（）.-|× ， !|ſae
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
TTTTTTTTTTTT）

Immunitſ
ETITITT
|
*Z
ºrtfºort. .
& º f
º
g
Fº
E
s
E
f
º
E.
º
ax
E
>
E
E
E
B
E
§
E
º
E
º
-nºm
º
l






|-
º nos ºn
-
No º
-
º
Nºw yºu tº
(
º
º, ºllº
-
|-
|-






-
tº Unº ºf
ºn a s nº lºs Ann or on yºu
- -
-
%
- - - -
-
-
º SON & Cº. L.E., PARIS,
- -
- -- -
































THE
(; REAT ()|WII, WAR
OF
THE TIMEs of CHARLEs L AND GROMWELL
BY THE
REW. RICHARD CATTERMOLE, B.D.
WITH
(Ibirtp bigglp-finigbet (ºngratingg, from Brainingg bp
GEORGE CATTERMOLE, ESQ.
FIS HER, S0 N, & C 0.
THE CAXTON PRESS, ANGEL STREET, ST. MARTIN'S-LE-GRAND, LONDON;
H. MANDEVILLE, RUE NEUWE WIVIENNE, PARIS.

Q)ºs
º ºtº-,
* - 7-7-- 't'
5 a nº &
AT) W E RTIS E MENT.
THIS volume is the result of considerable reflection on the possible means of
raising a very attractive class of publications into a higher field of literary
design, without depriving them of those charms of novelty and grace which
have so long secured to them the public favour.
The Author wishes to add, that, though it did not come within his
purpose to encumber his pages with authorities, strict and conscientious
historical accuracy was the first object at which he aimed. In endeavouring
to set before the reader, History in action—in avoiding, as much as possible,
all formal or dry detail, and giving prominence and amplitude only to those
heroic deeds, those eloquent discussions, and those noble traits of personal
character, which distinguish all great events or eras in the world—he has
sought to avoid those extreme differences of opinion, and partisan views, that
have unhappily entered so largely into most works respecting the Great Civil
War of the Seventeenth Century. He cannot acknowledge indifference to
any cause which has inspired high achievements among mankind. He looks
upon the great drama of human events as, in all its provinces, the work of
ONE who assigns no prominent part whatever to minds undeserving of earnest
regard. Great qualities still find a sanctuary in the heart, even though the
ends to which they were devoted may be disapproved by the principles and
the judgment; and history, in common with all true knowledge, promotes the
noblest charities of our nature.
I, I S T 0 F E N G R A WIN G. S.
Charles I. . e - -
Plundering of a Royalist’s Mansion . - º
Arrest of Strafford
Strafford’s Farewell -
The Raising of the Standard .
Death of the Earl of Lindsey
Death of the Earl of Northampton
The Queen at Burlington .
The King and Hyde - - - º
Defence of Wardour Castle - - o e
Storming of Bristol
Selling Church Plunder
Republican Preaching . - - - w º
Sortie from Lathom House
Goring Carousing . - - - -
The King’s Camp before Donnington Castle .
Montrose discovered in disguise.
Destruction of Royalists’ Property.
Oliver Cromwell. -
Battle of Naseby . - - -
Montrose's retreat to the Highland
The King on his journey to the Scots
Seizure of the King at Holdenby
Treaty in the Isle of Wight .
The retreat of the Scots from Preston -
Charles's defeated attempt to escape from Carisbrooke
Excluding Presbyterian Members from the House
Cromwell conferring with the Lawyers . - o
Queen Henrietta interceding for the King . s
Cromwell viewing the body of the King, * W.
PAGE
. FRoNTISPIECE 143
- VIGNETTE 164:
. 17
w 28
48
60
69



THE GREAT CIVIL WAR.
CHAPTER I.
I N T R O D U C T I O N.
IF the Petition of Rights, which in the third Parliament of Charles I., confirmed those
liberties that were already the birthright of Englishmen, had been ingenuously assented
to by the king, and taken by the brave and strong-minded men who were its authors for
a final measure, it is possible the kingdom might have been spared the calamities of the
following twenty years. But when, in the confidence of victory, the popular leaders pro-
ceeded to make that just and necessary enactment a vantage-ground for direct attacks
on the prerogative of the crown; and when, on the other hand, the distrustful sovereign
withdrew, in effect, that assent to it which had diffused among the people universal joy;
a breach was made, which the living generation, though they successively flung into it
everything dear to man, were never to see closed.
The triumphs of that assembly were achieved by men whom, or whose like, even the
great period we propose to sketch saw not again met together. The fiery Eliot, foremost,
if not greatest, perished long ere another parliament was called—unhappily in prison.
Sir Thomas Wentworth, satisfied with that noble victory, so large a share of which was
his own, mindful to which of the great parties in the state was now due the devotion of
his vast political genius, went over to the king.
His example was followed by Digges, Littleton, Noy, and others of inferior note.
Yet, that the spirit of the party survived, and would survive, while one man in particular
lived, was apparent from a now familiar anecdote of the time. That man was Pym;
whose sterling eloquence, learning, application, and matchless tenacity of purpose, admi-
rably fitted him for his office, as leader of an opposition so weighty in talent and vast in
its designs. Wentworth, before carrying into effect his final resolve, sought an interview
in private with his inflexible associate, in which he imparted his present views, suggesting
the advantages that would accrue from conciliation.
B



2 INTRODUCTION.
“You need not,” interrupted Pym, indignantly, at once perceiving Wentworth’s
drift, while visions of impeachment rose upon his sight, “to tell me that you have a mind
to leave us. But remember what I say—you are going to be undone. And remember,
also, that though you leave us now, I will never leave you while your head is on your
shoulders.”
Refusing to pass a bill for supplies, which the wants of the executive rendered urgent,
the third parliament was dissolved in the midst of an ominous storm of contumacy on the
part of the commons, and of disappointment and displeasure on that of the king. The
representatives of the people retired to their homes, to brood over their personal wrongs
and the despotism which now more than threatened the country, and to inflame, by their
various statements of grievance, the popular discontent. The course pursued by the king
had in it so much of inconsiderateness and obvious impolicy, beside what wilfulness may
be imputed to it, as no hypothesis can explaim, but one that includes a thorough convic-
tion in the royal mind of its justice, in existing circumstances. He now commenced in
earnest the fatal plan of governing by the bare force of prerogative, until a parliament
could be convened with the prospect of a more complying temper. It is fair to acquit
Charles of a wish to encroach upon the known rights of his people; but a crisis had
arrived, when the people would no longer distinguish between such a wish and a resolu-
tion to maintain those adverse claims of the crown, which he had inherited from his pre-
decessors, and thought himself bound to defend in his own person, and transmit, unim-
paired, to his children. King Charles really desired to be the father of his people; but
in his code of parental duty he included denial and correction with indulgence. We have
no disposition to vindicate those infractions of the constitution, as now defined, which
followed rapidly on each other. We cannot but observe, however, that numerous and
gross as they were, and directed equally against the freedom and the property of the sub-
ject, there were never wanting powerful minds ready to expose and exaggerate, if they
were unable to prevent them; while few mentioned, perhaps few believed, the advancing
prosperity of the people, which their combined operations did not check.
The brightest track along the course of the years which followed, is, with all its errors,
the path of Wentworth. Raised to the dignities of baron and viscount, and to the offices
of a privy-counsellor and president of the Council of the North, this great statesman, on
the dissolution of the parliament, instantly applied himself with characteristic ardour
to the high and perilous duties of his presidency.
The Council of the North was a court erected at York, in the reign of Henry VIII.,
with jurisdiction over the five northern counties, in those times the theatre of frequent
insurrection. The great and irregular powers exercised by this court, were, on Went-
worth’s appointment, enlarged to an almost unlimited extent. In administering them
with strict but haughty and severe impartiality, he succeeded in the twofold object of
bearing down with a high hand every show of disaffection towards the government, and
of raising to an unprecedented amount the income derived from that part of the kingdom
to the royal exchequer. Charles had soon to acknowledge, rather than discover, such
extraordinary zeal and ability in his new minister, as manifestly qualified him to serve


INTRODUCTION. - 3
the state in a wider sphere. Wentworth was nominated lord-deputy of Ireland, without
being required to resign the chair of the northern presidency. -
That ever-unhappy country was now for the first time governed by a hand vigorous
and steady enough for the task. Wentworth made his appearance in Dublin with the
pomp and ceremonial of royalty: it was his acknowledged principle of government to
rule, not merely as a vice-king, but as the deputed sovereign of a conquered province.
Benefits and severities he dispensed with a sternly equal hand; but even the severities of
a master-mind, when first placed at the head of an arbitrary government, being for the
most part merely the extinction of minor oppressions in the sovereign sway, are, for
the people, blessings in disguise. One of the many historians who have poured their
vials of angry censure on the proud head of Wentworth, bears this reluctant testimony:
—“the Richelieu of Ireland, he made that island wealthier in the midst of exactions,
and, one might almost say, happier in the midst of oppressions.”
The benefits conferred on Ireland by Wentworth were diffused through all her insti-
tutions. We trace them in a more than quadrupled revenue; in the church strengthened
and made more efficient; in the courts of justice reformed; in the army disciplined; in
commerce and manufactures cherished and extended; in a population wealthier, more
peaceful, and more humane. Its concomitant excesses are illustrated (among other less-
remembered instances) by the trial and sentencing to death of the Lord Mountnorris,
ostensibly for an impatient or disrespectful word; an outbreak of tyrannous pride, made
available to the strengthening of the government, which Wentworth’s enemies did not
forget. The sentence was meant only to humble the victim; but a stretch of power so
violent in itself, and yet so capable of aggravation by unfriendly tongues, swelled prodi-
giously the gathering indignation against the viceroy, and was grimly noted down in the
great impeachment-book, by those who watched with patience till the shadow upon the
darkening political sun-dial should point the hour of his undoing.
Beyond the esteem of the sovereign, to whom he was ardently attached, Wentworth
—with one exception—cared little to supply the vacancies in his former friendships from
the party which he had now joined. Sincere, laborious, proud, he had no sympathy with
the heartlessness and indolence of the courtiers. The exception refers to Laud; whose
translation to the see of London, and paramount authority in the administration, nearly
coincided with the period of Wentworth’s elevation, as both did with the fall of Buck-
ingham. With a mind of less majestic dimensions, though more learnedly cultivated;
with directness and integrity equal to Wentworth’s steady and unquenchable ardour;
below him in pride, as became a churchman, but as keenly capable of rigour, for con-
science' sake; as great in courage, as inflexible in constancy; above all, animated by like
devotedness to the master whom both served “not wisely,” but, in their view of duty,
“well;”—Laud, whatever may be thought by those who strangely discover the bond of
these men’s union in that most dissociative of principles, a common despotic will, was not
unworthy of that intimacy with the larger-minded Wentworth which remained firm till
violently and most affectingly terminated by death. Such as they were, these eminent
persons continued to be the main agents of King Charles's government in Church and

4. INTRODUCTION.
State, through many difficult, and, finally, disastrous years. They did not originate all
his plans, but they were ever ready, in the fearlessness of duty, to carry forward even the
worst of them. If they erred in an honest view of their duty, mistook the times, wounded
the immature constitution, overrated even their abilities, or indulged private passion at
the cost of the public weal; they received in their persons, and will ever be paying in
their fame, the penalty of those whom Providence places, as doomed yet not useless
barriers to the violent current of changeful times; augmenting, while they brave, the
fury of the waters, but preparing fertility for other generations, by forcing them to sweep
away injurious impediments, and then to waste their rage in diffusion.
The means by which the government of Charles I., endeavoured to provide for its
exigencies, without parliamentary aid, are known to every one. Taxes on merchandise
(the “tonnage and poundage” of the period); compositions for declining to receive
knighthood; fines from those whose estates were discovered to have encroached on the
ancient boundaries of the royal forests; patents of monopoly on an infinite number of
articles of ordinary consumption; with other sources of revenue, some of them unprece-
dented and illegal, the greater part arbitrarily and oppressively levied; all proved insuffi-
cient. Large sums were extorted, of which no more than a trifling proportion found its
way into the treasury; for an unsettled despotism is always plundered, and always
improvident. “It is now almost fifteen years,” said Pym, in the first session of the
Long Parliament, “since his majesty had any assistance from his people; and these
illegal ways of supplying the king were never pressed with more violence and art than
they have been in this time: and yet I may, upon very good grounds, affirm, that in the
last fifteen years of Queen Elizabeth she received more by the bounty and affection of
her subjects than hath come to his majesty’s coffers by all the inordinate and rigorous
courses which have been taken.” Refusal to comply with these demands was frequent,
and was followed in numerous instances by fine and imprisonment in the Star Chamber,
or other oppressive courts.
A more memorable tax is celebrated under the name of Ship-money. A feeble and
distracted government at home had diminished the respect in which England had
formerly been held by foreign nations. Her ancient dominion of her own seas was
slighted by her neighbours; corsairs from Barbary made descents upon her coasts. To
repel these disgraceful aggressions, the sea-ports were required to equip vessels for the
king's service; and the demand was presently extended to the whole kingdom, the inland
counties compounding for their assessments in money. The funds thus raised were
honestly and successfully applied to the purposes for which they were required. But the
demand was startling and novel—revived, at least, from the dust of forgotten records.
Numbers opposed it, and were thrown into prison. Among the most memorable and
important processes in judicial history, is that by which the legality of this impost was
tried in the case of Hampden. The patriot’s assessment, upon an extensive landed
property, was twenty shillings. On so small a point turned the issue of a great consti-
tutional question 1 Judgment was given for the crown; but as the judges were believed
to be corrupted, and as the elaborate arguments of Hampden’s counsel had convinced

INTRODUCTION. 5

the nation that substantial right, if not the technical construction of statutes, favoured
his cause, “the judgment,” says Clarendon, “proved of more advantage to the gentleman
condemned than to the king's service.” Hampden, indeed, reaped a cheap immortality;
but he was a man who had studied the art of winning golden opinions; a man whose
constancy of purpose was shaded by caution, or smoothed by the blandest of demeanours;
and ship-money was in all men's ears a hated word.
But, as will always be the case in this serious nation in unsettled times, the deepest
and widest grounds of discontent were occupied by questions of religion. The people
were kept in perpetual terror of popery by the slumber allowed to the existing statutes
against papists, and by the insolence or indiscretion of that party, in consequence of
Charles's marriage with a daughter of Roman Catholic France, and of his known deference
to the personal predilections of his queen. This, however, was only an aggravation of an
older and more deeply-seated grievance. It could not but befall, in the great conflict of
the Reformation, that the antagonists of popery, driven at once by indignation, fear,
and hatred, would take up on the other side some extreme, and such as in cooler times
would appear, to sound judgments, untenable or worthless positions. These, when the
purified National Church had been fixed on her own secure basis, all same persons would
have been ready to abandon, had no fresh cause of excitement arisen.
But events kept alarm wakeful; and timid natures, remembering as a terrible dream
whose images oppress the waking fancy, the sanguinary and flaming horrors of the past,
thought themselves less secure in the efficiency of their arms and ramparts than in
remoteness from the hated foe. The most primitive vestment, if the Romish, though only
in common with other churches, had adopted its use, retained the infection of Antichrist:
observances the most venerable, in passing through that “ chamber of abominable ima-
gery,” had become symbols of the mystic Babylon. That aversion to apostolical govern-
ment, and that impatience of uniformity in rites and ceremonies, which abhorrence of
popish corruption had already generated at home, were heightened by the sojourn of the
Marian exiles among those reformed communities abroad, whom not choice, but the pres-
sure of circumstances, had deprived of episcopacy and the decorous adjuncts of a national
church. The strictness of Elizabeth’s ecclesiastical government, acting on the stubborn
nature of conscientious Puritanism, increased both the number and the vehemence of the
Church’s enemies. A further element of mischief was brought in after James had sent
over his committee of divines to grace the synod of Dort. Davenant and his compeers,
on their return, innoculated the factions with a more virulent type of religious dissidence—
the disputes of Prelatist and Puritan were henceforth to be sharpened by the reproachful
appellations of Calvinist and Arminian; and, by a strange contradiction, a slavish theo-
logy, in which the Father of mankind takes the character of a despot, became the watch-
word of political and religious freedom.
With the authority, Laud had succeeded to the principles of Cranmer, Whitgift, and
Parker; but in worse times, and, as both prime minister and metropolitan, in circumstances
at once more likely to betray him into violence, and expose him to obloquy. The Puritans
who in Elizabeth's reign, though turbulent, were comparatively inconsiderable, and hardly,
C




6 INTRODUCTION.
till towards the close of that brilliant period, lifted their hands as a political party, grew
formidable under James, and, after the accession of Charles, insolent; concessions—which
they regarded as less than their due, and slight punishments—which raised them into
credit with the multitude, turning equally to their advantage. Laud was fully awake to
the greatness of the danger; his error as a statesman lay in believing that the danger
could be averted by an appliance, on the part of the rulers, of bare unyielding principle.
He knew he had the king's perfect confidence; he felt he had a strong heart and unquench-
able zeal; he trusted in the help of God, for he esteemed it his cause. Thus supported,
he judged himself able to work out the justification of that policy which he felt convinced
was just—to keep no terms with an implacable foe. “Resolve—there is no end of
yielding,” was his motto. This is the sole secret of that frequent reference to “thorough,”
which has been so much commented on in his correspondence with Strafford. To this
principle we confidently refer all those public acts, which, often irreconcilable both with
charity and prudence, and rendered doubly irritating by a sharp ungracious demeanour,
overwhelmed him at length in a tide of popular hatred without example. His preference
of Papists to Puritans, as less dangerous and inveterate enemies to the Church (in which
he agreed with Queen Elizabeth); his excessive zeal for the splendid externals of public
worship; his measures for checking the perversion of pulpit influence to the furtherance
of political designs; his revival of the obsolete jurisdiction of the ecclesiastical courts, in
punishing gross profligacy of manners; even the enormity of his share in the mulcts and
mutilations inflicted by the Star Chamber, in such cases as those of Leighton, Prynne,
Bastwick, and Burton;–had all that origin. The offence for which these individuals
were indicted, viz. the publication of libels on the hierarchy, was one so prevalent and
popular, that the existence of the Church seemed to depend on steps being taken for
its discouragement. Their “ censure” has nevertheless been, with justice, reprobated by
historians, as equally cruel and impolitic. It proceeded from a tribunal already the object
of popular odium; it was known to have been instigated by the prelates, whose actions
needed no character of harshness to secure them an unfriendly colouring; the ignominy
of the punishment outraged all the three great professions—for Prynne was a lawyer,
Bastwick a physician, Burton a clergyman, and Leighton a Presbyterian divine; finally,
the manner of its execution was calculated, as penalties for licentiousness of language
and opinions commonly are, to invest aspiring malevolence with the honours of martyrdom.
While these and other concurrent events prepared England for a great political and
religious explosion, it was in the king's northern dominions that the torch of revolution
was first applied.
In the march of rapacity and violence which hurried forward the Reformation in
Scotland, episcopacy was almost swept away. Only an obscure name and powerless
existence remained, during many years, to intimate that law had not sealed its actual
extinction. To restore the primitive worship and government of the church, in his
native land, was among the fondest desires of Charles's heart, as it had been of his father's.
Some distant preparatory steps toward this object had been taken by King James; but
the attendance of Laud at the coronation of his royal successor, in the northern capital,



INTRODUCTION. 7

was indignantly perceived to have reference to an immediate plan for bringing that desire
to effect. All orders of men looked on the progress of this design with unqualified dis-
gust; for in Scotland hatred of episcopacy (where, indeed, from the ignorant or designed
confounding of the ideas of pope and prelate, it had, as an abstract principle, its birth,)
was continually kept alive by two of the most powerful motives of human action—by
self-interest among the nobles, and by religious enthusiasm among the people. In the
mean time fatality, or infatuation, waited on every proceeding of the government. The
Scotch bishops—persons in no esteem with the people, and whom the primate's fatal
policy had made hateful to the nobility, by conferring on them the highest secular pre-
ferments—were directed to prepare a Liturgy and Canons. The result of their labours
was submitted for revisal to the heads of the Anglican church; but, whether from dis-
trust or contempt, the sanction of the native clergy was wholly overlooked. This was
extreme imprudence towards a body who carried their notions of independence so high,
and whose influence over their congregations was unbounded. Moreover, by a prepos-
terous inadvertency, the canons made their appearance before the liturgy, to which they
prescribed submission. Both were, in reality, inoffensive; the canons being chiefly
a compilation from the acts of the General Assembly of Scotland, and the liturgy or
service-book only just so much varied from the English Book of Common Prayer as was
required by the national vanity of the northern prelates. Nevertheless the people were
taught to regard both as instruments of antichristian tyranny; and, as such, a deter-
mined stand was to be made against their introduction.
Till the day appointed for the publication of the service-book not a murmur was
heard. The suppressed ire of the populace then first escaped in a riot of the lowest
classes, chiefly women, which interrupted the public reading of the prayers, and endan-
gered the lives of the officiating clergy. More perilous and decisive tumults succeeded;
in which, by degrees, first the wealthy citizens, and finally the nobles, took part. For
several months the government, contemptuously looking on, left the impotent local
authorities to deal with its seditious subjects. At length a proclamation was sent down
to assure the people of his majesty’s regard for the Protestant religion, and to enforce
the peace. By the treachery of some members of the privy council, the contents of this
document became known in Scotland before its arrival. A counter proclamation was
instantly prepared by the popular leaders, which, as if of equal authority with the king's,
they read and posted up at Stirling, Lithgow, and Edinburgh; their armed partizans
forcibly detaining the royal heralds to witness the completion of this daring act. The
pretext of the tumultuous assemblies which convulsed the nation being to present peti-
tions against the bishops and the liturgy, the magistrates consented to a plan devised
and insidiously proposed by the leaders, for the establishment of central “ tables,” or
committees, to represent the petitioning parties. So ably were these boards conducted,
that in a few weeks they had possessed themselves of unlimited authority throughout
Scotland. An easy way was thus laid open to introduce the confederacy, so well remem-
bered under the name of the “Solemn League and Covenant.” The subscribers to this
great national vow, after abjuring the superstitions of popery, in the language of a former



8 INTRODUCTION.
covenant adopted in the reign of King James, and citing the several acts of parliament
for the maintenance of the kirk, bound themselves, “according to the laudable example
of their worthy and free progenitors, by the great name of the Lord their God,” to defend
their religion against all novations, and to stand by each other in resistance to the
contrary errors and corruptions, to the uttermost, against all persons without exception.
A solemn fast was observed, preparatory to subscribing. On the day appointed, multi-
tudes of every rank, age, and sex, thronged the great church of St. Giles's and its pre-
cincts. The force, the freedom, and the extravagance of the republican model of devo-
tion, rose, on this occasion, to the highest pitch. Lifting their out-stretched hands
towards heaven, the vast assembly swore to the national bond, amid shouts, and tears,
and mutual embracements. The enthusiasm flew through the country; and all Scotland,
with the exception of the immediate servants of the government, a few Roman Catholics,
and the solitary town of Aberdeen, was bound together in this vast confederacy, by the
strongest tie of human associations, a burning religious zeal.
Three months longer the government continued wavering and irresolute. It then
sent down the Marquess of Hamilton, Charles's principal minister for Scotch affairs,
with a commission “to conclude and determine all things respecting the peace of the
kingdom.” To impress the commissioner with a high notion of their union and
strength, the Covenanters, to the number of twenty thousand, on foot and on horseback,
met and conducted him into the city; and seven hundred robed ministers are said
to have placed themselves on an eminence by the roadside, and with one voice intonated
a psalm as he passed by.
Hamilton had undertaken a difficult task. The demands of the confederates grew
bolder as the negotiations advanced. Twice he journeyed to London, and twice returned
to his increasingly-excited countrymen with modified powers; bringing, on his second re-
appearance, a surrender of everything demanded—the abolition of the Liturgy, Canons,
and High Commission Court; on the single condition, that for the new Covenant should
be substituted that of King James. At the same time, a national assembly and a parlia-
ment were fixed, to discuss freely all questions in dispute.
With these concessions the clergy and the people were disposed to be content. Not
so the secular leaders. The king, they said, could not mean to grant all he had promised;
his object was to gain time to reduce them by force. In a large body, headed by several
noblemen, they mounted a scaffold at the Market Cross of Edinburgh; where, sword in
hand, they delivered a formal protest, asserting their determination to persist in adherence
to the Covenant. -
The assembly met at Glasgow; but the members having been almost all returned by
the overpowering influence of “the tables,” the commissioner found himself wholly
powerless before a majority resolved to carry forward the plans of the confederates. At
the end of seven days, therefore, he dissolved the unmanageable convention, quitting it
in the midst of a burst of real or affected grief, and departed for England. But the
assembly refused to separate. Under the auspices of the Marquess of Argyle, who from
this time became the acknowledged head of the Covenanters, the dissolution was annulled,


INTRODUCTION. 9
and Episcopacy abolished, with every other existing institution which could interfere with
the joyful deliverance of Scotland from the absorbing terror of “popish and prelatic
tyranny.”
Naturally concluding that the king would seek by force to suppress the rebellion, the
Covenanters now began to make warlike preparations. Troops were levied, arms pur-
chased, the Scottish soldiers of fortune serving on the Continent invited home. Encou-
ragement was not wanting from the discontented party in England; from France came
the not less important aid of money. Lesley, a veteran from the wars of Germany, was
appointed to the chief command; and forthwith began hostilities by seizing the castles of
Edinburgh and Dumbarton. The king, on his part, proceeded with as much alacrity as
his want of resources permitted. At York, in which point the royal forces were concen-
trated, he was met by a brilliant feudal gathering of the nobility and chief gentry of the
realm; from thence he advanced to the vicinity of Berwick. Thither Lesley drew his
Covenanters—twenty thousand men, indifferently equipped, but inspired with zeal which
was kept constantly at a boiling temperature by the unwearied vehemence of pulpit
oratory. Charles's troops were equal in number, and far better provided; but without
heart for the quarrel. Conscious of the unpopularity of his cause, and reluctant to shed
his subjects’ blood, he readily admitted commissioners from the Scottish camp; with
whom was presently concluded, on the basis of the conditions before proposed at Edin-
burgh by Hamilton, the miserable armistice known in the history of the time as the
Pacification of Berwick.
It was a fatal hour for England, when—whoever might be its true author—the attempt
was made to force religious uniformity on the associated kingdom. The temper in which
that measure was long pursued was plainly contempt—contempt for the independence of
the kirk, and for the spirit of Scotchmen. But it is a dangerous thing to despise a nation
—even for a great nation to despise a mean one. Scotland became powerful, less in her
own deep sense of wrong endured, than in England’s consciousness of wrong inflicted;
unnerved by a sympathy half magnanimous, half traitorous, England became the dupe
and the victim of her wily sister, in requital for having treated her in a delicate point as





her vassal.
D -


1()
CHAPTER II.
STRAFFORD.
WHILE that hapless arrangement, the Pacification of Berwick, was looked upon as dis-
honourable in England, by the Scots its stipulations were disregarded. Instead of
disbanding their army, which they had engaged to do, the Covenanters dismissed a part
only of the troops, and kept in pay all the officers; nor were the lawless proceedings of
the unarmed revolters abated.
Already, in Scotland, Wentworth’s was a name of hatred and of terror. A report that
he intended to cross the Channel at the head of a body of troops, was among the earliest
pretexts of the Covenanters for flying to arms. This report had no foundation in fact;
yet the energy of his government awed into stillness and inaction their numerous country-
men settled in Ireland, who had begun to take the Covenant, and had shown an eager
disposition to join the insurgents. Wentworth, however, was not blinded, either by the
boldness of his temper or by the readiness of his resources, to the delicacy of the king's
position; he well knew the financial difficulties of the government, and its want of sup-
port in public opinion; and justly apprehended the odium that would attach to the side
which should be the foremost to shed blood in civil strife. Though not directly consulted,
it is probable that to the lord-deputy’s earnest advice, in his correspondence with the
king, to remain on the defensive, was chiefly owing the facility with which Charles yielded
to an accommodation.
Foreseeing—perhaps designing—in that measure, a delay merely of the war, Charles
now sent for the sole minister on whose counsels he could depend for its conduct. Pre-
ceded in the atmosphere of the court by dread of his paramount influence, in the nation
by anxious curiosity respecting its probable results, Wentworth hurried over; scarcely,
in his zeal to serve his master, allowing himself to be retarded by a terrible attack of one
of his habitual diseases, which at that time weighed him down. Of several honours con-
ferred on him by the king at his arrival, the most distinguished was an earldom, by the
title—which his greatness and misfortunes afterwards impressed so deeply on the national
memory—of Strafford. The Earl of Strafford’s advice decided the renewal of the war,
and the assembling of a parliament. Laying down a munificent contribution towards the
expense of raising an army, he again, though severe illness continued to press on him,
hastened to Ireland; and, in an incredibly short space of time, returned once more, with
a large subsidy from the parliament of that country, having besides secured for the king
a levy of eight thousand horse and foot.
Not so obsequious was the parliament which now met in England. Although, of the
great popular orators of 1628 some were wanting, and with them was absent the fervid



STRAFFORD. ll
excitement of that period, yet the same spirit was there—only calmer, because more
assured; more cautious, because too confident to risk anything by prematurely advan-
cing. The manifest wants of the king were coldly put aside, on the old ground of prece-
dence being due to the people's grievances. In vain Charles, among other arguments to
enforce his assertion that delay was ruin, brought forward the celebrated letter, in which
the Scotch had traitorously solicited aid of the French king. The opposition were in no
haste to put down a movement, which, they had long foreseen, was to be their most effect-
tive auxiliary. Already an interchange of friendly offices and familiar counsels had been
established. It is said, that Scotch intrigue had carried the election of more than one
member: that the commissioners of the Covenanters, now in London, were in the full
confidence of the English party, is certain. To none were the doors of the Lords Dum-
ferline and Loudon more familiarly thrown open than to Essex, Bedford, and Holland, to
Say, to Hampden, and to Pym. Hither came the representatives of every class in Eng-
land who felt, or fancied, any oppression, or indulged a hope of change; those who had
been taxed without law, and those who had been imprisoned without mercy; the haters
of bishops, and the friends of the presbytery; the restless patriot, who was seeking
reformation of the state by any means; the Sullen or the smooth republican, who by any
means had vowed its overthrow.
The sudden dissolution of this parliament was followed by the regret of most honest
and unsuspicious men; and by the rage of the populace, who had been prematurely
taught that the day of its assembling was their time of promise. Those in the secret,
who saw farther, Smiled—as the usurer smiles, his finger on the bond, and his eye turned
to the day of reckoning, when the prodigal flings over to him all but his last possession.
The blame of the dissolution has been unfairly divided between the elder Vane, whose
weakness, or treachery, was really in fault; and Laud, who had as little share in it as
any other of the king’s ministers, popular odium, however, fixed it, as it did every sinister
occurrence in church or state, upon the archbishop; and this imputation nearly cost the
aged primate his life, in a tumultuous assault upon his palace at Lambeth.
Meantime, in the north “rebellion prospered.” Lesley’s army had been ready to
march towards the inviting south, whenever the crisis might be judged meetest for “pro-
moting,” by their presence beyond the border, “the peace of both nations and the honour
of the king.” The king, on the contrary, had to contend with two fatal difficulties in
raising the means to receive, as he thought became him, this armed visit of his northern
subjects—want of money, and a more than unwilling disposition in his levies. At
ſength, by order of Strafford—who, with the title of Lieutenant-General, had taken the
chief command, Lord Conway, with three thousand foot and fifteen hundred horse, but in
a state bordering on mutiny, advanced to dispute the passage of the Tyne. “When,”
says M. Guizot, “the army came in sight of the Scots, the insubordination increased. The
soldiers beheld the Covenant float on their banners; they heard the drum summon the
troops to sermon, and their camp at sunrise resound with the voice of prayer and psalmody.
At this spectacle, at the accounts which had reached them of the pious ardour and
friendly dispositions of Scotland for the English people, by turns softened to tender-




12 STRAFFORD.
ness and stung with indignation, they cursed the impious war, and were already van-
quished, for they conceived themselves brought to fight against their brethren and their
God.” The Scots, with little resistance, passed the river at Newbourne; the English
retreating before them towards Yorkshire: not, perhaps, so sentimentally affected, as in
the preceding extract they are described; but, certainly, with such a remarkable melting
away of the ancient contemptuous valour of Englishmen, when opposed to their northern
neighbours, as can be explained only on the supposition of a strong sympathy, whether the
consequence of mutual misrepresentation, or of a sense of common injuries.
Indignation at the novel pusillanimity of his countrymen, mingling with scorn for the
rebel Scots—which that people repaid with an animosity that nothing less than his blood
could assuage—Strafford wasted himself in strenuous efforts to inspire his officers with
the same spirit of loyalty that animated his own bosom, and to put the retreating army
in a condition to chastise the invaders. Vain were all his exertions: in spite of threats
and blandishments, he was borne back upon York, leaving the northern counties in the
undisputed possession of the enemy.
No longer able to forego the aid of his people, Charles, as an alternative at once readier
and less galling than a parliament, now summoned, at York, a great counsel of peers, in
conformity with the feudal practice of some of his predecessors. An interval of fifteen days,
which elapsed between the issuing of the proclamation and the assembling of the counsel,
was employed by Pym, Hampden, and St. John, in procuring the signatures of twelve
noblemen to a petition for a parliament. A second petition, with the same prayer, sub-
scribed by ten thousand citizens of London, was quickly followed by others; all set on
foot by the same untiring band of patriots. Charles found it impossible to consider the
assembly at York in any other light than as an expedient to supply the instant emergency.
In his opening speech he announced a parliament for the ensuing November, and, at the
same time, the actual commencement of negotiations with the Scots; the management
of the treaty he consented to intrust to sixteen peers, every one of whom was connected
with the popular party. The king desired to have it conducted at York; but to this the
Covenanters, who had now the game in their own hands, objected, on the pretence that
Strafford, their grand enemy, the chief “firebrand” of the commonwealth, held the
government of that city: it was, in consequence, opened at Ripon.
Strafford now felt that the cause was lost, for which he had so long toiled and suffered.
Yet, before finally sheathing his sword from so fatal and inglorious a campaign, he resolved
to justify the confidence he had already put on record: that if the king could be per-
suaded even then to try his fortune in a battle, he would undertake, on peril of his head,
to drive the Scots beyond their borders. A cessation of arms had not yet been formally
agreed upon; Strafford, therefore, judged it no breach of faith to the invader to dispatch
an officer with a troop of horse to attack his quarters in Durham. The expedition was
successful; many of the Covenanters were slain, and their officers taken prisoners. This
action brought, however, no advantage to the king, while it farther exasperated the earl’s
enemies against himself. Loud was the outcry of the Scots; the English commissioners
complained that they were compromised; finally, the king was constrained, by a strict




