While persecution fell indiscriminately on those who confessed the creed of the Roman Church, it was not to be expected that all should view their troubles alike. The lead given in the speech from the throne was freely followed. It was a Jesuit plot, said the king. It was a Jesuit plot, cried Catholics who were not under the influence of the order. The society has seldom drawn the affection of many outside its own ranks in any age, and in the seventeenth century incurred the hatred of almost all parts of the English Catholic body. Constant intrigues set the secular priests, members of the other orders, and, it can hardly be doubted, a large number of laymen against its restless and selfish policy. The result was plain. For the doings of the society every one had now to suffer. In the midst of fierce trouble it was not against the government but against the Jesuits that Catholic resentment was shewn. Jesuits were everywhere scouted, railed at for their pernicious principles, scarce treated civilly in the company they sought. There was even rejoicing at their downfall. At last old scores would be paid off; at last all the juggles and intrigues at court would find their due reward in public shame. The Jesuit historian sighs with meek grief at the additional burden the society was compelled to bear.[356] It was perhaps not only political intrigues that roused the displeasure of laymen. Though many of the priesthood were men of saintly temper and bore affliction with constancy and admirable effort on behalf of their brethren, there were also black sheep among them. Scandal caused by priests who thronged the court was of long standing. In the opinion of the more discreet their behaviour was such as to cause harm rather than good to the Catholic religion in England.[357] The case of St. Germain was notorious. Great disrepute was brought on the Society of Jesus by the story of Godfrey’s murder: had the real facts been known they would have been more damaging still. Yet more unfortunate, since it brought laughter with it, was the case of Father John Gavan, the famous martyr and Jesuit who was likened to “an angel of God” and his voice in preaching to “a silver trumpet”; for, having done battle in youth with the lust of the flesh, he was seized at the height of his reputation in the stables of the Imperial ambassador, where he was hiding with a woman who passed as his wife and their son.[358]
It was the distressing fate of so prized a member of the society to be a cause of dissension and scandal. Even his death at Tyburn did not make an end. The no less famous Dr. John Sergeant, who had passed a long career in controversy against Jesuit and Protestant divines, came forward to blacken Gavan’s memory. Sergeant had already given trouble to the Roman officials by his teaching on the oath of allegiance.[359] With the prosecution of the Popish Plot the movement in favour of the oath naturally grew in strength among moderate Catholics; the formula had been many times condemned at Rome; and it was heard with dismay at the curia that the Duke of Norfolk had flouted authority and taken the oath, presumably to obtain more easily a pass to go beyond seas.[360] With others of his order Gavan had written against the oath and, though he pronounced in his speech from the gallows against the notion that kings might be killed at the pope’s command, would not surrender the theory of the deposing power.[361] Soon after his execution Sergeant came to Henry Sidney, ambassador at the Hague. He knew nothing of the Plot, but offered to prove that according to the teaching of a certain Jesuit the queen might lawfully kill the king for his unfaithfulness. Sidney brought the priest to London, where on October 31, 1679 he was examined by the king in council. A few months later the council again received his information and that of another priest, David Morris, who had been educated at St. Omers and the English Jesuit College in Rome. The Jesuit of whom they spoke was Gavan. It seemed that he had expressed the opinion complained of to a lady living in Brussels. By order of the House of Commons the depositions were printed and obtained a wide circulation. The spectacle of two priests informing against a brother in orders was calculated to afford grave scandal to Catholics and equal satisfaction to Protestants. Considerable pains were taken by the Jesuits to upset the credit of the story, and the rector of the college at Liège wrote an account containing a denial of the fact by the lady in question; but the compiler of the Annual Letters for the year 1680 was unfortunate in choosing to cast doubt upon her credibility, thus leaving the matter as much open to question as before.[362] The division in the Catholic body of which this was a symptom was a source of undoubted weakness: all the efforts to crush those in favour of the oath were unavailing, and lively agitation was caused by the certain news that the Duke of York himself had pledged his allegiance by it, seduced thereto by the example of so many born Catholics who upheld its lawfulness.