight, but at last being pressed by his pursuers, and finding himself totally without resource, he chose rather to throw himself upon the king's mercy, than lead a precarious and indigent life in exile. Upon his appearing before Henry at York, he pretended that his sole intention in arming was to mediate be|tween the two parties; and this, though but a very weak apology, seemed to satisfy the king. Nor|thumberland, therefore, received a pardon; Henry probably thinking that he was sufficiently punished by the loss of his army, and the death of his favour|ite son.

By these means Henry seemed to surmount all his troubles; and the calm, which was thus produced, was employed by him in endeavours to acquire popularity, which he had lost by the severities ex|ercised during the preceding part of his reign.* 1.8 For that reason, he often permit|ted the house of commons to assume pow|ers which had not been usually exercised by their predecessors. In the sixth year of his reign, when they voted him the supplies, they ap|pointed treasurers of their own, to see the money disbursed for the purposes intended; and requred them to deliver in their accounts to the house. They proposed thirty very important articles for the government of the king's houshold; and, on the whole preserved their priveleges and freedoms more entire during his reign than that of any of his pre|decessors. But while the king thus laboured not without success to retrieve the reputation he had lost, his son Henry, prince of Wales, seemed equally bent on incurring the public aversion. He became notorious for all kinds of debauchery; and ever chose to be surrounded by a set of wretches, who took pride in committing the most illegal acts, with

the prince at their head. The king was not a little mortified at this degeneracy in his eldest son, who seemed entirely forgetful of his station, although he had already exhibited repeated proofs of his valour, conduct, and generosity. Such were the excesses into which he ran, that one of his dissolute com|panions having been brought to trial befor Sir Willi|am Gascoigne, chief justice of the King's-bench, for some misdemeanor, the prince was so exasperated at the issue of the trial, that he struck the judge in open court. The venerable magistrate, who knew the reverence that was due to his station, behaved with a dignity that became his office, and immediately or|dered the prince to be committed to prison. When this transaction was reported to the king, who was an excellent judge of mankind, he could not help exclaiming in a transport; "Happy is the king, that has a magistrate endowed with courage to execute the laws upon such an offender; still more happy in having a son willing to submit to such a chastise|ment!" This, in fact, is one of the first great in|stances we read in the English history of a magistate doing justice in opposition to power; since upon many former occasions, we find the judges only ministers of royal caprice.

Henry, whose health had for some time been de|clining, did not long out-live this transaction. He was subject to fits, which bereaved him, for the time, of his senses; and which at last brought on his death at Westminster, in the forty-sixth year of his age, and the fourteenth of his reign.

CHAP. XVII. HENRY V.

* 1.9THE first steps taken by the young king confirmed all those prepossessions en|tertained in his favour. He called together his former abandoned companions, acquainted them with his intended reformation; exhorted them to follow his example; and thus dismissed them from his presence, allowing them a competency to subsist upon till he saw them worthy of further promotion. The faith|ful ministers of his father, at first, began to tremble for their former justice, in the administration of their duty; but he soon eased them of their fears, by taking them into his friendship and confidence. Sir William Gascoigne, who thought himself the most obnoxious, met with praises instead of reproaches, and was ex|horted to persevere in the same rigorous and impar|tial execution of justice.

About this time the heresy of Wicklisse, or Lol|lardism, as it was called, began to spread every day more and more, while it received a new lustre from the protection and preaching of Sir John Old|castle, baron of Cobham, who had been one of the king's domestics, and stood high in his favour. The primate, however, indicted this nobleman, and with the assistance of his suffragans, condemned him as an heretic to be burnt alive. Cobham, however, escap|ing from the Tower, in which he was confined, the day before his execution, privately went among his party; and stimulating their zeal, led them up to London, to take a signal revenge on his enemies. But the king, apprised of his intentions, ordered that the city gates should be shut; and coming by night with his guards into St. Giles's fields, seized such of

the conspirators as appeared, and afterwards laid hold of several parties that were hastening to the appointed place. Some of these were executed, but the greater number pardoned. Cobham himself found means of escaping for that time: but he was taken about four years after; and never did the cruelty of man in|vent, or crimes draw down, such torments as he was made to endure. He was hung up with a chain by by the middle,; and thus at a slow fire burned, or rather oasted, alive.

Henry, to turn the minds of the people from such hideous scenes, resolved to take the advantage of the troubles in which France was at that time engaged; and assembling a great fleet and army at Southampton landed at Harfleur, at the head of an army of six thousand men at arms, and twenty-four thousand foot, mostly archers.

But although the enemy made but a feeble re|sistance, yet the climate seemed to fight against the English; a contagious dysentery carrying off three parts of Henry's army. The English monarch, when it was too late, began to repent of his rash inroad into a country where disease and a powerful army, every where threatened destruction; he therefore be|gan to think of retiring into Calais.

The enemy, however, resolved to intercept his re|treat; and after he had past the small river of Tertrois at Blangi, he was surprized to observe from the heights, the whole French army drawn up in the plains of Azincourt; and so posted, that it was im|possible for him to proceed on his march, without coming to an engagement. No situation could be more unfavourable than that in which he found him|self. His army was wasted with disease; the soldiers spirits worn down with fatigue, destitute of provi|sions, and discouraged by their retreat. Their whole body amounted but to nine thousand men; and these were to sustain the shock of an enemy near ten times

their number, headed by expert generals, and plen|tifully supplied with provisions. As the enemy were so much superior, he drew up his army on a narrow ground between two woods, which guarded each flank; and he patiently expected, in that position, the attack of the enemy. The constable of France was at the head of one army; and Henry himself, with Edward, duke of York, commanded the other. For a time both armies as if afraid to begin, kept silently gazing at each other, neither willing to break their ranks by making the onset; which Henry perceiving, with a chearful countenance cried out, "My friends, since they will not begin, it is ours to set them the example; come on, and the Blessed Trinity be our protection." Upon this, the whole army set forward with a shout, while the French still waited their approach with intrepidity. The English archers, who had long been famous for their great skill, first let fly a shower of arrows three feet long, which did great execution. The French cavalry advancing to repel these, two hundered bowmen, who lay till then concealed, rising on a sudden, let sly among them, and produced such a confusion, that the archers threw by their arrows, and rushing in, fell upon them sword in hand. The French at first repulsed the assailants, who were enfeebled by disease; but they soon made up the defect by their valour; and resolving to conquer or die, burst in upon the ene|my with such impetuosity, that the French were soon obliged to give way.

They were overthrown in every part of the field; their numbers being crowded into a very narrow space, were incapable of either slying, or making any resistance; so that they covered the ground with heaps of slain. After all appearance of opposition was over there was heard an alarm from behind, which proceeded from a number of peasants, who had fallen upon the English baggage, and were putting

those who guarded it to the sword. Henry, now see|ing the enemy on all sides of him, began to entertain apprehensions from his prisoners, the number of whom exceeded even that of his army. He thought it necessary, therefore, to issue general orders for put|ing them to death; but on the discovery of the cer|tainty of his victory he stopped the slaughter, and was still able to save a great a number. This se|verity tarnished the glory which his victory would otherwise have acquired; but all the heroism of that age is tinctured with barbarity. In this battle the French lost ten thousand men, and fourteen thou|sand prisoners; the English only forty men in all.

France was at that time in a wretched si|tuation;* 1.10 the whole kingdom appeared as one vast theatre of crimes, murders, injustice, and devastation. The duke of Orleans was assassi|nated by the duke of Burgundy; and the duke of Bur|gundy, in his turn, fell by the treachery of the dauphin.

A state of imbecility into which Charles had fallen, made him passive in every transaction; and Henry, at last, by conquest and negociation, caused himself to be elected heir to the crown. The principal ar|ticles of this treaty were, that Henry should espouse the princess Catharine, daughter to the king of France, that king Charles should enjoy the title and dignity for life; but that Henry should be declared heir to the crown, and should be entrusted with the present administration of the government; that France and England should for ever be united under one king, but should still retain their respective laws and privileges.

In consequence of this while Henry was every, where victorious, he fixed his residence at Paris;* 1.11 and while Charles had but a small court, he was attended with a very magnifi|cent one. On Whit-sunday the two kings and their two queens with crowns on their heads, dined

together in public; Charles receiving apparent ho|mage, but Henry commanding with absolute authority.

Henry at a time when his glory had nearly reached its summit, and both crowns were just devolved upon him, was seized with a fistula; a disorder, which from the unskilfulness of the physicians of the times, soon became mortal. He expired with the same in|trepidity with which he had lived, in the thirty-fourth year of his age, and the tenth year of his reign.

CHAP. XVIII. HENRY VI.

THE duke of Bedford, one of the most ac|complished princes of the age,* 1.12 and equally experienced, both in the cabinet and the field, was appointed by parliament protec|tor of England, defender of the church, and first coun|sellor to the king, during his minority, as he was not yet a year old; and as France was the great object that engrossed all consideration, he attempted to exert the ef|forts of the nation upon the continent with all his vigour.

A new revolution was produced in that kingdom, by means apparently the most unlikely to be attended with success.

In the village of Domreni, near Vaucouleurs, on the borders of Lorrain, there lived a country girl, about twenty-seven years of age, called Joan of Arc. This girl had been a servant at a small inn; and in that humble station had submitted to those hardy em|ployments which fit the body for the fatigues of war. She was of an irreproachable life, and had hi|therto testified none of those enterprizing qualities which displayed themselves soon after. Her mind, however, brooding with melancholy stedfastness upon the miserable situation of her country, began to feel

several impulses, which she was willing to mistake for the inspirations of heaven. Convinced of the reality of her own admonitions, she had recourse to one Baudricourt, governor of Vaucouleurs, and in|formed him of her destination by heaven, to free her native country from its fierce invaders. Baudricourt treated her at first with some neglect; but her im|portunities at length prevailed; and, willing to make a trial of her pretensions, he gave her some at|tendants, who conducted her to the French court, which at that time resided at Chinon.

The French court were probably sensible of the weakness of her pretensions; but they were willing to make use of every artifice to support their declining fortunes. It was therefore given out, that Joan was actually inspired; that she was able to discover the king among the number of his courtiers, although he had laid aside all the distinctions of his authority; that she had told him some secrets, which were only known to himself; and that she had demanded, and minutely described, a sword in the church of St. Catharine de Fierbois, which she had never seen. In this manner the minds of the vulgar being pre|pared for her appearance, she was armed cap-à-pee, mounted on a charger, and shewn in that martial dress to the people. She was then brought before the doctors of the university; and they tinctured with the credulity of the times, or willing to second the imposture, declared that she had actually received her commission from above.

When the preparations for her mission were com|completely blazoned, their next aim was to send her against the enemy. The English were at that time besieging the city of Orleans, the last resource of Charles, and every thing promised them a speedy sur|render. Joan undertook to raise the siege; and to render herself still more remarkable, girded herself with the miraculous sword, of which she had before

such extraordinary notices. Thus equipped, she or|dered all the soldiers to confess themselves before they set out, she displayed in her hand a consecrated banner, and assured the troops of certain success. Such confidence on her side soon raised the spirits of the French army; and even the English, who pre|tended to despise her efforts, felt themselves secretly influenced with the terrors of her mission, and relax|ing in their endeavours, the siege was raised with great precipitation.

From being attacked, the French now in turn became the agressors. One victory followed another, and at length the French king was solemnly crowned at Rheims, which was what Joan had promised should come to pass.

A tide of successes followed the performance of this solemnity; but Joan having thrown herself into the city of Compeign with a body of troops that was then besieging by the duke of Burgundy, she was taken prisoner in a sally which she headed against the enemy, the governor shutting the gates behind.

The duke of Bedford was no sooner informed of her being taken, than he purchased her of the count Vendome, who had made her his prisoner, and or|dered her to be committed to close confinement. The credulity of both nations was at that time so great, that nothing was too absurd to gain belief that coincided with their passions. As Joan but a little before, from her successes, was regarded as a saint, she was now, upon her captivity, considered as a sorceress, forsaken by the daemon who had granted her a fallacious and temporary assistance; and ac|cordingly being tried at Rouen, she was found guilty of heresy and witchcraft, and sentenced to be burnt alive, which was executed accordingly with the most ignorant malignity.

From this period the English affairs became totally irretrievable. The city of Paris returned once more

to a sense of its duty. Thus ground was continu|ally, though slowly, gained by the French.* 1.13

And in the lapse of a few years Calais alone remained of all the conquests that had been made in France, and this was but a small compensation for the blood and treasure which had been lavished in that country, and which only serv|ed to gratify ambition with transient applause.

But the incapacity of Henry began to appear in a fuller light; and foreign war being now extin|guished, the people began to prepare for the horrors of intestine strife. In this period of calamity, a new interest was revived, which had lain dormant in the times of prosperity and triumph. Richard duke of York, who was descended, by the mother's side, from Lionel, one of the sons of Edward the Third, whereas the reigning king was descended from John of Gaunt, a younger son of the same monarch; Richard, therefore, stood plainly in succession before Henry; and he began to think the weakness and unpopulari|ty of the present reign a favourable moment for ambi|tion. The ensign of Richard was a white rose, that of Henry a red; and this gave name to the two factions, whose animosity was now about to drench the kingdom with slaughter.

Among the number of complaints which the unpopularity of the government gave rise to, there were some which even excited insurrection; parti|cularly that headed by John Cade, which was of the most dangerous nature. This man was a native of Ireland, who had been obliged to fly over into France for his crimes; but seeing the people upon his re|turn prepared for violent measures, he assumed the name of Mortimer; and at the head of twenty thousand Kentish men advanced towards the capital, and encamped at Blackheath. The king being in|formed

of this commotion, sent a message to demand the cause of their assembling in arms; and Cade, in the name of the community, answered that their on|ly aim was to punish evil ministers, and procure a redress of grievances for the people. But com|mitting some abuses, and engaging with the citizens, he was abandoned by most of his followers, and, re|treating to Rochester, was obliged to fly alone into the Wolds of Kent, where a price being set upon his head by proclamation, he was discovered and slain.

In the mean time the duke of York secretly fo|mented these disturbances, and pretending to es|pouse the cause of the people, still secretly aspired at the crown, and though he wished nothing so ardent|ly, yet he was for some time prevented by his own scruples from seizing it. What his intrigues failed to bring about, accident produced to his desire. The king falling into a distemper, which so far encreased his natural embecility that it even rendered him incapable of maintaining the appearance of royalty, York was appointed lieutenant and protector of the kingdom, with powers to hold and open parliaments at pleasure.

Being thus invested with a plenitude of pow|er,* 1.14 he continued in the enjoyment of it for some time; but at length the unhappy king recover|ing from his lethargic complaint, and, as if awaking from a dream, perceived with surprize, that he was stripped of all his authority. Henry was married to Margaret of Anjou, a woman of a masculine under|standing, who obliged him to take the field; and in a manner dragged him to it, where both sides came to an engagement, in which the Yorkists gained a com|plete victory. The king himself being wounded, and taking shelter in a cottage, near the field of battle, was taken prisoner, and treated by the victor with great respect and tenderness.

Henry was now but a prisoner treated with the splendid forms of royalty; yet indolent and sickly, he seemed pleased with his situation, and did not re|gret that power which was not to be exercised with|out fatigue. But Margaret once more induced him to assert his prerogative. The contending parties met at Bloreheath,* 1.15 on the borders of Staffordshire, and the Yorkists gained some advantages; but Sir Andrew Trollop, who commanded a body of veterans for the duke of York, deserted wth all his men to the king; and this so inti|midated the whole army of the Yorkists, that they se|parated the next day without striking a single blow. Se|veral other engagements followed with various suc|cess. Margaret being at one time victorious, at another an exile, the victory upon Wakefield-Green, in which the duke of York was slain, seemed to fix her good for|tune.

But the earl of Warwck, who now put himself at the head of the Yorkists, was one of the most cele|brated generals of his age, formed for times of trou|ble, extremely artful and incontestibly brave, equal|ly skilful in council and the field, and inspired with a degree of hatred against the queen that nothing could suppress. He commanded an army, in which he led about the captive king to give a sanction to his attempts. Upon the approach of the Lancastrians he conducted his forces, strengthened by a body of Londoners, who were very affectionate to his cause, and he gave battle to the queen at St. Alban's. In this however he was defeated. Above two thousand of the Yorkists perished in the battle, and the person of the king again fell into the hands of his own party; to be treated with apparent respect, but real contempt.

In the mean time, young Edward, the eldest son of the late duke of York, began to repair the losses his party had lately sustained, and to give spirit to the Yorkists. This prince, in the bloom of youth,

remarkable for the beauty of his person, his bravery, and popular deportment, advanced towards London with the remainder of Warwick's army; and oblig|ing Margaret to retire, entered the city amidst the acclamations of the people. Perceiving his own popularity,* 1.16 he supposed that now was the time to lay his claim to the crown; and his friend Warwick, assembling the citizens in St. John's fields, pronounced an harangue, setting forth the title of Edward, and inveighing against the tyranny and usurpation of the house of Lancaster. Both sides at length met near Touton, in the county of York, to decide the fate of empire, and never was England de|populated by so terrible an engagement. It was a dreadful sight to behold an hundred thousand men of the same country engaged agaist each other; and all to satis|fy the empty ambition of the weakest, or the worst of mankind. While the army of Edward was advanc|ing to the charge, there happened a great fall of snow; which driving full in the faces of the ene|my, blinded them, and this advantage, seconded by an impetuous onset, decided the victory in their favour. Edward issued orders to give no quar|ter; and a bloody slaughter ensued, in which near forty thousand of the Lancastrians were slain.

The weak unfortunate Henry, always imprudent, and always unsuccessful, was taken prisoner, carried to London with ignominy, and confined in the Tower. Margaret was rather more fortunate; she contrived to escape out of the kingdom, and took refuge with her father in Flanders.

Edward being now, by means of the earl of War|wick, fixed upon the throne, reigned in peace and se|curity, while his title was recognized, by par|liament,* 1.17 and universally submitted to by the people. He began, therefore, to give a loose to his favourite passions; and a spirit of gal|lantry, mixed with cruelty, was seen to prevail in his

court. In the very same palace, which one day ex|hibitted a spectacle of horror, was to be seen the day following a mask or a pageant; and the king would at once gallant a mistress, and inspect an execution. In order to turn him from these pursuits, which were cal|culated to render him unpopular, the earl of War|wick advised him to marry; and, with his consent, went over to France to procure Bona of Savoy as queen, and the match was accordingly concluded. But whilst the earl was hastening the negotiation in France, the king himself rendered it abortive at home, by marrying Elizabeth Woodville, with whom he had fallen in love, and whom he had vainly endeavoured to debauch. Having thus given Warwick real cause of offence, he was resolved to widen the breach, by driving him from the council. Warwick, whose prudence was equal to his bravery, soon made use of both to assist his revenge; and formed such a combi|nation against Edward that he was, in turn, obliged to fly the kingdom.

Thus, once more the poor passive king Henry was released from prison to be placed upon a dange|rous throne. A parliament was called, which con|firmed Henry's title with great solemnity; and War|wick was himself received among the people under the title of the King-maker.

But Edward's party, though repressed, was not des|troyed. Though an exile in Holland, he had many partizans at home; and after an absence of nine months, being seconded by a small body of forces, granted him by the duke of Burgundy, he made a descent at Ravenspur in Yorkshire. Though, at first, he was coolly received by the English, yet his army encreased upon his march, while his moderation and feigned humility still added to the number of his partizans. London, at that time, ever ready to ad|mit the most powerful, opened her gates to him; and the wretched Henry was once more plucked from

his throne, to be sent back to his former man|sion.

Nothing now, therefore, remained to Warwick, but to cut short a state of anxious suspense by hazarding a battle. Edward's fortune prevailed. They met at St. Albans, and the Lancastrians were defeated, while Warwick himself, leading a chosen body of troops into the thickest of the slaughter, fell in the midst of his enemies, covered with wounds.

Margaret, receiving the fatal news of the death of the brave Warwick, and the total destruction of her party, gave way to her grief, for the first time, in a torrent of tears; and yielding to her unhappy fate, took sanctuary in the abbey of Beaulieu, in Hampshire.

She had not been long in this melancholy abode before she found some few friends still willing to assist her fallen fortunes. Tudor, earl of Pembroke, Courtney, earl of Devonshire, the lords Wenlock, and St. John, with other men of rank, exhorted her still to hope for success, and offered to assist her to the last. She had now fought battles in almost every province in England; Tewkesbury-park was the last scene that terminated her attempts. The duke of Somerset headed her army; a man who had shared her dangers, and had ever been steady in her cause. He was valiant, generous, and polite; but rash and headstrong. When Edward first attacked him in his intrenchments, he repulsed him with such vigour, that the enemy retired with precipitation; upon which the duke, supposing them routed, pursu|ed, and ordered lord Wenlock to support his charge. But unfortunately this lord disobeyed his orders; and Somerset's forces were soon overpowered by num|bers. In this dreadful exigence, the duke, finding that all was over, became ungovernable in his rage; and beholding Wenlock inactive, and remaining in the very place where he had first drawn up his men

giving way to his fury, with his heavy battle-ax in both hands, he ran upon the coward, and with one blow dashed out his brains.

The queen and the prince were taken prisoners af|ter the battle, and brought into the presence of Ed|ward. The young prince appeared before the con|queror with undaunted majesty; and being asked, in an insulting manner, how he dared to invade Eng|land without leave, the young prince, more mindful of his high birth than of his ruined fortune, re|plied, "I have entered the dominions of my father, to revenge his injuries, and redress my own." The barbarous Edward, enraged at his intrepidity, struck him on the mouth with his gauntlet; and this served as a signal for further brutality: the dukes of Glou|cester, Clarence, and others, like wild beasts, rush|ing on the unarmed youth at once, stabbed him to the heart with their daggers. To complete the tragedy, Henry himself, who had long been the passive spec|tator of all these horrors, was now thought unfit to live. The duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard the Third, entering his chamber-alone, murdered him in cold blood. Of all those that were taken, none were suffered to survive but Margaret herself. It was perhaps expected that she would be ransomed by the king of France; and in this they were not deceived, as that monarch paid the king of England fifty thou|sand crowns for her freedom. This extraordinary woman, after having sustained the cause of her hus|band in twelve battles, after having survived her friends, fortunes, and children, died a few years after in privacy in France, very miserable indeed; but with few other claims to our pity, except her courage and her distresses.

CHAP. XIX. EDWARD IV.

EDWARD being now freed from great enemies, turned the punishment to those of lesser note; so that the gibbets were hung with his adversaries, and their estates confiscated to his use.

While he was thus rendering himself terrible on the one hand, he was immersed in abandoned pleasures on the other. Nature, it seems, was not unfavourable to him in that respect; as he was uni|versally allowed to be the most beautiful man of his time. His courtiers also seemed willing to encou|rage those debaucheries in which they had a share; and the clergy, as they themselves practised every kind of lewdness with impunity, were ever ready to lend absolution to all his failings. The truth is, enormous vices had been of late so common, that adultery was held but as a very slight offence. Among the number of his mistresses was the wife of one Shore, a merchant in the city, a woman of exqui|site beauty and good sense, but who had not virtue enough to resist the temptations of a beautiful man, and a monarch.

Among his other cruelties, that to his brother the duke of Clarence is the most remarkable. The king hunting one day in the park of Thomas Burdet, a creature of the duke's killed a white buck, which was a great favourite of the owner. Burdet, vexed at the loss, broke into a passion, and wished the horns of the deer in the belly of the person who bad ad|vised the king to that insult. For this trifling excla|mation Burdet was tried for his life, and publickly executed at Tyburn. The duke of Clarence, upon the death of his friend, vented his grief in renewed

reproaches against his brother, and exclaimed against the iniquity of the sentence. The king highly offend|ed with this liberty, or using that as a pretext against him, had him arraigned before the house of peers, and appeared in person as his accuser. In those times of confusion, every crime alledged by the pre|vailing party was fatal; the duke was found guilty; and being granted a choice of the manner in which he would die, he was privately drowned in a butt of malmsey in the tower; a whimsical choice, and im|plying that he had an extraordinary passion for that liquor.

However, if this monarch's reign was tyrannical, it was but short; while he was employed in making preparations for a war with France, he was seized with a distemper, of which he expired in the forty-second year of his age, and (counting from the death of the late king) in the twenty-third of his reign.

CHAP. XX. EDWARD V.

THE duke of Gloucester, who had been made protector of the realm, upon a pretence of guard|ing the persons of the late king's children from dan|ger, conveyed them both to the Tower.

Having thus secured them, his next step was to spread a report of their illegitimacy; and by pretend|ed obstacles, to put off the day appointed for young Edward's coronation. His next aim was to dispatch lord Hastings, whom he knew to be warmly in the young king's interest.

Having summoned lord Hastings to a council in the Tower, he entered the room knitting his brows, biting his lips, and shewing, by a frequent change of countenance, the signs of some inward perturba|tion.

A silence ensued for some time; and the the lords of the council looked upon each other, not without reason, expecting some horrid catastrophe. Laying bare his arm all shrivelled and decayed, he accused Jane Shore and her accomplices of having produced this deformity by their sorceress, upon which Hastings cried, "If they have committed such a crime, they deserve punishment." "If! cried the protector, with a loud voice, dost thou an|swer me with Iss? I tell thee that they have conspired my death; and that thou, traitor, art an accomplice in the crime." He then struck the table twice with his hand; and the room was instantly filled with armed men. "I arrest thee, continues he, turning to Hastings, for high treason; and at the same time gave him in charge to the soldiers. Hastings was obliged to make a short confession to the next priest that was at hand; the protector crying out, By St. Paul, that he would not dine till he had seen his head taken off. He was accordingly hurried out to the Little Green before the Tower-chapel, and there be|headed on a log of wood, that accidentally lay in the way.

Jane Shore, the late king's mistress, was the next that felt his indignation. This unfortunate woman was an enemy too humble to excite his jealousy; yet as he had accused her of witchcraft, of which all the world saw she was innocent, he thought proper to make her an example, for those faults of which she was really guilty. Jane Shore had been formerly deluded from her husband, who was a goldsmith in Lombard Street, and continued to live with Edward, the most guiltless mistress in his abandoned court. It was very probable, that the people were not dis|pleased at seeing one again reduced to former mean|ess, who had for a while been raised above them, and enjoyed the smiles of a court. The charge against her was too notorious to be denied; she plead|ed

guilty, and was accordingly condemned to walk bare-foot through the city, and to do penance in St. Paul's church in a white sheet, with wax-taper in her hand, before thousands of spectators. She lived above forty years after this sentence, and was reduced to the most extreme indigence

The protector now began to throw off the mask, and to deny his pretended regard for the sons of the late king, thinking it high time to aspire at the throne more openly. He had previously gained over the duke of Buckingham, a man of talents and power, by bribes and promises of future favour. This no|bleman therefore used all his arts to cajole the po|pulace and citizens at St. Paul's cross, and constru|ing their silence, into consent, his followers cried, "Long live king Richard." Soon after the mayor and aldermen, waiting upon Richard with an offer of the crown, he accepted it with seeming reluct|ance.

CHAP. XXI. RICHARD III.

ONE crime ever draws on another;* 1.18 jus|stice will revolt against fraud, and usurpation requires security. As soon, herefore, as Richard was seated upon the throne, he sent the governor of the Tower orders to put the two young princes to death; but this brave man, whose name was Brackenbury, re|fused to be made the instrument of a tyrant's will; and submissively answered, that he knew not how to embrue his hands in innocent blood. A sit instru|ment, however, was not long wanting; Sir James Tyrrel readily undertook the office, and Brackenbu|ry was ordered to resign to him the keys for one night. Tyrrel chusing three associates, Slater, Deighton,

and Forest, came in the night-time to the door of the chamber where the princes were lodged, and sending in the assassins, he bid them execute their com|mission, while he himself staid without. They found the young princes in bed, and fallen into a sound sleep: after suffocating them with the bolster and pillows, they shewed their naked bodies to Tyrrel, who ordered them to be buried at the stair-foot, deep in the ground, under an heap of stones.

But while he thus endeavoured to establish his pow|er, he found it threatened on a quarter where he least expected an attack. The duke of Buckingham, who had been instrumental in placing him on the throne, now took disgust at being refused some confiscated lands for which he solicited. He therefore levied a body of men in Wales, and advanced by hasty marches towards Gloucester, where he designed to cross the Severn. Just at that time the river was swoln to such a degree, that the country on both sides was deluged, and even the tops of some hills were covered with water. This inundation continued for ten days; during which Buckingham's army, composed of Welshmen, could neither pass the river, nor find subsistence on their own side; they were therefore obliged to disperse and return home, notwithstand|ing all the duke's efforts to prolong their stay. In this helpless situation, the duke, after a short delibe|ration, took refuge at the house of one Banister, who had been his servant, and who had received repeated obligations from his family; but the wicked seldom find, as they seldom exert, friend|ship. Banister, unable to resist the temptation of a large reward that was set upon the duke's head, went and betrayed him to the sheriff of Shropshire; who, surrounding the house with armed men, seized the duke, in the habit of a peasant, and conducted him to Salisbury; where he was instantly tried, con|demned, and executed, according to the summary method practised in those ages.

Amidst the perplexity caused by many dis|agreeable occurrences, he received information, that the earl of Richmond was making, preparations to land in England, and assert his claims to the crown. Richard, who knew not in what quarter he might expect the invader, had taken post at Nottingham, in the centre of the kingdom; and had given com|missions to several of his creatures, to oppose the ene|my wherever he should land.

Some time after, however, the earl of Rich|mond, who was a descendant from John of Gaunt, by the female line, resolved to strike for the crown. He had been long obnoxious to the house of York, and had been obliged to quit the kingdom; but he now knowing how odious the king was, set out from Harfleur in Normandy, with a retinue of about two thousand persons; and after a voyage of six days arriv|ed at Milford-Haven, in Wales, where he landed without opposition.

Upon news of this descent, Richard who was pos|sessed of courage and military conduct, his only virtues, instantly resolved to meet his antagonist, and decide their mutual pretensions by a battle. Richmond, on the other hand, being reinforced by Sir Thomas Bourchier, Sir Walter Hungerford, and others to the number of about six thousand, boldly advanced with the same intention; and in a few days both armies drew near Bosworth-field, where the con|test that had now for more than forty years filled the kingdom with civil commotions and deluged its plains with blood, was determined by the death of Richard, who was slain in battle, while Richmond was saluted king by the title of Henry the Seventh.

CHAP. XXII. HENRY VII.

* 1.19HENRY's first care upon coming to the throne was to marry the princess Elizabeth, daughter of Edward the Fourth; and thus he blended the interests of the houses of York and Lancaster, so that ever after they werein capable of distinction.

A great part of the miseries of his predecessors pro|ceeded from their poverty, which was mostly occasi|oned by riot and dissipation. Henry saw that money alone could turn the scale of power in his favour; and therefore hoarded up all the confiscations of his enemies with the utmost frugality.

Immediately after his marriage with Elizabeth, he issued a general pardon to all such as chose to accept it; but people were become so turbulent and factious by a long course of civil war, that no governor could rule them, nor any king please; so that one rebellion seemed extinguished only to give rise to another.

There lived in Oxford one Richard Simon, a priest, who possessing some subtlety and more rashness, train|ed up Lambert Simnel, a baker's son, to coun|terfeit the person of the earl of Warwick, the son of the duke of Clarence, who was smothered in a butt of malmsey. But as the imposture was not calculated to bear a close inspection, it was thought proper to shew him first at a distance; and Ireland was judged the fittest theatre for him to support his assumed cha|racter.

In this manner king Simnel, being joined by lord Lovel, and one or two lords more of the discon|tented party, resolved to pass over into England; and accordingly landed in Lancashire, from whence he marched to York, expecting the countrwould rise

and join him as he marched along. But in this he was deceived; the people averse to join a body of German and Irish troops, by whom he was supported, and kept in awe by the king's reputation, remained in tranquility, or gave all their assistance to the royal cause. The earl of Lincoln, therefore, a disaffected lord, to whom the command of the rebel army was given, finding no hopes but in speedy victory, was determined to bring the contest to a short issue. The opposite armies met at Stoke, in the county of Not|tingham, and sought a battle, which was more bloody, and more obstinately disputed, than could have been expected from the inequality of their forces. But victory at length declared in favour of the king, and it proved decisive. Lord Lincoln perished in the field of battle; lord Lovel was never more heard of, and it was supposed he shared the same sate. Sim|nel, with his tutor Simon, were taken prisoners; and four thousand of the common men fell in battle. Si|mon being a priest could not be tried by the civil power, and was only committed to close confinement. Simnel was too contemptible to excite the king's fears or resentment; he was pardoned, and made a scullion in the king's kitchen, whence he was afterwards ad|vanced to the rank of falconer, in which mean em|ployment he died.

A fresh insurrection began in Yorkshire, the peo|ple resisting the commissioners who were appointed to levy the tax. The earl of Northumberland attempt|ed to enforce the king's command; but the populace, being by this taught to believe that he was the adviser of their oppressions, flew to arms, attacked his house, and put him to death. The mutineers did not stop there; but, by the advice of one John Achamber, a seditious fellow of mean birth, they chose Sir John Egremont for their leader, and prepared themselves for a vigorous resistance. The king, upon hearing

this rash proceeding, immediately levied a force which he put under the earl of Surry; and this no|bleman encountering the rebels, dissipated the tu|mult, and took their leader, Achamber, prisoner. A chamber was shortly after executed; but Sir John Egremont fled to the court of the dutchess of Bur|gundy, the usual retreat of all who were obnoxious to government in England.

One would have imagined, that from the ill success of Simnel's imposture,* 1.20 few would be willing to embark in another of a simi|lar kind; however, the old dutchess of Bur|gundy, rather irritated than discouraged by the fai|lure of her past enterprizes, was determined to disturb that government, which she could not subvert. She first procured a report to be spread, that the young duke of York, said to have been murdered in the Tower, was still living; and finding the rumour greedily received, she soon produced a young man who assumed his name and character. The person pitched upon to sustain this part was one Osbeck or Warbeck, the son of a converted Jew, who had been over in England during the reign of Edward IV. where he had this son named Peter, but corrupted after the Flemish manner, into Peterkin or Perkin. The duchess of Burgundy found this youth entirely suited to her purposes; and her lessons, in|structing him to personate the duke of York, were easily learned and strongly retained by a youth of very quick apprehension. In short, his graceful air, his courtly address, his easy manners, and elegant conversation, were capable of imposing upon all but such as were conscious of the imposture.

The English, ever ready to revolt, gave credit to all these absurdities; while the young man's pru|dence, conversation, and deportment, served to con|firm what their disaffection and credulity had be|gun.

Among those who secretly abetted the cause of Per|kin, were lord Fitzwater, Sir Simon Mountford, Sir Thomas Thwaits, and Sir Robert Clifford. But the person of the greatest weight, and the most dan|gerous opposition, was Sir William Stanley, the lord Chamberlain, and brother to the famous lord Stanley, who had contributed to place Henry on the throne. This personage, either moved by a blind credulity, or more probably by a restless ambition, entered into a regular conspiracy against the king; and a corres|pondence was settled between the malecontents in England and those in Flanders.

While the plot was thus carrying on in all quarters, Henry was not inattentive to the designs of his ene|mies. He spared neither labour nor expence to de|tect the falsehood of the pretender to his crown; and was equally assiduous in finding out who were his se|cret abettors. For this purpose he dispersed his spies through all Flanders, and brought over, by large bribes, some of those whom he knew to be in the enemies interests. Among these, Sir Robert Clifford was the most remarkable, both for his consequence, and the confidence with which he was trusted. From this person Henry learnt the whole of Perkin's birth and adventures, together with the names of all those who had secretly combined to assist him. The king was pleased with the discovery; but the more trust he gave to his spies, the higher resentment did he feign against them.

At first he was struck with indignation at the ingratitude of many of those about him; but con|cealing his resentment for a proper opportunity, he, almost at the same instant, arrested Fitzwater, Mount|fort, and Thwaits, together with William Danbery, Robert Ratcliff, Thomas Cressenor, and Thomas Astwood. All these were arraigned, convicted, and condemned for high treason. Mountfort, Ratcliff,

and Danbery, were immediately executed; the rest received pardon.

The young adventurer finding his hopes frustrated in England, went next to try his fortune in Scotland. In that country his luck seemed greater than in Eng|land. James the Fourth, the king of that country, received him with great cordiality; he was seduced to believe the story of his birth and adventures; and he carried his confidence so far, as to give him in marriage lady Catharine Gordon, daughter to the earl of Huntley; and a near kinswoman of his own; a young lady eminent for virtue as well as beauty. But not content with these instances of favour, he was resolved to attempt setting him on the throne of England. It was naturally expected, that upon Per|kin's first appearance in that kingdom, all the friends of the house of York would rise in his favour. Upon this ground, therefore, the king of Scotland entered England with a numerous army, and proclaimed the young adventurer wherever he went. But Perkin's pretensions, attended by repeated disappointments, were now become stale even in the eyes of the popu|lace; so that, contrary to expectation, none were found to second his pretensions.

In this manner the restless Perkin being dismissed Scotland,* 1.21 and meeting with a very cold reception from the Flemings, who now desired to be at peace with the English, re|solved to continue his scheme of opposition; and took refuge among the wilds and fastnesses of Ireland. Im|patient of an inactive life, he held a consultation with his followers, Herne, Skelton, and Astley, three broken tradesmen; and by their advice he resolved to try the affections of the Cornish men, and he no sooner made his appearance among them at Bodmin in Cornwall than the populace, to the number of three thousand flocked to his standard. Elated with this appearance of success, he took on him, for the first time, the

title of Richard the Fourth, king of England; and, not to suffer the spirits of his adherents to languish, he led them to the gates of Exeter. Finding the inha|bitants obstinate in refusing to admit him, and being unprovided with artillery to force an entrance, he broke up the siege of Exeter, and retired to Taunton. His followers by this time amounted to seven thou|sand men, and appeared ready to defend his cause: but his heart failed him, upon being informed that the king was coming down to oppose him; and in|stead of bringing his men into the field, he privately deserted them, and took sanctuary in the monastery of Beaulieu, in the New Forest. His wretched adherents, left to the king's mercy, found him still willing to pardon; and, except a few of the ring-leaders, none were treated with capital severity. At the same time some persons were employed to treat with Perkin, and to persuade him, under promise of a pardon, to deliver himself up to justice, and to confess and explain all the circumstances of his imposture. His affairs being altogether desperate, he embraced the king's offers, without hesitation, and quitted the sanctuary. Henry being desirous of see|ing him, he was brought to court, and conducted through the streets of London in a kind of mock tri|umph, amidst the derision and insults of the popu|lace, which he bore with the most dignified resigna|tion. He was then compelled to sign a confession of his former life and conduct, which was printed and dispersed throughout the nation: but it was so defec|tive and contradictory, that instead of explaining the pretended imposture, it left it still more doubtful than before; and this youth's real pretensions are to this very day an object of dispute among the learned.

After attempting once or twice to escape from cus|tody, he was hanged at Tyburn, and several of his adherents suffered the same ignominious death.

There had been hitherto nothing in this reign but plots, treasons, insurrections, impostures, and exe|cutions;

and it is probable that Henry's severity proceeded from the continual alarms in which they held him. It is certain, that no prince ever loved peace more than he; and much of the ill-will of his subjects arose from his attempts to repress their in|clinations for war. The usual preface to all his trea|ties was, "That when Christ came into the world peace was sung; and when he went out of the world peace was bequeathed."

He had all along two points in view; one to de|press the nobility and clergy, and the other to exalt and humanize the populace. With this view he pro|cured an act, by which the nobility were granted a power of disposing of their estates; a law infinitely pleasing to the commons, and not disagreeable even to the nobles, since they had thus an immediate re|source for supplying their taste for prodigality, and answering the demands of their creditors. The blow reached them in their posterity alone; but they were too ignorant to be affected by such distant distresses.

He was not less remiss in abridging the pope's power, while, at the same time, he professed the utmost submission to his commands, and the greatest respect for the clergy. But while he thus employed his power in lowering the influence of the nobles and clergy, he was using every art to extend the privi|leges of the people. In fact, his greatest efforts were directed to promote trade and commerce, because this naturally introduced a spirit of liberty, and disengaged them from all dependence, except upon the laws and the king. Before this great aera, all our towns owed their original to some strong castle in the neighbour|hood, where some powerful lord generally resided. These were at once fortresses for protection, and pri|sons for all sorts of criminals. In this castle there was usually a garrison armed and provided, depend|ing entirely on the nobleman's support and assistance. To these seats of protection, artificers, victuallers,

and shop-keepers, naturally resorted, and settled on some adjacent spot to furnish the lord and his attend|ants with all the necessaries they might require. The farmers also, and the husbandmen in the neigh|bourhood, built their houses there to be protected against the numerous gangs of robbers, called Ro|bertsmen, that hid themselves in the woods by day, and infested the open country by night. Henry en|deavoured to bring the towns from such a neighbour|bood, by inviting the inhabitants to a more commer|cial situation. He attempted to teach them frugality, and a just payment of debts, by his own example; and never once omitted the rights of the merchant, in all his treaties with foreign princes.

Henry having thus seen England in a great mea|sure civilized by his endeavours, his people pay their taxes without constraint, the nobles confessing subor|dination, the laws alone inflicting punishment, the towns beginning to live independant of the powerful, commerce every day encreasing, the spirit of faction extinguished, and foreigners either fearing England or seeking its alliance, he began to see the ap|proaches of his end,* 1.22 and died of the gout in his stomach, having lived fifty-two years, and reigned twenty-three. Since the times of Alfred, England had not seen such another king. He rendered his subjects powerful and happy, and wrought a greater change in the manners of the peo|ple, than it was possible to suppose could be effected in so short a time.

CHAP. XXIII. HENRY VIII.

NO prince ever came to the throne with a con|juncture of circumstances more in his favour than Henry VIII. who now, in the eigh|teenth year of his age,* 1.23 undertook the go|vernment of the kingdom.

And as he was at the head of a formid|able army, fifty thousand strong, and as a war with France was the most pleasing to the people, he determined to head his forces for the conquest of that kingdom. But France was not threatened by him alone; the Swiss, on another quarter, with twenty-five thousand men, were preparing to invade it; while Ferdinand of Arragon, whom no treaties could bind, was only waiting for a convenient opportunity of attack on his side to advantage. Never was the French monarchy in so distressed a situation; but the errors of its assailants procured its safety.

After an ostentatious but ineffectual campaign, a truce was concluded between the two kingdoms; and Henry continued to dissipate, in more peaceful fol|lies, those immense sums which had been amassed by his predecessor for very different purposes.

In this manner, while his pleasures on the one hand engrossed Henry's time, the preparations for repeated expeditions exhausted his treasures on the other. As it was natural to suppose the old minis|ters, who were appointed to direct him by his father, would not willingly concur in these idle projects, Henry had, for some time, discontinued asking their advice, and chiefly consided in the counsels of Tho|mas, afterwards cardinal Wolsey, who seemed to se|cond him in his favourite pursuits. Wolsey was a

minister who complied with all his master's inclina|tions, and flattered him in every scheme to which his sanguine and impetuous temper was inclined. He was the son of a private gentleman, and not of a butcher, as is commonly reported, of Ipswich. He was sent to Oxford so early, that he was a bachelor at fourteen, and at that time was called the Boy Ba|chelor. He rose by degrees, upon quitting college, from one preferment to another, till he was made rec|or of Lymington by the marquis of Dorset, whose children he had instructed. He had not long resided at this living, when one of the justices of the peace put him in the stocks for being drunk, and raising disturbances at a neighbouring fair. This disgrace, however, did not retard his promotion; for he was re|commended as chaplain to Henry the Seventh; and being employed by that monarch in a secret negotia|tion respecting his intended marriage with Margaret of Savoy, he acquitted himself to that king's satisfac|tion, and obtained the praise both of diligence and dexterity. That prince having given him a commis|sion to Maximilian, who, at that time, resided at Brus|sels, was surprised in less than three days after to see Wolsey present himself before him; and, supposing that he had been delinquent, began to reprove his delay. Wolsey, however, surprised him with assur|ances that he was just returned from Brussels, and had successfully fulfilled all his majesty's commands. His dispatch, on that occasion, procured him the deanery of Lincoln, and in this situation it was that he was introduced by Fox, bishop of Winchester, to the young king's notice, in hopes that he would have talents to supplant the earl of Surry, who was favourite at that time, and in this Fox was not out in his conjectures. Presently after, being introduced at court, he was made a privy counsellor; and as such, had frequent opportunities of ingratiating himself with the young king, as he appeared at once complying, submissive,

and enterprising. Wolsey used every art to suit him|self to the royal temper; he sung, laughed, and danced with every libertine of the court: neither his own years, which were near forty, nor his cha|racter as a clergyman, were any restraint upon him, or tended to check, by ill-timed severities, the gaiety of his companions. To such a weak and vicious mo|narch as Henry, qualities of this nature were highly pleasing; and Wolsey was soon acknowledged as his chief favourite, and to him was entrusted the chief ad|ministration of affairs. The people began to see with indignation the new favourite's mean condescensions to the king, and his arrogance to themselves. They had long regarded the vicious haughtiness, and the unbecoming splendour of the clergy, with envy and detestation; and Wolsey's greatness served to bring a new odium upon that body, already too much the object of the people's dislike. His character being now placed in a more conspicuous point of light, daily began to manifest itself the more. Insatiable in his acquisitions, but still more magnificent in his expence; of extensive capacity, but still more un|bounded in enterprize; ambitious of power, but still more desirous of glory; insinuating, engaging, per|suasive, and at other times, lofty, elevated, and com|manding: haughty to his equals, but affable to his dependants; oppressive to the people, but liberal to his friends; more generous than grateful; formed to take the ascendant in every intercourse, but vain enough not to cover his real superiority.

