No. LXIV.
Mr. Macaulay’s second mention of William Penn may be found, vol. i. page 650. A number of young girls, acting under the direction of their school-mistress, had walked in procession, and presented a standard to Monmouth, at Taunton, in 1635. Some of them had expiated their offence already. That hell-hound of a judge, Jeffreys, had literally frightened one of them to death. It was determined, under menace of the gibbet, to extort a ransom from the parents of all these innocent girls. Who does not apply those lines of Shakspeare to this infernal judge!
“Did you say all? What, all? Oh, hell-kite, all?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop?”
“The Queen’s maids of honor,” says Mr. Macaulay, “asked the royal permission, to wring money out of the parents of the poor children; and the permission was granted.” They demanded £7000, and applied to Sir Francis Warre, to exact the ransom. “He was charged to declare, in strong language, that the maids of honor would not endure delay,” &c.
Warre excused himself. Mr. Macaulay proceeds as follows: “The maids of honor then requested William Penn to act for them, and Penn accepted the commission. Yet it should seem that a little of the pertinacious scrupulosity, which he had often shown, about taking off his hat, would not have been altogether out of place on this occasion. He probably silenced the remonstrances of his conscience, by repeating to himself, that none of the money, which he extorted, would go into his own pocket; that, if he refused to be the agent of the ladies, they would find agents less humane; that by complying he should increase his influence at the court; and that his influence at the court had already enabled him, and might still enable him to render greater services to his oppressed brethren. The maids of honor were at last forced to content themselves with less than a third part of what they had demanded.”
Now it seems to me, that no clear-headed, whole-hearted, impartial reader will draw the inference, from this passage, which Mr. Macaulay would manifestly have him draw. Penn well understood the resolute brutality of Jeffreys, the never-dying obstinacy and vindictive malevolence of James, and the heartless greediness of these maids of honor. He knew, as Mr. Macaulay says, that “if he refused to be the agent of the ladies they would find agents less humane.” There was no secrecy here—this thing was not done in a corner. Mr. Macaulay says, “they charged Sir Francis Warre,” &c.: and after he refused, they “requested William Penn,” &c. Penn acted as a peacemaker. He stood between these she wolves—these shameless maids of honor—and the Taunton lambs; and, instead of £7000, he persuaded those vampyres, who, under the royal grant, had full power in their hands to do their wicked will—to receive less than £2300. Mr. Macaulay admits, that Penn received not a farthing; and, that, had he refused, matters might have been worse for the oppressed.
The known character of Penn demands of us the presumption, in his favor, that he entered upon this business conscientiously, and not as an extortioner—and that he made, as the result leads us to believe he did, the very best terms for the parents. Wherein was ever the sin or the shame of negotiating, between the buccaneers of the Tortugas, and the parents of captive children, for their ransom? Does not Mr. Macaulay present the reign of James II. before us, as blotted all over, with official piracy and judicial murder? If the adjustment of this odious business increased the influence of Penn, at court, and thereby enabled him to “render great services to his oppressed brethren”—these were the natural consequences of the act; without them, there was enough of just and honorable motive, for a mediator, to step between the oppressor and the oppressed, and lessen, as much as possible, the weight of the oppression.
If the conduct of William Penn, upon this occasion, was the humane and Christian thing, which it certainly appears to have been, “the pertinacious scrupulosity, which he had often shown, about taking off his hat” would have been wholly out of place. And if so, what justification can be found for Mr. Macaulay’s expressions—“the remonstrances of his conscience,” and “the money, which he extorted.”
It is proverbially hard, for an old dog to learn new tricks. He, to whose hand the hatchet is familiar, when he substitutes the rapier, will still hack and hew with it, as though it were a hatchet. It may well be doubted, if an impartial history, especially those parts of it, wherein the writer deals with character and motive, can ever be trustworthily and impartially written, by a veteran, professional reviewer, of the tomahawk school, however splendid his talents may be.
Upon this occasion, Penn, doubtless, persuaded the maids of honor to moderate their demands; at the same time, representing to the parents the uncompromising character of those, with whom they had to deal, and the unavoidable necessity of making terms. It is impossible to judge of the transaction aright, without taking into view the character of those dark days of tyranny and misrule, and the little security, then enjoyed by the subject.
On page 659, ibid., Mr. Macaulay, once more, introduces Penn to his readers—“William Penn, for whom exhibitions, which humane men generally avoid, seem to have had a strong attraction, hastened from Cheapside, where he had seen Cornish hanged, to Tyburn, in order to see Elizabeth Gaunt burned. He afterwards related that, when she calmly disposed the straw about her, in such a manner, as to shorten her sufferings, all the bystanders burst into tears.” Here is another attempt to lower the Quaker, in public estimation.
That Penn ever, from the cradle to the grave, gazed, unsympathizingly, upon human suffering, nobody, but a madman, will credit, for a moment. Nor would Mr. Macaulay, notwithstanding the rather peculiar construction of the paragraph, venture directly so to represent him. It has been my fortune to know several men, of kind and warm affections, who have confessed, without reserve, a strong desire to witness the execution of criminals. Cornish and Gaunt were executed on the same day, and their fate excited universal attention. Penn’s account of the last moments of both was very minute; and shows him to have been a deeply interested observer. I am not aware, that he ever attended any other execution. And if he did not, the remark of Mr. Macaulay, which is general, can never be justified, in relation to Penn; though it would fairly apply to the celebrated George Selwyn, who, though remarkable for the keenness of his sensibility, and the kindness of his heart, was in the habit of attending every execution in London; and who, upon one remarkable occasion of this kind, actually embarked for the Continent.
Why could not Mr. Macaulay, who often refers to Clarkson, have adopted some of his charitable and gentlemanly constructions of Penn’s conduct, upon this occasion? Clarkson says—“Men of the most noted benevolence have felt and indulged a curiosity of this sort. They have been worked upon, by different motives; some, perhaps, by a desire of seeing what human nature would be, at such an awful crisis; what would be its struggles; what would be the effects of innocence or guilt; what would be the power of religion on the mind.” * * * * “I should say that he consented to witness the scenes in question, with a view to do good; with a view of being able to make an impression on the King’s mind, by his own relation,” &c.
In vol. ii. page 222, 1687, Mr. Macaulay says—“Penn had never been a strong-headed man: the life which he had been leading, during two years, had not a little impaired his moral sensibility; and, if his conscience ever reproached him, he comforted himself by repeating, that he had a good and noble end in view, and that he was not paid for his services in money.”
Again, ibid., page 227, referring to the effort of the King, to propitiate William Kiffen, a great man, among the Baptists, no phraseology would suit Mr. Macaulay, but this—“Penn was employed in the work of seduction.” What seduction? Indeed, whenever a good chance presents itself to reach the Quaker, anywhere and anyhow, through the joints of the harness, the phylactery of Mr. Macaulay seems to have been—semper paratus.
It was enough, that Penn was, in some sense, the confidant, and, occasionally, the unconstrained and perfectly conscientious agent of this most miserable King.
That posterity will sanction these politico-historical flings, at the character of William Penn, I cannot believe.
Tillotson knew him well. He had once expressed a suspicion that Penn was a Papist. A correspondence ensued. “In conclusion,” says Chalmers, “Tillotson declared himself fully satisfied, and, as in that case he had promised, he heartily begs pardon of Penn.”
Chalmers himself, who had no sympathy with the “cursed Quakers,” closes his account of Penn, as follows—“It must be evident from his works, that he was a man of abilities; and from his conduct through life, that he was a man of the purest conscience. This, without acceding to his opinions in religion, we are perfectly willing to allow and to declare.”