[363] However much it might be denied in public controversy, the refusal to allow the oath to Catholics was indissolubly bound up with the claim to the papal power of deposition. About the same time a priest whose name is given as Forstal maintained that the king might be deposed at the command or at least with the participation of the pope. James questioned the nuncio at Brussels on the subject, and received answer that the error lay not in the opinion held, but in the choice of so inopportune a moment to express it, since the worst consequences might be expected. No doubt the matter was in debate, but the meaning to be drawn from the prelate’s reply was obvious, for he did not think it worth while to argue the point further. The priest guilty of such rashness was induced to withdraw for a time to a monastery in Westphalia. Prudence was above all things necessary in the cause of the church.[364]
The Catholic body was thus divided within itself when the odium into which it had fallen was enhanced by the obscure intrigue known as the Meal Tub Plot. It was a time when Catholics could afford to take few risks in their conduct. Besides direct charges against them they lay under the imputation of more than one attempt to confound their accusers by means as base as those used against themselves; two brothers of Prance, who was not distinguished by the world from other informers, were secular priests; Jennison, a follower in the train of Oates, had a brother in the Society of Jesus, who lay dying in Newgate, and was thought to be a wealthy country gentleman appearing for honesty’s sake to enlighten his fellow-countrymen; strong suspicion attached to witnesses who came to speak for the Jesuits at their trials.[365] It might therefore be expected that the more Catholics loved their religion, the more carefully would they refrain from adding to the frightful hostility already shewn against it. Nevertheless it was at this moment that some of their leaders, not without influence or repute, undertook to retaliate on their enemies by weapons of more than questionable worth. Whether they were the first movers in the affair or entered it on the invitation of others was the question.
In March 1679 a young man of infamous character who went by the name sometimes of Willoughby, sometimes of Dangerfieid, lay in the debtor’s side of Newgate. Having been in gaol for the best part of a year, he began to turn his thoughts to means of getting out, and proceeded to draw articles of complaint against Captain Richardson, the keeper of Newgate, for his treatment of prisoners. This came to the ears of another gaol-bird, Mrs. White, who, fancying Dangerfield’s ability, on her discharge imparted the fact to a friend on the look-out for an assistant of talent. Her friend was Mrs. Cellier, whose name and character have become notorious in a swarm of pamphlets and reports of trials of the time. She was the wife of a French merchant and pursued the profession of midwife, and assuredly of something else, within a circle of Roman Catholic notables. She was employed to collect alms for the relief of those of her religion in prison for the Plot. She had been concerned in the unsavoury case of Knox and Lane, who were put up to defame Oates’ character.[366] When witnesses were sent over from St. Omers to give evidence at the trials, it was at her house that they were lodged and fed by Lord Castlemaine. The Duchess of York had used her services to no small extent. She was in fact a regular agent of the Catholic nobles in political intrigue, and in close connection with the Countess of Powis, whose husband, together with the Lords Petre, Arundel, Stafford, and Bellasis, was in the Tower on a charge of high treason, a woman of bold and active spirit and devoted to the Duke of York. The conduct of Mrs. Cellier was not such as to inspire confidence in the purity of her intentions. Armed with Mrs. White’s information she repaired to one Gadbury, an astrologer, for Dangerfield’s horoscope, pretending that she wished for a man to collect her husband’s debts. To suppose that any sane person could use one of Dangerfield’s stamp for the purpose would be absurd: it was certainly for other purposes that he was wanted. Their character soon became apparent. For there was in Newgate a prisoner named Stroud, a friend of Bedloe and thought capable of proving that the Earl of Shaftesbury was suborning witnesses against the lords in the Tower. Dangerfield was employed to make him drunk and learn what he could. So well did he perform his task that Mrs. Cellier paid his debts, whether to the amount of five pounds, as she, or of seven hundred, as he said, and obtained his release. He was a handsome fellow enough, and found favour in her eyes. It was now the month of June. Dangerfield was maintained by his friend, and earned his wages by doing the work of messenger for the witnesses sent from beyond seas for the defence of the Five Jesuits, who stood their trial at this time.[367]