STRAFFORD. 13

order to Strafford to forbear, to tie up the only hands that were willing to strike for his
cause. A second disgraceful treaty secured the grand object of the Covenanters, and
entailed on England a fatal civil war, with the overthrow of the church and the monarchy.
Charles, wholly without the means of paying his own troops, agreed to maintain, at an
enormous cost, the army of the invaders, on the soil of England; and, when prudence
would have dictated the assembling of the parliament anywhere rather than in the capital,
whose disaffection was notorious, he not only convened his parliament in London, but
transferred to that city the completion of the treaty with the Scots. Thither their com-
missioners hastened, elated by success, and secure of being surrounded with friends and
partisans, and with facilities of adding to their numbers and their consequence.
The steps of the patriot leaders while these events were passing, though secret, have
not escaped the search of history. Pym, their acknowledged head, is said by Lord
Clarendon to have continued, after the unhappy dissolution, for the most part in and
about London, industriously improving the prevalent jealousies and discontents. The
correspondence of the party with the Covenanters, established long before, was now
securely and diligently kept up by means of the Scotch commissioners. In London
their meetings were held at the house of Pym, in Gray’s Inn Lane. In the country,
Lord Say's house at Broughton, in Oxfordshire, and Sir Richard Knightley's at Fawsley,
in Northamptonshire, were the scenes of frequent consultation. At Fawsley they had
a private press in active employment. It was in the convenient seclusion of those man-
sions—to which tradition has attached several anecdotes connected with events so deeply
interesting—that those great designs received a mature shape, which were brought
forward at the beginning of the Long Parliament. -
The issuing of the writs for that memorable convention became the signal of fresh
activity. Pym and Hampden, we are told, “in the discharge of their great duty, as
chiefs and advisers of the people” in this stirring crisis, made the circuit of all the counties
of England. Other members of the party were not less diligent, in the respective dis-
tricts where their influence was strongest. Their success, in general, may be inferred
from the report of the Earl of Warwick; who, writing from York, so lately the residence
of the king, and still the head-quarters of Strafford, assures them that “the game was
well begun.” w -
Though occupied with the affairs of the army, Strafford had too high a stake in that
game to remain an inattentive spectator of the march of public events. Magnanimous
as he was, his keen eye could not but rest with anxiety on that dark spot of the cloud
now hanging over the king's affairs, which threatened his own personal safety. Perhaps,
amidst the presageful thoughts which swept frowningly across that bright but troubled
sphere—the intellect of Wentworth, was the parting threat of the man whom he now
saw every day developing larger capacities to “ride on and direct” the coming “whirl-
wind.” He sought permission to return to Ireland; alleging, that while the absence
from parliament of a minister so obnoxious would remove an obstacle to the settlement
of the king's affairs, and enable him to provide for his own safety, his services would at
the same time be more available in that kingdom to the royal cause. But Charles, who





E
14. STRAFFORD.
began to perceive how few friends he really had, relied mainly on the genius, the energy,
and faithfulness of the lord-lieutenant, to support him in the approaching shock: “he
could not want his advice,” he said, “in the great transactions that were likely to be in
this parliament. As he was king of England, he was able,” he added, “to secure him
from any danger; and the parliament should not touch a hair of his head.” Strafford
yielded. -
The day—the 3rd of November, 1640–arrived, when an eagerly expectant nation
saw assemble the most extraordinary and eventful parliament in English history. Laud
was advised to have the ceremony deferred; the 3rd of November being of ill omen in
the history of parliaments, as signalized by the opening of that, in Henry the Eighth's
reign, which was fatal in its commencement to Wolsey, and at its close to the dominant
church. As if to countenance these forebodings, the ceremonial of the day was shorn of
its usual pomp. “The king,” observes the noble historian of the period, “ did not ride
with his accustomed equipage, or in his usual majesty, to Westminster; but went pri-
vately in his barge to the parliament stairs, and after to the church, as if it had been to
a return of a prorogued or adjourned parliament.” Never had king of England been less
supported by valour, virtue, ability, or attachment in his nobles, than Charles I. On that
day; never had king of England beheld in the Commons so many countenances expressive
of haughty confidence in the justice of the cause they designed to assert, or in their
ability to assert it with success, as Charles in that numerous assemblage, which thronged
to hear the royal speech There stood Pym—by experience, learning, industry, and a
grave, yet facile eloquence, undisputed leader; Hampden, formidable by his great abilities,
more formidable by his arts of popularity; the dark St. John ; the accomplished Denzil
Holles; the able though less decided Nathaniel Fiennes; the rich-minded enthusiast, the
younger Vane. Of the Peers, were associated with them the Earls of Bedford and Essex,
the Lords Kimbolton and Say, who, in their house, took the lead, echoed and supported
by the Earls of Warwick, Holland, and Hertford, the Lords Brooke, Paget, and William
Fiemmes. The truest and ablest friends to the king, the admirable Falkland and the
romantic Digby, Hyde, Selden, Rudyard, equally distinguished by their talents and their
virtues, were also, at this time—as, for a little longer, it became such men to be—on the
side of the opposition.
If the despondency of the court was indicated in the absence of its accustomed splen-
dour at that great solemnity, and in the subdued tone of the king's speech, its weakness
also was manifest in its failing to carry the election of the person whom the king had
designed to fill the Speaker's chair. All circumstances, indeed, surprisingly concurred to
confirm the patriots in their lofty ground and determined front. Even Hampden, there-
fore, at length fitting his exterior to his views, stood forth a “root-and-branch” reformer.
Their conscious strength in parliament; the well-ascertained support of opinion without;
the maturity of their vast plans;–everything justified a mien and language which were
characterized, not by the indecorum, but by the boldness and nerve of menace and
defiance. In fact, the real power of the state had already passed into the hands of a few
bold, active, and large-thoughted men, who embodied the national demand for a secure





STRAFFORD. 15
settlement of public liberty. These swayed the house by their eloquence; governed the
empire by their committees; drew after them the house of Peers; and, finally, bowed
the sovereign at their feet. Issuing from the bar of the Lords, scarcely a member
entered the Commons’ house without a petition in strong language from his constituents
against grievances in church and state; others were brought to the door by the petitioners
in person, accompanied in several instances, by processions, on horseback and on foot,
from distant counties. The presentation of these was taken advantage of by many
members to deliver speeches of extreme violence and acrimony, against every act of the
government during the greater part of the king’s reign. The appointment of above
forty committees followed, including five called grand; i.e. committees of the whole
house, for trade, religion, Irish affairs, general grievances, and courts of justice. These,
under the mask of inquiry, assumed substantial jurisdiction over all the public institutions,
and over the rights and liberty of the subject. A day was appointed for a general fast;
on which occasion both the clergymen nominated to preach, respectively, before the
Lords and Commons, were known to be dissatisfied with the existing church govern-
ment; and each recommended in his sermon a solemn league and covenant for reforma-
tion. To swell the popular cry against grievances, orders were issued to the gaolers to
dismiss from prison the victims of the law: Prynne, Bastwick, and Burton, with Leighton
and Lilburne, their fellow-sufferers, under sentence from the courts of Star Chamber and
High Commission, were sent for “to prosecute before the house the business of petitions
presented on their behalf.” So passed the first week.
Meanwhile, the Earl of Strafford was still with the army. His friends in parliament,
startled by the temper and tendency of the debates, warned him that they had reason to
apprehend a design to procure his impeachment. He hastened up to London, ill, as
usual; but not till he had taken the precaution to furnish himself with such proofs of the
correspondence with the Scots, as might justify his anticipating that measure, by first
impeaching his enemies. -
It was the 10th of November when the earl arrived in the capital. On the 11th rose
Pym, in the midst of a fierce debate on Ireland; and, with the gesture of one who
embraces on a sudden a great resolve, demanded the attention of the house. He had a
business, he said, of that weighty importance to impart, that it might reach the ears of
none but members. Strangers were immediately excluded from the lobby, the doors
locked, and the keys of the house laid upon the table. The report, from Clarendon, of
the speech that followed, may serve, slight as it is, to convey some notion both of the
temper and ability of the speaker. “Mr. Pym,” says the noble historian, “in a long,
formed discourse, lamented the miserable state and condition of the kingdom, aggravated
all the particulars which had been done amiss in the government, as done and contrived
maliciously, and upon deliberation, to change the whole frame, and to deprive the nation
of all the liberty and property which was their birthright by the laws of the land, which
were now no more considered, but subjected to the arbitrary power of the privy counsel,
which governed the kingdom according to their will and pleasure; these calamities falling
upon us in the reign of a pious and virtuous king, who loved his people and was a great lover



16 STRAFFORD.
of justice.” And thereupon enlarging in some specious commendations of the nature
and goodness of the king, that he might wound him with less suspicion, he said, “We
must inquire from what fountain these waters of bitterness flowed; what persons they
were who had so far insinuated themselves into his royal affections as to be able to pervert
his excellent judgment, to abuse his name, and wickedly apply his authority to countenance
and support their own corrupt designs. Though he doubted there would be many found
of this class, who had contributed their chief endeavours to bring this misery upon the
nation; yet he believed there was on E more signal in that administration than the rest,
being a man of great parts and contrivance, and of great industry to bring what he
designed to pass; a man who, in the memory of many present, had sat in that house an
earnest vindicator of the laws, and a most zealous assertor and champion for the liberties
of the people: but that it was long since he turned apostate from those good affections,
and, according to the custom and nature of apostates, was become the greatest enemy to
the liberties of his country, and the greatest promoter of tyranny that any age has pro-
duced.” And then he named “ the Earl of Strafford, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and
Lord-President of the Council established in York, for the northern parts of the kingdom;
who, he said, had in both places, and in all other provinces wherein his services had been
used by the king, raised ample monuments of his tyrannical nature; and that he believed,
if they took a short survey of his actions and behaviour, they would find him the principal
author and promoter of all those counsels which had exposed the kingdom to so much
ruin : ” and so instanced some high and impious actions done by him in England and in
Ireland, some proud and over-confident expressions in discourse, and some passionate
advices he had given in the most secret counsels and debates of the affairs of state;
adding some lighter passages of his vanity and amours; that they who were not inflamed
with anger and detestation against him for the former, might have less esteem and rever-
ence for his prudence and discretion: and so concluded, “That they would well consider
how to provide a remedy proportionable to the disease, and to prevent the farther mischiefs
which they were to expect from the continuance of this great man’s power and credit with
the king, and his influence upon his counsels.” Several other speakers took up and car-
ried on the discussion; and so passionately intent on it were all sides of the house, that a
request of the Lords for a conference on Scotch affairs, by which they were unwillingly
interrupted, was put aside ; while, at the same time the Commons, by an intimation sent
to some of their friends in the Lords, desired that house not to rise : “which,” observes
Clarendon, “would otherwise have very much broken their measures. In conclusion,” he
continues, “after many hours of bitter inveighing, and ripping up the course of his life
before his coming to court, and his actions after, it was moved, according to the secret
resolution taken before, ‘ that he might be forthwith impeached of high treason.’”
Lord Falkland, though no friend to Strafford, was the only man in the house—such
was the sweep with which Pym had carried passion, conviction, and resolve along with
him—who offered to interpose, by even qualifying his assent. That excellent person
“modestly ’ desired the house to consider, that it might be more consistent with the
dignity of their proceedings to examine and digest in a committee the particulars which


.
|-
|-|-
， ， , , ， ，
|-
|-
|
.
|-
|-
|-




STRAFFORD. 17
had been brought forward, before they sent up to accuse him. “ Delay,” it was replied by
Pym, “Would ruin all their hopes. Such was the earl’s credit with the king, that if
allowed to approach his majesty, a dissolution of parliament, in order to escape its justice,
would be the certain result; whereas, if they proceeded on the instant, the Lords would have
no alternative but to commit him to immediate custody.” In allusion to some doubts
which had been thrown out, whether all the particulars alleged would, if proved, amount
to high treason, he added, that “the House of Commons were not judges, but accusers
only.” The Lords, who probably had a suspicion that these unwonted proceedings
regarded some of their own body, and are accordingly supposed to have sent their mes-
sengers, under cover of a conference, in reality to gain information, were at length relieved
from suspense by the apparition of Pym at their bar; where “in the name of the Com-
mons assembled in Parliament, and of all the Commons of England,” he accused Thomas
Earl of Strafford, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, of high treason; ” and desired their lord-
ships, in their name, that he might forthwith be committed to prison.
The scene which followed will be described in the words, nearly as they stand, of that
gossiping annalist of the day, Principal Bailie, whose curiosity and garrulousness, stimu-
lated by Presbyterian spite to the accused nobleman, have left posterity a narrative of it,
which, for graphic liveliness, no historian has equalled.—“As soon as Mr. Pym withdrew,
the Lords began to consult on that strange and unexpected motion. The word goes in
haste to the lord-lieutenant, where he was with the king. With speed he comes to the
house; he calls rudely at the door; James Maxwell, keeper of the black rod, opens. His
lordship, with a proud glooming countenance, makes towards his place at the board-head:
but at once many bid him quit the house; so he is forced, in confusion, to go to the door
till he was called. After consultation, being called in, he stands, but is commanded to
kneel, and on his knees to hear the sentence. Being on his knees, he is delivered to the
keeper of the black rod, to be prisoner till he was cleared of those crimes the House of
Commons had charged him with. He offered to speak, but was commanded to be gone
without a word. In the outer room Maxwell required him, as a prisoner, to deliver his
sword. When he had got it, he cries, with a loud voice, for his man to carry my lord-
lieutenant's sword. This done, he makes through a number of people towards his coach ;
all gazing, no man capping to him, before whom, that morning, the greatest of England
would have stood uncovered. Coming to the place where he expected his coach, it was
not there; so he behoves to return that same way, through a world of gazing people.
When at last he had found his coach, and was entering, Maxwell told him, ‘Your lordship
is my prisoner, and must go in my coach; so he behoved him to do.” From the house
of this James Maxwell, who presents no unimportant figure in the events of the period,
the earl was, after a few days, committed to the Tower; that last home, on earth, of so
many of the great and brave of England.
This terrible feat of infant Freedom shews to what strength she had already been
fostered in her cradle, the Commons' house of Parliament. To venture to will, to dare
to resolve, was all that was now needed there to give success to any project conceived in
her name. With a hurried hand, merely, can we touch even the prominent incidents
F

I8 STRAFFORD,
that now marked her growth. Persons who had been in any way concerned in monopolies,
were voted by the house to be unworthy of occupying its benches. The ship-money tax,
and the judgment in Hampden’s case, were declared subversive of property, of the laws,
of the resolutions of former parliaments, and of the Petition of Rights. A petition pre-
pared at the instance of the Scotch commissioners, signed by fifteen thousand inhabitants
of London, praying that episcopal government might be abolished, with all its depen-
dencies, roots, and branches, was received without objection. In this petition Laud was
struck at—the remaining great obstacle in the path of reform. Farther to prepare the
way for the archbishop's impeachment, the canons issued by the convocation, which sat
during and for some time after the last parliament, were condemned as contrary to the
fundamental laws of the realm, the prerogatives of the king, and the rights of the subject;
while articles were delivered, in a conference of the two houses, by the Scotch commis-
sioners, in which he was charged, with Strafford, as the prime author of all the miseries
that had befallen the two nations. Two days later, viz., 18th December, an accusation
of high treason was brought forward against “William Laud, archbishop of Canterbury,”
in the name of the Commons of England. It was adopted, after a short but strongly
vituperative debate led by Pym; for this time, however, the leader waved his peculiar
office, and Denzil Holles carried up the impeachment to the bar of the Lords. The
primate was consigned to the custody of Maxwell; and after a costly durance of tem
weeks, under the roof of that useful person, the gates of the Tower opened to him
likewise.
Retribution now reached minor delinquents. Sir George Ratcliffe, who, as the friend
and “confederate” of Strafford, had been sent for from Ireland, immediately after the
earl’s impeachment, on an accusation of treason, followed his master to the Tower.
Informations were laid against the Bishops of Ely and Bath, and against a Durham pre-
bendary, for “ idolatry and superstition;” they were obliged to give securities, the
prelates to the amount of £10,000 each, the prebendary in £4000. “Complaints,” we
are told by the historian of Puritanism, “were made against several other bishops and
clergymen, but the house had too many affairs upon their hands to attend to their prose-
cution.” Yet the records of parliament show that the clergy of inferior rank were not
so commonly overlooked, as minor delinquents among the laity certainly were ; and it is
observable that, from the opening of the session, accusations against all classes of
ecclesiastics were entertained with marked encouragement. Windebanke, the secretary.
of state, and the lord-keeper Finch, were driven to the Continent, to avoid the charges
of high treason suspended over them. Such of the other judges as had concurred with
Finch in the decision respecting ship-money, were bound in recognisances to the amount
of £10,000 each, to abide the judgment of parliament; one only, Sir Robert Berkeley,
excepted. That “learned man, and good orator and judge,” as Whitelocke styles him,
was impeached before the Lords, and by their command taken off the bench, in the open
court, by their usher Maxwell, and carried to prison : “which,” the memorialist subjoins,
“struck a great terror in the rest of his brethren then sitting in Westminster Hall, and
in all his profession.” Prynne and his fellow-martyrs, in obedience to the order of the



STRAFFORD. 19
Commons, entered London in triumph, amidst the acclamations of the citizens; their
sentences were declared illegal, and heavy damages were awarded them out of the estates
of the archbishop and the other members of the council who had sat on their trial. The
house also voted a gratuity of £300,000 to their “brethren” of Scotland. We might
wonder whither had flown the valiant and haughty spirit of the English, when we find
them thus lavishing endearments and liberality on those who, at this time, actually held,
as if by right of conquest, some of the best provinces of England; did we not know that,
independently of all party exaggeration, the vexations of the people had been such, as
made them willing to hold out the grateful hand of fellowship to any party who brought,
or professed to bring, deliverance for them from the evils of arbitrary power. As to the
parliamentary leaders, they were not to be deterred by the remonstrances of national
honour, from a vote which at once so deeply obliged their serviceable friends, and added
to the embarrassments of the sovereign.
In the midst of every other business, the great affair of Strafford’s impeachment was
zealously urged forward. For more than four months, through which the preliminary
arrangements extended, the anxious attention and boundless power of the House of
Commons were taxed, that nothing might be left undone to secure justice on the accused,
to manifest the dignity and authority of the house, and to vindicate the laws. On the
side of the defence, the way was not so clear. It has already been noticed that Strafford's
impeachment was instantly followed up by that of his friend and assistant Ratcliffe; at
the same time, all intercourse between the prisoners, and all visits to either from
members of parliament, were prohibited. The Commons were unwilling that counsel
should be allowed; this, though overruled by the Lords, in respect to points of law, was
agreed to as regarded matter of fact : intending to manage the accusation by their own
members, the Commons desired to be present at the trial as a house of parliament; the
Lords not assenting, it was agreed they should sit as a committee of the whole house.
The articles of accusation, as reported by the committee of impeachment, at their first
presentation in November, were only nine; as finally taken up to the Lords by Pym, on
the 30th of December, they had swelled to the number of twenty-eight. These charges
were of great length, and referred to the public and private incidents of fourteen years
of a life of unusual activity. The earl desired three months to prepare his answer: the
Commons opposed: the Lords directed three weeks to be allowed; at the end of which
period, February 24th, the answers to each several accusation were read to the house
in the presence of the king, and the trial was fixed for the 22nd of the following
month.
While these preparations were in progress, nothing was omitted on Charles's part which
appeared likely to soften the hostility of Strafford's enemies. He sent for the houses, and
addressed them in an exceedingly conciliatory speech. He had been long and loudly
inveighed against for suffering the impunity of Papists; he now placed at the disposal of
the Commons the life of a condemned priest, on whom they had desired justice to be done.
He consented to a bill for triennial parliaments; and intimated his willingness to wave
the claims of the crown in regard to the royal forests. A further plan to which the king




20 STRAFFORD.
yielded, was no less than to throw the great offices of state into the hands of the patriots.
The framework of a cabinet, to be constructed on this principle, was actually laid down,
and the project in part executed. But the members, disagreeing on the two great condi-
tions required by the king, viz. security to the church, and the preservation of Strafford,
the negotiation fell to the ground, leaving the whole party more incensed than ever.
Finally, Charles gave what has justly been termed a “ suicidal” consent to the examina-
tion of the members of his privy council, on oath, at the approaching trial.
Strafford’s trial was the most solemn and august judicial inquiry, in its circumstances,
as it was the most elaborate in its preparation, which England had ever witnessed. It
was for the life or death—or rather for the death only; for that was a point to be gained,
at all events—of one so great and dangerous, that three realms rose up by their represen-
tatives to be his accusers; and, as the day approached, the eyes of their millions of citizens
(of whom all, and to the remotest posterity of each, had a vital interest involved) were
turned, with earnest emotion, towards Westminster Hall; that largest abode of “the
British Nemesis” being chosen as alone not unworthy of the occasion.
At an early hour on the appointed morning the noble prisoner came from the Tower,
accompanied by the lieutenant and one hundred soldiers, armed with partizans, in six
barges, rowed by fifty pair of oars. On landing at Westminster, he was received by
double the number of the trained bands; those citizen-soldiers, whose subsequent fami-
liarity with the view of great men in adversity had now its beginning, in the instance of
one who in bearing it nobly has not been excelled. Disease and care, not age, had begun
to impress on Strafford the appearance of bodily decay; but his countenance was marked
with intellectual vigour, and bore the impress of authority. Awed, in spite of hate, by
the actual presence of the individual whose name had often stirred them with terror, the
crowd falls back; even the rudest Vail their bonnets—a token of respect which the earl
courteously acknowledges.
The entrance by which Strafford was brought into the hall was on one side, at the
lower end. He is preceded by Maxwell; advancing to whom, an officer inquires whether
the axe is to be borne before the prisoner: “The king,” replies Maxwell, “ has expressly
forbidden it !” Balfour, the lieutenant, now conducts the accused to the bar, where a
space, furnished with seats and a bench, is enclosed for him, for his gaoler, his counsel,
and secretaries. “After obeisances given,” he kneels; and, rising, looks calmly round
upon a scene of imposing grandeur.
In the centre of that proud historic chamber sit Strafford’s judges, the Lords of Eng-
land. They are covered, and all wear the habits of temporal peers; for the prelates have
been persuaded to take no part in the judgment. With them, in scarlet robes, appear
the lord-keeper and his brethren of the legal bench; and, at their head, fronting his com-
peres, sits the Earl of Arundel, for this occasion lord-high-steward of England. At the
upper end of the hall, under a canopy of state above the peers, are placed two raised seats,
designed for the king and the Prince of Wales, but unoccupied. On either other side the
canopy of state runs a small gallery, closed with trellis-work; one of these contains the
king and queen, the prince, and their attendants; the other accommodates such foreigners

STRAFFORD. 21
of distinction as have been attracted by this high solemnity. Scaffolds, rising stage above
stage, on each side the hall, are filled, respectively, by the great accusing parties; the Com-
mons of England, uncovered, on the lower benches; in those above, their assessors, the Lords
of Ireland and the Commissioners of Scotland: with whom are mingled many spectators,
mostly persons of quality. The peeresses and other ladies present occupy a gallery at the
foot of the throne. Adjoining the place assigned to the accused, a similar space encloses
the managers of the impeachment; a band of the ablest lawyers and most eloquent
statesmen of that great age of English intellect.
The lord-steward rises, and commands the trial to proceed.
The treason charged against the prisoner, it was contended by his accusers, was either
particular, consisting in individual acts of a treasonable nature; or cumulative, the aggre-
gate result of many acts tending to a treasonable design. The articles of impeachment
were distributed over his whole official life—as president of the North; in his government
of Ireland; as chief minister, since his return, of England. In proportion, however, as
it became clear that the evidence could not sustain this accumulated charge, the Com-
mons altered their accusation to “an attempt to subvert the fundamental laws of the
country, and to introduce an arbitrary and tyrannical government.” But, as no such
offence is specified in the statute, or recognized by the common law, they demanded that
he should be tried, not merely by the rules of the courts, but by certain maxims said to
be inherent in what we now call the constitution.
To Pym, chiefly—if not to him alone—belonged the credit of that philosophic tact,
or that vindictive boldness, by which it was resolved to carry out the substantial allega-
tion, beyond the reach of law, into the awful, but dangerous and indefinite, regions of
Eternal Right. Into that abyss—whither an arbitrary power in a state may, at any time,
on the falsest pretences, thrust to their destruction the doomed victims of its will—Strafford,
remembering he stood before the legal tribunal of his peers, deemed it needless to look:
with the question as one of law, it was not hard for such a mind to deal.
For fifteen days, he, with manifest success, directed his defence to this point. Though
suffering grievously from disease, and surrounded with embarrassing difficulties, some,
and the worst of them, thrown in his way by his accusers, once only in all that time did
he permit himself to be led by his natural heat of temper to make a recriminatory obser-
vation. He asserted, indeed, on all occasions, his right; when that was allowed, modestly
thanked his judges; complained not when it was refused; and, in reference to an angry
and insulting remark by one of the managers, on his insisting upon a point of order,
which he regarded as of vital importance to his defence, merely observed, that he thought
he had as good a right to defend his life, as any person had to endeavour to take it
away. His eloquence, acknowledged by his accusers to have been “full of weight and
reason,” was regulated by manly temper combined with the finest flow of diction
and the most finished grace of delivery; while his countenance, exhibiting a severe
loftiness—natural to the man with conscious intellectual power, shaded by suffering
and a just sensibility to his condition—harmonized well both with his past greatness
G.



22 STRAFFORD,
and his present misfortunes. The effect is described as strikingly favourable. The
clergy, the courtiers, above all, the ladies, in that illustrious auditory, are loud in
admiration. The general sentiment penetrates to the judicial benches; and the Com-
mons perceive, with undissembled vexation, that the peers are recovering the courage
to be just. Wehement cries of “Withdraw withdraw ſ” resounding from their galleries,
startle the court. The members retire within their own walls, and there, amid tumul-
tuous confusion, debate the question, “What is next to be done?”

23
-

CHAPTER III.
STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL.
THE genius of Pym had long since anticipated the reply. Should so pernicious a foe to
liberty be allowed to escape for want of a specific statute, or known law, capable of reaching
his great crimes? It was not to be thought of To the remedy for their difficulties he
had pointed, when he argued for the existence of a treason against the principle of justice,
as well as treason in violation of the law; for a treason against the people, no less than
against the sovereign. The remedy was a bill of attainder—the ready instrument of
tyranny, and tacitly acknowledged such by these statesmen themselves, when they
inserted in it the much-lauded proviso (what action may not win praise from partisans ?)
that this attainder should not be acted upon by the judges as a precedent in determining
the crime of treason. To give the necessary support to his plan, Pym, resorting once
more to the solemnity of closed doors, announced a discovery involving important sup-
plemental evidence of Strafford’s guilt. It consisted in a minute of the privy council on
Scotch affairs, in May, purporting to contain words spoken by Strafford to the king,
advising his majesty to employ the army of Ireland to reduce England. These minutes
had formerly been found by the younger Vane, in his father's library. The bill—it was
already prepared—was produced, and instantly read. The trial now proceeded upon the
additional evidence; to which Strafford having replied, was called upon to make his final
answer to the facts.
The earl began by alluding to the advantages possessed by his accusers, and—in gentle
terms—to the violence with which those advantages had been pressed, to bear down a
man standing alone against the whole authority and power of the House of Commons;
his health impaired, his memory weakened, the order of his thoughts discomposed. In
a tone of cheerful and generous confidence, he threw himself upon the justice of his
judges; giving God thanks that they were the peers of England, and celebrating the
wisdom of those times “which had so ordained.” -
“My lords,” he said, “I have learned that in this case which I did not know before,
that there are treasons of two kinds—statute treasons, and treasons constructive and
arbitrary. First, then, I shall, as I hope, clear myself of statute, and then shall come to
constructive, treason.”
Having, at great length, and with surprising acuteness and force, replied severally to
the articles which charged him with treason against the statute, he proceeded:
“My lords, I have all along watched to see if I could find that poisoned arrow that
should envenom all the rest,--that deadly cup of wine, that should intoxicate a few
alleged inconveniences and misdemeanours, to run them up to high treason. That those


94. STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL.
should be treason together that are not treason in any one part, and where one thing
will not do it of itself, yet woven with others it shall do it.—I conceive, my lords, under
favour, that neither statute law nor common law hath declared this. It is hard I should
here be questioned for my life and honour upon a law that is not extant, that cannot
be showed. My lords, where has this fire been lying all this while, so many hundred
years together, that no Smoke should appear till it burst out now, to consume me and
my children? That a punishment should precede promulgation of a law; that I should
be punished by a law subsequent to the fact, is extreme hard | What man can be safe,
if this be admitted It is hard in another respect, that there should be no token set
by which we should know this offence, no admonition given by which we should avoid
it. Where is the mark, where is the token upon this crime, to discover it to be high
treason 2 My lords, be pleased to have that regard to the peerage of England, as never
to expose yourselves to such moot points, such constructive interpretations of law; if
there must be a trial of wits, let the subject be of something else than the lives and
honours of peers. It will be wisdom in your lordships, for yourselves, your posterity,
and for the whole kingdom, to cast into the fire those bloody and mysterious volumes
of constructive and arbitrary treason, as the Christians in the primitive time did their
books of curious arts, and betake yourselves to the plain letter of the statute, that tells
you what is and what is not treason; and not to be ambitious to be more learned in
those killing arts than our forefathers It is now full two hundred and forty years since
any man was touched for this alleged crime, to this height, before myself. Let us not
awaken these sleeping lions to our destructions, by raking up a few dusty records that
have lain by the wall so many ages, forgotten or neglected. May it please you, my
lords, not to add this to my other misfortunes, that a precedent should be derived from
me, so disadvantageous as this will be to the whole kingdom. Do not through me,
wound the interest of the commonwealth: and howsoever those gentlemen say they
speak for the commonwealth, yet, in this particular, I indeed speak for it, and show the
inconveniences and mischiefs that will fall upon it: for, as it is expressed in the statute
of Henry the Fourth, “no man will know what to do or say for fear of such penalties.”
Do not, my lords, put such great difficulties upon ministers of state, that men of Wisdom,
of honour, and of fortune, may not with cheerfulness and safety be employed for the
public: if you weigh and measure them by grains and scruples, the public affairs of the
kingdom will lie waste; no man will meddle with them who hath anything to lose.
“My lords, I have troubled you longer than I should have done, were it not for the
interest of those dear pledges a saint in heaven hath left me.”—DAt this word, we are
told, he stopped awhile, letting fall some tears to her memory: then he went on.]
“What I forfeit for myself is nothing; but that my indiscretion should extend to my
posterity, wounds me to the very soul. You will pardon my infirmity,+something I
would have added, but am not able; therefore let it pass. And now, my lords, for myself
I have been, by the blessing of Almighty God, taught that ‘the afflictions of this present
life are not to be compared with the eternal weight of glory which shall be revealed here-
after.” And so, my lords, even so, with all tranquillity of mind, I submit myself freely

STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL. 25
to your judgment; and whether (he concluded, looking upward,) that judgment be of life
or death, TE DEUM LAUDAMUs: IN TE, Dom(INE, CONFIDO !”
The effect of this noble and touching address upon the audience in general, may be
understood from the following testimony, subjoined to the report of it, for which we are
indebted to Whitelocke, the chairman of the committee of impeachment. “Certainly,”
writes that honest adversary of Strafford, “never any man acted such a part, on such a
theatre, with more wisdom, constancy, and eloquence, with greater reason, judgment, and
temper, and with a better grace in all his words and gestures, than this great and excel-
lent person did; and he moved the hearts of all his auditors (some few excepted) to
remorse and pity.” Pym had prepared a reply,–in force of reasoning and condenced
power of language, worthy of a juster cause; in sanguinary violence, far exceeding every-
thing hitherto drawn forth by this memorable trial. Among many sterling passages, it
contains a description of law, equalled only by the famous one in Hooker. “The
law,” says the Commons’ orator, “is that which puts a difference betwixt good and evil,
betwixt just and unjust. If you take away the law, all things will fall into a confusion;
every man will become a law to himself, which, in the depraved conditions of human
nature, must needs produce many enormities. Lust will become a law, and envy will
become a law, covetousness and ambition will become laws; and what dictates, what
decisions such laws will produce, may easily be discerned in the late government of Ire-
land.” These sentences were repeatedly quoted, or referred to, in the able proclamations
and manifestoes, from the pen of Clarendon, put forth by the king at a subsequent period;
when the same men who had once started so honourably, were recklessly hurrying for-
ward over the prostrate ruins of the constitution. From statements so just and philo-
sophic, Pym could pass, however, to the following tone of truculent aggravation: “The
forfeitures inflicted for treason, by our law, are of life, honour, and estate, even all that
can be forfeited; and this prisoner having committed so many treasons, although he
should pay all these forfeitures, will be still a debtor to the commonwealth. Nothing can
be more equal, than that he should perish by the justice of that law which he would have
subverted. Neither will this be a new way of blood. There are marks enough to trace
this law to the very original of this kingdom ; and if it hath not been put in execution,
as he allegeth, these two hundred and forty years, it was not for want of law, but that all
that time hath not bred a man bold enough to commit such crimes as these ! ”
At this point an incident occurred that shook the orator’s firmness. During the deli-
very of this speech, the earl had frequently regarded his accuser with an earnest look.
At length, just as the above words were uttered, their eyes met. What sudden feelings
smote through the “firm nerves * of the pursuer, as he caught the steady gaze of his
great quarry, once his admired associate, can only be conjectured. He loses, however,
his self-possession,-falters, stops; with trembling hands he seeks, among his papers,
somewhat towards the next paragraph of premeditated invective. “They could not help
him,” writes an eye-witness; and, amidst the evident impatience of the hall, he huddles
up the unheeded conclusion.
The law which exacted Strafford’s blood was not yet in the statute-book. Persuasion
H