In order to divert the envy of the public from his inordinate exaltation, he soon entered into a cor|respondence with Francis the First, of France, who had taken many methods to work upon his vanity, and at last succeeded. In consequence of that mo|narch's wishes, Henry was persuaded by the cardinal to an interview with that prince. This expensive congress was held between Guisnes and Ardres, near

Calais, within the English pale, in compliment to Henry for crossing the sea.

Some months before a defiance had been sent by the two kings to each other's court,* 1.24 and through all the chief cities of Europe, importing, that Henry and Francis, with fourteen aids, would be ready in the plains of Picardy to answer all comers that were gentlemen, at tilt and tourney. Accordingly, the monarchs now all gorgeously apparelled, entered the lists on horseback, Francis surrounded with Henry's guards, and Henry with those of Francis. They were both at that time the most comely personages of their age, and prided themselves on their expertness in the mili|tary exercises. The ladies were the judges in these feats of chivalry; and they put an end to the en|counter whenever they thought proper. It is sup|posed that the crafty French monarch was willing to gratify Henry's vanity by allowing him to enjoy a petty pre-eminence in these pastimes. He ran a tilt against Monsieur Grandeval, whom he disabled at the second encounter. He engaged Monsieur de Montmorency, whom, however, he could not throw from the saddle. He fought at faulchion with a French nobleman, who presented him with his courser, in token of submission.

By this time, all the immense treasures of the late king were quite exhausted on empty pageants, guilty pleasures, or vain treaties and expeditions. But the king relied on Wolsey alone for replenishing his cof|fers; and no person could be fitter for the purpose. His first care was to get a large sum of money from the people, under the title of a benevolence, which added to its being extorted the mortification of being considered as a free gift. Henry little minded the manner of its being raised, provided he had the en|joyment of it; however, his minister met with some opposition in his attempts to levy these extorted con|tributions.

In the first place, having exacted a con|siderable subsidy from the clergy, he next addressed himself to the house of commons; but they only granted him half the supplies he demanded. Wol|sey was at first highly offended at their parsimony, and desired to be heard in the house; but as this would have destroyed the very form and constitution of that august body, they replied, that none could be permitted to sit and argue there, but such as had been elected members. This was the first attempt made in this reign to render the king master of the de|bates in parliament. Wolsey first paved the way; and, unfortunately for the kingdom, Henry too well improved upon his plans soon after.

Hitherto the administration of all affairs was car|ried on by Wolsey; for the king was contented to lose, in the embraces of his mistresses, all the com|plaints of his subjects; and the cardinal undertook to keep him ignorant, in order to continue his own uncontrolled authority. But now a period was ap|proaching, that was to put an end to this minister's exorbitant power. One of the most extraordinary and important revolutions that ever employed the at|tention of man, was now ripe for execution. This was no less a change than the Reformation.

The vices and impositions of the church of Rome were now almost come to a head; and the encrease of arts and learning among the laity, propagated by means of printing, which had been lately invented, began to make them resist that power, which was originally founded in deceit.* 1.25 Leo the Tenth was at that time pope, and eagerly employed in building the church of St. Peter at Rome. In order to procure mo|ney for carrying on that expensive undertaking, he gave a commission for selling indulgences, a practice that had been often tried before. These were to free the purchaser from the pains of purgatory; and

they would serve even for one's friends, if purchased with that intention. There were every where shops opened, where they were to be sold; but in general they were to be had at taverns, brothels, and gaming houses. The Augustine friars had usually been em|ployed in Saxony to preach the indulgences, and from this trust had derived both profit and consider|ation; but the pope's minister supposing that they had found out illicit methods of secreting the money, transferred this lucrative employment from them to the Dominicans. Martin Luther, professor in the university of Wirtemberg, was an Augustine monk, and one of those who resented this transfer of the sale of indulgencies from one order to another. He began to shew his indignation by preaching against their efficacy; and being naturally of a fiery temper, and provoked by opposition, he inveighed against the authority of the pope himself. Being driven hard by his adversaries, still as he enlarged his read|ing, in order to support his tenets, he discovered some new abuse or error in the church of Rome. In this dispute, it was the fate of Henry to be a champion on both sides. His father, who had given him the education of a scholar, permitted him to be instructed in school-divinity, which then was the principal object of learned enquiry. Henry, there|fore, willing to convince the world of his abilities in that science, obtained the pope's permission to read the works of Luther, which had been forbidden, under pain of excommunication. In consequence of this, the king defended the seven sacraments, out of St. Thomas Aquinas; and shewed some dexterity in this science, though it is thought that Wolsey had the chief hand in directing him. A book being thus finished in haste, it was sent to Rome for the pope's approbation, which it is natural to suppose would not be with-held. The pontiff, ravished with its elo|quence and depth, compared it to the labours of St.

Jerome or St. Augustine; and rewarded the author with the title of DEFENDER OF THE FAITH, little imagining that Henry was soon to be one of the most terrible enemies that ever the church of Rome had to contend with.

* 1.26Henry had now been eighteen years married to Catharine of Arragon, who, had been brought over from Spain, and married his elder brother, who died a few months after co-habitation. But notwithstanding the submissive deference paid to the indulgence of the church, Henry's marriage with this princess did not pass without scruple and hesitation, both on his own side, and on that of the people. However, it was carried forward, though perhaps not at first ex|cited, by a motive much more powerful than the tacit suggestions of his conscience. It happened that among the maids of honour then attend|ing the queen, there was one Anna Bullen, the daughter of Sir Thomas Bullen, a gentleman of distinction, and related to most of the nobility. He had been employed by the king in several embassies, and was married to a daughter of the duke of Nor|folk. The beauty of Anna surpassed whatever had hitherto appeared at this voluptuous court; and her education, which had been at Paris, tended to set off her personal charms. Her features were regular, mild, and attractive, her stature elegant, though be|low the middle size, while her wit and vivacity ex|ceeded even her other allurements. Henry, who had never learned the art of restraining any passion that he desired to gratify, saw and loved her; but after several efforts to induce her to comply with his cri|minal desires, he found that without marriage he could have no chance of succeeding. This obstacle, therefore, he hardily undertook to remove; and as his own queen was now become hateful to him, in order to procure a divorce, he alledged that his con|science

rebuked him for having so long lived in in|cest with the wife of his brother. In this pretended perplexity, therefore, he appplied to Clement the Seventh, who owed him many obligations, desiring to dissolve the bull of the former pope, which had given him permission to marry Catharine; and to de|clare that it was not in the power, even of the holy see, to dispense with a law so strictly enjoined in scrip|ture. The unfortunate pope, unwilling to grant, yet afraid to refuse, continued to promise, recant, dispute, and temporize; hoping that the king's pas|sion would never hold out during the tedious course of an ecclesiastical controversy. In this he was en|tirely mistaken. Henry had been long taught to dis|pute as well as he, and quickly found, or wrested many texts of scripture to favour his opinions or his passions.

During the course of a long perplexing negocia|tion, on the issue of which Henry's happiness seemed to depend, he had at first expected to find in his fa|vourite Wolsey, a warm defender, and a steady ad|herent; but in this he found himself mistaken. Wolsey seemed to be in pretty much the same dilem|ma with the pope. On the one hand, he was to please his master the king, from whom he had re|ceived a thousand marks of favour; and on the other hand, he feared to disoblige the pope, whose servant he more immediately was, and who besides had power to punish his disobedience. He, therefore, resolved to continue neuter in this controversy; and though of all men the most haughty, he gave way on this oc|casion to Campegio, the pope's nuncio, in all things, pretending a deference to his skill in canon law. Wolsey's scheme of temporizing was highly displea|sing to the king, but for a while he endeavoured to stifle his resentment, until it could act with more fatal certainty. He for some time looked out for a man of equal abilities and less art; and it was not

long before accident threw into his way one Thomas Cranmer, of greater talents, and probably of more integrity.

Thus finding himself provided with a person who could supply Wolsey's place, he appeared less reserv|ed in his resentments against that prelate. The attorney-general was ordered to prepare a bill of in|dictment against him; and he was soon after com|manded to resign the great seal. Crimes are easily found out against a favourite in disgrace, and the courtiers did not fail to encrease the catalogue of his errors. He was ordered to depart from York-place palace; and all his furniture and plate were convert|ed to the king's use. The inventory of his goods being taken, they were found to exeed even the most extravagant surmises. Of fine holland alone there were found a thousand pieces; the walls of his pa|lace were covered with cloth of gold and silver; he had a cup-board of plate of massy gold; all the rest of his riches and furniture were in proportion, and probably their greatness invited the hand of power. He was soon after arrested by the earl of Northum|berland, at the king's command, for high treason, and preparations were made for conducting him, from York, where he then resided, to London, in order to take his trial. He at first refused to comply with the requisition, as being a cardinal; but finding the earl bent on performing his commission, he com|plied, and set out, by easy journies, for London, to appear as a criminal, where he had acted as a king. In his way he stayed a fortnight at the earl of Shrews|bury's; where, one day at dinner, he was taken ill, not without violent suspicions of having poisoned him|self. Being brought forward from thence, he with much difficulty reached Leicester Abbey; where the monks coming out to meet him, he said, "Father abbot, I am come to lay my bones among you; and immediately ordered his bed to be prepared. As

his disorder encreased, an officer being placed near, at once to guard and attend him, he spoke to him a little before he expired, to this effect; "I pray you have me heartily recommended unto his royal majes|ty, he is a prince of a most royal carriage, and hath a princely heart, and rather than he will miss, or want any part of his will, he will endanger one half of his kingdom. I do assure you, I have kneeled before him for three hours together, to persuade him from his will and appetite, but could not prevail. Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, he would not have given me over in my grey hairs. But this is the just reward that I must receive for my indulgent pains and study; not regarding my service to God but only to my prince." He died soon after, in all the pangs of remorse, and left a life which he had all along rendered turbid by ambition, and wretched by mean assiduities.

The tie that held Henry to the church being thus broken, he resolved to keep no further measures with the pontiff. He therefore privately married Anna Bullen, whom he had created marchioness of Pembroke, the duke of Norfolk, uncle to the new queen, her father, mother, and doctor Cranmer be|ing present at the ceremony. Soon after finding the queen pregnant, he publicly owned his marriage, and, to colour over his disobedience to the pope with an appearance of triumph, he passed with his beauti|ful bride through London, with a magnificence great|er than had been ever known before. But though Henry had thus separated from the church, yet he had not addicted himself to the system of any other reformer.

As the mode of religion was not as yet known, and as the minds of those who were of opposite sentiments were extremely exasperated, it naturally followed that several must fall a sacrifice in the contest between ancient establishments and modern reformation.

As the monks had all along shewn him the great|est resistance, he resolved at once to deprive them of future power to injure him. He accordingly em|powered Thomas Cromwell, who was now made se|cretary of state, to send, commissioners into the se|veral counties of England to inspect the monaste|ries; and to report, with rigorous exactness, the con|duct and deportment of such as were resident there. This employment was readily undertaken by some creatures of the court, namely, Layton, London, Price, Gage, Petre, and Belasis, who are said to have discovered monstrous disorders in many of the religious houses. Whole convents of women aban|doned to all manner of lewdness, friars accomplices in their crimes, pious frauds every where practised to encrease the devotion and liberality of the people, and cruel and inveterate factions maintained between the members of many of these institutions. These accusations, whether true or false, were urged with great clamour against these communities, and a gene|ral horror was excited in the nation against them.

* 1.27A new visitation was soon after appointed, and fresh crimes were also produced; so that his severities were conducted with such seeming justice and success, that in less than two years he became posessed of all the monastic reve|nues. These, on the whole, amounted to six hundred and forty-five, of which twenty-eight had abbots, who en|joyed a seat in parliament. Ninety colleges were demo|lished in several counties; two thousand three hundred and seventy-four chantries, and free chapels, and an hundred and ten hospitals. The whole revenue of these establishments amounted to one hundred and sixty one thousand pounds, which was about a twentieth part of the national income. But as great murmurs were excited by some upon this occasion, Henry took care that all those who could be useful to him, or even dangerous in cases of opposition,

should be sharers in the spoil. He either made a gift of the revenues of the convents to his principal cour|tiers, or sold them at low prices, or exchanged them for other lands on very disadvantageous terms.

Henry's opinions were at length delivered in a law, which, from its horrid consequences, was afterwards termed the Bloody Statute, by which it was ordained, that whoever, by word or writing, denied transub|stantiation, whoever maintained that the communion in both kinds was necessary, whoever asserted that it was lawful for priests to marry, whoever alledged that vows of chastity might be broken, whoever maintain|ed that private masses were unprofitable, or that au|ricular confession was unnecessary, should be found guilty of heresy, and burned or hanged as the court should determine. As the people were at that time chiefly composed of those who followed the opinions of Luther, and such as still adhered to the pope, this statute, with Henry's former decrees, in some mea|sure excluded both, and opened a field for persecu+tion, which soon after produced its dreadful harvests. Bainham and Bilney were burned for their opposi|tion to popery, Sir Thomas More and bishop Fisher were beheaded for denying the king's supremacy.

These severities, however, were preceded by one of a different nature, arising neither from religious nor political causes, but merely from tyrannical ca|price. Anne Bullen, his queen, had been always a favourer of the reformation, and consequently had many enemies on that account, who only waited some fit occasion to destroy her credit with the king; and that occasion presented itself but too soon. The king's passion was by this time quite palled by satiety; as the only desire he ever had for her arose from that brutal appetite, which enjoyment soon destroys, he was now, fallen in love, if we may so prostitute the expression, with another, and languished for the pos|session

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of Jane Seymour, who had for some time been maid of honour to the queen.

In the mean time her enemies were not remiss in raising an accusation against her. The duke of Norfolk, from his attachment to the old religion, took care to produce several witnesses accusing her of incontinency with some of the meaner servants of the court. Four persons were particularly pointed out as her paramours; Henry Norris, groom of the stole, Weston, and Brereton, gentlemen of the king's bed-chamber, together with mark Smeton, a musi|cian. Accordingly soon after Norris, Weston, Brere|ton and Smeton were tried in Westminster-hall, when Smeton was prevailed upon, by the promise of a pardon, to confess a criminal correspondence with the queen; but he was never confronted by her he accused; and his execution with the rest, shortly after, served to acquit her of the charge. Norris, who had been much in the king's favour, had an offer of his life, if he would confess his crime and accuse his mistress; but he rejected the proposal with contempt, and died professing her innocence, and his own.

The queen and her brother were tried by a jury of peers; but upon what proof or pretence the crime of incest was urged against them is unknown; the chief evidence, it is said, amounted to no more, than that Rochford had been seen to lean on her bed before some company. Part of the charge against her was, that she had declared to her attendants, that the king never had her heart; which was considered as a slan|der upon the throne, and strained into a breach of a late statute, by which it was declared criminal to throw any slander upon the king, queen, or their issue. The unhappy queen, though unassisted by counsel, defended herself with great judgment, and presence of mind; and the spectators could not for|bear declaring her entirely innocent. She answered

distinctly to all the charges brought against her: but the king's authority was not to be controuled; she was declared guilty; and her sentence ran, that she should be burned or beheaded at the king's pleasure. On the morning of her execution, her sentence being mitigated into beheading, she sent for Kingstone, the keeper of the Tower, to whom, upon entering the prison, she said, "Mr. Kingstone, I hear I am not to die till noon, and I am sorry for it; for I thought to be dead before this time, and free from a life of pain." The keeper attempting to comfort her, by as|suring her the pain would be very little, she replied, "I have heard the executioner is very expert; and (clasping her neck with her hands, laughing) I have but a little neck." When brought to the scaffold, from a consideration of her child Elizabeth's welfare, she would not enflame the minds of the spectators against her prosecutors, but contented herself with saying, "that she was come to die as she was sen|tenced by the law." She would accuse none, nor say any thing of the ground upon which she was judged; she prayed heartily for the king, and called him "a most merciful, and gentle prince; that he had always been to her a good and gracious sovereign; and that if any one should think proper to canvass her cause, she desired him to judge the best." She was beheaded by the executioner of Calais, who was brought over as much more expert than any in England. The very next day after her execution, he married the lady Jane Seymour, his cruel heart being no way softened by the wretched fate of one that had been so lately the object of his warmest affections. He also ordered his parliament to give him a divorce between her sen|tence and execution; and thus he endeavoured to bas|tardize Elizabeth, the only child he had by her, as he had in the same manner formerly bastardized Mary, his only child by queen Catharine.

In the midst of these commotions, the fires of Smithfield were seen to blaze with unusual fierceness.* 1.28 Those who adhered to the pope, or those who followed the doc|trines of Luther, were equally the objects of royal vengeance, and ecclesiastical persecution. From the multiplied alterations which were made in the nation|al systems of belief, mostly drawn up by Henry him|self, few knew what to think, or what to profess. They were ready enough, indeed, to follow his doc|trines, how inconsistent or contradictory soever; but as he was continually changing them himself, they could hardly pursue so fast as he advanced before them. Thomas Cromwell, raised by the king's ca|price, from being a blacksmith's son, to be a royal fa|vourite, for tyrants ever raise their favourites from the lowest of the people, together with Cranmer, now become archbishop of Canterbury, were both seen to favour the reformation with all their endea|vours. On the other hand, Gardiner bishop of Win|chester, together with the duke of Norfolk, were for leading the king back to his original superstition. In fact, Henry submitted to neither; his pride had long been so enflamed by flattery, that he thought himself entitled to regulate, by his own single opinion, the re|ligious faith of the whole nation.

Soon after, no less than five hundred persons were imprisoned for contradicting the opinions delivered in the bloody statute; and received protection only from the lenity of Cromwell. Lambert, a school-ma|ster, and doctor Barnes, who had been instrumental in Lambert's execution, felt the severity of the per|secuting spirit; and by a bill in parliament, without any trial, were condemned to the flames, discussing theological questions at the very stake. With Barnes were executed one Gerrard, and Jerome, for the same opinions. Three Catholics also, whose names were Abel, Fetherstone, and Powel, were dragged upon

the same hurdles to execution; and declared, that the most grievous part of their punishment, was the being coupled with such heretical miscreants as were united in the same calamity.

During these horrid transactions, Henry was re|solved to take another queen, Jane Seymour having died in child bed; and, after some negociation upon the continent, he contracted a marriage with Anne of Cleves, his aim being by her means to fortify his alliances with the princes of Germany. His aversion, however, to the queen secretly encreased every day; and he at length resolved to get rid of her and his prime minister together. He had a strong cause of dislike to him for his late unpropitious alliance; and a new motive was soon added for encreasing his displeasure. Henry had fixed his affection on Ca|tharine Howard, niece to the duke of Norfolk; and the only method of gratifying this new passion was, as in former cases, discarding the present queen to make room for a new one. The duke of Norfolk had long been Cromwell's mortal enemy, and eager|ly embraced this opportunity to destroy a man he considered as his rival. He therefore made use of all his niece's arts to ruin the favourite; and when his project was ripe for execution, he obtained a com|mission from the king to arrest Cromwell for high treason. His disgrace was no sooner known, than all his friends forsook him, except Cranmer, who wrote such a letter to Henry in his behalf, as no other man in the kingdom would have presumed to offer. However, he was accused in parliament of heresy and treason; and without being ever heard in his own defence, condemned to suffer the pains of death, as the king should think proper to direct. When he was brought to the scaffold, his regard for his son hindered him from expatiating upon his own innocence; he thank|ed God for bringing him to that death for his trans|gressions,

confessed he had often been seduced, but that he now died in the catholic faith.

But the measure of his severities was not yet filled up. He had thought himself very happy in his new marriage. He was so captivated with the queen's accomplishments, that he gave public thanks for his felicity, and desired his confessor to join with him in the same thanksgiving. This joy, however, was of very short duration. While the king was at York, upon an intended conference with the king of Scot|land, a man of the name of Lassels waited upon Cran|mer at London; and from the information of this man's sister, who had been servant to the dutchess dowager of Norfolk, he gave a very surprizing ac|count of the queen's incontinence. When the queen was first examined relative to her crime, she denied the charge; but afterwards finding that her accom|plices were her accusers, she confessed her inconti|nence before marriage, but denied her having dis|honoured the king's bed since their union. Three maids of honour, who were admitted to her secrets, still further alledged her guilt; and some of them confessed having passed the night in the same bed with her and her lovers. The servile parliament, upon being informed of the queen's crime and confession, sound her quickly guilty, and petitioned the king that she might be punished with death; that the same penalty might be inflicted on the lady Rochford, the accomplice in her debaucheries; and that her grand|mother, the dutchess dowager of Norfolk, together with her father, mother, and nine others, men and women, as having been privy to the queen's irregu|larities, should participate in her punishment. With this petition the king was most graciously pleased to agree; they were condemned to death by an act of attainder, which at the same time made it capital for all persons to conceal their knowledge of the de|baucheries

of any future queen. It was also enacted, that if the king married any woman who had been in|continent, taking her for a true maid, she should be guilty of treason, in case she did not previously reveal her guilt. The people made merry with this absurd and brutal statute; and it was said, that the king must henceforth look out for a widow. After all these laws were passed, in which the most wonderful circum|stance is, that a body of men could ever be induced to give their consent, the queen was beheaded on Tower Hill, together with the lady Rochford, who found no great degree of compassion, as she had her|self before tampered in blood.

In about a year after the death of the last queen,* 1.29 Henry once more changed his condition, by marrying his sixth and last wife, Catharine Parr, who according to the ridiculous suggestions of the people, was, in fact, a widow. She was the wife of the late lord Latimer; and was considered as a woman of discretion and virtue. She was already passed the meridian of life, and managed this capricious tyrant's temper with pru|dence and success.

Still, however, the king's severity to his subjects continued as fierce as ever. For some time he had been incommoded by an ulcer in his leg; the pain of which, added to his corpulence, and other infir|mities, encreased his natural irascibility to such a de|gree, that scarce any, of even his domestics, approach|ed him without terror. It was not to be expected, therefore, that any who differed from him in opinion, should, at this time, particularly, hope for pardon.

Though his health was declining apace, yet his implacable cruelties were not the less frequent. His re|sentments were diffused indiscriminately to all: at one time a protestant, and at another a catholic, were the objects of his severity. The duke of Norfolk

and his son, the earl of Surry, were the last that felt the injustice of the tyrant's groundless suspicions. The duke was a nobleman who had served the king with talents and fidelity; his son was a young man of the most promising hopes, who excelled in every accomplishment that became a scholar, a courtier, and a soldier. He excelled in all the military exer|cises which were then in request; he encouraged the fine arts by his practice and example; and it is remarkable, that he was the first who brought our language, in his poetical pieces, to any degree of re|finement. He celebrated the fair Geraldina in all his sonnets, and maintained her superior beauty in all places of public contention. These qualifications, however, were no safeguard to him against Henry's suspicions; he had dropt some expressions of resent|ment against the king's ministers, upon being dis|placed from the government of Bologne; and the whole family was become obnoxious from the late incontinency of Catharine Howard, the queen who was executed. From these motives, therefore, pri|vate orders were given to arrest the father and son; and accordingly they were arrested both on the same day, and confined to the Tower. Surry being a com|moner, his trial was the more expeditious; and as to proofs, there were many informers base enough to betray the intimacies of private confidence, and all the connections of blood. The dutchess dowager of Richmond, Surry's own sister, enlisted herself among the number of his accusers; and Sir Richard Southwell also, his most intimate friend, charged him with infidelity to the king. It would seem, that at this dreary period, there was neither faith nor honour to be found in all the nation; Surry denied the charge, and challenged his accuser to single com|bat. This favour was refused him; and it was alledged that he had quartered the arms of Edward the Con|fessor

on his escutcheon, which alone was sufficient to convict him of aspiring to the crown. To this he could make no reply; and indeed any answer would have been needless; for neither parliaments nor juries, during this reign, seem to be guided by any other proofs, but the will of the crown. This young nobleman was, therefore, condemned for high treason, notwithstanding his eloquent and spirited de|fence; and the sentence was soon after executed upon him on Tower-Hill. In the mean time the duke endeavoured to mollify the king by letters and submissions; but the monster's hard heart was rarely subject to tender impressions.* 1.30 The parlia|ment meeting on the fourteenth day of Janu|ary, a bill of attainder was found against the duke of Norfolk; as it was thought he could not so easily have been convicted on a fair hear|ing by his peers. The death-warrant was made out, and immediately sent to the lieutenant of the Tower. The duke prepared for death, the following morning was to be his last; but an event of greater conse|quence to the kingdom intervened, and prevented his execution.

The king had been for some time approaching fast towards his end; and for several days all those about his person plainly saw that his speedy death was in|evitable. The disorder in his leg was now grown extremely painful; and this added to his monstrous corpulency, which rendered him unable to stir, made him more furious than a chained lion. He had been ever stern and severe; he was now out|rageous. In this state he had continued for near four years before his death, the terror of all, and the tor|mentor of himself; his courtiers having no inclina|tion to make an enemy of him, as they were more ardently employed in conspiring the death of each other. In this manner, therefore, he was suffered

to struggle, without any of his domestics having the courage to warn him of his approaching end, as more than once during this reign, persons had been put to death for foretelling the death of the king. At last, Sir Anthony Denny had the courage to disclose to him this dreadful secret; and, contrary to his usual custom, he received the tidings with an expres|sion of resignation. His anguish and remose was at this time greater than can be expressed; he desired that Cranmer might be sent for; but before that pre|late could arrive, he was speechless. Cranmer de|sired him to give some sign of his dying in the faith of Christ, he squeezed his hand, and immediately expired,* 1.31 after a reign of thirty-seven years, and nine months, in the fifty-sixth year of his age. Some kings have been tyrants from contradiction and revolt; some from being misled by favourites, and some from a spirit of party. But Henry was cruel from a depraved dis|position alone; cruel in government, cruel in religion, and cruel in his family. Our divines have taken some pains to vindicate the character of this brutal prince, as if his conduct, and our reformation had any connexion with each other. There is nothing so absurd as to defend the one by the other; the most noble designs are brought about by the most vicious instruments; for we see even that cruelty and injus|tice were thought necessary to be employed in our holy redemption.

CHAP. XXIV. EDWARD VI.

HENRY the eighth was succeeded on the throne by his only son Edward the sixth, now in the ninth year of his age. The late king in his will, which he expected would be implicitly obeyed, sixed the majority of the prince at the completion of his eighteenth year; and in the mean time appointed sixteen executors of his will, to whom, during the minority, he entrusted the government of the king and kingdom, the duke of Somerset as protector be|ing placed at their head.

The protector, in his schemes for advancing the reformation, had always recourse to the counsels of Cranmer, who, being a man of moderation and pru|dence, was averse to violent changes, and determined to bring over the people by insensible innovations to his own peculiar system.

A committee of bishops and divines had been ap|pointed by the council to frame a liturgy for the ser|vice of the church; and this work was executed with great moderation, precision, and accuracy. A law was also enacted, permitting priests to marry; the ceremony of auricular confession, though not abolished, was left at the discretion of the people, who were not dis|pleased at being freed from the spiritual tyranny of their instructors; the doctrine of the real presence was the last tenet of popery that was wholly abandon|ed by the people, as both the clergy and laity were loth to renounce so miraculous a benefit as it was as|serted to be. However, at last, not only this but all the principal opinions and practices of the Catho|lic religion, contrary to what the scripture authorizes, were abolished; and the reformation, such as we

have it,* 1.32 was almost entirely completed in England. With all these innovations the people and clergy in general aquiesced; and Gardiner and Bonner were the only persons whose opposition was thought of any weight; they were, therefore, sent to the Tower, and threat|ened with the king's further displeasure in case of disobedience.

For all these the protector gained great applause and popularity; but he was raised to an enviable de|gree of eminence, and his enemies were numerous in proportion to his exaltation. Of all the ministers, at that time in the council, Dudley, earl of War|wick, was the most artful, ambitious, and unprinci|pled. Resolved at any rate to possess the principal place under the king, he cared not what means were to be used in acquiring it. However, unwilling to throw off the mask, he covered the most exorbitant views under the fairest appearances. Having asso|ciated himself with the earl of Southampton, he form|ed a strong party in the council, who were determin|ed to free themselves from the controul the protector assumed over them. That nobleman was, in fact, now grown obnoxious to a very prevailing party in the kingdom. He was hated by the nobles for his superior magnificence and power; he was hated by the catholic party for his regard to the reformation; he was disliked by many for his severity to his bro|ther: besides, the great estate he had raised at the ex|pence of the church and the crown, rendered him obnoxious to all. The palace which he was then build|ing in the Strand, served also by its magnificence, and still more by the unjust methods that were taken to raise it, to expose him to the censures of the public. The parish church of St. Mary, with three bishop's houses, were pulled down to furnish ground and ma|terials for the structure.

He was soon afterwards sent to the Tower, and the chief article of which he was accused, was his usur|pation of the government, and the taking all power into his own hands; but his great riches was the real cause. Several others of a slighter tint were added to invigorate this accusation, but none of them could be said to amount to high treason. In consequence of these, a bill of attainder was preferred against him in the house of lords; but Somerset contrived, for this time, to elude the rigour of their sentence, by having previously, on his knees, confessed the charge before the members of the council. In consequence of this confession, he was deprived of all his offices and goods, together with a great part of his landed estate, which was forfeited to the use of the crown. This fine on his estate was soon after remitted by the king, and Somerset once more, contrary to the ex|pectation of all, recovered his liberty. He was even re-admitted into the council; happy for him, if his ambition had not revived with his security.

In fact, he could not help now and then bursting out into invectives against the king and government, which were quickly carried to his secret enemy, the earl of Warwick, who was now become the duke of Northumberland. As he was surrounded with that nobleman's creatures, they took care to reveal all the designs which they had themselves first suggested; and Somerset soon found the fatal effects of his rival's resentment. He was, by Northumberland's command, arrested with many more accused of being his partizans: and he was, with his wife the duchess, also thown into prison. He was now accused of having formed a design to raise an insurrection in the North; of at|tacking the train-bands on a muster day; of plotting to secure the Tower, and to excite a rebellion in Lon|don. These charges he strenuously denied; but he confessed to one of as heinous a nature, which was, that he had laid a project for murdering Northum|berland,

Northampton, and Pembroke, at a banquet, which was to be given them by lord Paget. He was soon after brought to a trial before the marquiss of Winchester, who sat as high-steward on the occasion, with twenty-seven peers more, including Northum|berland, Pembroke, and Northampton, who were at once his judges and accusers; and being found guilty, brought to the scaffold on Tower-hill, where he appeared, without the least emotion, in the midst of a vast concourse of the populace, by whom he was beloved. He spoke to them with great composure, protesting that he had always promoted the service of his king, and the interests of true religion, to the best of his power. The people attested their belief of what he said, by crying out, "It is most true." An universal tumult was beginning to take place; but Somerset desiring them to be still, and not to inter|rupt his last meditations, but to join with him in prayer, he laid down his head, and submitted to the stroke of the executioner.

In the mean time Northumberland had long aimed at the first authority; and the infirm state of the king's health opened the prospects to his ambition. He represented to that young prince that his sisters Mary and Elizabeth, who were appointed by Henry's will to succeed in failure of direct heirs to the crown, had been both declared illegitimate by parliament; that the queen of Scots, his aunt, stood excluded by the king's will, and being an alien also, lost all right of succeeding; that as the three princesses were thus legally excluded, the succession naturally devolved to the marchioness of Dorset, whose next heir was the lady Jane Grey, a lady every way accomplished for government, as well by the charms of her person, as the virtues and acquirements of her mind. The king, who had long submitted to all the politic views of this designing minister, agreed to have the succes|sion submitted to council, where Northumberland had

influence soon after to procure an easy concur|rence.

In the mean time, as the king's health declined, the minister laboured to strengthen his own interests and connexions. His first aim was to secure the in|terests of the marquiss of Dorset, father to lady Jane Gray, by procuring for him the title of duke of Suf|folk, which was lately become extinct. Having thus obliged this nobleman, he then proposed a match be|tween his fourth son, lord Guilford Dudley, and the lady Jane Gray, whose interests he had been at so much pains to advance.* 1.33 Still bent on spreading his interests as widely as possible, he married his own daughter to lord Has|tings; and had these marriages solemnized with all possible pomp and festivity. Mean while, Edward continued to languish; and several fatal symptoms of a consumption began to appear. It was hoped, however, that his youth and temperance might get the better of his disorders; and from their love the people were unwilling to think him in dan|ger. It had been remarked indeed by some, that his health was visibly seen to decline, from the time that the Dudleys were brought about his person. The character of Northumberland might have justly given some colour to suspicion; and his removing all, ex|cept his own emissaries, from about the king, still farther encreased the distrusts of the people. Nor|thumberland, however, was no way uneasy at their murmurs; he was assiduous in his attendance upon the king, and prosessed the most anxious concern for his safety; but still drove forward his darling scheme of transferring the succession to his own daughter-in-law.

The young king was put into the hands of an ig|norant woman, who very confidently undertook his cure. After the use of her medicines, all the bad symptoms encreased to a most violent degree; he

felt a difficulty of speech and breathing; his pulse failed, his legs swelled, his colour became livid, and many other symptoms appeared of his approaching end.* 1.34 He expired at Greenwich, in the sixteenth year of his age, and the seventh of his reign, greatly regretted by all, as his early virtues gave a prospect of the con|tinuance of an happy reign.

CHAP. XXV. MARY.

UPON the death of Edward two candidates put in their pretensions to the crown. Mary, Henry's daughter by Catharine of Arragon, relying on the justice of her cause, and lady Jane Gray, being nominated in the late young king's will, and upon the support of the duke of Northumberland, her father-in-law. Mary was strongly bigotted to the popish superstitions, having been bred up among church-men, and having been even taught to prefer martyrdom to a denial of belief. As she had lived in continual restraint, she was reserved and gloomy: she had, even during the life of her father, the reso|lution to maintain her sentiments, and refused to comply with his new institutions. Her zeal had ren|dered her furious; and she was not only blindly at|tached to her religious opinions, but even to the po|pish clergy who maintained them. On the other hand, Jane Gray was strongly attached to the refor|mers; and though yet but sixteen, her judgment had attained to such a degree of maturity, as few have been found to possess. All historians agree that the solidity of her understanding, improved by continual application, rendered her the wonder of her age. Jane, who was in a great measure ignorant of all the

transactions in her favour, was struck with equal grief and surprize when she received intelligence of them. She shed a flood of tears, appeared incon|solable, and it was not without the utmost difficulty that she yielded to the entreaties of Northumberland, and the duke her father. Orders were given also for proclaiming her throughout the kingdom; but these were but very remissly obeyed. When she was pro|claimed in the city, the people heard her accession made public without any signs of pleasure, no ap|plause ensued, and some even expressed their scorn and contempt.

In the mean time Mary, who had retired, upon the news of the king's death, to Kenning Hall in Norfolk, sent circular letters to all the great towns and nobility in the kingdom, reminding them of her right, and commanding them to proclaim her without delay.

Her claims soon became irresistible; in a little time she found herself at the head of forty thousand men; while the few who attended Northumberland, con|tinued irresolute; and he even feared to lead them to the encounter.

Lady Jane, thus finding that all was lost, resigned her royalty, which she had held but ten days, with marks of real satisfaction, and retired with her mother to their own habitation. Northumberland also, who found his affairs desperate, and that it was impossible to stem the tide of popular opposition, attempted to quit the kingdom; but he was prevented by the band of pensioner guards, who informed him that he must stay to justify their conduct in being led out against their lawful sovereign. Thus circumvented on all sides, he delivered himself up to Mary, and was soon after executed in a summary way. Sentence was also pronounced against lady Jane, and lord Guilford, but without any intention for the present of putting it in execution.

Mary now entered London, and with very little effusion of blood, saw herself joyfully proclaimed, and peaceably settled on the throne. This was a flattering prospect, but soon this pleasing phantom was dissolved. Mary was morose, and a bigot; she was resolved to give back their former power to the cler|gy; and thus once more to involve the kingdom in all the horrors it had just emerged from. Gardiner, Bonner, Tonstal, Day, Heath and Vesey, who had been confined, or suffered losses for their catholic opinions, during the late reigns, were taken from prison, re|instated in their sees, and their former sentences re|pealed.

A parliament, which the queen called soon after, seemed willing to concur in all her measures; they at one blow repealed all the statutes with regard to re|ligion, which had passed during the reign of her pre|decessor: so that the national religion was again placed on the same footing on which it stood at the death of Henry the Eighth.

While religion was thus returning to its primitive abuses, the queen's ministers, who were willing to strengthen her power by a catholic alliance, had been for some time looking out for a proper consort: they pitched upon Philip, prince of Spain, and son of the ce|lebrated Charles the Fifth. In order to avoid as much as possible, any disagreeable remonstrances from the people, the articles of marriage were drawn as favour|ably as possible to the interests and honour of Eng|land; and this in some measure stilled the clamours that had already been begun against it.

The discontents of the people, rose to such a pitch that an insurrection, headed by Sir Thomas Wyat, suc|ceeded; but Wyat being made prisoner, was condem|ned and executed, with some of his adherents.

But what excited the compassion of the people most of all, was the execution of lady Jane Gray, and her husband lord Guilford Dudley, who were involved

in the punishment though not in the guilt, of this in|surrection. Two days after Wyat was apprehended, lady Jane and her husband were ordered to prepare for death. Lady Jane, who had long before seen the threatened blow, was no way surprized at the message, but bore it with heroic resolution; and being inform|ed that she had three days to prepare, she seemed dis|pleased at so long a delay. On the day of her execu|tion her husband desired permission to see her; but this she refused, as she knew the parting would be too tender for her fortitude to withstand. The place at first designed for their execution was without the Tower; but their youth, beauty, and innocence be|ing likely to raise an insurrection among the people, orders were given that they should be executed with|in the verge of the Tower. Lord Dudley was the first that suffered; and while the lady Jane was con|ducting to the place of execution, the officers of the Tower met her, bearing along the headless body of her husband streaming with blood, in order to be in|terred in the Tower-chapel. She looked on the corpse for some time without any emotion; and then, with a sigh, desired them to proceed. On the scaf|fold she made a speech, in which she alledged that her offence was not the having laid her hand upon the crown, but the not rejecting it with sufficient con|stancy; that she had less erred through ambition than filial obedience; that she willingly accepted death as the only atonement she could make to the injured state; and was ready by her punishment to shew, that innocence is no plea in excuse for deeds that tend to injure the community. After speaking to this effect, she caused herself to be disrobed by her women, and with a steady serene countenance submit|ted to the executioner.

At the head of those who drove these violent mea|sures forward were Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, and cardinal Pole, who was now returned from

Italy. Pole, who was nearly allied by birth to the royal family, had always conscientiously adhered to the catholic religion, and had incurred Henry's dis|pleasure, not only by refusing to assent to his mea|sures, but by writing against him. It was for this adherence that he was cherished by the pope, and now sent over to England as legate from the holy see. Gardiner was a man of a very different character; his chief aim was to please the reigning prince, and he had shewn already many instances of his prudent conformity.

A persecution therefore began by the martyrdom of Hooper, bishop of Gloucester, and Rogers, pre|bendary of St. Paul's. They were examined by com|missioners appointed by the queen, with the chan|cellor at the head of them.

Sanders and Taylor, two other clergymen, whose zeal had been distinguished in carrying on the refor|mation, were the next that suffered. Bonner, bishop of London, bloated at once with rage and luxury, let loose his vengeance without restraint; and seemed to take a pleasure in the pains of the unhappy sufferers; while the queen, by her letters, exhorted him to pursue the pious work without pity or interruption. Soon after, in obedience to her commands, Ridley, bishop of London; and the venerable Latimer, bishop of Worcester, were condemned together. Ridley had been one of the ablest champions for the refor|mation; his piety, learning, and solidity of judg|ment, were admired by his friends, and dreaded by his enemies. The night before his execution, he in|vited the mayor of Oxford and his wife to see him; and when he beheld them melted into tears, he him|self appeared quite unmoved, inwardly supported and comforted in that hour of agony. When he was brought to the stake to be burnt, he found his old friend Latimer there before him. Of all the prelates of that age, Latimer was the most remark|able

for his unaffected piety, and the simplicity of his manners. He had never learned to flatter in courts; and his open rebuke was dreaded by all the great, who at that time too much deserved it. His sermons, which remain to this day, shew that he had much learning, and much wit; and there is an air of sin|cerity running through them, not to be found else|where. When Ridley began to comfort his ancient friend, Latimer, on his part, was as ready to return the kind office. "Be of good cheer, brother, cried he, we shall this day kindle such a torch in England, as, I trust in God, shall never be extinguished." A furious bigot ascended to preach to them and the people, while the fire was preparing; and Ridley gave a most serious attention to his discourse. No way distracted by the preparations about him, he heard him to the last; and then told him, that he was ready to answer all that he had preached upon, if he were permitted a short indulgence; but this was refused him. At length fire was set to the pile: Latimer was soon out of pain, but Ridley continued to suffer much longer, his legs being consumed be|fore the fire reached his vitals.

Cranmer's death followed soon after, and struck the whole nation with horror. His love of life had formerly prevailed. In an unguarded moment he was induced to sign a paper condemning the refor|mation; and now his enemies, as we are told of the devil, after having rendered him completely wretched, resolved to destroy him. Being led to the stake, and the fire beginning to be kindled round him, he stretch|ed forth his right-hand, and held it in the flames till it was consumed, while he frequently cried out, in the midst of his sufferings, "That unworthy hand;" at the same time exhibiting no appearance of pain or disorder. When the fire attacked his body he seem|ed to be quite insensible of his tortures; his mind was occupied wholly upon the hopes of a future reward.

After his body was destroyed, his heart was sound entire; an emblem of the constancy with which he suffered.

It was computed, that during this persecution, two hundred and seventy-seven persons suffered by fire, besides those punished by imprisonment, fines, and consiscations. Among those who suffered by fire were five bishops, twenty one clergymen, eight lay gentlemen, eighty-four tradesmen, one hundred husbandmen, fifty-five women, and four children. All this was terrible; and yet the temporal affairs of the kingdom did not seem to be more successful.

* 1.35Calais, that had now for above two hundred years been in the possession of the English, was attacked, and by a sudden and unexpect|ed assault being blocked up on every side, was obliged to capitulate; so that in less than eight days, the duke of Guise recovered a city that had been in possession of the English since the time of Edward the Third, and which he had spent eleven months in besieging. This loss filled the whole kingdom with murmurs, and the queen with despair; she was heard to say, that when dead, the name of Calais would be found engraven on her heart.

These complicated evils, a murmuring people, an encreasing heresy, a disdainful husband, and an un|successful war, made dreadful depredations on Mary's constitution. She began to appear consumptive, and this rendered her mind still more morose and bigotted. The people now therefore began to turn their thoughts to her successor; and the princess Elizabeth came into a greater degree of consideration than before.

Mary had been long in a very declining state of health; and having mistaken her dropsy for a preg|nancy, she made use of an improper regimen, which had encreased the disorder. Every reflection now tormented her. The consciousness of being hated by her subjects, and the prospect of Elizabeth's succession,

whom she hated; all these preyed upon her mind, and threw her into a lingering fever, of which she died, after a short and unfortunate reign of five years, four months, and eleven days, in the forty-third year of her age.

CHAP. XXVI. ELIZABETH.

NOTHING could exceed the joy that was diffused among the people upon the accession of Elizabeth,* 1.36 who now came to the throne without any opposition.

This favourite of the people, from the begining, resolved upon reforming the church; even while she was held in the constraints of a prison; and now upon coming to the crown, she immediately set about it. A parliament soon after completed what the prerogative had begun; act after act was passed in fa|vour of the reformation; and in a single session the form of religion was established as we at present have the happiness to enjoy it.

A state of permanent felicity is not to be expected here; and Mary Stuart, commonly called Mary queen of Scots, was the first person that excited the fears or the resentment of Elizabeth. Henry the seventh had married his eldest daughter, Margaret, to James, king of Scotland, who dying, left no issue that came to maturity except Mary, afterwards surnamed queen of Scots. At a very early age, this princess being pos|sessed of every accomplishment of person and mind, was married to Francis, the dauphin of France, who dying left her a widow at the age of nineteen. Upon the death of Francis, Mary, the widow, still seemed dis|posed to keep up the title; but finding herself exposed

to the persecutions of the dowager queen, who now began to take the lead in France, she returned home to Scotland, where she found the people strongly impressed with the gloomy enthusiasm of the times. A difference in religion between the sovereign and the people is ever productive of bad effects; since it is apt to produce contempt on the one side, and jealousy on the other. Mary could not avoid regarding the sour manners of the reformed clergy, who now bore sway among the Scotch, without a mixture of ridicule and hatred; while they, on the other hand, could not look tamely on the gaieties and levities which she introduced among them, without abhor|rence and resentment. The jealousy thus excited, began every day to grow stronger; the clergy waited only for some indiscretion in the queen to fly out into open opposition; and her indiscretion but too soon gave them sufficient opportunity.