Clad in a decent suit, with money in his pocket, and the friend of Mrs. Cellier’s bosom, Dangerfield began to go about the town. He was taken to Powis House and introduced to the Countess. He took notes at the trials of Wakeman and Langhorn and carried them to Lord Powis in the Tower. Indeed his appearance was so pleasing and his recommendation so high that he was allowed to take up his abode at Powis House, and even to sit with Lady Powis at table.[368] And now the serious business began. One Nevil, alias Payne, a writer of libellous pamphlets, was retained by Mrs. Cellier with others of his trade for the service of Lady Powis. Dangerfield’s talents were added to the band, which carried on a lively production of ballads and pamphlets, such as “The Transforming of Traitors into Martyrs,” “The Presbyterian Unmasked,” “The Ballad of the Popish Plot,” “The Danby Reflections,” and an edition of the Five Jesuits’ dying speeches, all launched against the Presbyterians. Dangerfield was an attorney’s son and, having been bred a clerk, could write with some smartness. At the same time he was employed to go the round of coffee-houses frequented by old Presbyterians and new Whigs, to pick up what scraps of information against them he could.[369] The result was most satisfactory. Lists of names were obtained from the drawers. By means of Gadbury, Dangerfield was introduced to Sir Robert Peyton, the great Whig merchant whose apostasy was the first blow to the Whig cause. He thought of joining the King’s Head Club himself, but was dissuaded on learning that he would be required to pay a subscription of one or two guineas. He began to find out the habits of Shaftesbury’s partisans. Presently there appeared between Dangerfield and Mrs. Cellier those papers, the authorship of which each fastened upon the other, bearing witness to the existence of a Presbyterian plot. According to Mrs. Cellier’s account Dangerfield brought the notes to her; they were written at the dictation of Lady Powis, was what he said. That point may be discussed later. It is at any rate certain that Lady Powis was acquainted with their contents and ready to act upon them. She took Dangerfield to her son-in-law, the Earl of Peterborough, Lord Peterborough to the Duke of York, the Duke of York to the king, and the papers, which contained an account of an extensive movement planned by Shaftesbury and Monmouth, were seen by all. The budget was headed “The State of the Three Kingdoms.” The names of the leaders were noted down, commissions were stated to have already been granted, and a scheme for a revolutionary government was sketched. James gave the captain, as Dangerfield was styled by himself and Lord Peterborough, twenty guineas in reward for his zeal; the king added forty more and turned him over to Secretary Coventry. As earnest of his good faith, Dangerfield produced two letters addressed to Shaftesbury by Sir Richard Bulstrode, the minister at Brussels. They were on indifferent subjects; but how came they in Dangerfield’s possession? Coventry was dissatisfied with the affair, and told the captain that if he were to be believed, something more material must be forthcoming. Dangerfield pressed for a general warrant to search, but on the advice of Chief-Justice North was refused. Evidently other means must be tried.[370]
On October 22 Dangerfield, having given notice of a parcel of Flanders lace smuggled into the country by one Colonel Mansell, obtained a warrant to search his lodgings, which were in the same house as his own. That is to say, Dangerfield had specially engaged rooms under Mansell’s roof. The colonel was named in his list as quartermaster of the prospective Presbyterian army. Under Dangerfield’s guidance the customs’ officers went through the rooms, but could find nothing. He begged them to look behind the bed and, when nothing came thence, himself darted behind, pulled out a packet of papers, and began to cry “Treason.” The officers took their find to a justice of the peace, who, having regard to the suspicious circumstances, acted upon the maxim, He who hides can find, and issued a warrant for Dangerfield’s apprehension. An investigation was immediately ordered by the council. On the next day, as Dangerfield was waiting to be examined, an officer of the Mint happened to pass and, recognising in him an old offender, had him arrested for coining false money. When Henry Coventry appeared in the council-room he was met by the somewhat surprising intelligence that his informer was in custody as a forger and coiner, and was known for a noted criminal. A thorough examination made the truth of the charges certain, besides bringing to light the fact, unfortunate for the captain, that he