26 STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL.
had not reached the Lords. Now, therefore, the whole strength of the party was to be
applied to force on the bill of attainder. Selden, the most learned and venerable of the
advocates of freedom—Holborne, the least corruptible of the judges, argued against that
sanguinary enactment—Digby, as long as he believed there was evidence against the earl
of high treason, one of his severest accusers, became now his advocate; and protested
vehemently against the shedding of his blood. But opposition served only to wet the
eagerness of pursuit. The language of St. John was the raving of a fury. Strafford
asked to be heard against the bill: he was denied. On the 21st of April it was read a
third time in the Commons; and the same afternoon Pym hurried up with it to the
Peers, with a special demand for expedition
Actuated more by motives of conscience and kingly honour than by personal attach-
ment, Charles resolved, at all hazards, to save his unfortunate minister. He assured
Strafford by letter, that, “ upon the word of a king, he should not suffer, in life, honour,
or fortune;” and what he said, he fully designed. But the king was in the power of the
Commons. By his connivance, large offers were made to Balfour, the lieutenant of the
Tower, to suffer the escape of his prisoner: the stern Scotchman remained true to the
cause espoused by his nation, and revealed everything. The troops were discontented
at the preference given to the Scotch, in the article of pay; the king was privy to an
intrigue, founded on this circumstance, the object of which was to overawe the parlia-
ment by bringing the army into the neighbourhood of the metropolis: it was instantly
betrayed to the popular leaders. Baffled in every more decided attempt to save his
minister, Charles, in the extremity of his distress, took what proved to be a fatal step.
He went down to parliament and addressed the houses, acknowledging that Strafford had
been guilty of misdemeanors, and promising never again to employ him in his affairs; but
added, that having been present and heard the whole of the evidence at the trial, he in
his conscience acquitted him of high treason, and could not give his assent to the bill of
attainder.
A more unfortunate course could not have been pursued. The Commons exclaimed
loudly against this declaration, as an attempt upon their privileges. The next day being
Sunday, the party—to use an expression of Queen Elizabeth’s—“tuned the pulpits” of
the Presbyterians to the cry of “Justice on the great delinquent ;” and on the Monday,
armed multitudes, set on by the same instigation, placarded the names of fifty-nine
members of the House of Commons who had voted with Lord Digby against the bill,
and occupied the passages to the House of Lords; insulting the peers on account of
their delay, with shouts of “Justice and execution I Justice and execution l’ and openly,
before the windows of Whitehall, demanding the blood of Strafford. By these means
the judges were intimidated to deliver an opinion, that on certain of the charges the earl
was guilty in law; and it is said that some of the bishops (the absence of Laud had been
Wisely provided for l) to whom the king appealed in his despair, advised him to yield, by
means of a quibbling argument, grounded on the distinction between what he owed to
his conscience as a man, and what as a sovereign. Pym seized the moment to announce
the discovery of the “army plot,”—the doors, as usual, when a great blow was to be





STRAFFORD’s FAREw ELL. 27
struck, being previously closed. Terrible things were added, of corresponding dangers
from abroad. All day the house continued in debate, which at night issued in the famous
“Protestation,” imitated from the “ Solemn League and Covenant” of Scotland. Follow-
ing up the prodigious impulse given by these, and other methods of excitement, the
Commons then bring in a bill for securing the perpetuity of the parliament. It passes
the Lords. Three days later, in a thin house, and by a small majority, the bill of
attainder likewise passes. Together they are presented to the king, with pressing
entreaties to his majesty to preserve the peace of the kingdom by an immediate assent.
With a magnanimity worthy his character, Strafford himself implores his afflicted master
to withdraw his pledge, and, by assenting to the bill, seal a “blessed agreement” between
himself and his subjects. “Sir” he writes, “my consent shall more acquit you herein to
God, than all the World can do besides: to a willing man there is no injury done.”
In agony the king passed the interval which he had required to consider his final
answer to the solicitations of the two houses; and at the close of it subscribed, with
tears, a commission to the Earl of Arundel, and two other lords, to give the required
assent, scarcely noticing in his distress that other no less fatal enactment. The next
day, when Secretary Carlton announced the terrible decision, and explained its motives
to the earl, a moment's flush of that attachment to life, common alike to all, which
religious trust, generous greatness of soul, or even the resolves of a strong intellect, can
crush, but not extinguish, came over him. Some surprise appeared in his countenance;
he inquired if it was so indeed; rose up from his chair; and, with uplifted hands,
exclaimed, in the words of the Psalmist, “Put not your trust in princes, nor in the sons
of men l’”
Laud, the associate of his greatness, and the companion of his fall, had some time
previously become the earl’s neighbour in the Tower. The steps by which he was
transferred thither may be here briefly traced.
It is probable, that, at the time of the primate's impeachment, no intention existed
to take away his life: it was thought sufficient to keep him from mischief, and let him
find, it might be, a grave in prison. Before passing into the custody of Maxwell, he had
permission to go over to Lambeth, and select some papers and books for his defence. He
remained there till night, and attended prayers, for the last time, in his own chapel.
When the hour arrived for his departure, he found hundreds of his poor neighbours
waiting to receive his benediction, and praying for his safe return. Such particulars are
worthy to be related, in the story of a man whom even they who admit his virtues
scarcely believe to have been capable of inspiring attachment.
Towards the latter end of February, the archbishop was ordered to attend the House
of Lords, and hear the articles of impeachment read. Pym appeared at the bar in support
of the accusation; but his speech on this occasion did not display those marks of a
powerful intellect, engaged in its chosen vocation, which shone so brilliantly through
his arguments against Strafford. Laud having now permission to speak, enlarged at
some length upon the charge; which, he said, was great and heavy, and such, indeed,
that he should regard himself as unworthy to live, if it could be made good. On the

28 STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL.
first of March he was committed to the Tower ; in his passage through the City,
“baited” by the rabble with a degree of brutality which deeply shocked even his gaoler,
Maxwell. No intercourse between the great and unfortunate friends was allowed; but
Laud derived some consolation from the reports made to him by Balfour, of many
expressions of reverence and affection towards himself which the earl had been heard
to utter.
Strafford’s days were now literally numbered. The royal assent to the bill of attainder
was given on Monday; Wednesday was fixed for his execution; nor could the utmost
endeavours of the afflicted king—negociation, entreaty, supplication,--to all of them he
resorted,—procure so much as a short respite. The earl employed the interval in calmly
settling his affairs. He wrote a petition to the House of Lords, entreating them, in
terms perhaps too humble, to have compassion on his innocent children; addressed
a letter to his wife, bidding her affectionately to support her courage, and accompanied it
with an address of final advice and instruction to his eldest son, exquisite for its pathos,
its wisdom, and deep religious tone. He had tender and tearful farewells for other friends
beside; but the most solemn he reserved for Laud.
The day previous to his execution, Strafford sent for the lieutenant of the Tower, and
requested to know if he might speak with the archbishop. Balfour replied, that such an
indulgence was contrary to his peremptory orders. “Master lieutenant,” said he, with
melancholy playfulness, “you shall hear what passes between us. It is not a time either
for him to plot heresy or me to plot treason.” The lieutenant suggested that he should
petition the parliament. “No,” rejoined the earl; “I have gotten my despatch from
them, and will trouble them no more. I am now petitioning a higher court, where
neither partiality can be expected, nor error feared.” He then turned to the primate of
Ireland (Usher,) who had been permitted to attend him, and said, “My lord, I will tell
you what I should have spoken to my lord’s grace of Canterbury. You shall desire the
archbishop to lend me his prayers to-night, and to give me his blessing when I go abroad
to-morrow ; and that he will be in his window, that by my last farewell I may give him
thanks for this and all his former favours.” Laud, on receiving this message, replied that
he was bound, by every obligation of duty and affection, to comply with the request; but
feared that his weakness and passion would not lend him eyes to behold the departure of
his friend. The next morning, when Strafford was on his way to the scaffold, as he
approached the apartment of the archbishop, he remarked to the lieutenant that he did
not see him : “nevertheless,” continued he, “give me leave I pray you, to do my last
observance towards his chamber.” An attendant, in the mean time, having apprised the
archbishop of his approach, he staggered to the window. The earl perceiving him,
exclaimed, bowing himself to the ground, “My lord, your prayers and your blessing !”
The aged primate lifted up his hand, pronounced his benediction, and, overcome with
anguish, fell fainting to the earth. Strafford added these parting words—“Farewell, my
lord; God protect your innocency!” and passed calmly onwards. At the gate of the
Tower, the lieutenant wished him to enter a coach, lest the enraged populace should rush
upon him to tear him in pieces. “No,” said he, “Mr. Lieutenant; I dare look death

- |-|×
|- sraevaeſſae， ſooſ Noſſae， Nosaes，
ſa IOTTI.Iºne®©
Iſma's





STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL. - 29
in the face, and, I hope, the people too. Have you a care that I do not escape. 'Tis all
one how I die; whether by the stroke of the executioner, or the madness and fury of
the people, if that may content them.” And, being freer than usual from bodily infir-
mities, he walked onward, going before the guards, with a serene yet somewhat elated
countenance, like a general (as was observed) at the head of his troops. He was habited
in black, with white gloves on his hands. A numerous crowd, consisting of not less than
one hundred thousand persons, stretched in long perspective across Tower Hill; to whom
he frequently took off his hat, and saluted them as he passed.
Having ascended the scaffold, followed by Sir George Wentworth, the primate Usher,
and others of his friends, he knelt down, and, rising, examined the block. He then
intimated his desire to speak to the people. “I am here,” he said, “to pay my last debt
to sin, which is death; and I solemnly declare, in the presence of Almighty God, in
whose mercies I trust, that in all my service to his majesty, however it be my ill fortune
to have my acts misconstrued, I had never any intention but to promote the joint pros-
perity of the king and his people. I wish this kingdom all prosperity and happiness;
I wished it living, I wish it dying. But let every one consider seriously, whether the
beginning of the people's happiness should be written in letters of blood.” After making
protestation of his faith and devotion to the Church of England, and his cheerful forgive-
mess of his enemies, “One thing,” he continued, “I desire to be heard in, and do hope
that for Christian charity’s sake I shall be believed. I was so far from being against
parliaments, that I have always thought parliaments in England to be the happy consti-
tution of the kingdom and the best means under God to make the king and his
people happy.” -
He then turned to take leave of his friends. To each he affectionately gave his hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I would say my prayers; and I entreat you all to pray with me,
and for me.” Again standing up, he perceived his brother, Sir George Wentworth,
weeping excessively. “Brother,” said he to him, “what do you see in me to cause these
tears? Does any indecent fear betray in me guilt, or my innocent boldness want of
religion? Think that you are now accompanying me once more to my marriage-bed.
That block must be my pillow, and here I must rest from all my labours. No thoughts
of envy, no dreams of treason, no jealousies or cares for the king, the state, or myself,
shall interrupt this easy sleep. Therefore, rather pity with me those who, without
intending it, have made me happy. Brother, we must part. Remember me to my
sister and to my wife; and carry my blessing to my eldest son, and charge him from me
to fear God, to continue an obedient son of the Church of England, and a faithful subject
to the king, and that he bear no grudge or revenge towards any concerning me. Carry
my blessing to Ann and Arabella (his daughters), not forgetting my little infant, that
knows neither good nor evil, and cannot speak for itself, God speak for it, and bless it !
I have now well-nigh done: one stroke will make my wife husbandless, my dear children
fatherless, and my poor servants masterless, and separate me from my dear brother, and
all my friends; but may God be to you and them all in all!”
He proceeded to undress himself, winding up his hair beneath a cap with his hands;
I
f

30 STRAFFORD’s FAREWELL.
and while thus employed, he said, “Never did I take off my clothes with greater cheer-
fulness and content, when I went to bed, than in this preparation for my grave.” He
inquired for the executioner. “Where,” he said, “is the man that should do me this
office? call him to me.” The headsman approached, and asked his forgiveness. Strafford
replied, that he forgave him and all the world.
The affecting narrative of this great man’s departure from life thus closes. “ Kneel-
ing down by the block, he went to prayer again by himself, the primate of Ireland kneel-
ing on the one side, and the minister on the other ; to the which minister after prayer he
turned himself, and spoke some few words softly; having his hands lifted up, the minister
closed his hands with his. Then bowing himself to the earth to lay down his head on
the block, he told the executioner that he would first lay down his head to try the fitness
of the block, and take it up again, before he laid it down for good and all; and so he
did : and before he laid it down again, he told the executioner that he would give him
warning when to strike, by stretching forth both his hands; and then, having laid down
his neck on the block, stretching out his hands, the executioner struck off his head at
one blow, then took up the head in his hand, and showed it to all the people, and said,
* God save the king !'”
“Thus”—wrote Laud, on recovering his usual serenity, after that overwhelming fare-
well, sufficiently to proceed with the task which solaced his imprisonment until his own
turn came, “ended the wisest, the stoutest, and every way the ablest subject that
this nation had bred these many years.” The excellent Evelyn also says, under date of
that sanguinary 12th of May, 1641, “I beheld on Tower Hill the fatal stroke which
severed the wisest head in England from the shoulders of the Earl of Strafford; whose
crime, coming under the cognizance of no human law, a new one was made, not to be a
precedent, but his destruction: to such exorbitancy were things arrived.” These were the
sentiments of persons of humanity and reflection. But the populace, though awed into
decency at the scaffold, celebrated their triumph—for such they were taught to esteem
it—with shouts of exultation as they returned through the City.



CHAPTER IV.
THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS.
THE rapidity with which the great movement advanced, after Strafford’s fall, was in pro-
portion to the magnitude of the impediment removed. It was now easy for the triumphant
party to sweep away all real abuses. As long as their measures spared the episcopal
order, they were submissively adopted by the Lords, and assented to by the king without
much hesitation. This, however, was the very point toward which the main force of the
onset was directed.
Of the leaders, indeed, in both houses, several, who adopted the language of religion
from policy, or the fashion of the time, would have been content to press no farther upon
the power of the hierarchy, than they might have done with the concurrence of some
among the bench of bishops themselves. Williams had consented to preside in the com-
mittee of religion; a scheme of “moderate episcopacy,” designed to assimulate the
episcopalian and presbyterian systems on a footing of mutual compromise, was sanctioned
by Usher. º
But moderation was no longer in their choice. The Church's overthrow was the con-
dition of that support, in which lay their chief strength : the patriots, therefore, dared
neglect no step tending to this object. “Delinquent” clergymen were daily deprived.
A vote passed the Commons, that bishops should no longer sit in parliament: it was
presently followed by a bill to deprive the whole body of the clergy of all temporal func-
tions; and this again, by the well-known presentation of a bill for abolition of episcopacy,
root and branch, brought in by the unhappy Sir Edward Dering. And though the peers
withheld their concurrence, and had the courage to defend the ecclesiastical constitution
a few months longer, yet it was evident they were gradually yielding to the pressure. On
minor points they at once gave way; and already the personal treatment of the lords
spiritual, in their own house of parliament, was disrespectful, if not contemptuous.
The king had engaged to be present in Scotland at the approaching session of the par-
liament of that kingdom. The fulfilment of this pledge was looked forward to by the
patriots with alarm. Pleading the unsettled state of the public affairs, they requested a
regent to be named during his majesty’s absence: he consented only to appoint, for that
period, the Earl of Essex to be commander-in-chief south of the Trent. On various
pretexts, alleged by the houses, he from time to time delayed his journey; but at length
set out from London, in the beginning of August. The parliament, not unreasonably
suspicious of his purposes, despatched after him a committee, with Hampden at their head,
to watch his steps and thwart his negotiations. A fortnight later the two houses, having

32 THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS.
each appointed a committee, empowered for all exigencies during the recess, voted an
adjournment from September 9th to October 20th. Pym, whose influence and popularity
were at this time unbounded, was named chairman of the Commons’ committee; and
had, in fact, management of both.
The king's determination to conciliate Scotland at all hazards, was early displayed.
In passing through the head-quarters of the armies, at that time in the act of disbanding,
he made no stay at York, but accepted an entertainment at Newcastle from Lesley, whom he
created Earl of Leven. To the Covenanters he made ruinous concessions, humouring them
at the same time in matters the least palatable to his tastes: he stripped the crown of
its most valuable prerogatives; gave up episcopacy to destruction; nominated the lead-
ing ministers of the Kirk to be his chaplains, and regularly attended the presbyterian
service. But all his concessions were now regarded by that rapacious race as the plunder
of the vanquished; while in England both his attempts to win the Scots, and his efforts
to search out the treasonable intrigues of the preceding year (which was quickly dis-
covered to be a second, but scarcely less anxious object), served alike to exasperate the
existing jealousy.
Before Charles's return, intelligence came from Ireland of the fightful rebellion in
that country. Transferred from the able government of Strafford to feebler hands but
harsher treatment; encouraged by the successful issue of the Scotch insurrection, and
still more by those domestic feuds which occupied their masters; the native Irish con-
spired to throw off the yoke, and to massacre all the English and Protestants in the island.
Unfortunately facilities were afforded for the execution of this dreadful project by the par-
liament’s refusal, contrary to the king's desire, to allow the disbanded Irish soldiers to
enter into foreign service. The plan of the insurrection had been in agitation as early as
the month of March, and, by degrees, the whole Roman Catholic population were drawn
into it; but so well had the terrible secret been kept, that it was not till the night pre-
vious to the day fixed for its execution that the government received the least intimation
of the impending blow. Intelligence of it reached the lords-justices, Borlase and Par-
sons, scarcely in time to secure the Castle of Dublin; in most other places the design
was carried into effect, amid scenes of cruelty and bloodshed almost too horrible for belief.
The rebels had the audacity to assert that they had risen in defence of the royal cause:
they even exhibitied a forged commission from the king. That Charles connived at, if he
did not instigate, this work of blood, though now—not, indeed, without manifest reluc-
tance—given up, even by those who are most hostile to his fame, was too convenient, and,
at the time, too plausible a falsehood, not to meet with countenance from the parliament.
A common danger should have reconciled the contending parties. But to the patriots
all dangers appeared trivial, in comparison with the returning tide of the nation's loyalty,
with which they were now seriously threatened. Fresh appeals were, therefore, to be
made to the fears and credulity of the populace. Hence plots thickened, of which some
were brought to light; others, more numerous and terrible, were suspended in darkness.
Mysterious hints of the dangerous tendency of the court intrigues in Scotland were sent
up by the vigilant northern committee : the swords of disbanded officers, who lurked in



THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS. 33
the purlieus of Covent Garden and Whitehall, were said to be thirsting for the blood of
their brethren at Westminster: Pym's life had actually been attempted, by means
of a plague-paster, conveyed to him, at the House of Commons, in a letter :—for all
these reasons, the members of parliament, on re-assembling at the appointed day, found
the trained bands under arms in the Palace Yard, watching night and day for the safety
of that indefatigable band of patriots.
The time had now arrived for the adoption of an expedient, of which some rumours
had already been heard: this was the famous Remonstrance. According to its original
plan, the Remonstrance was designed to display the actual evils under which the country
laboured: one by one, however, those evils had vanished—it was for this very reason
that the Remonstrance was now revived, though in a different shape. It contained, in
strong but popular language, a sombre view of the king's reign, from his accession to the
hour of its presentation; representing the miserable writhings of the people under the rod
of despotism, set off by a highly coloured picture of the parliament’s labours for their
relief, through difficulties seemingly insurmountable, followed by alarming announce-
ments of worse calamities to be dreaded from the machinations of some unnamed but
terrible “malignant parties.” To this statement, the form of a petition was not given ;
but it was accompanied by a request, that the bishops might be deprived of their votes
in parliament; that his majesty would be pleased to remove all objectionable persons
from his counsels; and that in future he would employ such individuals only, in public
affairs and places of trust, “as,” in the words of the Remonstrance, introducing a phrase
frequently employed from that time by its authors, “as the parliament may have cause
to confide in.”
The production of this paper in the House of Commons was the critical and decisive
point in the history of the Long Parliament. Its contrivers intended by it to ascertain,
and fix, their strength. It was, and was designed to be, a severe touchstone of each
man’s actual principles and views; and, at the same time, a barrier against their future
abandonment. Doubt and suspicion immediately pervaded the minds of the moderate
and undecided. Why recall the bitterness of grievances that had ceased to exist? Why
this studied harshness of speech? What was the destination of this fierce manifesto P
Silence and mystery were, for a time, the only answers.
It was the 21st of November. The house had been occupied with other subjects of
discussion till the hour of twelve—a late hour of the day, in those times, to bring on new
and important matter. Would there be a debate 2–" A trifling one,” replied the
ambiguous member for Cambridge, Cromwell, to whom the question was addressed.
Those who were best acquainted with the relative state of parties in the house foresaw at
least a part of the result: the debate was deferred to the following morning.
At nine o’clock on the 22nd it was opened, and continued through the day with
unwonted violence. Many members—those especially whose indisposition, from age or
infirmity, to sit out so protracted a discussion, was not overcome by the interested zeal
of party—dropped out one by one. “This,” cried Rudyard, observing Secretary Nicholas
take his departure, “will be the verdict of a starved jury.” Midnight came —the
K
34 THE PARI/IAMENTARY CRISIS.
Remonstrance was put to the vote, and carried by a majority of nine. And now
appeared the real object of the Remonstrants; for thereupon rose Hampden, and moved
that it should be printed. A debate, fiercer than the last, ensued. It appearing that
no intention existed to bring the question before the Peers for their concurrence, Hyde
warmly asserted that the house was incompetent to proceed alone in such a measure.
“Should, however,” he said, “this dangerous proposal be adopted, I for one must be
allowed to protest against it.” On this, Palmer, one of the moderate men, stood up,
crying out, “I, too, protest l” Other members did the same. Pym now reminded the
house that the privilege, allowed to a minority, of protesting, was unknown to the Com-
mons, and directed the displeasure of the house against the attempted, innovation.
Instantly the whole assembly rose in a tumult. The scene which ensued is set before
us by the lively pen of a member present. “At three o’clock in the morning,” writes
| Sir Philip Warwick, “when they voted it [the resolution to print], I thought we all,
like Joab’s and Abner's young men, had catched at each other's locks, and sheathed our
swords in each other's bowels, had not the sagacity and great calmness of Mr. Hampden,
by a short speech prevented it, and led us to defer our angry debate.” An effectual
separation was now made between the moderate and the “root-and-branch” men; but
only to prove the comparative weakness of the former. From this period, the Parliament
constituted the Government; the Commons, the Parliament; the Country, or patriotic
party, the Commons—the last being themselves but the agents of the Presbyterian and
Puritan sections of the people.
The king's return took place two days afterwards, amidst a burst of returning loyalty,
bright, brief, and delusive. On the way, he was received—at York, in particular—with
the warmest testimonies of dutiful affection. The loyalists had succeeded in placing in
the civic chair of London Sir Richard Gurney, a man of character and courage. Under
his auspices, the king and queen, with the whole court, were magnificently feasted in
Guildhall; and, while the conduits in Cheapside and Cornhill ran with wine, the whole
city accompanied the royal party back to Whitehall, surrounded with the blaze of
innumerable torches, and attended by the prayers and acclamations of the fickle mul-
titude.
The next day Charles received back Essex’s commission; dismissed the guard from
about the parliament houses; published a proclamation commanding obedience to the
laws for the defence of religion; and proceeded to attach to his person the more distin-
guished of the seceders, by creating Falkland secretary of state, and Colepepper chancellor
of the exchequer; while in Hyde, afterwards Earl of Clarendon, though that statesman
declined a specific office, he secured a firm friend and an invaluable servant.
On the first of December a committee attended the king at Hampton Court, to
present the Remonstrance. Charles received them graciously. “Does the house pur-
pose to publish this declaration?” he inquired. “We are not authorised to answer your
majesty’s questions,” was the reply. “Well,” rejoined the king, “I suppose you do not
expect an instant answer to so long a document? You shall have one with as much
speed as the weightiness of the business will permit.” He made it his request to the


-
º

THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS. 35
house, that the Remonstrance might not be allowed to appear till his answer was ready :
—it was forthwith printed, without any notice in the house of this request.
This paper was an appeal, not to the king, but to the people; and it did its expected
work. Innumerable pamphlets, in the same strain, “pursued the triumph.” Tumultuous
demonstrations of popular strength, on pretence of meeting to petition, daily followed.
Then came the outrages at Westminster. The City of London was at that time the
residence of the greater part of the nobility and foreign ambassadors; and, besides the
retainers of the great, swarmed with a bold, reckless, and dissatisfied population. Every
man had arms, and had learned to use them. Crowds of these citizens, under the
general name of “apprentices,” mixed with the yet meaner rabble of the suburbs, flocked
to Westminster, shouting “No bishops' no bishops l’” The Commons (for the Lords
refused to join with them) petitioned the king, at this moment, “in regard of the fears
they had of some design from the papists, that they might continue such a guard about ---
them as they thought fit.” He ordered the trained bands of Westminster and Middlesex
on this duty. So little satisfaction, however, did the order give, that when the Earl of
Dorset, lord-lieutenant of Middlesex, directed them to remove the rioters from about the
doors of the house of Peers, against whom their violence was chiefly directed, “the
’ says Clarendon, “inveighed against the earl, and talked of accusing him
Commons,’
of high treason.” The tumults hourly increasing, and many members of the Lords
complaining, in their places, of the insults they met with, that house sought a conference
with the other to consider the proper remedy. The request was evaded:—they must not
discourage their friends; and Pym exclaimed, in the presence of both houses, “God
forbid, the House of Commons should proceed in any way to dishearten the people to
obtain their just desires 1’’ -
With how much promptitude and decision any indiscreet step which the parties
assailed might, in this miserable state of things, be induced to take, was turned to
account by the watchful energy of the House of Commons, is seen in the memorable
incident of the bishops’ petition. Those reverend persons having been several days
forcibly excluded from the House of Peers by the mob, Williams, archbishop of York,
an able man, but whose restless temper did little service to the church, prevailed with
eleven of his brethren to join him in subscribing a protest against the validity of every
act of the house during their absence. It was addressed to the king, and by him for-
warded to the Lords, who heard it with surprise and resentment, and immediately
communicated it to the other house. No occurrence could have fallen out more favour-
ably for the enemies of the church, than this weak attempt. It was instantly debated in
the Commons, with the usual signs of secrecy and importance; and a resolution passed
to impeach the twelve prelates of high treason. The result was, that they appeared, on
their knees, as culprits at the bar of the House of Lords; and that ten of these vener-
able and learned fathers were instantly despatched by water to the Tower, through
the inclement air of a winter’s evening; the remaining two, in tenderness to their
great age and infirmities, being committed to the care of Maxwell. Nor were some of
those schemes by which the king himself attempted to counterwork the assaults now
36 THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS.
openly made on his authority, either more prudently contrived, or happier in their
consequences. -
On the breaking out of the Irish rebellion, his majesty, as the likeliest means of
silencing the calumny, that he had himself given countenance to that atrocious plot,
remitted to the parliament the measures for its suppression. The power thus rashly
conceded was eagerly grasped; but the purposes of its transfer were but tardily and
sparingly fulfilled. Repeatedly urged by the king to provide money and troops for
suppressing the rebellion, and for the defence of his loyal subjects, they answered
by passing a resolution never to consent to the toleration of popery in Ireland, or any
other part of the king's dominions. A bill, however, was introduced, for the impressment
of soldiers. In the preamble it was declared that the king had no right, in any case,
except a foreign invasion, to order an impressment of his subjects. Charles required that
the bill should not be incumbered with any question respecting the abstract rights of
sovereign or subject. This unconstitutional interference with a parliamentary measure,
not yet regularly brought before him, gave high offence to the Commons, was voted
a breach of privilege, and drew forth a fresh “petition and remonstrance,” in which they
required the king to name the persons by whose evil counsel he had been led into that
error. Charles replied soothingly; but referred, with some not unkingly marks of scorn,
to this insulting demand.
The audacity of the populace, encouraged by the connivance of their friends in parlia-
ment, rose at length to an intolerable pitch. They no longer respected the person of
the king: Whitehall resounded with cries of “No bishops no papist lords !” “We will
have,” they exclaimed, “no porter's lodge here; but will come and speak to the king,
without obstruction, when we please l’ At length, the indignation of some loyal gentle-
men, officers of the army and students from the inns of court, was so much roused, that
they came and voluntarily offered themselves to protect his majesty from these insuffer-
able insults. Some personal conflicts ensued between the parties. On one of these
occasions, an officer, from contempt for the rabble, whose close-cropped hair made them
appear ridiculously unfashionable to the higher classes of the time, threatened them by
the name of “Roundheads.” The term instantly obtained vogue; and with its antithesis,
“Cavaliers,” which came into fashion shortly afterwards, has brought down to our own
age, in picturesque contrast, the ideas of the two great rival parties, who, in so many
subsequent encounters, shed each other's blood for loyalty and for freedom.
Among the most zealous of those royalists who joined to check the fury of the rabble,
was Colonel Lunsford; a gentleman regarded rather for courage than discretion or
gravity. Into the hands of this wild soldier, after procuring the resignation of Balfour
at the cost of three thousand pounds, the king was persuaded to put the office of lieut-
enant of the Tower. Parliament remonstrated against this appointment, and Charles
transferred it to Sir John Byron. The Commons had repeatedly applied for a guard, to
be under the command of the Earl of Essex, or some other officer chosen by themselves.
They now renewed the application with greater urgency; but before the king's answer
could be reported, as if to provide against some imminent personal danger, arms were


THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS, 37
introduced into the house itself, and, at the same time, an order was sent to the sheriffs
of London and Middlesex to station the trained bands round the houses, under the
command of Skippon, an illiterate but honest soldier, captain of the Artillery Company,
whom they commissioned for that purpose, with the new title of Major-General of the
Militia of London.
It was while engaged in debating the question of the guard, that the House of Com-
mons was startled with information of the king’s celebrated attempt against the five
members. Who, in this most unhappy instance, were his advisers, has not been satis-
factorily determined. But sufficient motives to almost any expedient, short of an act of
madness (and the boldest expedient might, not absurdly, seem to him the most promising),
were supplied in the oppressive and insulting measures of his adversaries. An order
stood on the order-book of the House of Commons for a committee on that day, “to take
’ in other words, to proceed to secure the
into consideration the militia of the kingdom;’
power of the sword; and as the extreme of all subjects of irritation, hints had reached
the king, that during his absence in Scotland a design had been actually on foot to
impeach his royal consort. A message from the Lords acquainted them that Herbert,
the attorney-general, had appeared at the bar of that house, and accused of high treason
the Lord Kimbolton, and five members of the House of Commons—Hollis, Haslerigg,
IPym, Hampden, and Strode. A serjeant-at-arms now presenting himself demanded, in
the name of the king, to have the five members given up to his custody; at the same
instant, the house learned that officers were engaged in sealing up the studies and trunks
of the accused. It was a moment for the display of that decision, in the exercise of
which the great leaders of the Commons delighted. They instantly sent the Speaker’s
warrant, to break the seals, and apprehend the persons by whom they were affixed;
ordered, at the same time, that any members upon whom similar seizures were attempted,
should stand upon their defence; despatched a deputation to the king with the reply,
that their answer to a charge so serious required grave consideration; and, desiring the
accused members to attend in their places the next morning, adjourned the house.
In that strangely varied sphere, the court of the most moral of princes, the fairest
star was the beautiful Dowager-Countess of Carlisle. To this lady’s smiles, brilliant
talents and a great part in the drama of life were indispensable, but effectual, passports.
What wonder if her favour dwelt, for a season, on Strafford? But Strafford perished:
and it is hard to say, whether disgust points rather to the patriot or the courtesan,
whether delicacy or moral principle suffer the more grievous wound, when we learn that,
immediately afterwards, the contrasted person, but hardly less intellectual brow of his
remorseless prosecutor, stained as it was with the reeking blood of the great minister,
possessed charms for the Countess of Carlisle.
No marvel, if so many of Charles's schemes proved abortive, when the most important
of his affairs were in the power of such a woman The afternoon of the following day had
arrived, and each of the five accused members had spoken in his place against the accusa-
tion, when Pym received a private intimation from the countess that his majesty in
person was coming to the house to apprehend him. A gentleman who had hastened from
L
38 THE PARLIAMENTARY CRISIS.
Whitehall entering, and confirming this intelligence, with the addition that he had actu-
ally beheld his majesty on the way, Pym and his friends withdrew; the house, meantime,
waiting the result in silence.
All that followed is well known :—the king's entrance with his nephew, the prince
palatine; the stillness which prevailed; his majesty’s looking around for Pym and his friends;
his seating himself in the Speaker's chair; his speech to the house, in which he assured
them that no king of England had ever held their privileges in greater respect than
himself, but that he was advised treason had no privilege; his confirming all that he had
recently done for the advantage of his subjects: finally, his retiring, uncovered, as he had
entered, with an air of courteous deference, but followed by those prolonged and ominous
murmurs of “Privilege privilege ” by which alone the members broke, at length, the
profound silence they had hitherto observed.
The next day the house passed some resolutions, denouncing, in haughty terms, this
“high breach of the rights and privileges of Parliament,” and immediately adjourned for
a week; but resolved to sit in the mean time, as a committee of the house, at Guildhall.
A proclamation was issued commanding the ports to be shut, and forbidding any
person to harbour the accused members; yet the very house in which they were living—
they can scarcely be said to have been concealed—was well known. Lord Digby, the
author, it was asserted, of all this mischief, Lunsford, and some other Cavaliers, offered to
go and secure them by force. To this proposal the king had the firmness to refuse his
consent, but the day following proceeded himself to the City. Arrived at the Tower, he
sent to the lord mayor, to meet him at Guildhall, with the aldermen and common council.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when they were assembled, “I am come to demand such prisoners
as I have already attainted of high treason; and I believe they are shrowded in the City.
I hope no good man will keep them from me. Their offences are treason and misdemeanours
of a high nature. I desire your loving assistance herein, that they may be brought to a
legal trial.” The attempt had no other result but to exasperate farther “ the madness of
the people,” and to expose Charles's powerless condition to contempt.
Six days passed; days of intoxicating excitement without, of painful regret for this
futile demonstration within, the palace at Whitehall. On the 11th, Hampden, Pym,
Hollis, Haslerigg, Strode, (now too much the idols of the people, as well as the objects
of the king's enmity, to preserve that manly moderation, without which, though they
might win many victories, they could hardly achieve enduring success,) returned in
triumph, escorted by the sheriffs and by vast crowds of shouting people, to the House of
Commons, where congratulations, thanks, and plaudits, resounded on all sides. Their
clamorous rejoicings reached not the king; he had retired, the previous evening, with his
queen, their children and attendants, and “ some thirty or forty” of the cavaliers, to his
house at Hampton Court.




