Among the many pictures of the time which its history unfolds before us, there is one which stands out here in sombre relief.[[229]]
[229]. Knight’s “London.”
Across the Park, which he has already done much to improve, having laid out the Mall and planted avenues, comes King Charles at his usual swift pace. He has been, according to his custom, feeding the ducks, of which he is very fond. Two or three courtiers keep up with him as best they may, and a crowd of little dogs run and dance round him, snapping at each other. Now and then the King throws a careless word or two to his attendants, who laugh dutifully, or try to cap them, as the case may be. Down another path from the direction of Spring Gardens,[[230]] where he now lives—it used to be in the Barbican[[231]]—advances a tall figure carrying himself with a certain stately swing. Those keen quick eyes and high aquiline features can only belong to Prince Rupert, fresh perhaps from some of his experiments, the transmuting of silver, and the like. As he takes off his wide plumed hat in a sweeping salute and bows profoundly, the King nods cheerfully, glad of the meeting, glad of any distraction. A few desultory words—he has shot a duck, it seems, and one of the dogs retrieved it; then he seems suddenly to remember that his brother’s boys are ailing. “Let’s go and see Cambridge and Kendal,” he says with a stifled yawn, as he passes his arm through that of his cousin. It reads callously, but Charles is a man of strange and unexpected reserves, and he may feel more than he allows to be seen. So the pair walk on under the spreading trees, while the King’s attendants fall back to a more respectful distance. The Prince Palatine somehow always inspires something like awe. It is but a little way, and they come to the ancient grave palace, above which the standard with the leopards and lilies, and the crescent for difference, hangs its heavy folds in the still air.
[230]. “Old Royal Palace of Whitehall.” E. Sheppard, D.D.
[231]. “Diary of Dr Edward Lake.” (Camden Miscellany.)
Another and greater King is entering the door unseen—for two dying children lie under that goodly roof. Kendal and Cambridge are indeed “riding post” to the edge of the dark river into whose waters those small feet are already almost plunged, and over them, tearless for all her bleeding heart, hangs the mother. Is it for sin of hers—is it a judgment on ambition—that no living son of her blood may carry on the line of English royalty? Can she give nothing, do nothing, to avert the coming doom?[[232]]
[232]. The poor Duchess was in doubt which would die first. (Pepys.)
Someone, no doubt, tells the King that his errand is vain. The frail little lives are passing out of sight, and he turns away silent. He is moved and sorry. He is good-natured, even kind-hearted, when he remembers to be, but Prince Rupert’s noble face is clouded and the luminous eyes are misty, for no sorrow appeals to him in vain.
But worse evils are coming on England than even the loss of the seed-royal. The Dutch fleet is in the river, and coming up to Gravesend, intent on vengeance.
Charles II. has been unsparingly blamed for this disaster, but he was not altogether guilty. After the terrible visitations of the Plague and the Fire, he greatly impoverished himself to help the many destitute sufferers, refusing to press the Parliament to pay the sums voted for supplies, when those disastrous years made them fall short.[[233]] This led to the necessity of laying up ships which should have been kept in commission, contrary to the advice of the Duke of York and the emphatic warnings of Prince Rupert. No doubt the King had also yielded to the persuasions of Louis XIV., backed by Henrietta Maria, whose advice was always unlucky, and France was at this time but too ready to pull the strings in the background. Meanwhile another division of the Dutch, advancing up the Medway, had forced the boom laid across it for protection, and had actually burnt three men-of-war.