had stood twice in the pillory, had only escaped a third dose of the same punishment by breaking prison, and was in fine a mischievous and notorious rascal. It was proved beyond doubt that he had himself disposed the papers, containing a plain account of the so-called Presbyterian Plot, in Mansell’s room and, since there were no contraband goods there at all, had only brought the customs’ officials to perform what the refusal to grant a search warrant had prevented him from doing otherwise. As the result on October 27 Dangerfield was committed to Newgate. He had in the meantime sent a note to Mrs. Cellier, and by her assistance was let out for a couple of days on bail. Thus the authorities were enabled to follow Dangerfield’s committal by a search at Mrs. Cellier’s. Here on October 29 Sir William Waller found two bundles of papers, one behind the kitchen boiler, the other at the bottom of the meal tub, whence on this account the name of the plot was derived. One contained a copy of Dangerfield’s letter to the king, offering to make yet greater disclosures; the other and larger proved to be a considerable amplification of the story he had told on his first introduction at court. Fearing that the captain would betray her, Mrs. Cellier had a message conveyed to him with the encouraging words, which she boasted as her motto, “I never change,” and was immediately after carried to the Gatehouse. The Lady Errant, as she became known by her enemies, declared afterwards that her fear was lest Dangerfield should falsely use their connection to his own advantage. Whatever its nature, her fear was justified; for on October 31 he desired to be taken before Sir Robert Clayton, then Lord Mayor, and made confession that the Presbyterian Plot was, in a word invented by himself, a Sham destined to cover the intentions of the papists and to ruin their adversaries. The papers found in the meal tub, besides the treasonable letters he had put behind Colonel Mansell’s bed, were dictated to him by the Countess of Powis, and approved by Lord Peterborough and Mrs. Cellier. He had resisted the bribe of £2000 offered him by Lord Arundel to murder the king, but had undertaken to the Earl of Powis to assassinate Lord Shaftesbury for a quarter of that sum. Divers attempts had actually been made on the Whig leader; twice he had been himself to the earl’s residence, Thanet House in Aldersgate Street, and once Mrs. Cellier went in person, only to meet with failure. All this had been with the knowledge and at the direction of Roman Catholic priests. The next day Dangerfield was taken before the council and affirmed the truth of his statement.[371]
In the tangle of accusations and informations which followed and were laboriously examined at the council board, either side tried to throw the blame of the intrigue on the other. Protestants were jubilant at the detection of another Catholic plot, and swore by the whole truth of Dangerfield’s confession. Catholics declared that the affair was designed by Lord Shaftesbury to injure the Duke of York, and that their leaders had been deceived by the captain, who had led them step by step to catastrophe and hid the treasonable packet at Colonel Mansell’s with the sole intention that his own sketch of the Presbyterian designs might be discovered in Mrs. Cellier’s meal tub.[372] The intricacy of these events will probably never be wholly developed. Every one concerned was ready to lie in his own interest. Every one of the principals did lie, it can hardly be doubted. Many committed perjury; and some were probably suborned to perjure. The tale of complex untruth and base endeavour is one that threatens to become dreary. Nevertheless there are indications of the truth on which a general opinion may be based. This is certain, that Dangerfield, perilous rogue as he was known to be, was taken from prison by Mrs. Cellier, the confidante of Lady Powis, supported in her house and at her cost. He was employed in maintaining the cause of their religion, his employment was known to Lord Peterborough, a friend of the Duke of York, and he was introduced to the duke by him as an active agent against their common enemies. By their account they took from him the tale of a Presbyterian plot; by his own he invented it at their direction. Were the Catholic statements accepted as true, they would convict the duke’s party of most gross folly in trusting a man of character so depraved: more than that, for the man had been paid to play the spy and, it was admitted by his employers, had been given hints that it would be good to discover plots of the nature of that which he retailed to them; and to accept such a story without investigation, when it was known that the teller had orders beforehand to collect materials, argues at least some disingenuity. Nor is this all. There is reason to think that in some essentials Dangerfield’s confession contained the truth. Supposing that, as