Mary, upon her return, had married the earl of Darnley; but having been dazzled by the pleasing exterior of her new lover, she had entirely forgot to look to the accomplishments of his mind. Darnley was but a weak and ignorant man; violent yet variable in his enterprizes; insolent, yet credulous, and easily governed by flatterers. She soon therefore began to convert her admiration into disgust; and Darnley, enraged at her encreasing coldness, pointed his ven|geance against every person he supposed the cause of this change in her sentiments and behaviour.

There was then in the court one David Rizzio, the son of a musician at Turin, himself a musician, whom Mary took into her confidence. She consulted him on all occasions; no favours could be obtained but by his intercession, and all suitors were first obliged to gain Rizzio to their interests, by presents, or by flattery. It was easy to persuade a man of Darnley's jealous uxorious temper, that Rizzio was the person who had estranged the queen's affections

from him; and a surmise once conceived became to him a certainty. He soon therefore consulted with some lords of his party, who accompanying him into the queens' apartment, where Rizzio then was, they dragged him into the anti-chamber, where he was dispatched with fifty-six wounds; the unhappy princess continuing her lamentations, while they were perpetrating their horrid intent. Being informed however of his fate, Mary at once dried her tears, and said she would weep no more for she would now think of revenge.

She therefore concealed her resentment, and so far imposed upon Darnley, her husband, that he put himself under her protection, and soon after at|tended her to Edinburgh, where he was told the place would be favourable to his declining health. Mary lived in the palace of Holyrood-house; but as the situation of that place was low, and the con|course of persons about the court necessarily attend|ed with noise, which might disturb him in his pre|sent infirm state, she fitted up an apartment for him in a solitary house at some distance, called the Kirk of Field. Mary there gave him marks of kindness and attachment; she conversed cordially with him, and she lay some nights in a room under him. It was on the ninth of February that she told him she would pass that night in the palace, because the marriage of one of her servants was to be there celebrated in her presence. But dreadful consequences enfued. About two o'clock in the morning the whole city was much alarmed at hearing a great noise; the house in which Darnley lay was blown up with gunpowder. His dead body was found at some distance in a neighbouring field, but without any marks of violence or contusion. No doubt could be enter|tained but that Darnley was murdered; and the general suspicion fell upon Bothwell, a person lately taken into Mary's favour, as the perpetrator.

One crime led on to another; Bothwell, though accused of being stained with the husband's blood,

though universally odious to the people, had the confidence, while Mary was on her way to Stirling, on a visit to her son, to seize her at the head of a body of eight hundred horse, and to carry her to Dunbar, where he forced her to yield to his purposes. It was then thought by the people that the measure of his crimes was complete; and that he who was supposed to kill the queen's husband, and to have of|fered violence to her person, could expect no mercy; but they were astonished upon finding, instead of disgrace, that Bothwell was taken into more than former favour; and, to crown all, that he was mar|ried to Mary, having divorced his own wife to pro|cure this union.

This was a fatal alliance to Mary; and the people were now wound up by the complication of her guilt, to pay very little deference to her authority. An association was formed that took Mary prisoner, and sent her into confinement to the castle of Lochlevin, situated in a lake of that name, where she suffered all the severities of an unkind keeper, and an up|braiding conscience, with a feeling heart.

The calamities of the great, even though justly deserved, seldom fail of creating pity, and procuring friends. Mary, by her charms and promises, had engaged a young gentleman, whose name was George Douglas, to assist her in escaping from the place where she was confined: and this he effected, by conveying her in disguise in a small boat rowed by himself, a-shore. It was now that the news of her enlargement being spread abroad, all the loyalty of the people seemed to revive once more, and in a few days she saw herself at the head of six thousand men.

A battle was fought at Langside, near Glasgow, which was entirely decisive against her, and now being totally ruined, she fled southwards from the field of

battle with great precipitation;* 1.37 and came with a few attendants to the borders of England, where she hoped for protection from Elizabeth, who instead of protecting, ordered her to be put in confinement, yet treated her with all proper marks of respect.

She was accordingly sent to Tutbury castle, in the county of Stafford, where she was put under the custody of the earl of Shrewsbury; where she had hopes given her of one day coming into favour, and that unless her own obstinacy prevented, an ac|commodation might at last take place.

The duke of Norfolk was the only peer who en|joyed that highest title of nobility in England; and the qualities of his mind corresponded to his high station. Beneficent, affable, and generous, he had acquired the affections of the people; and yet from his moderation, he had never alarmed the jealousy of the sovereign. He was at this time a widower, and being of a suitable age to espouse the queen of Scots, her own attractions, as well as his interests, made him desirous of the match. Elizabeth however dreaded such an union, and the duke was soon after made prisoner and sent to the Tower. Upon his releasement from thence new projects were set on foot by the enemies of the queen and the reformed religion, secretly fomented by Rodol|phi, an instrument of the court of Rome, and the bishop of Ross, Mary's minister in England. It was concerted by them, that Norfolk should renew his de|signs upon Mary, and raise her to the throne, to which it is probablebe was prompted by passion as well as in|terest; and this nobleman entering into their schemes, he from being at first only ambitious, now became criminal. His servants were brought to make a full confession of their master's guilt; and the bishop of Ross soon after, finding the whole discovered, did not scruple to confirm their testimony. The duke

was instantly committed to the Tower, and ordered to prepare for his trial. A jury of twenty-five peers unanimously passed sentence upon him; and the queen four months after, reluctantly signed the warrant for his execution. He died with great calmness and constancy; and though he cleared himself of any dis|loyal intentions against the queen's authority, he ac|knowledged the justice of the sentence by which he suffered.

These conspiracies served to prepare the way for Mary's ruin, whose greatest misfortunes proceeded rather from the violence of her friends, than the ma|lignity of her enemies. Elizabeth's ministers had long been waiting for some signal instance of the cap|tive queen's enmity, which they could easily con|vert into treason; and this was not long wanting. About this time one John Ballard,* 1.38 a popish priest, who had been bred in the English seminary at Rheims, resolved to compass the death of a queen, whom he considered as the enemy of his religion; and with that gloomy resolution came over into England in the disguise of a soldier, with the assumed name of captain Fortescue. He bent his endeavours to bring about at once the project of an assassination, an insurrection, and an invasion. The first person he addressed himself to was Anthony Babington, of Dethick, in the county of Derby, a young gentleman of good family, and possessed of a very plentiful fortune. This person had been long remarkable for his zeal in the catholic cause, and in particular for his attachment to the cap|tive queen. He therefore came readily into the plot, and procured the concurrence and assistance of some other associates in this dangerous undertaking. The next step was to apprize Mary of the conspiracy formed in her favour, and this they effected by onveying their letters to her by means of a brewer that supplied the family with ale, through a chink in the wall of her apart|ment.

In these Babington informed her of a design laid for a foreign invasion, the plan of an insurrection at home, the scheme for her delivery, and the con|spiracy for assassinating the usurper by six noble gen|tlemen, as he termed them, all of them his private friends, who, from the zeal which they bore the catho|lic cause, and her majesty's service, would under|take the tragical execution. To these Mary replied, that she approved highly of the design; that the gentlemen might expect all the rewards which it should be ever in her power to confer; and that the death of Elizabeth was a necessary circumstance, previous to any further attempts, either for her delivery, or the intended insurrection.

The plot being thus ripe for execution, and the evidence against the conspirators incontestible, Wal|singham, who was privately informed of all, resolved to suspend their punishment no longer. A warrant was accordingly issued out for the apprehending of Babington, and the rest of the conspirators, who co|vered themselves with various disguises, and endea|voured to keep themselves concealed. But they were soon discovered, thrown into prison, and brought to trial. In their examination they contradicted each other, and the leaders were obliged to make a full confession of the truth. Fourteen were condemned and executed, seven of whom died acknowledging their crime.

The execution of these wretched men only pre|pared the way for one of still greater importance, in which a captive queen was to submit to the unjust de|cisions of those who had no right, but that of power, to condemn her.

Accordingly a commission was issued to forty peers, with five judges, or the major part of them, to try and pass sentence upon Mary, daughter and heir of James the Fifth, king of Scotland, commonly cal|led queen of Scots, and dowager of France.

* 1.39Thirty-six of these commissioners arriving at the castle of Fotheringay, presented her with a letter from Elizabeth, commanding her to submit to a trial for her late con|spiracy. The principal charge against her was urged by serjeant Gaudy, who accused her with knowing, approving, and consenting to Babington's conspiracy. This charge was supported by Babington's confession, and by the copies which were taken of their correspon|dence, in which her approbation of the queen's murd|er was expressly declared.

Whatever might have been this queen's offences, it is certain that her treatment was very severe. She desired to be put in possession of such notes as she had taken preparative to her trial; but this was re|fused her. She demanded a copy of her protest; but her request was not complied with; she even re|quired an advocate to plead her cause against so many learned lawyers, as had undertaken to urge her ac|cusations, but all her demands were rejected; and, after an adjournment of some days, sentence of death was pronounced against her in the Star-chamber in Westminster, all the commissioners, except two, be|ing present.

Whether Elizabeth was really sincere in her ap|parent reluctance to execute Mary, is a question which, though usually given against her, I will not take upon me to determine. Certainly there were great arts used by her courtiers to determine her to the side of severity; as they had every thing to fear from the resentment of Mary, in case she ever succeeded to the throne. Accordingly, the kingdom was now filled with rumours of plots, treasons, and insurrections; and the queen was continually kept in alarm by sic|titious dangers. She, therefore, appeared to be in great terror and perplexity; she was observed to sit much alone, and to mutter to herself half sentences, importing the difficulty and distress to which she was

reduced. In this situation, she one day called her secretary, Davison, whom she ordered to draw out secretly the warrant for Mary's execution, informing him, that she intended to keep it by her in case any attempt should be made for the delivery of that prin|cess. She signed the warrant, and then commanded it to be carried to the chancellor to have the seal af|fixed to it. Next morning, however, she sent two gentlemen successively to desire that Davison would not go to the chancellor, until she should see him, but Davison telling her that the warrant had been already sealed, she seemed displeased at his precipita|tion. Davison, who probably wished himself to see the sentence executed, laid the affair before the coun|cil, who unanimously resolved, that the warrant should be immediately put in execution, and promised to justify Davison to the queen. Accordingly, the fa|tal instrument was delivered to Beale, who summon|ed the noblemen to whom it was directed, namely, the earls of Shrewsbury, Derby, Kent, and Cum|berland, and these together set out for Fotheringay castle, accompanied by two executioners, to dispatch their bloody commission.

Mary heard of the arrival of her executioners, who ordered her to prepare for death by eight o'clock the next morning.

Early on the fatal morning she dressed herself in a rich habit of silk and velvet, the only one which she had reserved for this solemn occasion. Thomas Andrews, the under-sheriff of the county, then en|tering the room, he informed her that the hour was come, and that he must attend her to the place of execution. She replied, that she was ready; and bidding her servants farewell, she proceeded, sup|ported by two of her guards, and followed the sheriff, with a serene composed aspect, with a long veil of linen on her head, and in her hand a crucifix of ivory.

She then passed into another hall, the noblemen and the sheriff going before, and Melvil, her master of the household, bearing up her train; where was a scaffold erected and covered with black. As soon as she was seated, Beale began to read the warrant for her execution. Then Fletcher, dean of Peterbo|rough, standing without the rails, repeated a long exhortation, which she desired him to forbear, as she was firmly resolved to die in the catholic religion. The room was crowded with spectators, who beheld her with pity and distress, while her beauty, though dimmed by age and affliction, gleamed through her sufferings, and was still remarkable in this fatal mo|ment. The two executioners kneeling, and asking her pardon, she said she forgave them, and all the authors of her death, as freely as she hoped forgive|ness from her Maker, and then once more made a solemn protestation of her innocence. Her eyes were then covered with a linen handkerchief; and she laid herself down without any fear or trepidation. Then reciting a psalm, and repeating a pious ejaculation, her head was severed from her body at two strokes by the executioner. In contemplating the conten|tions of mankind, we find almost ever both sides culpable; Mary, who was stained with crimes that deserved punishment, was put to death by a princess who had no just pretensions to inflict punishment on her equal.

In the mean time Philip, king of Spain, who had long meditated the destruction of England, and whose extensive power gave him grounds to hope for success, now began to put his projects into execu|tion. The point on which he rested his glory, and the perpetual object of his schemes, was to support the catholic religion, and exterminate the reforma|tion. The revolt of his subjects in the Netherlands still more enflamed his resentment against the Eng|lish, as they had encouraged that insurrection, and

assisted the revolters. He had, therefore, for some time been making preparations to attack England by a powerful invasion; and now every part of his vast empire resounded with the noise of armaments, and every art was used to levy supplies for that great de|sign The marquis of Santa Croce, a sea officer of great reputation and experience, was destined to command the fleet, which consisted of an hundred and thirty vessels, of a greater size than any that had been hitherto seen in Europe. The duke of Parma was to conduct the land forces, twenty thousand of whom were on board the fleet, and thirty-four thou|sand more were assembled in the Netherlands, ready to be transported into England; no doubt was enter|tained of this fleet's success, and it was oftentatiously styled the Invincible Armada.

Nothing could exceed the terror and consternation which all ranks of people felt in England upon news of this terrible Armada being under sail to invade them.—A fleet of not above thirty ships of war, and those very small, in comparison, was all that was to oppose it by sea; and as for resisting by land, that was supposed to be impossible, as the Spanish army was composed of men well disciplined, and long en|ured to danger.

Although the English fleet was much inferior in number and size of shipping to that of the enemy, yet it was much more manageable, the dexterity and courage of the mariners being greatly superior. Lord Howard of Essingham, a man of great courage and capacity, as lord Admiral, took on him the com|mand of the navy. Drake, Hawkins, and Frobi|sher, the most renowned seamen in Europe, served under him; while a small squadron consisting of forty vessels, English and Flemish, commanded by lord Seymour, lay off Dunkirk, in order to inter|cept the duke of Parma. This was the preparation made by the English, while all the protestant powers

of Europe regarded this enterprize as the critical event which was to decide for ever the fate of their religion.

In the mean time, while the Spanish Armada was pre|paring to sail, the admiral Santa Croce died, as likewise the vice admiral Paliano; and the command of the ex|pedition was given to the duke de Medina Sidonia, a person utterly unexperienced in sea affairs; and this, in some measure, served to frustrate the design. But some other accidents also contributed to its fai|lure. Upon leaving the port of Lisbon, the Arma|da next day met with a violent tempest, which sunk some of the smallest of their shipping, and obliged the fleet to put back into harbour. After some time spent in refitting, they again put to sea; where they took a fisherman, who gave them intelligence that the English fleet, hearing of the dispersion of the Armada in a storm, was retired back into Plymouth harbour, and most of the mariners discharged. From this false intelligence, the Spanish admiral, instead of going directly to the coast of Flanders, to take in the troops stationed there, as he had been instructed, resolved to sail to Plymouth, and destroy the shipping laid up in that harbour. But Effingham the English admiral, was very well prepared to receive them; he was just got out of port when he saw the Spanish Armada coming full sail towards him, disposed in the form of an half moon, and stretching seven miles from one extremity to the other. However, the Eng|lish admiral, seconded by Drake, Hawkins, and Fro|bisher, attacked the Armada at a distance, pouring in their broadsides with admirable dexterity. They did not chuse to engage the enemy more closely, because they were greatly inferior in the num|ber of ships, guns, and weight of metal; nor could they pretend to board such lofty ships with|out manifest disadvantage. However, two Spa|nish galleons were disabled and taken. As the

Armada advanced up the Channel, the English still followed and infested their rear; and their fleet con|tinually encreasing from different ports, they soon found themselves in a capacity to attack the Spanish fleet more nearly; and accordingly fell upon them, while they were as yet taking shelter in the port of Calais. To encrease their confusion, Howard took eight of his smaller ships, and filling them with com|bustible materials, sent them, as if they had been fire ships, one after the other into the midst of the enemy. The Spaniards, taking them for what they seemed to be, immediately took flight in great dis|order; while the English, profiting by their panic, took or destroyed about twelve of the enemy.

This was a fatal blow to Spain; the duke de Me|dina Sidonia being thus driven to the coast of Zea|land, held a council of war, in which it was resolv|ed, that as their ammunition began to fail, as their ships had received great damage, and the duke of Parma had refused to venture his army under their protection, they should return to Spain by sailing round the Orkneys, as the winds were contrary to his passage directly back. Accordingly they pro|ceeded northward, and were followed by the Eng|lish fleet as far as Flamborough-head, where they were terribly shattered by a storm. Seventeen of the ships, having five thousand men on board, were af|terwards cast away upon the western isles, and the coast of Ireland. Of the whole Armada, three and fifty ships only returned to Spain, in a miserable condition; and the seamen as well as soldiers who remained, only served, by their accounts, to intimi|date their countrymen from attempting to renew so dangerous an expedition.

From being invaded, the English in their turn, attacked the Spaniards. Of those who made the most signal figure in the depredations upon Spain, was the young earl of Essex, a nobleman of great bravery, generosity, and genius; and fitted, not only for the foremost ranks

in war by his valour, but to conduct the intrigues of a court by his eloquence and address. In all the masques which were then performed, the earl and Elizabeth were generally coupled as partners; and although she was almost sixty, and he not half so old, yet her vanity overlooked the disparity; the world told her that she was young, and she herself was willing to think so. This young earl's interest in the queen's affections, as may naturally be sup|posed, promoted his interests in the state; and he conducted all things at his discretion. But young and unexperienced as he was, he at length began to fancy that the popularity he possessed, and the flatte|ries he received, were given to his merits, and not to his favour. In a debate before the queen, be|tween him and Burleigh, about the choice of a go|vernor for Ireland, he was so heated in the argu|ment, that he entirely forgot both the rules and du|ties of civility. He turned his back on the queen in a contemptuous manner, which so provoked her resentment, that she instantly gave him a box on the ear. Instead of recollecting himself, and making the submissions due to her sex and station, he clapped his hand to his sword; and swore he would not bear such usage even from her father. This offence, tho' very great, was overlooked by the queen; her par|tiality was so prevalent, that she re-instated him in her former favour, and her kindness seemed to have acquired new force from that short interruption of anger and resentment. The death also of his rival, lord Burleigh, which happened shortly after, seemed to confirm his power. At that time the earl of Ty|rone headed the rebellious natives of Ireland; who, not yet thoroughly brought into subjection to the English, took every opportunity to make incursions upon the more civilized inhabitants, and slew all they were able to overpower. To subdue these was an employment that Essex thought worthy of his

ambition; nor were his enemies displeased at thus removing a man from court, where he obstructed all their private aims of preferment. But it ended in his ruin.

Instead of attacking the enemy in their grand re|treat in Ulster, he led his forces into the province of Munster, where he only exhausted his strength, and lost his opportunity against a people that submitted at his approach, but took up arms again when he re|tired. This issue of an enterprize, from which much was expected, did not fail to provoke the queen most sensibly; and her anger was still more heightened by the peevish and impatient letters, which he daily wrote to her and the council. But her resentment against him was still more justly let loose, when she found, that leaving the place of his appointment, and without any permission demanded or obtained, he had returned from Ireland to make his complaints to herself in person.

Tho' Elizabeth was justly offended,* 1.40 yet he soon won upon her temper to pardon him. He was ordered to continue a prisoner in his own house till the queen's further pleasure should be known, and it is probable that the discretion of a few months might have reinstated him in all his former em|ployments; but the impetuosity of his character would not suffer him to wait for a slow redress of what he considered as wrongs; and the queen's refusing his request to continue him in the possession of a lucra|tive monopoly of sweet wines, which he had long enjoyed, spurred him on to the most violent and guilty measures. Having long built with fond cre|dulity on his great popularity, he began to hope, from the assistance of the giddy multitude, that re|venge upon his enemies in the council, which he supposed was denied him from the throne. His greatest dependence was upon the professions of the citizens of London, whose schemes of religion and

government he appeared entirely to approve; and while he gratified the Puritans by railing at the go|vernment of the church, he pleased the envious, by exposing the faults of those in power. Among other criminal projects, the result of blind rage and des|pair, it was resolved, that Sir Christopher Blount, one of his creatures, should, with a choice detach|ment, possess himself of the palace gates; that Sir John Davis should seize the hall, Sir Charles Davers the guard-chamber, while Essex himself should rush in from the Meuse, attended by a body of his parti|zans, into the queen's presence, entreat her to remove his and her enemies, to assemble a new parliament, and to correct the defects of the present administra|tion.

While Essex was deliberating upon the manner he should proceed, he received a private note, by which he was warned to provide for his own safety. He now, therefore, consulted with his friends touching the emergency of their situation; they were destitute of arms and ammunition, while the guards at the palace were doubled, so that any attack there would be fruitless. While he and his confidants were in consultation, a person, probably employed by his enemies, came in as a messenger from the citizens, with tenders of friendship and assistance against all his adversaries. Wild as the project was of raising the city, in the present terrible conjuncture it was resolved on, but the execution of it was delayed till the day following.

Early in the morning of the next day, he was at|tended by his friends, the earls of Rutland and Southampton, the lords Sandes, Parker, and Mount|eagle, with three hundred persons of distinction. The doors of Essex-house were immediately locked, to prevent all strangers from entering; and the earl now discovered his scheme for raising the city more fully to all the conspirators. In the mean time, Sir

Walter Raleigh sending a message to Sir Ferdinando Gorges, this officer had a conference with him in a boat on the Thames, and there discovered all their proceedings. The earl of Essex, who now saw that all was to be hazarded, resolved to leave his house, and to sally forth to make an insurrection in the city. But he had made a very wrong estimate in expecting that popularity alone could aid him in time of dan|ger; he issued out with about two hundred follow|ers, armed only with swords; and in his passage to the city was joined by the earl of Bedford and lord Cromwell. As he passed through the streets, he cried aloud, For the queen! for the queen! a plot is laid for my life! hoping to engage the populace to rise; but they had received orders from the may|or to keep within their houses; so that he was not joined by a single person. In this manner, attended by a few of his followers, the rest having privately retired, he made towards the river; and, taking a boat, arrived once more at Essex-house, where he be|gan to make preparations for his defence. But his case was too desperate for any remedy from valour; wherefore, after demanding in vain for hostages, and conditions from his besiegers, he surrendered at dis|cretion, requesting only civil treatment, and a fair and impartial hearing.

Essex and Southampton were immediately carried to the archbishop's palace at Lambeth, from whence they were next day conveyed to the Tower, and tried by their peers on the nineteenth of February following. Little could be urged in their defence; their guilt was too flagrant, and though it deserved pity it could not meet an acquittal. Essex after con|demnation was visited by that religious horror which seemed to attend him in all his disgraces. He was terrified almost to despair by the ghostly remonstran|ces of his own chaplain, he was reconciled to his enemies, and made a full confession of his conspira|cy.

It is alledged upon this occasion, that he had strong hopes of pardon, from the irresolution which the queen seemed to discover before she signed the warrant for his execution. She had given him for|merly a ring, which she desired him to send her in any emergency of this nature, and that it should pro|cure his safety and protection. This ring was actu|ally sent her by the countess of Nottingham, who, being a concealed enemy to the unfortunate earl, never delivered it; while Elizabeth was secretly fired at his obstinacy in making no applications for mercy and forgiveness. The fact is, she appeared herself as much an object of pity, as the unfortunate noble|man she was induced to condemn. She signed the warrant for his execution, she countermanded it, she again resolved on his death, and again felt a new return of tenderness. At last she gave her consent to his execution, and was never seen to enjoy one happy day more.

With the death of her favourite Essex, all Eliza|beth's pleasures seemed to expire; she afterwards went through the business of the state merely from habit, but her satisfactions were no more. Her di|stress was more than sufficient to destroy the remains of her constitution; and her end was now visibly seen to approach. Her voice soon after left her; she fell into a lethargic slumber, which continued some hours, and she expired gently without a groan, in the seventieth year of her age, and the forty-fifth of her reign. Her character differed with her circum|stances; in the beginning, she was moderate and humble; towards the end of her reign, haughty and severe. Though she was possessed of excellent sense, yet she never had the discernment to discover that she wanted beauty; and to flatter her charms at the age of sixty-five, was the surest road to her favour and esteem.

But whatever were her personal defects as a queen, she is to be ever remembered by the English with gra|titude. It is true, indeed, that she carried her prero|gative in parliament to its highest pitch; so that it was tacitly allowed in that assembly, that she was above all law, and could make and unmake them at her pleasure; yet still she was so wise and good, as seldom to exert that power which she claimed, and to enforce few acts of her prerogative, which were not for the benefit of her people. It is true, in like manner, that the English during her reign were put in possession of no new or splendid acquisitions; but commerce was daily growing up among them, and the people began to find that the theatre of their truest conquests was to be on the bosom of the ocean. A nation which hitherto had been the object of every invasion, and a prey to every plunderer, now asserted its strength in turn, and became terrible to its invaders. The suc|cessful voyages of the Spaniards and Portuguese, be|gan to excite their emulation; and they sitted out se|veral expeditions for discovering a shorter passage to the East-Indies. The famous Sir Walter Raleigh, without any assistance from government, colonized New England, while internal commerce was making equal improvements; and many Flemings, persecu|ted in their native country, found, together with their arts and industry, an easy asylum in England. Thus the whole island seemed as if rouzed from her long habits of barbarity; arts, commerce, and legislation began to acquire new strength every day; and such was the state of learning at that time, that some six that period as the Augustan age of England. Sir Walter Raleigh and Hooker are considered as among the first improvers of our language. Spenser and Shakespeare are too well known as poets to be praised here; but of all mankind Francis Bacon, lord Veru|lam, who flourished in this reign, deserves, as a philo|sopher, the highest applause; his style is copious and

correct, and his wit is only surpassed by his learning and penetration. If we look through history, and consider the rise of kingdoms, we shall scarce find an instance of a people, becoming, in so short a time, wise, powerful, and happy. Liberty, it is true, still continued to fluctuate; Elizabeth knew her own power, and stretched it to the very verge of despo|tism; but now that commerce was introduced, liber|ty soon after followed; for there never was a nation perfectly commercial, that submitted long to slavery.

CHAP. XXVII. JAMES I.

JAMES, the sixth of Scotland and the first of England, the son of Mary, came to the throne with the universal approbation of all orders of the state, as in his person were united every claim that either descent, bequest, or parliamentary sanction could confer. However, in the very beginning of his reign a conspiracy was set on foot, the particulars of which are but obscurely related. It is said to be be|gan by lord Grey, lord Cobham, and Sir Walter Ra|leigh, who were all condemned to die, but had their sentence mitigated by the king. Cobham and Grey were pardoned, after they had laid their heads on the block. Raleigh was reprieved, but remained in confinement many years afterwards, and at last suf|fered for this offence, which was never proved.

Mild as this monarch was in toleration, there was a project contrived in the very beginning of his reign for there-establishment of popery, which, were it not a fact known to all the world, could scarcely be credited by posterity. This was the gun-powder plot, than which a more horrid or terrible scheme never entered into the human heart to conceive.

The Roman catholics had expected great favour and indulgence on the accession of James, both as a descendant of Mary, a rigid catholic, and also as ha|ving shewn some partiality to that religion in his youth. But they soon discovered their mistake; and were at once surprised and enraged to find James on all occasions express his resolution of strictly exe|cuting the laws enacted against them, and of perse|vering in the conduct of his predecessor. This de|claration determined them upon more desperate mea|sures; and they at length formed a resolution of de|stroying the king and both houses of parliament at a blow. The scheme was first broached by Robert Catesby, a gentleman of good parts and ancient fami|ly, who conceived that a train of gun-powder might be so placed under the parliament house, as to blow up the king and all the members at once.

How horrid soever the contrivance might appear, yet every member seemed faithful and secret in the league; and about two months before the sitting of parliament, they hired a house in Percy's name, ad|joing to that in which the parliament was to assemble. Their first intention was to bore a way under the par|liament-house, from that which they occupied, and they set themselves laboriously to the task; but when they had pierced the wall which was three yards in thickness, on approaching the other side, they were surprised to find that the house was vaulted under|neath, and that a magazine of coals were usually de|posited there. From their disappointment on this ac|count they were soon relieved by information that the coals were then selling off, and that the vaults would then be let to the highest bidder. They therefore seized the opportunity of hiring the place, and bought the remaining quantity of coals with which it was then stored, as if for their own use. The next thing done was to convey thither thirty-six barrels of gun-powder, which had been purchased in Holland; and

the whole was covered with the coals and with faggots brought for that purpose. Then the doors of the cellar were boldly flung open, and every body admit|ted, as if it contained nothing dangerous.

Confident of success, they now began to plan the remaining part of their project. The king, the queen, and prince Henry, the king's eldest son, were all expected to be present at the opening of the parliament. The king's second son, by reason of his tender age, would be absent, and it was resolv|ed that Percy should seize, or assassinate him. The princess Elizabeth, a child likewise, was kept at lord Harrington's house in Warwickshire; and Sir Everard Digby was to seize her, and immediately proclaim her queen.

The day for the sitting of parliament now ap|proached. Never was treason more secret, or ruin more apparently inevitable; the hour was expected with impatience, and the conspirators gloried in their meditated guilt. The dreadful secret, though com|municated to above twenty persons, had been religi|ously kept during the space of near a year and a half; when all the motives of pity, justice, and safety, were too weak, a remorse of private friendship saved the kingdom.

Sir Henry Percy, one of the conspirators, conceiv|ed a design of saving the life of lord Mounteagle, his intimate friend and companion, who also was of the same persuasion with himself. About ten days be|fore the meeting of parliament, this nobleman, upon his return to town, received a letter from a person unknown, and delivered by one who fled as soon as he had discharged his message. The letter was to this effect, "My lord, stay away from this parlia|ment; for God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of the times. And think not slight|ly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country, where you may expect the event in safety.

For though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they will receive a terrible blow this parliament; and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This council is not to be contemned, because it may do you good, and can do you no harm. For the dan|ger is past as soon as you have burned the letter."

The contents of this mysterious letter surprized and puzzled the nobleman to whom it was addressed; and though inclined to think it a foolish attempt to affright and ridicule him, yet he judged it safest to carry it to lord Salisbury, secretary of state. Lord Salisbury too was inclined to give little attention to it, yet thought proper to lay it before the king in council, who came to town a few days after. None of the council were able to make any thing of it, al|though it appeared serious and alarming. In this uni|versal agitation between doubt and apprehension, the king was the first who penetrated the meaning of this dark epistle. He concluded that some sudden danger was preparing by gun-powder; and it was thought adviseable to inspect all the vaults below the houses of parliament. This care belonged to the earl of Suffolk, lord chamberlain, who purposely delayed the search,* 1.41 till the day before the meeting of par|liament. He remarked those great piles of fag|gots which lay in the vault under the house of Peers, and seized a man preparing for the terrible en|terprise, dressed in a cloak and boots, and a dark lan|thorn in his hand. This was no other than Guy Fawkes, who had just disposed every part of the train for its taking fire the next morning, the matches and other combustibles being found in his pockets. The whole of the design was now discovered; but the atrociousness of his guilt, and the despair of pardon, inspiring him with resolution, he told the officers of justice, with an undaunted air, that had he blown them and him|self up together he had been happy. Before the

council, he displayed the same intrepid firmness, mixed even with scorn and disdain, refusing to dis|cover his associates, and shewing no concern but for the failure of his enterprize. But his bold spirit was at length subdued; being confined to the Tower for two or three days, and the rack just shewn him, his courage, fatigued with so long an effort, at last failed him, and he made a full discovery of all his accom|plices.

Catesby, Percy, and the conspirators who were in London, hearing that Fawkes was arrested, fled with all speed to Warwickshire, where Sir Everard Digby, relying on the success of the plot, was alrea|dy in arms. But the country soon began to take the alarm, and wherever they turned, they found a supe|rior force ready to oppose them. In this exigence, beset on all sides, they resolved, to about the num|ber of eighty persons, to fly no farther, but make a stand at an house in Warwickshire, to defend it to the last, and sell their lives as dearly as possible. But even this miserable consolation was denied them: a spark of fire happening to fall among some gun-pow|der that was laid to dry, it blew up, and so maimed the principal conspirators, that the survivors resolved to open the gate, and sally out against the multi|tude that surrounded the house. Some were instantly cut to pieces; Catesby, Percy, and Winter, standing back to back, fought long and desperately, till in the end the two first fell covered with wounds, and Winter was taken alive. Those that survived the slaughter were tried and convicted; several fell by the hands of the executioner, and others experienced the king's mercy. The Jesuits, Garnet and Oldcorn, who were privy to the plot, suffered with the rest; and, notwith|standing the atrociousness of their treason, Garnet was considered by his party as a martyr, and miracles were said to have been wrought by his blood.

The sagacity with which the king first discovered the plot,* 1.42 raised the opinion of his wisdom among the people; the folly with which he gave himself up to his fa|vourites quickly undeceived the nation. In the first rank of these stood Robert Carre, a youth of a good family in Scotland, who, after having passed some time in his travels, arrived in London, at about twenty years of age. All his natural accomplishments con|sisted in a pleasing visage; all his acquired abilities, in an easy and graceful demeanor. This youth was soon considered as the most rising man at court; he was knighted, created viscount Rochester, honoured with the order of the garter, made a privy-counsellor; and, to raise him to the highest pitch of honour, he was at last created earl of Somerset.

This was an advancement which some regarded with envy; but the wiser part of mankind looked upon it with contempt and ridicule, sensible that un|grounded attachments are seldom of long continu|ance. Some time after being accused and convicted from private motives of poisoning Sir Thomas Over|bury in the Tower, he fell under the king's displea|sure, and being driven from court, spent the remain|der of his life in contempt and self-conviction.

But the king had not been so improvident as to part with one favourite until he had provided himself with another. This was George Villiers, a youth of one and twenty, a younger brother of a good family, who was returned about that time from his travels, and whom the enemies of Somerset had taken occasion to throw in the king's way, certain that his beauty and fashionable manners would do the rest. Accordingly he had been placed at a comedy full in the king's view, and immediately caught the monarch's af|fections.

In the course of a few years he created him vis|count Villiers, earl, marquis, and duke of Bucking|ham,

knight of the garter, master of the horse, chief justice in eyre, warden of the cinque ports, master of the king's bench office, steward of Westminster, con|stable of Windsor, and lord high admiral of England.

The universal murmur which these foolish attach|ments produced, was soon after heightened by an act of severity, which still continues as the blackest stain upon this monarch's memory. The brave and learn|ed Raleigh had been confined in the Tower almost from the very beginning of James's accession, for a conspiracy which had never been proved against him; and in that abode of wretchedness he wrote several va|luable performances, which are still in the highest es|teem. His long sufferings, and his ingenious wri|tings, had now turned the tide of popular opinion in his favour; and they who once detested the enemy of Essex, could not now help pitying the long captivity of this philosophical soldier. He himself still struggled for freedom; and perhaps it was with this desire that he spread the report of his having discovered a gold mine in Guiana, which was sufficient to enrich, not only the adventurers who should seize it, but afford immense treasures to the nation. The king, either believing his assertions, or willing to subject him to further disgrace, granted him a commission to try his fortune in quest of these golden schemes; but still reserved his former sentence as a check upon his future behaviour.

Raleigh was not long in making preparations for this adventure, which, from the sanguine manner in which he carried it on, many believe he thought to be as promising as he described it. He bent his course to Guiana, and remaining himself at the mouth of the river Oroonoco, with five of the largest ships, he sent the rest up the stream, under the command of his son and of captain Keymis, a person entirely devoted to his interests. But instead of a country abounding in gold, as the adventurers were taught

to expect, they found the Spaniards had been warned of their approach, and were prepared in arms to re|ceive them. Young Raleigh, to encourage his men, called out that "This was the true mine," meaning the town of St. Thomas, which he was approaching; "and that none but fools looked for any other:" but just as he was speaking, he received a shot, of which he immediately expired. This was followed by an|other disappointment, for when the English took pos|session of the town, they found nothing in it of any value.

Raleigh, in this forlorn situation, found now that all his hopes were over; but saw his misfortunes still farther aggravated by the reproaches of those whom he had undertaken to command. Nothing could be more deplorable than his situation, particularly when he was told that he must be carried back to England to answer for his conduct to the king. It is pretended that he employed many artifices, first to engage them to attack the Spanish settlements at a time of peace; and failing of that, to make his escape into France. But all these proving unsuccessful, he was delivered into the king's hands, and strictly examined, as well as his fellow adventurers, before the privy-council. Count Gondemar, the Spanish ambassador, made heavy complaints against the expedition; and the king de|clared that Raleigh had express orders to avoid all disputes and hostilities against the Spaniards. Where|fore, to give the court of Spain a particular instance of his attachment, he signed the warrant for his ex|ecution, not for the present offence, but for his for|mer conspiracy. This great man died with the same fortitude that he had testified through life; he ob|served, as he felt the edge of the ax, that it was a sharp but a sure remedy for all evils; his harangue to the people was calm and eloquent; and he laid his head down on the block with the utmost in••if|ference.

But there soon appeared very apparent reasons for James's partiality to the court of Spain.* 1.43 This monarch had entertained an opinion which was peculiar to him|self, that in marrying his son Charles, the prince of Wales, any alliance below that of royalty would be unworthy of him; he therefore was obliged to seek, either in the court of France or Spain, a suitable match, and he was taught to think of the lat|ter. Gondemar, who was ambassador from that court, perceiving this weak monarch's partiality to a crowned head, made an offer of the second daugh|ter of Spain to prince Charles; and that he might render the temptation irresistible, he gave hopes of an immense fortune which should attend the prin|cess. However, this was a negotiation that was not likely soon to be ended; and from the time the idea was first started, James saw five years elapsed without bringing the treaty to any kind of conclu|sion.

A delay of this kind was very displeasing to the king, who had all along an eye on the great fortune of the princess; nor was it less disagreeable to prince Charles, who, bred up with ideas of romantic passion, was in love without ever seeing the object of his af|fections. In this general tedium of delay, a project entered the head of Villiers, who had for some years ruled the king with absolute authority, that was fitter to be conceived by the knight of a romance, than by a minister and a statesman. It was projected that the prince should himself travel in disguise into Spain, and visit the princess of that country in person. Buck|ingham, who wanted to ingratiate himself with the prince, offered to be his companion; and the king, whose business it was to check so wild a scheme, gave his consent to this hopeful proposal. Their adven|tures on this strange project could fill novels; and have actually been made the subject of many. Charles

was the knight-errant, and Buckingham was his 'squire. The match however broke off, for what reason historians do not assign; but if we may cre|dit the novelists of that time, the prince had already fixed his affections upon the daughter of Henry IV. of France, whom he married shortly after.

It may easily be supposed that these mismanage|ments were seen and felt by the people. The house of commons was by this time become quite unma|nageable; the prodigality of James to his favourites, had made his necessities so many, that he was con|tented to sell the different branches of his preroga|tive to the commons, one after the other, to pro|cure supplies. In proportion as they perceived his wants, they found out new grievances; and every grant of money was sure to come with a petition for redress. The struggles between him and his parlia|ment had been growing more and more violent every session; and the very last advanced their pretensions to such a degree, that he began to take the alarm; but these evils fell upon the successor, which the weak|ness of this monarch had contributed to give birth to.

These domestic troubles were attended by others still more important in Germany, and which pro|duced in the end the most dangerous effects. The king's eldest daughter had been married to Frederic, the elector Palatine of Germany, and this prince re|volting against the emperor Ferdinand the Second, was defeated in a decisive battle, and obliged to take refuge in Holland. His affinity to the English crown, his misfortunes, but particularly the protestant reli|gion, for which he had contended, were strong mo|tives for the people of England to wish well to his cause; and frequent addresses were sent from the commons to spur up James to take a part in the German contest, and to replace the exiled prince upon the throne of his ancestors. James at first attempted

to ward off the misfortunes of his son-in-law by negotiations;* 1.44 but these proving ut|terly ineffectual, it was resolved at last to rescue the Palatinate from the emperor by force of arms. Accordingly war was declared a|gainst Spain and the emperor; six thousand men were sent over into Holland, to assist prince Maurice in his schemes against those powers; the people were every where elated at the courage of their king, and were satisfied with any war which was to exterminate the papists. This army was followed by another consisting of twelve thousand men, commanded by count Mansfeldt; and the court of France promised its assistance. But the English were disappointed in all their views: the troops being embarked at Do|ver, upon sailing to Calais, they found no orders for their admission. After waiting in vain for some time, they were obliged to sail towards Zealand, where no proper measures were yet consulted for their disembarkation. Mean while, a pestilential dis|temper crept in among the forces, so long cooped up in narrow vessels; half the army died while on board, and the other half, weakened by sickness, appeared too small a body to march into the Palati|nate; and thus ended this ill-concerted and fruitless expedition.

Whether this misfortune had any effect upon James's constitution is uncertain;* 1.45 but he was soon after seized with a tertian ague, which, when his courtiers assured him from the proverb that it was health for a king, he replied, that the proverb was meant for a young king. After some sits he found himself extremely weakened, and sent for the prince, whom he exhort|ed to persevere in the protestant religion; then pre|paring with decency and courage to meet his end, he expired, after a reign over England of twenty-two years, and in the fifty-ninth year of his age.

CHAP. XXVIII. CHARLES I.

FEW princes ever ascended a throne with more apparent advantages than Charles;* 1.46 and none ever encountered more real difficulties.

Indeed, he undertook the reins of government with a fixed persuasion that his popularity was sufficient to carry every measure. He had been loaded with a treaty for defending the prince Palatine his brother-in-law in the late reign; and the war declared for that purpose was to be carried on with vigour in this. But war was more easily declared than sup|plies granted. After some reluctance the commons voted him two subsidies; a sum far from being suffi|cient to support him in his intended equipment.

To supply the want of parliamentary aids, Charles had recourse to some of the ancient methods of ex|tortion, practised by sovereigns when in necessitous circumstances. That kind of tax called a benevo|lence was ordered to be exacted, and privy seals were issued accordingly. With this the people were oblig|ed, though reluctantly, to comply; it was in fact authorised by many precedents; but no precedents whatsoever could give a sanction to injustice.

After an ineffectual expedition to Cadiz, another attempt was made to obtain supplies in a more re|gular and constitutional manner than before. Ano|ther parliament was accordingly called; and though some steps were taken to exclude the more popular leaders of the last house of commons, by nominating them as sheriffs of counties, yet the present parlia|ment seemed more refractory than the former. When the king laid before the house his necessities, and

asked for a supply, they voted him only three subsi|dies, which amounted to about an hundred and six|ty thousand pounds; a sum no way adequate to the importance of the war, or the necessities of the state. In order, therefore, to gain a sufficient supply, a commission was openly granted to compound with the catholics, and agree for a dispensation of the pe|nal laws against them. He borrowed a sum of money from the nobility, whose contributions came in but slowly. But the greatest stretch of his power was in the levying of ship-money. In order to equip a fleet (at least this was the pretence made) each of the ma|ritime towns was required, with the assistance of the adjacent counties, to arm as many vessels as were appointed them. The city of London was rated at twenty ships. This was the commencement of a tax, which afterwards, being carried to such violent lengths, created such great discontents in the na|tion.

War being soon after declared against France, a fleet was sent out, under the command of Bucking|ham, to relieve Rochelle, a maritime town in that kingdom, that had long enjoyed its privileges inde|pendent of the French king; but that had for some years embraced the reformed religion, and now was besieged with a formidable army. This expedition was as unfortunate as that to the coasts of Spain. The duke's measures were so ill concerted, that the inhabitants of the city shut their gates, and refused to admit allies, of whose coming they were not pre|viously informed. Instead of attacking the island of Oleron, which was fertile and defenceless, he bent his course to the Isle of Rhé, which was garrisoned, and well fortified. He attempted there to starve out the garrison of St. Martin's castle, which was plen|tifully supplied with provisions by sea. By that time the French had landed their so••ces privately at ano|ther part of the island; so that Buckingham was at

last obliged to retreat, but with such precipitation, that two-thirds of his army were cut in pieces before he could reimbark, though he was the last man of the whole army that quitted the shore. This proof of his personal courage, however, was but a small sub|ject of consolation for the disgrace which his country had sustained, for his own person would have been the last they would have regretted.

The contest between the king and the commons every day grew warmer. The officers of the custom-house were summoned before the commons, to give an account by what authority they seized the goods of the merchants, who had refused to pay the duty of tonnage and poundage, which they alledged was levied without the sanction of a law. The barons of the Exchequer were questioned concerning their de|crees on that head; and the sheriff of London was committed to the Tower for his activity ••n supporting the custom-house officers. These were bold mea|sures; but the commons went still farther, by a re|solution to examine into religious grievances, and a new spirit of intolerance began to appear.* 1.47 The king, therefore, resolved to dissolve a parliament, which he found himself unable to manage; and Sir John Finch, the speak|er, just as the question concerning tonnage and poundage was going to be put, rose up, and inform|ed the house that had a command from the king to adjourn.

