Among the miscellaneous chronicling of the year, there is one made by most of the Saturday papers to this effect: ‘Yesterday, Friday, August 19th, the Lord Derwentwater arrived at his house in Poland Street, from France.’ This was John, the late earl’s only son. He came to London to consult Chiselden, the great physician. He was hopelessly ill of dropsy; and a double sympathy attracted crowds of Jacobites to resort to Poland Street to manifest their respect for the suffering son of one of the martyrs to the cause of the Stuarts.
A STANDING ARMY.
When in 1732 the National Defences became a serious matter for consideration, the Jacobites affected to think that an army of 12,000 men would suffice for the protection of the realm. The Whigs insisted that at least 17,000 would be required for its defence. The London Whig papers asserted that 4,000 men would have all their work to do in keeping Scotland quiet. The fortified towns of England would require 2,000 men. The remainder would not be sufficiently strong in numbers, for sudden emergencies, if the total was only to be 12,000. Such insufficiencies would leave many places without defence. This would encourage Risings. Open insurrection would lead to foreign invasion, with the Pretender at the head of it. The wind that would bring over his hostile fleet would shut up our own in our harbours. Why had Jacobitism increased tenfold in the last four years of Queen Anne? Because the High Priests had been unmuzzled, and the necessary forces had been disbanded. The Preston Rebellion, as the outbreak of 1715 was contemptuously called, would never have happened at all if we had had 17,000 men under arms. As it was, it was crushed not by the bravery or ability of our troops and officers, but by the incapacity and timidity of the rebels themselves. So ran Whig comments in Parliament.
Unless the Government in London were sure that there were as many majorities in all Corporations against the Chevalier’s pretensions as there were ‘in certain places against King William’s statue,’ the administration was conjured to keep up the numbers of the army. While the Jacobites had hopes, England must entertain fears. Had Louis XIV. lived a few months longer, a French army would have been in full march to seat the Chevalier on a throne at Westminster. The Regent, Duke of Orleans, did not help the Pretender, simply because he needed our alliance against Spain which refused to recognise his Regency.
THE DUKE’S GRENADIERS.
At home there was a seeming fixed determination that the Duke of Cumberland should be a soldier, and be trained to the ability necessary to meet future emergencies. The youthful prince had military inclinations. That military spirit was stimulated by the formation of a company of youthful grenadiers out of a dozen sons of persons of quality. Their dress resembled the uniform of the 2nd Foot Guards. ‘His Royal Highness the Duke,’ say the journals of the day, ‘diverts himself with acting as corporal, choosing to rise regularly in Preferment. The number being but twelve, is to be increased.’ Fog’s Jacobite journal says maliciously,—‘increased in case of War.’
Observance of the solemn anniversary of the 30th of January used to be considered as a protest that all parties might make against ‘the sin of rebellion.’ However this may be, reverence for the Royal Martyr seems to have suffered some diminution in the year 1732.
GENERAL ROGUERY.
When Dr. Hare, Bishop of Chichester, preached before the House of Lords, in the Abbey, on the 30th of January, the only peers present were the Lord Chancellor, Lord Onslow, and the Bishops of Peterborough, Lincoln, Lichfield and Coventry, St. David’s, and Rochester. The sermon was thoroughly political. The text was from Proverbs xxiv. 21, ‘My son, fear thou the Lord and the king: and meddle not with them that are given to change.’ The sermon was described as ‘most extraordinary; the preacher vindicated the King’s honour and sincerity in his concessions to the Parliament;’ and he insisted strongly on the uses of ‘keeping up the day.’
Later, the Jacobites found some little satisfaction in the smart reprimand delivered by the Speaker of the House of Commons to Sir John Eyles, for directing the secretary of the Commissioners for the sale of forfeited estates to set his name to an order for the disposal of the Earl of Derwentwater’s estates, in the sale of which, great frauds were discovered. But where was fraud not found at that time? From the benches of Parliament to the council-room of the Charity Commissioners, rogues abounded; the country was sold by the Senate, and the poor were plundered by their trustees. Yet, these things caused less emotion in the London coffee-houses than the report which came of the death of Bishop Atterbury at Paris, in February. The event was simply recorded in the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’ in these uncompromising words:—