Lord Peterborough and his friends declared, the captain had only hidden his parcel behind Mansell’s bed in order to be detected, he would at least have taken the trouble to make discovery of evidence against Mrs. Cellier certain. The papers concocted between them were in his possession, and he had only to hide them without her knowledge where they could be easily found by an officer. On the supposition that he meant to turn informer against the Catholics their discovery at Mrs. Cellier’s was necessary to his success. Without it there would be no more than his bare word to shew that they had employed him at all. As evidence the find of papers was invaluable to him. Yet he did not even attempt to supply that evidence. So far from concealing the incriminating notes himself, he gave them to Mrs. Cellier to dispose as she thought best. The natural thing for her to do was to burn them and, for all Dangerfield knew, she might have done so. For whatever reason she preferred the other course. She gave the papers to her servant to hide, and it was the servant who placed them in the regions of the kitchen where they were found by Sir William Waller.[373] Dangerfield could not possibly have known of their concealment or even of their preservation. The fact that Mrs. Cellier chose to conceal the evidence against her rather than deliver it to the council, which would have been her best course had she been wholly innocent, or burn it to destroy the traces of her guilt, if she were guilty, tells nothing; for on Dangerfield’s arrest she hoped that he would still be faithful to her, and was not in any case so clean of hand as to court an inquiry into the nature of the services she had from him. She may well have hoped that their connection would escape notice. But beyond this it is plain that, even if she was not aware of Dangerfield’s intention to fix the odium of a fictitious plot on the Protestant party, her relations with him were of so intimate a kind that only wilful ignorance could have saved her from knowledge of it. She knew of the treasonable papers in Colonel Mansell’s room and, when a search warrant could not be procured, it was she who advised Dangerfield to have recourse to the customs house.[374] At least one who was closely acquainted with the Catholic leaders and could not be suspected of prejudice declared the whole affair to be a design of persons zealous for the Duke of York. Lord Peterborough and Lady Powis, wrote the French ambassador, thought to render a great service by bringing forward a man who would give evidence against the Earl of Shaftesbury. They had merely tried to use tools similar to those by which their enemies were thought to have achieved success.[375]
Though it was admitted that Dangerfield had tried to fit the Protestants with a forged plot and highly probable that the Catholics had a hand in the forgery, there is yet something to be said on the other side. The Presbyterian plot was a fiction; but there was a basis of Dangerfield’s story that was not fictitious. An actual movement, the lines of which are partly known, was at the moment being concerted by the Whig leaders. The list of those concerned in the plot drawn up by Dangerfield contains the names of many undoubtedly implicated, and of many afterwards guilty of the treason of the Rye House Plot, which grew out of the designs at this time.[376] Another fact is of importance. To strengthen his story in the eyes of the secretary of state, Dangerfield produced two letters belonging to Lord Shaftesbury.[377] In his confession he declared he had stolen these on one of the occasions when he went to kill the earl. There is no need to linger over the tales of attempted assassination. Improbable as they were in themselves, they are set beyond the bounds of credibility by the informer’s halting narrative and the ridiculous excuses he alleged for failure.[378] Nevertheless his production of the letters makes it evident that he had been with the Whig leader. There can be no doubt that he had some knowledge of the Whig designs. Most likely he was intriguing with both parties at the same time in order to see which he could with greater profit betray, and ended by betraying both, though the Catholics, since they had trusted him the more, were more severely affected by the results of his treachery. In the course of the next year Mrs. Cellier and the Earl of Castlemaine were tried for high treason. Lady Powis too had been committed to the Tower, but the bill against her was ignored by the grand jury. Both cases rested largely upon the evidence of Dangerfield, against whom records of crime were produced by the defence. As his pardon did not cover a felony of which he had been convicted, Mrs. Cellier was formally acquitted on the ground that he was no good witness and that only one other appeared against her; and when the pardon was afterwards corrected, the jury before whom Castlemaine was tried refused to believe the word of a man who bore the accumulated weight of sixteen convictions, guilty of “six great enormous crimes,” and pronounced a verdict of not guilty after an absence of only a few minutes from the box.[379] Few will be found to quarrel with the judgment of the Lord Chancellor, who told Dangerfield: “You are a fine fellow, first to come to his Majesty and there tell him one story, then to my Lord Powis, and from thence to my Lord Shaftesbury’s, discovering to one what discourse you held with the other; and thus to bring one story to the council, another to the Earl of Shaftesbury.”[380]