The house upon this was in an uproar; the speak|er was pushed back into his chair, and forcibly held in it by Hollis and Valentine, till a short remon|strance was framed, and passed by acclamation rather than vote. In this hasty production, Papists and Ar|minians were declared capital enemies to the state. Tonnage and poundage was condemned as contrary to law; and not only those who raised that duty, but

those who paid it, were considered as guilty of capi|tal crimes

In consequence of this violent procedure, Sir Miles Hobart, Sir Peter Heyman, Selden, Coriton, Long, and Strode, were, by the king's order, committed to prison, under pretence of sedition. But the same temerity that impelled Charles to imprison them, in|duced him to grant them a release. Sir John Elliot, Hollis, and Valentine, were summoned before the King's Bench: but they refusing to appear before an inferior tribunal, for faults committed in a superior, they were condemned to be imprisoned during the king's pleasure, to pay a fine, the two former of a thousand pounds each, and the latter of five hundred, and to find sureties for their good behaviour. The members triumphed in their sufferings, while they had the whole kingdom as spectators and applauders of their fortitude.

In the mean time, while the king was thus distres|sed by the obstinacy of the commons, he felt a much severer blow in the death of his favourite, the duke of Buckingham, who fell a sacrifice to his unpopularity. It had been resolved once more to undertake the raising of the siege of Rochelle; and the earl of Denbigh, brother-in-law to Buckingham, was sent thither, but returned without effecting any thing. In order to repair this disgrace, the duke of Buckingham went in person to Portsmouth to hurry on another expedi|tion, and to punish such as had endeavoured to de|fraud the crown of the legal assessments. In the ge|neral discontent that prevailed against this nobleman, it was daily expected that some severe measures would be resolved on; and he was stigmatized as the tyrant and the betrayer of his country. There was one Felton, who caught the general con|tagion; an Irishman of a good family, who had serv|ed under the duke as lieutenant, but had resigned, on being refused his rank on the death of his captain,

[figure]

Villiers Duke of Buckingham kill'd by Felton.

Isaac Taylor del. et sculp.

Published by G. Kearsley in Fleet Street, as the Act directs. July ••^d 1774.

who had been killed at the Isle of Rhé. This man was naturally melancholy, courageous, and enthu|siastic; he felt for his country, as if labouring under a calamity which he thought it in the power of his single arm to remove. He therefore resolved to kill the duke, and thus revenge his own private injuries, while he did service also to God and man. Ani|mated in this manner with gloomy zeal, and mistaken patriotism, he travelled down to Portsmouth alone, and entered the town while the duke was surrounded by his levee, and giving out the necessary orders for embarkation. While he was speaking to one of his colonels, Felton struck him over an officer's shoul|der in the breast with his knife. The duke had only time to say,

"The villain has killed me,"

when he fell at the colonel's feet, and instantly expired. No one had seen the blow, nor the person who gave it; but an hat being picked up, on the inside of which was sewed a paper, containing four or five lines of the remonstrance of the commons against the duke, it was concluded that this hat must be|long to the assassin; and while they were employed in conjectures whose it should be, a man without an hat, was seen walking very composedly before the door, and was heard to cry out, I am he. He dis|dained denying a murder in which he gloried; and averred, that he looked upon the duke as an enemy to his country, and as such deserving to suffer. When asked at whose instigation he had performed that horrid deed? he answered, that they need not trouble themselves in that enquiry; that his consci|ence was his only prompter, and that no man on earth could dispose him to act against its dictates. He suffered with the same degree of constancy to the last; nor were there many wanting who admired not only his fortitude, but the action for which he suffered.

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The king's first measure, now being left without a minister and a parliament,* 1.48 was a prudent one. He made peace with the two crownst against whom he had hitherto waged war, which had been entered upon without ne|cessity, and conducted without glory. Being freed from these embarrassments, he bent his whole atten|tion to the management of the internal policy of the kingdom, and took two men as his associates in this task, who still acted an under part to himself. These were Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards created earl of Strafford; and Laud, afterwards archbishop of Canterbury.

While Laud, therefore, during this long interval, ruled the church, the king and Strafford undertook to manage the temporal interests of the nation. A declaration was dispersed, implying, that during this reign no more parliaments would be summoned; and every measure of the king but too well served to con|firm the suspicion.

Tonnage and poundage were continued to be le|vied by royal authority alone: custom-house officers received orders from the council to enter any house whatever, in search of suspected goods: composi|tions were openly made with papists; and their reli|gion was become a regular part of the revenue. The high commission court of Star-chamber exercised its power, independant of any law, upon several bold innovators in liberty, who only gloried in their suf|ferings, and contributed to render government odi|ous and contemptible. Prynne, a barrister of Lin|coln's inn, Burton, a divine, and Bastwick, a phy|sician, were tried before this tribunal for schismati|cal libels, in which they attacked, with great severi|ty and intemperate zeal, the ceremonies of the church of England. They were condemned to be pilloried, to lose their ears, and to pay five thousand pounds to the king.

Every year, every month, every day, gave fresh instances, during this long intermission of parlia|ments, of the resolutions of the court to throw them off for ever: but the levying of ship-money, as it was called, being a general burthen, was universally complained of as a national grievance. This was a tax which had, in former reigns, been levied with|out the consent of parliament; but then the exigency of the state demanded such a supply. John Ham|den, a gentleman of fortune in Buckinghamshire, refused to comply with the tax, and resolved to bring it to a legal determination. He had been rated at twenty-shillings for his estate, which he refused to pay; and the case was argued twelve days in the Ex|chequer chamber, before all the judges of England. The nation regarded, with the utmost anxiety, the result of a trial that was to fix the limits of the king's power. All the judges, four only excepted, gave sentence in favour of the crown; while Hamden, who lost his cause, was more than sufficiently recom|pensed by the applauses of the people.

The discontent and opposition which the king met with in maintaining episcopacy among his English sub|j••cts might, one would think, hinder him from at|tempting to introduce it among those of Scotland, where it was generally hateful. Having published an order for reading the liturgy in the principal church in Edinburgh, the people received it with clamours and imprecations. The seditious disposi|tion in that kingdom, which had hitherto been kept within bounds, was now too furious for restraint, and the insurrection became general over all the country, and the Scotch flew to arms with great ani|mosity.

Yet still the king could not think of desisting from his design; and so prepossessed was he in favour of royal right, that he thought the very name of king, when forcibly urged, would induce them to return

to their duty. Instead therefore of fighting with his opponents, he entered upon a treaty with them; so that a suspension of arms was soon agreed upon, and a treaty of peace concluded, which neither side in|tended to observe; and then both parties agreed to disband their forces. After much altercation, and many treaties signed and broken, both parties once more had recourse to arms, and nothing but blood could satiate the contenders.

War being thus resolved on, the king took every method as before for raising money to support it. Ship-money was levied as usual; some other arbitrary taxes were exacted from the reluctant people with great severity; but these were far from being suffi|cient; and there now remained only one method more, the long neglected method of a parliamentary supply.

The new house of commons, however, could not be induced to treat the Scotch, who were of the same principles with themselves, and contending against the same ceremonies, as enemies to the state. They regarded them as friends and brothers, who first rose to teach them a duty it was incumbent on all virtuous minds to imitate. The king, therefore, could reap no o|ther fruits from this assembly than murmurings and complaints. Every method he had taken to supply himself with money was declared an abuse, and a breach of the constitution. The king, therefore, finding no hopes of a compliance with his request, but recrimination instead of redress, once more dissolved the parliament, to try more feasible methods of re|moving his necessities.

His necessities however continuing, that parlia|ment was called, which did not cease sitting till they overturned the constitution. Without any interval, they entered upon business; and by unanimous con|sent they struck a blow that might be regarded as decisive. Instead of granting the demanded subsi|dies,

they impeached the earl of Strafford, the king's first minister, and had him arraigned before the house of peers for high treason. After a long and eloquent speech, delivered without premeditation, in which he confuted all the accusations of his enemies, he was found guilty by both houses of parliament; and nothing remained but for the king to give his consent to the bill of attainder. Charles, who loved Strafford tenderly, hesitated, and seemed reluctant, trying every expedient to put off so dread|ful a duty, as that of signing the warrant for his exe|cution. While he continued in this agitation of mind, not knowing how to act, his doubts were at last silenced by an act of heroic bravery in the con|demned lord. He received a letter from that unfor|tunate nobleman, desiring that his life might be made the sacrifice of a mutual reconciliation between the king and his people; adding, that he was pre|pared to die, and to a willing mind there could be no injury. This instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his re|quest. He consented to the signing the fatal bill by commission; Strafford was beheaded on Tower-hill, behaving with all that composed dignity of resolution that was expected from his character.

In this universal rage for punishment, the parlia|ment fell with great justice on two courts, which had been erected under arbitrary kings, and had seldom been employed but in cases of necessity. These were, the High-commission court, and the court of Star-chamber. A bill unanimously passed the houses to abolish both; and in them to annihilate the principal and most dangerous articles in the king's prerogative.

In the midst of these troubles, the papists of Ire|land fancied they found a convenient opportunity of throwing off the English yoke, and accordingly re|solved to cut off all the protestants of the kingdom at a stroke; so that neither age, sex, or condition, re|ceived

any pity. In such indiscriminate slaughter, neither former benefits, nor alliances, nor authority, were any protection: numberless were the instances of friends murdering their intimates, relations their kinsmen, and servants their masters. In vain did flight save from the first assault; destruction, that had an extensive spread, met the hunted victims at every turn.

The king took all the precautions in his power to shew his utter detestation of these bloody proceed|ings; and being sensible of his own inability to sup|press the rebellion, had once more recourse to his English parliament, and craved their assistance for a supply. But here he found no hopes of assistance; many insinuations were thrown out that he had him|self fomented this rebellion, and no money could be spared for the extinction of distant dangers, when they pretended that the kingdom was threatened with greater at home.

It was now that the republican spirit began to ap|pear without any disguise in the present parliament; and that party, instead of attacking the faults of the king, resolved to destroy monarchy.

The leaders of the opposition began their opera|tions by a resolution to attack episcopacy, which was one of the strongest bulwarks of the royal power.* 1.49 They accused thirteen bi|shops of high treason, for enacting canons without the consent of parliament; and en|deavoured to prevail upon the house of peers to ex|clude all the prelates from their seats and votes in that august assembly. The bishops saw the storm that was gathering against them; and, probably, to avert its effects, they resolved to attend their duty in the house of lords no longer.

This was a fatal blow to the royal interest; but it soon felt a much greater from the king's own impru|dence. Charles had long suppressed his resentment,

and only strove to satisfy the commons by the great|ness of his concessions; but finding that all his com|pliance had but encreased their demands, he could no longer contain. He gave orders to Herbert, his attorney-general, to enter an accusation of high trea|son in the house of peers against lord Kimbolton, one of the most popular men of his party, together with five commoners, Sir Arthur Haslerig, Hollis, Hambden, Pym, and Strode. The articles were, that they had traiterously endeavoured to subvert the fundamental laws and government of the kingdom; to deprive the king of his regal power, and to im|pose on his subjects an arbitrary and tyrannical authority. Men had scarce leisure to wonder at the precipitancy and imprudence of this im|peachment, when they were astonished by another measure, still more rash and more unsupported. The next day the king himself was seen to enter the house of commons alone, advancing through the hall, while all the members stood up to receive him. The speaker withdrew from his chair, and the king took possession of it. Having seated himself, and looked round him for some time, he told the house that he was sorry for the occasion that forced him thither, that he was come in person to seize the members, whom he had accused of high treason, seeing they would not deliver them up to his serjeant at arms. He then sate for some time to see if the accused were present; but they had escaped a few minutes before his entry. Thus disappointed, per|plexed, and not knowing on whom to rely, he next proceeded, amidst the clamours of the populace, who continued to cry out, "Privilege! privilege!" to the common council of the city, and made his complaint to them. The common council only an|swered his complaints with a contemptuous silence; and on his return, one of the populace, more inso|lent than the rest, cried out,

"To your tents, O

Israel!"

a watch word among the Jews, when they intended to abandon their princes.

Being returned to Windsor, he began to reflect on the rashness of his former proceedings; and now too late resolved to make some atonement. He there|fore wrote to the parliament, informing them, that he desisted from his former proceedings against the accused members; and assured them, that upon all occasions he would be as careful of their privileges as of his life or his crown. Thus his former vio|lence had rendered him hateful to his commons, and his present submission now rendered him contempti|ble.

The power of appointing generals and levying ar|mies was still a remaining prerogative of the crown. The commons having, therefore, first magnified their terrors of popery, which perhaps they actually dreaded, they proceeded to petition that the Tower might be put into their hands, and that Hull, Ports|mouth, and the fleet, should be intrusted to persons of their chusing. These were requests, the comply|ing with which levelled all that remained of the an|cient constitution; however, such was the necessity of the times, that they were at first contested, and then granted. At last, every compliance only en|creasing the avidity of making fresh demands, the commons desired to have a militia, raised and go|verned by such officers and commanders as they should nominate, under pretext of securing them from the Irish papists, of whom they were in great apprehensions.

It was here that Charles first ventured to put a stop to his concessions, and being urged to give up the command of the army for an appointed time, he was so exasperated, that he exclaimed, "No, not for an hour." This peremptory refusal broke off all further treaty; and both sides were now resolved to have re|course to arms.

No period since England began could shew so many instances of courage,* 1.50 abili|ties, and virtue, as the present fatal oppo|sition called forth into exertion. Now was the time when talents of all kinds, unchecked by authority, were called from the lower ranks of life to dispute for power and pre-eminence.

Manifestoes on the one side and the other were now dispersed throughout the whole king|dom; and the people were universally divid|ed between two factions, distinguished by the names of Cavaliers and Roundheads. The king's forces appeared in a very low condition; besides the train-bands of the county, raised by Sir John Digby, the sheriff, he had not got together three hundred infantry. His cavalry, which composed his chief strength, exceeded not eight hundred, and were very ill provided with arms. However, he was soon gra|dually reinforced from all quarters; but not being then in a condition to face his enemies, he thought it prudent to retire by slow marches to Derby, and thence to Shrewsbury, in order to countenance the levies which his friends were making in those quar|ters.

In the mean time, the parliament were not remiss in preparations on their side. They had a magazine of arms at Hull, and Sir John Hotham was appoint|ed governor of that place by parliament. The forces also, which had been every where raised on pretence of the service of Ireland, were now more openly en|listed by the parliament for their own purposes; and the command given to the earl of Essex, a bold man, who rather desired to see monarchy abridged, than totally destroyed, and in London, no less than four thousand men were enlisted in one day.

Edge-Hill was the first place where the two armies were put in array against each other, and the coun|try drenched in civil slaughter. It was a dreadful

sight, to see above thirty thousand of the bravest men in the world, instead of employing their courage a|broad, turning it against each other, while the dear|est friends, and nearest kinsmen, embraced opposite sides, and prepared to bury their private regards in factious hatred. After an engagement of some hours, animosity seemed to be wearied out, and both sides separated with equal loss. Five thousand men are said to have been found dead on the field of battle.

It would be tedious, and no way instructive, to enter into the marchings and countermarchings of these undisciplined and ill conducted armies: war was a new trade to the English, as they had not seen an hostile engagement in the island for near a cen|tury before. The queen came to re-inforce the royal party; she had brought soldiers and ammunition from Holland, and immediately departed to furnish more. But the parliament, who knew its own con|sequence and strength, was no way discouraged. Their demands seemed to encrease in proportion to their losses; and as they were repressed in the field, they grew more haughty in the cabinet. Such governors as gave up their fortresses to the king, were attainted of high treason. It was in vain for the king to send proposals after any success; this only raised their pride and their animosity. But though this desire in the king to make peace with his subjects was the highest encomium on his humanity, yet his long necogciations, one of which he carried on at Oxford, were faulty as a warrior. He wasted that time in altercation and treaty, which he should have employ|ed in vigorous exertions in the field.

However, his first campaign, upon the whole, wore a favourable aspect. One victory followed after another; Cornwall was reduced to peace and obedi|ence under the king: a victory was gained over the parliamentarians at Stratton Hill, in Devonshire;

another at Roundway Down, about two miles from the Devizes; and still a third at Chalgrave Field. Bristol was besieged and taken, and Gloucester was invested; the battle of Newbury was favourable to the royal cause, and great hopes of success were formed from an army in the North, raised by the marquis of Newcastle.

In this first campaign, the two bravest and greatest men of their respective parties were killed; as if it was intended, by the kindness of Providence, that they should be exempted from seeing the miseries and the slaughter which were shortly to ensue. These were John Hampden, and Lucius Cary, lord Falkland.

The first in a skirmish against prince Rupert, the other in the battle of Newbury, which followed shortly after. Hampden, whom we have seen in the beginning of these troubles, refuse to pay ship-money, gained, by his inflexible integrity, the esteem even of his enemies. To these he added affability in con|versation, temper, art, eloquence in debate, and penetration in council.

Falkland was still a greater loss, and a greater character. He added to Hamden's severe principles, a politeness and elegance, but then beginning to be known in England. He had boldly withstood the king's pretensions, while he saw him making a bad use of his power; but when he perceived the design of the parliament, to overturn the religion and the constitution of his country, he changed his side, and stedfastly attached himself to the crown. From the beginning of the civil war, his natural chearfulness and vivacity forsook him; he became melancholy, sad, pale, and negligent of his person, and seemed to wish for death. His usual cry among his friends, after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, was Peace! Peace! He now said, upon the morning of the en|gagement, that he was weary of the times, and should leave them before night. He was shot by a

musquet-ball in the belly; and his body was next morning found among an heap of slain. His writ|ings, his elegance, his justice, and his courage, de|served such a death of glory: and they found it.

The king, that he might make preparations dur|ing the winter for the ensuing campaign, and to oppose the designs of the Westminster parliament, called one at Oxford; and this was the first time that England saw two parliaments sitting at the same time. His house of peers was pretty full; his house of com|mons consisted of about an hundred and forty, which amounted to not above half of the other house of commons. From this shadow of a parliament he received some supplies, after which it was prorogued, and never after assembled.

In the mean time the parliament was equally ac|tive on their side. They passed an ordinance, com|manding all the inhabitants of London and its neigh|bourhood to retrench a meal a week, and to pay the value of it for the support of the public cause. But what was much more effectual, the Scotch, who considered their claims as similar, led a strong body to their assistance. They levied an army of four|teen thousand men in the East, under the earl of Manchester; they had an army of ten thousand men under Essex, another of nearly the same force, under Sir William Waller. These were superior to any force the king could bring into the field; and were well appointed with ammunition, provisions and pay.

* 1.51Hostilities, which even during the win|ter season had never been wholly disconti|nued, were renewed in spring with their usual fury, and served to desolate the king|dom, without deciding victory. Each county joined that side to which it was addicted from motives of conviction, interest, or fear, though some observed a perfect neutrality. Several frequently petitioned

for peace; and all the wise and good were earnest in the cry. What particularly deserves remark, was an attempt of the women of London; who, to the number of two or three thousand, went in a body to the house of commons, earnestly demanding a peace. "Give us those traitors, said they, that are against a peace; give them, that we may tear them in pie|ces." The guards found some difficulty in quelling this insurrection, and one or two women lost their lives in the fray.

The battle of Marston-Moor was the beginning of the king's misfortunes and disgrace. The Scotch and parliamentarian army had joined, and were be|sieging York; when prince Rupert, joined by the marquis of Newcastle, determined to raise the siege. Both sides drew up on Marston Moor, to the number of fifty thousand, and the victory seemed long unde|cided between them. Rupert, who commanded the right wing of the royalists, was opposed by Oliver Cromwell, who now first came into notice, at the head of a body of troops, whom he had taken care to levy and discipline. Cromwell was victorious; he pushed his opponents off the field, followed the vanquished, returned to a second engagement, and a second victory; the prince's whole train of artille|ry was taken, and the royalists never after recovered the blow.

William Laud, archbishop of Canterbury, was sent to the Tower in the beginning of this reign. He was now brought to his trial, condemned and executed. And it was a melancholy consideration, that in these times of trouble, the best men were those on either side who chiefly suffered.

The death of Laud was followed by a total altera|tion of the ceremonies of the church. The Liturgy was, by a public act, abolished the day he died, as if he had been the only obstacle to its former removal. The church of England was in all respects brought

to a conformity to the puritanical establishment; while the citizens of London, and the Scotch army, gave public thanks for so happy an alteration.

* 1.52The well-disputed battle, which de|cided the fate of Charles, was fought at Naseby, a village in Yorkshire. The main body of the royal army was com|manded by lord Astley, prince Rupert led the right wing, Sir Marmaduke Langdale the left, and the king himself headed the body of reserve. On the opposite side, Fairfax and Skippon commanded the main body; Cromwell led on the right wing, and Ireton, his son-in-law, the left. Prince Rupert at|tacked the left wing with his usual impetuosity and success: they were broke and pursued as far as the village; but he lost time in attempting to make him|self master of their artillery. Cromwell, in the mean time, was equally successful on his side, and broke through the enemies horse after a very obstinate re|sistance. While these were thus engaged, the in|fantry on both sides maintained the conflict with e|qual ardour; but in spite of the efforts of Fairfax and Skippon, their battalions began to give way. But it was now that Cromwell returned with his victori|ous forces, and charged the king's infantry in flank with such vigour, that a total rout began to ensue. By this time prince Rupert had rejoined the king, and the small body of reserve; but his troops, though victorious, could not be brought to a second charge. The king perceiving the battle wholly lost, was obliged to abandon the field to his enemies, who took all his cannon, baggage, and above five thousand prisoners.

The battle of Naseby put the parliamentarians in possession of almost all the strong cities of the king|dom, Bristol, Bridgewater, Chester, Sherborn, and Bath. Exeter was besieged; and all the king's troops in the western counties being entirely dispersed,

Fairfax pressed the place, and it surrendered at dis|cretion. The king thus surrounded, harrassed on every side, retreated to Oxford, that in all condi|tions of his fortune had held steady to his cause; and there he resolved to offer new terms to his incensed pursuers.

In the mean time Fairfax was approaching with a powerful and victorious army, and was taking the proper measures of laying siege to Oxford, which promised an easy surrender. To be taken captive, and led in triumph by his insolent subjects, was what Charles justly abhorred; and every insult and violence was to be dreaded from the soldiery, who had felt the effects of his opposition. In this despe|rate extremity he embraced a measure which, in any other situation, might justly lie under the imputation of imprudence and indiscretion. He took the fatal resolution of giving himself up to the Scotch army, who had never testified such implacable animosity against him; and he too soon found, that instead of treating him as a king, they insulted him as a cap|tive.

The English parliament being informed of the king's captivity, immediately entered into a treaty with the Scotch about delivering up their prisoner. This was soon adjusted. They agreed, that upon payment of four hundred thousand pounds they would deliver up the king to his enemies, and this was chearfully complied with. An action so atroci|ous may be palliated, but can never be defended; they returned home laden with plunder, and the re|proaches of all good men.

The civil war was now over; the king had absolv|ed his followers from their allegiance, and the parlia|ment had now no enemy to fear, except those very troops by which they had extended their overgrown authority. But in proportion as the terror of the king's power diminished, the divisions between the

members which composed the parliament, became more apparent. The majority in the house were of the presbyterian sect, who were for having clergy; but the majority of the army were staunch indepen|dents, who admitted of no clergy, but thought that every man had a right to instruct his fellows. At the head of this sect was Cromwell, who secretly directed its operations, and invigorated all their mea|sures.

Oliver Cromwell, whose talents now began to ap|pear in full lustre, was the son of a private gentle|man of Huntingdon; but being the son of a second brother, he inherited a very small paternal fortune. From accident or intrigue, he was chosen member for the town of Cambridge, in the long parliament; but he seemed at first to possess no talents for oratory, his person being ungraceful, his dress slovenly, his elocution homely, tedious, obscure, and embarrassed. He made up, however, by zeal and perseverance, what he wanted in natural powers; and being en|dowed with unshaken intrepidity, much dissimula|tion, and a thorough conviction of the rectitude of his cause, he rose, through the gradations of prefer|ment, to the post of lieutenant-general under Fair|fax; but, in reality, possessing the supreme command over the whole army.

The army now began to consider themselves as a body distinct from the commonwealth; and com|plained, that they had secured the general tranquility, while they were, at the same time, deprived of the privileges of Englishmen. In opposition, therefore, to the parliament at Westminster, a military parlia|ment was formed, composed of the officers and com|mon soldiers of each regiment. The principal offi|cers formed a council to represent the body of peers; the soldiers elected two men out of each company to represent the house of commons, and these were called the agitators of the army. Cromwell took

care to be one of the number, and thus contrived an easy method under-hand of conducting and promot|ing the sedition of the army.

The unhappy king, in the mean time, continued a prisoner at Holmby castle; and as his countenance might add some authority to that side which should obtain it, Cromwell, who secretly conducted all the measures of the army, while he apparently exclaim|ed against their violence, resolved to seize the king's person. Accordingly, a party of five hundred horse appearing at Holmby castle, under the command of one Joyce, conducted the king to the army, who were hastening to their rendezvous at Triplo-heath, near Cambridge. The next day Cromwell arrived among them, where he was received with acclama|tions of joy, and was instantly invested with the su|preme command.

The house of commons was now divided into par|ties, as usual, one part opposing, but the minority, with the two speakers at their head, for encouraging the army. In such an universal confusion, it is not to be expected that any thing less than a separation of the parties could take place; and accordingly the two speakers, with sixty-two members, secretly re|tired from the house, and threw themselves under the protection of the army, that were then at Houn|slow heath. They were received with shouts and acclamations, their integrity was extolled, and the whole body of the soldiery, a formidable force of twenty thousand men, now moved forward to rein|state them in their former seats and stations.

In the mean time, that part of the house that was left behind, resolved to act with vigour, and resist the encroachments of the army. They chose new speakers, they gave orders for enlisting troops, they ordered the train-bands to man the lines, and the whole city boldly resolved to resist the invasion. But this resolution only held while the enemy was thought

at a distance; for when the formidable force of Cromwell appeared, all was obedience and submis|sion; the gates were opened to the general, who attended the two speakers, and the rest of the mem|bers, peaceably to their habitations. The eleven impeached members, being accused as causes of the tumult, were expelled, and most of them retired to the continent. The mayor, sheriff, and three al|dermen, were sent to the Tower; several citizens, and officers of militia, were committed to prison, and the lines about the city were levelled to the ground. The command of the Tower was given to Fairfax, the general; and the parliament ordered him their hearty thanks for having disobeyed their commands.

It now only remained to dispose of the king, who had been sent by the army a prisoner to Hampton-Court; from whence he attempted to escape, but was once more made prisoner in the Isle of Wight, and confined in Carisbrook castle.

While the king continued in this forlorn situation, the parliament, new-modelled as it was by the army, was every day growing more feeble and factious. He still therefore continued to negociate with the parliament for settling the unspeakable calamities of the kingdom. The parliament saw no other method of destroying the military power, but to depress it by the kingly. Frequent proposals for an accommo|dation passed between the captive king and the com|mons.

But it was now too late; their power was soon to|tally to expire, for the rebellious army, crowned with success, was returned from the destruction of their enemies; and, sensible of their own power, with furious remonstrances began to demand venge|ance on the king. At the same time they advanced to Windsor: and sending an officer to seize the king's person, where he was lately sent under confinement,

they conveyed him to Hurst-castle, in Hampshire, opposite the Isle of Wight. The commons, however, though destitute of all hopes of prevailing, had still courage to resist, and attempted, in the face of the whole army, to close their treaty with the king. But the next day colonel Pride, at the head of two regiments, blockaded the house, and seized in the passage forty-one members of the presbyterian party, and sent them to a low room belonging to the house, that passed by the denomination of Hell. Above an hundred and sixty members more were ex|cluded; and none were allowed to enter but the most furious and determined of the independents, in all not exceeding sixty. This atrocious invasion of the parliamentary rights, commonly passed by the name of Pride's purge, and the remaining members were called the Rump. These soon voted, that the trans|actions of the house a few days before were entirely illegal, and that their general's conduct was just and necessary.

A committee was appointed to bring in a charge against the king; and a vote passed declaring it treason in a king to levy war against his parliament. An High Court of Justice was accordingly appointed to try his majesty for this new invented treason.

Colonel Harrison, the son of a butcher, was com|manded to conduct the king from Hurst castle to Windsor, and from thence to London. His afflicted subjects, who ran to have a sight of their sovereign, were greatly affected at the change that appeared in his face and person. He had allowed his beard to grow; his hair was become venerably grey, rather by the pressure of anxiety than the hand of time▪ while his apparel bore the marks of misfor|tune and decay. Thus he stood a solitary figure of majesty in distress, which even his adversaries could not behold without reverence and compas|sion. He had been long attended only by an old decrepid

servant, whose name was Sir Philip Warwick, who could only deplore his master's fate, without being able to revenge his cause. All the exterior symbols of sovereignty were now withdrawn; and his new attendants had orders to serve him without ceremo|ny. The duke of Hamilton, who was reserved for the same punishment with his master, having leave to take a last farewell as he departed from Windsor, threw himself at the king's feet, crying out, "My dear master." The unhappy monarch raised him up, and embracing him tenderly, replied, while the tears ran down his cheeks, "I have indeed been a dear master to you." These were severe distresses: how|ever, he could not be persuaded that his adversaries would bring him to a formal trial; but he every mo|ment expected to be dispatched by private assassination.

From the sixth, to the twentieth of January, was spent in making preparations for his extraordinary trial. The court of justice consisted of an hundred and thirty-three persons named by the commons; but of these never above seventy met upon the trial. The members were chiefly composed of the principal officers of the army, most of them of very mean birth, together with some of the lower house, and a few citizens of London. Bradshaw, a lawyer, was chosen president, Coke was appointed solicitor for the people of England, Dorislaus, Steele and Aske, were named assistants. The court sat in Westminster-Hall.

The king was now conducted from Windsor to St. James's, and the next day was brought before the high court to take his trial. When he was brought forward, he was conducted by the mace|bearer to a chair placed within the bar. Tho' long detained a prisoner, and now produced as a crimi|nal, he still sustained the dignity of a king; he sur|veyed the members of the court with a stern haugh|ty air, and, without moving his hat, sat down, while the members also were covered. His charge was

then read by the solicitor, accusing him of having been the cause of all the bloodshed which followed since the commencement of the war; at that part of the charge he could not suppress a smile of contempt and indignation. After the charge was finished, Bradshaw directed his discourse to the king, and told him, that the court expected his answer.

The king with great temper entered upon his de|fence, by declining the authority of the court. He represented, that having been engaged in treaty with his two houses of parliament, and having finished al|most every article, he expected a different treatment from that he now received. He perceived, he said, no appearance of an upper house, which was neces|sary to constitute a just tribunal. That he was him|self the king and fountain of law, and consequently could not be tried by laws to which he had never given his assent; that having been entrusted with the liberties of the people, he would not now betray them, by recognizing a power founded in usurpa|tion; that he was willing before a proper tribunal to enter into the particulars of his defence; but that before them he must decline any apology for his in|nocence, lest he should be considered as the betrayer of, and not a martyr for the constitution.

Bradshaw, in order to support the authority of the court, insisted, that they had received their power from the people, the source of all right. He pressed the prisoner not to decline the authority of the court, which was delegated by the commons of England, and inter|rupted, and over-ruled the king in his attempts to reply.

In this manner the king was three times produced before the court, and as often persisted in declining its jurisdiction. The fourth and last time he was brought before the self-created tribunal, as he was proceeding thither, he was insulted by the soldiers and the mob, who exclaimed,

"Justice! justice! execution! execution!"

but he continued undaunt|ed.

His judges having now examined some witnes|ses, by whom it was proved that the king had ap|peared in arms against the forces commissioned by parliament, they pronounced sentence against him.

The conduct of the king under all these instances of low-bred malice was great, firm, and equal; in going through the hall from this execrable tribunal, the soldiers and rabble were again instigated to cry out justice and execution. They reviled him with the most bitter reproaches. Among other insults, one miscreant presumed to spit in the face of his so|vereign. He patiently bore their insolence.

"Poor souls, cried he, they would treat their generals in the same manner for six-pence."

Those of the populace, who still retained the feelings of humanity, expressed their sorrow in sighs and tears. A soldier, more compassionate than the rest, could not help im|ploring a blessing upon his royal head. An officer overhearing him, struck the honest centinel to the ground before the king, who could not help saying, that the punishment exceeded the offence.

At his return to Whitehall, he desired the permis|sion of the house to see his children, and to be at|tended in his private devotions by doctor Juxon, late bishop of London. These requests were granted, and also three days to prepare for the execution of the sentence. All that remained of his family now in England, were the princess Elizabeth, and the duke of Gloucester, a child of about three years of age. After many seasonable and sensible exhorta|tions to his daughter, he took his little son in his arms, and embracing him,

"My child, said he, they will cut off thy father's head, yes, they will cut off my head, and make thee a king. But mark what I say; thou must not be a king as long as thy brothers Charles and James are alive. They will cut off their heads when they can take them, and thy head too they will cut off at last, and

therefore I charge thee do not be made a king by them"

The child, bursting into tears, replied,

""I will be torn in pieces first.""

Every night during the interval between his sen|tence and execution, the king slept sound as usual, though the noise of the workmen, employed in fram|ing the scaffold, continually resounded in his ears. The fatal morning being at last arrived, he rose early; and calling one of his attendants, he bad him employ more than usual care in dressing him, and preparing him for so great and joyful a solemnity. The street before Whitehall was the place destined for his execution; for it was intended that this would increase the severity of his punishment. He was led through the Banquetting House to the scaffold adjoining to that edifice, attended by his friend and servant bi|shop Juxon, a man endowed with the same mild and steady virtues with his master. The scaffold, which was covered with black, was guarded by a regiment of soldiers, under the command of colonel Tomlin|son, and on it were to be seen the block, the ax, and two executioners in masques. The people in great crowds stood at a greater distance, in dreadful expectation of the event. The king surveyed all these solemn preparations with calm composure; and as he could not expect to be heard by the people at a distance, he addressed himself to the few persons who stood round him. He there justified his own innocence in the late fatal war; and observed, that he had not taken arms till after the parliament had shewn him the example. That he had no other ob|ject in his warlike preparations than to preserve that authority entire, which had been transmitted to him by his ancestors: but, though innocent towards his people, he acknowledged the equity of his execution in the eyes of his Maker. He owned that he was justly punished for having consented to the execution of an unjust sentence upon the earl of Strafford.

He forgave all his enemies, exhorted the people to return to their obedience, and acknowledge his son as his successor, and signified his attachment to the protestant religion, as professed in the church of England. So strong was the impression of his dying words made upon the few who could hear him, that colonel Tomlinson himself, to whose care he had been committed, acknowledged himself a convert.

While he was preparing himself for the block, bishop Juxon called out to him;

"There is, Sir, but one stage more, which, though turbulent and troublesome, is yet a very short one. It will soon carry you a great way. It will carry you from earth to heaven, and there you shall find, to your great joy, the prize to which you hasten, a crown of glory."

"I go, replied the king, from a cor|ruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no dis|turbance can have place."

"You exchange, re|plied the bishop, a temporal for an eternal crown, a good exchange."

Charles having taken off his cloak delivered his George to the prelate, pronounc|ing the word, "Remember." Then he laid his neck on the block, and stretching out his hands as a signal, one of the executioners severed his head from his body at a blow, while the other, holding it up, exclaimed, "This is the head of a traitor." The spectators testified their horror at that sad specta|cle in sighs, tears, and lamentations; the tide of their duty and affection began to return, and each blamed himself either with active disloyalty to his king, or a passive compliance with his destroyers.

Charles was executed in the forty-ninth year of his age,* 1.53 and the twenty-fourth of his reign. He was of a middling stature, robust, and well proportioned. His visage was pleasing, but melancholy; and it is probable that the continual troubles in which he was involved, might have made that impression on his counte|nance.

As for his character, the reader will deduce it with more precision and satisfaction to himself from the detail of his conduct, than from any summary given of it by the historian.

CHAP. XXIX. THE COMMONWEALTH.

CROMWELL, who had secretly sol|licited, and contrived the king's death,* 1.54 now began to feel wishes to which he had been hitherto a stranger. His prospects widening as he rose, his first principles of liberty were all lost in the unbounded stretch of power that lay before him.

Having been appointed to command the army in Ireland, he prosecuted the war in that kingdom with his usual success. He had to combat against the Royalists, commanded by the duke of Ormond, and the native Irish, led on by O'Neal. But such ill connected and barbarous troops could give very little opposition to Cromwell's more numerous forces, conducted by such a general, and emboldened by long success. He soon over-ran the whole country; and after some time, all the towns revolted in his favour, and opened their gates at his approach. But in these conquests, as in all the rest of his actions, there appeared a brutal ferocity, that could tarnish the most heroic valour. In order to intimidate the natives from defending their towns, he, with a bar|barous policy, put every garrison that made any re|sistance to the sword.

After his return to England, upon taking his seat, he received the thanks of the house, by the mouth of the speaker, for the services he had done the

commonwealth in Ireland. They then proceeded to deliberate upon chusing a general for conducting the war in Scotland, where they had espoused the royal cause, and placed young Charles, the son of their late monarch, on the throne. Fairfax refusing this command upon principle, as he had all along declin|ed opposing the presbyterians, the command necessa|rily devolved upon Cromwell, who boldly set for|ward for Scotland, at the head of an army of sixteen thousand men.

* 1.55The Scotch, in the mean time, who had invited over their wretched king, to be a prisoner, not a ruler, among them, pre|pared to meet the invasion. A battle en|sued, in which they, though double the number of the English, were soon put to slight, and pursued with great slaughter, while Cromwell did not lose above forty men in all.

In this terrible exigence, young Charles embraced a resolution worthy a prince, who was willing to ha|zard all for empire. Observing that the way was open to England, he resolved immediately to march into that country, where he expected to be reinforced by all the royalists in that part of the kingdom.

But he soon found himself disappointed in the ex|pectation of encreasing his army. The Scotch, ter|rified at the prospect of so hazardous an enterprize, fell from him in great numbers. The English, af|frighted at the name of his opponent, dreaded to join him: but his mortifications were still more en|creased as he arrived at Worcester; when informed, that Cromwell was marching with hasty strides from Scotland, with an army encreased to forty thousand men. The news scarce arrived, when that active general himself appeared, and falling upon the town on all sides, broke in upon the disordered royalists. The streets were strewed with slaughter, the whole Scotch army was either killed or taken prisoners, and

the king himself, having given many proofs of per|sonal valour, was obliged to sly.

Imagination can scarce conceive adventures more romantic, or distresses more severe, than those which attended the young king's escape from the scene of slaughter. After various escapes, and one and forty days concealment, he landed safely at Feschamp in Normandy; no less than forty men and women having at different times been privy to his es|cape.

In the mean time, Cromwell, crowned with success, returned in triumph to London, where he was met by the speaker of the house, accompanied by the mayor of London, and the magistrates, in all their formalities. His first care was to take advantage of his late successes, by depressing the Scotch, who had so lately withstood the work of the Gospel, as he called it. An act was passed for abolishing royalty in Scotland, and annexing that kingdom, as a con|quered province, to the English commonwealth. It was impowered, however, to send some members to the English parliament. Judges were appointed to distribute justice; and the people of that country, now freed from the tyranny of the ecclesiastics, were not much dissatisfied with their present government. The prudent conduct of Monk, who was left by Cromwell to complete their subjection, served much to reconcile the minds of the people, harrassed with dissensions, of which they never well under|stood the cause.

In this manner the English parliament, by the means of Cromwell, spread their uncontested autho|rity over all the British dominions. Ireland was to|tally subdued by Ireton and Ludlow. All the settle|ments in America, that had declared for the royal cause, were obliged to submit; Jersey, Guernsey, Scilly, and the Isle of Man, were brought easily under subjection. Thus mankind saw, with aston|ishment,

a parliament composed of sixty or seventy obscure and illiterate members, governing a great empire with unanimity and success. Without any acknowledged subordination, except a council of state consisting of thirty-eight, to whom all addresses were made, they levied armies, maintained fleets, and gave laws to the neighbouring powers of Eu|rope. The finances were managed with oeconomy and exactness. Few private persons became rich by the plunder of the public: the revenues of the crown, the lands of the bishops, and a tax of an hundred and twenty thousand pounds each month, supplied the wants of the government, and gave vi|gour to all their proceedings.

The parliament, having thus reduced their native dominions to perfect obedience, next resolved to chastise the Dutch, who had given but very slight causes of complaint. It happened that one doctor Dorislaus, who was of the number of the late king's judges, being sent by the parliament as their envoy to Holland, was assassinated by one of the royal par|ty, who had taken refuge there. Some time after also, Mr. St. John, appointed their ambassador to that court, was insulted by the friends of the prince of Orange. These were thought motives sufficient to induce the commonwealth of England to declare war against them. The parliament's chief depen|dence lay in the activity and courage of Blake, their admiral; who, though he had not embarked in naval command till late in life, yet surpassed all that went before him in courage and dexterity. On the other side, the Dutch opposed to him their famous admiral Van Tromp, to whom they never since pro|duced an equal. Many were the engagements be|tween these celebrated admirals, and various was their success. Sea-fights, in general, seldom prove decisive; and the vanquished are soon seen to make head against the victors. Several dreadful encoun|ters,

therefore, rather served to shew the excellence of the admirals, than to determine their superiority. The Dutch, however, who felt many great disad|vantages by the loss of their trade, and by the total suspension of their fisheries, were willing to treat for a peace; but the parliament gave them a very unfavourable answer. It was the policy of that bo|dy, to keep their navy on foot as long as they could; rightly judging, that while the force of the nation was exerted by sea, it would diminish the power of general Cromwell by land, which was now become very formidable to them.

This great aspirer, however, quickly perceived their designs; and from the first saw that they dreaded his growing power, and wished its diminu|tion. All his measures were conducted with a bold intrepidity that marked his character; and he now saw, that it was not necessary to wear the mask of subordination any longer. Secure, therefore, in the attachment of the army, he resolved to make another daring effort; and persuaded the officers to present a petition for payment of arrears and redress of griev|ances, which he knew would be rejected by the com|mons with disdain. The petition was soon drawn up and presented, in which the officers, after de|manding their arrears, desired the parliament to con|sider how many years they had sat;* 1.56 and what professions they had formerly made of their intentions to new model the house, and establish freedom on the broadest basis.

The house was highly offended at the presump|tion of the army, although they had seen, but too lately, that their own power was wholly sounded on that very presumption. They appointed a commit|tee to prepare an act, ordaining that all persons who presented such petitions, for the future, should be deemed guilty of high treason. To this the officers

made a very warm remonstrance, and the parliament as angry a reply; while the breach between them every moment grew wider. This was what Crom|well had long wished, and had long foreseen. He was sitting in council with his officers, when in|formed of the subject on which the house was deli|berating; upon which he rose up in the most seem|ing fury, and turning to major Vernon, cried out,

"That he was compelled to do a thing that made the very hair of his head stand on end."

Then hastening to the house with three hundred soldiers, and with the marks of violent indignation on his countenance he entered. Stamping with his foot, which was the signal for the soldiers to enter, the place was immediately filled with armed men. Then addressing himself to the members:

"For shame, said he, get you gone. Give place to honester men; to those who will more faithfully discharge their trust. You are no longer a parliament; I tell you, you are no longer a parliament; the Lord has done with you."

Sir Harry Vane exclaiming against this conduct:

"Sir Harry, cried Cromwell with a loud voice, O Sir Harry Vane, the Lord deliver me from Sir Harry Vane."

Taking hold of Martin by the cloak, thou art a whore-master; to another, thou art an adulterer; to a third, thou art a drunkard; and to a fourth, thou art a glutton.

"It is you, continued he to the members, that have forced me upon this. I have sought the Lord night and day, that he would rather slay me than put me upon this work."

Then pointing to the mace, "Take away, cried he, that bauble." After which, turning out all the members, and clearing the hall, he ordered the doors to be locked, and putting the key in his pocket, returned to White|hall.

The persons he pitched upon for his next parlia|ment, were the lowest, meanest, and the most igno|rant

among the citizens, and the very dregs of the fanatics. He was well apprized that during the ad|ministration of such a groupe of characters he alone must govern, or that they must soon throw up the reins of government, which they were unqualified to guide. Accordingly, their practice justified his sagacity. One of them particularly, who was called Praise God Barebone, a canting leather seller, gave his name to this odd assembly, and it was called Barebone's parliament.

The very vulgar began now to exclaim against so foolish a legislature; and they themselves seemed not insensible of the ridicule which every day was thrown out against them. Accordingly, by concert, they met earlier than the rest of their fraternity; and ob|serving to each other that this parliament had sat long enough, they hastened to Cromwell, with Rouse their speaker at their head, and into his hands they resigned the authority with which he had invested them.