39
CHAPTER. W.
THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD.
THE Commons strengthened their hands, once more, for the great work before them, by
encouraging petitions expressive of confidence in the wisdom and firmness of parliament,
and praying for the removal of papists, prelatists, and other malignant advisers of the
king.
Hampden’s county, Bucks, led the way; four thousand freeholders of that county,
each wearing a copy of the recent protestation of the Commons against the breach
of their privileges, brought up three several petitions to the Commons, the Lords, and
the Sovereign. Middlesex, Essex, Surrey, Hertford, followed. Petitions came in from
separate classes of citizens; the porters of London, the “many thousands of poor people
in London,” separately petitioned. At length, “the gentlewomen and tradesmen’s wives *
delivered their petition; a document couched in language of such fulsome extravagance,
as must have sorely tried the risible faculties of “the noble worthies now sitting in par-
liament.” It was gravely heard, however, and “the honourable assembly’’ sent them an
answer by Pym, which was performed in this manner —“Mr. Pym came to the Com-
mons’ doors, called for the women, and spoke to them in these words: “Good women,
your petition, and the reasons, have been read in the house, and are thankfully accepted
of, and are come in a seasonable time. You shall (God willing) receive from us all the
satisfaction we can possibly give to your reasonable desires.’” All these petitions were
printed and circulated, with innumerable other papers, appealing to the terrors and enthu-
siasm of the people. The effect of all this agitation was prodigious. New plots succeeded.
Rumours of a design to surprise the City, by land and water, were brought to the houses;
on which Major-General Skippon received orders to send out horsemen as scouts, in all
directions, for intelligence, and to provide boats or like vessels for the like service upon
the river. Orders were likewise issued to search the houses of suspected persons for arms,
in almost every part of England; but the services of any who would voluntarily under-
take these lawless invasions of their neighbours' dwellings were thankfully accepted: mor,
as may be readily supposed, were arms, in every instance, the only kind of property
seized. -
Of all those dangerous and treasonable designs, none were ever traced to any ascer-
tainable origin, unless we except that attributed to Lord Digby, too often, indeed, the
“wild and whirling” adviser of the king. Digby’s own account of the affair bears the
stamp of truth. “When,” he wrote from abroad, “the rudeness and violence of that
rabble drove both their majesties, for the safety of themselves and their children, to
Hampton Court, thither by command I attended them. In this short journey many

40 THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD.
soldiers and commanders (who had come to solicit the payment of their arrears, for the
late northern expedition, from the two houses of parliament) waited on their majesties;
and, leaving them at Hampton Court, provided their own accommodations at Kingston,
the nearest place capable of receiving them, and constantly so used for the overflow of
company which the court itself could not accommodate. To these gentlemen, of whom
few or none were of my acquaintance, was I sent by his majesty, with some expressions
of his good acceptance of their service; and returning the same night to Hampton Court,
continued my attendance to Windsor, whither their majesties then repaired. I had not
been there one day, when I heard that both houses of parliament were informed that I,
and Colonel Lunsford, a person with whom I never exchanged twenty words in my life,
had appeared in a warlike manner at Kingston, to the terror of the king's liege people;
and thereupon had ordered that the Sheriff of Surrey, and, as I conceive, that all other
sheriffs throughout England, should raise the power of their several counties to suppress
the forces that he and I had levied.” -
On such grounds did the watchful or inventive wisdom of Pym and his fellow-patriots
found those energetic measures which signalized the reassembling of parliament. They
impeached Digby of high treason, and committed Lunsford to the Tower; they placed
Skippon with a sufficient guard about that fortress; and sent Goring down to his govern-
ment at Portsmouth, with orders that no forces should pass out or in, but with the king’s
authority signified by both houses of parliament. The Earl of Newcastle, whom the
king had privately directed to take the government of Hull, was recalled by the House
of Peers to his place in parliament: and Sir John Hotham, with orders similar to Goring’s,
was commissioned to supersede him. Sir John Byron being found unmanageable, he was
brought upon his knees as a delinquent at the bar; his dismissal was extorted from the
king, and Conyers, “a man in whom they could confide,” made lieutenant of the Tower.
Finding himself too little removed at Hampton Court from the vexations which had
pursued him at Whitehall, Charles, as has been intimated, removed to Windsor. Both
parties now found leisure to contemplate the probable consequences of their mutual hos-
tility, and both were preparing, covertly and in silence, for an appeal to force. Meantime
secret stratagems were, on neither side, omitted. Every movement of the parliamentary
leaders was reported to the king; on the other hand, every project of Charles became
instantly known at Westminster. The court resolved that the queen should go over into
Holland, under the pretence of conducting the Princess Henrietta Maria to her husband
the Prince of Orange. The parliament was not deceived respecting the real object of
this journey; which was to solicit aid from foreign powers, and to purchase arms and
amunition, with money to be raised on the valuable jewels she took out, should war become
inevitable. Messages and answers, remonstrances and replies, were continually inter-
changed. But the whole interest of the dispute quickly became absorbed in the great,
question which regarded the command of the military forces of the empire. The Com-
mons required, as a “ground of confidence” for a mutual accommodation, that the
government of the forts, and the command of the army and navy, should be intrusted to
officers nominated by the two houses of parliament. Amid the noise and heat of these



THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD. 41
discussions, the bill for taking away the bishops' votes, which had been long depending in
the House of Lords, passed that assembly, and ultimately received the assent of the
sovereign, extorted, it is said, by the passionate fears of his queen. The Commons’
demand to have the power of the militia, in effect involved the whole question in dispute.
Their pertinacity on this point was proportioned to its importance—its monstrous ille-
gality appeared to them no impediment. “The notion,” observes Mr. Hallam, “that
either or both houses of parliament, who possess no portion of executive authority, could
take on themselves one of its most peculiar and important functions was so preposterous,
that we can scarcely give credit to the sincerity of any reasonable person who advanced
it.” Nevertheless, this right was assumed in the famous Ordinance, which now passed
both houses, and was presented to the king for his sanction. Again and again it was
pressed upon him. He refused; but promised to accept it, with certain modifications,
providing against the permanent abandonment of his constitutional right.
Having seen his consort embark at Dover, and provided for the safety of the Prince,
by placing him under the care of the Marquess of Hertford, Charles by degrees withdrew
himself northward. At Theobald’s, a message overtook him with a vote of the houses
upon his proposal of a modification, declaring it a positive denial, and threatening that,
unless he speedily gave his unqualified consent, they would proceed without it to dispose
of the militia by the authority of the houses. He repeated his former answer, adding
that he relied upon the goodness and providence of God for the preservation of himself
and his just rights. At Newmarket, a committee, once more deputed by the parliament,
attended him. They were bearers of a “ declaration,” containing a fresh statement of
their sufferings and fears, justifying all their proceedings, and urging reasons for his
return to his parliament. It was a kind of supplement to the famous “Remonstrance,”
drawn up with great ability, and expressed in strong and insulting terms. “What would
you have?” said the king. “Have I violated your laws? Have I refused to pass any
one bill for the relief of my subjects? I do not ask you what you have done for me.
Are my people transported with fears and apprehensions? I have offered as free and
general a pardon as yourselves can devise. There is a judgment from heaven upon this
nation, if these distractions continue. God so deal with me and mine, as all my thoughts
and intentions are upright, for the maintenance of true protestant profession, and for the
observation and preservation of the laws of the land; and I hope God will bless and
support those laws for my preservation.” Lord Holland, a member of the committee,
entreated him to continue to reside near his parliament. “I would,” replied the king,
“you had given me cause; but I am sure this declaration is not the way to it.” Being
then asked by the Earl of Pembroke whether the militia might not be granted in the
manner desired by the parliament, at least for a time, “No,” he answered with vehemence,
“ by G. , not for an hour ! You have asked that of me, in this, was never asked of any
king, and with which I will not trust my wife and children.”
All prospect of reconciliation was now closed. The parliament passed the ordinance
for the militia, commanding it to be obeyed as the fundamental laws of the kingdom;
and pronouncing the king's appointments of lieutenants over the respective counties to
M
42 TIII, RAISING OF THE STANDARD.
be illegal and void. This momentous vote completed the separation of the royalist and
parliamentarian parties, in the legislature. Hyde, Palmer, Bridgman, and other eminent
persons, having spoken against the ordinance, refused to sit any longer, and withdrew
to the king. Many retired to their country-seats; but the strength lost in numbers was
supplied by unanimity, and by that stern resolvedness, which the glorious prize in view,
and the belief of most minds, that the die was already irrevocably cast, were calculated
to produce. The king, meantime, arrived at York.
No one, be his political views what they may, who has considered the occurrences of
the last few months, can fail, if he has the true English desire to see “fair play” between
contending parties, to feel some satisfaction on finding the king fix his residence in the
north. In London, and its vicinity, where his adversaries had exclusive command of
parliament, pulpit, and press, where their trained rabble besieged his doors, and where
spies in their pay waited in his bedchamber, freedom to stand upon his defence was
denied him; and he was daily driven to perform the disingenuous part of submitting to
concessions, which they who violently extorted them knew he would regard as void should
prosperous times return, and made that conviction the excuse for fresh and still more
formidable exactions. At York he breathed a freer air, and was able to resume a more
kingly, and therefore a more ingenuous tone. His court, in the deanery, was attended
by nearly all the distinguished families of the northern counties, and was daily augmented
by fresh arrivals from London of royalists who had not the hardihood to appear such at
Whitehall or Windsor. Within two months of his arrival, out of seventy-four members,
of whom the house consisted, thirty had joined him, and were shortly afterwards followed
by ten others. Of the Commons, it was ascertained about the same time, that sixty-five
had withdrawn from the house. An object of some importance was gained, when Hyde,
on the eve of his own departure for York, persuaded Lord-keeper Littleton to forward
the great seal to his master, himself immediately following. The retinue of a court, and
the defence requisite for its security, in the dangerous times now commencing, were, in
the same manner, completed by embodying, from among the neighbouring gentry,
a personal guard for the king.
While the thoughts of both parties were evidently pointing to war, an incessant
correspondence was nevertheless kept up between them, under the mask of peaceful
intentions. A double motive operated, on either side, throughout this protracted paper
combat: first, to gain time to prepare for physical encounter; secondly, to justify the
respective proceedings of the combatants to the people. On neither side did the authors
of those declarations and replies, votes and protestations, remonstrances and replications,
which continued in rapid interchange between York and London, so much address them-
selves to each other, as to a great, earnest, and intelligent nation, listening alternately
With growing enthusiasm and expanding nerve to their mutual appeals to history, to law,
to the indefeasible rights of sovereign and subject. Hence, the stirring interest with
which we still peruse this collection, and this alone, of the dullest of all the productions
of able pens—state manifestoes. On the parliament’s side, those great documents were
—could they be otherwise?—uniformly bold, haughty, full of purpose and of passion:


THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD. 43
those on the king's side are described, by a modern historian of liberal principles, to be
“temperate and constitutional, and as superior to those on the opposite side in argument
as they were in eloquence.” Something not unlike the same conviction in the minds of
the parliamentary leaders was surely indicated by the fact, that while the king invariably
accompanied his publications by the correlative statements of the two houses, they, on
the contrary, did all in their power to suppress the king’s. The most remarkable of all
the series is the famous “ nineteen propositions,” presented to Charles, June 2nd.
When we are told, by the same learned writer, respecting this final demand, that “it
went to abrogate the whole existing constitution, and was in truth so far beyond what
the king could be expected to grant, that terms more intolerable were scarcely proposed
to him in his greatest subsequent difficulties,” we cannot be surprised at the result.
In truth, who can doubt, that, unfortunately for the interests of freedom, the parliament
had now placed themselves in a false position; had given just cause for the indignation
with which the king rejected this proposal to be “allowed to wear a crown and carry
a sceptre, to have his hand still kissed and be addressed with the style of majesty; but
at the same time to be without real power, the slave of a party, the phantom of a
sovereign?” Pity that Charles Stuart should ever have been placed in a position which
enabled him to awaken a generous echo in thousands of bosoms panting to be free, by
quoting, on this occasion, that manly sentiment of the barons of Runnymede—not
designed for the mouth of kings—“Nolumus leges Angliae mutari!”
Less fortunate was the king, in points more essential than evidence of right, to
immediate success.
The parliament had obtained absolute possession of the fleet, by boldly appointing
to the command of it, without the king’s consent, the Earl of Warwick, one of their
partisans. Respecting Charles's attempt to dispossess them of one of his fortresses, it
will be necessary to give some account; that event being commonly regarded as, more
than any other occurrence, decisive of the war. Hull had, in consequence of the recent
disbanding of the army near its gates, become the richest magazine of military stores in
England. Its possession was therefore eagerly contested. Regarding with suspicion the
king's choice of York for his residence, the parliament had passed an order for the
removal of the arms and ammunition from that fortress to the Tower of London. They
had little confidence in Sir John Hotham, the governor, who was a man of no great
courage or ability, and, in fact, at heart a royalist. The town itself also was friendly to
Charles: in fact, he believed that nothing more than his presence was needed to obtain
its instant surrender. Accordingly, early on the 23rd of April, his majesty, accompanied
by two or three hundred gentlemen, rode over from York; and when within a mile of the
walls, sent to acquaint Hotham that he intended that day to dine with him. Hotham, in
great confusion and uncertainty at this intimation, called a council of his officers, who
advised him to refuse admittance to the king. Charles, arriving at the gates an hour
after his messenger, found them closed, the drawbridge raised, the walls manned. The
governor now making his appearance on the ramparts, he commanded him to open the
gates. Hotham fell on his knees, and answered that, holding his trust on oath from the


44 THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD.
parliament, he dared not. “Let me see your order to keep me out,” replied the king.
“Were your majesty admitted with such a train,” continued Hotham, “I could not
answer for the safety of the town.” “I will enter, then,” said the king, “ with only
twenty horse, while the rest stay here without.” The governor refused. “Come out to
me, then,” demanded Charles, “that we may have conference together: I pledge my
royal word for your safety and free return.” He still refused, protesting, at the same
time, his loyalty. The enraged cavaliers attending on the king now cried out to the
officers of the garrison, who thronged the wall, to throw him down: they addressed
those by whose resolves the poor man’s own inclination was overborne. “This,” added
the king, “is an unparalleled act, and cannot but produce notable effects: had you,
Hotham, performed a subject's duty, the miseries and bloodshed that may fall upon this
kingdom might yet have been averted.” Charles had, the previous day, sent the Duke
of York and his nephew, the Prince Elector, on a visit of pleasure to the town. He
withdrew till joined by them without; and then, once more advancing to the ramparts,
proclaimed Hotham a traitor by sound of trumpet. That night the king slept at the
neighbouring town of Beverley: from whence he instantly despatched a message to the
parliament, demanding justice: the parliament answered, at their leisure, by a vote,
“That Sir John Hotham had done nothing but in obedience to the commands of both
houses, and that the proclaiming him traitor was a high breach of their privileges P’
The melancholy sequel of this tragedy can find no fitter place than the present. It is
one among numberless domestic instances of the miseries attendant on those wars, to the
more specific occurrences of which we are now approaching.
Sir John Hotham was of an ancient family and good estate in the neighbourhood of
Hull; a circumstance which led to his appointment to be governor of that town. He
was, in heart, a royalist. It was his personal hatred of Strafford alone which engaged
him on the side of the parliament; and so little confidence did that party place in his
fidelity, that he perceived, with bitterness, his eldest son, Captain Hotham (a youth who,
with all the headlong ardour of his years, had embraced the popular cause), was asso-
ciated with him in his trust, that he might act as a spy on his parent. Sir John Hotham’s
conduct, subsequent to the repulse of the king, gave, in several instances, so little satis-
faction to his masters, that nothing but the great confidence they placed in the son’s
zealous discharge of the office he had undertaken prevailed with them to continue the
father in his government. The war began; and events occurred to check the forward
zeal of young Hotham. He grew jealous of Fairfax, under whose orders he was placed,
and engaged in a correspondence with the Earl of Newcastle, commander in Yorkshire
for the king. Both were now to be got rid of. An accusation was easily procured against
the father. Father and son were, therefore, suddenly seized, and sent up to the parliament,
by whom both were instantly charged with high treason, and committed to the Tower.
In that fortress they passed upwards of a year, their fate being held in suspense by the
interest of friends. This support then failing them, they were brought before a court-
martial, and both condemned to the loss of their heads. The artifices, says Clarendon,
that were used against these unhappy gentlemen, both before and after their trial, were


THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD. 45
so barbarous and inhuman, as had hardly before been practised in any Christian land.
Yet the instrument of them was a pretended minister of religion. The famous Hugh
Peters was the chaplain sent to prepare them for death. This man, by insinuating to both
that the life of only one of them would be exacted, drew over each by the miserable hope
of saving his own life to become the accuser of the other. The father aggravated the
offences of the son; the son inveighed against the delinquencies of the father; and thus
Peters, on whose mediation each relied for a reprieve, drew from them sufficient to pro-
cure the sure destruction of both. The son was first executed; the next day Peters
appeared on the scaffold with the father, and assured the gaping multitude who came to
glut themselves with the sight of blood, that they died justly, for “they had made their
confession to him, and acknowledged their offences against the parliament l”
Preparations for war now proceeded rapidly. The parliament issued orders to the
lieutenants of counties, appointed by them, to carry into effect their ordinance for the
militia. The king in return sent forth commissions of array, according to the custom of
ancient times, to raise forces in each county. The parliament declared all the commis-
sioners of array to be traitors, and ordered them to be apprehended. They voted that an
army should be raised “for the defence of the king and parliament,” and appointed the Earl
of Essex to command it. The king immediately raised a regiment which became the nucleus
of an army; appointed Lindsey his general; and proclaimed Essex, and all the officers under
him, who should not lay down their arms, rebels and traitors. The parliament declared the
proclamation a libellous and scandalous paper, and retorted the crime of treason on all
those by whom it had been advised, and by whom it should be abetted or obeyed. Both
parties appealed to God and the people, as witnesses, that not they, but their opponents,
were the authors of the impending war; both, finally, abandoned all pretence of expect-
ing a settlement of their differences by any but the arbitrement of the sword. By these
proceedings the whole kingdom was thrown into confusion. In every county, almost in
every town, the recruiting drum of either party summoning the inhabitants to muster
beneath the standard of Essex, Bedford, and Kimbolton, or that of Lindsey, Newcastle,
and Hertford, mingled its harsh notes with those of its warlike rival. Strife and vari-
ance, hatred and all evil passions, soon found a consecration and an open avowal in every
neighbourhood and on every hearth. The father was divided against the son, the son
against the father; brother was separated from brother, never, it might be, to meet again,
unless in mutual opposition amid the conflict of battle. Many, and those not the least
conscientious, torn with doubts, hesitated; not daring to choose, where both sides
appealed, with equal confidence, to justice and the laws. But neutrality was the one
crime which both avenged; and he who was plundered to-day for being neutral, by the
royalists, might to-morrow be carried before the parliament for the same offence, com-
mitted to prison, and there perish. Yet it was within the walls of the House of Com-
mons, that the voice of moderation was still raised by two or three individuals; endured,
from invincible respect for truth and honesty, but unregarded, and having indeed, with
their pure and prudential virtues, no longer “any business” in that agitated convention.
From the speeches of such men, among whom Rudyard and Whitelocke were the chief,
N

46 THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD.
we select that of Whitelocke, as eloquently and most prophetically descriptive of the
miseries which were actually suspended over the nation.
After adverting to the restless attempts of popery, as the alleged origin of those divi-
sions which distracted the country, he thus continued:—“But I look upon another
beginning of our troubles. God blessed us with a long and flourishing peace, and we
turned his grace into wantonness, and peace would not satisfy us without luxury, nor
our plently without debauchery; instead of sobriety and thankfulness for our mercies, we
provoked the Giver of them, by our sins and wickedness, to punish us, as we may fear, by
a civil war, to make us executioners of the Divine vengeance upon ourselves.
“It is strange to note how we have insensibly slid into this beginning of a civil war,
by one unexpected accident following after another, as waves of the sea, which have
brought us to this point. But what may be the progress of it, the poet tells you :-
* Jusque datum sceleri canimus: populumque potentum
In sua victrici conversum vicera dextra.”
We must surrender up our lives into the hands of insolent mercenaries, whose rage and
violence will command us and all we have ; and reason, honour, and justice, will quit our
land: the ignoble will rule the noble; baseness will be preferred before virtue; profane-
ness before piety. Of a potent people we shall make ourselves weak, and be the instru-
ments of our own ruin; we shall burn our own houses, lay waste our own fields, pillage
our own goods, open our own veins, devour our own bowels. You will hear other sounds
besides those of drums and trumpets, the clattering of armour, the roaring of guns,
the groans of wounded and dying men, the shrieks of deflowered women, the cries of
widows and orphans; and all on your account, which makes it to be the most lamented.
Pardon the warmth of my expressions: I would prevent a flame which I see kindled in
the midst of us, that may consume us to ashes.
“The sum of the progress of civil war is the rage of fire and sword, and (which is
worse) of brutish men. What the issue of it will be, no man alive can tell; probably
few of us now here may live to see the end of it. It has been said, “He that draws his
sword against his prince, must throw away the scabbard.” Those differences are scarce
to be reconciled. Those commotions are like the deep seas: being once stirred, they are
not soon appeased. I wish the observation of the Duke de Rohan may prove a caution,
not a prophecy. He saith of England, that it is ‘a great creature, which cannot be
destroyed but by its own hand.’ And there is not a more likely hand than that of civil
war, to do it. The best issue that can be expected of a civil war, is, “ Ubi victor flet, et
victus perit;’ which of these will be our portion is uncertain, and the choice should
be avoided.
“Yet, though I have said this, I am not for a tame resignation of our religion, lives,
and liberties, into the hands of our adversaries, who seek to devour us. Nor do I think
it inconsistent with your great wisdom to prepare for a just and necessary defence of
them. But I humbly move you to consider, whether it be not yet too soon to come
to it. We have tried by proposals of peace to his majesty, and they have been rejected.


THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD. 47
Let us try again; let us review our former propositions; and where the matter of them
(as our affairs now are) is found fit to be altered, let alterations be made; that, as far as
may consist with the security of ourselves and our cause, we may unite our endeavours
to prevent those miseries which look black upon us: so that there may be no strife
between us and those of the other party, ‘for we are brethren.’”
The speech of Sir Henry Killigrew, on the same occasion, though in a different strain,
was equally characteristic. When, says Clarendon, the members of the house stood up,
and declared what horse they would raise and maintain, and that they would live and die
With their general, one saying he would raise ten horses, another twenty, that frank and
courageous royalist rose with the rest: “When,” said he, “I see occasion, I will provide
a good horse, and a good buff coat, and a good pair of pistols; and then I make no
question but I shall find a good cause.” Perceiving that after so blunt and unexpected
a declaration his presence was little desired, either on the benches of the Commons or in
the streets of London, he took horse for Cornwall, where his estate lay, and was among
the first who distinguished themselves in the brilliant actions of the king's friends in
the west.
But the members did not depend on their individual resources. The parliament had
the whole revenues of the kingdom at their command. They immediately applied to the
purposes of the war one hundred thousand pounds of the money raised for the relief of
Ireland: the same sum was lent them by the authorities of the City, whose liberality
was eagerly seconded by the popular enthusiasm. Plate, money, jewels, were poured
out before the committee of treasurers, until hands were wanting to receive and room
to lay up the profuse, but, in some instances, cumbrous offerings of the poor people;
some of whom attended again and again, to purchase, with property which they could ill
spare, the unknown miseries of years of bloodshed. Yet this abundant voluntary aid
from the capital did not preclude the employment of other means in the country, and
wherever a less willing disposition prevailed; one of the first exploits of Cromwell was
to plunder the house of his uncle, Sir Oliver Cromwell, at Ramsey, of his arms and plate.
On the royalist side the sinews of war were not so easily strung. Far from having means
to levy or pay soldiers, Charles found himself reduced so low, at this time, by the seizure
of his revenues, that one table, at which his children ate with him, was all he could afford.
Some arms and ammunition had with difficulty found their way to the coast of Yorkshire,
from the queen, but no money. A few contributions, however, came in from the nobility
and gentry. Oxford sent the University plate to be coined for the king's use; Cambridge
also was following the example, when the vigilance of Cromwell succeeded in arresting
the valuable treasure on its way.
Eager for the carnage to come, the sword of this restless and robust puritan had, in
fact, already left its scabbard. Before any commissions were issued, he had trained and
armed, at his own expense, the fearless yeomanry of his native neighbourhood; and had
begun to exercise their activity and valour in such exploits as those above related.
Hampden, beneath his “breezy hills” and among the “ancient Woods” that surround,
at this day, his mansion in Buckinghamshire, and other patriots in their several counties,

48 THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD.
were similarly engaged. Some trifling skirmishes had already occurred, in the north,
between comparatively large bodies of men on both sides; whom, not want of daring or
of mutual animosity, but awe at the thought of being the first to shed blood in that
unnatural strife, withheld, for a time, from serious conflict; when, at Portsmouth, the
war actually commenced. Goring, the governor of that town, an officer of ability and
experience, was raised by the parliament to the rank of lieutenant-general, and appointed
to organize and discipline the army for the Earl of Essex. On various pretences he
delayed, as long as he could, to appear in that service; and, on receiving peremptory
orders from Lord Kimbolton, replied, that he held Portsmouth from the king, and could
not, without his majesty’s permission, absent himself from his government. He then
administered an oath of allegiance to the garrison and inhabitants, and shut the gates.
Sir William Waller immediately advanced to besiege him; while, at the same time, some
ships were brought to blockade the town by sea. On hearing this, Charles judged that
the time was come, when he could no longer delay a solemn appeal to the sword; he
therefore published a proclamation, requiring all his subjects who could bear arms
to meet him at Nottingham by the twenty-third of August, on which day he designed to
set up his royal standard.
When the day arrived, Charles, with his shadow of an army, consisting of a few
troops of horse, was lying near Coventry; into which place he had been refused admittance
by the parliamentarian party within. Leaving his forces there, he rode over to Notting-
ham, where preparations had been made for his reception, attended only by a small
party of his family and adherents. The weather was sullen and tempestuous; the
greater part of the day had been consumed in the journey; and evening began to draw
in, and when Sir Thomas Brooks, Sir Arthur Hopton, Sir Francis Wortley, and Sir
Robert Dadington, the knights chosen to bear the royal standard, proceeded with it
from the castle to the adjoining hill, followed by his Majesty, the Prince of Wales, Prince
Rupert, and other lords and gentlemen who had joined the king. A numerous company,
mounted and on foot, had likewise come in from the surrounding country; rather,
indeed, as afterwards appeared, to indulge their curiosity with respect to the mode of
conducting an ancient ceremony, never before witnessed in the memory of man, than
to offer loyal assistance to their sovereign.
On the hill, three troops of horse and a corps of about six hundred foot, were drawn
up, to guard the standard. As soon as it was brought to the summit, the king directed
a herald to read his proclamation, declaring the ground and cause of that act of warlike
solemnity. Just as the herald was about to begin, a scruple seemed to cross Charles's
mind. He desired to see the proclamation; and calling for pen and ink, placed the paper
on his knee, as he sat in the saddle, and made several alterations with his own hand 3
afterwards returning it to the herald. That officer then read it, but, on coming to the
passages which the king had corrected, with some embarrassment. Immediately the
trumpets sounded, the standard was advanced, and the spectators threw up their hats,
shouting, “God save the king !” The standard was a large blood-red ensign, or streamer,
bearing the royal arms quartered, with a hand pointing to the crown, which stood above,




Sº
§§
-
º
º|
|







THE RAISING OF THE STANDARD. 49
and inscribed with the motto, “Give to Caesar his due.” Farther on, towards the point,
were represented, at intervals, the rose, the fleur-de-lis, and the harp, each surmounted by
a royal crown. A more stirring legend than that cold appeal to justice might, perhaps,
have been Wisely chosen; yet its temperate demand was calculated to rouse in English
bosoms a thought which the wild course of events had been sweeping towards oblivion—
viz. while all besides were clamoring for rights, real or feigned, had not the king his
rights also; rights which never should have been regarded as hostile to those of the
people 2
Some delay now took place. It was with difficulty the standard could be fixed in this
place, the ground being a solid rock, and no instrument to pierce it having been provided.
Scarcely had this object been accomplished, by means of digging into the firm stone with
the daggers and halberd-points of the soldiers, when a fierce gush of wind, sweeping with
a wild moan across the face of the hill, laid prostrate the emblem of sovereignty. Many
persons regarded this accident as a presage of evil, and a general melancholy overspread
the assembly. That day no further attempt was made. The lowering sky of evening
sympathized with the shadow that lay on men's spirits; and the standard was borne back
into the castle, with the same state as had attended it to the field, but nearly in silence.
Whipers, and words low and dubious, as of suppressed apprehension, passed from man to
man; and if, now and then, some faint acclamations rose from the people, their effect was
rather to startle than to animate. The next day, indeed, the ceremony was repeated, with
less gloomy auspices; again, likewise, the day following; his majesty and his train pre-
senting themselves, each time, as at first. Within three or four days, however, the news
arriving that the important town of Portsmouth had been surrendered to his enemies,
that royal solemnity, by which the horrors of intestine strife were sanctified, and a charter
given to impetuous passions and wasting calamity to riot through the land, became asso-
ciated in the mind of Charles himself with a gloom neither visionary nor transient.
O








50
CHAPTER WI.
THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL.
THE reader may adopt which side he pleases, in the much-contested and interminable
question, so interesting to the fame of both the two great belligerent parties, “Who began
the civil war?” But, one thing is beyond question,--that the forces of the parliament
were actually in the field earlier than those of Charles. At the time when the king set
up his standard, he had with him scarcely troops sufficient to guard it, or to protect his
own person; his slender stock of arms and ammunition was still lying at York; and the
troops he had left before Coventry, neither in numbers, nor in any other respect, deserved
the name of an army. It was, indeed, the common belief of his adversaries, both in and
out of parliament, that he would be wholly without means to oppose their successful
levies; and would consequently be obliged, after all, to submit to their terms without
drawing the sword. In the majority of counties, they were able to prevent the commis-
sioners of array from carrying the royal proclamation into effect; while, at the same time,
their own levies proceeded without interruption. Kent, Surrey, Sussex, and the southern
counties in general, chose the popular side; the vigilance and activity of Cromwell, in
Norfolk, Suffolk, Huntingdonshire, and Cambridgeshire, crushed, at a blow, the whole
interest of the royal party in the east; Middlesex, including London, was entirely at their
command. Such, indeed, was the eagerness of the capital to serve under Essex, that,
immediately on the issuing of the commissions, four thousand citizens presented them-
selves in one day, at the Artillery Ground, for enlistment.
On both sides, the raising of troops was undertaken by the zealous friends of the
cause, chiefly in their own neighbourhoods, where their interest was greatest. On both
sides also, but not to an equal extent, the expense of the levies and equipments was
defrayed by those individuals who raised their respective regiments, and by whom they
were afterward, in most instances, commanded. The king, in effect, was wholly
dependent on the wealthy royalists for the support of his troops; but the parliament,
having the command of the national revenues, and beginning already to seize for the
public service the property of delinquents, had, from the first, the means of proposing
a regular scale of pay, extending from ten pounds per day for the lord-general, to eight-
pence per day for the privates in infantry regiments. Those noblemen and gentlemen
were in general the most active in collecting troops, whose names acquired the chief
celebrity during the earlier periods of the war. On the part of the parliament, Sir
Thomas Fairfax, in the north ; Sir William Waller, at Exeter; the Earl of Bedford, in
Bedfordshire; Lord Brooke, in Warwickshire; Lord Kimbolton and Cromwell, in Hun-



THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL. 51
tingdonshire and the adjoining counties; Sir Arthur Haslerigg, in Leicestershire; Lord
Say and his sons, in Oxfordshire; Lord Wharton and Hampden, in Buckinghamshire;
Hollis, Stapleton, and Skippon, in Middlesex, distinguished themselves by their exertions
in this service. The recruits were placed at the disposal of the committee of safety, the
parliamentary executive, and supplied the reinforcements for the army under Essex,
mustering at Northampton.
England—the loud beating of whose warlike pulse had, since the great dispute arose,
wholly drowned the faint, decaying traditions of those miseries that attended her ancient
domestic feuds—had likewise happily forgotten military tactics, and their very nomen-
clature had become an unknown language. To drill their zealous recruits, withdrawn
suddenly from the plough, the anvil, or the loom, the parliament employed officers who
had served in the wars of Germany: the fortifications and management of the artillery
were chiefly confided to foreign soldiers of fortune, German or French. The proper
equipment of the men was, for the same reason, a difficulty which it required time to
surmount. The rude but picturesque matchlocks, or muskets of the period, and, when
these could not be had, pikes and poleaxes, supplied the arms of the infantry; the long
heavy sword, the carbine and pistols, the back and breast plates, with the steel cap,
common to both horse and foot, presented the superior accoutrement of the cavalry or
troopers. Both armies, but especially the king's, were at first but imperfectly furnished
with arms of any kind: Cromwell’s “Ironsides” obtained that well-known title as well
on account of the more “complete steel” in which they were belted, as for their invin-
cible daring; and every one has heard of Haslerigg’s regiment, nicknamed, by the
Cavaliers, “ lobsters,” “because of their bright iron shells, with which they are covered,
being perfect cuirassiers.” The colours of the regiments were various, according to the
fancy, or, more frequently, agreeing with the household livery, of the respective leaders.
This mark of distinction was the more important, because, at the outbreak of the war,
it was sometimes the only means of recognition by which, in battle, friend could be
discerned from foe, no distinctive field-word having been adopted. “Hollis's,” Lord
Nugent, in his life of Hampden, informs us, “were the London red coats; Lord Brooke's,
the purple; Hampden’s, the green coats; Lord Say’s and Lord Mandeville's, the blue ;
the orange, which had long been the colour of Lord Essex’s household, and now that of
his body-guard, was worn in a scarf over the armour of all the officers of the parliament
army, as the distinguishing symbol of their cause.” The king's famous regiment likewise
adopted red; the Earl of Newcastle's regiment of Northumbrians were termed, from the
white colour of their coats (or, as some say, with reference to their fierce courage),
“Newcastle's lambs.” It was only by degrees, however, that anything like uniformity
was attained: the choice of clothing and arms was, in the first instance, often decided by
the taste or circumstances of the individual wearer. Each regiment or each troop had
its standard, or cornet, bearing, on one side, the watchword of the parliament, “God with
us,” and on the other the device of its commander, with his motto. The inscription on
the Earl of Essex’s was “Cave, adsum;” the better-chosen and more characteristic words
which waved, in battle, over the head of Hampden, were “Vestigia nulla retrorsum ;”

