In due course came her Majesty’s lying-in at St. James’s, and although the King took every precaution, by the solemn depositions of forty-two persons of rank who were present, against questions arising as to the child’s identity, the celebrated “warming-pan” story was hatched, which continued to gain credence for more than half a century. Nor were circumstantial details of the most intimate nature in support of the lie wanting. During the labour, it was maintained, the curtains of the bed were drawn more closely than usual on such occasions; neither the Princess of Orange, the nearest Protestant heir to the throne, nor her immediate adherents were asked to be in attendance; an apartment had been selected for the Queen’s accommodation in which there was a door near the head of the bed which opened on a back {201} staircase. Though the weather was hot, and the room heated by the great crowd of persons present, a warming-pan was introduced into the bed; and finally the pan contained a new-born child, which was immediately afterwards presented to the bystanders as the offspring of the Queen!
The following song, sung by two gentlemen at the Maypole in the Strand, is sufficiently explanatory:
“As I went by St. James’s I heard a bird sing, That the Queen had for certain a boy for a King; But one of the soldiers did laugh and did say, It was born overnight and brought forth the next day. This bantling was heard at St. James’s to squall, Which made the Queen make so much haste from Whitehall.”
The last line referred to the fact that the Queen had played at cards at Whitehall Palace till eleven o’clock on Saturday, June 9, whence she was carried in a chair to St. James’s Palace, and on the Sunday, June 10, between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, “was brought to bed of a prince.”
It is a remarkable fact [says Jesse] that as early as 1682 (six years before this), when the Queen, then Duchess of York, was declared to be pregnant, the same rumours were {202} propagated as on the present occasion—that an imposture was intended to be obtruded upon the nation. Fortunately on that occasion the infant proved to be a female, or doubtless some improbable fiction would have been invented similar to that which obtained credit in 1688.
Undoubtedly the whole thing was a lie, but it did its deadly work.[39] The whole nation was prepared to accept the flimsiest evidence, and within six months father, mother, and child had fled to France.
[39] Certain imprudent Roman Catholics gave colour to the popular belief by loudly expressing their opinion that a miracle had been wrought. One fanatic had even gone so far as to prophesy that the Queen would give birth to twins, of whom the elder would be King of England and the younger Pope of Rome!
So much for the story that inspired the remarkable broadsides with which it is here our purpose to deal. It will be noticed that these broadsides are all Dutch in their origin, a fact that is not surprising when we remember that they formed part of the propagandum which was soon to land William of Orange, the husband of James’s eldest daughter, on the throne of England.
The first that we reproduce is entitled “L’Europe Alarmée pour le Fils d’un Meunier.”
The artist is that remarkably clever Dutchman, {203} Romeyn de Hooghe, whose delicate and facile handling of the point is well exemplified in the seascape at the back of the picture.