RESCUED FROM THE PLAGUE, LONDON, 1665.
(From the picture by Frank W. W. Topham, R.I. By permission of the Artist.)
The Fall of Clarendon.
(From the picture by E. M. Ward, R.A., in the National Gallery of British Art.)
JAMES, DUKE OF MONMOUTH.
“Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read,
Suffer not the old kings—for we know the breed.”
Once more the scene is laid in Whitehall. James, the brother of Charles, is king, and he is now about to grant an audience to a nephew who has unsuccessfully rebelled against him and lies under sentence of death. Look at the king’s face. You see at once that he is a slow, narrow man, singularly obstinate, harsh, and implacable. His heart is as hard as the marble chimney-pieces of his own palace. He never forgets and he never forgives an injury. As you glance at his hard, cruel face you feel that he will be deaf to every cry of mercy and relentless to every touch of pity. Now the door of an antechamber is thrown open and the Duke of Monmouth, a handsome man, pale as death, is ushered in. His arms are bound behind him with a silken cord. At once he throws himself on the ground, and in an agony of weeping crawls to the king’s feet. He begs—oh, how passionately he begs—for life, only life—life at any price. In frenzied tones he beseeches his uncle to show him mercy for the sake of the late king, his father. If he is spared, he will never, never offend again.
“I am sorry for you,” says the king in icy tones, “but you have brought all this upon yourself. You have called yourself king, you have raised rebellion, and foully aspersed me in your Declaration. Your treasons are black and many. There is no hope of pardon for you this side the grave.”