52 THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL.
later in the war, Algernon Sidney, one of the steadiest adherents to the cause, thus
expressed in the motto of the regiment which he commanded, the source of his devoted-
ness to the service: “Sanctus amor patriae dat animum.”
The force which Essex, shortly after the commencement of hostilities, was enabled to
bring into the field, consisted of about 15,000 infantry and 4,500 cavalry. The cavalry
were distributed into seventy-five troops; of the infantry, there were twenty regiments.
Under him, the commanders of highest rank were, the Earl of Bedford, general of the
horse, assisted by Sir William Balfour; the Earl of Peterborough, general of the ordnance;
and Sir John Meyrick, sergeant-major, or (in the language of that day) sergeant-major-
general.
Such was the constitution of the army, to put himself at the head of which, that
noble commander passed through London on the 4th of September, 1642. Essex was,
at this period, in the highest favour with both parliament and people. His journey
resembled a triumphal procession. Accompanied by all the military officers in London,
by a long retinue of peers and gentlemen, and by the trained bands, who officiated as
his guard, he traversed the City; from whence to Highgate, “a hedge of people” lined
the road on each side, and saluted him with acclamations, crying out, “God bless my
lord-generall Long life to the lord-general l’”
Meantime the king's affairs wore still a depressed aspect—few adherents coming in,
and no money; hesitation and uncertainty pervading the minds of his council; a general
gloom lowering on men’s countenances. Charles's resolution was not overcome; for he
was confident in the righteousness of his quarrel, naturally sanguine, and inclined to that
romantic temper, which is roused and supported by the difficulties attending great enter-
prises. He was advised to make yet one more attempt to negotiate with the parliament;
not with any expectation that his proposals would meet with acceptance, but that, in the
event of their rejection, the people might be disabused of the opinion that it was he whose
obstinacy was the true cause of the war. This advice was ungrateful to him; but he
yielded to the importunity of his council, and despatched propositions for a treaty, by the
Earl of Southampton, Sir John Colepepper, and Sir William Uvedale. The event was as
had been expected. Conscious of their strength, the parliament treated the messengers
with incivility, and haughtily returned for answer, that until the king withdrew his pro-
clamation, and took down his standard, they could treat no more with him. Charles
promised to consent to those conditions, provided the parliament would recall their votes
against his friends. They refused; and voted, that they would not lay down their arms
till delinquents were brought to justice, and their estates made to defray the debts of the
commonwealth. A few days later he sent a third message, in which he solemnly con-
jured them to reflect what blood would be shed, and referred his cause to the God of
heaven: the parliament replied by retorting on him the charge of indifference to the
bloodshed that must follow. This correspondence was of prodigious advantage to the
king's cause. The sincerity of Charles's wish to retain the sword still in the sheath, if it
were possible, consistently with security and honour, was now admitted by many who
had doubted it hitherto: concession could go no farther; sufficient barriers against the


THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL, 53
encroachments of regal power had now been erected; adversity likewise had begun to
produce its usual softening effect upon the king : there must be, at the least, a better
prospect of safety to individuals in supporting their sovereign, than in extending the
already enormous and illegal power of a party who had declared their purpose to vote
whom they pleased delinquents, and seize on their estates for their own purposes. Led,
therefore, on the one hand by reviving loyalty, on the other by interest, numbers now
hastily sought the royal standard; and when the king prepared to leave Nottingham,
which he did presently after, about the middle of September, his affairs already began to
wear a much more cheering appearance.
The royal army having been increased by reinforcements from the west and north,
contributions from several sources having come in, and Charles's military stores and little
train of artillery being brought up from York, he marched across Derbyshire towards the
Welsh borders, designing to fix his head-quarters at Shrewsbury.
Between Stafford and Wellington the king halted his army, placed himself in the
centre, and, after the reading of his orders of war, reminded his followers of their duty
to obey them, and of the probability of an immediate engagement with the enemy. He
then proceeded thus: “In the presence of Almighty God, and as I hope for his blessing
and protection, I declare that I have no other design, no other wish, but to maintain, in
life and death, the Protestant religion as established in the Church of England; to govern
according to the known laws of the land; and, in particular, to observe the statutes
enacted in the present parliament. Should I wilfully fail in any one of these particulars,
I renounce equally all claim to assistance from man, or protection from heaven. If, how-
ever, I should be driven, by my present difficulties, and by the dire necessities of war, to
any unwilling violation of this engagement, I trust it will be imputed by God and men to the
true authors of the war, and not to me, who have earnestly laboured for the preservation
of the peace of this kingdom. But as long as I remain faithful to this promise, I hope for
cheerful aid from all good subjects, and am confident of obtaining the blessing of heaven.”
The solemnity of this protestation, and the affecting circumstances in which it was
made, produced a strong impression, throughout England, in favour of the king; and at
Shrewsbury the neighbouring gentry and inhabitants received him with enthusiasm.
Here his army presently swelled to the number of about 10,000 foot and between 3,000
and 4,000 horse. The great bulk of these consisted of the nobility and landed gentry,
their tenants and retainers, those classes on whom the fine magic of loyalty was not yet
powerless, and those who were linked to the cause of ancient right and order, by kindred,
though less distinguished, ties of duty and dependence. In point of equipment the royal
troops were inferior to those of the parliament; but their arms, both offensive and defen-
sive, were nearly similar. Among the most eminent of those royalists, to whose efforts
Charles was indebted for the means of taking the field, were—the Earl of Newcastle in
the north; the Earl of Lindsey, and his son Lord Willoughby, in Lincolnshire;
John (afterwards Lord) |Bellasis, son of Lord Falconbridge, in Yorkshire; Lord
Strange in Lancashire; the Earl of Northampton in Warwickshire; in Cornwall, Sir
Bevil Grenvil, his younger brother Sir Richard, and his son Sir John Grenvil,
P





54 THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL.
Sir Ralph Hopton, and Sir Nicholas Slanning. In the Earl of Lindsey, for too short a
period general of his army, the king possessed a brave officer and a generous subject; the
wise and noble-minded Hertford he made lieutenant-general of the west; his commissary-
general was Henry (subsequently Lord) Wilmot ; in the office of Major-general he was
well served by the blunt Sir Jacob Ashley; Sir John Heydon, a good officer, was general
of the ordnance; and Sir Arthur Aston, “ of whose soldiery there was a very great
esteem,” was made colonel-general of dragoons. Prince Rupert’s name has come down
to us as almost a synonyme for impetuous daring, as distinguished from sedate and manly
courage; and for intolerable haughtiness, unsupported by real superiority. A more
striking instance Charles never gave—and his life exhibits not a few—of his blindness
to the faults of those he loved, or who stood to him in a relation which in his opinion
entitled them to his love, than when he presented that headlong youth with his commis-
sion as general of the horse, inserting the strange concession to his vanity, that he should
receive orders from no one but himself.
Yet, in the very first considerable skirmish of the war, the youthful German prince
performed a part which seemed, for a time, in the eyes of both armies, to justify the
favour of his royal uncle. Rupert, with his brother Maurice, Wilmot, and other officers,
had been despatched by the king to watch the movements of Essex, now on his march
from Northampton towards Worcester, and at the same time to support Sir John Byron,
who was on his way from Oxford, with a convoy of plate and money. Byron had already
reached Worcester; where Nathaniel Fiennes and Edwin Sandys, with a party of the
troops raised by Lord Say, had formed a plan to seize and carry him off. In the mean-
time, Rupert, after a long and rapid march, arrived under the walls of that place. The
greater part of his wearied men he permitted to go into the town for refreshment; but
intending to retire as soon as they returned with such intelligence as they could meet
with, he remained in the field, and, dismounting, threw himself on the grass, in the
midst of his officers, without suspicion that any of the enemy’s forces were near the spot.
On a sudden, a body of about five hundred horse made their appearance, marching in
good order up a lane within musket-shot of the reposing party. No time was there
to consult what should be done, or put themselves at the head of their respective troops.
Scarcely had they, in their confusion, mounted, when Rupert, crying out, “Let us charge
them l’’ dashed on with his group of officers, followed at intervals by the men; and
came upon the advancing party as they were in the act of issuing from the lane. The
parliamentarians were well armed, splendidly mounted, and gallantly led by Colonel
Sandys; yet, so fierce and unexpected was the onset of the royalists, that the whole
body was at once routed, fled, and were pursued by the conquerors. Between forty and
fifty, chiefly officers, were killed. Sandys himself was taken prisoner, and shortly after-
wards died of his wounds. Six or seven colours were likewise captured, with many good
horses, and some arms. “This rencounter,” remarks Lord Clarendon, “proved of great
advantage to the king. For it being the first action his horse had been brought into,
and that party of the enemy being the most picked and choice men, it gave his troops
great courage, and rendered the name of Prince Rupert very terrible, and exceedingly



THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL. 55
appalled the adversary; insomuch that they had not, in a long time after, any confidence
in their horse, and their numbers were much lessened by it. For that whole party being
routed, and the chief officers of name and reputation either killed or taken, many of those
who escaped never returned to the service; and, which was worse, for their own excuse
talked aloud, wherever they went, of the incredible and irresistible courage of Prince
Rupert and the king's horse.”
The Earl of Essex's orders were, about this time, forwarded to him by the parliament.
He was directed “to march with his forces against the king's army, and by battle, or
otherwise, to rescue his person, and the persons of the prince and Duke of York, out
of the hands of the ‘ desperate’ men by whom they were surrounded; to offer a free
pardon to all who, within ten days, should return to their duty, except the Earls of
Richmond, Cumberland, Newcastle, Carnarvon, and Rivers, Wiscounts Newark and
Falkland, Secretary Nicholas, Endimion Porter, and Edward Hyde; and to forward to
the king a petition that he would withdraw himself from his wicked counsellors, and
once more rely on the loyalty and obedience of his parliament. As far as regarded the
petition, the earl lost no time in discharging his trust. Immediately on his arrival at
Worcester, he signified to the Duke of Dorset, then in attendance upon the king
at Shrewsbury, that such a paper was intrusted to him to deliver. Charles replied, that
he ever had been, and would be, ready to receive any petition from his two houses of
parliament; but that he would not receive the petition out of the hands of a traitor.
With respect to the more substantial part of his commission, the general of the parliament
appeared dilatory and wavering. The impatient energies of Hampden, and Hollis, and
Brooke could not endure a detention of three weeks within the crumbling walls of
Worcester: they sought, and found opportunities of breathing their valour in encounters,
far and near, with such detachments of the enemy as were to be met with at a distance
from the main body. It was not lack of courage, or of ambition, or of honourable
fidelity to the solemn duty he had undertaken, that withheld Essex from advancing.
That noble person, in common with many on both sides, was perplexed with the contest
in his soul between his old habitual feelings and his new engagements. Owing to the
misfortunes of his early life, the earl had at no time been held in that consideration at
the court which his merits, as well as his rank, might fairly challenge. By Charles
himself he had been coldly, may, unkindly treated. But for the alienation caused by
these circumstances in the mind of a nobleman and soldier, conscious of what was due
to himself, the parliament might have had to seek some other for their general. And
still the uneradicable sense of loyalty and honour had held him back, but for that subtle
distinction between “the king in his corporate and his personal capacity, which had
decided stronger heads than his own to arm in the king's name against the king.”
Such was then the distracted condition of the noblest and manliest minds. In that
unhappy period these adverse wrenchings of a “divided duty” were a source of misery,
compared with which imprisonment and forfeiture, proscription, or even death itself,
were tolerable. This torn state of feeling was experienced on both sides, but especially
on the side of the parliament; the mere novelty of whose position was sufficient to harass




56 THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL.
the conscience with misgivings. Hence, when the critical, the trying hour arrived, not
a few who, up to that hour, had striven resolvedly with the parliament against the king,
now sought relief by passing over to cool their fevered thoughts beneath the shelter of
the royal banner. There it was better with them, yet not well. The worm was gnawing
still, though its fangs were fastened in a less vital part; for, to men of high honour and
true religion—the ennobling characteristics of so many in that generation—at once to
cast off allegiance to the sovereign, and to trample on the church, was felt as a double
parricide. The oppressed bosom yielded to melancholy forebodings of its own fate, or
vented itself in vain and womanly reproaches on those it regarded as the authors of its
agonies. Thus the once vivacious, but now broken-hearted Falkland, “ sitting among
his friends, often, after a deep silence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad
accent, ingeminate the word Peace! peace!” and thus the stronger, but equally fore-
boding heart of Sir Bevil Grenvil, poured its burning indignation over his own neighbours
who had turned “traitors,” and raked into the sad story of Essex’s early life for a scorn-
ful epithet to level against “the great cuckold who is forced to shut himself up within
the walls of Worcester.”
Charles had been able to raise his army to a more respectable state of numbers, dis-
cipline, and equipment, than, in so short a time, could have seemed possible. Encouraged
by the reviving sentiment in his favour, by the success of his skirmishing parties, and by
the inaction of the enemy, he resolved to march from Shrewsbury directly on London, at
once to terminate the war. Two days elapsed before Essex had put his forces in motion
to follow.
Great surprise pervaded the parliament at the unlooked-for manner in which their
urgent entreaties for the king's return to London seemed now about to be granted; while
the people, who had been taught to expect no more to see the sovereign, except as the
submissive thrall of “his faithful parliament,” were in the greatest consternation. Not
vainly, however, did they look to that emergetic convention, for direction and support in
their apprehended danger; nor did the “malignants,” who now began to emerge from
concealment, find that peril had relaxed the arm of the self-appointed guardians of the
nation’s safety. All persons who had neglected to contribute to the charges of the army
were ordered to be secured and disarmed; all the horses fit for service in the city and
suburbs were seized; chains were drawn across the outlets of the city, and barricades
erected in the streets. Men, women, and children worked together at these rude
defences; and the citizens cheerfully obeyed the order of parliament to close their shops
and manufactories, and place their time and their property at its disposal.
On the morning of the 23rd of October, the capital was agitated by a sudden rumour
that a fatal battle had been fought. Fugitives from the field had been seen, breathless
with haste and fright, hurrying along the roads, and proclaiming that all was lost. The
news was circulated in a thousand varied but terrific shapes. Essex had perished, and
with his dying words exhorted every man to shift for himself: the king's army was
terrible, and resistance utterly vain. All Monday the city continued a prey to these
rumours. At length came despatches from Essex; but fear had, by this time, taken com-



THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL, 57
plete possession of men’s minds; the earl’s report was favourable, and could not be true.
The Lord Hastings had entered the house, with ghastly looks, during the reading of the
despatches, and declared that he had himself been an eye-witness to the defeat. Hastings
had indeed been among the foremost to run away; but the last messenger that arrived
was the most trusted, more particularly if his report confirmed the worst. In the horror
and consternation of eight-and-forty hours, writes the royalist historian, every man under-
went a full penance and mortification for the hopes and insolence of three months before.
This must be understood of the honest citizens of London. The great assembly at
Westminster seems to have been but little moved. On that very day they voted, indeed,
an order for the trained-bands to put themselves in motion; but proceeded quietly, at the
same time, with the ordinary business of parliament.
On the third day, two members, Wharton and Strode, arrived from the army, and
gave a circumstantial statement of the occurrences there, first in their places in parliament,
and afterwards to the citizens in the common-hall. Their narratives, as might have been
foreseen, were partial and confused; nor was that afterwards ordered by the houses to be
printed and circulated, free from the same defects. The plainer relation of the king pre-
sents a more correct, though meagre, outline of the main incidents which signalized that
day, so memorable in English annals for the first battle of the GREAT CIVIL WAR.
Charles had received intelligence of Essex’s march, and had turned to face his pursuer.
It was early in the morning of the 23rd day of October, 1642, when Prince Rupert, dash-
ing on, as usual, with his gallant cuirassiers, found himself on the brow of the wild ridge
of Edge-hill, which overlooks the “vale of the Red Horse,” near Kineton, in Warwick-
shire. His quick eye caught at once the object of its search—the army of the Earl of
Essex; its dark masses drawn up along the vale below, in compact order of battle. At this
sight, the prince checked his career; for the van of the king's infantry was left far behind,
and his artillery was at a distance of not less than three hours' march: noon had, there-
fore, long passed, ere the royalists had wound their march, which they were permitted to
do without interruption, down the declivity of the hill, and confronted, on even ground,
their expectant adversaries. -
Charles assembled round him his lords and captains, and addressed them with feeling
and dignity: “My lords, and all here present,” he said, “the foe is in sight. Your
king is both your cause, your quarrel, and your captain. I have written and declared
that I intended always to maintain the Protestant religion, the privileges of the parlia-
ment, and the liberties of the subject; and now I must prove my words by the convincing
argument of the sword. Let Heaven show his power by this day's victory to declareme just,
and as a lawful, so a loving king to my subjects. Come life or death, your king will bear
you company, and ever keep this field, this place, and this day's service in his grateful
remembrance.” He then rode through the ranks clad in shining steel armour, and wear-
ing a mantle of black velvet, on the front of which glittered his brilliant Star-and-George,
and thus continued:—“Friends and soldiers you are called cavaliers and royalists in a
disgraceful sense. If I suffer in my fame, needs must you do likewise. Now show your-
selves no malignants, but declare what courage and fidelity is within you, Fight for the
Q
58 THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL.
peace of the kingdom and the Protestant religion. The valour of cavaliers hath honoured
that name both in France and other countries, and now let it be known in England, as
well as horseman or trooper. The name of cavalier which our enemies have striven to
make odious, signifies no more than a gentleman serving his king on horseback. Show
yourselves, therefore, now courageous cavaliers, and beat back all opprobrious aspersions
cast upon you.
“Friends and soldiers I look upon you with joy to behold an army as great as ever
king of England had in these later times. I thank your loves offered to your king, to
hazard your lives and fortunes with me in my urgent necessity. I feel at this time that
no father can leave his son, no subject his lawful king. But matters are not now to be
decided by words, but by swords. You all think our thoughts, while I reign over your
affections as well as your persons. My resolution is to try the doubtful chance of war,
while with much grief I must stand to and endure the hazards. I desire not the effusion of
blood, but since Heaven hath so decreed, and that so much preparation hath been made,
we must needs accept of the present occasion for an honourable victory and glory to our
crown, since reputation is that which gilds over the richest gold, and shall ever be the
endeavour of our whole reign. Your king bids you all be courageous, and Heaven make
you victorious !”
Already the fatal clause in Prince Rupert’s commission, which placed the officer above
the orders of his general, had begun to produce its malignant fruits. Lindsey’s plan for
the disposition of the army was disapproved by the prince. Ruthen, afterwards Earl of
Brentford, to whom the king had given a field-marshal's staff at Shrewsbury, having been
trained in the same school of tactics, supported the royal hussar. Charles approved.
With a grieved heart, the generous veteran, who bore the name, without having the autho-
rity, of general, retired to the head of his regiment; where he declared he would fight,
and there die, as a private colonel. When the signal to engage was given, he encouraged
his men with a few cheerful words; then, grasping a pike, gallantly led them forward to
the charge, on foot. With equal bravery, Essex advanced, in the same manner, on the
other side; and the cannons from both hosts, “ having discharged their choleric errands,”
the battle closed, the king, giving the word with solemnity. “Go in the name of God,
and I will lay my bones with yours.”
The command of the royalists’ right wing was taken by Prince Rupert; of their left,
by Commissary-general Wilmot. To Rupert was immediately opposed the chief strength
of the parliament's horse; in which force they were inferior to the king. Here it was
that the fight began. Rupert, his strength augmented by the accession of a regiment
which, at the instant of charging, came over and joined him, fell upon the enemy with
his characteristic impetuosity, and bore down all before him. In a moment their entire
left wing gave way, and was dispersed. On the king's left wing, Wilmot, following with
corresponding success the example of the prince, drove the parliament's horse opposed to
him through a body of musketeers which had been drawn up for their support. Every
other consideration was now lost sight of by the victors, in the pursuit, which they con-
tinued as far as Kineton, a distance of between two and three miles. There Hampden,


THE FIRST BATTLE–EDGE-HILL. 59
hastening forward with his own and another regiment and some pieces of artillery, found
them engaged in pillaging the rich baggage of Essex and his officers; and, by his unex-
pected appearance, first reminded Rupert, and his ill-employed followers, of returning to
the scene they had so imprudently abandoned.
Night was closing in upon the field of civil carnage, when Prince Rupert returned,
to witness the effect of his rash conduct. He found the royal army harassed and broken,
and the king himself exposed to imminent danger, while riding to the foremost ranks he
animated the few troops that yet stood firm, by his words and his example. Charles's own
“red regiment,” at their earnest request, had obtained leave to be absent that day from
his person, and to charge in front among the horse. Against this, and the Earl of
Lindsey's, the king's next best regiment, were directed the successive charges of the
powerful brigades of Essex's foot, commanded by the general in person, by Hollis, and by
Colonel Charles Essex; while Sir William Balfour, bringing up his reserve of horse, which
had not shared in the general rout of the parliament's cavalry, broke in with terrible
execution upon the main body of the royalists. It was now that Lindsey fell, severely
wounded, and was instantly surrounded and made prisoner; which Lord Willoughby
perceiving, rushed into the midst of the enemy, and voluntarily surrendered himself, to
attend on his brave parent. Sir Edmund Warney, the king's standard-bearer, was slain,
and the standard taken and retaken: two regiments only maintained their ground. The
king and Prince Rupert made every effort to prevail on such squadrons of cavalry as had
now returned, to charge afresh ; but without success. Their re-appearance, however, put
a stop to the slackened movements of the parliamentarians; and the shadows of night
descended on the motionless hosts, where they stood gazing on each other, as if struck
with silent remorse, neither side daring to believe that they had gained the first fratricidal
victory of the war. Charles now commanded the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York,
who had hitherto been by his side, to retire from the field; but refused to yield to the
entreaties of his officers to abandon it himself. He had shown himself equal, in gallantry
and firmness, to the great and unexampled circumstances in which he had that day stood.
He determined to risk nothing now; “well knowing,” observes Clarendon, “that as that
army was raised by his person and presence only, so it could by no other means be kept
together; and he thought it unprincely to forsake them who had forsaken all they had
to serve him.” Doubtful of his actual position, and of what might follow, the sovereign
merely dismounted from his horse, and seated himself by such a fire as could be kindled
with the furze and scanty brushwood which grew on the barren heath. It was a keen
autumn night; and a freezing wind sighed along the unsheltered slopes of Edge-hill.
Essex's camp was well furnished with provisions; but the king's troops, who had had
nothing to eat for many hours, were in danger of perishing with cold and hunger: for the
peasantry of the surrounding country, zealously devoted to the interests of the parlia-
ment, refused to supply provisions for the “papistical cavaliers and malignants” who
fought with King Charles. More than once, during the night, a report arose that the
rebels had retreated: but when day appeared they were seen standing in the same spot.
Morning advanced, yet neither army moved from its position.
60 THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL.
The king having received intelligence, some days before, that many officers and soldiers
of the enemy were ready to lay down their arms, and come over to him, upon assurance
of a good reception, had prepared a proclamation to that effect. With this proclamation,
he, about noon, sent one of his heralds, Sir William le Neve, to the Earl of Essex; rather,
indeed, to observe the enemy’s condition, and to ascertain what prisoners had fallen into
their hands, than with much hope of its producing the effect originally contemplated.
Clarendon’s account of Sir William’s reception is amusing. “Before Sir William came
to the army he was received by the out-guards, and conducted with such strictness, that
lie could say or publish nothing among the soldiers, to the Earl of Essex; who, when he
offered to read the proclamation aloud, that he might be heard by those who were present,
rebuked him with some roughness, and charged him, “as he loved his life, not to presume
to speak a word to the soldiers;’ and, after some few questions, sent him presently back,
well guarded, through the army, without any answer at all. At his return he had so great
and feeling a sense of the danger he had passed, that he made little observation of the
posture or number of the enemy; only, he seemed to have seen or apprehended so much
trouble and disorder in the faces of the Earl of Essex, and the principal officers about
him, and so much dejection in the common soldiers, that they looked like men who had
no further ambition than to keep what they had left.” The king and Essex were both
desirous of renewing the engagement, but were prevented; Essex, by the advice of Dalbier
and the other mercenaries, by whom, chiefly, his brigades were officered; the king, by the
exhausted condition of his troops. Charles drew out his horse at the foot of the hill;
brought off his cannon, including several of the parliament's, without disturbance; lin-
gered till evening upon the summit; then moved forward his standard, which, in that
conspicuous position, had all day long tossed its defying streamers in the breeze; and led
his wearied followers to their previous quarters at Edgcot, where they obtained food
and rest. -
In this first great action there fell between 5,000 and 6,000 men, of whom two-thirds
were parliamentarians. On that side two colonels, Charles Essex, reputed the ablest officer
under the earl, and the Lord St. John, were slain. Of the king’s party, there died on the
field of battle, besides Sir Edmund Warney, Lord Aubigny, one of three brave sons of the
Duke of Lennox, who that day fought for the king, and Colonel Monroe, “a great com-
mander.” General Lindsey was borne, profusely bleeding, from the fight, by the pious
assiduity of Lord Willoughby, to the rude shed of a neighbouring farm. In the heat
and distraction of the engagement, Essex, “among whose faults, however, want of civility
and courtesy was none,” forgot to send surgeons to tend his unfortunate antagonist. It
was midnight when one arrived, with Sir William Balfour, and other officers, whom the
parliament's general had sent to tender Lindsey such assistance as was at his com-
mand, designing himself to visit the wounded commander. They found him stretched on
a little straw, pale from loss of blood, but with looks full of animation. “Gentlemen,”
he said, “I am sorry to see so many of you, and among you some of my old friends,
engaged in so foul a rebellion.” Then directing his discourse particularly to Balfour, he
put that knight in mind of the great obligations he was under to the king. His majesty
-

º|
-
-
-




THE FIRST BATTLE-EDGE-HILL, 61
A.
had incurred the displeasure of the whole nation by giving him the command of the Tower
of London: was it not odious ingratitude to make his royal master the return he had that
day made? “Gentlemen,” continues the dying earl, “tell my Lord Essex that he ought
to throw himself at the king's feet, and implore forgiveness; speedily let him do it, if he
would not have his name a word of reproach among his countrymen l’” The passionate
earnestness of the loyal veteran quickened the exhausting flow of blood. The parliamen-
tary officers retired in silence. Ere morning dawned, Lord Willoughby, amid his unavail-
ing services by that forlorn bed of death, had become Earl of Lindsey. Charles made
earnest efforts for the immediate release of the victim of filial affection; but the parliament
refused to accept any exchange for young Lindsey, and he remained nearly a year their
prisoner. Other scenes, no less sad, were passing nigh at hand: the following is related,
as one of the affecting incidents of this bloody field. “A parliamentary soldier, dying of
his wounds, declared that his deepest grief was having received his death from the hand
of his brother. Him he had recognized among the royal troops, and turned aside; but
the carbine was impetuously discharged by the hand which had never before been raised
but in affection.”
As soon as the armies had quitted the ground, other parties took possession of it.
The fugitive soldiers who had skulked in the neighbouring villages, returned with the
rude rustics to rifle the dying and the dead. The clergy of the vicinity assembled their
more charitable parishioners to register and give sepulture to those earliest sacrifices to
the Moloch of intestine strife. Brother sought out brother, and sons their fathers,
to snatch the remains of those they loved from an undistinguished grave, or it might be,
to cherish and rekindle the yet lingering spark of life. The name of more than one son,
of knightly race, is preserved, who, after a search of days, found his parent, naked,
covered with wounds, and well nigh frozen in his blood; and had his pious cares repaid
by the sufferer’s recovery. -
Both sides claimed the victory at Edge-hill, which, in fact, neither obtained. The
parliament voted that their army had been victorious, and ordered a solemn thanksgiving.
The king published a “ declaration” of his acts and motives; and forwarded a proclama-
tion, offering a free pardon to the cities of London and Westminster, if they would lay
down their arms, in which it is implied that his majesty had been prosperous in the
late action. With Charles rested, at all events, the advantages of victory. While Essex,
his rear harassed by the royal horse, retreated on Warwick and Coventry, the king's
army pushed forward towards the metropolis; took Banbury, with Lord Peterborough's
regiment of six hundred men, quartered in the town; and continued its march, without
interruption, to Oxford.
R.
-



62
CHAPTER VII.
PARTISAN WARFARE-LORDS BROOKE AND NORTHAMPTON.
WHILE, after the battle of Edge-hill, the operations of the two great armies were suspended,
or conducted with languor, the warfare of partisans, in the more remote provinces, grew
every day sharper and more general. There the movements of the leaders were unem-
barrassed by public responsibility or political views; and the private feuds of families and
individuals stimulated their zeal, or even determined their choice of a party. The means
of commencing and carrying on those little insulated wars, into which every man, even
in the remotest corners of the country, if he failed to be drawn by his inclinations, was
nevertheless cruelly forced by the circumstances of the time, were obtained in two ways.
In the one case, the predominant disposition of a district, of a county, or even of several
adjoining counties, influenced and directed probably by one or more distinguished pro-
prietors, embodied itself in an application to the parliament or the king, respectively, for
authority to raise troops, and enforce contributions for their maintenance. Such authority
was readily given; a chief or chiefs appointed, or sanctioned, on the recommendation of
the applicants, free from all control, except the duty of now and then communicating
to the great belligerent parties at Westminster or at Oxford a statement of their opera-
tions; or if need arose, of asking advice or assistance. Of these associations, the earliest
were those of the northern counties, under the Earl of Newcastle; of the eastern counties,
under the Earl of Manchester and Cromwell; of the midland counties, under the Lord
Brooke. In the other case, a single bold and zealous individual raised, equipped, and
supported, at his own expense, his little band of guerilla warriors, drawn from among his
tenantry and neighbours; and carried on the war, as occasion offered, either single-
handed, or in conjunction with other adventurers like himself, until his forces became
absorbed in some more considerable armament. Of such bodies, the strength, the
position, the objects, were continually changing from day to day. One thing alone was
permanent, and common to all—to imitate on a smaller scale, but with greater freedom
from constraint, the deeds and vices of more numerous armies. Yet the generous nature
of the objects of contention,-loyalty, liberty, religion,-in which selfishness had no part,
rendered the explosion of the coarser passions in acts of heartless or wanton violence
comparatively rare. The English have proved that revolution and civil war, while they
rouse honour from the embrace of luxury, and awaken slumbering genius in high and
low, are not necessarily the worst of public evils. Englishmen, in the deadliest conflicts
of the Civil War, seldom forgot that they were such; nor was there any one circumstance
which contributed more to injure Charles's reputation with this partially misled, but,
upon the whole, sound-hearted people, than the powers and indulgences lavished on an
PARTISAN WAR.F.A.R.E. 63
individual of a different temper. The unfeeling insolence and predatory fierceness of
Rupert were qualities of the foreign soldier of fortune, which darkly distinguished the
royal trooper from every other general in the service; and they reflected on the cause
for which he fought, a portion of that prejudice wherewith he was himself regarded,
partly as a foreigner by birth, but more as foreign in character and manners to the
manly and humane temper with which the English mingled in that awful contest.
Various movements occurred in the north between the chivalrous Earl of Newcastle,
the king's general for those parts, and Fairfax, whom the parliament had appointed to
the chief command of their northern forces. Sir Hugh Cholmondeley defeated and
killed Slingsby, the gallant secretary of Lord Strafford, at Gisborough. Lancashire and
Cheshire yielded alternately to Sir William Brereton's garrison at Nantwich, and to the
royalists at Chester, under Sir Nicholas Byron. In the south, Sir William Waller took
Chichester; but this success was more than counterbalanced by the fall of Cirencester,
which yielded with its strong garrison to Prince Rupert. Eleven hundred prisoners
taken in that place are said by Whitelocke to have been marched into Oxford, in
a Wretched plight, in the presence of Charles and his lords; and the memorialist adds
an anecdote of a remarkably handsome soldier, who, as he was led along on horseback, on
account of the state of exhaustion he was in from his wounds, dropped down and expired
while in the act of rallying his sinking strength for an angry reply to some reproachful
words addressed to him by one of the spectators.
In the county of Cornwall a romantic and successful spirit of resistance started up,
which the parliament, who were strong in the adjoining counties, by no means expected.
“There was in this county,” observes Clarendon, “as throughout the whole kingdom,
a wonderful and superstitious reverence towards the name of a parliament, and a preju-
dice against the power of the court; yet a full submission to, and love of the established
government of Church and State, especially as concerned the Liturgy, which was a general
object of veneration with the people.” An observation from which, as indeed from
a thousand other sources, we may understand how men were torn by the unhappy events
of that period, not only from each other, but from themselves; and, even, within them-
selves, were divided, not merely by the frequent crossing of their interests and their
attachments, but by adverse duties and conflicting principles. The gallant Sir Ralph
Hopton, aided by the Grenvils and Sir Nicholas Scanning lighted a fire of loyalty in
those remote regions which rapidly spread through the whole west of England. Laun-
ceston, Saltash, with a garrison of Scots, opened their gates to the king's forces.
In the famous fight at Bradockdown, Hopton beat an army sent against Cornwall, under
the orders of Colonel Ruthen ; and with the loss of very few common men, and no officer
of name, took 1,200 prisoners, most of the colours, and all the ordnance, of the enemy.
Ruthen again occupied Saltash, and within three days found means to raise works before
that place, fortified with cannon taken from a vessel which he had brought up to the side
of the town; but Hopton with his Cornish men coming up, drove the Scot from his
fortifications, and then out of the town, with the loss of most of his followers. Ruthen
himself with difficulty escaped by water to Plymouth, leaving his artillery, his remaining


64 PARTISAN WAR FARE :
colours, and 1,300 prisoners, in the hands of the enemy. Hopton, who distinguished
himself in this action, no less by his humanity than his ability and courage, now remained
undisputed master of Cornwall. The next march of this gallant chief was upon Tavistock;
where the leading gentlemen of Devonshire laid before him a proposition, designed to
avert from their county the miseries of a contest, in which they foresaw the two parties,
being nearly balanced, would injure each other without materially affecting the general
result. To the plea of humanity Hopton listened, and a solemn engagement was entered
into for the two counties. The example of such confederations had already been set in
York and Cheshire. The counties agreed to disband the troops already on foot, within
their respective jurisdictions, and to oppose the raising or introduction of any others,
without the joint consent of the king and the parliament. Both the belligerents, how-
ever, naturally declared against the authority of contracts which, if generally adopted,
must have at once put an end to all prospect of that supremacy which each had in view.
They were, therefore, quickly laid aside and forgotten; and the demon of Civil War,
having shaken from him these ineffectual shackles, traversed, unimpeded and unresting
the length and breadth of fair England. , -º
As the English imported republicanism in religion from Geneva, where it existed
because the Helvetians could get no bishops; so they brought in republicanism in
government from Holland, where it had been adopted because the Dutch could get no
king. In our island, republican principles of both kinds (they have both one root) pros-
pered surprisingly,–for this, beyond all other reasons, that England and Scotland had
too severely felt the authority both of kings and of bishops.
One of the earliest and least virtuous of English republicans was the Lord Say, who
with his sons performed so conspicuous a part in the great revolutionary drama of the
seventeenth century. The next of note was Sir Henry Vane the younger. The consti-
tutional disposition (for such it may be termed) of that gifted and admired individual,
to the wildest political fancies, was generated by a religious fanaticism so eager, that
English puritanism, though in the freshness of youth and the fervour of suffering, was
found too tame a stimulant: he sought the intoxicating draught in its more genuine
purity, by the waters of Lake Leman, and amid the “obscure wildernesses of Massa-
chusetts.” The third was Vane's contemporary, the second Lord Brooke. Church and
king, with whatsoever appertained to them, this nobleman “hated with a perfect hatred;”
and as his honesty was thorough, and his intellectual resources, natural and acquired,
hardly inferior to the greatest of that illustrious age, he neither concealed his sentiments,
nor, when the opportunity presented itself, was found wanting in energy and ability to
clothe them in action.
A party of the inhabitants of Lichfield and its vicinity had taken possession of their
beautiful cathedral, a place easily defensible; and held it for the king. The Lord Brooke,
who had at this time under his command the greater part of the counties of Warwick,
Leicester, Stafford, and Derby, resolved to dislodge this inexperienced band of royalists
before they should have had time materially to increase the natural strength of their for-
tress. On the first of March he appeared before the town, at the head of 1,200 men,