The Duke of York’s conduct in the Meal Tub Plot was characteristic of him. He had brought Dangerfield to the king and by his imprudence was the cause of much suspicion and distrust. No one felt certain how the affair would turn out. People thought that James would “never leave off tampering.”[381] He was a man with the smallest aptitude for diplomacy. He was able neither to let events take their course without interference nor by fingering ever to improve them. He was always for action of a decided and generally a tactless kind. While he persistently endeavoured to make others change their views, his own were held with an obstinacy that nothing could uproot. His continual desire for activity was one of the difficulties which most hampered Charles II’s policy. Apart from his itch for management and a preference shared with other politicians of the time for underhand dealing his very presence at court was as a trumpet call to his enemies. His severance from the Church of England was a severance from the English people likewise. The Church of Rome was traditionally held the enemy of the nation. It was responsible for many of the doubts and difficulties of the restored monarchy. Its action was coupled in the general mind with the aggression of foreign foes. For the heir to the throne at such a time to go over to it was an act of great hardiness. Nor could he do so without himself being proclaimed an enemy of the people and disloyal to his duty. The horror expressed at the notion that James should depart from the faith which his father had signed with blood was increased by contemplation of the results attending the step. The Roman Catholic religion, it was said, introduced an imperium in imperio and, were it settled in England, would at once destroy the liberties and drain the wealth of the country.[382] It seemed as if the duke must have some deep and sinister motive in his mind to leave the religion that had been won by so much blood. Many princes had changed their faith for reason of state, but the instance of one who departed from the church of the people against the clearest command of expedience and, as it seemed to them, the no less clear showing of reason was unparalleled. And the subtle influence of Jesuits who had wrought this in him was feared as well in the present as for the future. So long as the duke remained at the king’s right hand there was the added terror that he would shape the royal policy in the direction whither he would direct it himself from the throne. Nothing could be devised to cure the distrust aroused by his attitude, except that he should return to the Protestant religion or withdraw from the king’s presence. The latter was tried with success, the former without. By the advice of Danby, when it was certain that the elections for the parliament of 1679 were unfavourable to the court, James was unwillingly sent out of England and ordered to take up his abode in Brussels.[383] Episcopal powers of persuasion had already been tried on him in vain. Before he set out another attempt was made, with the like result. It is to the credit of his courage that no prospect of advantage could bring him to surrender his faith. The bishops brought forward every available argument, but were unable to boast any satisfaction. Rome was hopeful that he would withstand all similar proposals.[384] As the prosecution of the Popish Plot drove the storm higher against the court and the Catholics, the pressure put on James to recant his faith increased. A year later when the duke was in London during the prorogation a strong attempt was made by his friends. They knew that his conversion would mean the greatest embarrassment to the host of enemies who built high upon his opposition to the national temper. Should he consent they would be compelled to change all their plans and perhaps fail to find another weapon strong enough to serve the same purpose. At least he would be able to remain at court. Charles spoke forcibly on the subject. A more powerful advocate was found in the duchess, who despite James’ gross and notorious profligacy exercised some influence on him and wished at any price to escape a third exile. Months went by and the agitation continued. James seemed to be weakening. As the day fixed for the meeting of Parliament drew near, the gossip of Whitehall had it that he would come over. Expectation was disappointed. On the day before the session opened the duke and duchess set sail for Edinburgh, as Catholic as ever.[385] There was nothing to be gained from him by argument. Nor was he to be driven. Even Charles’ threat that unless he went to church the Exclusion bill should be passed failed to move him. Conscience and honour forbade him equally to deny and to dissemble his religion. Besides, if he were to consent, Shaftesbury would only put about that he had a dispensation from the pope and was still a Catholic at heart. His mind was fixed. By God’s grace he was determined “never to do so damnable a thing.”[386]
