James fled to Sheerness, having burnt the unissued Parliamentary writs, and thrown into the Thames the Great Seal of the realm. Arrived at Sheerness, he fell into the hands of the rabble, upon which, as De Foe relates, “he applied himself to a clergyman in words to this effect: ‘Sir, ’tis men of your cloth have reduced me to this condition: I desire you will use your endeavour to still and quiet the people, and disperse them, that I may be freed from this tumult.’ The gentleman’s answer was cold and insignificant, and going down to the people, he returned no more to the King.”[70]
1688.
THE CRISIS.
What was to be done? Amidst consternation indescribable, some of the Peers resolved to hold a meeting in Guildhall, the walls of which had often echoed with popular cries of all sorts. At this meeting, held December the 10th, amidst the temporal Lords there appeared the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, and the Bishops of Winchester, Asaph, Ely, Rochester, and Peterborough. The Archbishop of Canterbury presided, and a sub-committee of three or four drew up a Declaration, in which they promised to assist the Prince of Orange in obtaining a Parliament for the welfare of England, the security of the Church, and the freedom of Dissenters. This was signed by the two Archbishops, the Bishops of Winchester, St. Asaph, Ely, Rochester, and Peterborough, and by several Peers. A deputation of four, including the Bishop of Ely, was appointed to wait upon His Highness. Riots followed. “No Popery” became the general cry. Roman Catholic chapels were stripped of furniture, in some instances the buildings were demolished. Oranges—symbolic of the Deliverer—were stuck on the ends of spikes and staves, and waved in triumph. The Embassies of Roman Catholic countries were no longer safe, and the mansion of the Spanish Minister was sacked. One act of vengeance will surprise no one who has read the story of the previous reign: Jeffreys, disguised as a sailor, fell into the hands of the mob, and narrowly escaped with life. Speke, not satisfied with the fictitious Declaration, invented terrific stories about massacres, which he said were already begun by the Irish. All kinds of atrocities were to be perpetrated by the disbanded army. De Foe repeated that, “the Irish dragoons which had fled from Reading, rallied at Twyford, and having lost not many of their number—for there were not above twelve men killed—marched on for Maidenhead, swearing and cursing, after a most soldierly manner, that they would burn all the towns wherever they came, and cut the throats of the people.” He adds, that as he himself rode to Maidenhead, he learnt at Slough that Maidenhead had been burnt, also Uxbridge and Reading. When he came to Reading, he was assured Maidenhead and Oakingham were in flames.[71] Imagination invented all kinds of horrors. In consequence of Speke’s letters came the Irish night, as it is called, when the citizens of London, in the utmost terror at the thought of insurgents entering their gates and murdering them in their beds, sat up till morning,—drums beating to arms, women screaming in agony, lights blazing at windows, streets lined with soldiers, and the doors of houses barricaded against the fancied foe. The panic could not be confined to the Metropolis. It spread to the North; it reached Leeds. Stories were told of Papists at Nottingham burning and slaying all before them; whereupon, the people of Leeds mended their fire-arms and fixed scythes on poles, kept watch and ward, and sent for the military, who came in such strong force that they amounted to seven thousand horse and foot. This pacified the inhabitants, until in the middle of the night there rose a cry, “Horse and arms! horse and arms!—the enemy are upon us! Beeston is actually burnt, and only some escaped to bring the doleful tidings!” The bells were rung backwards, women shrieked, candles were placed in the windows, armed horsemen rode in the direction where the destroyers were expected; and men with their wives and children, leaving all behind, even money and plate upon the tables, ran for shelter to barns and haystacks. The terror was so great that nothing like it had occurred since the Civil Wars; but the immediate cause of it all turned out to be the shouting of a few drunken people. Again came the cry of “Fire! fire! Horse and arms! for God’s sake!”—simply because beacons were burning over the town of Halifax. Whether deluded, or wishing to keep up an excitement for political purposes, military expresses brought pretended advice “that the Irish were broken into parties and dispersed.” The whole was managed so artfully, that one who inquired into the matter could not learn who contrived it.[72] Hatred against the Roman Catholics, kindled by atrocious falsehoods, contributed to strengthen a desire for the expatriation of all priests; but other causes, according to the confession of Jesuits themselves, helped to bring on the downfall of Popery. Father Con, an active Jesuit in London, wrote a letter to the provincial of his order at Rome, telling a story, in which he ascribes a considerable share in the catastrophe, to his own party, and especially to D’Adda, the Papal Nuncio. The mischief, he said, came from their own avarice and ambition. The King had “made use of fools, knaves, and blockheads,” and the favoured agent, instead of being a “moderate, discreet, and sagacious minister,” was a “mere boy, a fine, showy fop, to make love to the ladies.”[73]
1688.
James, after a short detention at Sheerness, returned to London. Lord Middleton heard of his coming, and hurriedly scrawled a note in these words: “The King will be at Rochester this night, and intends to be at Whitehall to-morrow; has ordered his coaches to meet him at his lodgings.” Immediately from Westminster, under date “Dec. 15, 1688, 7 at night,” the Bishop of Winchester wrote to Sancroft, “May it please your Grace—and I am sure it will—His Majesty will be here to-morrow, and his coaches and guard are to meet him at Dartford. This account and orders came from my Lord Middleton.”[74]
THE CRISIS.
The discarded Monarch came, as Middleton said, and a gleam of loyalty burst out once more, amidst bells and bonfires. The poor man almost thought he should gain a new lease of power, and the frightened Papists came out of holes and corners to welcome their regal friend. He even ventured to assume a rather haughty tone, but in vain. The die was cast. The Dutch Ambassador informed him that the Prince would allow no Royal guards, but such as were under his own command. This amounted to a demand of surrender. William was in a position to insist upon it. Three Dutch battalions reached Whitehall at 10 o’clock on the night of December the 17th. Before the morning a message arrived from the Prince, requiring James to proceed to Ham, near Richmond. James said he should prefer Rochester. It mattered little where he went. The party in the ascendant only wished to get rid of him. He went to Rochester. There we need not follow him. It is enough to notice that several Bishops concurred in entreating him not to leave the country.[75] From Rochester he stole away to France. Next we find him at St. Germains.
As the rejected King slipped down the Thames on the morning of December the 18th, his destined successor was preparing to take up his quarters at St. James’s Palace. He disappointed the people, who waited in the rain to welcome him, by driving through the park. Attended by a brilliant train of courtiers and officers, he reached the gateway of the Royal residence late in the afternoon. The Princess Anne, accompanied by Lady Churchill, both covered with orange ribbons, went that night to the theatre in her father’s coach.
1688.