LORDS BROOKE AND NORTHAMPTON. 65
drawn from the Earl of Essex's army, from the garrison at Derby commanded by Sir John
Gell, and from his own determined band of followers at Warwick Castle. Within a short
space of the city, the noble republican halted, drew up his forces, and addressed them in
a solemn exhortation. He avowed his purpose to destroy that stronghold of popery and
superstition, the cathedral; whose richly decorated arches and clustering spires, rising
high above the fortifications and fair prebendal dwellings in the Close, presented a pros-
pect calculated to win admiration and reverence from sectarian prejudice itself. Long
shouts of applause followed the announcement. He then lifted up his voice in prayer,
desiring that God would by some special token manifest his approbation of their design.
Afterwards, the whole army joined in singing the 149th Psalm. The concluding verse,
“To execute on them the doom
That written was before ;
This honour all the saints shall have :
Praise ye the Lord, therefore,”—
was still sounding through the ranks, when, the word being given, they marched forward
upon the town. Lichfield had no exterior defence, except its feeble gates, which at once
giving way before the cannon of the parliamentarians, they took possession of the town;
driving before them into the Close the Lord Chesterfield, who had brought in a small
party the day before from Bretby, with such of the citizens as were disposed to take part
with the garrison, or to throw themselves into the consecrated fortress for protection.
The following day began the siege of Lichfield Close; an occurrence memorable in the
annals of that pleasant city, and not without special interest, as a link in the great chain
of similar events which then, like the connected explosions of a thunder-clap, were burst-
ing out, successively or simultaneously, in every quarter of England.
The Close was separated from the town by a broad moat, or pool, traversed by two
causeways, which offered the only means of access on that side. The available defences
of the fortress had been prepared, with some care, to resist an attack. “ Mounds had
been thrown up between the cathedral and the moat; the old houses had been pierced
with loopholes and embrasures; and the bastions of the south gate and the battlements
of the Lady Chapel had been lined with musketeers and marksmen, who were protected
partly by the battlement, woolsacks carried up to the roofs of the buildings for that pur-
pose. Some of the long iron guns, called ‘drakes,” had also been mounted on the great
central tower of the Cathedral.” - -
The besiegers having brought up their artillery as near as they could, opened their fire
briskly upon the fortress. It was returned with spirit. Though unequal in numbers and
military resources to the task they had undertaken, and impeded in their operations by
the crowds of people, herds of cattle, and various property deposited for safety in the
enclosure, the garrison entered on their defence with great courage and determination.
“ Under cover of their guns, they made a vigorous sally from the south gate, and captured
a large piece of ordnance; but were overpowered by numbers, and obliged to draw off again
into the Close without their prize, and content themselves with annoying the besiegers by
their fire from the battlements.” A group who had taken possession of the top of the
S


66 .." PARTISAN WARFARE :
centre tower of the Cathedral, immediately under the great spire, caused great annoyance
to the assailants, by being enabled, from their elevated position, to fire over the breast-
work upon the gunners. One of this little party was a son of Sir Richard Dyott, a gen-
tleman of property and consideration in the town; who, though deaf and dumb, entered
with the utmost animation into the royalist cause, and from his uncommon skill as
a marksman was able to serve it, on this occasion, by a singular exploit.
Lord Brooke had taken up his quarters in a house near the spot where his battery
was placed. This nobleman was accustomed to pray aloud in public, even in the presence
of his chaplain. He this day intended to storm the Close: he had therefore performed
his devotions with more than usual fervour, desiring a sign from heaven to mark the
divine approbation of his enterprise, and wishing that if the cause he was engaged in
were not the righteous cause, he might presently be cut off; if it were, that his eyes
might witness the ruin of that proud edifice, as the prelude to the destruction of all the
other cathedrals in the land. Shortly after the utterance of this fanatical petition, the
party in the centre tower perceived a distinguished person issue from one of the houses,
with some attendants, and advance as if to give orders to the gunners. He wore a com-
plete suit of plated steel armour; a tall plume, springing from a chaplet of laurel, nodded
in his shining helmet. This warlike figure pointed upwards to the spire, he raised his
visor, as if to descry more plainly the object against which he seemed to be commanding
the soldiers to direct their fire. At that instant the keen-eyed Dyott discharged his
fowling-piece; and Lord Brooke fell dead, pierced by the bullet in his brain. The cry of
triumph, that rang from roof to roof, and was quickly taken up by the multitude in the
Close below, and the answering silence of consternation without, were both prolonged
through England. The energy, integrity, and determined zeal of Lord Brooke were
universally known: every royalist, therefore, rejoiced in the destruction of an irrecon-
cilable foe to the church and crown : every parliamentarian lamented his fallen champion,
and vowed revenge. The furious animosity displayed by this brave but unhappy young
nobleman against the ecclesiastical government, with the peculiar circumstances of his
death, not unnaturally, in that age, gave rise to the opinion that his fall was a judgment
of heaven. He himself, indeed, while ostentatiously defying such superstitious conclu-
sions, in reality gave countenance to them: for he had chosen the day on which he fell,
for the assault, as being that of the saint to whom the Cathedral was dedicated, from
contempt for his supposed tutelary power. The particulars which, at the time, lent
currency to such an opinion, are thus quaintly brought together in a letter of the period,
printed by Mr. Gresley; to whose arrangement of the incidents, in The Siege of Lichfield
Close, we are indebted in this part of our narrative. “That enemy to our church,” says
the cotemporary writer, “ was slain in his quarrel against our church, by the God of our
church, with a shot out of the cathedral, by a bullet made of church lead, through the
mouth which reviled our church” (mouth for eye, a modest adjustment of facts to the
theory:) “and,” continues he, (“if this be worth your reading,) this cathedral being
dedicated to an old holy Saxon man, called Ceadda (commonly Chad) the blow of death
came from St. Chad's church upon St. Chad's day.”
LORDS BROOKE AND NORTHAMPTON. 67
Brief, however, was the respite to Lichfield. Sir John Gell had brought over from
Derby, where he commanded for the parliament, to reinforce Lord Brooke, a party of
his “good, stout, fighting men; but the most licentious, ungovernable wretches, that
belonged to the parliament.” The remainder of that day passed in sorrow and inaction.
Before day-break, however, the next morning, the besiegers, enraged by the loss of their
noble leader, assaulted the fortress on both sides at once; but were repulsed with great
bravery; and in a sortie from the western gate, many of them were slain, or drowned in
the moat, and several made prisoners. In his attack, Sir John Gell's men made good
their claim to the unfavourable character which the memorials of the time have handed
down, by the dastardly contrivance of liming their files of soldiers, while advancing, with
the helpless relatives and dependents of the besiegers, who remained in the town; thereby
rendering it impossible for them to return the fire of their assailants. That day nothing
further was attempted; but on the third, the intrepid little garrison found themselves
attacked from a new quarter. Gell, having received a reinforcement of artillery from
Coventry, including a terrible mortar “to shoot grenadoes,” planted his guns, amounting
now to a very considerable battery, in the gardens along the side of the pool. From this
point their fire was directed with deadly effect upon the buildings in the Close, now
thronged with the best families in the neighbourhood, upon the Close itself, and upon the
cathedral, the peculiar object of animosity to the assailants. The great spire had been
seriously injured on the first day of the siege; and a shot now carrying away a portion
of the tower beneath, it fell down suddenly through the roof into the choir, only a few
minutes after the clergy had concluded the afternoon services, and retired to the equally
becoming employment of tending the wounded in the nave. The following morning,
March 5, the enemy still “proceeding with all imaginable vigour in their attacks upon
the Close, and having thrown over many grenadoes, and being ready to blow up the wall,”
farther resistance was deemed hopeless, and the garrison surrendered, on condition of
quarter to all persons in the place. Lord Chesterfield, his son, and other gentlemen of
distinction, were among the prisoners; and the plate and money, the arms, ammunition,
and horses, fell into the hands of the victors.
Blame has been cast on Lord Chesterfield for so early a surrender; and it is probable
that an effort would have been made to hold out sometime longer, had the distressed
garrison known that relief was nigh at hand. The Earl of Northampton, whom the king
had left in Banbury, was already on his march, with a strong party of horse and dragoons,
to relieve Lichfield; when, hearing of its fall, and that some of the royalists in the vicinity
had taken refuge in Stafford, he threw himself into the latter town. -
In the brief military career of this gallant nobleman we find an illustration of the
fact, that war, even in its most deplorable form, as it now raged through our country,
is not an unmixed evil. Independently of those great results which awar of principle may
ultimately secure, the horrors of a great contest—of a civil contest, perhaps, more than
any other—are in some degree mitigated in the view of humanity, by the opportunities
its progress may open for the development of personal as well as national energies.
Families hitherto obscure or insignificant, throw out, through the fissures caused by such

68 PARTISAN WARFARE :
political earthquakes, shoots of genius and virtue, which else had never struggled into
the light. Individuals, sunk in luxury and sloth by the security of a passionless and
protracted peace, start from their slumber; with new-strung vigour snatch from their
ancestral walls the armour of their forefathers; and, by being roused as men, to battle
with men, for a possession dear to all mankind, renew their mobility in something nobler
than the name; or else, it may be, perish by such an honourable fall as every generous
nature would prefer to the long lethargy of corrupting enjoyment.
Not till some few months before his death did the world, or himself, become acquainted
with half the virtues of the Earl of Northampton. During the long period of ease and
luxury which preceded, he partooklargely of “that license which was then thought necessary
to great fortunes.” But, “when the blast of war blew in his ears,” the earl, like so many
others, became a new man. Before the king's standard was set up, his neighbour, Lord
Brooke, had found him, in some encounters that occurred between them, more than a
match for himself in courage, promptitude, and zeal.
We will not wrong at once the noble historian of the Rebellion, and this gallant
subject of his pen, by farther varying from the original draught of the character of
Northampton. “As soon as an army was to be raised, he levied, with the first, upon
his own charge, a troop of horse, and a regiment of foot, and (not like some other men,
who warily distributed their family to both sides, one son to serve the king, whilst his
father, or another son, engaged as far for the parliament) entirely dedicated all his chil-
dren to the quarrel, having four sons officers under him; and, from the time he submitted
himself to the profession of a soldier, no man more punctual upon command, no man
more diligent and vigilant in duty. All distresses he bore like a common man, and all
wants and hardnesses as if he had never known plenty or ease; most prodigal of his
person to danger; and he would often say, that if he outlived these wars, he was certain
never to have so noble a death.”
Knowing himself in no condition to cope with the earl, Sir John Gell retired towards
Nantwich, and formed a junction with Sir William Brewerton, who advanced from that
place to meet him. The two knights then fell back with their joint forces, numbering
about three thousand horse and foot, with a good train of artillery, upon Stafford.
Northampton had notice of their approach; and instantly marched out to meet them
with less than a thousand men, expecting to find only Sir John Gell, whose numbers he
knew, and for whose courage he had some contempt.
When the earl came within view of the enemy, who were drawn up to receive him
on Hopton Heath, two miles from Stafford, he at once perceived his mistake. But his
resolution to engage them did not change. The heath was spacious, and appeared well
adapted to the movements of cavalry; he saw, likewise, that his great inferiority lay in
his foot. The parliamentarian horse were posted in two bodies, in front of the infantry.
He charged the more advanced body, and dispersed them; the second likewise, with
such complete success that scarcely a horse of theirs remained on the field. At the same
time eight pieces of cannon were captured by the royalists. Dear, however, was the cost
of the victory. The earl’s cavalry, pursuing their advantage with that rashness and

º
|
H
-
-






LORDS BROOKE AND NORTHAMPTON. 69
precipitation, of which Prince Rupert had set the example, threw themselves among the
ranks of the enemy’s foot. While thus engaged, his horse was killed under him, and
he found himself alone on the ground, surrounded by furious enemies. The colonel of
the regiment, among whose ranks he fell, advancing to encounter him, the men drew
back, only to see their commander fall, slain by the earl. The enraged soldiers now
closed round the gallant nobleman, striking at him on all sides. One of them, with his
heavy matchlock, smote off his helm. They now—such was their own report—offered
him quarter; which, it was said, he refused, exclaiming that he scorned to take quarter
at the base hands of rebels. A ruffian halberdier then dashed his weapon into his brain
behind, and he fell covered with wounds. Sir Thomas Byron, colonel of the prince’s
regiment, now followed up the impression made by his commander, in a successful charge
upon the infantry of the parliamentarians. But the victory that day was turned into
mourning. “They who had all the ensigns of victory but their general, thought them-
selves undone; while the other side, who escaped in the night, and made a hard shift
to carry his dead body with them, hardly believed they were losers.” They refused to
give it up on any other terms than the restitution of all their prisoners, cannon, and
ammunition; they even, with what a writer not apt to censure that party with severity
terms an “incredible baseness,” denied to the filial piety of the young earl (who, with
two of his brothers, had charged by his father's side at Hopton Heath) permission to
send surgeons to embalm the mangled remains.
In less than a month the walls of Lichfield Cathedral—objects, during that period,
of the ruthless violence, and witnesses to the insolent profaneness, of the puritan soldiers
—once again echoed to the roar of the besiegers’ cannon. Prince Rupert, with a strong
body of horse and seven hundred foot, marched from Oxford to recover that singular
fortress to the king; and being joined by some of the troops which had lately been
victorious under the Earl of Northampton, entered the town on the 8th of April, without
opposition, and immediately laid siege to the Close. It was now strongly garrisoned,
commanded by a resolute officer, and supplied with everything necessary to a protracted
resistance. For several days the fire of the royalist batteries made no impression. The
prince now opened a mine under the walls; it was met by a counter-mine on the side of
the besiegers: the hostile parties met, and fought with fury, in the bowels of the earth.
A second mine was sprung, in a place where the besieged were least prepared for it. A
tower, with a party of the defenders in it, was blown up; and a breach of twenty feet in
width being made in the walls, the prince assaulted it with his whole available force,
but was ultimately forced to retire with the loss of many officers and men. A second
time he prepared for the assault; when the garrison, knowing that the king's orders to
his highness were to grant them honourable terms, surrendered, and marched out the
following day, under a convoy, to Coventry. Prince Rupert left a powerful garrison in
Lichfield, and committed the government of it to Colonel Bagot. Then directing his
army to follow him with all possible expedition, he immediately hastened off, with only
a few attendants, to rejoin his majesty.
º


70
CHAPTER VIII.
Q U E E N H E N R. I E TT A.
A MoDERN historian, speaking of the lively consort of Charles I., styles her “ that per-
nicious woman; ” Warburton is severe even to rancour, in his strictures upon her
conduct: in short, poor Henrietta is exposed to nearly equal censures from both friend
and foe of her husband. The daughter of Henri IV. was, it is true, the most unfit of
princesses to be, in that age, queen of England. The English disliked her country,
despised her manners, and abhorred her religion,-all of which appeared to herself per-
fection. Her numerous foreign attendants; the spies who lurked about her in the guise
of ambassadors; the evil counsellors who enjoyed her unlimited confidence under the
character of chaplains and confessors, did unspeakable mischief to the royal cause. Their
insolent behaviour was among the most palpable means of disgusting the people, of
inflaming the misunderstandings between the court and the country, and hence, of hurry-
ing on the nation into the vortex of civil war. Charles, while he had an extreme contempt
for all those parties, was fretted so much by nothing else as by their impertinences, and
proved both, by the manner in which he at length freed himself from the annoyance;
yet the people, instead of pitying him, believed him to be in league with his tormentors.
He was tender of his consort's honour, and intent on what he deemed her happiness;
but the moral English nation visited this virtuous behaviour as a crime, because the fair
object of it was a daughter of France, and a bigoted Roman Catholic. He was as firm
and enlightened a foe to her religion, as any in his dominions; but she was his wife; she
was known to have great influence over the monarch, and to use it unsparingly:-could
he, whatever were his professions, be, in heart, less than a papist P Finally, the parlia-
ment, as if at once to direct against her the full measure of the popular dislike, rewarded
the most commendable action of her life by impeaching her of high treason l—But we
are anticipating the course of events.
Before the queen’s departure from England, in the spring of 1642, it had become
obvious to both parties, though both were far from making the avowal, that the sword
must ultimately decide their differences. At that time, however, Charles had not the
means of raising a single regiment. The great object of Henrietta was, therefore, to
strengthen her husband’s interest in Holland, whither she had retired; and, in particular,
to procure arms and ammunition, to be transported to England as his necessities might
require. Her activity and address surmounted the repugnance which was naturally felt
by the States (with whose assertion of their freedom England had warmly sympathized),
to favour any design which might impede the struggles of the English in winning their



QUEEN HENRIETTA. 71
own. It was to little purpose that the parliament sent over an ambassador armed with
declarations and remonstrances, to desire, at least, a complete neutrality. The States
affected compliance; but the queen's preparations went on as before. It was chiefly
owing to her exertions, that Charles had been enabled to bring an army into the field.
She had repeatedly sent him arms and ammunition, and, what he equally wanted, officers
of experience, to train and discipline his forces. At length, after a year's absence from
England, she herself sailed, with a convoy of four vessels supplied by her son-in-law,
the Prince of Orange; eluded the vigilance of Batten, the parliament's vice-admiral, who
had received orders to intercept her; and landed safely at Burlington, in Yorkshire, on
the 22nd day of February, 1643. -
The Earl of Newcastle, with a detachment of those forces which, on account of the
favour he was in with her majesty, and because they had from time to time been rein-
forced by her means, was styled by the parliament, “the Queen's army of Papists,” had
drawn towards the coast, for the purpose of conducting her to York. Designing, how-
ever, to rest a day or two from the fatigues and anxieties of the voyage, she took up her
residence in a house on the quay. The second night Batten arrived, umperceived, with
his fleet, anchored in the road, and, enraged at his disappointment, exposed the adven-
turous princess to a new danger, by an outrage, the particulars of which are preserved in
her own spirited narrative. “About five of the clock in the morning, the ships began to ply
us so fast with their ordnance, that they made us all rise out of our beds and leave the
village, One of them did me the favour to flank upon the house where I lay, and before
I was out of my bed the cannon bullets whistled so loud about me, that all the company
pressed me earnestly to go out of the house, their cannon having totally beaten down
all the neighbour houses, and two cannon bullets falling from the top to the bottom of
the house where I was; so that, clothed as well as in haste I could be, I went on foot
some little distance out of the town, under the shelter of a ditch, like that of Newmarket,
whither, before I could get, the cannon bullets fell thick about us, and a servant was killed
within seventy paces of me. We in the end gained the ditch, and stayed there two
hours, whilst their cannon played all the while on us. The bullets flew, for the most
part, over our heads; some few only grazing on the ditch, covered us with earth, &c.,
till the ebbing of the tide, and the threats of the Holland admiral, put an end to that
danger.” Information of these particulars was sent to the parliament, and the Lords
voted an order to the Earl of Warwick to inquire into their truth; but no further notice
was taken of the outrage. On the contrary, it was for this act of romantic obedience to
the sentiments of the heart and the laws of society, that the Queen of England was
charged by the Commons with the crime of high treason. The impeachment was, as
usual, carried up to the bar of the House of Lords by Pym; and this odious attempt was
the last effort, in his peculiar province, of the now failing patriot. Could the statesman,
who thus sacrificed all other considerations at the shrine of a daring policy, be indeed the
same, who, really in the great contest for the Petition of Right, and ostensibly in the
prosecution of Strafford, contended for freedom, the blessing which both enables men to

72 QUEEN HENRIETTA.
enjoy, and teaches them to venerate, the great moral duties of mankind; and for law, and
that imprescriptible justice, which is its fathomless source?
The displeasure of the parliament was so far justified, that the arrival of the queen
certainly imparted a new impulse to the king's affairs, and contributed in no small degree
to the successful issue of the ensuing campaign. It was the signal for fresh exertions
among his adherents; and supplied a point for the discussion of new projects, and the
diffusion of a more general spirit of loyalty. The balanced successes of that noble com-
mander, and his able opponents, the Fairfaxes, father and son, which had so long devas-
tated the northern counties without any decisive result, now preponderated in favour of
the royal cause. Sir Hugh Cholmondeley, who had served the parliament with great
courage and vigour against the earl, attracted by the new aspect of affairs, or yielding to
the contagion of chivalrous feeling, offered his allegiance to the queen; delivered up the
castle of Scarborough; and received again the command of that fortress for the king.
Proposals to raise a party for Charles in Scotland were earnestly made to her majesty by
Montrose, but defeated, for the present, by the craft or prudence of Hamilton. Even Sir
John Hotham seemed not indisposed to admit Henrietta within the fortress whose gates
he had formerly closed against her royal lord; and it was one of the charges on the trial
of his unfortunate son, that he had suffered the royal convoy to pass unmolested from
Burlington to York.
Four months the queen, in the enjoyment of the Sunny prospects thus opened before
her, held her court in the capital of the northern counties; her ambition taking delight
in the exercise of an independent power, and the affability and liveliness of her manner
imparting it to all around her. Immediately after her landing, she had forwarded a part
of her supply of arms and ammunition under a strong convoy to the king; but to have
pursued her journey towards him at that time, would have been to throw herself into the
power of her enraged enemies.
ſº ： Nos：
ZZºº，，， ，，， ，,，，，，，，，
ĒĒĒĒĒ




73
CHAPTER IX.
T H E T R. E. A. T Y. — H Y D. E.
WINTER was approaching when King Charles entered Oxford, intending to fix his court,
for a season, with the Muses; whose charms, had peace and leisure waited on his steps in
life, few princes could have better appreciated than himself. The boiling blood of Rupert,
however, was impatient of a day’s inaction. From his head-quarters at Abingdon, the
prince made many successful incursions with his cavaliers into the adjacent counties, each
time approaching near to the capital. In one of these expeditions he attempted Read-
ing; where the parliament had placed a garrison, under the command of the fantastic
republican Henry Marten. At sight of Prince Rupert and his fiery cuirassiers, governor
and garrison precipitately abandoned the town; and such were the accounts of the terror
and disaffection in and near the capital, which the prince received from the inhabitants,
that he prevailed on Charles, always too ready to give way to the views of those about
him, to advance with his army towards London.
The parliament were now seriously alarmed. They ordered Essex to bring up his
army to the metropolis; and, by a vote of thanks for the victory at Edge-hill, and
a present of £5,000, engaged him to pursue the war with activity and decision. They
proposed to invite the Scotch to their assistance; resolved to raise another army, to be
placed under the command of the Earl of Warwick; and ordered that all apprentices who
would enlist, should have the period for which they served reckoned towards their free-
dom. For the means of carrying on the war with increased energy, they applied, as
usual, to the city, and levied assessments by oppressive and arbitrary methods; declaring
it legal, not only to seize the goods of those who refused to contribute one-twentieth part
of their estates, but also to imprison their persons, and expel their families from the
metropolis and its vicinity. They hastily voted a petition to the king for peace; but while
their commissioners were attending at Colnbrook to present it, hostile movements were,
on both sides, renewed. The general received orders to draw his army westward from the
city; the military were commanded, under the strictest penalties, to repair instantly to
their colours; and a committee of both houses was sent to encourage the citizens to
renewed resolutions “ of defending and maintaining their liberties and religion with their
lives and fortunes.” + -
Essex advanced toward Brentford, and occupied that town with Hollis's regiment.
There Prince Rupert, with some troops of horse and several pieces of artillery, fell
suddenly upon them, intending, it was said, to cut his way through to London; when
Hampden’s and another regiment coming to the rescue, a more equal contest followed.
After repeated charges on both sides, in which great numbers were slain, and many
Uſ



74. THE TREATY –HYDE.
prisoners taken, the parliament's forces were driven from the town, and it was taken
possession of by the king. But reinforcements were sent in, from all quarters, to the earl.
“Bands and regiments of armed men sprung up in succession, as if out of the earth,”
says a patriotic writer. An effectual appeal was made to the trained-bands to march out,
and protect their municipal wealth, and household hearths, from the avidity and license
of the cavaliers. These substantial troops were led on by the brave but coarse Skippon;
who, passing from company to company, cheered his unfleshed battalions with familiar
talk; “and the soldiers,” observes Whitelocke, “seemed to be more taken with it than
with a set, formal oration.” Essex’s army consisted of full 24,000 “stout, gallant, proper
men, as well habited and armed as were ever seen.” The general, however, was averse to
engage; the “old soldiers of fortune,” whose pacific advice coincided with his own incli-
nations, averred that it was honour and safety enough to stop the march of the king.
Hampden, mortified by this coldness, proposed to march a body of men to Hounslow, and
cut off Charles's retreat, while the main army assailed him in front. This was agreed to ;
but they had not proceeded a mile when they were recalled. For one whole day the
army stood drawn up on the side of Turnham Green; while its columns were confronted,
on the opposite side, by those of the king. At length a movement appeared in the
royalist ranks. On this, two or three hundred lookers-on from the city turned their
horses’ bridles, and galloped homewards, followed by some of the soldiers. It was the
king preparing to quit the field. Either for want of ammunition, or because he dreaded
the discredit of interposing farther difficulties to the proposed treaty, Charles had resolved
on a retreat. The citizen-soldiers now directed a fierce attack—upon the provisions, the
wines, and tobacco, which their wives and daughters had forwarded to them in abundance,
from the markets and cellars of the city; and confidence and hilarity once more pre-
vailed in the parliamentarian ranks. The king, in the mean time, marched by Colnbrook,
to Reading; where he left a garrison of 3,000 men under the command of Sir Arthur
Aston, and presently re-entered his winter-quarters at Oxford.
From many parts, a loud cry was now heard for peace. The city of London, by an
order of common-council, presented a petition to that effect to the houses of parliament;
in which was enclosed another to the king. The parliament rejected that addressed to
themselves, but voted that the petition to the king should be presented. By the advice
of the houses, a deputation from the common-council proceeded with it to Oxford.
When a passage of this document was read, in which the petitioners earnestly besought
his majesty “to return to his parliament, accompanied with his royal, not his martial,
attendance,” engaging “to preserve his majesty and the two houses from all tumults,”
Charles smiled: “You seem to me,” he said, “gentlemen, to promise more than you are
able to perform; for I hear you cannot maintain peace and quiet among yourselves.”
He promised, however, to give a full answer, which he desired should be read out
publicly in the city of London.
The largest confluence of liverymen ever remembered, met on this occasion. A com-
mittee of both houses were present. The petition was first read, and was received with
such tumultuous applause, that the gentleman by whom the king had sent his answer,


THE TREATY – HYDE. 75
alarmed at the cries of the citizens, sought to evade the reading of it, alleging, in excuse,
the weakness of his voice. The assembly insisted; and the abashed messenger was
required to read it a second time, from a place where he could be better heard. This
time a small party of royalists attempted to raise a shout; but finding none to second
them, desisted. Lord Manchester then addressed the hall. He was followed by Pym,
“that Worthy member of the house of Commons, and patriot of his country” (as the
reporter styles him), in a speech containing the usual evidences of his mental vigour and
unbending repugnancy to the king. “At the end of every period, the applause was so
great, that he was fain to rest till silence was again made.” The concluding “words
were no sooner uttered, but the citizens, with one joint harmony of minds and voices,
gave such an acclamation as would have drowned all the former; which, after a long
continuance, resolved itself into this more articulate and distinct cry: “We will live and
die with the parliament | We will live and die with the parliament l’”
Such was the report of one of their thorough-going admirers. But the people were
weary of the burdens laid upon them to support the parliament’s army; the citizens also
began to feel the effect of an interruption of trade, and dreaded, besides, another visit
from Rupert and his cavaliers. Giving way to these dispositions without, to the demands
of the Lords, and of a powerful minority in their own house, the leaders of the Commons
consented to discuss propositions for a treaty. Their adoption of this vote is supposed
to have been obtained partly by the eloquence of Sir Benjamin Rudyard, who failed not
to appear on the scene as often as the warning voice of wisdom and humanity might be
expected, in some momentary calm of the passionate elements, to find attention.
“We have already,” said that true patriot, “tasted the bitter, bloody fruits of war:
if we persist, there will be such a confluence of mischiefs break in upon us, as, I am
afraid, will ruin the king, the kingdom, the nation. I have long and thoughtfully
expected that the cup of trembling, which has gone round about us to other nations,
would at length come in amongst us : it is now come at last, and we may have to drink
the dregs of it, which God avert | There is yet some comfort left that our miseries are
not likely to last long, for we cannot fight here as they do in Germany; in that vast
continent, where, although there be war in some parts of it, yet there are many other
remote quiet places for trade and tillage. We must fight as in a cock-pit; we are sur-
rounded by the sea. We have no stronger holds than our own skulls and our own ribs
to keep out enemies: so that the whole kingdom will quickly be but one flame.
“It hath been said in this house,” he continued, “that we are bound in conscience to
punish the shedding of innocent blood; but who shall be answerable for all the innocent
blood which shall be spilt hereafter, if we do not endeavour a peace by a speedy treaty?
Certainly God is as much to be trusted in a treaty as in a war. It is he that gives wisdom
to treat, as well as courage to fight, and success to both, as it pleases him. Blood is a
crying sin, it pollutes a land: why should we defile this land any longer?”
Early in March, 1643, the Earl of Northumberland, with four members of the Com-
mons' house, Pierrepoint, Armyn, Holland, and Whitelocke, commissioners appointed by
the parliament to treat of a pacification, proceeded to the king at Oxford. Lord Say had

76 THE TREATY-HYDE.
also been named, as a second commissioner on the part of the Lords; but Charles
excepted against his lordship, as being one of those individuals whom he had publicly
proclaimed traitors, some months before. Charles had his residence in Christ Church.
It was in the gardens of that noble college, where he daily walked, accompanied by the
prince and the lords of his court, that the commissioners first had access to him. They
were most favourably received; and their intercourse with the court was, throughout,
distinguished by a tone of mutual frankness and honour. The Earl of Northumberland
displayed, in his style of living, unusual splendour; his plate, his furniture, his wine, and
other provisions, were all sent from his house in London. The lords and gentlemen of
the court appeared often at the earl’s table; the king himself condescended to accept
from him some presents for his own. On the other hand, the commissioners had unre-
stricted approach to his majesty, and were allowed all possible freedom of discourse.
In fact, it was a part of their instructions to treat with no one but the king in person.
That Charles, on his part, was competent to the task laid upon him, is thus testified by .
one of the commissioners. “In this treaty the king manifested his great parts and
abilities, strength of reason, and quickness of apprehension, with much patience in hearing
what was objected against him; wherein he allowed all freedom, and would himself sum
up the arguments, and give a most clear judgment upon them. The lords of the council
never debated anything with the commissioners, but gave their opinions to the king in
those things which he demanded of them, and sometimes would put the king in mind of
some particular things; but otherwise they did not speak.” But the hands of the com-
missioners were absolutely tied. Their instructions did not so much as leave to their
discretion the interpretation of a doubtful phrase. “I am sorry,” observed Charles,
when this was explained to him, “ that you have no more trust reposed in you. The
parliament might as well have sent their demands to me by the common carrier, as by
commissioners so restrained.” The proposals brought by them were substantially the
same which were embodied in the “nineteen propositions,” and had already been rejected
before a sword was drawn: abolition of episcopacy, and command of the militia to
remain with the parliament. But before coming to the conditions of peace, they were
to treat about a cessation of arms. To finish the whole treaty, only twenty days were
allowed. Six they might employ on the cessation ; and then, whether that point were
determined or not, they were to enter upon the terms of pacification. If these were not
concluded before the end of the twenty days, the whole negotiation was to cease, and
they were to return to the parliament.
The most valuable servant King Charles ever had was Edward Hyde, lord-chancellor
after the Restoration; and author of the admirable, though extremely imperfect, History
of the Rebellion. It was to Hyde that Charles was indebted for that information respect-
ing the plans and movements of his opponents, by which, during the appalling interval
that followed his return from Scotland, he was enabled, in some degree, to counteract
their efforts. It was he who, with the aid of his accomplished friend Falkland, composed
those eloquent public manifestoes which were poured forth so profusely, and with such
effect, in the king’s name. The sense they entertained of the value of Hyde's exertions,
|
-
-
º
º
º
W
Wººs
W
º
W
\
º|





THE TREATY-HYDE. 77
in these and other points, the parliament marked, by naming him with ten others, in their
instructions to the Earl of Essex, as incapable of being ever admitted to pardon. But
Hyde had no official station at court: his appointment to one, at the time of the treaty,
furnishes no unpleasing court-anecdote. When the commissioners came to Oxford, some
one of their company brought a copy of a letter of the king's to the queen, which had
been intercepted by the parliament, and printed. In this letter he adverted to a promise
which he had given her, on the eve of her departure for Holland, not to dispose of places
at court without her advice; but excepting from that promise the offices of state, and
such other changes as the urgency of his affairs might require to be made without delay.
In particular, he observed, “I must make Hyde secretary of state; for the truth is, I
can trust nobody else.” The next morning when Hyde, as was his custom, joined the
king in his walk, Charles inquired if he had seen his letter to the queen, which had been
intercepted and printed. Hyde answered, he had not. Charles gave it to him to read;
and, after he had read it, said, “I wish it were as much in my power to make every one
else amends, as I can you. I am resolved, this afternoon, to swear you secretary of state.”
Hyde refused the secretariship, but was made chancellor of the exchequer. He would,
at all events, have had a share in the treaty, as the king's secret adviser; he now took
his place also at the board, in his official character as a member of the privy council.
Owing as well to the restrictions on the commissioners, in consequence of which every
proposal or demand which arose had to be referred to the parliament, and debated by
both houses, as to the real indifference of both the parliament and the king to the suc-
cess of the negotiations, no progress was made. The period fixed for the committee's
return was nearly expired, and only two articles, viz. the first demand on either side, had
yet been brought into discussion. The commissioners were not to blame. They were
governed, upon the whole, by just and honourable views; and,so earnestly desired the
success of their labours, that, perceiving the insuperable difficulties which surrounded
them, while they complied in all their public proceedings with the letter of their instruc-
tions, they nevertheless privately intimated to the king, that if he would submit to some
sacrifices, they might possibly find means to obtain a corresponding concession on the
other side. The Church was the point on which, beyond all others, Charles was inflexible.
Would he, in order to secure it, surrender the command of the militia—an advantage
which the parliament deemed indispensable to their security? The discussion of this
point had been, on one occasion, protracted till midnight. The committee indulged a
belief that the king had been won over; but at so late an hour they would not ask his
written consent. It was agreed to defer it to the morning. Morning came ; and the
eager commissioners made their appearance earlier than usual. But the king's mind was:
changed. He had been prevailed on, during the night, to prepare a totally different
answer. The disappointed commissioners now suggested, that if Northumberland were
restored to the office of Lord High Admiral, which Charles had taken from him in conse-
quence of his having appointed Warwick to the command of the fleet, that nobleman's
influence might be found available to soften the obstimacy of his opponents. But Charles
was stung with the ingratitude of the earl; whom, to use his own words, he “had ever
X


78 THE TREATY –HYDE.
sought to live with as his friend, and courted as his mistress.” The eloquent importunity
of Hyde and Falkland was of no avail: the king would merely promise, that he might
one day restore Northumberland’s commission, when he had performed some such service
as should atone for the past. Still Charles desired that the negotiation should proceed,
and proposed a prolongation of the term. The parliament refused; at the same time
instructing their commissioners to press his majesty to name a day for disbanding the armies,
and to return to his parliament. He replied, that when the command of his revenue,
magazines, ships, and forts, should be restored to him ; when all the members of the two
houses, with the exception of the bishops, should be allowed to return to their seats, as
they held them at the opening of the parliament; and when the houses should be secured
from tumultuary assemblies, which could only be done by adjournment to some place
twenty miles distant from London, he would consent to the immediate disbanding of the
armies, and return to his parliament. No answer was returned to these proposals; but on
the 19th day, the commissioners received peremptory orders to quit Oxford the next
morning. They obeyed; and from that time all communication between that city and
London was interdicted by the parliament.
Clarendon assigns as the true cause of Charles's haughty refusal of all concession,
the famous promise to the queen, that he would neither give away any office nor consent
to a peace except by her mediation. The noble historian likewise asserts, that at her
landing she wrote to Oxford, expressing apprehension on the subject of the treaty; and
that the king’s motive for desiring a prolongation of the treaty was, that she might have
time to reach Oxford before its conclusion. But we have seen that he did not regard
the first part of this promise as binding, in the sense commonly understood; and of the
other (if it ever were made), the most rational and probable interpretation seems to be
that of Lingard. “As far as I can judge,” writes that historian, “it only meant that
whenever he made peace, he would put her forward as mediatrix; to the end that, since
she had been calumniated as being the cause of the rupture between him and his people,
she might also have, in the eyes of the public, the merit of effecting the reconciliation.”
The truth is, the wound had long become immedicable. The faults of both the leading
parties in the nation—perhaps, the sins of the nation itself—demanded, at the hand of
a corrective Providence, the excision of the “ ulcerous part” by the sword; and peace
was impossible till one of them had fallen. War was renewed amidst the mournful
apprehensions of the good and wise, who clearly saw, that, whichsoever side should now
prevail, the liberty as well as the prosperity of the country must inevitably suffer.
On the very day the commissioners returned to London, the Earl of Essex quitted it;
and, rejoining his army, laid siege to Reading.