Cromwell accepted their resignation with pleasure; but being told that some of the number were refrac|tory, he sent colonel White to clear the house of such as ventured to remain there. They had placed one Moyer in the chair by the time that the colonel had arrived; and he being asked by the colonel,

""What they did there?""

Moyer replied very gravely, that they were seeking the Lord.

"Then you may go elsewhere, cried White; for to my certain knowledge the Lord has not been here these many years."

This shadow of a parliament being dissolved, the officers, by their own authority, declared Cromwell protector of the commonwealth of England. He was to be addressed by the title of highness; and his power was proclaimed in London, and other parts of the kingdom. Thus an obscure and vulgar man, at the age of fifty-three, rose to unbounded power, first

by following small events in his favour, and at length by directing great ones.

Cromwell chose his council among his officers, who had been the companions of his dangers and his victories, to each of whom he assigned a pen|sion of one thousand pounds a year. He took care to have his troops, upon whose fidelity he depended for support, paid a month in advance; the maga|zines were also well provided, and the public trea|sure managed with frugality and care: while his ac|tivity, vigilance, and resolution were such, that he discovered every conspiracy against his person, and every plot for an insurrection before they took effect.

His management of foreign affairs, though his schemes were by no means political, yet well cor|responded with his character, and, for a while, were attended with success. The Dutch having been humbled by repeated defeats, and totally abridged in their commercial concerns, were obliged at last to sue for peace, which he gave them upon terms ra|ther too favourable. He insisted upon their paying deference to the British flag. He compelled them to abandon the interests of the king, and to pay eighty-five thousand pounds as an indemnification for former expences, and to restore the English East India company a part of those dominions of which they had been dispossessed by the Dutch during the former reign, in that distant part of the world.

He was not less successful in his negotiations with the court of France. Cardinal Mazarine, by whom the affairs of that kingdom were conducted, deemed it necessary to pay deference to the protector; and desirous rather to prevail by dexterity than violence, submitted to Cromwell's imperious character, and thus procured ends equally beneficial to both.

The court of Spain was not less assiduous in its endeavours to gain his friendship, but was not so

successful. This vast monarchy, which but a few years before had threatened the liberties of Europe, was now reduced so low as to be scarce able to de|fend itself. Cromwell, however, who knew nothing of foreign politics, still continued to regard its pow|er with an eye of jealousy, and came into an associ|ation with France to depress it still more. He lent that court a body of six thousand men to attack the Spanish dominions in the Netherlands; and upon obtaining a signal victory by his assistance at Dunes, the French put Dunkirk, which they had just taken from the Spaniards, into his hands, as a reward for his attachment.

But it was by sea that he humbled the power of Spain with still more effectual success. Blake, who had long made himself formidable to the Dutch, and whose same was spread over Europe, now became still more dreadful to the Spanish monarchy. He sailed with a fleet into the Mediterranean, whither, since the time of the crusades, no English fleet had ever ventured to advance. He there conquered all that ventured to oppose him. Casting anchor before Leghorn, he demanded and obtained satisfaction for some injuries which the English commerce had suf|fered from the duke of Tuscany. He next sailed to Algiers,* 1.57 and compelled the Dey to make peace, and to restrain his pyratical subjects from farther injuring the English. He then went to Tunis, and having made the same demands, he was desired by the Dey of that place to look at the two castles, Porto Farino, and Goletta, and do his utmost. Blake shewed him that he was not slow in accepting the challenge; he en|tered the harbour, burned the shipping there, and then sailed out triumphantly to pursue his voyage. At Cadiz, he took two galleons valued at near two million pieces of eight. At the Canaries, he burn|ed a Spanish fleet of sixteen ships, and returning

home to England to enjoy the same of his noble ac|tions, as he came within sight of his native country he expired. This gallant man, though he sought for an usurper, yet was averse to his cause; he was a zealous republican in principle, and his aim was to serve his country, not to establish a tyrant.

"It is still our duty, he would say to the sea-men, to fight for our country into whatever hands the go|vernment may fall."

At the same time that Blake's expeditions were going forward, there was another carried on under the command of admiral Pen and Venables, with a|bout four thousand land forces, to attack the Island of Hispaniola. Failing however, in this, and being driven off the place by the Spaniards, they steered to Jamaica, which was surrendered to them without a blow. So little was thought of the importance of this conquest, that, upon the return of the expedi|tion, Pen and Venables were sent to the Tower, for their failure in the principal object of their expedition.

But it must not be supposed that Cromwell's situation was at this time enviable? Perhaps no station, however mean, or loaded with contempt, could be more truly distressful than his, at a time the nation was loading him with congratulations and addresses. He had by this rendered himself hateful to every par|ty;* 1.58 and he owed his safety to their mutual hatred and diffidence of each other. His arts of dissimulation had been long ex|hausted; none now could be deceived by them, those of his own party and principles disdaining the use to which he had converted his zeal and pro|fessions. The truth seems to be, if we may use a phrase taken from common life, he had began with being a dupe to his own enthusiasms, and ended with being a sharper.

The whole nation silently detested his administra|tion, but he had not still been reduced to the ex|treme

of wretchedness, if he could have found domestic consolation. Fleetwood, his son-in law, actuated with the wildest zeal, detested that character which could use religious professions for the purposes of temporal advancement. His eldest daughter, married to Fleet|wood, had adopted republican principles so vehe|mently, that she could not behold even her own fa|ther entrusted with uncontrolable power. His other daughters were no less sanguine in favour of the royal cause; but above all, Mrs. Claypole, his fa|vourite daughter, who, upon her death-bed, up|braided him with all those crimes that led him to trample on the throne.

Every hour added some new disquietude. Lord Fairfax, Sir William Waller, and many of the heads of the presbyterians, had secretly entered into an engagement to destroy him. His administration, so expensive both at home and abroad, had exhausted his revenue, and he was left considerably in debt. One conspiracy was no sooner detected, but another rose from its ruins; and to encrease his calamity, he was now taught, upon reasoning principles, that his death was not only desirable, but his assassination would be meritorious. A book was published by colonel Titus, a man who had formerly been attach|ed to his cause, entitled, Killing no Murder. Of all the pamphlets that came forth at that time, or per|haps of those that have since appeared, this was the most eloquent and masterly. "Shall we, said this po|pular declaimer, who would not suffer the lion to in|vade us, tamely stand to be devoured by the wolf." Cromwell read this spirited treatise, and was never seen to smile more.

All peace was now for ever banished from his mind. He now found, that the grandeur to which he had sacrificed his former peace, was only an inlet to fresh inquietudes. The fears of assassination haunted him in all his walks, and was perpetually

present to his imagination. He wore armour under his cloaths, and always kept pistols in his pockets. His aspect was clouded by a settled gloom; and he regarded every stranger with a glance of timid suspi|cion. He always travelled with hurry, and was ever attended by a numerous guard. He never returned from any place by the road he went; and seldom slept above three nights together in the same cham|ber. Society terrified him, as there he might meet an enemy; solitude was terrible, as he was there unguarded by every friend.

A tertian ague kindly came at last to deliver him from this life of horror and anxiety. For the space of a week no dangerous symptoms appeared; and in the intervals of the fits he was able to walk abroad. At length the fever encreased, and he became deli|rious. He was just able to answer yes, to the de|mand, whether his son Richard should be appointed to succeed him. He died on the third day of Sep|tember,* 1.59 that very day which he had al|ways considered as the most fortunate of his life; he was then fifty-nine years old, and had usurped the government nine years.

Whatever might have been the differences of in|terest after the death of the usurper, the influence of his name was still sufficient to get Richard his son proclaimed protector in his room. But the army, discontented with such a leader, established a meeting at general Fleetwood's, which, as he dwelt in Wal|lingford-house, was called the Cabal of Walling|ford. The result of their deliberations was a re|monstrance that the command of the army should be entrusted to some person in whom they might all confide; and it was plainly given to understand, that the young protector was not that person.

Richard wanted resolution to defend the title that had been conferred upon him; he soon signed his own

abdication in form, and retired to live several years after his resignation, at first on the continent, and afterwards upon his paternal fortune at home. He was thought by the ignorant to be unworthy of the happiness of his exaltation; but he knew by his tran|quility in private, that he had made the most fortu|nate escape.

The officers being once more left to themselves, determined to replace the remnant of the old parlia|ment which had beheaded the king, and which Cromwell had so disgracefully turned out of the house.

The Rump parliament, for that was the name it went by, being now reinstated, was yet very vigo|rous in its attempts to lessen the power by which it was replaced. The officers of the army therefore came to a resolution, usual enough in these times, to dissolve that assembly, by which they were so vehe|mently opposed. Accordingly Lambert, one of the generals, drew up a chosen body of troops; and placing them in the streets which led to Westminster|hall, when the speaker, Lenthall, proceeded in his carriage to the house, he ordered the horses to be turned, and very civily conducted him home. The other members were likewise intercepted, and the army returned to their quarters to observe a solemn fast, which generally either proceeded, or attended their outrages.

During these transactions, general Monk was at the head of eight thousand veterans in Scotland, and beheld the distraction of his native country, with but slender hopes of relieving it.

Whatever might have been his designs, it was im|possible to cover them with greater secrecy than he did. As soon as he put his army into motion, to enquire into the causes of the disturbances in the ca|pital, his countenance was eagerly sought by all the contending parties. He still however continued to

march his army towards the capital; all the world equally in doubt as to his motives, and astonished at his reserve. But Monk continued his inflexible taci|turnity, and at last came to St. Alban's, within a few miles of London.

He there sent the Rump parliament, who had re|sumed their seats, a message, desiring them to re|move such forces as remained in London to country quarters. In the mean time the House of commons having passed votes for the composure of the king|dom, dissolved themselves, and gave orders for the immediate assembling a new parliament.

* 1.60As yet the new parliament was not as|sembled, and no person had hitherto dived into the designs of the general. He still persevered in his reserve; and although the calling a new parliament was but, in other words, to restore the king, yet his expressions never once be|trayed the secret of his bosom. Nothing but a secu|rity of confidence at last extorted the confession from him. He had been intimate with one Morrice, a gentleman of Devonshire, of a sedentary studious disposition, and with him alone did he deliberate up|on the great and dangerous enterprize of the resto|ration. Sir John Granville, who had a commission from the king, applied for access to the general; he he was desired to communicate his business to Morrice. Granville refused, though twice urged, to deliver his message to any but the general himself; so that Monk now finding he could depend upon this minister's secrecy, he opened to him his whole in|tentions; but with his usual caution still scrupled to commit any thing to paper. In consequence of these the king left the Spanish territories, where he very narrowly escaped being detained at Breda by the go|vernor, under pretence of treating him with proper respect and formality. From thence he retired into Holland, where he resolved to wait for further advice.

At length the long expected day for the sitting of a free parliament arrived. The affections of all were turned towards the king; yet such were their fears, and such dangers attended a freedom of speech, that no one dared for some days to make any mention of his name. All this time Monk, with his usual re|serve, tried their tempers, and examined the ardour of their wishes; at length he gave directions to An|nesley, president of the council, to inform them that one Sir John Granville, a servant of the king, had been sent over by his majesty, and was now at the door with a letter to the commons.

Nothing could exceed the joy and transport with which this message was received. The members for a moment forgot the dignity of their situations, and indulged in a loud exclamation of applause. Gran|ville was called in, and the letter eagerly read. A moment's pause was scarce allowed; all at once the house burst out into an universal assent at the king's proposals; and to diffuse the joy more widely, it was voted that the letter and indemnity should immedi|ately be published.

Charles II. entered London on the twenty-ninth of May, which was his birth-day. An innumerable concourse of people lined the way wherever he pas|sed, and rent the air with their acclamations. They had been so long distracted by unrelenting factions, oppressed and alarmed by a succession of tyrannies, that they could no longer suppress these emotions of delight to behold their constitution restored; or ra|ther, like a phoenix, appearing more beautiful and vigorous from the ruins of its former conflagration.

Fanaticism, with its long train of gloomy terrors, fled at the approach of freedom; the arts of society and peace began to return; and it had been happy for the people if the arts of luxury had not entered in their train.

CHAP. XXX. CHARLES II.

WHEN Charles came to the throne he was thirty years of age, possessed of an agreeable person, an elegant address, and an engaging manner. His whole demeanour and behaviour was well calculated to support and encrease popularity. Accustomed du|ring his exile, to live chearfully among his courtiers, he carried the same endearing familiarities to the throne, and from the levity of his temper▪ no inju|ries were dreaded from his former resentments. But it was soon found that all these advantages were merely superficial. His indolence and love of plea|sure made him averse to all kinds of business; his familiarities were prostituted to the worst as well as the best of his subjects; and he took no care to re|ward his former friends, as he had taken few steps to be avenged of his former enemies.

Though an act of indemnity was passed, those who had an immediate hand in the king's death were excepted. Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw, though dead, were considered as proper objects of resent|ment; their bodies were dug from their graves, dragged to the place of execution, and, after hang|ing some time, buried under the gallows. Of the rest, who sat in judgment on the late monarch's tri|al, some were dead, and some were thought worthy of pardon. Ten only, out of fourscore, were de|voted to immediate destruction. These were enthu|siasts, who had all along acted from principle, and who, in the general spirit of rage excited against them, shewed a fortitude that might do honour to a better cause.

This was the time for the king to have made him|self independent of all parliaments; and it is said that Southampton, one of his ministers, had thought of procuring his master from the commons the grant of a revenue of two millions a year, which would effectually render him absolute; but in this his views were obstructed by the great Clarendon, who, tho' attached to the king, was still more the friend of li|berty and the laws. Charles, however, was no way interested in these opposite views of his ministers; he only desired money, in order to prosecute his pleasures; and provided he had that, he little regard|ed the manner in which it was obtained.

His continual exigencies drove him constantly to measures no way suited to his inclination. Among others, was his marriage, celebrated at this time with Catharine, the Infanta of Portugal, who, though a virtuous princess, possessed as it should seem but few personal attractions. It was the portion of this prin|cess that the needy monarch was enamoured of, which amounted to three hundred thousand pounds, together with the fortress of Tangier in Africa, and of Bombay in the East Indies. The chancellor Cla|rendon, the dukes of Ormond and Southampton, urged many reasons against this match, particularly the likelihood of her never having any children; the king disregarded their advice, and the inauspicious marriage was celebrated accordingly.

It was probably with a view of recruiting the sup|ply for his pleasures, that he was induced to declare war against the Dutch, as the money appointed for that purpose would go thro' his hands. In this naval war, which continued to rage for some years, with great fierceness, much blood was spilt, and great treasures exhausted, until at last a treaty was concluded at Breda, by which the colony of New York was ceded by the Dutch to the English, and has continued a most va|luable acquisition to the present time.

This treaty was considered as inglorious to the English, as they failed in gaining any redress upon the complaints which gave rise to it. Lord Claren|don, particularly, gained a share of blame, both for having first advised an unnecessary war, and then for concluding a disgraceful peace. He had been long declining in the king's favour, and he was no less displeasing to the majority of the people.

This seemed the signal for the earl's enemies to step in, and effect his entire overthrow. A charge was opened against him in the house of commons by Mr. Seymour, consisting of seventeen articles. These, which were only a catalogue of the popular rumours before-mentioned, appeared at first sight false or fri|volous. However, Clarendon finding the popular tor|rent, united to the violence of power, running with impetuosity against him, thought proper to withdraw to France.

Having thus got rid of his virtuous minister, the king soon after resigned himself to the direction of a set of men who afterwards went by the appellation of the Cabal, from the initials of the names of which it was composed.

The first of them, Sir Thomas Clifford, was a man of a daring and impetuous spirit, rendered more dangerous by eloquence and intrigue. Lord Ashley, soon after known by the name of lord Shaf|tesbury, was turbulent, ambitious, subtle, and en|terprising. The duke of Buckingham was gay, ca|pricious, of some wit, and great vivacity. Arling|ton was a man but of very moderate capacity, his intentions were good, but he wanted courage to per|severe in them. Lastly, the duke of Lauderdale, who was not defective in natural, and still less in ac|quired talents; but neither was his address graceful, nor his understanding just; he was ambitious, ob|stinate,* 1.61 insolent, and sullen. These were the men to whom Charles gave up the conduct of his affairs, and who plunged

the remaining part of his reign in diffi••ulties, which produced the most dangerous symptoms.

From this inauspicious combination the people had entertained violent jealousies against the court. The fears and discontents of the nation were vented with|out restraint; the apprehensions of a popish succes|sor, an abandoned court, and a parliament which, though sometimes assertors of liberty, yet which had now continued for seventeen years without change, naturally rendered the minds of mankind timid and suspicious, and they only wanted objects on which to wreak their ill humour.

When the spirit of the English is once roused, they either find objects of suspicion or make them. On the twelfth of August, one Kirby, a chemist, accosted the king as he was walking in the Park.

"Sir, said he, keep within the company, your ene|mies have a design upon your life, and you may be shot in this very walk."

Being questioned in consequence of this strange intimation, he offered to produce one doctor Tongue, a weak credulous cler|gyman, who had told him, that two persons, named Grove and Pickering, were engaged to murder the king; and that Sir George Wakeman, the queen's physician, had undertaken the same task by poison. Tongue was introduced to the king with a bundle of papers relating to this pretended conspiracy, and was referred to the lord treasurer Danby. He there de|clared that the papers were thrust under his door; and he afterwards declared, that he knew the author of them, who desired that his name might be con|cealed, as he dreaded the resentment of the Je|suits.

This information appeared so vague and unsatis|factory, that the king concluded the whole was a fiction. However, Tongue was not to be repressed in the ardour of his loyalty; he went again to the lord treasurer, and told him, that a pacquet of let|ters,

written by Jesuits concerned in the plot, was that night to be put into the post-house for Windsor, directed to one Bedingfield, a Jesuit, who was con|fessor to the duke of York, and who resided there. These letters had actually been received a few hours before by the duke; but he had shewn them to the king as a forgery, of which he neither knew the drift nor the meaning.

Titus Oates, who was the fountain of all this dreadful intelligence, was produced soon after, who, with seeming reluctance, came to give his evidence. This Titus Oates was an abandoned miscreant, ob|scure, illiterate, vulgar, and indigent. He had been once indicted for perjury, was afterwards chaplain on board a man of war, and dismissed for unnatural practices. He then professed himself a Roman ca|tholic, and crossed the sea to St. Omer's, where he was for some time maintained in the English semina|ry of that city. At a time that he was supposed to have been entrusted with a secret involving the fate of kings, he was allowed to remain in such necessi|ty, that Kirby was obliged to supply him with daily bread.

He had two methods to proceed, either to ingra|tiate himself by this information with the ministry, or to alarm the people, and thus turn their fears to his advantage. He chose the latter method. He went, therefore, with his two companions to Sir Ed|mondsbury Godfrey, a noted and active justice of peace, and before him deposed to a narrative dressed up in terrors fit to make an impression on the vulgar. The pope, he said, considered himself as entitled to the possession of England and Ireland, on account of the heresy of the prince and people, and had accord|ingly assumed the sovereignty of these kingdoms. The king, whom the Jesuits called the Black Bastard, was solemnly tried by them, and condemned as an heretic. Grove and Pickering, to make sure work,

were employed to shoot the king, and that too with silver bullets. The duke of York was to be offered the crown in consequence of the success of these probable schemes, on condition of extirpating the protestant religion. Upon his refusal,

"To pot James must go,"

as the Jesuits were said to ex|press it.

In consequence of this dreadful information, suf|ficiently marked with absurdity, vulgarity, and con|tradiction, Titus Oates became the favourite of the people, notwithstanding during his examination be|fore the council, he so betrayed the grossness of his impostures, that he contradicted himself in every step of his narration.

A great number of the Jesuits mentioned by Oates were immediately taken into custody. Coleman, se|cretary to the duke of York, who was said to have acted so strenuous a part in the conspiracy, at first retired; but next day surrendered himself to the se|cretary of state, and some of his papers, by Oates's directions, were secured.

In this fluctuation of passions, an accident served to confirm the prejudices of the people, and to put it beyond a doubt that Oates's narrative was nothing but the truth. Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, who had been so active in unravelling the whole mistery of the popish machinations, after having been missing some days, was found dead in a ditch by Primrose-hill in the way to Hampstead. The cause of his death re|mains, and must still continue, a secret; but the peo|ple, already enraged against the papists, did not hesi|tate a moment to ascribe it to them. The body of Godfrey was carried through the streets in procession, preceded by seventy clergymen; and every one who saw it made no doubt that his death could be only caused by the papists. Even the better sort of people were infected with this vulgar prejudice; and such was the general conviction of popish guilt, that no

person, with any regard to personal safety, could ex|press the least doubt concerning the information of Oates, or the murder of Godfrey.

In order to continue and propagate the alarm, the parliament affected to believe it true. An address was voted for a solemn fast. It was requested that all pa|pers tending to throw light upon so horrible a con|spiracy might be laid before the house, that all papists should remove from London, that access should be denied at court to all unknown and suspicious persons, and that the train-bands in London and Westminster should be in readiness to march. Oates was recom|mended by parliament to the king. He was lodged in Whitehall, and encouraged by a pension of twelve hundred pounds a year to proceed in forging new in|formations.

The encouragement given to Oates did not fail to bring in others also, who hoped to profit by the delu|sion of the times. William Bedloe, a man, if possible, more infamous than Oates, appeared next upon the stage. He was, like the former, of very low birth, had been noted for several cheats and thefts. This man, at his own desire, was arrested at Bristol, and conveyed to London, where he declared before the council that he had seen the body of Sir Edmonsbury Godfrey at Somerset-house, where the queen lived. He said that a servant of lord Bellasis offered to give him four thousand pounds if he would carry it off, and finding all his information greedily received, he confimed and heightened Oates's plot with aggravated horrors.

Thus encouraged by the general voice in their fa|vour, the witnesses, who all along had enlarged their narratives, in proportion as they were eagerly receiv|ed, went a step farther, and ventured to accuse the queen. The commons, in an address to the king, gave countenance to this scandalous accusation; the lords rejected it with becoming disdain.

Edward Coleman, secretary to the duke of York, was the first who was brought to trial, as being most obnoxious to those who pretended to fear the intro|duction of popery. Bedloe swore that he had re|ceived a commission, signed by the superior of the Jesuits, appointing him papal secretary of state, and that he had consented to the king's assassination. Af|ter this unfortunate man's sentence, thus procured by these vipers, many members of both houses offer|ed to interpose in his behalf, if he would make an ample confession; but as he was, in reality, posses|sed of no treasonable secrets, he would not procure life by falsehood and imposture. He suffered with calmness and constancy, and to the last persisted in the strongest protestations of his innocence.

The trial of Coleman was succeeded by those of Ireland, Pickering, and Grove. They protested their innocence, but were sound guilty. These unhappy men went to execution, protesting their innocence, a circumstance which made no impression on the spectators; their being Jesuits banished even pity from their sufferings.

Hill, Green, and Berry, were tried upon the evi|dence of one Miles Prance, for the murder of God|frey, but though Bedloe's narrative, and Prance's in|formation, were totally irreconcileable, and though their testimony was invalidated by contrary evidence, all was in vain, the prisoners were condemned and executed. They all denied their guilt at execution; and as Berry died a protestant, this circumstance was regarded as very considerable.

Whitebread, provincial of the Jesui••s, Fenwick, Gavan, Turner, and Harcourt, all of them of the same order, were brought to their trial; and Lang|horne soon after. Besides Oates and Bedloe, Dug|dale, a new witness, appeared against the prisoners. This man spread the alarm still farther, and even asserted, that two hundred thousand papists in

England were ready to take arms. The prisoners proved, by sixteen witnesses from St. Omers, that Oates was in that seminary at the time he swore he was in London. But as they were papists, their testimony could gain no manner of credit. All pleas availed them nothing; both the Jesuits and Lang|borne were condemned and executed, with their last breath denying the crimes for which they died.

The informers had less success on the trial of Sir George Wakeman, the queen's physician, who, tho' they swore with their usual animosity, was acquitted. His condemnation would have involved the queen in his guilt; and it is probable the judge and jury were afraid of venturing so far.

The earl of Stafford, near two years after, was the last man that fell a sacrifice to these bloody wretches; the witnesses produced against him were Oates, Dugdale, and Tuberville. Oates swore that he saw Fenwick, the Jesuit, deliver Stafford a com|mission from the general of the Jesuits, constituting him pay-master of the papal army. The clamour and outrage of the populace against the prisoner was very great; he was found guilty, and condemned to be hanged and quartered; but the king changed the sentence into that of beheading. He was executed on Tower-hill, where even his persecutors could not forbear shedding tears at that serene fortitude which shone in every feature, motion, and accent of this aged nobleman.

This parliament having continued to sit for seven|teen years without interruption, wherefore a new one was called, in which was passed the celebrated statute, called the Habeas Corpus act, which con|firms the subject in an absolute security from op|pressive power. By this act it was prohibited to send any one to prisons beyond the sea: no judge, under severe penalties, was to refuse to any prisoner his writ of habeas corpus; by which the goaler was

to produce in court the body of the prisoner, whence the writ had its name, and to certify the cause of his detainer and imprisonment. If the goal lie with|in twenty miles of the judge, the writ must be obeyed in three days, and so proportionably for grea|ter distances. Every prisoner must be indicted the first term of his commitment, and brought to trial the subsequent term. And no man after being en|larged by court, can be recommitted for the same offence.

The Meal-Tub Plot, as it was called, soon follow|ed the former. One Dangerfield, more infamous, if possible, than Oates and Bedloe, a wretch who had been set in the pillory, scourged, branded, and transported for felony and coming, hatched a plot in conjunction with a midwife, whose name was Cel|lier, a Roman catholic, of abandoned character. Dangerfield began by declaring, that there was a de|sign on foot to set up a new form of government, and remove the king and the royal family. He com|municated this intelligence to the king and the duke of York, who supplied him with money, and coun|tenanced his discovery. He hid some seditious pa|pers in the lodgings of one colonel Mansel; and then brought the custom-house officers to his apartment, to search for smuggled merchandize. The papers were found, and the council having examined the affair, concluded they were sorged by Dangerfield. They ordered all the places he frequented to be searched; and in the house of Cellier, the whole scheme of the conspiracy was discovered upon paper, concealed in a meal-tub, from whence the plot had its name. Dangerfield being committed to Newgate, made an ample confession of the forgery, which, though probably entirely of his own contrivance, he ascribed to the earl of Castlemain, the countess of Powis, and the five lords in the Tower. He said that the design was to suborn witnesses to prove a

charge of sodomy and perjury upon Oates, to assas|sinate the earl of Shaftesbury, to accuse the dukes of Monmouth and Buckingham, the earls of Essex, Hallifax and others, of having been concerned in the conspiracy against the king and his brother. Upon this information, the earl of Castlemain and the countess of Powis were sent to the Tower, and the king himself was suspected of encouraging this imposture.

The chief point which the present house of com|mons laboured to obtain, was the Exclusion Bill, which, though the former house had voted, was ne|ver passed into a law. Shaftesbury, and many con|siderable men of the party, had rendered themselves so obnoxious to the duke of York, that they could find safety in no measure but his ruin. Monmouth's friends hoped that the exclusion of James would make room for their own patron. The duke of York's professed bigotry to the catholic superstition influenced numbers; and his tyrannies, which were practised without controul, while he contined in Scotland, rendered his name odious to thousands. In a week, therefore, after the commencement of the sessions, a motion was made for bringing in a bill, for excluding him from the succession to the throne; and a committee was appointed for that purpose. The debates were carried on with great violence on both sides. The king was present dur|ing the whole debate; and had the pleasure of see|ing the bill thrown out by a very great majority.

Each party had now for some time reviled and ridi|culed each other in pamphlets and libels; and this practice, at last, was attended with an incident that deserves notice. One Fitzharris, an Irish papist, de|pendent on the dutchess of Portsmouth, one of the king's mistresses, used to supply her with these occa|sional publications. But he was resolved to add to their number by his own endeavours; and employed

one Everhard, a Scotchman, to write a libel against the king and the duke of York. The Scot was ac|tually a spy for the opposite party; and supposing this a trick to entrap him, he discovered the whole to Sir William Waller, an eminent justice of peace; and to convince him of the truth of his information, posted him, and two other persons, privately, where they heard the whole conference between Fitzharris and himself. The libel composed between them was replete with the utmost rancour and scurrility. Wal|ler carried the intelligence to the king, and obtained a warrant for committing Fitzharris, who happened at that very time to have a copy of the libel in his pocket. Seeing himself in the hands of a party, from which he expected no mercy, he resolved to side with them, and throw the odium of the libel upon the court, who, he said, were willing to draw up a libel, which should be imputed to the exclu|sioners, and thus render them hateful to the people. He enhanced his services with the country party, by a new popish plot, still more tremendous than any of the foregoing. He brought in the duke of York as a principal accomplice in this plot, and as a contriver in the murder of Sir Edmondsbury God|frey.

The king imprisoned Fitzharris; the commons avowed his cause. They voted that he should be impeached by themselves, to screen him from the ordinary forms of justice; the lords rejected the impeachment; the commons asserted their right; a commotion was likely to ensue; and the king, to break off the contest, went to the house, and dis|solved the parliament, with a fixed resolution never to call another.

This vigorous measure was a blow that the parlia|ment had never expected; and nothing but the ne|cessity of the times could have justified the king's manner of proceeding. From that moment, which

ended the parliamentary commotions, Charles seemed to rule with despotic power; and he was resolved to leave the succession to his brother, but clogged with all the faults and misfortunes of his own administra|tion. His temper, which had always been easy and merciful, now became arbitrary, and even cruel; he entertained spies and informers round the throne, and imprisoned all such as he thought most daring in their designs.

He resolved to humble the presbyterians; these were divested of their employments and their places; and their offices given to such as held with the court, and approved the doctrine of non-resistance. The clergy began to testify their zeal and their principles by their writings and their sermons; but though among these the partizans of the king were the most numerous, those of the opposite faction were the most enterprizing. The king openly espoused the cause of the former; and thus placing himself at the head of a faction, he deprived the city of London, which had long headed the popular party, of their charter. It was not till after an abject submission that he restored it to them, having previously sub|jected the election of their magistrates to his imme|diate authority.

Terrors also were not wanting to confirm his new species of monarchy. Fitzharris was brought to his trial before a jury, and condemned and executed. The whole gang of spies, witnesses, informers, sub|orners, which had long been encouraged and sup|ported by the leading patriots, finding now that the king was entirely master, turned short upon their an|cient drivers, and offered their evidence against those who had first put them in motion. The king's mi|nisters, with an horrid satisfaction, gave them coun|tenance and encouragement: so that soon the same cruelties, and the same injustice, was practised against

presbyterian schemes, that had been employed against catholic treasons.

The first person that fell under the displeasure of the ministry was one Stephen College, a London joiner, who had become so noted for his zeal against popery, that he went by the name of the Protestant Joiner. He had attended the city members to Ox|ford, armed with sword and pistol; he had sometimes been heard to speak irreverently of the king, and was now presented by the grand jury of London as guilty of sedition. A jury at Oxford, after half an hour's deliberation, brought him in guilty, and the spectators testified their inhuman pleasure with a shout of applause. He bore his fate with unshaken fortitude; and at the place of execution denied the crime for which he had been condemned.

The power of the crown by this time became irresistible,* 1.62 the city of London having been deprived of th••ir charter, which was restored only upon terms of submission, and the giving up the nomination of their own magistrates was so mortifying a circumstance, that all the other corporations in England soon began to fear the same treatment, and were successively in|duced to surrender their charters into the hands of the king. Considerable sums were exacted for re|storing these charters; and all the offices of power and profit were left at the disposal of the crown. Re|sistance now, however justifiable, could not be safe; and all prudent men saw no other expedient, but peaceably submitting to the present grievances. But there was a party in England that still cherished their former ideas of freedom, and were resolved to hazard every danger in its defence.

The duke of Monmouth, the king's natural son by Mrs. Waters, engaged the earl of Macclesfield, lord Brandon, sir Gilbert Gerrard, and other gen|tlemen in Cheshire in his cause. Lord Russel fixed

a correspondence with Sir William Courtney, Sir Francis Rowles, and Sir Francis Drake, who pro|mised to raise the West. Shaftesbury, with one Ferguson, an independent clergyman, and a restless plotter, managed the city, upon which the confede|rates chiefly relied. It was now that this turbulent man found his schemes most likely to take effect. After the disappointment and destruction of an hundred plots, he at last began to be sure of this. But this scheme, like all the former, was disappoint|ed. The caution of lord Russel, who induced the duke of Monmouth to put off the enterprize, saved the kingdom from the horrors of a civil war; while Shaftesbury was so struck with a sense of his impend|ing danger that he left his house, and lurking about the city attempted, but in vain, to drive the Lon|doners into open insurrection. At last, enraged at the numberless cautions and delays which clogged and defeated his projects, he threatened to begin with his friends alone. However, after a long strug|gle between fear and rage, he abandoned all hopes of success, and fled out of the kingdom to Amster|dam, where he ended his turbulent life soon after, without being pitied by his friends, or feared by his enemies.

The loss of Shaftesbury, though it retarded the views of the conspirators, did not suppress them. A council of six was erected, consisting of Mon|mouth, Russel, Essex, Howard, Algernon Sidney, and John Hambden, grandson to the great man of that name.

Such, together with the Duke of Argyle, were the leaders of this conspiracy. But there was also a set of subordinate conspirators, who frequently met together, and carried on projects quite unknown to Monmouth and his council. Among these men was colonel Rumsey, an old republican officer, together with lieutenant colonel Walcot, of the same stamp,

Goodenough, under-sheriff of London, a zealous and noted party man, Ferguson, an independent minister, and several attornies, merchants, and tradesmen of London. But Rumsey and Ferguson were the only persons that had access to the great leaders of the conspiracy. These men in their meet|ings embraced the most desperate resolutions. They proposed to assassinate the king in his way to New|market; Rumbal, one of the party, possessed a farm upon that road called the Rye-house, and from thence the conspiracy was denominated the Rye-house Plot. They deliberated upon a scheme of stopping the king's coach by overturning a cart on the highway at this place, and shooting him through the hedges. The house in which the king lived at Newmarket took fire accidentally, and he was obliged to leave Newmarket eight days sooner than was expected, to which circumstance his safety was ascribed.

Among the conspirators was one Keiling, who, finding himself in danger of a prosecution for arrest|ing the lord mayor of London, resolved to earn his pardon by discovering this plot to the ministry. Co|lonel Rumsey, and West, a lawyer, no sooner un|derstood that this man had informed against them, than they agreed to save their lives by turning king's evidence, and they surrendered themselves accord|ingly. Monmouth absconded; Russel was sent to the Tower; Grey escaped; Howard was taken con|cealed in a chimney; Essex, Sidney, and Hambden, were soon after arrested, and had the mortification to find lord Howard an evidence against them.

Walcot was first brought to trial and condemned, together with Hone and Rouse, two associates in the conspiracy, upon the evidence of Rumsey, West, and Sheppard. They died penitent, acknowledging the justice of the sentence by which they were exe|cuted. A much greater sacrifice was shortly after to follow. This was the lord Russel, son of the earl of

Bedford, a nobleman of numberless good qualities, and led into this conspiracy from a conviction of the duke of York's intentions to restore popery. He was liberal, popular, humane, and brave. All his vir|tues were so many crimes in the present suspicious disposition of the court. The chief evidence against him was lord Howard, a man of very bad character, one of the conspirators, who was now contented to take life upon such terms, and to accept of infamous safety. This witness swore that Russel was engaged in the design of an insurrection; but he acquitted him, as did also Rumsey and West, of being privy to the assassination. The jury, who were zealous royalists, after a short deliberation, brought the pri|soner in guilty, and he was condemned to suffer be|heading. The scaffold for his execution was erected in Lincoln's-inn-fields; he laid his head on the block without the least change of countenance, and at two strokes it was severed from his body.

The celebrated Algernon Sidney, son to the earl of Leicester, was next brought to his trial. He had been formerly engaged in the parliamentary army against the late king, and was even named on the high court of justice that tried him, but had not taken his seat among the judges. He had ever op|posed Cromwell's usurpation, and went into volun|tary banishment upon the restoration. His affairs, however, requiring his return, he applied to the king for a pardon, and obtained his request. But all his hopes and all his reasonings were formed upon re|publican principles. For his adored republic he had written and fought, and went into banishment, and ventured to return. It may easily be conceived how obnoxious a man of such principles was to a court that now was not even content with limitations to its power. They went so far as to take illegal me|thods to procure his condemnation. The only wit|ness that deposed against Sidney was lord Howard,

and the law required two. In order, therefore, to make out a second witness, they had recourse to a very extraordinary expedient. In ransacking his clo|set some discourses on government were found in his own hand-writing, containing principles favourable to liberty, and in themselves no way subversive of a limited government. By overstraining some of these they were construed into treason. It was in vain he alledged that papers were no evidence; that it could not be proved they were written by him; that, if proved, the papers themselves contained nothing criminal. His defence was over-ruled; the violent and inhuman Jefferies, who was now chief-justice, easily prevailed on a partial jury to bring him in guilty, and his execution followed soon after. One can scarce contemplate the transactions of this reign without horror. Such a picture of factious guilt on each side, a court at once immersed in sen|suality and blood, a people armed against each other with the most deadly animosity, and no single party to be found with sense enough to stem the general torrent of rancour and factious suspicion.

Hambden was tried soon after; and as there was nothing to affect his life, he was sined forty thousand pounds. Holloway, a merchant of Bristol, who had fled to the West-Indies, was brought over, con|demned, and executed. Sir Thomas Armstrong also, who had fled to Holland, was brought over, and shared the same fate. Lord Essex, who had been imprisoned in the Power, was found in an apartment with his throat cut; but whether he was guilty of suicide, or whether the bigotry of the times might not have induced some assassin to commit the crime, cannot now be known.

This was the last blood that was shed for an impu|tation of plots or conspiracies, which continued dur|ing the greatest part of this reign.

At this period the government of Charles was as absolute as that of any monarch in Europe; but happily for mankind his tyranny was of but short duration. The king was seized with a sudden fit, which resembled an apoplexy; and though he was recovered by bleeding, yet he languished only for a few days, and then expired, in the fifty ninth year of his age, and the twenty-fifth of his reign. Dur|ing his illness some clergymen of the church of England attended him, to whom he discovered a to|tal indifference. Catholic priests were brought to his bed-side, and from their hands he received the rites of their communion.

CHAP. XXXI. JAMES II.

* 1.63THE duke of York, who succeeded his brother by the title of king James the Second, had been bred a papist by his mother, and was strongly bigotted to his principles.

He went openly to mass with all the ensigns of his dignity; and even sent one Caryl as his agent to Rome to make submissions to the pope, and to pave the way for the re-admission of England into the bosom of the catholic church.

A conspiracy, set on foot by the duke of Mon|mouth, was the first disturbance in his reign. He had, since his last conspiracy, been pardoned, but was ordered to depart the kingdom, and had retired to Holland. Being dismissed from thence by the prince of Orange upon James's accession, he went to Brus|sels, where finding himself still pursued by the king's severity, he resolved to retaliate, and make an at|tempt

upon the kingdom. He had ever been the darling of the people, and some averred that Charles had married his mother, and owned Monmouth's legitimacy at his death. The duke of Argyle se|conded his views in Scotland, and they formed the scheme of a double insurrection; so that while Mon|mouth should attempt to make a rising in the West, Argyle was also to try his endeavours in the North.

Argyle was the first who landed in Scot|land, where he published his manifestoes,* 1.64 put himself at the head of two thousand five hundred men, and strove to influence the people in his cause. But a formidable body of the king's forces coming against him, his army fell away, and he himself, after being wounded in at|tempting to escape, was taken prisoner by a peasant, who found him standing up to his neck in a pool of water. He was from thence carried to Edinburgh, where, after enduring many indignities with a gal|lant spirit, he was publicly executed.

Mean while Monmouth was by this time landed in Dorsetshire, with scarce an hundred followers. How|ever his name was so popular, and so great was the hatred of the people both for the person and reli|gion of James, that in four days he had assembled a body of above two thousand men.

Being advanced to Taunton, his numbers had encreased to six thousand men; and he was obliged every day, for want of arms, to dismiss numbers, who crowded to his standard. He entered Bridge|water, Wells, and Frome, and was proclaimed in all those places; but he lost the hour of action, in receiving and claiming these empty honours.

The king was not a little alarmed at his invasion; but still more at the success of an undertaking that at first appeared desperate. Six regiments of British troops were called over from Holland, and a body of regulars, to the number of three thousand men,

were sent, under the command of the earl of Fever|sham and Churchill, to check the progress of the rebels. They took post at Sedgemore, a village in the neighbourhood of Bridgewater, and were joined by the militia of the country in considerable num|bers. It was there that Monmouth resolved, by a desperate effort, to lose his life or gain the kingdom. The negligent disposition made by Feversham invited him to the attack; and his faithful followers shewed what courage and principle could do against disci|pline and superior numbers. They drove the royal infantry from their ground, and were upon the point of gaining the victory, when the misconduct of Monmouth, and the cowardice of lord Gray, who commanded the horse, brought all to ruin. This nobleman fled at the first onset; and the rebels being charged in flank by the victorious army, gave way, after a three hours contest. About three hundred were killed in the engagement, and a thousand in the pursuit; and thus ended an enterprize, rashly begun, and more feebly conducted.

Monmouth fled from the field of battle above twenty miles, till his horse sunk under him. He then alighted, and, exchanging cloaths with a shep|herd, fled on foot, attended by a German count, who had accompanied him from Holland. Being quite exhausted with hunger and fatigue, they both lay down in a field, and covered themselves with fern. The shepherd being found in Monmouth's cloaths by the pursuers encreased the diligence of the search; and, by the means of blood hounds, he was detected in his miserable situation, with raw pease in pocket, which he had gathered in the fields to sustain life. He burst into tears when seized by his ene|mies; and petitioned, with the most abject sub|mission, for life. He wrote the most submissive letters to the king; and that monarch, willing to feast his eyes with the miseries of a fallen enemy,

gave him an audience. At this interview the duke fell upon his knees, and begged his life in the most abject terms. He even signed a paper, offered him by the king, declaring his own illegitimacy; and then the stern tyrant assured him, that his crime was of such a nature as could not be pardoned. The duke perceiving that he had nothing to hope from the clemency of his uncle, recollected his spirits, rose up, and retired with an air of disdain. He was followed to the scaffold with great compassion from the populace. He warned the executioner not to fall into the same error which he had committed in be|heading Russel, where it had been necessary to re|double the blow. But this only encreased the seve|rity of his punishment, the man was seized with an universal trepidation; and he struck a feeble blow, upon which the duke raised his head from the block, as if to reproach him; he gently laid down his head a second time, and the executioner struck him again and again to no purpose. He at last threw the ax down; but the sheriff compelled him to resume the attempt, and at two blows more the head was severed from the body. Such was the end of James, duke of Monmouth, the darling of the English people. He was brave, sincere, and good natured, open to flattery, and by that seduced into an enterprize which exceeded his capacity.

But it were well for the insurgents, and fortunate for the king, if the blood that was now shed had been thought a sufficient expiation for the late offence. The victorious army behaved with the most savage cruelty to the prisoners taken after the battle. Fe|versham immediately after the victory hanged up above twenty prisoners.

The military severities of the commanders were still inferior to the legal slaughters committed by judge Jefferies, who was sent down to try the delin|quents. The natural brutality of this man's tem|per

was enflamed by continual intoxication. He told the prisoners, that if they would save him the trou|ble of trying them, they might expect some favour, otherwise he would execute the law upon them with ••he utmost severity. Many poor wretches were thus allured into a confession, and found that it only hastened their destruction. No less than eighty were executed at Dorchester; and, on the whole, at Exe|ter, Taunton, and Wells, two hundred and fifty-one are computed to have fallen by the hand of jus|tice.

In ecclesiastical matters, James proceeded with still greater injustice. Among those who distinguished themselves against popery, was one doctor Sharpe, a clergyman of London, who declaimed with just se|verity against those who had changed their religion, by such arguments as the popish missionaries were able to produce. This being supposed to reflect up|on the king, gave great offence at court; and positive orders were given to the bishop of London to sus|pend Sharpe till his majesty's pleasure should be far|ther known. The bishop refused to comply; and the king resolved to punish the bishop himself for disobedience.

To effect his designs, an ecclesiastical commission was issued out, by which seven commissioners were invested with a full and unlimited authority over the whole church of England. Before this tribunal the bishop was summoned, and not only he, but Sharpe, the preacher, were suspended.

The next step was to allow a liberty of con|science to all sectaries; and he was taught to believe that the truth of the catholic religion would then, upon a fair trial, gain the victory. He therefore is|sued a declaration of general indulgence, and asserted that non-conformity to the established religion was no longer penal.

To complete his work he publicly sent the earl of Castlemaine ambassador extraordinary to Rome, in order to express his obedience to the pope, and to reconcile his kingdoms to the catholic communion. Never was there so much contempt thrown upon an embassy that was so boldly undertaken. The court of Rome expected but little success from measures so blindly conducted. They were sensible that the king was openly striking at those laws and opinions which it was his business to undermine in silence and security.