James’ mind was fixed on other points as well. He could not understand that time had any value in the struggle between men or delay any merit. The king’s policy of waiting was wholly unintelligible to him. Ultimate success seemed to him to depend upon immediate triumph, and for immediate triumph he was ready to stake everything. Each concession, each dilatory advance, each deceptive retreat appeared as sure tokens that he and the monarchy were on the verge of ruin, about to be hurled together into the abyss. There was little enough of sympathy between the brothers, who made a public show of friendship and in private kept secrets to themselves. When he afterwards compiled the memoirs of his life, James was able to exhibit some calmness in discussing their relations; for, as he said, the king was sensible that their interest was at bottom the same against common adversaries, since “his chief security lay in having a successor they liked worse than himself.” “He resolved therefore,” continued the writer, “to stick to the main chance, and suffer no diminution in the prerogative during his time; however, he thought it necessary to yield as far as he could to convince the world of his sincerity, and to put his enemies so much in the wrong (without parting with any essential thing) as that, if they forced him to break, he might have friends enough to assist him.”[387] At the time this series of penetrating afterthoughts did not cross the duke’s mind. He had so little conception of Charles’ aim and point of view as to be in constant terror that he would be abandoned to the wrath of the opposing forces. He conceived himself, like his son-in-law the Prince of Orange, to be dealing with a volatile being of pleasure, and crying, as the captain of a ship to his helmsman in a storm: Steady, steady, steady.[388] Only positive commands and elaborate assurances, to which even then he attached little weight,[389] could induce him to leave the court at moments of crisis when his presence was likely to have the worst possible effects. He could never think that his absence would not serve only to embolden his enemies. Present, he was continually interfering and making unwise suggestions. Absent, he did not cease pressing for his recall.[390] Nor did he cease from Belgium and Scotland to press on the king counsels of desperation. Anything tainted with moderation had to his nostrils the odour of surrender. He had not been two months at Brussels before he was urging Charles to steps which he knew must mean civil war. Ireland, Scotland, the fleet, the guards, the garrisons, were still in the king’s hand. The Prince of Orange had given assurance that he would be on the side of royalty. Let Charles cease to countenance Monmouth and the party with him, let him think on the fate of Edward II, Richard II, and the king his father. “Now or never,” wrote the duke, “is the time to save the monarchy.”[391] This was of a piece with all his advice. All things, he thought, tended to a republic. Sir William Temple’s council seemed to him to make the king little better than a Doge of Venice, and to leave him so little support that the Exclusion bill could hardly be resisted, a calamity by which the house of Stuart would be “absolutely ruined and given up.” A short time after he expressed the opinion that if Charles would not submit to be less than a Doge of Venice a rebellion would be the necessary result. By June 1679 he was writing; “Things have been let go to that pass that the best I can expect is very great disorders, and unless something very vigorous is done within a very few days, the monarchy is gone.”[392] Five months, six months, a year later the same counsel was being reiterated.[393] While Charles remained cool and undismayed in the midst of pressing danger, every fresh event abashed the mind of James.[394] He could not appraise facts at their true worth, since he was without insight; devoid of imagination, he was unable to attribute to others powers he lacked himself. His very friends spoke against his unenlightened zeal, and the pope favoured him and his wife each with a brief on the subject.[395] It was the beginning of that stream of protest which afterwards marked with increasing volume the course of his downfall.