CHAPTER X.
HAMPIDEN.
THE parliament passed the winter in devising schemes for raising money to carry on the
war. The assessments were rigidly enforced; the estates of delinquents and the lands
of the church were sequestered; an excise was, for the first time in our country, imposed
on a great number of commodities. Neither these designs, nor their efforts to recruit
the army, were for a moment relaxed during the negotiations at Oxford. The army of
Essex when he sat down before Reading on the 17th of April, was the finest that had
yet been seen in this unhappy war. It consisted of about 16,000 foot and about 3,000
horse, all well armed, and abundantly supplied with everything necessary for the siege.
Under the command of Sir Arthur Aston, there were few short of 4,000 excellent troops;
but he had very little ammunition; and the slight defences of the town were not capable
of being long maintained against a powerful enemy. Essex resolved to reduce it by the
cautious method of approach. The indefatigable Skippon, to whom the operations were
committed, had already planted his batteries within less than musket-shot of the out-
works, in doing which the besiegers succeeded in beating back the garrison in several
sorties; when Hampden, whose influence in the army was now of nearly equal weight
with the authority of the lord-general, impatient any longer to wait the issue of that
dilatory procedure, determined to attempt the walls by assault. Advancing silently from
the trenches with 400 picked men, seconded by Colonel Hurry, he passed the ditches in
the gray twilight of the morning, and, mounting the rampart, seized upon the northern-
most bastion. They met with a brave resistance, and were driven back. Hampden,
calling forward his reserves, immediately placed himself at the head of a second attack;
and, again struggling up the well-defended walls, renewed the fight. The governor had
previously been disabled by a shot. Colonel Fielding, who had supplied his place, now
brought forward the main strength of the garrison, and a bloody conflict ensued. Both
leaders fought, hand to hand, on the ramparts, each at the head of his party. Over-
powered by the numbers and determined valour of the royalists, Hampden was on the
point of once more retiring, when Hurry, by a sudden movement, threw himself between
the royalists and the town. The inhabitants, ill-affected to the royal cause, at once
ceased firing; and, after a severe struggle, a parley was demanded by Fielding, and
a truce followed. *
Meantime the king, who had no intention to retain the permanent occupation of
Reading, reluctantly advanced to its relief, with some divisions of his army hastily drawn
together; designing only to force one of the besiegers' quarters, and withdraw the
garrison. But Essex had drawn the principal strength of his army to the west side of




80 HAMPIDEN.
the town, towards Oxford. On that side there was no pass, except over Caversham
Bridge. To protect that place, a body of the parliamentary troops was posted: against
which the king, understanding them to consist of only two regiments, the Lord Robert's
and Colonel Berkeley’s—detached two of his own, the green and the red, commanded
by General Ruthen in person. The parliamentarians, however, were immediately sup-
ported by strong reinforcements. The skirmish that followed was sanguinary; and the
royalist troops suffering severely, and perceiving no movement attempted from the town,
retired, in the end, to their main body. In the night came Fielding to the king, and
assured him that neither could he, on his part, hold out the town, nor would the small
force which Charles had brought suffice to raise the siege; but that if the king agreed
to his surrendering, good terms might be granted. Charles, who only desired to secure
the safety of his troops, consented. The next morning, the town was given up on
honourable conditions; the garrison joined the army at Wallingford; and the king
once more retired to Oxford. Essex lingered in the neighbourhood of Reading. There
his army was wasted with disease and desertion; and his counsels, at the same time,
thwarted both by his great masters in Westminster, and by dissatisfied officers in the
Camp. .
Six weeks Essex lay at Reading. It was in this interval the famous Waller plot was
discovered. This plot was a design on the part of some royalist politicians in London, to
satisfy the general desire for peace, and for the prevention of farther and direr calamities
to the country, by forcibly promoting an accommodation between the king and the
parliament. Its results were the expulsion from the House of Commons, the fining,
and banishment of the principal conspirator, the execution of two of his friends, and
a great accession of strength to the war faction. Again Pym was the safeguard of his
party—the genius who laid open their dangers, the thunderer who struck down their
foes. With his usual happy blending of adroitness and force—the great secret of popular
influence—he so told the tale of his great discovery to the citizens, as effectually to scatter
to the winds the dull ashes which had been gathering, of late, upon their zeal. He intro-
duced an oath against similar designs; an engagement nominally optional, but in reality
imposed on every member of the Peers and Commons, on the army, and on all citizens.
After a terrible preamble, asserting that “there has been, and now is on foot in this
kingdom, a popish and traitorous plot for the subversion of the true protestant reli-
gion, &c., in pursuance whereof a popish army hath been raised, and is now on foot in
various parts of the kingdom,” the subscribers bound themselves never to lay down arms
so long as the papists now carrying on war should be protected from the justice of the
parliament; and never to adhere to, or willingly assist, the forces raised by the king with-
out the consent of both houses. “The popish plot and popish army,” observes a modern
historian, “were fictions of their own, to madden the passions of their adherents.”
At length the parliamentarian general, being enabled to advance, fixed his head-
quarters at Thame. And now occurred one of the most eventful actions of the War.
Hurry, a Scotch mercenary, bred in the German wars, had led the attack on Reading,
under Hampden; and had before done good service for the parliament at Edge-hill, and

HAMPIDEN. 81
under Waller. Having, from discontent with his employers, thrown up his commission of
colonel of horse in their army, this man came over to Oxford, and offered to Prince Rupert
to lead an expedition against an exposed quarter of the enemy. Knowing Hurry to be an
able officer, receiving good assurance of his sincerity in the cause he had adopted, and
aware of his thorough acquaintance with the habits and condition of the army he had left,
Rupert accepted his proposals, put himself at the head of a powerful body of cavaliers,
and, late in the evening, marched out of Oxford, under the guidance of the renegade. At
Postcombe, the expedition came unexpectedly upon a regiment of dragoons, and killed, or
took them prisoners, to a man. At Chinnor, a second regiment was annihilated, and the
place itself set on fire. The party then marched back upon Oxford, intending to fall in
with a body of infantry, which Rupert had ordered out to meet them by the pass at
Chiselhampton Bridge, the point where he would have to recross the river.
The army lay in Hampden’s county, where every “dingle and bosky bourne” was
familiar to him from childhood. Sagacious, and dissatisfied with his excellency’s arrange-
ments, the Buckinghamshire gentleman, now a veteran colonel, for in his year’s service
he had, by day, seldom quitted the saddle, or allowed his sword to rest in its scabbard,
had already perceived, and had pointed out to Essex, the exposed condition of his lines.
That night he lay at Watlington, where the alarm of Rupert’s irruption quickly roused
him. Instantly he despatched the only trooper that attended him, to the lord-general,
to recommend his moving a competent force upon the pass at Chiselhampton; and, at the
same moment, a body of the parliament’s horse, consisting of Sheffield and Cross's troops
coming up, he volunteered to put himself at their head, and by attacking the prince's
rear-guard to impede his retreat and give time for Essex to draw out his troops towards
the river. “Whereupon the officers and soldiers freely consented, and shewed much
cheerfulness that they could have the honour to be led by so noble a captain.” By this
time, being joined by Colonel Dalbier and several other officers, they amounted to a body
of horse not greatly inferior to Rupert's.
The prince, meantime, hastened on through Tetsworth, his rear constantly threatened
by the pursuing party. On Chalgrove Field, from which a lane led down to the bridge
of Chiselhampton, he fell in with his infantry. This spot, made famous that day in
English history, was then, and still is, an unenclosed plain, of several hundred acres.
Here, among the green corn which covered it, Rupert drew up his forces in order of
battle; directing the party who guarded his prisoners and booty to move forward to the
bridge. The parliamentarians now came fiercely on, in three bodies. Tired and harassed
as his men were with a march of twenty miles, and frequent skirmishing, Rupert resolved,
notwithstanding, to anticipate the attack. The first body which reached the ground was
led by Colonel Gunter; it consisted of several troops of horse and dragoons, and bore
down upon his right wing. Rupert charged; and the long rapiers of his life-guards did
terrible execution. Gunter’s party, though at once reinforced by the troops of Colonel
Neale and General Percy, gave way and fled, leaving their commander dead upon the
field. At this juncture Hampden arriving, eagerly advanced to rally the broken squadrons.
Essex, too, was at hand with his main body. Hampden, relates Lord Nugent, at once
Y

82 HAMPIDEN.
put himself at the head of the attack: but in the first charge he received his death-wound.
He was struck in the shoulder with two carbine bullets, which, breaking the bone, entered
his body, and his arm fell powerless and shattered by his side. Sheffield, who charged
with him, was severely wounded, and fell into the hands of the enemy. Sir Samuel Luke
was three times made prisoner. Buller, a captain under Sir Philip Stapleton, received
a shot in the neck, and was also taken: in no fight, hitherto, had the parliament lost so
many soldiers of name. Overwhelmed by numbers, their best officers killed or taken,
their great leader and the hope of their cause retiring in a dying condition from the
field, and the day absolutely lost,--the forces of the parliament gave way, and fled towards
Essex's now unavailing squadrons. Rupert, though not able to pursue, made good his
retreat across the river; and about noon entered Oxford, with near two hundred prisoners,
seven cornets of horse, and four ensigns of foot, bringing back most of the men who had
marched out with him : some officers had been taken prisoners, but none killed.
The first accounts of this eventful day, published by the parliamentarians, spoke with
confidence of their great champion’s recovery; “ his wound was more likely to be a
badge of honour than any danger of life.” But these hopes were quickly dissipated.
On moving from the scene of conflict, Hampden was first observed to make for the house
of a relation in the neighbourhood. But Rupert’s cavalry were covering the plain between.
Turning his horse, therefore, he rode back in the way to Thame. When he came to a
brook which divides the plain, he paused awhile; but it being impossible for him, in his
wounded state, to remount, if he had alighted to turn his horse over, he suddenly sum-
moned his strength, clapped spurs, and cleared the leap. Through such particulars the
recent biographer of this eminent person naturally delights to carry his reader. But
what must have been Hampden’s thoughts, as he crossed the field of his youthful remem-
brances, staining the green blades that glittered in the sum of a bright morn of May with
no ignoble blood? There he had first practised his confiding neighbours, and his admiring
tenants and serving-men, in the use of those pikes which they were to level at the crown
and the mitres of England; and there the avenging ball of the royalist had shivered his
vigorous right arm | The cause was, to all appearance, declining:—the army weakened,
and commanded by a cold and vacillating partisan; the enemy victorious, and every day
gathering new strength; the parliament rapidly losing the confidence of the people;
Pym, his great fellow-champion, lying on his death-bed—the most sentient nerve of
Freedom, the toughest sinew in the whole body of Rebellion, shrivelling like a parched
scroll! Yet, could he have looked further, and with prophetic eyes beheld Naseby—
Carisbrook—Whitehall defiled with the blood of a king, and the residence of an usurper,
more appalling would have been that contemplation of its triumph. Where would he
have discovered the laws which he had vindicated—the Liberty, at whose shrine he had
sacrificed so much, besides what was his own—or even a free field for that sly but strong
ambition, which, more, it may be, than he was himself aware, directed the movements of
his life? In great pain, and nearly exhausted, Hampden reached Thame. The surgeons
who dressed his wounds encouraged his grieving fellow-patriots and brothers-in-arms
with hopes of recovery; but his own impression from the first was, that his hurt was

HAMPIDEN. 83
mortal. It was too true an one. After six days of intense suffering, Hampden breathed
his last.
The prosperous appearance of Charles's affairs, and the contrast exhibited in the
depressed condition of the parliament’s, became more obvious after the occurrence of this
event. So reduced was Essex's army by sickness, defeat, and destitution, that he no
longer deemed it safe to remain in the vicinity of his restless enemies. Yet the difficul-
ties which surrounded the cause of the patriots had not the effect of relaxing their deter-
mined tone. When Charles, feeling himself fully prepared to meet any forces which his
opponents could call into the field, once more sent a message for peace, intimating that
the calamities which would follow a renewal of hostilities between the main armies would,
if they obstinately refused all accommodation, be solely chargeable on them; the houses
answered merely by committing the messenger to prison; and with a view to close the
door against all farther attempts at negotiation, the Commons carried up to the Lords the
impeachment of the queen, already mentioned. The king replied to this insult by a
declaration, that the two houses at Westminster were no longer a real and free parlia-
ment; and forbade his subjects to obey their ordinances. The houses, on their side,
resolve to impart legal warranty to their acts, by making a new great seal; appoint an
assembly of divines to consult in affairs of religion; vote the despatch of a second
embassy for advice and assistance into Scotland; and, finding much inconvenience from
the “multitudes of scandalous books, pamphlets, and papers,” with which the whole country
swarmed, pass an ordinance to restrain “the liberty of the press l’






84
CHAPTER XI.
THE ROY A. LISTS VICTORIOUS.
HITHERTo Essex was treated with external respect; but his popularity, both in and out
of parliament, was rivalled by more active and decided, though less important, chiefs.
Hampden, indeed, could no longer dispute his laurels; but Fairfax and his father in the
north, and Cromwell in the east, were already more stirring names in the ears of the
patriots. The favourite general of parliament and people, however, was Sir William
Waller.
Waller had served abroad, and, on his return to mis own country, obtained an office
under the crown. But having engaged in an indiscreet quarrel which brought him under
the severe notice of the Star Chamber, and his resentment being quickened by the puritan
zeal of his wife, he went over to the patriots; and was among the first who took out com-
missions to raise troops for the parliament. The cautious temper of Essex served as a
foil to the rapidity and irregular daring of the general of the horse; and while the
impatience of eager partisans sickened at the dull and indecisive movements of the grand
army, they followed with exultation the meteoric flashing of the sword of Waller. His
successes at Portsmouth and Chichester, at the close of 1642, have been referred to
already. About the same time, he recovered Winchester for the parliament. Shortly
afterwards, Lord Herbert of Ragland having raised a large body of troops for the king,
Waller detached himself from Essex’s army, dashed through Wiltshire, and surprised and
took the whole prisoners, under the walls of Gloucester. Hereford, Tewkesbury, Chep-
stow, Monmouth, successively received his victorious bands. From Worcester he was
repulsed; but, avoiding the more numerous forces of Prince Maurice, who had been sent
by the Marquess of Hertford to intercept him, he led his party safe back; and rejoined
Essex, with a dazzling reputation, which was acknowledged in the quaint appellation,
popularly given him of William the Conqueror. -
But the conquests of Waller only interrupted the growth of the royalists’ strength in
the west—as the arrow cuts the air, which, behind it, closes again. The towns he had
entered immediately re-opened their gates to the enemy; for he left in them no garrisons.
These hasty successes, however, determined the parliament to make an attempt, by send-
ing out an expedition under his command, to maintain their waning influence in those
parts; while Essex, who was unable to obtain for his diminished forces such supplies of
clothing and ammunition as would enable them once more to take the field, had yet
the mortification to see an army of 8,000 men prepared, on a liberal and effective scale,
for his rival.

SI-IV-1 ― I，IIA，ICINIVY， H， ſtoſtºlo， ſoº， Nos：1s1）
ºs puottaesſae
-±-E=Eā№Ē№---------







THE ROYALISTS VICTORIOUS. 85
At the time when Waller was marching out of London, the Marquess of Hertford,
with Prince Maurice, effected a junction, on the borders of Devonshire and Somerset-
shire, with the Cornish men, victorious from the fight at Stratton, in their own county,
who had advanced to meet them, under the command of the brave and virtuous Hopton.
The king's army, hearing that Waller was already at Bath, marched through Wells to
give them battle, Waller drew out his forces on Lansdown Hill; from whence, on the
approach of the enemy, he dispatched Haslerigg, with his famous regiment of cuirassiers,
to charge their horse. At first, the cavaliers, who, till now, had charged the cavalry of
the parliament with contempt, gave ground, in some dismay, before this novel armament;
but, on being brought a second time to the charge, they completely routed, and chased
them to the foot of the hill. The summit of Lansdown Hill was crested with breast-
works, which were mounted with cannon, and flanked on each side by a wood lined with
musketeers; the reserves of the parliament's horse and foot being drawn up behind.
Unappalled by this disadvantage, the valiant Cornish men modestly asked permission
“to fetch off those cannon.” The ascent in that spot was deemed inaccessible; but
order to attempt it being, after some hesitation, given, Sir Bevil Grenvil charged fiercely
up with his dauntless Britons; drove the whole body from the ground; and the king's
troops took quiet possession of it. The two shattered armies now faced each other on
level ground, neither showing any disposition to renew the fight; “ so that exchanging
only some shot from their ordnance, they looked upon one another till the night inter-
posed.” About midnight Waller silently withdrew into Bath; and when day appeared,
the royalists found themselves in possession of the field, some arms and ammunition, and
the dead. Those who fell, on the royalist side, were chiefly officers and gentlemen;
among them, Sir Bevil Grenvil, “whose loss,” observes Clarendon, “would have clouded
any victory. He was indeed,” the historian continues, “an excellent person; whose
activity and reputation were the foundation of what had been done in Cornwall; and
his temper and affections so public, that no accident which happened could make any
impressions in him,” unfavourable to the royal cause. “In a word, a brighter courage,
and a gentler disposition, were never married together, to make the most cheerful and
innocent conversation.” The Lord Arundel of Wardour was carried off the field severely
wounded, and died soon afterwards at Oxford; having just survived long enough to
be made acquainted with the surrender of his beautiful fortress to the forces of the
parliament, after a short but spirited resistance by his heroic lady.
Waller's army was rather dispersed than materially weakened. Collecting, therefore,
his scattered squadrons, and being reinforced from Bristol and the adjoining counties, he
pursued the royalists, who had marched towards Devizes, engaging their rear-guard in
skirmishes, till they entered the town. The same night, the Prince and the Marquess
marched out with the horse to Oxford, leaving Hopton shut up in Devizes with the
infantry; where it was hoped they might be able to defend themselves, for a few days, till
relief should be brought. The next morning Waller assaulted the town with horse, foot,
and cannon; but was repulsed. Having intercepted a party marching in with powder
and shot, of which he knew the besieged were in extreme need, he thought it a fair
Z

86 THE ROYALISTS VICTORIOUS.
opportunity to propose high terms of surrender. Hopton consented to a cessation of
a few hours; when, his soldiers having obtained a little rest, and found means to supply
their immediate want of ammunition, both sides again fell to their arms. Waller had
resolved on a general assault; he had even written to the parliament that “their work
was done, and by the next post he would send the number and rank of his prisoners;”
when the startling news was brought, that Lord Wilmot had been sent from Oxford with
a large body of horse to raise the siege, and was already within a few miles of the town.
Instantly, the parliamentarian general drew off “ without drum or trumpet,” to Round-
way Down, an open space, two miles towards Oxford, over which the king's forces must
pass; where he ranged his columns very advantageously, in order of battle; the besieged
wondering what the sudden silence around them imported, for they could not believe that,
in two days, relief could be at hand.
Waller, seeing the royalists less numerous than he expected, from pure contempt
threw away the advantage of his position; and, putting Haslerigg and his cuirassiers in
front, advanced with his cavalry alone to the attack. So well was the onset of that
hitherto invincible regiment met, on the other side, by Sir John Byron, that they were
forced back in full career upon the main body of the parliament’s horse. There, for
a moment, they rallied; when Wilmot made such an effectual charge upon the whole
body, defeating it, division after division, that it was entirely routed and dispersed, and
not a trooper remained in sight upon the Down. Still the foot stood firm; but, by this
time, the Cornish regiments making their appearance from the town, and Wilmot, who
had got possession of their ordnance, turning it upon themselves, they also broke their
ranks, and fled in every direction. All the cannon, arms, and ammunition, colours, and
baggage of Waller, with 900 prisoners, fell into the victors’ hands. On the side of the
parliament, the slain amounted to 600: the king's army lost few common men, and only
one soldier of rank. Sir William Waller, Sir Arthur Haslerigg (who had received
several wounds), Colonels Strode and Popham, and other commanders, took refuge in
Bristol, whither their arrival brought the first news of that disastrous fight. This was
a terrible blow for the garrison of that city, a great part of whose strength had been lost
in the defeat; but worse apprehensions assailed them, when, ten days later, on the 22d
of July, two hosts sat down before their walls—Prince Rupert, with his Oxford forces,
on the Gloucestershire side; the Marquess of Hertford and Prince Maurice, with the
victorious Cornish army, on the side of Somersetshire.
The first step taken by the royalists was to seize on the ships in the harbour; in
which were many persons of consideration, who had prepared to avoid the horrors of the
siege, by escaping, with their families and treasure, to London. The next was to deter-
mine on the method of attack. Rupert's opinion, according with his hot and impatient
temper, that it should be by storm, ultimately prevailed. The garrison of Bristol con-
sisted of about 2,500 infantry and a regiment of dragoons. The town had a line of
fortifications drawn entirely round it. At daybreak on the 24th day of July, the
besieged beheld from their walls, on either side of the town, at the same moment, their
enemies advancing to the assault, in three separate divisions. Each division was crowded
-
|-







THE ROYALISTS VICTORIOUS. 87
with officers, eager for the glory, and disdainful of the danger, of seizing so important
a prize. On the West side, the middle division was led by Sir Nicholas Slanning and
Sir John Trevannion, “the life and soul of the Cornish regiments.” The second, on the
right, was brought up by Colonel Buck, and Colonel Bernard Ashley, who commanded
Hertford’s own regiment. Sir Thomas Basset, major-general of the Cornish regiments,
advanced with the third division, on the left. The moat in this part was deep, the lines
well flanked, and the ground level and exposed; over which the divisions now poured at
once, though provided with hardly any other means of assault beside their ordinary
weapons and determined courage. They filled the moat, and some of them mounted the
wall; but the defenders behaved like men of the same mould with their assailants.
Seeing Buck precipitated from the rampart to perish in the foss; the noble friends,
Slanning and Trevannion, also fallen together ; and useless slaughter mowing down their
ranks in all directions—the besiegers, on this side, quickly retired in disorder from their
bootless attempt.
The attack was made on Rupert's side, under more favourable auspices; for here the
ditch was shallow, the walls low and weak, and the ground rocky and uneven. His three
divisions were conducted by the virtuous and pious Lord Grandison, by Colonel John
Bellasis, and Colonel Washington. Of these officers, the first two were quickly wounded,
—Grandison mortally. Meantime, Washington, who headed the centre division, sur-
mounting the outworks, effects a breach in the wall, enters the line, and is followed by
Rupert with a party of his horse and a body of the Cornish foot, who had come round
to retrieve their honour on this side; the besieged retreating before them through the
suburbs, or assailing them from the houses. Having reached the gate of the city, with
the loss of several other officers, and many men, they prepare for a second, and, appa-
rently, no less difficult assault, on that barrier, before they can enter; when the governor,
Nathaniel Fiennes, demands a parley. Hostages are given, a treaty commenced; and
evening closes the events of a sanguinary day, by the surrender of the second English
city to the arms of its sovereign.
Nor was this prosperous condition of the king's affairs confined to the west. The
chivalry of the Earl of Newcastle had by this time reduced the whole north, as far as
York, and driven the scattered adherents of the parliament to take refuge in the strong
fortress of Hull. By placing a garrison at Newark, the earl had cut off the communica-
tion between Fairfax and the parliamentary forces which were overrunning Lincolnshire.
He had already penetrated into the latter county. A light army of horse and dragoons,
levied by General Charles Cavendish, younger brother of the Earl of Devonshire, had
bravely assaulted and taken the parliament's garrison at Grantham, with above 300
prisoners, all their officers, arms, and ammunition.
Early in June, the perils of a southward march being now lessened, the queen set out
from York to join her husband at Oxford, escorted by a large body of horse and foot,
under the command of Cavendish. That gallant young nobleman attended her as far as
Burton-upon-Trent; through which town he opened a passage for her by storming it
across the river, which he swam, at the head of his troops. Here the queen and Caven-


88 THE ROYALISTS WICTORIOUS,
dish parted; to their mutual regret, if we may judge from the language of Henrietta, in
her letter, written at the time, to the king. That lively despatch thus describes the amount
and arrangements of her convoy. “I carry with me,” she writes, “3,000 foot, thirty
companies of horse and dragoons, six pieces of cannon, and two mortars. Harry Jermyn
commands the forces which go with me, as colonel of my guard; Sir Alexander Lesly, the
foot under him; Gerard, the horse; and Robin Legge, the artillery: her she-majesty,
generalissimo, and an extremely diligent one, with 150 waggons of baggage to govern in
case of a battle. Have a care that Essex’s troops incommode us not; for I hope that for
the rest we shall be strong enough.” With Cavendish she left, for securing Lincolnshire
and Nottinghamshire, 2,000 foot, with arms for 500 more, and twenty troops of horse.
All these forces properly belonged to Newcastle's army. The earl was, about this
time, farther weakened by the capture of Goring, and his garrison, at Wakefield. Still
prosperity attended his operations. At Atherton Moor, near Bradford, he gained a great
victory over Fairfax, in which 700 of the parliament’s troops were slain, and 300 made
prisoners; on so considerable a scale was that northern, and, mostly, least-noted, branch
of the great contest conducted Fairfax fled to the stronghold at Hull; while Newcastle
marched forward into Lincolnshire, and laid siege to Gainsborough, which the Lord
Willoughby of Parham had seized for the parliament.
It was in a skirmish near Gainsborough, that the first military exploit occurred by
which Cromwell made his name a familiar word throughout England. Enough, indeed, had
already been seen of his character, to enable discerning observers to perceive that it
embodied, in a shape of prodigious but coarse energy, the spirit of the age, its serious
eloquence, running, in him, into affected mysticalness and heavy verbiage: its steady valour,
changed to calculating fierceness; its intense religious affections, perverted to stern
famaticism. Into the deep focus of his strong and ambitious mind Cromwell had gathered
those characteristics; and now sought to send them forth again, in a form moulded by
his will, and made subservient to his designs. He saw around, and felt no less convin-
cingly within himself, that the age of loyalty was gone; and that religion, as a social and
political force, was to supply the place of loyalty: but religion, uninformed and unregu-
lated by the church, and therefore (such will ever be the case, when it is thrown wholly
upon individual feeling) taking the characteristics of fanaticism;-religion tortured, at
least in words, to every vulgar appliance, and hence often no more than the cloak of the
hypocrite. These were the elements that composed this extraordinary person; and to
this model he effectually moulded his instruments. Collecting about him a band, from
those classes among whom, in every age, such dispositions most readily meet, and in
whom the thirst of freedom is generated by a sense of independence,—the sturdy yeoman,
the easy, thriftful, conceited burgher, he wrought them, by the master-power of his
energy and genius, into an engine, which he doubted not, -and he was not deceived,—
would effectually resist, and finally explode, the dreaded chivalry of the cavaliers, ani-
mated as it was by the lingering breath of fealty in the nobles, and by piety, if by little
else, in the sovereign. These stout-hearted associates he armed, mounted, trained, and
disciplined himself. He was their comrade, as well as their chif ; associating with them

THE ROYALISTS VICTORIOUS, 89
at all seasons, and in all moods, he could lay by the part of the drill-sergeant and, equally
for their behoof, assume the office of the preacher. Crafty and stringent was the creed
he taught them. The gospel as exhibited in puritanism, liberty as exemplified in the
parliament, constituted the cause of God. The king had allied himself with popery and
malignancy: to fight against him, while fettered by these fiendish confederates, was to
fight, not for themselves, not for their families and country, only, but for God and Truth.
Should they conquer, they would be glorious and happy; should they fall, it was good to
forfeit life in such a cause ! Faith grew, as confidence increased, with increasing strength.
Here was the germ of a military and religious despotism. From this little fulcrum was
launched the power which, finally, scattered all that remained of church and parliament,
including the first instigators of the war themselves; frighted this great nation into
submissive, dumb despair; and
“ Hewed the throne
Down to a block!”
Cromwell, in his march to relieve the garrison at Gainsborough, at the head of his
Huntingdonshire troopers, joined with some regiments from Lincolnshire and Nottingham,
fell in with the first division of Newcastle's army, under the command of young Caven-
dish. The royalists were first perceived on the summit of an acclivity; towards which
when Cromwell advanced, he found his progress impeded by a fence, running along at the
foot of the hill, with only one narrow opening. Through this passage he deliberately
filed his men, while exposed to the fire of the enemy; and then led them on to the top of
the eminence. Here a large body of the royalists charged them ; but, meeting with such
resistance as that army had never before encountered, were borne down, after a short but
determined fight with swords and pistols, and fell back upon their reserve of cavalry.
Cavendish, unable to rally his main body, now put himself at the head of the reserve,
fell upon and put to flight the Lincoln and Nottingham troops; but was, in his turn,
attacked, in his rear, by Cromwell, who by this time had formed his men afresh. The
onset was fierce and unexpected; and Cavendish’s troops giving way before it, were forced
into a marsh at the foot of the acclivity, where, unable either to fight or fly, they were
savagely butchered, with their chivalrous commander, by the Huntingdonshire troopers.
It was fruitless bloodshed; for the army now making its appearance, Cromwell brought
off his men, and retreated into the town ; from thence falling back to Lincoln, which also
he abandoned at the approach of the royalists, and took refuge in Boston.
Cavendish was among the most lamented victims of this deplorable contest. When
his body was brought to Newark, where he had commanded, the people would not suffer
it to be interred, till for some days they had feasted their eyes with the sight of it, “ and
embalmed it with their tears.” Even at the distance of many years, when the remains
were removed to Derby, fresh lamentations were made by those who had known him,
and by others who had been taught from infancy to revere his name; and the whole
town, as one man, expressed the most sorrowful unwillingness to part with the reliques
of so dear a person, “who had been the ornament and defence of that place.”
2 A
90 THE ROYALISTS VICTORIOUS.
Another striking incident occurred, in connection with the occupation of Gains-
borough. At its first capture by the parliament’s forces, several persons of rank were
made prisoners; in particular, the Earl of Kingston. This nobleman was one of those
moderate persons, who, like Falkland and Rudyard, bitterly deprecated the war : it is
related by the anecdotists of the time, that being urged to declare himself for either
parliament or king, he uttered a passionate wish that, whenever he took part with either
against the other, a cannon-ball might divide his body between them. When Lord
Willoughby understood that the Earl of Newcastle was advancing against the town, he
sent away his noble prisoner, in a pinnace, to Hull. The vessel was fired at on the
passage, by the royalist troops; and though she got clear, the good Earl of Kingston, as
he was called, perished from a cannon shot, divided—so say the admirers of fatalism—in
precise accordance with his imprecation.
By this time, the queen had pursued her journey southward; the towns yielding at
her approach, and the nobility and gentry flocking to her standard. At Stratford-on-Avon
she was met by Rupert; and Charles, having received information of her advance to the
borders of Oxfordshire, proceeded with his sons to give her welcome. The joy of
the meeting was enhanced by two most pleasing circumstances:—it occurred in the
same field, under the height of Edge-hill, where, a few months before, Charles had
valiantly fought his first battle ; and hardly was the first embrace, endeared by long
separation, much suffering, and mutual peril, over, when a breathless messenger broke
in upon the royal pair, with the news of the great victory gained that day at Roundway
Down. Their entry into Oxford was a triumph.
The effects of Stratton, of Lansdown, of Roundway Down, and of Bristol, were now
felt in all directions. Exeter was surrendered to Prince Maurice, by the Earl of Stam-
ford. Dorchester, Portland, Weymouth, submitted to the brave Earl of Carnarvon.
Barnstaple and Bideford yielded to Colonel Digby. Taunton, Bridgewater, and Bath
had likewise, by this time, opened their gates to the forces of the king. The prosperity
of the royal cause amazed Charles's adversaries: it equally surprised his friends.
Gloucester excepted, all the inland parts of the west had now returned to their allegiance.
The north, from Berwick to Newark, was for the king. And now the chivalry of
Newcastle was striking through the grand association of the east, the largest and com-
pactest surface on which the parliamentarian interest moved. But, what seemed of more
importance, this prosperous condition of the king's affairs was the means of daily bring-
ing over converts to his cause. Beneath the royal banner, the timid now began to think
there was the most safety; the selfish, that there was most to gain; the idolaters of
power, that there the object of their worship was the most worthy of it; the lovers
of peace, that by throwing themselves and their fortunes into that descending scale,
they might soonest obtain their benevolent desires.