The Jesuits soon after were permitted to erect colleges in different parts of the kingdom; they ex|ercised the catholic worship in the most public man|ner; and four catholic bishops, consecrated in the king's chapel, were sent through the kingdom to exercise their episcopal functions, under the title of apostolic vicars.

Father Francis, a Benedictine monk, was recom|mended by the king to the university of Cambridge, for the degree of master of arts. But his religion was a stumbling-block which the university could not get over; and they presented a petition, beseeching the king to recal his mandate. Their petition was disregarded, their deputies denied an hearing: the vice-chancellor himself was summoned to appear be|fore the high commission court, and deprived of his office; yet the university persisted, and father Fran|cis was refused.

The place of president of Magdalen college, one of the richest foundations in Europe, being vacant, the king sent a mandate in favour of one Farmer, a new convert to popery, and a man of a bad charac|ter in other respects. The fellows of the college made very submissive applications to the king for re|calling his mandate; they refused admitting the can|didate, and James finding them resolute in the de|fence of their privileges, ejected them all except two.

* 1.65A second declaration for liberty of con|science was published, almost in the same terms with the former; but with this peculiar injunction, that all divines should read it after service in their churches. The clergy were known universally to disapprove of these measures, and they were now resolved to disobey an order dictated by the most bigotted motives. They were determined to trust their cause to the favour of the people, and that universal jealousy which pre|vailed against the encroachments of the crown. The first champions on this service of danger were Loyde, bishop of St. Asaph, Ken, of Bath and Wells, Tur|ner, of Ely, Lake, of Chichester, White, of Peter|borough, and Trelawney, of Bristol; these, together with Sancroft, the primate, concerted an address, in the form of a petition, to the king, which, with the warmest expressions of zeal and submission, remon|strated that they could not read his declaration con|sistent with their consciences, or the respect they owed the protestant religion.

The king in a fury summoned the bishops before the council, and there questioned them whether they would acknowledge their petition. They for some time declined giving an answer; but being urged by the chancellor, they at last owned it. On their re|fusal to give bail, an order was immediately drawn for their commitment to the Tower, and the crown-lawyers received directions to prosecute them for a seditious libel.

The twenty-ninth day of June was fixed for their trial; and their return was more splendidly at|tended than their imprisonment. The cause was looked upon as involving the fate of the nation, and future freedom, or future slavery awaited the deci|sion. The dispute was learnedly managed by the lawyers on both sides. Holloway and Powel, two of the judges, declared themselves in favour of the bi|shops.

The jury withdrew into a chamber, where they passed the whole night; but next morning they returned into court, and pronounced the bishops▪ Not guilty. Westminster-Hall instantly rang with loud acclamations, which were communicated to the whole extent of the city. They even reached the camp at Hounslow, where the king was at dinner, in lord Feversham's tent. His majesty demanding the cause of those rejoicings, and being informed that it was nothing but the soldiers shouting at the delivery of the bishops,

"Call you that nothing, cried he; but so much the worse for them!"

It was in this posture of affairs that all people turned their eyes upon William prince of Orange, who had married Mary, the eldest daughter of king James.

William was a prince who had, from his earliest entrance into business, been immersed in dangers, calamities, and politics. The ambition of France, and the jealousies of Holland, had served to sharpen his talents, and to give him a propensity to intrigue.

This politic prince now plainly saw that James had incurred the most violent hatred of his subjects.* 1.66 He was minutely inform|ed of their discontents; and, by seeming to discourage, still farther encreased them, hoping to gain the kingdom for himself in the sequel.

The time when the prince entered upon his enterprize was just when the people were in a flame from this recent insult offered to their bishops. He had before this made considerable augmentations to the Dutch fleet, and the ships were then lying ready in the harbour. Some additional troops were also levied, and sums of money raised for other purposes were converted to the advancement of this expedition.

So well concerted were his measures, that in three days above four hundred transports were hired, the army fell down the rivers and canals from Nimeguen,

with all necessary stores; and the prince set sail from Helvoetsluys with a fleet of near five hundred vessels, and an army of above fourteen thousand men.

It was given out that this invasion was intended for the coasts of France, and many of the English, who saw the fleet pass along their coasts, little expected to see it land on their own shores. Thus after a voyage of two days, the prince landed his army at the village of Broxholme in Torbay, on the fifth of November, which was the anniversary of the gun-powder trea|son.

But though the invitation from the English was very general, the prince for some time had the mor|tification to find himself joined by very few. He marched first to Exeter, where the country people had been so lately terrified with the executions which had ensued on Monmouth's rebellion, that they con|tinued to observe a strict neutrality. He remained for ten days in expectation of being joined by the malcontents, and at last began to despair of success. But just when he began to deliberate about reimbark|ing his forces, he was joined by several persons of consequence, and the whole country soon after came flocking to his standard. The nobility, clergy, officers, and even the king's own servants and creatures, were unanimous in deserting James. Lord Churchill had been raised from the rank of a page, and had been invested with an high command in the army; had been created a peer, and owed his whole fortune to the king's bounty: even he deserted among the rest, and carried with him the duke of Grafton, natural son to the late king, colonel Berkely, and some others.

The prince of Denmark, and Anne, his favourite daughter, perceiving the desperation of his circum|stances, resolved to leave him, and take part with the prevailing side. When he was told that the prince and princess had followed the rest of his favourites,

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The Landing of William III.

Isaac Taylor del et sculp

Published by G. Kearsley in Fleet Street as the Act directs. July 2 1774.

he was stung with the most bitter anguish.

"God help me, cried he, in the extremity of his agony, my own children have forsaken me."

The king, alarmed every day more and more with the prospect of a general disaffection, was resolved to hearken to those who advised his quitting the king|dom. To prepare for this he first sent away the queen, who arrived safely at Calais, under the con|duct of count Lauzun, an old favourite of the French king. He himself soon after disappeared in the night time, attended only by Sir Edward Hales, a new convert; but was discovered and brought back by the mob.

But shortly after being confined at Rochester, and observing that he was entirely neglected by his own subjects, he resolved to seek safety from the king of France, the only friend he had still remaining. He accordingly fled to the sea-side, attended by his na|tural son the duke of Berwick, where he embarked for the continent, and arrived in safety at Ambleteuse in Picardy, from whence he hastened to the court of France, where he still enjoyed the empty title of a king, and the appellation of a saint, which flattered him more.

The king having thus abdicated the throne,* 1.67 the next consideration was the appointing a successor. Some declared for a regent; others, that the princess of Orange should be invested with re|gal power, and the young prince considered as suppo|sititious. After a long debate in both houses, a new so|vereign was preferred to a regent, by a majority of two voices. It was agreed that the prince and princess of Orange should reign jointly as king and queen of England, while the administration of government should be placed in the hands of the prince only.

CHAP. XXXII. WILLIAM III.

WILLIAM was no sooner elected to the throne, than he began to experience the difficulty of governing a people, who were more ready to examine the commands of their superiors, than to obey them.

His reign commenced with an attempt, similar to that which had been the principal cause of all the dis|turbances in the preceding reign, and which had excluded the monarch from the throne. William was a Calvinist, and consequently averse to persecu|tion; he therefore began by attempting to repeal those laws that enjoined uniformity of worship; and though he could not entirely succeed in his design, a tolera|tion was granted to such dissenters as should take the oaths of allegiance, and hold no private conventicles.

In the mean time James, whose authority was still acknowledged in Ireland, embarked at Brest for that kingdom, and on May 22 arrived at Kin|sale. He soon after made his public entry into Dublin, amidst the acclamations of the inhabitants. He found the appearances of things in that country equal to his most sanguine expectations. Tyrcon|nel, the lord lieutenant, was devoted to his interests; his old army was steady, and a new one raised, amounting together to near forty-thousand men.

As soon as the season would permit, he went to lay siege to Londonderry, a town of small impor|tance in itself, but rendered famous by the stand which it made on this occasion.

The besieged endured the most poignant sufferings from fatigue and famine, until at last relieved by a store ship, that happily broke the boom laid across the

river to prevent a supply. The joy of the inhabi|tants at this unexpected relief, was only equalled by the rage and disappointment of the besiegers. The army of James was so dispirited by the success of this enterprize, that they abandoned the siege in the night; and retired with precipitation, after having lost above nine thousand men before the place.

It was upon the opposite banks of the river Boyne that both armies came in sight of each other,* 1.68 inflamed with all the animosities arising from religion, hatred, and revenge. The river Boyne at this place was not so deep, but that men might wade over on foot; however, the banks were rugged, and rendered dan|gerous by old houses and ditches, which served to defend the latent enemy. William, who now headed the protestant army, had no sooner arrived, but he rode along the side of the river, in sight of both armies, to make proper observations upon the plan of battle; but in the mean time being perceived by the enemy, a cannon was privately brought out, and planted against him, where he was sitting. The shot killed several of his followers; and he himself was wounded in the shoulder.

Early the next morning at six o'clock, king Wil|liam gave orders to force a pass over the river. This the army undertook in three different places; and after a furious cannonading, the battle began with unusual vigour. The Irish troops, though reckoned the best in Europe abroad, have always sought indif|ferently at home. After an obstinate resistance, they fled with precipitation; leaving the French and Swiss regiments, who came to their assistance, to make the best retreat they could. William led on his horse in person; and contributed, by his activity and vigilance, to secure the victory. James was not in the battle, but stood aloof, during the action, on the hill of Dunmore,

surrounded with some squadrons of horse; and at intervals was heard to exclaim, when he saw his own troops repulsing those of the enemy,

"O spare my English subjects."

The Irish lost about fifteen hundred men, and the protestants about one third of that number. The victory was splendid and almost decisive; but the death of the duke of Schomberg, who was shot as he was crossing the water, seemed to outweigh the whole loss sustained by the enemy.

* 1.69The last battle fought in favour of James was at Aughrim. The enemy fought with surprising fury, and the horse were several times repulsed; but the English wading through the middle of a bog up to the waste in mud, and rallying with some difficulty on the firm ground on the other side, renewed the combat with great fury. St. Ruth, the Irish general, being killed by a cannon-ball, his fate so dispirited his troops, that they gave way on all sides, and retreated to Limerick, where they resolved to make a final stand, after having lost above five thousand of the flower of their army. Limerick, the last retrea•• of the Irish forces, made a brave de|fence; but soon seeing the enemy advanced within ten paces of the bridge foot, and perceiving them|selves surrounded on all sides, they determined to capitulate; a negociation was immediately begun, and hostilities ceased on both sides. The Roman catholics by this capitulation were restored to the en|joyment of those liberties in the exercise of their religion, which they had possessed in the reign of king Charles the Second. All persons were indulged with free leave to remove with their families and effects to any other country, except England and Scotland. In consequence of this, about fourteen thousand of those who had fought for king James went over into France, having transports provided by government for conveying them thither.

James was now reduced to the lowest ebb of despondence,* 1.70 his designs upon England were quite frustrated, so that nothing was left his friends, but the hopes of assassinating the monarch on the throne. These base attempts, as barbarous as they were useless, were not entirely disa|greeable to the temper of James. It is said he encourag|ed and proposed them; but they all proved unservice|able to his cause, and only ended in the destruction of the undertakers. From that time till he died, which was about seven years, he continued to reside at St. Ger|main's a pensioner on the bounties of Lewis, and assist|ed by occasional liberalities from his daughter and friends in England. He died on the sixteenth day of September, in the year 1700, after having laboured un|der a tedious sickness; and many miracles, as the peo|ple thought, were wrought at his tomb. Indeed the latter part of his life was calculated to inspire the super|stitious with reverence for his piety. He subjected him|self to acts of uncommon penance and mortification. He frequently visited the poor monks of La Trappe, who were edified by his humble and pious deportment. His pride and arbitrary temper seemed to have vanish|ed with his greatness; he became affable, kind, and easy, to all his dependents; and in his last illness con|jured his son to prefer religion to every worldly ad|vantage, a counsel which that prince strictly obeyed. He died with great marks of devotion, and was in|terred, at his own request, in the church of the En|glish Benedictines at Paris, without any funeral so|lemnity.

William, upon accepting of the crown, was resolv|ed to preserve, as much as he was able, that share of prerogative which still was left him.

But at length he became fatigued with opposing the laws which parliament every day were laying round his authority, and gave up the contest. He admit|ted every restraint upon the prerogative in England,

upon condition of being properly supplied with the means of humbling the power of France. War and the balance of power in Europe, were all he knew, or indeed desired to understand. Provided the par|liament furnished him with supplies for these pur|poses, he permitted them to rule the internal polity at their pleasure. For the prosecution of the war with France, the sums of money granted him were incre|dible. The nation, not contented with furnishing him such sums of money as they were capable of rais|ing by the taxes of the year, mortgaged those taxes, and involved themselves in debts, which they have never since been able to discharge. For all that pro|fusion of wealth granted to maintain the imaginary balance of Europe, England received in return the empty reward of military glory in Flanders, and the consciousness of having given their allies, particularly the Dutch, frequent opportunities of being ungrate|ful.

* 1.71The war with France continued during the greatest part of this king's reign; but at length the treaty of Ryswic put an end to those contentions, in which England had engaged without policy, and came off without advantage. In the general pacification, her interests seemed en|tirely deserted; and for all the treasures she had sent to the continent, and all the blood which she had shed there, the only equivalent she received was an acknowledgement of king William's title from the king of France.

William was naturally of a very feeble constitu|tion; and it was by this time almost exhausted, by a series of continual disquietude and action. He had endeavoured to repair his constitution, or at least to conceal its decays, by exercise and riding. On the twenty-first day of February, in riding to Hampton-Court from Kensington, his horse fell under him, and he was thrown with such violence, that his col|lar

bone was fractured. His attendants conveyed him to the palace of Hampton court, where the frac|ture was reduced, and in the evening he returned to Kensington in his coach. The jolting of the carri|age disunited the fracture once more; and the bones were again replaced, under Bidloo his physician. This in a robust constitution would have been a trifling misfortune; but in him it was fatal. For some time he appeared in a fair way of recovery; but falling asleep on his couch, he was seized with a shiver|ing, which terminated in a fever asid diarrhoea, which soon became dangerous and desperate. Perceiving his end approaching, the objects of his former care lay still next his heart; and the fate of Europe seemed to remove the sensations he might be supposed to feel for his own. The earl of Albermarle arriving from Holland, he conferred with him in private on the po••••ure of affairs abroad. Two days after having re|ceived the sacrament from archbishop Tenison, he expired in the fifty-second of his age, after having reigned thirteen years.

CHAP. XXXIX. ANNE.

ANNE, married to prince George of Denmark, ascended the throne in the thirty-eighth year of her age, to the general satisfaction of all parties. She was the second daughter of king James, by his first wife, the daughter of chancellor Hyde, after|wards earl of Clarendon. Upon coming to the crown, she resolved to declare war against France, and communicated her intentions to the house of commons, by whom it was approved, and war was proclaimed accordingly.

This declaration of war on the part of the English, was seconded by similar declarations by the Dutch

and Germans, all on the same day. The French monarch could not suppress his anger at such a com|bination, but his chief resentment fell upon the Dutch. He declared, with great emotion, that as for those gentlemen pedlars, the Dutch, they should one day repent their insolence and presumption, in declaring war against one whose power they had formerly felt and dreaded. However, the affairs of the allies were no way influenced by his threats. The duke of Marl|borough had his views gratified, in being appointed general of the English forces; and he was still farther flattered by the Dutch, who, though the earl of Athlone had a right to share the command, ap|pointed Marlborough generalissimo of the allied ar|my. And it must be confessed, that few men shone more, either in debate or action, than he; serene in the midst of danger, and indefatigable in the cabinet; so that he became the most formidable enemy to France that England had produced, since the con|quering times of Cressy and Agincourt.

A great part of the history of this reign, consists in battles fought upon the continent, which, though of very little advantage to the interests of the nation, were very great additions to its honour. These tri|umphs, it is true, are passed away, and nothing re|mains of them but the names of Blenheim, Ramil|lies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet, where the allied army gained great, but (with respect to England) useless victories.

A conquest of much greater national importance was gained with less expence of blood and treasure in Spain. The ministry of England understanding that the French were employed in equipping a strong squadron in Brest, sent out Sir Cloudesly Shovel, and Sir George Rooke to watch their motions. Sir George, however, had farther orders to convoy a body of forces in transport-ships to Barcelona, upon which a fruitless attack was made by the prince of

Hesse. Finding no hopes, therefore, from this expe|dition, in two days after the troops were reimbark|ed, Sir George Rooke, joined by Sir Cloudesly, cal|led a council of war on board the fleet, as they lay off the coast of Africa. In this they resolved to make an attempt upon Gibraltar, a city then belonging to the Spaniards, at that time ill provided with a garri|son, as neither expecting, nor fearing such an at|tempt.

The town of Gibraltar stands upon a tongue of land, as the mariners call it, and defended by a rock inaccessible on every side but one. The prince of Hesse landed his troops, to the number of eighteen hundred, on the continent adjoining, and summon|ed the town to surrender, but without effect. Next day the admiral gave orders for cannonading the town; and perceiving that the enemy were driven from their fortifications at a place called the South Mole-head, ordered captain Whitaker to arm all the boats, and as|sault that quarter. Those officers who happened to be nearest the Mole, immediately manned their boats without orders, and entered the fortification sword in hand. But they were premature; for the Spa|niards sprung a mine, by which two lieutenants, and about one hundred men were killed and wounded. Nevertheless, the two captains, Hicks and Jumper, took possession of a platform, and kept their ground, until they were sustained by captain Whitaker, and the rest of the seamen, who took a redoubt between the Mole and the town by storm. Then the gover|nor capitulated, and the prince of Hesse entered the place, amazed at the success of the attempt, consi|dering the strength of the fortifications. When the news of this conquest was brought to England, it was for some time in debate whether it was a capture worth thanking the admiral for. It was at last considered as unworthy public gratitude; and while the duke of Marlborough was extolled for useless services, Sir

George Rooke was left to neglect, and soon displaced from his command, for having so essentially served his country. A striking instance that even in the most enlightened age, popular applause is most usually mis|placed. Gibraltar has ever since remained in the poffession of the English, and continues of the ut|most use in refitting that part of the navy destined to annoy an enemy, or protect our trade in the Medi|terranean. Here the English have a repository capa|ble of containing all things necessary for the repairing of fleets, or the equipment of armies.

While the English were thus victorious by land and sea, a new scene of contention was opened on the side of Spain, where the ambition of the Euro|pean princes exerted itself with the same fury that had filled the rest of the continent. Philip the Fourth, grandson of Lewis the Fourteenth, had been placed upon the throne of that kingdom, and had been received with the joyful concurrence of the greatest part of his subjects. He had also been no|minated successor to the crown by the late king of Spain's will. But in a former treaty among the powers of Europe, Charles, son of the emperor of Germany, was appointed heir to that crown; and this treaty had been guarantied by France herself, though she now resolved to reverse that consent in favour of a descendant of the house of Bourbon. Charles was still farther led on to put in for the crown of Spain by the invitation of the Catalonians, who declared in his favour, and by the assistance of the English and Portuguese, who promised to arm in his cause. He was furnished with two hundred transports, thirty ships of war, and nine thousand men, for the conquest of that ex|tensive empire. But the earl of Peterborough, a man of romantic bravery, offered to conduct them; and his single service was thought equivalent to armies.

The earl of Peterborough was one of the most singular and extraordinary men of the age in which he lived. When yet but fifteen he fought against the Moors in Africa; at twenty he assisted in com|passing the revolution, and he now carried on the war in Spain almost at his own expence; his friend|ship for the duke Charles being one of his chief mo|tives to this great undertaking. He was deformed in his person; but of a mind the most generous, honourable, and active. His first attempt upon landing in Spain was the taking Barcelona, a strong city, with a garrison of five thousand men, while his own army amounted to little more than nine thou|sand.

These successes, however, were but of short continu|ance; Peterborough being recalled, and the army under Charles being commanded by the lord Gal|way. This nobleman having received intelligence that the enemy, under the command of the duke of Berwick, was posted near the town of Almanza, he advanced thither to give him battle. The conflict began about two in the afternoon, and the whole front of each army was fully engaged.The center, consisting chiefly of battalions from Great Britain and Holland, seemed at first victorious; but the Portuguese horse, by whom they were supported, betaking themselves to flight on the first charge, the English troops were flanked and surrounded on every side. In this dreadful emer|gency, they formed themselves into a square, and re|tired to an eminence, where, being ignorant of the country, and destitute of all supplies, they were obliged to surrender prisoners of war, to the number of ten thousand men. This victory was complete and decisive; and all Spain, except the province of Catalonia, returned to their duty to Philip their sovereign.

The councils of the queen had hitherto been go|verned by a Whig ministry; for though the duke of

Marlborough had first started in the Tory interest, he soon joined the opposite faction, as he found them most sincere in their desires to humble the power of France. The Whigs therefore still pursued the schemes of the late king; and impressed with a re|publican spirit of liberty, strove to humble despotism in every part of Europe. In a government where the reasoning of individuals, retired from power, generally leads those who command, the designs of the ministry must alter as the people happen to change. The people, in fact, were beginning to change. But previous to the disgrace of the Whig ministry, whose fall was now hastening, a measure of the greatest importance took place in parliament; a measure that had been wished by many, but thought too difficult for execution. What I mean, is the union between the two kingdoms of England and Scotland; which, though they were governed by one sovereign since the accession of James the First, yet were still ruled by their respective parliaments, and often professed to pursue opposite interests and different designs.

The attempt for an union was begun at the com|mencement of this reign; but some disputes arising relative to the trade to the East, the conference was broke up, and it was thought that an adjustment would be impossible. It was revived by an act in either parlia|ment, granting power to commissioners named on the part of both nations, to treat on the preliminary arti|cles of an union, which should afterwards undergo a more thorough discussion by the legislative body of both kingdoms. The choice of these commissioners was left to the queen; and she took care that none should be employed, but such as heartily wished to promote so desirable a measure.

Accordingly the queen having appointed commis|sioners on both sides, they met in the council-cham|ber of the Cock-pit, near Whitehall, which was the place appointed for their conferences. As the queen

frequently exhorted the commissioners dispatch, the articles of this famous union were soon agreed to, and signed by the commissioners; and it only remained to lay them before the parliaments of both nations.

In this famous treaty it was stipulated, that the suc|cession to the united kingdoms should be vested in the house of Hanover; that the united kingdoms should be represented by one and the same parliament; that all the subjects of Great Britain should enjoy a com|munication of privileges and advantages; that they should have the same allowances and privileges with respect to commerce and customs; that the laws con|cerning public right, civil government and policy, should be the same throughout the two united king|doms; but that no alteration should be made in laws which concerned private right, except for the evi|dent benefit of the subjects of Scotland; that the courts of session, and all other courts of judicature in Scotland, should remain, as then constituted by the laws of that kingdom, with the same authority and pri|vileges as before the union; that Scotland should be represented in the parliament of Great Britain, by sixteen peers, and forty-five commoners, to be elected in such a manner, as should be settled by the present parliament of Scotland; that all peers of Scotland should be considered as peers of Great Bri|tain, and rank immediately after the English peers of the like degrees, at the time of the union, and be|fore such as should be created after it; that they should enjoy all the privileges of English peers, ex|cept that of sitting and voting in parliament, or sit|ting upon the trial of peers; that all the insignia of royalty and government should remain as they were; that all laws and statutes in either kingdom, so far as they might be inconsistent with the terms of these ar|ticles, should cease, and be declared void by the re|spective parliaments of the two kingdoms. These were the principal articles of the union; and it only

remained to obtain the sanction of the legislature of both kingdoms to give them authority.

The arguments in these different assemblies were suited to the audience. To induce the Scotch par|liament to come into the measure, it was alledged by the ministry, and their supporters, that an entire and perfect union would be the solid foundation of a lasting peace. It would secure their religion, liberty, and property, remove the animosities that prevailed among themselves, and the jealousies that subsisted be|tween the two nations. It would increase their strength, riches and commerce, the whole island would be joined in affection, and freed from all apprehensions of different interests. It would be enabled to resist all its enemies, support the Protestant interests, and maintain the liberties of Europe. It was observed, that the less the wheels of government were clogged by a multiplicity of councils, the more vigorous would be their exertions. They were shewn that the taxes which, in consequence of this union, they were to pay, were by no means so great proportionably as their share in the legislature. That their taxes did not amount to a seventieth part of those supplied by the English; and yet their share in the legislature was not a tenth part less. Such were the arguments in favour of the union, addressed to the Scotch parlia|ment. In the English houses it was observed, that a powerful and dangerous nation would thus for ever be prevented from giving them any disturbance. That in case of any future rupture, England had every thing to lose, and nothing to gain against a nation that was courageous and poor.

On the other hand, the Scotch were fired with in|dignation at the thoughts of losing their ancient and independent government. The nobility found themselves degraded in point of dignity and influence, by being excluded from their seats in parliament. The trading part of the nation be|held

held their commerce loaded with heavy duties, and con|sidered their new privilege of trading to the English plan|tations in the West Indies, as a very uncertain advan|tage. In the English houses also it was observed, that the union of a rich with a poor nation would always be beneficial to the latter, and that the former could only hope for a participation of their necessities. It was said that the Scotch reluctantly yielded to this coali|tion, and that it might be likened to a marriage with a woman against her consent. It was supposed to be an union made up of so many unmatched pieces, and such incongruous ingredients, that it could ne|ver take effect. It was complained, that the pro|portion of the land-tax paid by the Scotch was small, and unequal to their share in the legislature.

At length, notwithstanding all opposition made by the Tories, every article of the union was approved by a great majority in both parliaments.

Thus all were obliged to acquiesce in an union of which they at first had not sagacity to distinguish the advantages.

In the mean time the Whig ministry was every day declining. Among the number of those whom the du|chess of Marlborough had introduced to the queen, to contribute to her private amusement, was one Mrs. Ma|sham, her own kinswoman, whom she had raised from indigence and obscurity. The duchess having gained the ascendant over the queen, became petulant and insolent, and relaxed in those arts by which she had risen. Mrs. Masham, who had her fortune to make, was more humble and assiduous; she flattered the foibles of the queen, and assented to her preposses|sions and prejudices. She soon saw the queen's in|clination to the Tory set of opinions, their divine right and passive obedience; and instead of attempting to thwart her, as the duchess had done, she joined in with her partiality, and even outwent her in her own way.

This lady was in fact the tool of Mr. Harley, se|cretary of state, who also some time before had insi|nuated himself into the queen's good graces, and who determined to sap the credit of the Whig mi|nisters His aim was to unite the Tory interest un|der his own shelter, and to expel the Whigs from the advantages which they had long enjoyed under government.

In his career of ambition he chose for his coadju|tor Henry St. John, afterwards the famous lord Bo|lingbroke, a man of great eloquence, and greater ambition, enterprising, restless, active, and haughty, with some wit, and little principle.

To this junto was added Sir Simon Harcourt, a lawyer, a man of great abilities.

It was now perceived that the people themselves began to be weary of the Whig ministry, whom they formerly caressed. To them they imputed the bur|thens under which they groaned, burthens which they had been hitherto animated to bear by the pomp of triumph; but the load of which they felt in a pause of success.

Harley, afterwards known by the title of lord Ox|ford, was at the bottom of all these complaints; and though they did not produce an immediate effect, yet they did not fail of a growing and steady ope|ration.

At length the Whig part of the ministry opened their eyes to the intrigues of the Tories. But it was now too late, they had entirely lost the confi|dence of the queen.

Harley soon threw off the mask of friendship, and took more vigorous measures for the prosecution of his designs. In him the queen reposed all her trust, though he had now no visible concern in the admi|nistration. The first triumph of the Tories, in which the queen discovered a public partiality in their favour, was seen in a transaction of no great

importance in itself, but from the consequences it produced. The parties of the nation were eager to engage, and they wanted but the watch-word to be|gin. This was given by a man neither of abilities, property, or power; but accidentally brought for|ward on this occasion.

Henry Sacheverel was a clergyman bred at Ox|ford, of narrow intellects, and an overheated ima|gination. He had acquired some popularity among those who distinguished themselves by the name of high-churchmen, and had taken all occasions to vent his animosity against the dissenters. At the summer assizes at Derby he held forth in that strain before the judges. On the fifth of November, in St. Paul's church, he, in a violent declamation, defended the doctrine of non-resistance, inveighed against the to|leration of dissenters, declared the church was dan|gerously attacked by its enemies, and slightly de|fended by its false friends. He sounded the trumpet for the zealous, and exhorted the people to put on the whole armour of God. Sir Samuel Gerrard, lord-mayor, countenanced this harangue, which, though very weak both in the matter and stile, was published under his protection, and extolled by the To|ries as a master-piece of writing. These sermons owed all their celebrity to the complexion of the times, and they are now deservedly neglected.

Mr. Dolben, son to the archbishop of York, laid a complaint before the house of commons against these rhapsodies, and thus gave force to what would have soon been forgotten. The most violent para|graphs were read, and the sermons voted scandalous and seditious libels. Sacheverel was brought to the bar of the house, and he, far from disowning the writing of them, gloried in what he had done, and mentioned the encouragement he had received to publish them from the lord-mayor, who was then present. Being ordered to withdraw, it was resolved

to impeach him of high crimes and misdemeanors at the bar of the house of lords; and Mr. Dolben was fixed upon to conduct the prosecution, in the name of the commons of all England. A commit|tee was appointed to draw up articles of impeach|ment; Sacheverel was taken into custody, and a day was appointed for his trial before the lords in West|minster-hall.

The eyes of the whole kingdom were turned upon this very extraordinary trial, which lasted three weeks, and excluded all other public business for the time. The queen herself was every day present as a private spectator, while vast multitudes attended the culprit each day as he went to the hall, shouting as he passed, or silently praying for his success. The managers for the commons were Sir Joseph Jekyl, Mr. Eyre, solicitor general, Sir Peter King, record|er, general Stanhope, Sir Thomas Parker, and Mr. Walpole. The doctor was defended by Sir Simon Harcourt, and Mr. Phipps, and assisted by doctor Atterbury, doctor Smallridge, and doctor Freind. While the trial continued, nothing could exceed the violence and outrage of the populace. They sur|rounded the queen's sedan, exclaiming,

"God bless your majesty and the church; we hope your ma|jesty is for doctor Sacheverel."

They destroyed several meeting-houses, plundered the dwellings of many eminent dissenters, and even proposed to at|tack the bank. The queen, in compliance with the request of the commons, published a proclamation for suppressing the tumults; and several persons be|ing apprehended were tried for high treason. Two were convicted, and sentenced to die, but neither suffered.

When the commons had gone through their charge, the managers for Sacheverel undertook his defence with great art and eloquence. He afterwards recited a speech himself, which, from the difference

found between it and his sermons, seems evidently the work of another. In this he solemnly justified his intentions towards the queen and her govern|ment. He spoke in the most respectful terms of the revolution, and the protestant succession. He maintained the doctrine of non-resistance as a tenet of the church, in which he was brought up; and in a pathetic conclusion endeavoured to excite the pity of his audience.

At length, after much obstinate dispute, and vi|rulent altercation, Sacheverel was found guilty, by a majority of seventeen voices; but no less than four and thirty peers entered a protest against this decision. He was prohibited from preaching for three years; and his two sermons were ordered to be burned by the hands of the common hangman, in presence of the lord-mayor and the two sheriffs. The lenity of this sentence, which was, in a great measure, owing to the dread of popular resentment, was considered by the Tories as a triumph.

Such was the complexion of the times, when the queen thought proper to summon a new parliament▪ and being a friend to the Tories herself, she gave the people an opportunity of indulging themselves in chusing representatives to their mind. In fact, very few were returned but such as had distinguished themselves by their zeal against the Whig admini|stration.

In the mean time the campaign in Flanders was conducted with the most brilliant success. The duke of Marlborough had every motive to continue the war, as it gratified not only his ambition but his avarice; a passion that obscured his shining abilities.

The king of France appeared extremely desirous of a peace, and resolved to solicit a conference. He employed one Petkum, resident of the duke of Hol|stein at the Hague, to negotiate upon this subject, and he ventured also to solicit the duke himself in

private. A conference was at length begun at Ger|truydenburgh, under the influence of Marlborough, Eugene, and Zinzendorff, who were all three, from private motives, entirely averse to the treaty. Upon this occasion the French ministers were subjected to every species of mortification. Spies were placed upon all their conduct. Their master was insulted, and their letters were opened; till at last Lewis resolved to hazard another campaign.

It was only by insensible degrees that the queen seemed to acquire courage enough to second her inclinations, and depose a ministry that had long been disagreeable to her. Harley, however, who still shared her confidence, did not fail to inculcate the popularity, the justice, and the security of such a measure; and, in consequence of his advice, she began the changes, by transferring the post of lord chamberlain from the duke of Kent to the duke of Shrewsbury, who had lately voted with the Tories, and maintained an intimate correspondence with Mr. Harley. Soon after the earl of Sunderland, secre|tary of state, and son-in-law to the duke of Marlbo|rough was displaced, and the earl of Dartmouth put in his room. Finding that she was rather applauded than condemned for this resolute proceeding, she re|solved to become entirely free.

Soon after the earl of Godolphin was divested of his office, and the treasury put in commission, sub|jected to the direction of Harley, who was appointed chancellor of the exchequer, and under treasurer. The earl of Rochester was declared president of the council, in the room of lord Somers. The staff of lord steward being taken from the duke of Devon|shire, was given to the duke of Buckingham; and Mr. Boyle was removed from the secretary's office, to make way for Mr. Henry St. John. The lord chancellor having resigned the great seal, it was first put in commission, and then given to Sir Simon

Harcourt. The earl of Wharton surrendered his com|mission of lord lieutenant of Ireland; and that em|ployment was conferred upon the duke of Ormond. Mr. George Granville was appointed secretary at war, in the room of Mr. Robert Walpole; and in a word, there was not one Whig left in any office of the state, except the duke of Marlborough. He was still con|tinued the reluctant general of the army; but he just|ly considered himself as a ruin entirely undermined, and just ready to fall.

But the triumph was not yet complete, until the parliament was brought to confirm and approve the queen's choice. The queen in her speech recom|mended the prosecution of the war with vigour. The parliament were ardent in their expressions of zeal and unanimity. They exhorted her to discountenance all such principles and measures, as had lately threat|ened her royal crown and dignity. This was but an opening to what soon after followed. The duke of Marlborough, who but a few months before had been so highly extolled and caressed by the representatives of the people, was now become the object of their ha|tred and reproach. His avarice was justly upbraided; his protracting the war was said to arise from that mo|tive. Instances were every where given of his fraud and extortion. These might be true, but party had no moderation, and even his courage and conduct were called in question. To mortify the duke still more, the thanks of the house of commons were voted to the earl of Peterborough for his services in Spain, when they were refused to the duke for those in Flan|ders; and the lord keeper, who delivered them to Pe|terborough, took occasion to drop some reflections against the mercenary disposition of his rival.

Nothing now, therefore, remained of the Whig system, upon which this reign was begun, but the war, which continued to rage as fierce as ever, and which increased in expence every year as it went on.

It was the resolution of the present ministry to put an end to it at any rate, as it had involved the nation in debt almost to bankruptcy; and as it promised, instead of humbling the enemy, only to become habitual to the constitution.

It only remained to remove the duke of Marlbo|rough from his post, as he would endeavour to tra|verse all their negotiations. But here again a diffi|culty started, this step could not be taken without giving offence to the Dutch, who placed entire con|fidence in him; they were obliged, therefore, to wait for some convenient occasion. Upon his return from this campaign he was accused of having taken a bribe of six thousand pounds a year from a Jew, who contracted to supply the army with bread; and the queen thought proper to dismiss him from all his employments. This was the pretext made use of, though his fall had been predetermined; and though his receiving such a bribe was not the real cause of his removal, yet candour must confess that it ought to have been so.

In the mean time Prior, much more famous as a poet than as a statesman, was sent over with propo|sals to France; and Menager, a man of no great station, returned with Prior to London, with full powers to treat upon the preliminaries.

The ministry having got thus far, the great diffi|culty still lay before them, of making the terms of peace agreeable to all the confederates. The earl of Stafford, who had been lately recalled from the Hague, where he resided as ambassador, was now sent back to Holland, with orders to communicate to the pensionary Heinsius, the preliminary proposals, to signify the queen's approbation of them, and to propose a place where the plenipotentiaries should as|semble. The Dutch were very averse to begin the conference, upon the inspection of the preliminaries. They sent over an envoy to attempt to turn the

queen from her resolution, but finding their efforts vain, they fixed upon Utrecht as the place of general conference, and they granted passports to the French ministers accordingly.

The conferences began at Utrecht, under the con|duct of Robinson, bishop of Bristol, lord privy-seal, and the earl of Stafford, on the side of the English▪ of Buys and Vanderdussen on the part of the Dutch; and of the marshal D'Uxelles, the cardinal Polig|nac, and Mr. Menager, in behalf of France. The ministers of the emperor and Savoy assisted, and the other allies sent also plenipotentiaries, though with the utmost reluctance. As England and France, were the only two powers that were seriously inclined to peace, it may be supposed that all the other deputies served rather to retard than advance its progress. They met rather to start new difficulties, and widen the breach, than to quiet the dissentions of Eu|rope.

The English ministers therefore, finding multiplied obstructions from the deliberations of their allies, set on foot a private negotiation with France. They stipulated certain advantages for the subjects of Great Britain in a concerted plan of peace. They resolved to enter into such mutual confidence with the French, as would anticipate all clandestine transactions to the prejudice of the coalition.

In the beginning of August,* 1.72 secretary St. John, who had been created lord vis|count Bolingbroke, was sent to the court of Versailles to remove all obstructions to the separate treaty. He was accompanied by Mr. Prior, and the abbé Gualtier, and treated with the most distinguished marks of respect. He was caressed by the French king, and the marquis de Torcy, with whom he ad|justed the principal interests of the duke of Savoy, and the elector of Bavaria.

At length the treaties of peace and commerce be|tween England and France being agreed on by the plenipotentiaries on either side, and ratified by the queen, she acquainted her parliament of the steps she had taken.

The articles of this famous treaty were longer canvassed, and more warmly debated, than those of any other treaty read of in history. The number of different interests concerned, and the great enmity and jealousy subsisting between all, made it impossible that all could be satisfied; and indeed there seemed no other method of obtaining peace, but that which was taken, for the two principal powers concerned to make their own articles, and to leave the rest for a sub|ject of future discussion.

The first stipulation was, that Philip, now ac|knowledged king of Spain, should renounce all right to the crown of France, the union of two such power|ful kingdoms being thought dangerous to the liberties of Europe. It was agreed that the duke of Berry, Philip's brother, and after him in succession, should also renounce his right to the crown of Spain, in case he became king of France. It was stipulated that the duke of Savoy should possess the island of Si|cily, with the title of king, together with Fenestrelles, and other places on the continent, which increase of dominion was in some measure made out of the spoils of the French monarchy. The Dutch had that bar|rier granted them, which they so long sought after; and if the crown of France was deprived of some do|minions to enrich the duke of Savoy, on the other hand the house of Austria was taxed to supply the wants of the Hollanders, who were put in possession of the strongest towns in Flanders. With regard to England, its glory and its interests were secured. The fortifications of Dunkirk, an harbour that might be dangerous to their trade in time of war, were ordered to be demolished, and its port destroyed. Spain gave

up all right to Gibraltar, and the island of Minorca. France resigned her pretensions to Hudson's Bay, No|va Scotia, and Newfoundland; but they were left in possession of Cape Breton, and the liberty of drying their fish upon the shore. Among those articles, glo|rious to the English nation, their setting free the French protestants, confined in the prisons and gallies for their religion was not the least merito|rious. For the emperor it was stipulated, that he should possess the kingdom of Naples, the duchy of Milan, and the Spanish Netherlands. The king of Prussia was to have Upper Guelder; and a time was fixed for the Emperor's acceding to these articles, as he had for some time obstitately refused to assist at the negociation. Thus Europe seemed to be formed into one great republic, the different members of which were cantoned out to different governors, and the ambition of any one state, amenable to the tribunal of all. Thus it appears that the English ministry did justice to all the world; but their country denied that justice to them.

But while the Whigs were attacking the Tory ministers from without, these were in much greater danger from their own internal dissensions. Lord Oxford, and lord Bolingbroke, though they had started with the same principles and designs, yet having vanquished other opposers, now began to turn their strength against each other. Both began to form se|parate interests, and to adopt different principles. Oxford's plan was the more moderate, Bolingbroke's the more vigorous, but the more secure. Oxford it is thought was entirely for the Hanover succession; Bolingbroke had some hopes of bringing in the Pre|tender. But though they hated each other most sin|cerely, yet they were for a while kept together by the good offices of their friends and adherents, who had the melancholy prospect of seeing the citadel of their

hopes, while openly besieged from without, secretly undermining within.

This was a mortifying prospect to the Tories; but it was more particularly displeasing to the queen, who daily saw her favourite ministry declining, while her own health kept pace with their contentions. Her constitution was now quite broken. One fit of sick|ness succeeded another; and what completed the ruin of her health, was the anxiety of her mind. These dissensions had such an effect upon her spirits and constitution, that she declared she could not out|live it, and immediately sunk into a state of lethargic insensibility. Notwithstanding all the medicines which the physicians could prescribe, the distemper gained ground so fast,* 1.73 that the day after they despaired of her life, and the privy-council was assembled on the occa|sion.

All the members without distinction, being sum|moned from the different parts of the kingdom, be|gan to provide for the security of the constitution. They sent a letter to the elector of Hanover inform|ing him of the queen's desperate situation, and desir|ing him to repair to Holland, where he would be at|tended by a British squadron to convey him to Eng|land. At the same time they dispatched instructions to the earl of Strafford at the Hague, to desire the states-general to be ready, to perform the guaranty of the Protestant succession. Precautions were taken to secure the sea-ports; and the command of the fleet was bestowed upon the earl of Berkeley, a professed Whig. These measures, which were all dictated by that party, answered a double end. It argued their own alacrity in the cause of their new sovereign, and seemed to imply a danger to the state from the disaf|fection of the opposite interest.

On the thirtieth of July, the queen seemed some|what relieved by medicines, rose from her bed about

eight o'clock, and walked a little. After some time, casting her eyes on a clock that stood in her chamber, she continued to gaze at it for some minutes. One of the ladies in waiting asked her what she saw there more than usual; to which the queen only answer|ed, by turning her eyes upon her with a dying look. She was soon after seized with a fit of the apoplexy: she continued all night in a state of stupefaction, and expired the following morning, in the forty-ninth year of her age. She reigned more than twelve years over a people that was now risen to the highest pitch of refinement; that had attained by their wis|dom all the advantages of opulence, and by their va|lour all the happiness of security and conquest.

CHAP. XXXIV. GEORGE I.

PURSUANT to the act of succession, George the first, son of Ernest Augustus, first elector of Brunswick, and the princess Sophia, grand-daughter to James the first, ascended the British throne. His mature age, he being now fifty-four years old, his sagacity and experience, his numerous alliances, the general tranquility of Europe, all contributed to es|tablish his interests, and to promise him a peaceable and happy reign. His virtues, though not shining, were solid; he was of a very different disposition from the Stuart family, whom he succeeded. These were known, to a proverb, for leaving their friends in extremity; George, on the contrary, soon after his arrival in England, was heard to say; "My max|im is, never to abandon my friends. To do justice to all the world, and to fear no man" To these qualifications of resolution and perseverance, he joined great application to business. However, one

fault with respect to England remained behind; he studied the interests of those subjects he had left, more than those he came to govern.

The queen had no sooner resigned her last breath, that the privy-council met, and three instruments were produced, by which the elector appointed seve|ral of his known adherents to be added as lords jus|tices to the seven great offices of the kingdom. Or|ders also were immediately issued out for proclaiming George king of England, Scotland, and Ireland. The regency appointed the earl of Dorset to carry him the intimation of his accession to the crown, and to attend him in his journey to England. They sent the general officers, in whom they could confide, to their posts; they reinforced the garrison of Ports|mouth, and appointed the celebrated Mr. Addison secretary of state. To mortify the late ministry the more, lord Bolingbroke was obliged to wait every morning in the passage, among the servants, with his bag of papers, where there were persons purpose|ly placed to insult and deride him. No tumult ap|peared, no commotion arose against the accession of the new king, and this gave a strong proof that no rational measures were ever taken to obstruct his ex|altation.

When he first landed at Greenwich, he was re|ceived by the duke of Northumberland, captain of the life-guard, and the lords of the regency. When he retired to his bed-chamber, he then sent for such of the nobility as had distinguished themselves by their zeal for his succession. But the duke of Ormond, the lord chancellor, and the lord treasurer, found themselves excluded.

The king of a faction is but the sovereign of half his subjects. Of this, however, the new-elected mon|arch did not seem sensible. It was his misfortune, and consequently that of the nation, that he was hemmed round by men, who soured him with all

their own interests and prejudices. None now but the leaders of a party were admitted into employ|ment. The Whigs while they pretended to secure the crown for their king, were with all possible arts confirming their own interests, extending their con|nexions, and giving laws to their sovereign. An in|stantaneous and total change was made in all the of|fices of trust, honour, or advantage. The Whigs governed the senate and the court; whom they would, they opppressed; bound the lower orders of people with severe laws, and kept them at a distance by vile distinctions; and then taught them to call this—Liberty.

These partialities soon raised discontents among the people, and the king's attachment considerably encreased the malecontents through all the kingdom. The clamour of the church's being in danger was revived, and the people only seemed to want a leader to incite them to insurrection. Birmingham, Bris|tol, Norwich, and Reading, still remembered the spirit with which they had declared for Sacheverel; and now the cry was, Down with the Whigs, and Sacheverel for ever.

Upon the first meeting of the new par|liament, in which the Whigs,* 1.74 with the king at their head, were predominant, no|thing was expected but the most violent measures against the late ministry, nor were the ex|pectations of mankind disappointed.

The lords professed their hopes that the king would be able to recover the reputation of the king|dom on the continent, the loss of which they affected to deplore. The commons went much farther: they declared their resolution to trace out those measures by which the country was depressed: they resolved to seek after those abettors on whom the pretender seemed to ground his hopes; and they determined to bring such to condign punishment.

It was the artifice, during this and the succeeding reign, to stigmatize all those who testified their dis|content against government, as Papists and Jacobites. All who ventured to speak against the violence of their measures, were reproached as designing to bring in the pretender; and most people were con|sequently afraid to murmur, since discontent was so near a-kin to treason. The people, therefore, be|held the violence of their conduct in silent fright, in|ternally disapproving, yet not daring to avow their detestation.

A committee was appointed, consisting of twenty persons, to inspect all the papers relative to the late negociation for peace; and to pick out such of them as might serve as subjects of accusation against the late ministry. After some time spent in this disqui|sition, Mr. Walpole, as chairman of the committee, declared to the house that a report was drawn up; and in the mean time, moved that a warrant might be issued for apprehending Mr. Matthew Prior, and Mr. Thomas Harley, who being in the house, were immediately taken into custody. He then impeached lord Bolingbroke of high treason. This struck some of the members with amazement; but they were still more astonished, when lord Coningsby, rising up, was heard to say,

"The worthy chairman has impeached the hand, but I impeach the head; he has impeached the scholar, and I the master. I impeach Robert earl of Oxford, and earl Morti|mer, of high treason, and other crimes and misde|meanors."

When lord Oxford appeared in the house of lords, the day following, he was avoided by the peers as in|fectious; and he had now an opportunity of discover|ing the baseness of mankind. When the articles were read against him in the house of commons, a warm debate arose upon that in which he was charged with having advised the French king of the manner

of gaining Tournay from the Dutch. Mr. Walpole alledged that it was treason. Sir Joseph Jekyl, a known Whig, said that he could never be of opinion that it amounted to treason. It was his principle, he said, to do justice to all men, to the highest and the lowest. He hoped he might pretend to some know|ledge of the laws, and would not scruple to declare upon this part of the question in favour of the crimi|nal. To this Walpole answered, with great warmth, that there were several persons both in and out of the committee, who did not in the least yield to that member in point of honesty, exceeded him in the knowledge of the laws, and yet were satisfied that the charge in that article amounted to high treason. This point being decided against the earl, and the other articles, approved by the house, the lord Coningsby, attended by the Whig members, impeached him soon after at the bar of the house of lords, demand|ing, at the same time, that he might lose his seat, and be committed to custody. When this point came to be debated in the house of lords, a violent altercation ensued. Those who still adhered to the deposed minister, maintained the injustice and the dan|ger of such a proceeding. At last the earl himself rose up, and with great tranquility observed, That for his own part he always acted by the immediate directions and command of the queen, his mistress▪ he had never offended against any known law, and was unconcerned for the life of an insignificant old man.

Next day he was brought to the bar, where be re|ceived a copy of his impeachment, and was allowed a month to prepare his answer. Though Dr. Mead declared that if the earl should be sent to the Tower, his life would be in danger, it was carried in the house that should be committed.

At the same time the duke of Ormond and lord Bolingbroke having omitted to surrender themselves,

for they had actually, fled to the continent, within a limited time, it was ordered that the earl marshal should raze out their names and arms from among the list of peers, and inventories were taken of their es|tates and possessions, which were declared forfeited to the crown.

Lord Oxford being confined in the Tower, he continued there for two years, during which time the nation was in a continual ferment, from an actual rebellion that was carried on unsuccessfully. After the execution of some lords, who were taken in arms, the nation seemed glutted with blood, and that was the time that lord Oxford petitioned to be brought to his trial. He knew that the fury of the nation was spent on objects that were really culpable, and expected that his case would look like innocence it|self, when compared to theirs. A day, therefore, at his own request was assigned him, and the commons were ordered to prepare for their charge. At the appointed time the peers repaired to the court in Westminster-hall, where lord Cowper presided as lord high-steward. But a dispute arising between the lords and commons, concerning the mode of his trial, the lords voted that the prisoner should be set at liberty. To this dispute he probably owed the security of his title and fortune, for as to the articles, importing him guilty of high treason, they were at once malignant and frivolous; so that his life was in no mannner of danger.

In the mean time these vindictive proceedings ex|cited the indignation of the people, who perceived that the avenues to royal favour were closed against all but a faction. The flames of rebellion were ac|tually kindled in Scotland. The earl of Mar assem|bling three hundred of his own vassals in the High|lands, proclaimed the pretender at Castletown, and set up his standard at a place called Braemaer, as|suming the title of lieutenant-general of his majesty's

forces. To second these attempts, two vessels arrived in Scotland from France, with arms, ammunition, and a number of officers, together with assurances to the earl, that the pretender himself would shortly come over to head his own forces. The earl, in conse|quence of this promise, soon found himself at the head of ten thousand men, well armed and provided.

The duke of Argyle, apprized of his intentions, and at any rate willing to prove his attachment to the present government, resolved to give him battle in the neighbourhood of Dumblain, though his forces did not amount to half the number of the enemy. After an engagement which continued several hours, in the evening, both sides drew off, and both sides claimed the victory. Though the possession of the field was kept by neither, yet certainly all the ho|nour and all the advantages of the day belonged only to the duke of Argyle. It was sufficient for him to have interrupted the progress of the enemy; for in their circumstances, delay was defeat. The earl of Mar soon found his disappointments and his losses encrease. The castle of Inverness, of which he was in possession, was delivered up to the king by lord Lovat, who had hitherto professed to act in the inte|rest of the pretender. The marquis of Tullibardine forsook the earl, in order to defend his own part of the country; and many of the clans, seeing no like|lihood of coming soon to a second engagement, re|turned quietly home; for an irregular army is much easier led to battle than induced to bear the fatigues of a campaign.

In the mean time the rebellion was still more un|successfully prosecuted in England. From the time the pretender had undertaken this wild project at Paris, in which the duke of Ormond and lord Bo|lingbroke were engaged, lord Stair, the English am|bassador there, had penetrated all his designs, and sent faithful accounts of all his measures, and all

his adherents, to the ministry at home. Upon the first rumour, therefore, of an insurrection, they im|prisoned several lords and gentlemen, of whom they had a suspicion. The earls of Home, Wintown, and Kinnoul, and others, were committed to the cas|tle of Edinburgh. The king obtained leave from the lower house to seize Sir William Wyndham, Sir John Packington, Harvey, Combe, and others. The lords Landsdown and Duplin were taken into custo|dy. Sir William Wyndham's father-in-law, the duke of Somerset, offered to become bound for his appearance, but his surety was refused.

But all these precautions were not able to stop the insurrection in the western counties, where it was already begun. However, all their preparations were weak and ill conducted, every measure was betrayed to government as soon as projected, and many revolts repressed in the very outset. The university of Ox|ford was treated with great severity on this occasion. Major general Pepper, with a strong detachment of dragoons, took possession of the city at day break, declaring he would instantly shoot any of the stu|dents who should presume to appear without the li|mits of their respective colleges. The insurrection in the northern counties came to greater maturity.* 1.75 In the month of October the earl of Derwentwater and Mr. Forster took the field with a body of horse, and being joined by some gentlemen from the borders of Scotland, proclaimed the pretender. Their first attempt was to seize upon Newcastle, in which they had many friends, but they found the gates shut against them, and were obliged to retire to Hexham. To oppose these, general Carpenter was detached by government, with a body of nine hundred men, and an engagement was hourly expected. The rebels had proceeded, by the way of Kendal and Lancaster, to Preston, of which place they took possession with|out

any resistance. But this was the last stage of their ill advised incursion; for general Wills, at the head of seven thousand men, came up to the town to attack them, and from his activity there was no escaping. They now, therefore, began to raise bar|ricadoes, and to put the place in a posture of de|fence, repulsing the first attack of the royal army with success. Next day, however, Wills was rein|forced by Carpenter, and the town was invested on all sides. In this deplorable situation, to which they were reduced by their own rashness, Forster hoped to capitulate with the general, and accordingly sent colonel Oxburgh, who had been taken prisoner, with a trumpeter, to propose a capitulation. This, how|ever, Wills refused, alledging that he would not treat with rebels, and that the only favour they had to expect was to be spared from immediate slaughter. These were hard terms, but no better could be ob|tained They accordingly laid down their arms, and were put under a strong guard; all the noblemen and leaders were secured, and a few of their officers tried for deserting from the royal army, and shot by order of a court-martial. The common men were imprisoned at Chester and Liverpool; the noblemen and considerable officers were sent to London, and led through the streets, pinioned and bound toge|ther, to intimidate their party.

The pretender might by this time have been con|vinced of the vanity of his expectations, in suppos|ing that the whole country would rise up in his cause. His affairs were actually desperate; yet, with his usual infatuation, he resolved to hazard his person among his friends in Scotland, at a time when such a measure was too late for success. Passing, there|fore, through France in disguise, and embarking in a small vessel at Dunkirk, he arrived, after a voyage of a few days, on the coasts of Scotland, with only six gentlemen in his train. He passed unknown

through Aberdeen to Feterosse, where he was met by the earl of Mar, and about thirty noblemen and gentlemen of the first quality. There he was so|lemnly proclaimed. His declaration, dated at Com|mercy, was printed and dispersed. He went from thence to Dundee, where he made a public entry, and in two days more he arrived at Scoon, where he intended to have the ceremony of his coronation performed. He ordered thanksgivings to be made for his safe arrival; he enjoined the ministers to pray for him in their churches; and, without the smallest share of power, went through the ceremonies of royalty, which threw an air of ridicule on all his conduct. Having thus spent some time in unimport|ant parade, he resolved to abandon the enterprize with the same levity with which it was undertaken. Having made a speech to his grand council, he in|formed them of his want of money, arms, and am|munition, for undertaking a campaign, and therefore deplored that he was compelled to leave them. He once more embarked on board a small French ship that lay in the harbour of Montrose, accompanied with several lords, his adherents, and in five days arrived at Graveline.

In this manner ended a rebellion which nothing but imbecility could project, and nothing but rash|ness could support. But though the enemy was now no more, the fury of the victors did not seem in the least to abate with success. The law was now put in force with all its terrors; and the prisons of Lon|don were crowded with those deluded wretches, whom the ministry seemed resolved not to pardon. The commons, in their address to the crown, de|clared they would prosecute, in the most rigorous manner, the authors of the late rebellion. In con|sequence of which the earls of Derwentwater, Ni|thisdale, Carnwarth, and Wintown, the lords Wi|drington, Kenmuir, and Nairne were impeached,

and upon pleading guilty, all but lord Wintown, re|ceived sentence of death. No entreaties could soften the ministry to spare these unhappy men.

Orders were dispatched for executing the lords Derwentwater, Nithisdale, and Kenmuir immedi|ately; the rest were respited to a farther time. Ni|thisdale, however, had the good fortune to escape in woman's cloaths, which were brought him by his mother the night before his execution. Derwentwa|ter and Kenmuir were brought to the scaffold on Tower-hill at the time appointed. Both underwent their sentence with calm intrepidity, pitied by all, and seemingly less moved themselves than those who beheld them.

In the beginning of April commissioners for try|ing the rebels met in the court of common pleas, when the bills were found against Mr. Forster, Mr. Mackintosh, and twenty of their confederates.

Forster escaped from Newgate, and reached the continent in safety, the rest pleaded not guilty. Pitts, the keeper of Newgate, being suspected of having connived at Forster's escape, was tried for his life, but acquitted. Yet, notwithstanding this, Mackin|tosh and several other prisoners broke from Newgate, after having mastered the keeper and turn key, and disarmed the centinel. The court proceeded to the trial of those that remained; four or five were hang|ed, drawn, and quartered, at Tyburn; two and twenty were executed at Preston and Manchester; and about a thousand prisoners experienced the king's mercy, if such it might be called, to be transported to North America.

A rupture with Spain, which ensued some time after, served once more to raise the declining expec|tations of the pretender and his adherents. It was hoped that, by the assistance of cardinal Alberoni, the Spanish minister, a new insurrection might be excited in England. The duke of Ormond was the

person fixed upon to conduct this expedition; and he obtained from the Spanish court a fleet of ten ships of war and transports, having on board six thousand regular troops, with arms for twelve thousand more. But fortune was still as unfavourable as ever. Hav|ing set sail, and proceeded as far as cape Finisterre, he was encountered by a violent storm, which disa|bled his fleet, and frustrated the expedition. This misfortune, together with the bad success of the Spa|nish arms in Sicily, and other parts of Europe, in|duced Philip to wish for peace; and he at last con|sented to sign the quadruple alliance. This was at that time thought an immense acquisition, but Eng|land, though she procured the ratification, had no share in the advantage of the treaty.

It was about this time that one John Law, a Scotchman,* 1.76 had cheated France, by erect|ing a company under the name of the Missisippi, which promised that deluded people great wealth, but which ended in involving the French nation in great distress. It was now that the people of England were deceived by a project entirely similar, which is remembered by the name of the South-sea scheme, and which was felt long after by thousands. To explain this as concisely as possible, it is to be observed, that ever since the re|volution under king William, the government not having sufficient supplies granted by parliament, or what was granted requiring time to be, collected, they were obliged to borrow money from several dif|ferent companies of merchants, and, among the rest, from that company which traded to the South sea. The South-sea company having made up their debt to the government ten millions, instead of six hun|dred thousand pounds, which they usually received as interest, were satisfied with five hundred thousand.

It was in this situation of things that one Blount, who had been bred a scrivener, and was possessed of

all the cunning and plausibility requisite for such an undertaking, proposed to the ministry, in the name of the South-sea company, to buy up all the debts of the different companies of merchants, and thus to become the sole creditor of the state. The terms he offered to government were extremely advanta|geous. The South-sea company was to redeem the debts of the nation out of the hands of the private proprietors, who were creditors to the government, upon whatever terms they could agree on; and for the interest of this money, which they had thus re|deemed, and taken into their own hands, they would be contented to be allowed by government, for six years, five per cent. then the interest should be reduced to four per cent. and should at any time be redeema|ble by parliament. But now came the part of the scheme big with fraud and ruin. As the directors of the South-sea company could not of themselves be supposed to possess money sufficient to buy up the debts of the nation, they were empowered to raise it by opening a subscription to a scheme for trading in the South-seas, from which commerce immense ideal advantages were promised by the cunning directors, and still greater expected by the rapacious credulity of the people. All people, therefore, who were creditors to government, were invited to come in, and exchange their stock for that of the South-sea company.

The directors books were no sooner opened for the first subscription, but crowds came to make the exchange of their other stock for South-sea stock. The delusion was artfully continued and spread. Sub|scriptions in a few days sold for double the price they had been bought at. The scheme succeeded even beyond the projectors hopes, and the whole nation was infected with a spirit of avaricious enterprize. The infatuation prevailed; the stock encreased to a

surprising degree, and to near ten times the value of what it was first subscribed for.

After a few months, however, the people waked from their dream of riches, and found that all the advantages they expected were merely imaginary, while thousands of families were involved in one common ruin.

The principal delinquents were punished by par|liament with a forfeiture of all such possessions and estates as they had acquired during the continuance of this popular frenzy, and some care was also taken to redress the sufferers.

The discontents occasioned by these public cala|mities once more gave the disaffected party hopes of succeeding. But in all their counsels they were weak, divided, and wavering.

The first person who was seized upon suspicion was Francis Atterbury, bishop of Rochester, a pre|late long obnoxious to the present government, and possessed of abilities to render him formidable to any ministry he opposed. His papers were seized, and he himself confined to the tower. Soon after the duke of Norfolk, the earl of Orrery, the lord North and Grey, and some others of inferior rank, were arrested and imprisoned. Of all these, however, only the bishop, who was banished, and one Mr. Layer, who was hanged at Tyburn, felt the severity of government, the proofs against the rest amounting to no convictive evidence.

The commons about this time finding many abuses had crept into the court of chancery, which either impeded justice, or rendered it venal, they resolved to impeach the chancellor Thomas, earl of Maccles|field, at the bar of the house of lords, for high crimes and misdemeanors. This was one of the most la|borious and best contested trials in the annals of Eng|land. The trial lasted twenty days. The earl proved that the sums he received for the sale of places in

chancery had been usually received by former lord chancellors, and reason told that such receipts were contrary to strict justice. Equity, therefore, pre|vailed above precedent; the earl was convicted of fraudulent practices, and condemned to a fine of thir|ty thousand pounds, with imprisonment until that sum should be paid, which was accordingly discharged in about six weeks after.

In this manner, the corruption, venality, and ava|rice of the times, had encreased with the riches and luxury of the nation. Commerce introduced fraud, and wealth introduced prodigality.

It must be owned that the parliament made some new efforts to check the progress of vice and immo|rality, which now began to be diffused through every rank of life. But they were supported neither by the co-operation of the ministry, nor the voice of the people.

It was now two years since the king had visited his electoral dominions of Hanover. He, therefore, soon after the breaking up of the parlia|ment, prepared for a journey thither.* 1.77 Having appointed a regency in his ab|sence, he embarked for Holland, and lay, upon his landing, at a little town called Voet. Next day he proceeded on his journey, and in two days more, between ten and eleven at night, arrived at Delden, to all appearance in perfect health. He sup|ped there very heartily, and continued his progress early the next morning, but between eight and nine ordered his coach to stop. It being perceived that one of his hands lay motionless, monsieur Fabrice, who had formerly been servant to the king of Swe|den, and who now attended king George, attempted to quicken the circulation, by chafing it between his own. As this had no effect, the surgeon who fol|lowed on horseback, was called, and he also rubbed it with spirits. Soon after the king's tongue began to swell, and he had just strength enough to bid them

hasten to Osnaburgh. Then falling insensible into Fabrice's arms, he never recovered, but expired about eleven o'clock the next morning, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, and the thirteenth of his reign.

CHAP. XXXV. GEORGE II.

UPON the death of George the first, his son, George the Second, came to the crown; a man of inferior abilities to the late king, and strong|ly biassed with a partiality to his dominions on the continent. The chief person, and he who shortly af|ter engrossed the greatest share of power under him, was Sir Robert Walpole, who had risen from low be|ginnings, through two successive reigns into great consideration. He was considered as a martyr to his cause, in the reign of queen Anne; and when the Tory party could no longer oppress him, he still preserved that hatred against them with which he set out. To defend the declining prerogative of the crown, might perhaps have been the first object of his attention; but soon after those very measures by which he pretended to secure it, proved the most ef|fectual means to lessen it. By corrupting the house of commons, he encreased their riches and their pow|er; and they were not averse to voting away those millions which he permitted them so liberally to share. As such a tendency in him naturally produced opposi|tion, he was possessed of a most phlegmatic insensi|bility to reproach, and a calm dispassionate manner of reasoning upon such topics as he desired should be believed. His discourse was fluent, but without dig|nity; and his manner convincing from its apparent want of art.

The Spaniards were the first nation who shewed the futility of the treaties of the former reign to bind, when any advantage was to be procured by infraction. The people of our West-India islands, had long carried on an illicit trade with the subjects of Spain upon the continent, but whenever detected were rigorously punished and their cargoes confiscated to the crown. In this temerity of adventure on the one hand, and vigi|lance of pursuit and punishment on the other, it must often have happened that the innocent must suffer with the guilty, and many complaints were made, perhaps founded in justice, that the English merchants were plundered by the Spanish king's vessels upon the south|ern coasts of America, as if they had been pirates.

The English ministry, unwilling to credit every report, which was enflamed by resentment, or urged by avarice, expected to remedy the evils complained of by their favourite system of treaty, and in the mean time promised the nation redress. At length, how|ever the complaints became more general, and the merchants remonstrated by petition, to the house of commons, who entered into a deliberation on the sub|ject. They examined the evidence of several who had been unjustly seized, and treated with great cru|elty. One man, the master of a trading vessel, had been used by the Spaniards in the most shocking manner; he gave in his evidence with great precision, informed the house of the manner they had plundered and stript him, of their cutting off his ears, and their preparing to put him to death. "I then looked up, cried he, to my God for pardon, and to my country for revenge."

These accounts raised a flame among the people, which it was neither the minister's interest, nor per|haps that of the nation to indulge; new negotiations were set on foot, and new mediators offered their in|terposition. A treaty was signed at Vienna, between the emperor, the king of Great Britain, and the king

of Spain, which settled the peace of Europe upon its former footing, and put off the threatening war for a time. By this treaty the king of England conceived hopes that all war would be at an end. Don Carlos, upon the death of the duke of Parma, was, by the assistance of an English fleet, put in peaceable pos|session of Parma and Placentia, while six thousand Spaniards were quietly admitted, and quartered in the duchy of Tuscany, to secure for him the reversion of that dukedom.

An interval of peace succeeded, in which scarce any events happened that deserve the remembrance of an historian.

During this interval of profound peace, nothing remarkable happened, and scarce any contest ensued except in the British parliament, where the disputes between the court and country party were carried-on with unceasing animosity.

* 1.78A society of men in this interested age of seeming benevolence, had united themselves into a company, by the name of the Charitable Corporation; and their professed intention was to lend money at legal interest to the poor, upon small pledges, and to persons of higher rank upon proper security. Their capital was at first limited to thirty thousand pounds, but they af|terwards increased it to six hundred thousand. This money was supplied by subscription, and the care of conducting the capital was intrusted to a proper num|ber of directors. This company having continued for more than twenty years, the cashier, George Robin|son, member for Marlow, and the warehouse-keeper, John Thompson, disappeared in one day. Five hun|dred thousand pounds of capital was found to be sunk and embezzled by means which the proprietors could not discover. They therefore, in a petition, represented to the house the manner in which they had been de|frauded, and the distress to which many of the peti|tioners

were reduced. A secret committee being ap|pointed to examine into this grievance, a most iniqui|tous scene of fraud was soon discovered which had been carried on by Robinson and Thompson, in concert with some of the directors, for embezzling the capi|tal and cheating the proprietors. Many persons of rank and quality were concerned in this infamous conspiracy; and even some of the first characters in the nation did not escape censure. A spirit of avarice and rapacity had infected every rank of life about this time; no less than six members of parliament were expelled for the most fordid acts of knavery. Sir Robert Sutton, Sir Archibald Grant, and George Robinson, for their frauds in the management of the Charitable Corporation scheme; Dennis Bond, and sergeant Burch, for a fraudulent sale of the late un|fortunate earl of Derwentwater's large estate, and last|ly, John Ward, of Hackney, for forgery. Luxury had given birth to prodigality, and that was the pa|rent of the meanest arts of peculation. It was assert|ed in the house of lords, at that time, that not one shilling of the forfeited estates was ever applied to the service of the public, but became the reward of frau|dulence and venality.

A scheme set on foot by Sir Robert Walpole soon after engrossed the attention of the public,* 1.79 which was to six a ge|neral excise. The minister introduced it into the house, by going into a detail of the frauds practised by the factors in London, who were employed by the American planters in selling their tobacco. To pre|vent these frauds he proposed, that instead of having the customs levied in the usual manner upon tobac|co, all herereafter to be imported should be lodged in warehouses appointed for that purpose by the officers of the crown, and should from thence be sold, upon paying the duty of four-pence a pound, when the pro|prietor found a purchaser. This proposal raised a violent

ferment, not less within doors than without. It was asserted that it would expose the factors to such hard|ships that they would be unable to continue their trade, and that such a scheme would not even prevent the frauds complained of. It was added, that a num|ber of additional excisemen and warehouse-keepers would thus be employed, which would at once ren|der the ministry formidable, and the people depen|dent. Such were the arguments made use of to stir up the citizens to oppose this law; arguments rather specious than solid, since, with all its disadvantages, the tax upon tobacco would thus be more safely and expeditiously collected, and the avenues to number|less frauds would be shut up. The people, however, were raised into such a ferment, that the parliament house was surrounded with multitudes, who intimi|dated the ministry, and compelled them to drop the design. The miscarriage of the bill was celebrated with public rejoicings in London and Westminster, and the minister was burned in effigy by the popu|lace of London.

Ever since the treaty of Utrecht, the Spaniards in America had insulted and distressed the commerce of Great Britain, and the British merchants had at|tempted to carry on an illicit trade into their domi|minions. A right which the English merchants claimed by treaty, of cutting log-wood in the bay of Campeachy, gave them frequent opportunities of pushing in contraband commodities upon the conti|nent; so that to suppress the evil, the Spaniards were resolved to annihilate the claim. This liberty of cut|ting log-wood had often been acknowledged, but ne|ver clearly ascertained; in all former treaties, it was considered as an object of too little importance to make a separate article in any negociation. The Spanish vessels appointed for protecting the coast con|tinued their severities upon the English; many of the subjects of Britain were sent to dig in the mines

of Potosi, and deprived of all means of conveying their complaints to those who might send them re|dress. One remonstrance followed another to the court of madrid of this violation of treaty; but the only answer given were promises of enquiry, which produced no reformation. Our merchants complain|ed loudly of those outrages; but the minister vainly expected from negociations that redress, which was only to be obtained by arms.

The fears discovered by the court of Great Britain only served to encrease the insolence of the enemy; and their guard ships continued to seize not only all the guilty, but the innocent, whom they found sail|ing along the Spanish main. At last, however, the complaints of the English merchants were loud e|nough to interest the house of commons; their let|ters and memorials were produced, and their griev|ances enforced by council at the bar of the house. It was soon found that the money which Spain had a|greed to pay to the court of Great Britain was with|held, and no reason assigned for the delay. The mi|nister, therefore, to gratify the general ardour, and to atone for his former deficiencies, assured the house that he would put the nation into a condition for war. Soon after letters of reprisal were granted against the Spaniards, and this being on both sides considered as an actual commencement of hostilities, both dili|gently set forward their armaments by sea and land. In this threatening situation the French minister at the Hague declared that his master was obliged by treaty to assist the king of Spain; so that the alliances, which but twenty years before had taken place, were now quite reversed. At that time France and Eng|land were combined against Spain; at present, France and Spain were united against England; such little hopes can statesmen place upon the firmest trea|ties, where there is no superior power to compel the observance.

A rupture between England and Spain being now become unavoidable, the people, who had long cla|moured for war, began to feel uncommon alacrity at its approach; and the ministry, finding it inevitable, began to be as earnest in preparation. Orders were is|sued for augmenting the land forces,* 1.80 and raising a body of marines. War was declar|ed with all proper solemnity, and soon after two rich Spanish prizes were taken in the Mediterranean. Admiral Vernon, a man of more courage than experience, of more confidence than skill, was sent commander of a fleet into the West Indies, to distress the enemy in that part of the globe. He had asserted in the house of Commons that Porto Bello, a sort and harbour in South America, could be easily destroyed, and that he himself would under|take to reduce it with six ships only. A project which appeared so wild and impossible, was rediculed by the ministry; but as he still insisted upon the pro|posal, they complied with his request, hoping that his want of success might repress the confidence of his party. In this, however, they were disappointed; for with six ships only, he attacked and demolished all the fortifications of the place, and came away vic|torious, with scarce the loss of a man. This victory was magnified at home in all the strains of panegyric, and the triumph was far superior to the value of the conquest.

While vigorous preparations were making in other departments, a squadron of ships was equipped for distressing the enemy in the South Seas, the command of which was given to commodore Anson. This fleet was destined to sail through the streights of Ma|gellan, and steering northwards along the coasts of Chili and Peru, to co-operate occasionally with ad|miral Vernon across the isthmus of Darien. The de|lays and mistakes of the ministry frustrated that part of the scheme, which was originally well laid. When

it was too late in the season, the commodore set out with five ships of the line, a frigate, and two store|ships, with about fourteen hundred men. Having reached the coasts of Brazil, he refreshed his men for some time on the island of St Catharine, a spot that enjoys all the fruitfulness and verdure of the luxurious tropical climate. From thence he steered downward into the cold and tempestuous regions of the south; and in about five months after, meeting a terrible tempest, he doubled Cape Horn. By this time his fleet was dispersed, and his crew deplorably disabled with the scurvy; so that with much difficulty he gained the delightful island of Juan Fernandez. There he was joined by one ship, and a frigate of se|ven guns. From thence advancing northward, he landed on the coast of Chili, and attacked the city of of Paita by night. In this bold attempt he made no use of his shipping, nor even disembarked all his men; a few soldiers, favoured by darkness, sufficed to fill the whole town with terror and confusion. The governor of the garrison, and the inhabitants fled on all sides; accustomed to be severe, they expected se|verity. In the mean time, a small body of the Eng|lish kept possession of the town for three days, strip|ping it of all its treasures and merchandise to a consi|derable amount, and then setting it on fire.

Soon after this small squadron advanced as far as Panama, situated on the isthmus of Darien, on the wes|tern side of the great American continent. The com|modore now placed all his hopes in taking one of those valuable Spanish ships, which trade from the Philippine Islands to Mexico. Not above one or two at the most of these immensely rich ships went from one continent to the other in a year; they were therefore very large, in order to carry a sufficiency of treasure, and proportiona|bly strong to defend it. In hopes of meeting with one of these, the commocore, with his little fleet, traversed the great Pacific Ocean; but the scurvyonce more visiting

his crew, several of his men died, and almost all were disabled. In this exigence having brought all his men into one vessel, and set fire to the other, he steered for the island of Tinian, which lies about half way between the new world and the old. In this charm|ing abode he continued for some time, till his men recovered their health, and his ship was refitted for sailing.

Thus refreshed he set forward for China, where he laid in proper stores for once more traversing back that immense ocean in which he had just before suf|fered such incredible difficulties. Having according|ly taken some Dutch and Indian sailors on board, he again steered towards America, and at length after various toils, discovered the Spanish galleon he had so long ardently expected. This vessel was built as well for the purposes of war as of merchandise. It mounted sixty guns, and five hundred men, while the crew of the commodore did not amount to half that number. However the victory was on the side of the English, and they returned home with their valuable prize, which was estimated at three hundred and thirteen thousand pounds sterling, while the dif|ferent captures that had been made before amounted to as much more. Thus after a voyage of three years, conducted with astonishing perseverance and intrepidi|ty, the public sustained the loss of a noble fleet; but a few individuals became possessed of immense riches.

In the mean time the English conducted other operations against the enemy with amazing activity. When Anson set out it was with a design of acting a subordinate part to a formidable armament designed for the coasts of New Spain, consisting of twenty-nine ships of the line, and almost an equal number of fri|gates, furnished with all kinds of warlike stores, near fifteen thousand seamen, and as many land-forces. Never was a fleet more completely equipped, nor never had the nation more sanguine hopes of success.

Lord Carthcart was appointed to command the land-forces; but he dying on the passage, the command devolved upon general Wentworth, whose abilities were supposed to be unequal to the trust reposed in him.

When the forces were landed at Carthagena, they erected a battery, with which they made a breach in the principal fort, while Vernon, who commanded the fleet, sent a number of ships into the harbour, to di|vide the fire of the enemy, and to co-operate with the army on shore. The breach being deemed practica|ble, a body of troops were commanded to storm; but the Spaniards deserted the forts, which, if possessed of courage, they might have defended with success. The troops, upon gaining this advantage, were ad|vanced a good deal nearer the city; but they there met a much greater opposition than they had expect|ed. It was found, or asserted, that the fleet could not lie near enough to batter the town, and that no|thing remained but to attempt one of the forts by sealing. The leaders of the fleet and the army be|gan mutually to accuse each other, each asserting the probability of what the other denied. At length, Wentworth▪ stimulated by the admiral's re|proach, resolved to try the dangerous experiment, and ordered that fort St. Lazare should be attempted by scalade. Nothing could be more unfortunate than this undertaking; the forces marching up to the at|tack, their guides were slain, and they mistook their way. Instead of attempting the weakest part of the fort, they advanced to where it was strongest, and where they were exposed to the fire of the town. Colonel Grant, who commanded the grenadiers, was killed in the beginning. Soon after it was found that their scaling ladders were too short; the officers were perplexed for want of orders, and the troops stood ex|posed to the whole fire of the enemy, without know|ing how to proceed. After bearing a dreadful fire for

some hours with great intrepidity, they at length re|treated, leaving six hundred men dead on the spot. The terrors of the climate soon began to be more dreadful than those of war; the rainy season came on with such violence, that it was impossible for the troops to con|tinue encamped; and the mortality of the season now began to attack them in all its frightful varieties. To these calamities, sufficient to quell any enterprize, was added the dissention between the land and sea commanders, who blamed each other for every fai|lure, and became frantic with mutual recrimination. They only, therefore, at last could be brought to a|gree in one mortifying measure, which was to reim|bark the troops, and to withdraw them as quick as possible from this scence of slaughter and conta|gion.

This fatal miscarriage which tarnished the British glory, was no sooner known in England, than the kingdom was filled with murmers and discontent. The loudest burst of indignation was directed at the minister; and they who once praised him for successes he did not merit, condemned him now for a failure, of which he was guiltless.

* 1.81The minister finding the indignation of the house of commons turned against him, tried every art to break that confederacy, which he knew he had not strength to oppose. The resentment of the people had been raised against him to an extravagant height; and their leaders taught them to expect very signal justice on their sup|posed oppressor. At length finding his post untena|ble, he declared he would never sit more in that house: the next day the king adjourned both houses of parliament for a few days, and in the interim Sir Robert Walpole, was created earl of Orford, and re|signed all his employments.

But the pleasure of his defeat was of short dura|tion; it soon appeared that those who declaimed most

loudly for the liberties of the people had adopted new measures with their new employments. The new converts were branded as betrayers of the interests of their country; but particularly the resentment of the people fell upon Pulteney earl of Bath, who had long declaimed against that very conduct he now seemed earnest to pursue. He had been the idol of the people, and considered as one of the most illustrious cham|pions that had ever defended the cause of freedom; but allured perhaps with the hope of governing in Walpole's place, he was contented to give up his po|pularity for ambition. The king, however, treated him with that neglect which he merited: he was laid aside for life, and continued a wretched survivor of all his former importance.

The emperor dying in the year 1740, the French began to think this a favourable opportunity for ex|erting their ambition once more. Regardless of trea|ties, particularly that called the pragmatic sanction, by which the reversion of all the late emperor's do|minions was settled upon his daughter, they caused the elector of Bavaria to be crowned emperor. Thus the queen of Hungary, daughter of Charles the Sixth, descened from an illustrious line of emperors, saw her|self stripped of her inheritance, and left for a whole year deserted by all Europe, and without any hopes of succour. She had scarce closed her father's eyes, when she lost Silesia, by an irruption of the young king of Prussia, who seized the opportunity of her defence|less state to renew his ancient pretentions to that pro|vince, of which it must be owned his ancestors had been unjustly deprived. France, Saxony, and Bava|ria, attacked the rest of her dominions; England was the only ally that seemed willing to espouse her help|less condition. Sardinia, and Holland, soon after came to her assistance, and last of all Russia acceded to the union in her favour.

It may now be demanded, what cause Britain had to intermeddle in these continental schemes. It can only be answered, that the interests of Hanover, and the security of that electorate, depended upon the nicely balancing the different interests of the empire; and the English ministry were willing to gratify the king.

Accordingly the king sent a body of English forces into the Netherlands, which he had augmented by sixteen thousand Hanoverians, to make a diversion upon the dominions of France, in the queen of Hun|gary's favour. And by the assistance of these the queen of Hungary soon began to turn the scale of victory on her side. The French were driven out of Bohemia. Her general, prince Charles, at the head of a large army, invaded the dominions of Bavaria. Her rival, the nominal emperor, was obliged to fly before her; and being abandoned by his allies, and stripped of even his hereditary dominions, retired to Franckfort, where he lived in obscurity.

The French, in order to prevent this junction of the Austrian and British forces, assembled an army of six|ty thousand men upon the river Mayne, under the command of marshal Noailles,* 1.82 who posted his troops upon the east side of that river. The British forces, to the number of forty thousand, pushed forward on the other side into a country where they found themselves entirely destitute of provisions, the French having cut off all means of their being supplied. The king of Eng|land arrived at the camp, while his army was in this deplorable situation, wherefore he resolved to pene|trate forward to join twelve thousand Hanoverians and Hessians, who had reached Hannau. With this view he decamped; but before his army had marched three leagus, he found the enemy had enclosed him on e|very side, near a village called Dettingen.

Nothing now presented but the most mortifying prospects; if he fought the enemy, it must be at the greatest disadvantage; if he continued inactive, there was a certainty of being starved; and retreat for all was impossible. The impetuosity of the French troops saved his whole army. They passed a defile, which they should have been contended to guard; and, under the conduct of the duke of Gramont, their horse charged the English foot with great fury. They were received with intrepidity and resolution; so that they were obliged to give way, and repass the Mayne with precipitation, with the loss of about five thousand men.

Mean while the French went on with vigour on every side. They projected an invasion of England; and Charles, the son of the old Pretender, departed from Rome, in the disguise of a Spanish courier, for Paris, where he had an audience of the French king.

This family had long been the dupes of France; but it was thought at present there were serious reso|lutions formed in their favour. The troops destined for the expedition amounted to fifteen thousand men, preparations were made for embarking them at Dun|kirk, and some of the nearest ports to England, un|der the eye of the young Pretender. The duke de Roquefeuille, with twenty ships of the line, was to see them safely landed in England, and the famous count Saxe was to command them, when put on shore. But the whole project was disconcerted by the appearance of Sir John Norris, who, with a supe|rior fleet, made up to attack them. The French fleet was thus obliged to put back; a very hard gale of wind damaged their transports beyond redress; and the French, now frustrated in their scheme of a sud|den descent, thought sit openly to declare war.

The French, therefore, entered upon the war with great alacrity. They besieged Fribourg, and in the beginning of the succeeding campaign invested the

strong city of Tournay. Although the allies were inferior in number, and although commanded by the duke of Cumberland, yet they resolved, if possible, to save this city by hazarding a battle. They accord|ingly marched against the enemy, and took post in sight of the French, who were encamped on an emi|nence, the village of St. Antoine on the right, a wood on the left, and the town of Fontenoy before them. This advantageous situation did not repress the ardour of the English, who began the attack at two o'clock in the morning, and pressing forward bore down all opposition. They were for near an hour victorious, and confident of success, while Saxe, a soldier of fortune, who commanded the French army, was at that time sick of the same disorder of which he afterwards died. However he was carried about to all the posts in a litter, and assured his attendants that, notwithstanding all unfavourable appearances, the day was his own. A column of the English, without any command, but by mere mechanical courage, had advanced upon the enemies lines, which open|ing, formed an avenue on each side to receive them. It was then that the French artillery on the three sides began to play on this forlorn body, which though they continued for a long time unshaken, were obliged at last to retreat about three in the afternoon. This was one of the most bloody battles that had been fought in this age; the allies left on the field of battle near twelve thousand men, and the French bought their victory with near an equal number of slain.

This blow, by which Tournay was taken by the French, gave them such a manifest superiority all the rest of the campaign, that they kept the fruits of their victory during the whole continuance of the war.

* 1.83But tho' bad success attended the British arms by land and sea, yet these being dis|tant evils, the English seemed only to com|plain from honourable motives, and mur|mured

at distresses, of which they had but a very remote prospect. A civil war was now going to be kindled in their own dominions, which mixed ter|rors with their complaints; and which while it en|creased their perplexities, only cemented their union.

It was at this period that the son of the old Preten|der resolved to make an effort for gaining the British crown. Charles Edward, the adventurer in question, had been bred in a luxurious court, without partaking in its effeminacy. He was enterprizing and ambi|tious; but either from inexperience, or natural ina|bility, utterly unequal to the bold undertaking. He was long flattered by the rash, the superstitious, and the needy; he was taught to believe that the kingdom was ripe for a revolt, and that it could no longer bear the immense load of taxes with which it was bur|thened.

Being now, therefore, furnished with some money, and with still larger promises from France, who fanned his ambition, he embarked for Scotland on board a small frigate, accompanied by the marquis of Tullibardine, Sir Thomas Sheridan, and a few other desparate ad|venturers. Thus for the conquest of the whole Bri|tish empire, he only brought with him seven officers, and arms for two thousand men.

The boldness of this enterprize astonished all Eu|rope. It awakened the fears of the pusilanimous, the ardour of the brave, and the pity of the wise.

But by this time the young adventurer was arrived at Perth, where the unnecessary ceremony was per|formed of proclaiming his father king of Great Britain. From thence, descending with his forces from the mountains, they seemed to gather as they went for|ward; and advancing to Edinburgh, they entered that city without opposition. There again the page|anty of proclamation was performed; and there he promised to dissolve the union, which was consider|ed as one of the grievances of the country. Howe|ver,

the castle of that city still held out, and he was unprovided with cannon to besiege it.

In the mean time, Sir John Cope, who had pur|sued the rebels through the Highlands, but had de|clined meeting them in their descent; being now re|inforced by two regiments of dragoons, resolved to march towards Edinburgh, and give the enemy bat|tle. The young adventurer, whose forces were ra|ther superior, though undisciplined, attacked him near Preston Pans, about twelve miles from the capi|tal, and in a few minutes put him and his troops to flight. This victory, by which the king lost five hun|dred men, gave the rebels great influence; and had the Pretender taken advantage of the general conster|nation, and marched directly for England, the con|sequence might have been fatal to freedom. But he was amused by the promise of succours which never came; and thus induced to remain in Edinburgh, to enjoy the triumphs of a trifling victory, and to be treated as a monarch.

While the young Pretender was thus trifling away his time at Edinburgh, for, in dangerous enterprizes, delay is but defeat, the ministry of Great Britain took every proper precaution to oppose him with success. Six thousand Dutch troops, that had come over to the assistance of the crown, were dispatched north|ward, under the command of general Wade. The duke of Cumberland soon after arrived from Flan|ders, and was followed by another detachment of dra|goons and infantry, well disciplined, and enured to action. Besides these, volunteers offered in every part of the kingdom; and every county exerted a vigorous spirit of indignation both against the ambition, the religion, and the allies of the young Pretender.

However, he had been bred up in a school that taught him maxims very different from those that then prevailed in England. Though he might have brought civil war and all the calamities attending it

with him into the kingdom, he had been taught the assertion of his right was a duty incumbent upon him, and the altering the constitution and perhaps the re|ligion of his country, an object of laudable ambition. Thus animated he went forward with vigour, and hav|ing upon frequent consultations with his officers, come to a resolution of making an irruption into Eng|land, he entered the country by the western border, and invested Carlisle, which surrendered in less than three days. He there found a considerable quantity of arms, and there too he caused his father to be pro|claimed king.

General Wade being apprized of his progress, ad|vanced across the country from the opposite shore, but receiving intelligence that the enemy was two days march before him, he retired to his former station. The young Pretender, therefore, thus unopposed, resolved to penetrate farther into the kingdom, having received assurances from France that a considerable body of troops would be landed on the southern coasts, to make a diversion in his favour. He was flattered also with the hopes of being joined by a considerable number of malcontents, as he passed forward, and that his army would encrease on the march. Accord|ingly, leaving a small garrison in Carlisle, which he should rather have left defenceless, he advanced to Penrith, marching on foot in an Highland dress, and continuing his irruption till he came to Manchester, where he established his head-quarters.

He was there joined by about two hundred Eng|lish, who were formed into a regiment, under the command of colonel Townly. From thence he pur|sued his march to Derby, intending to go by the way of Chester into Wales, where he hoped to be joined by a great number of followers; but the factions a|mong his own chiefs prevented his proceeding to that part of the kingdom.

He was by this time advanced within an hundred

miles of the capital, which was filled with perplexity and consternation. Had he proceeded in his career with that expedition which he had hitherto used, he might have made himself master of the metropolis, where he would certainly have been joined by a con|siderable number of his well-wishers, who waited im|patiently for his approach.

In the mean time the king resolved to take the field in person. But he found safety from the discontents, which now began to prevail in the Pretender's army. In fact he was but the nominal leader of his forces; as his generals, the chiefs of the Highland clans, were, from their education, ignorant, and averse to subor|dination. They had from the beginning begun to embrace opposite systems of operation and to contend with each other for pre-eminence; but they seemed now unanimous in returning to their own country once more.

The rebels accordingly effected their retreat to Car|lisle without any loss, and from thence crossed the rivers Eden and Solway into Scotland. In these marches, however, they preserved all the rules of war; they abstained in a great measure from plunder, they levied contributions on the towns as they passed along, and with unaccountable precaution left a garri|son in Carlisle, which shortly after was obliged to sur|render to the duke of Cumberland at discretion, to the number of four hundred men.

The Pretender being returned to Scotland, he proceeded to Glasgow, from which city he exacted se|vere contributions. He advanced from thence to Stirling, where he was joined by lord Lewis Gordon, at the head of some forces, which had been assembled in his absence. Other clans, to the number of two thousand, came in likewise; and from some supplies of money, which he received from Spain, and from some skirmishes, in which he was successful against the royalists, his affairs began to wear a more pro|mising

aspect. Being joined by lord Drummond, he invested the castle of Stirling, commanded by general Blakeney; but the rebel forces being unused to sieges, consumed much time to no purpose. It was during this attempt, that general Hawley, who commanded a considerable body of forces near Edinburgh, under|took to raise the siege, and advanced towards the re|bel army as far as Falkirk. After two days spent in mutually examining each other's strength, the rebels being ardent to engage, were led on in full spirits to attack the king's army. The Pretender, who was in the front line, gave the signal to engage; and the first fire put Hawley's forces into confusion. The horse retreated with precipitation, and fell upon their own infantry; while the rebels following their blow, the greatest part of the royal army fled with the utmost precipitation. They retired in confusion to Edin|burgh, leaving the conquerors in possession of their tents, their artillery, and the field of battle.

Thus far the affairs of the rebel army seemed not un|prosperous; but here was an end of all their triumphs. The duke of Cumberland, at that time the favourite of the English army, had been recalled from Flan|ders; and put himself at the head of the troops at Edin|burgh, which consisted of about fourteen thousand men. With these he advanced to Aberdeen, where he was joined by several of the Scotch nobility, at|tached to the house of Hanover; and having revived the drooping spirits of his army, he resolved to find out the enemy, who retreated at his approach. After having refreshed his troops at Aberdeen for some time, he renewed his march, and in twelve days he came upon the banks of the deep and rapid river Spey. This was the place where the rebels might have disputed his passage, but they lost every advantage in disputing with each other. They seemed now totally devoid of all counsel and subordination, without conduct, and with|out unanimity. After a variety of contests among

each other, they resolved to await their pursuers upon the plains of Culloden, a place about nine miles dis|tant from Inverness, embosomed in hills, except on that side which was open to the sea. There they drew up in order of battle, to the number of eight thousand men, in three divisions, supplied with some pieces of artillery, ill manned and served.

The battle began about one o'clock in the after|noon; the cannon of the king's army did dreadful ex|ecution among the rebels, while theirs was totally un|serviceable. One of the great errors in all the Pre|tender's warlike measures, was his subjecting wild and undisciplined troops to the forms of artful war, and thus repressing their native ardour, from which alone he could hope for success. After they had been kept in their ranks, and withstood the English fire for some time, they at length became impatient for closer engagement; and about five hundred of them made an irruption upon the left wing of the ene|my with their accustomed ferocity. The first line being disordered by this onset, two battalions ad|vanced to support it, and galled the enemy with a terrible and close discharge. At the same time the dragoons, under Hawley, and the Argyleshire mili|tia pulling down a park wall that guarded the flank of the enemy, and which they had but feebly defended, fell in among them, sword in hand with great slaugh|ter. In less than thirty minutes they were totally routed, and the field covered with their wounded and slain, to the number of above three thousand men. The French troops on the left did not fire a shot, but stood inactive during the engagement, and afterwards sur|rendered themselves prisoners of war. An entire bo|dy of the clans marched off the field, in order, while the rest were routed with great slaughter, and their leaders obliged with reluctance to retire. Civil war is in itself terrible, but more so when heightened by unnecessary cruelty. How guilty soever an enemy

may be, it is the duty of a brave soldier to remember that he is only to fight an opposer, and not a suppli|ant. The victory was in every respect decisive, and humanity to the conquered would have rendered it glorious. But little mercy was shewn here; the con|querors were seen to refuse quarter to the wounded, the unarmed, and the defenceless; some were slain who were only excited by curiosity to become specta|tors of the combat, and soldiers were seen to antici|pate the base employment of the executioner. The duke immediately after the action, ordered six and thirty deserters to be executed, the conquerors spread terror wherever they came, and after a short space, the whole country round was one dreadful scene of plunder, slaughter, and desolation; justice was for|gotten, and vengeance assumed the name.

In this manner were blasted all the hopes, and all the ambition of the young adventurer; one short hour deprived him of imaginary thrones and sceptres, and reduced him from a nominal king, to a distressed forlorn outcast, shunned by all mankind, except such as sought his destruction. To the good and the brave, subsequent distress often atones for former guilt; and while reason would speak for punishment, our hearts plead for mercy. Immediately after the engagement, he fled away with a captain of Fitzjames's cavalry, and when their horses were fatigued they both alighted, and separately sought for safety. He for some days wandered in this country, naturally wild, but now rendered more formidable by war, a wretched spec|tator of all those horrors which were the result of his ill-guided ambition.

There is a striking similitude between his adven|tures, and those of Charles the Second, upon his es|cape from Worcester. He sometimes found refuge in caves and cottages, without attendants, and de|pendent on the wretched natives, who could pity, but not relieve him. Sometimes he lay in forests, with

one or two companions of his distress, continually pursued by the troops of the conqueror, as there was a reward of thirty thousand pounds offered for taking him, dead or a live. Sheridian, an Irish adventurer, was the person who kept most faithfully by him, and inspired him with courage to support such incre|dible hardships. He had occasion in the course of his concealments, to trust his life to the fidelity of above fifty individuals, whose veneration for his family pre|vailed above their avarice.

One day, having walked from morning till night, he ventured to enter a house, the owner of which he well knew was attached to the opposite party. As he entered, he addressed the master of the house in the following manner.

"The son of your king comes to beg a little bread and a few cloaths. I know your present attachment to my adversaries, but I believe you have sufficient honour not to abuse my confi|dence, or to take advantage of my distressed situation. Take these raggs that have for some time been my only covering; you may probably restore them to me one day when I shall be seated on the throne of Great Britain."

The master of the house was touched with pity at his distress; he assisted him as far as he was a|ble, and never divulged the secret. There are few of those who even wished his destruction, would chuse to be the immediate actors in it, as it would subject them to the resentment of a numerous party.

In this manner he continued to wander among the frightful wilds of Glengary, for near six months, of|ten hemmed round by his pursuers, but still rescued by some lucky accident from the impending danger. At length a privateer of St Maloes, hired by his ad|herents, arrived in Lochnanach, in which he embarked in the most wretched attire. He was clad in a short coat of black frize, thread bare, over which was a common Highland plaid, girt round by a belt, from whence depended a pistol and a dagger. He had not

been shifted for many weeks; his eye was hollow, his visage wan, and his constitution greatly impaired by famine and fatigue. He was accompanied by Sulli|van and Sheridan, two Irish adherents, who had shared all his calamities, together with Cameron of Lochiel, and his brother, and a few other exiles. They set sail for France, and after having been chaced by two English men of war, they arrived in safety at a place called Roseau, near Morlaix in Bretagne. Perhaps he would have found it more difficult to es|cape, had not the vigilance of his pursuers been re|laxed by a report that he was already slain.

In the mean time, while the Pretender was thus pursued, the scaffolds and the gibbets were preparing for his adherents. Seventeen officers of the rebel ar|my were hanged, drawn, and quartered at Kenning|ton-common, in the neighbourhood of London. Their constancy in death gained more proselytes to their cause than even perhaps their victories would have obtained. Nine were executed in the same manner at Carlisle, and eleven at York. A few ob|tained pardons, and a considerable number of the common men were transported to the plantations in North America.

The earls of Kilmarnock and Cromartie, and the lord Balmerino, were tried by their peers, and found guilty. Cromartie was pardoned, and the others were beheaded on Tower-hill.

In this manner victory, defeat, negociation, trea|chery, and rebellion, succeeded each other rapidly for some years, till all sides began to think themselves growing more feeble, and gaining no solid advan|tage

A negociation was therefore resolved upon; and the contending powers agreed to come to a congress at Aix-la-Chapelle, where the earl of Sandwich and Sir Thomas Robinson assisted as plenipotentiaries from the king of Great Britain. This treaty was begun,

upon the preliminary conditions of restoring all con|quests made during the war. From thence great hopes were expected of conditions both favourable and honourable to the English; but the treaty still re|mains a lasting mark of precipitate counsels, and Eng|lish disgrace. By this it was agreed, that all prisoners on each side should be mutually restored, and all con|quests given up. That the dutchies of Parma, Placen|tia, and Guastalla, should be ceded to Don Philip, heir apparent to the Spanish throne, and to his heirs; but in case of his succeeding to the crown of Spain, then these dominions should revert to the house of Austria. It was confirmed that the fortifications of Dunkirk to the sea should be demolished; that the English ship annually sent with slaves to the coast of New Spain should have this privilege continued for four years. That the king of Prussia should be con|firmed in the possession of Silesia, which he had late|ly conquered; and that the queen of Hungary should be secured in her patrimonial dominions. But one article of the peace was more displeasing and afflic|tive to the English than all the rest. It was stipulated that the king of Great Britain should immediately, after the ratification of this treaty, send two persons of rank and distinction to France as hostages, until restitution should be made of Cape Breton, and all other conquests which England had made during the war. This was a mortifying clause; but to add to the general error of the negociation, no mention was made of the searching the vessels of England in the A|merican seas, upon which the war was originally be|gun. The limits of their respective possessions in North-America were not ascertained; nor did they receive any equivalent for those forts which they re|stored to the enemy. The treaty of Utrecht had long been the object of reproach to those by whom it was made; but with all its faults, the treaty now conclud|ed was by far more despicable and erroneous. Yet

such was the spirit of the times, that the treaty of Utrecht was branded with universal contempt, and the treaty of Aix la-Chappelle was extolled with the high|est strains of praise.

This treaty, which some asserted would serve for a bond of permanent amity, was, properly speaking, but a temporary truce; a cessation from hostilities, which both sides were unable to continue. Though the war between England and France was actually hushed up in Europe, yet in the East and West Indies it still went forward with diminished vehemence. Both sides still willing to offend, still offending, and yet both complaining of the infraction.

A new colony having been formed in North Ame|rica, in the Province of Nova-Scotia, it was thought that thither the waste of an exuberant nation might well be drained off; and those bold spirits kept in em|ployment at a distance, who might be dangerous, if suffered to continue in idleness at home. Nova Sco|tia was a place where men might be imprisoned, but not maintained; it was cold, barren, and incapable of successful cultivation. The new colony there|fore was maintained there with some expence to the government in the beginning; and such as were per|mitted, soon went southward to the milder climates, where they were invited by an untenanted and fertile soil. Thus did the nation ungratefully send off her hardy veterans to perish on inhospitable shores, and this they were taught to believe would extend their dominion.

However it was for this barren spot that the English and French revived the war, which soon after spread with such terrible devastation over every part of the globe. The native Indians bordering upon the de|sarts of Nova-Scotia, a fierce and savage people, look|ed from the first with jealousy upon these new settlers; and they considered the vicinity of the English as an encroachment upon their native possessions. The French, who were neighbours in like manner, and

who were still impressed with national animosity, fo|mented these suspicions in the natives, and represent|ed the English (and with regard to this colony the re|presentation might be true) as enterprizing and se|vere. Commissaries were, therefore, appointed to meet at Paris, to compromise these disputes; but these conferences were rendered abortive by the cavilings of men, who could not be supposed to understand the subject in debate.

As this seemed to be the first place where the dissen|sions took their rise for a new war, it may be necessary to be a little more minute. The French had been the first cultivators of Nova Scotia, and by great industry and long perseverance, had rendered the soil, natur|ally barren, somewhat more fertile, and capable of sustaining nature, with some assistance from Europe. This country, however, had frequently changed masters, until at length the English were settled in the possession, and acknowledged as the rightful owners, by the treaty of Utretcht. The possession of this country was reckoned necessary to defend the English colonies to the north, and to preserve their superiority in the fisheries in that part of the world The French, however, who had been long settled in the back parts of the country, resolved to use every method to dispossess the new-comers, and spirited up the Indians to more open hostilities, which were re|presented to the English ministry for some time with|out redress.

Soon after this another source of dispute began to be seen in the same part of the world, and promised as much uneasiness as the former. The French pretend|ing first to have discovered the mouth of the river Missisippi, claimed the whole adjacent country to|wards New Mexico on the East, and quite to the Apa|lachian mountains on the West. In order to assert their claims, as they found several English, who had settled beyond these mountains, from motives of com|merce,

and also invited by the natural beauties of the country, they dispossessed them of their new settle|ments, and built such forts as would command the whole country round about.

Not in America alone, but also in Asia, the seeds of a new war were preparing to be expanded. On the coasts of Malabar, the English and French had, in fact, never ceased from hostilities.

The ministry, however, in England began now a very vigorous exertion in defence of their colonies, who refused to defend themselves. Four operations were undertaken in America at the same time. Of these,* 1.84 one was commanded by colonel Monckton, who had orders to drive the French from the encroachments upon the province of Nova Scotia. The second, more to the South, was directed against Crown-point, under the command of general Johnson. The third, under the conduct of general Shirley, was destined to Nia|gara, to secure the forts on the river; and the fourth was farther southward still, against Fort Du Quesne, under general Braddock.

In these expeditions Monckton was successful; Johnson also was victorious, though he failed in tak|ing the fort against which he was sent; Shirley was thought to have lost the season for operation by delay; Braddock was vigorous and active, but suffered a de|feat. This bold commander, who had been recom|mended to this service by the duke of Cumberland, set forward upon his expedition in June, and left the cultivated parts of the country on the tenth at the head of two thousand two hundred men, directing his march to that part of the country where general Washing|ton had been defeated the year before. Being at length within ten miles of the French fortress, he was appointed to besiege, and marching forward thro' the forests with full confidence of success, on a sud|den his whole army was astonished by a general dis|charge

of arms, both in front and flank, from an ene|my that still remained unseen. It was now too late to think of retreating, the troops had passed into the defile, which the enemy had artfully permitted them to do before they offered to fire. The vanguard of the English now, therefore, fell back in consternation upon the main body, and the panic soon became general. The officers alone diisganed to fly, while Braddock him|self still continued to command his brave associates, dis|covering at once the greatest intrepidity and the great|est imprudence. An enthusiast to the discipline of war, he disdained to fly from the field, or to permit his men to quit their ranks, when their only method of treating the Indian army, was by a precipitate at|tack, or an immediate desertion of the field of battle. At length Braddock, having received a musquet shot, through the lungs, he dropped, and a total confusion ensued. All the artillery, ammunition, and baggage of the army were left to the enemy; and the loss sustained by the English army might amount to seven hundred men.

The murmurs, fears, and dissensions which this de|feat gave rise to, gave the French an opportunity of carrying on their designs on another quarter. The island of Minorca, which we had taken from the Spa|niards in the reign of queen Anne, was secured to England by repeated treaties. But the ministry, at this time being blinded by domestic terrors, had neg|lected to take sufficient precautions for its defence, so that the garrison was weak, and no way fitted to stand a vigorous siege. The French, therefore land|ed near the fortification of St. Philip's, which was rec|koned one of the strongest in Europe, and command|ed by general Blakeney, who was brave indeed, but rather superannuated. The siege was carried on with great vigour, and for some time as obstinately defend|ed on the side of the English, but the place was at length obliged to capitulate.

The ministry being apprized of this unexpected attack, resolved to raise the siege if possible, and sent out admiral Byng, with ten ships of war, with orders to relieve Minorca at any rate. Byng accordingly sailed from Gibraltar, where he was refused any assist|ance of men from the governor of that garrison, under a pretence that his own fortification was in danger. Upon his approaching the island, he soon saw the French banners displayed upon the shore, and the English colours still flying on the castle of St. Philip. He had been ordered to throw a body of troops into the garrison, but this he thought too hazardous an undertaking; nor did he even make an attempt. While he was thus deliberating between his fears and his duty, his attention was quickly called off by the appearance of a French fleet, that seemed of nearly equal force to his own. Confounded by a variety of measures, he seemed resolved to pursue none, and therefore gave orders to form the line of battle, and act upon the defensive. Byng had been long praised for his skill in naval tactics; and, perhaps, valuing most those talents for which he was most praised, he sacrificed all claims to courage to the applause for naval discipline. The French fleet advanced, a part of the English fleet engaged, the admiral still kept aloof, and gave very plausible reasons for not com|ing into action. The French fleet, therefore, slowly sailed away, and no other opportunity ever offered of coming to a closer engagement.

Nothing could exceed the resentment of the nation upon being informed of Byng's conduct. The mi|nistry were not averse to throwing from themselves the blame of those measures which were attended with such indifferent success, and they secretly fanned the flame. The news, which soon after arrived, of the surrender of the garrison to the French, drove the ge|neral ferment almost to frenzy. In the mean time

Byng continued at Gibraltar, quite satisfied with his own conduct, and little expecting the dreadful storm that was gathering against him at home. Or|ders, however, were soon set out for putting him un|der an arrest, and for carrying him to England. Up|on his arrival he was committed to close custody, in Greenwich hospital, and some arts used to enflame the populace against him, who want no incentives to injure and condemn their superiors. Several addres|ses were sent up from different counties, demanding justice on the delinquent, which the ministry were willing to second. He was soon after tried by a court-martial in the harbour of Portsmouth, where, after a trial which continued several days, his judges were agreed that he had not done his utmost during the engagement to destroy the enemy, and therefore they adjudged him to suffer death by the twelfth arti|cle of war. At the same time, however, they recom|mended him as an object of mercy, as they consider|ed his conduct rather as the effects of error, than of cowardice. By this sentence they expected to satis|fy at once the resentment of the nation, and yet screen themselves from conscious severity. The govern|ment was resolved upon shewing him no mercy; the parliament was applied to in his favour; but they found no circumstances in his conduct that could in|validate the former sentence. Being thus abandoned to his fate, he maintained to the last a degree of for|titude and serenity, that no way betrayed any timi|dity or cowardice. On the day fixed for his execu|tion, which was on board a man of war in the har|bour of Portsmouth, he advanced from the cabbin, where he had been imprisoned, upon deck, the place appointed for him to suffer. After delivering a pa|per, containing the strongest assertions of his inno|cence, he came forward to the place where he was to kneel down, and for some time persisted in not

covering his face; but his friends representing that his looks would possibly intimidate the soldiers who were to shoot him, and prevent their taking proper aim, he had his eyes bound with an handkerchief; and then giving the signal for the soldiers to fire, he was killed instantaneously. There appears some se|verity in Byng's punishment; but it certainly pro|duced soon after very beneficial effects to the na|tion.

In the progress of the war the forces of the con|tending powers of Europe were now drawn out in the following manner. England opposed France in America, Asia, and on the ocean. France attacked Hanover on the continent of Europe. This country the king of Prussia undertook to protect; while Eng|land promised him troops and money to assist his ope|rations. Then again Austria had their aims on the dominions of Prussia, and drew the elector of Sax|ony into the same designs. In these views she was seconded by France and Sweden, and by Russia, who had hopes of acquiring a settlement in the west of Europe.

The East was the quarter on which success first began to dawn upon the British arms. The affairs of the English seemed to gain the ascendancy, by the conduct of Mr. Clive. This gentleman had at first entered the company's service in a civil capacity, but finding his talents more adapted for war, he gave up his clerkship, and joined among the troops as a vo|lunteer. His courage, which is all that subordinate officers can at first shew, soon became remarkable; but his conduct, expedition, and military skill soon after became so conspicuous as to raise him to the first rank in the army.

The first advantage that was obtained from his activity and courage was the clearing the province of Arcot. Soon after the French general was taken pri|soner;

and the nabob, whom the English supported, was reinstated in the government, of which he had formerly been deprived.

The prince of the greatest power in that country declared war against the English from motives of per|sonal resentment, and, levying a numerous army, laid siege to Calcutta, one of the principal British forts in that part of the world; but which was not in a state of strength to defend itself against the attack of even barbarians. The fort was taken, having been deserted by the commander; and the garrison, to the number of an hundred and forty-six persons, were made prisoners.

They expected the usual treatment of prisoners of war, and were therefore the less vigorous in their defence; but they soon found what mercy was to be expected from a savage conqueror. They were all crowded together into a narrow prison, called the Black Hole, of about eighteen feet square, and re|ceiving air only by two small iron windows to the west, which by no means afforded a sufficient circu|lation. It is terrible to reflect on the situation of these unfortunate men, shut up in this narrow place, in the burning climate of the East, and suffocating each other. Their first efforts, upon perceiving the ef|fects of their horrid confinement, were to break open the door of the prison; but as it opened inward, they soon found that impossible. They next endeavoured to excite the compassion or the avidity of the guard, by offering him a large sum of money for his assistance in removing them to separate prisons; but with this he was not able to comply, as the viceroy was asleep, and no person dared to disturb him. They were now, therefore, left to die without hopes of relief; and the whole prison was filled with groans, shrieks, contest, and despair. This turbulence, however, soon after sunk into a calm still more hideous; their efforts of

strength and courage were over, and an expiring lan|guor succeeded. In the morning when the keepers came to visit the prison, all was horror, silence, and desolation. Of an hundred and forty-six who had entered alive, twenty-three only survived, and of these the greatest part died of putrid fevers upon be|ing set free.

The destruction of this important fortress served to interrupt the prosperous successes of the English com|pany; but the fortune of Mr. Clive, backed by the activity of an English fleet under admiral Watson, still turned the scale in their favour. Among the number of those who felt the power of the English in this part of the world, was the famous Tullagee An|gria, a piratical prince, who had long infested the In|dian ocean, and made the princes on the coast his tributaries. He maintained a large number of gallies, and with these he attacked the largest ships, and al|most ever with success. As the company had been greatly harrassed by his depredations, they re|solved to subdue such a dangerous enemy, and at|tack him in his own fortress. In pursuance of this resolution, admiral Watson and colonel Clive sailed into his harbour of Geriah; and though they sus|tained a warm fire as they entered, yet they soon threw all his fleet into flames, and obliged his fort to surrender at discretion. The conquerors found there a large quantity of warlike stores, and effects to a considerable value.

Colonel Clive proceeded to take revenge for the cruelty practised upon the English. About the be|ginning of December, he arrived at Balasore, in the kingdom of Bengal. He met with little opposition either to the fleet or the army, till they came before Calcutta, which seemed resolved to stand a regular siege. As soon as the admiral, with two ships, ar|rived before the town, he received a furious fire from

all the batteries, which he soon returned with still greater execution, and in less than two hours obliged them to abandon their fortifications. By these means the English took possession of the two strongest settle|ments on the banks of the Ganges; but that of Ge|riah they demolished to the ground.

Soon after these successes Hughly, a city of great trade, was reduced, with as little difficulty as the former, and all the viceroy of Bengal's store-houses and granaries were destroyed. In order to repair these losses this barbarous prince assembled an army of ten thousand horse, and fifteen thousand foot, and professed a firm resolution of expelling the English from all their settlements in that part of the world. Upon the first intelligence of his march colonel Clive, obtaining a reinforcement of men from the admiral's ships, advanced with his little army to at|tack these numerous forces. He attacked the enemy in three columns, and though the numbers were so disproportioned, victory soon declared in favour of the English.

The English by these victories having placed a viceroy on the throne (for the Mogul had long lost all power in India) they took care to exact such sti|pulations in their own favour as would secure them the possession of the country whenever they thought proper to resume their authority. They were gratified in their avarice to its extremest wish; and that wealth which they had plundered from slaves in India they were resolved to employ in mak|ing slaves at home.

From the conquest of the Indians colonel Clive turned to the humbling of the French, who had long disputed empire in that part of the world, and soon dispossessed them of all their power, and all their settlements.

In the mean time, while conquest shined upon us from the East, it was still more splendid in the west|ern world. But some alterations in the ministry led to those successes which had been long wished for by the nation, and were at length obtained. The af|fairs of war had been hitherto directed by a ministry, but ill supported by the commons, because not con|fided in by the people. They seemed timid and wa|vering, and but feebly held together, rather by their fears than their mutual confidence. When any new measure was proposed which could not receive their approbation, or any new member was introduced in|to government whom they did not appoint, they considered it as an infringement upon their respec|tive departments, and threw up their places in dis|gust, with a view to resume them with greater lustre. Thus the strength of the crown was every day declining, while an aristocracy filled up every avenue to the throne, intent only on the emoluments, not the duties of office.

This was at that time the general opinion of the people, and it was too loud not to reach the throne. The ministry that had hitherto hedged in the throne were at length obliged to admit some men into a share of the government, whose activity at least would counterbalance their timidity and irresolution. At the head of the newly introduced party was the celebrated Mr. William Pitt, from whose vigour the nation formed very great expectations, and they were not deceived.

But though the old ministers were obliged to ad|mit these new members into their society, there was no legal penalty for refusing to operate with them 〈◊〉〈◊〉 they therefore associated with each other, and used every art to make their new assistants obnoxious to the king, upon whom they had been 〈…〉〈…〉 forced by the people. His former minist•••••• 〈…〉〈…〉

him in all his attachments to his German dominions, while the new had long clamoured against all conti|nental connections, as utterly incompatible with the interest of the nation. These two opinions carried to the extreme might have been erroneous; but the king was naturally led to side with those who favour|ed his own sentiments, and to reject those who op|posed them. Mr. Pitt, therefore, after being a few months in office, was ordered to resign by his ma|jesty's command, and his coadjutor, Mr. Legge, was displaced from being chancellor of the exchequer. But this blow to his ambition was but of short con|tinuance; the whole nation, almost to a man, seemed to rise up in his defence, and Mr. Pitt and Mr. Legge being restored to their former employments, the one of secretary of state, the other of chancellor of the exchequer, began to act with vigour.

The consequences of the former ill conducted counsels still seemed to continue in America. The generals sent over to manage the operations of the war, loudly accused the timidity and delays of the na|tives, whose duty it was to unite in their own defence. The natives on the other hand as warmly expostu|•••••••••• ••gainst the pride, avarice, and incapacity of those sent over to command them. General Shirley who had been appointed to the supreme command there, had been for some time recalled, and replaced by lord London; and this nobleman also soon after returning to England, three several commanders were put at the head of separate operations. General Am|herst commanded that designed against the island of Cape Breton. The other was consigned to general Abercrombie, against Crown Point and Ticonderago; and the third still more to the southward, against sort du Quesne, commanded by brigadier-general Forbes.

Cape Breton, which had been taken from the French during the preceding war, had been restored at the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. It was not till the English had been put in possession of that island that they began to perceive its advantageous situation, and the convenience of its harbour for annoying the British trade with impunity. It was also a conve|nient port for carrying on their fishery, a branch of commerce of the utmost benefit to that nation. The wresting it, therefore, once more from the hands of the French was a measure ardently desired by the whole nation. The fortress of Louisburg, by which it was defended, had been strengthened by the as|sistance of art, and was still better defended from the nature of its situation. The garrison also was numerous, the commander vigilant, and every pre|caution taken to oppose a landing. An account of the operations of the siege can give but little pleasure in abridgment, be it sufficient to say, that the Eng|lish surmounted every obstacle with great intrepidity. Their former timidity and irresolution seemed to va|nish, their natural courage and confidence returned, and the place surrendered by capitulation. The for|tifications were soon after demolished, and rendered unfit for future protection.

The expedition to Fort du Quesne was equally suc|cessful, but that against Crown Point was once more defeated. This was now the second time that the English army bad attempted to penetrate into those hideous wilds by which nature had secured the French possessions in that part of the world. Braddock fell in the attempt a martyr to his impetuosity: too much caution was equally injurious to his successor. Aber|crombie spent much time in marching to the place of action, and the enemy were thus perfectly prepa|red to give him a severe reception. As he approached Ticonderago he found them deeply intrenched at

the foot of the sort, and still farther secured by fallen trees, with their branches pointing against him. These difficulties the English ardour attempted to surmount, but as the enemy being secure in them|selves, took aim at leisure, a terrible carnage of the assailants ensued, and the general, after repeated ef|forts, was obliged to order a retreat. The English army, however, were still superior, and it was sup|posed that when the artillery was arrived something more successful might be performed; but the general felt too sensibly the terrors of the late defeat to re|main in the neighbourhood of a triumphant enemy. He therefore withdrew his troops, and returned to his camp at Lake George, from whence he had taken his departure.

But though in this respect the English arms were unsuccessful, yet upon the whole the campaign was greatly in their favour. The taking of Fort du Quesne served to remove from their colonies the terror of the incursions of the Indians, while it interrupted that correspondence which ran along a chain of sorts, with which the French had environed the English settlements in America. This, therefore, promised a fortunate campaign the next year, and vigorous measures were taken to ensure success.

Accordingly, on the opening of the following year, the ministry, sensible that a single effort carried on in such an extensive country could never reduce the ene|my, they resolved to attack them in several parts of their empire at once. Preparations were also made, and expeditions driven forward against three differ|ent parts of North America at the same time. Ge|neral Amherst, the commander in chief, with a bo|dy of twelve thousand men, was to attack Crown Point, that had hitherto been the reproach of the English army. General Wolf was at the opposite quarter to enter the river St. Lawrence, and under|take

the siege of Quebec, the capital of the French dominions in America; while general Prideaux and Sir William Johnson were to attempt a French fort near the cataracts of Niagara.

The last named expedition was the first that suc|ceeded. The fort of Niagara was a place of great importance, and served to command all the commu|nication between the northern and western French settlements. The siege was begun with vigour, and promised an easy conquest, but general Prideaux was killed in the trenches by the bursting of a mortar; so that the whole command of the expedition de|volved upon general Johnson, who omitted nothing to push forward the vigorous operations of his pre|decessor, to which also he added his own popularity with the soldiers under him. A body of French troops, who were sensible of the importance of this fort, attempted to relieve it; but Johnson attacked them with intrepidity and success, for in less than an hour their whole army was put to the rout. The garrison soon after perceiving the fate of their coun|trymen, surrendered prisoners of war. The success of general Amherst was less splendid, though not less serviceable; upon arriving at the destined place he found the forts both of Crown Point and Ticon|derago deserted and destroyed.

There now, therefore, remained but one grand and decisive blow to put all North America into the possession of the English; and this was the taking of Quebec, the capital of Canada, a city handsomely built, populous, and flourishing. Admiral Saun|ders was appointed to command the naval part of the expedition; the siege by land was committed to the conduct of general Wolfe, of whom the nation had great expectations. This young soldier who was not yet thirty-five, had distinguished himself on many former occasions, particularly at the siege of

Louisburg;* 1.85 a part of the success of which was justly ascribed to him, who, without being indebted to family or connections, had raised himself by merit to his pre|sent command.

The war in this part of the world had been hither|to carried on with extreme barbarity; and retaliating murders were continued without any one's knowing who first began. Wolfe, however, disdained to imitate an example that had been set him even by some of his associate officers; he carried on the war with all the spi|rit of humanity which it admits of. It is not our aim to enter into a minute detail of the siege of this city, which could at best only give amusement to a few; it will be sufficient to say, that when we consider the situation of the town on the side of a great river, the fortifications with which it was secured, the na|tural strength of the country, the great number of vessels and floating batteries the enemy had provided for the defence of the river, the numerous bodies of savages continually hovering round the English ar|my, we must own there was such a combination of difficulties as might discourage and perplex the most resolute commander. The general himself seemed perfectly sensible of the difficulty of the undertaking. After stating, in a letter to the ministry, the dangers that presented,

"I know, said he, that the affairs of Great Britain require the most vigorous mea|sures. But then the courage of an handful of brave men should be exerted only where there is some hope of a favourable event. At present the difficulties are so various, that I am at a loss how to determine."

The only prospect of attempting the town with success was by landing a body of troops in the night below the town, who were to clamber up the banks of the river, and take posses|sion of the ground on the back of the city. This attempt, however, appeared peculiarly discouraging.

The stream was rapid, the shore shelving, the bank above lined with centinels, the landing-place so nar|row as to be easily missed in the dark, and the steep|ness of the ground such as hardly to be surmounted in the day time. All these difficulties, however, were surmounted by the conduct of the general, and the bravery of the men. Colonel Howe, with the light infantry and the Highlanders, ascended the woody precipices with admirable courage and acti|vity, and dislodged a small body of troops that defended a narrow path way up the bank; thus a few mounting, the general drew the rest up in order as they arrived. Monsieur de Montcalm, the French commander, was no sooner apprized that the English had gained these heights, which he had confidently deemed inaccessible, than he resolved to hazard a battle; and a furious encounter quickly be|gan. This was one of the most desperate engage|ments during this war. The French general was slain; the second in command shared the same sate. General Wolfe was stationed on the right, where the attack was most warm; as he stood conspicuous in the front line, he had been aimed at by the ene|mies marksmen, and received a shot in the wrist, which, however, did not oblige him to quit the field. Having wrapped an handkerchief round his hand, he continued giving orders without the least emotion, and advanced at the head of the grenadiers with their bayonets fixed; but a second ball more fatal, pierced his breast; so that unable to proceed, he leaned on the shoulder of a soldier that was next him. Now struggling in the agonies of death, and just expiring, he heard a voice cry, They run! upon which he seemed for a moment to revive, and asking who ran, was informed the French Expres|sing his wonder that they ran so soon, and unable to gaze any longer, he sunk on the soldier's breast, and his last words were, "I die happy." Perhaps the

loss of the English that day was greater than the con|quest of Canada was advantageous. But it is the lot of mankind only to know true merit on that dreadful occasion, when they are going to lose it.

The surrender of Quebec was the consequence of this victory; and with it soon after the total ces|sion of all Canada. The French, indeed, the follow|ing season made a vigorous effort to retake the city; but by the resolution of governor Murray, and the ap|pearance of an English fleet under the command of lord Colville, they were obliged to abandon the en|terprize. The whole province was soon after redu|ced by the prudence and activity of general Amherst, who obliged the French army to capilulate, and it has since remained annexed to the British empire. To these conquests about the same time was added the re|duction of the island of Guadaloupe, under commo|dore More, and general Hopson, an acquisition of great importance; but which was restored at the suc|ceeding peace.

These successes in India and America were great, though atchieved by no very expensive efforts; on the contrary, the efforts the English made in Europe, and the operations of their great ally, the king of Prussia, were astonishing, yet produced no signal ad|vantages.

England was all this time happily retired from the miseries which oppressed the rest of Europe: yet from her natural military ardour she seemed desirous of sharing those dangers, of which she was only a spec|tator. This passion for sharing in a continental war was not less pleasing to the king of England, from his native attachments, than from a desire of revenge upon the plunderers of his country. As soon there|fore as it was known that prince Ferdinand had put himself at the head of the Hanoverian army, to assist the king of Prussia, his Britannic majesty, in a

spcech to his parliament, observed that the late suc|cesses of his ally in Germany had given an happy turn to his affairs, which it would be necessary to improve. The commons concurred in his sentiments, and libe|rally granted supplies both for the service of the king of Prussia, and for enabling the army formed in Hanover to act vigorously in conjunction with him.

From sending money over into Germany, the na|tion began to extend their benefits; and it was soon considered that men would be a more grateful sup|ply. Mr. Pitt, who had at first come into popularity and power by opposing such measures, was now pre|vailed on to enter into them with even greater ardour than any of his predecessors. The hopes of putting a speedy end to the war by vigorous measures, the connexions with which he was obliged to co operate, and perhaps the pleasure he found in pleasing the king, all together incited him eagerly to push forward a continental war. However, he only conspired with the general inclinations of the people at this time, who, allured by the noble efforts of their only ally, were unwilling to see him fall a sacrifice to the united am|bition of his enemies.

In order to indulge this general inclination of assisting the king of Prussia, the duke of Marlborough was at first sent into Germany with a small body of Bri|tish forces to join with prince Ferdinand, whose acti|vity against the French began to be crowned with success. After some small successes gained by the allied army at Crevelt, the duke of Marlborough dying, his com|mand devolved upon lord George Sackville, who was at that time a favourite with the English army. How|ever a misunderstanding arose between him and the commander in chief, which soon had an occasion of being displayed at the battle of Minden, which was sought soon after. The cause of this secret disgust on

both sides is not clearly known; it is thought that the extensive genius, and the inquisitive spirit of the English general, were by no means agreeable to his superior in command, who hoped to reap some pecuniary advantages the other was unwilling to per|mit. Be this as it will, both armies advancing near the town of Minden, the French began the attack with great vigour, and a general engagement of the infantry ensued. Lord George, at the head of the British and Hanoverian horse, was stationed at some distance on the right of the infantry, from which they were divided by a scanty wood that bordered on an heath. The French infantry giving ground, the prince thought that this would be a favourable oppor|tunity to pour down the horse among them, and ac|cordingly sent lord George orders to come on. These orders were but ill obeyed; and whether they were unintelligible, or contradictory, still remains a point for posterity to debate upon. It is certain that lord George shortly after was recalled, tried by a court-martial, found guilty, and declared incapable of serving in any military command for the future. The enemy however were repulsed in all their attacks with considerable loss, and at length giving way were pur|sued to the very ramparts of Minden. The victory was splendid, but laurels were the only advantage reaped from the field of battle.

After these victories, which were greatly magnified in England, it was supposed that one reinforcement more of British troops would terminate the war in favour of the allies, and a reinforcement was quickly sent. The British army in Germany now, therefore, amounted to above thirty thousand men, and the whole nation was flushed with the hopes of immediate conquest. But these hopes soon vanished in finding victory and defeat successively following each other.

The allies were worsted at Corbach; but re|trieved their honour at Exdorf. A victory at War|bourg followed shortly after, and another at Zie|renberg; but then they suffered a defeat at Compen, after which both sides went into winter quarters. The successes thus on either side might be consider|ed as a compact by which both engaged to lose much, and gain little; for no advantages whatever followed from victory. The English at length be|gan to open their eyes to their own interest, and found that they were waging unequal war, and load|ing themselves with taxes for conquests that they could neither preserve nor enjoy.

It must be confessed that the efforts of England at this time, over ever part of the globe, were ama|zing; and the expence of her operations greater than had ever been disbursed by any nation before. The king of Prussia received a subsidy; a large body of English forces commanded the extensive peninsula of India; another army of twenty thousand men con|firmed their conquests in North America; there were thirty thousand men employed in Germany, and several other bodies dispersed in the different gar|risons in various parts of the world; but all these were nothing to the force maintained at sea, which carried command wherever it came, and had totally annihilated the French power on that element. The courage and the conduct of the English admirals had surpassed whatever had been read of in history; neither superior force, nor number, nor even the terrors of the tempest could intimidate them. Admiral Hawke gained a complete victory over an equal number of French ships, on the coast of Bretagne, in Quiberon Bay, in the midst of a tempest, during the darkness of the night, and what a seamen fears still more, upon a rocky shore.

Such was the glorious figure the British nation ap|peared in to all the world at this time. But while their arms prospered in every effort tending to the real interests of the nation, an event happened, which for a while obscured the splendour of her victories. On the twenty-fifth of October, the king, without having complained of any previous disorder, was found, by his domestics, expiring in his chamber. He had arisen at his usual hour, and observed to his attendants, that as the weather was fine he would take a walk into the gardens of Kensington, where he then resided. In a few minutes after his return, being left alone, he was heard to fall down upon the floor. The noise of this bringing his attendants into the room, they lifted him into bed, where he desired, with a faint voice, that the princess Amelia might be sent for, but before she could reach the apartment he expired. An attempt was made to bleed him, but without effect; and afterwards, the surgeons, upon opening him, discovered that the right ventricle of the heart was actually ruptured, and that a great quantity of blood was discharged through the aper|ture.

* 1.86George the Second died in the seventy-seventh year of his age, and the thirty-third of his reign; lamented by his sub|jects, and in the midst of victory. If any monarch was happy in the peculiar mode of his death, and the precise time of its arrival, it was he. The universal enthusiasm of the people for conquest was now beginning to subside, and sober reason to take her turn in the administration of affairs. The fac|tions which had been nursing during his long reign, had not yet come to maturity; but threatened, with all their virulence, to afflict his successor. He was, himself, of no shining abilities; and while he was permited to guide and assist his German dominions,

he entrusted the care of Britain to his ministers at home. However as we stand too near to be impar|tial judges of his merits or defects, let us state his character as delivered by two writers of opposite opi|nions.

"On whatever side," says his panegyrist, "we look upon his character, we shall find ample matter for just and unsuspected praise. None of his prede|cessors on the throne of England, lived to so great an age, or enjoyed longer felicity. His subjects were still improving under him, in commerce and arts; and his own oeconomy set a prudent example to the nation, which, however, they did not follow. He was, in his temper, sudden and violent; but this, though it influenced his conduct, made no change in his behaviour, which was generally guided by rea|son. He was plain and direct in his intentions; true to his word, steady in his favour and protection to his servants, nor parting even with his ministers till compelled to it by the violence of faction. In short, through the whole of his life he appeared rather to live for the cultivation of useful virtues than splendid ones; and satisfied with being good, left others their unenvied greatness."

Such is the picture given by his friends, but there are others who reverse the medal. "As to the ex|tent of his understanding, or the splendour of his vir|tue, we rather wish for opportunities of praise, than undertake the task ourselves. His public character was marked with a predilection for his native coun|try, and to that he sacrificed all other considerations. He was not only unlearned himself, but he despised learning in others; and though genius might have flourished in his reign, yet he neither promoted it by his influence or example. His frugality bordered upon avarice, and he hoarded not for his subjects, but himself. He was remarkable for no one great vir|tue,

and was known to practise several of the meaner vices." Which of these two characters are true, or whether they may not in part be both so, I will not pretend to decide. If his favourers are numerous, so are those who oppose them; let posterity, therefore, decide the contest.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  A. D. 1312.
• * 1.2

  A. D. 1327.
• * 1.3

  A. D. 1346.
• * 1.4

  A. D. 1340.
• * 1.5

  A. D. 1389.
• * 1.6

  A. D. 1399.
• * 1.7

  A. D. 1402.
• * 1.8

  A. D. 1407.
• * 1.9

  A. D. 1413.
• * 1.10

  A. D. 1417.
• * 1.11

  A. D. 1421.
• * 1.12

  A. D. 1422.
• * 1.13

  A. D. 1443.
• * 1.14

  A. D. 1454.
• * 1.15

  Sept. 23. 1459.
• * 1.16

  A. D. 1461.
• * 1.17

  A. D. 1464.
• * 1.18

  A. D. 1483.
• * 1.19

  A. D. 1485.
• * 1.20

  A. D. 1492.
• * 1.21

  A. D. 1497.
• * 1.22

  A. D. 1509.
• * 1.23

  A. D. 1509.
• * 1.24

  A. D. 1520.
• * 1.25

  A. D. 1519.
• * 1.26

  A. D. 1527.
• * 1.27

  A. D. 1536.
• * 1.28

  Oct. 12. 1537.
• * 1.29

  A. D. 1543.
• * 1.30

  A. D. 1546.
• * 1.31

  A. D. 1547.
• * 1.32

  A. D. 1549.
• * 1.33

  A. D. 1553.
• * 1.34

  July 6, 1553.
• * 1.35

  A. D. 1557.
• * 1.36

  A. D. 1558.
• * 1.37

  A. D. 1568.
• * 1.38

  A. D. 1586.
• * 1.39

  Nov. 11, 1586.
• * 1.40

  A. D. 1600.
• * 1.41

  Nov. 5. 1605.
• * 1.42

  A. D. 1612.
• * 1.43

  A. D. 1618.
• * 1.44

  A. D. 1620.
• * 1.45

  A. D. 1625.
• * 1.46

  A. D. 1625.
• * 1.47

  A. D. 1629.
• * 1.48

  A. D. 1629.
• * 1.49

  A. D. 1641.
• * 1.50

  A. D. 1642.
• * 1.51

  A. D. 1644.
• * 1.52

  June 14, 1645.
• * 1.53

  Jan. 30, 1649.
• * 1.54

  A. D. 1649.
• * 1.55

  A. D. 1650.
• * 1.56

  A. D. 1653.
• * 1.57

  A. D. 1655.
• * 1.58

  A. D. 1658.
• * 1.59

  A. D. 1658.
• * 1.60

  A. D. 1660.
• * 1.61

  A. D. 1670.
• * 1.62

  A. D. 1683.
• * 1.63

  A. D. 1685.
• * 1.64

  A. D. 1685.
• * 1.65

  A. D. 1688.
• * 1.66

  A. D. 1688.
• * 1.67

  A. D. 1689.
• * 1.68

  A. D. 1690.
• * 1.69

  A. D. 1691.
• * 1.70

  A. D. 1692.
• * 1.71

  A. D. 1697.
• * 1.72

  A. D. 1712.
• * 1.73

  July 30. 1714.
• * 1.74

  A. D. 1714.
• * 1.75

  A. D. 1715.
• * 1.76

  A. D. 1721.
• * 1.77

  A. D. 1727.
• * 1.78

  A. D. 1731.
• * 1.79

  A. D. 1732.
• * 1.80

  A. D. 1739.
• * 1.81

  A. D. 1741.
• * 1.82

  A. D. 1743.
• * 1.83

  A. D. 1745.
• * 1.84

  A. D. 1756.
• * 1.85

  A. D. 1759.
• * 1.86

  Oct. 25, 1760.