91
CHAPTER, XII.
THE CR IS IS OF THE WAR.
THE war-party in the parliament were not men to despair. But on the news of the last
of the great successes of the king's armies, the victory at Atherton Moor, reaching them,
they determined on an expedient, which nothing but the present failure of all other
resources could have led them to adopt. The nation had seen so much of the Scots, in
their two recent inroads into the south, and in the conduct of their commissioners, that
not even the popular sympathy on the score of religion, nor the gratitude of the party
for their services against the king, could prevent a revival of the ancient hostile prejudice
against that people. An intelligent Scotchman, writing from London in June, complains
bitterly of the contempt and ill-usage which his countrymen met with. In fact, Hurry's
revolt, which led to the defeat at Chalgrave Field, and to the death of Hampden,
originated in just discontent with the treatment of the Scots by the parliamentarians.
“The name of a Scot,” observes the letter-writer alluded to, “is grown as odious amongst
the Londoners, as the name of Satan is to the soul of a saint : yet,” he adds, “they are
still longing and praying for our help.” Such was the fact: notwithstanding this pre-
valent dislike, no other expedient appearing to promise safety in the present terrible
crisis, it was resolved, at a conference of the two houses, instantly to send a committee
for aid from Scotland. The patriots were enabled to obtain the consent of the Lords
to this proposal, in consequence of the offence taken by them at the declaration, recently
received from Oxford, denying the legality of the parliament. But the measure was
unpopular. Only a few days earlier, the Lords had passed a solemn protestation of
loyalty to the king, and prepared a petition for peace. A letter arrived at this very
juncture, from the Earl of Essex, describing his want of means to carry on the war, and
advising the parliament to send propositions to the king for such a peace as would secure
the religion, the laws, and liberties of the nation. No member of the house of Peers
could, therefore, be induced personally to engage in the proposed mission to Scotland.
The Lord Grey of Werke, their speaker, hitherto the unflinching agent of his party,
refused; and was committed to the Tower for contempt. The Earl of Rutland was then
named: but eluded the employment on pretence of ill health. At length, it was resolved
to send only members of the Commons; and on the 20th of July, the committee, con-
sisting of Sir Henry Vane and Sir William Armyn, with two other members, and Marshall
and Nye, the one a Presbyterian, the other an Independent minister, were dismissed from
London by sea, it being impossible to reach Edinburgh by land, except through the
quarters of the Earl of Newcastle. ,
On Vane, projectors of the scheme wholly depended for success. As the bearing of


92 THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
this measure upon the events which followed was in a high degree important, it will be
proper to show the state of opinion in the parliament, with respect to the great question
it involved, and the difficulties with which its authors had to contend. For this purpose,
we shall transfer a paragraph from the recent Life of Vane, by Mr. Forster.
“The Scots,” observes that spirited advocate of the parliament, “were known to be
bigoted to their own persuasions of narrow and exclusive church government, while the
greatest men of the English parliament had proclaimed the sacred maxim, that every
man who worshipped God according to the dictates of his conscience was entitled to the
protection of the state. But these men, Vane, Cromwell, Marten, and St. John, though
the difficulties of the common cause had brought them into the acknowledged position of
leaders and directors of affairs, were in a minority of the House of Commons; and the
party who were their superiors in number were as bigoted to the most exclusive principles
of presbyterianism as the Scots themselves. Denzil Hollis stood at the head of this
inferior class of patriots; Glyn, the recorder of London, and Maynard, were among its
ablest supporters. Waller and Massey in the army, Sir Philip Stapleton, and Sir John
Clotworthy, ranged themselves under the same banners. The most eminent of the
parliamentary nobility, particularly Northumberland, Essex, and Manchester, belonged
also to this body; while the London clergy, and the metropolis itself, were almost entirely
presbyterian. These things considered, there was indeed great reason to apprehend that
this party, backed by the Scots, and supported with a Scottish army, would be strong
enough to overpower the advocates of free conscience, and set up a tyranny, not less to
be deplored than that of Laud and his hierarchy, which had proved one of the main
occasions of bringing on the war. Yet, opposing to all this danger only their own high
purposes and dauntless courage, the smaller party of more consummate statesmen were
the first to propose the embassy to Scotland.”
Leaving, then, Vane to his tedious voyage of twenty days from London to Leith, and
to the deep and difficult part afterwards, which none, like him, could play; let us glance
at the equally critical and perplexed position in which his colleagues in the capital were
placed, after his departure.
Every day brought an account of some fresh skirmish, in which the royalists were
victorious ; or some application to parliament, for relief from the hardships which pressed
upon their armies. Waller, after having departed from London, a few weeks before, with
a fine army, and in so confident a temper that in every town upon his route he left orders
for the reception of his prisoners, had re-entered the capital a solitary fugitive. Essex also
was returned to Kingston, with his troops in so broken and destitute a condition, that he
himself declared they were not worthy the name of an army. He, at the same time,
demanded redress for his own injured honour: his troops had been defrauded of credit
and supplies, for the benefit of another army; yet the very parties by whose misconduct
that army had been ruined, and the west lost to the parliament, had aspersed the general-
in-chief as the author of these reverses. At the moment when these ill-timed dissensions
occurred, came forth a new and more gracious declaration from the king. A door of
pacification seemed again thrown open. On the 4th of August, the Lords seized the



THE CRISIS OF THE WAR. 93
occasion to desire a conference with the other house; in which they submitted some pro-
positions for a treaty, of a more moderate tenour than any yet brought forward. They
proposed the immediate disbanding of both armies; that the members who had been
expelled for absence should be recalled; that all questions relating to the church and the
militia should be reserved for future consideration,-the first in a synod of divines, the
others in parliament. The moderation of these articles was terrible to the men of root-
and-branch. The prospect they held out of accommodation was, to the last degree,
alarming. Pym was now far gone in that sickness which shortly after laid his slumbering
body in the grave; but the dying lion roused up at the danger which threatened the
darling object of his life’s struggles, Republican Liberty. A hot debate ensued upon
the conference; at ten at night it was resolved, by a majority of twenty-nine voices
(ninety-six to sixty-five—the house, at that time, could muster no more!) to adopt the
propositions. This was on Saturday. “Unparalleled efforts” were to be made. The next
day all the pulpits resounded with prophecies of destruction to the city, if a peace were
now offered to the king; the citizens were exhorted to rise, as one man, and come down,
the next morning, to the House of Commons. Twenty thousand Irish rebels, it was
averred, were landed, and on their march to London. Inflammatory placards were stuck
up, and printed papers scattered abroad, with a celerity and effect never imagined until
the war of pamphlets and libels, which, from the beginning of this distracted period, kept
pace with the nobler strife of the senate and the field. Pennington, lord mayor of
London, assembled a common-council, the same evening, at Guildhall; in which was
passed a petition to the Commons against any accommodation. In the morning
a deputation of citizens made their appearance before the Commons with the petition,
and, annexed to it, a draft of an ordinance, empowering a committee to raise means for
a vigorous prosecution of the war. An immense concourse of people, brought together
for that purpose, demanded, with cries that penetrated through both houses, a favourable
answer to their prayer. The Lords sent to acquaint the Commons, that they had resolved
on an adjournment till the tumults were put down: the Commons took no notice of this
intimation, but thanked the petitioners for their zeal and attachment.
The propositions were again brought forward, in the midst of great disorder and
excitement; and after a very long debate, a division being called for, the tellers counted
eighty votes for sending them to the king, and seventy-nine against that proposition.
A fearful uproar followed the announcement of the numbers. The Pyms, Vanes, and
St. Johns, loudly insisted on a second division. Some terrified members escaped in the
confusion; for now the last vote was found to be reversed by a majority of seven
The next morning a counter-petition was brought from the City,+not by the men,
for the recent execution of the associates of Waller had taught the male population to be
cautious; but by the women. Two or three thousand of that sex, wearing white ribands,
the emblem of peace, in their hats, came with their petition to the door of the House of
Commons. It was received, read, and an answer returned; though not, in the former
instance of a ladies' petition, by the leader of the Commons, or in equally favourable
terms. The petitioners, not satisfied with the answer, remained about the house. By
- 2 B
94. THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
noon, their numbers were nearly doubled. Some men in women's clothes now appeared
in the throng, and, mounting to the door, set up a shout of “Peace | Peace l’” The
guard, a party of the City trained-bands, endeavoured to repulse these troublesome
suitors; and, having succeeded in clearing the stairs, fired their muskets, loaded with
powder only, to fright them away. But this merely increased the violence of the mob :
“Give us,” they exclaimed, “the traitors who will have no peace, that we may tear them
to pieces ! Give us the dog Pym l’” On this a troop of horse was ordered forward, who
dispersed them with great cruelty: “killing some three or four women,” as Baillie
alleges, “ hurting some, and imprisoning many.”
Immense exertions were now made by the patriots to confirm their hard-won victory.
The greater part of the members of the assembly of divines, which had now commenced
its sittings, visited, by order of the parliament, their respective parishes, for the purpose
of stimulating the people to new efforts in the cause. Waller, who, notwithstanding his
total defeat, had been received on his return “as if he had brought the king prisoner
with him,” was appointed commander-in-chief of the militia and defences of London, and
preparations were made for enabling him again to take the field. An ordinance was
passed for an army to be put under the command of the Earl of Manchester; and
another, empowering the committees in the counties to press soldiers, gunners, and
surgeons. Having given the lord-general this practical intimation, that they did not
depend on his excellency alone for the conduct of the war, they next plied every artifice
to fix him in their interests, and to urge him to exertions worthy of himself and of the
common cause. Pym, Say, and St. John (it was Pym's last public labour,) visited the
camp, as a committee of the two houses. They assured Essex of the cordial support and
confidence of the parliament; asserted that ingratitude was the reward with which Charles
acknowledged the services of his ablest generals; and hinted that he nourished peculiar
feelings of resentment against the earl. Essex now as plainly indicated a want of intel-
lectual firmness, in the readiness of his convictions, as, by his wavering conduct, he had
before done of the strength of his conscientiousness. Pym, by his dexterous arguments
and insinuations, wholly changed him, and wrought him to that resolved temper which
he afterwards continued to retain. In three days, he said, he would begin his march
to meet the king ; and at twelve o’clock that very day, would draw his troops to the
rendezvous on Hounslow Heath; where he besought the commissioners to attend and
inspect them.
The fortifications around London were also now completed. Great part of the labour
required to construct these defences was supplied by the voluntary enthusiasm of the
people. An esprit de corps, merged, in our days, in sentiments either narrower or more
diffused, animated, in those times, the separate guilds of citizens. Those bodies rivalled
each other in the alacrity with which they engaged in this novel employment. The trades
marched out to the work in separate parties, bearing mattocks, shovels, and other tools,
with drums beating, colours flying, and swords girded. Mixed with most of those com-
panies were to be seen women and girls, some of them ladies of rank and education, two
and two, carrying baskets filled with earth; many of whom wrought in the trenches, till



THE CRISIS OF THE WAR. 95
they fell ill from the effect of unusual exertion. Of the works thus patriotically raised,
an interesting description remains; and though long ago, every vestige of their existence
has been swept away, by the hand of time, or the march of improvement, they appear to
have been, for that age, of respectable efficiency. The stranger on approaching the
capital by Water, before he found himself enclosed between those dense ranks of mer-
chantmen, which, even then, covered both banks of the Thames, was frowned upon,
from either shore, by a stern multangular fort, with its deep trench and bristling
palisades; surmounted by cannon, and guarded by many a steel-capped musketeer, sworn
foes to cavaliers and malignants. From Limehouse, where they commenced, the lines
stretched on to Whitechapel, to Shoreditch, to Hoxton; then along, by Holborn, to
St. Giles's and Marylebone, to Tyburn and Hyde Park; whence bending round by
Tothill-fields, the river was again commanded by two forts, the one erected at that
station, and the other at Nine Elms, on the opposite side; from which point they
stretched across the angle of Surrey, through Newington, to Redriff, where they again
terminated upon the stream. At each of these, and of many intervening angles, a fort
commanded the adjoining approaches. There were, in all, twenty-four forts, besides
redoubts, counterscarps, and half-moons, along the trenches, between ; the whole planted
with 212 pieces of ordnance: a circuit of twelve miles, enclosing great wealth, and
swarming with a various and eager population. At each chief central point, within this
wide circumference, was placed a corps-de-garde,-in the City, in Southwark, by the
houses of Parliament, at Whitehall. The writer, from whose curious details, we copy
the present sketch, though a Scotchman, a presbyterian, and a devoted admirer of the
Parliament, unconsciously throws in a natural touch of loyal feeling, which finishes the
grand but melancholy picture of a mighty capital in rebellion against its sovereign :
“I found,” says he, “the grass growing deep in the royal courts of the king's house;
which, indeed, was a lamentable sight.” *
When Charles engaged the sons of his sister, the Queen of Bohemia, in the prosecu-
tion of the quarrel with his parliament, he introduced into his cause elements of dissension,
which materially contributed to its defeat and ruin. Bristol was the chief city included
in the brave Marquess of Hertford's commission, as lieutenant-general of the West; and
the marquess was chief in command at the siege; nevertheless, Prince Rupert had not
only engaged in the treaty without his advice, but concluded the articles of capitulation
without naming him, or noticing his presence. This was not to be borne by a nobleman,
who, though “ of the most gentle nature to the gentle,” was equally “rough and resolute
to the imperious.” In return, Hertford, with as little ceremony, proceeded to the choice
of a governor for that important place; selecting for that office the unexceptionable Sir
Ralph Hopton. Rupert, on the other hand, proceeding upon the right of conquest,
which he arrogated to himself, wished to reserve the appointment in his own disposal:
and, understanding what the marquess designed, in the same despatch by which he
acquainted the king with his success, besought him to bestow the government of it on
himself, as its captor. Charles, perplexed by the incident, and more so by the factious
temper which it indicated, endeavoured to solve the difficulty by himself going to Bristol,
96 THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
and conferring the government on his nephew, upon his agreeing to grant a commission
to Hopton, as his lieutenant; and by lavishing many personal attentions upon the mar-
quess. To this arrangement Hertford submitted, from a sense of duty to his sovereign;
but the army rang with murmurs that a rude young foreigner, whose best quality was
animal courage, and whose highest merit consisted in the nepotic partiality of the king,
should contemptuously step before one of the prime nobility of England into the govern-
ment of the capital of the West. A second motive was likwise forced upon Charles, for
keeping the Marquess of Hertford about his person; notwithstanding that, all this time
the heroic army of Cornwall was eagerly demanding back their leader. Rupert had
inspired his brother Maurice with his own petulant disposition: it was too much that the
king's nephew should be the lieutenant of a marquess. Hence, while the magnanimous
and experienced Hertford was retained, an unwilling satellite in the royal tent, the tem-
perate heroes of the West were submitted to the command of a youthful prince, unac-
quainted with English manners, and ignorant of the merits of the cause in which he
drew his sword. The consequences were soon apparent. The gallant Earl of Carnarvon,
than whom no man had contributed more to the successes of the royal arms at Mendip
Hill, at Lansdown, and at Roundway Down, and to whom Dorchester, Weymouth, Port-
land, had successively yielded, was driven from that army by disgust; and from this time
the previous terror of the enemy at the sight of its banners so far subsided, that the little
burghs of Lyme and Poole now laughed at its summons with impunity.
The advantage secured to the patriots by their great and irreversible triumph, was not
lessened by its diminishing the numbers of their adherents; yet the king, by the reception
given, on his part, to the seceders, strangely overlooked his own. Charles was recalled
from before Gloucester to Oxford, by the consequences of this event. Seven peers—more
than a third of the Lords’ house—with several Commoners, the most eminent of the
advocates of peace, had quitted Westminster; most of them for the king's quarters. The
Earl of Northumberland, with characteristic prudence, obtained leave to retire to his house
at Petworth, designing to wait there till he should be enabled to decide his movements
from observing the reception given to his friends by the court. The Earl of Clare went into
Worcestershire; the Earl of Portland, and the Lords Conway and Lovelace, directly to
Oxford. The Earls of Bedford and Holland, being suspected, reached, with some difficulty,
the royalist garrison at Wallingford; from whence notice of their arrival was forwarded
to the king. A generous, nay, a sound policy, would have dictated a cordial reception to
the seceders, tardy as their repentance had been. But Charles had his own feelings,
always strong against undutifulness, to consult; while his council, to whom, with seeming
indifference, he referred back the question, had their own selfish views. Bedford had
served against the king, as general of the parliament’s horse; Holland, by his repeated
treachery and ingratitude, had still more deeply offended. The court was extravagantly
elated with the successes of the royal arms, and considered it no season for concession.
Perhaps, the baser minds among its adherents were already calculating the plunder of
the vanquished, and were unwilling to let the wealthiest of the expected prey deliver their
estates from the forfeiture of treason. Never had so warm a debate shaken the council-


THE CRISIS OF THE WAR. 97
board, though nearly all the members were unanimous against the proselyte earls. Some
suggested, that since they had come into the king's quarters without leave, they ought to
be made prisoners of war. Others as vehemently urged that they should be permitted to
live within the king's quarter, but not be suffered to come to Oxford, until by some good
service they had manifested the sincerity of their repentance. A third party thought so
much severity impolitic: these proposed that the peers should be suffered to come to
Oxford, that thereby they might be kept from returning to the parliament; but that they
should neither be allowed to appear at court, nor be visited by any member of the king's
council. Wiser—too wise for the occasion—was the unseconded advice of Hyde. “My
advice,” said that honest counsellor, “is, that they should be very graciously received by
both their majesties, and visited and well-treated by everybody; that by their treatment
others may be encouraged to follow their example. On what disadvantageous ground
will the king and his cause stand,” he continued, “if, while the parliament is using every
effort and every artifice to corrupt the duty and affection of his majesty’s subjects, and
receiving all with open arms who come to them, he should himself close all return against
those who have been faulty, or have not come so soon as they should have done? If the
king were disposed to gratify and oblige his enemies, he could not do it more to their
hearts’ desire than by rejecting the application of these lords, or allowing it to pass
unregarded.”
Charles listened to the debate, without taking any part in it; but did not conceal his
satisfaction, when any expressions of peculiar severity reflected on the Earl of Holland.
At the close, he said, he agreed that it would be unwise, at the present juncture, to treat
any persons with extreme rigour; and thereupon gave command, that the governor of
Wallingford should permit the lords to prosecute their journey to Oxford. “When
here,” observed the king, “all of you may visit them, or not, as you please. For myself
and the queen, we intend to regulate our behaviour to them by their own conduct.”
From this chilling half-measure nothing but evil followed. Though the royal fiat
was wholly unaccompanied by any sign of favour, it cast a cloud over the hostile council-
table. As little satisfactory was it to the converts. The necessity of withdrawing from
a party with whom we have been engaged, is in itself humiliating—it reflects self-con-
demnation on the past: a cold and repulsive welcome among those, from regard to whom,
or whose cause, we either do, or flatter ourselves we do, go over to them, at once wounds
us with the tooth of ingratitude, opens all the springs of self-reproach, and revives
regretful memories of the path we have deserted. The two earls remained some months
at the court; but though they accompanied the king, and fought by his side, in the
ensuing campaign, the contemptuous treatment they met with from the courtiers became
insupportable: they therefore seized the first opportunity to return secretly to the par-
liament. The Earl of Clare, a nobleman of a higher spirit, asked, and obtained permission
to retire into the country for his private affairs: while Northumberland, judging from
the bad success of his friends what he might expect at Oxford, again threw the weight
of his great fortune and respectable character into the opposite scale.
Jealousy and discontent began to pervade the whole army, and rapidly increased with

2 C

98 THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
that decline in the king's affairs, which gave the factious and discontented, on all hands,
an opportunity for mutual charges and recriminations. Thus was the right hand of the
king's power becoming palsied, and his ruin prepared. The army was also exceedingly
unpopular. The condition of the country was indeed lamentable. Alternately exposed,
in many places, to the aggressions of the royalist and parliamentarian troops, the harassed
people often did not know which masters to obey: only they were sure that which ever
party went, or came, those who quitted them would carry away the plundered wealth of
their fields, their stalls, and homesteads; and that those who succeeded would wring
from them what remained, perhaps accompanying their acts of rapine with blows and
execrations, on account of having been forestalled. These oppressions were incident to
the movements of the armies on both sides, great and small alike. But Rupert’s troops
were distinguished for license and rapacity; and, by degrees, as the authority of Hertford
and Hopton gave way before the influence of the two princes, Rupert and Maurice, the
evil report which followed them began to attach equally to all the forces of the
royalists.
Nor was the army the only scene of those factions and disorders, which were among
the main causes of Charles's overthrow. They divided the council, and shook the mutual
confidence of the sovereign and his consort. Even in the cabinet, the intemperate sug-
gestions of the royal brothers were too often preferred to the advice of Colepepper, o,
Falkland, and of Hyde; and Charles had actually to make a journey from the West
to allay the jealous apprehensions of Henrietta, that either or both parties would trench
upon the right to interfere in public affairs, which she claimed, and which the king was
but too much disposed to yield, as legitimately her own. A third party, the mere
creatures of the court, every day added to the vexations of the royal pair, by demands
of place, honours, and emolument; which the manifest inability of the king and queen,
in the present circumstances, to satisfy, had in no degree the effect of relaxing. The
vices and the meanness of the mean and vicious followers of a court, are never more
apparent than in exile, or amid the tumultuous vicissitudes of a war of parties.
Two methods of prosecuting the war, with an apparent prospect of success, lay open
to the king, at the time when he left Bristol with his victorious army. The first was to
march directly to London, and fall upon his enemies in their state of dissension and
unpreparedness. To lay siege to Gloucester, the only considerable place in the west of
England, still held by the forces of the parliament, was the second. Charles would gladly
have followed the first, had he found his strength sufficient. On the fall of Bristol, he
had written to the victorious Earl of Newcastle, who was then preparing to invest Hull,
to leave a sufficient force before that place to block it up, and, with the bulk of his forces,
to march through the associated eastern counties, where no serious obstruction to his
progress was to be expected; and, joining the royal army in its advance from the West,
enable the king to follow up that design. Newcastle excused himself, on the plea that
many of his officers, being gentlemen whose estates lay in the north, refused to march
from their homes with the troops of the enemy in their rear. This pretence was not
groundless: the voluntary nature of the service on either side, often, by desertion or


THE CRISIS OF THE WAR. 99
refusal to march, deprived the commanders of both troops and officers, in moments
of the most pressing exigency. But the truth was, that this high-spirited and indepen-
dent nobleman, having the example of the Marquess of Hertford before his eyes, was
resolved “to avoid the mortification of receiving orders, and perhaps insolence, from
Tèupert.”—The king presented himself before Gloucester.
Arriving, on the tenth of August, he sent two heralds to the town with a summons,
requiring it to receive a governor and garrison of his appointing. Charles demanded
a positive answer before the expiration of two hours. Within that space, two citizens,
Pudsey, a sergeant-major in the garrison, and another, returned with the king’s heralds,
bringing the reply of Massey, its determined governor. The noble historian makes him-
self merry with the figures of this worthy pair of presbyterian burghers, and the effect
which their appearance produced upon the excitable cavaliers. Expressing defiance in
every angle of their harsh, lean visages, their gestures, and even their garb, they “at
once,” he says, “made the most severe countenances merry, and the most cheerful hearts
sad. The men, without any circumstance of duty or good manners, in a pert, shrill,
undismayed accent, said, ‘We have brought an answer from the godly city of Gloucester
to the king: ’” in short, they conducted themselves with a kind of insolence so peculiar,
that they seemed as if their orders had been chiefly to provoke him to violate his own
safe-conduct. The answer they brought was in writing, and in these words: “We, the
inhabitants, magistrates, officers, and soldiers, within this garrison of Gloucester, unto his
majesty’s gracious message return this humble answer: That we do keep this city, accord-
ing to our oaths and allegiance, to and for the use of his majesty and his royal posterity;
and do accordingly conceive ourselves wholly bound to obey the commands of his majesty,
signified by both houses of parliament; and are resolved, by God’s help, to keep this city
accordingly;” an answer, which, though, like all such documents on the side of the par-
liament, couched in odiously hypocritical terms, wronging and insulting the king to his
face, under a show of duty,+was yet a brave defiance, from a garrison of 1,400 men, a
great proportion of them raw militia, almost destitute of ordnance and ammunition, and
occupying a vast compass of ill-constructed lines, to send to the commander of a powerful
army, flushed with the insolence of recent victory. Charles received it without any
expression of displeasure, yet with manifest wonder. “Gentlemen,” he asked, “on what
hope of relief does your confidence rest? Waller is extinct, and Essex cannot come.”
He at once dismissed them; and had hardly seen the gates close on those uncouth visitors
of a king, when the large and well-built suburbs of the city were observed to be on fire;
and some cannon placed over the west gate, being discharged upon a body of horse, which
had been drawn up on that side, within range of shot, forced them to retire. The
king's army immediately set about their intrenchments. Thus, a respite from immediate
attack was granted to the parties in London; which was all they were now in need of; for
there, whatever had caused the change, all slackness, if not all dissension, was at an end;
and, starting from a state of inactivity and despondence, they at once rose to a point of
emergetic unanimity which they never afterwards abandoned.
Essex undertook to raise the siege of Gloucester. On the 24th of August, to the

100 THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
astonishment of the parties themselves, he was able, in the presence of many members of
both houses of parliament, to muster an army of 10,000 men, at Hounslow; and being
joined, at Aylesbury, by several regiments of trained-bands from the City, some troops of
horse, and a train of artillery, he, finally, marched for Gloucester on the 29th. The
king's horse amounted to no less than 8,000 men; but as no person in his camp would
believe that the expresses, forwarded to London by Massey, could really put an army in
motion for his relief, the enemy was allowed to march a distance of thirty miles, through
an open country, admirably suited to the evolutions of cavalry, without any other annoy-
ance than some skirmishing with a few light troops. On the 5th day of September, when
the siege had lasted just twenty-six days, the thunder of the parliamentarian cannon, from
Presbury hills, put an end to all doubt, by announcing Essex's arrival. Scarcely could
the besieged have held out a few hours longer. When, therefore, Charles had received
certain information of the lord-general’s approach, he attempted, by sending a herald
with propositions of peace, to delay his march, at least for that space. The earl replied,
that he had no commission to treat, but to relieve the beleaguered city: and relieve it, he
added, he would, or perish in the attempt. The purport of the herald's visit being known
through the ranks, the soldiers saluted him, as he passed along, on his return, with cries
of “No propositions ! No propositions !” Essex presently after discovered the huts on
fire in the king's camp. Charles had retired in haste and some confusion, intending to
dispute his enemy’s return. That day, the besieged had set apart for a public fast; but
on Essex’s entering the city, it was turned to a day of ardent rejoicing. The most pas-
sionate expressions of gratitude to their deliverer were mingled with solemn thanksgiving
to God, by whose special providence they believed that relief to have been sent. The
earl, in return, acknowledged the signal service rendered to the cause of the parliament
by the heroic defence of Gloucester. During the twenty-eight days that the siege
lasted, several brave sallies had been made, in which the garrison took a great number of
prisoners, and slew many of their assailants. They were reduced at last to two or three
barrels of powder, and had no provisions of any kind remaining. Essex brought supplies
into the town, remained two days to refresh his troops, and then marched out, intending
to manoeuvre his way back to London, without risking a battle.
With the view of dividing the king's forces, he made demonstrations as if he had
intended to proceed northward to Worcester; but, changing his route on a sudden,
marched to Tewkesbury; from whence, with the advantage of a dark night, he reached
Cirencester. Arriving there before daybreak, he surprised a convoy of provisions, intended
for the royalist army before Gloucester, and made prisoners about 400 of the king's troops,
raw levies, who had the charge of it; most of whom were taken in their beds, and their
horses feeding in the stables. At the foot of the Auburn Hills, as the army was passing
through that deep, enclosed country, towards Newbury, Rupert came suddenly upon the
rear-guard, and routed them, forcing them to retire in great disorder to the main army.
Here they formed again; but were a second time attacked: and now the skirmish became
fierce and general, continuing with great slaughter till the parliamentarians took shelter
in Hungerford.
/


THE CRISIS OF THE W.A.R. 10].
At length, the next day, the earl came within sight of Newbury; but found, to his
surprise, that the king had already been there two hours, and was prepared to dispute his
farther passage. The royalist army was advantageously posted; it had possession of the
town, and the adjoining hill called Bigg's Hill; Wallingford was at hand, and Oxford
itself within a convenient distance for the supply of whatever reinforcements should be
wanting. Charles sent a formal challenge to his adversary, which Essex had no alter-
native but to accept. Robert Codrington, a parliamentary officer, has left a narrative of
this memorable fight; which, though greatly superior in clearness and force to the usual
flat and confused accounts, and though printed in so common a book as the Harleian
Miscellany, seems to have escaped the notice of historians, until recently quoted by Mr.
Forster, in his Life of Cromwell, from the original tract. The partiality of this narrative
we may readily excuse, for the sake of its beauty and general faithfulness. -
“All that night,” says Codrington, who was evidently an eye-witness, “our army lay
in the fields, impatient of the sloth of darkness, and wishing for the morning's light, to
exercise their valour; and the rather because the king had sent a challenge over-night to
the lord-general, to give him battle the next morning. A great part of the enemy’s army
continued also in the field, incapable of sleep, their enemy being so migh; and, sometimes
looking on the ground, they thought of the melancholy element of which they were com-
posed, and to which they must return; and sometimes looking up, they observed the
silent marches of the stars and the moving scene of heaven. The day no sooner appeared
but they were marshalled into order, and advanced to the brow of the hill; and not long
after, the ordnance was planted, and the whole body of the horse and foot stood in battalia.
The officers and commanders of their foot, many of them, left off their doublets, and, with
daring resolution, brought on their men; and, as if they came rather to triumph than
to fight, they, in their shirts, did lead them up to the battle. The first that gave the
charge was the most noble Lord Roberts, whose actions speak him higher than our
epithets. He performed it with great resolution; and by his own example, showed excellent
demonstrations of valour to his regiment. The cavalry of the enemy performed also their
charge most bravely, and gave in with a mighty impression upon him. A prepared body
of our army made haste to relieve him. Upon this, two regiments of the king's horse,
with a fierce charge, saluted the blue regiment of the London trained-bands, who gallantly
discharged upon them, and did beat them back; but they, being no wit daunted at it,
wheeled about, and on a sudden charged them : our musketeers did again discharge, and
that with so much violence and success, that they sent them now, not wheeling, but
reeling from them; and yet, for all that, they made a third assault, and coming in full
squadrons, they did the utmost of their endeavours to break through their ranks; but a
cloud of bullets came at once so thick from our muskets, and made such havoc amongst
them, both of men and horse, that, in a fear, full of confused speed, they did fly before
us, and did no more adventure upon so warm a service.
“In the meantime, Sir Philip Stapleton performed excellent service with the lord-
general's regiment of horse, and five times together did charge the enemy: but, above
all, the renown and glory of this day is most justly due unto the resolution and conduct
2 D

102 THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
of our general; for, before the battle was begun, he did ride from one regiment to
another, and did inflame them with courage, and perceiving in them all an eager desire to
battle with their enemies, he collected to himself a sure presage of victory to come. I
have heard, that when, in the heat and tempest of the fight, some friends of his did advise
him to leave off his white hat, because it rendered him an object too remarkable to the
enemy, ‘No,' replied the earl, “it is not the hat but the heart; the hat is not capable
either of fear or honour.” He, himself, being foremost in person, did lead up the city
regiment, and when a vast body of the enemy's horse had given so violent a charge, that
they had broken quite through it, he quickly rallied his men together, and, with undaunted
courage, did lead them up the hill. In his way he did beat the infantry of the king from
hedge to hedge, and did so scatter them, that hardly any of the foot appeared to keep
together in a body. After six hours’ long fight, with the assistance of his horse, he gained
those advantages which the enemy possessed in the morning, which were the hill, the hedges,
and the river. In the mean time, a party of the enemy’s horse, in a great body, wheeled
about, and about three-quarters of a mile below the hill, they did fall upon the rear of
our army, where our carriages were placed. To relieve which, his excellency sent a
selected party from the hill to assist their friends, who were deeply engaged in the fight.
These forces, marching down the hill, did meet a regiment of horse of the enemy’s, who
in their hats had branches of furze and broom, which our army did that day wear, for
distinction sake, to be known by one another from their adversaries, and they cried out to
our men, ‘Friends, friends; ” but they being discovered to be enemies, our men gave fire
upon them, and having some horse to second the execution, they did force them farther
from them: our men being now marched to the bottom of the hill, they increased the
courage of their friends, and, after a sharp conflict, they forced the king's horse to fly
with remarkable loss, having left the ground strewed with the carcases of their horses
and riders.
“His excellency, having now planted his ordnance on the top of the hill, did thunder
against the enemy, where he found their numbers to be thickest; and the king's ord-
nance, being yet on the same hill, did play with the like fury against the forces of his
excellency: the cannon on each side did dispute with one another, as if the battle was
but new begun. The trained-bands of the City of London endured the chiefest heat of
the day, and had the honour to win it; for being now upon the brow of the hill, they
lay not only open to the horse, but the cannon of the enemy; yet they stood undaunted,
and conquerors, against all; and like a grove of pines in a day of wind and tempest, they
only moved their heads or arms, but kept their foot sure, unless, by an improvement of
honour, they advanced forward to pursue their advantage on their enemies.
“Although the night did now draw on, yet neither of the armies did draw off: the
enemy's horse, in a great body, did stand on the farthest side of the hill, and the broken
remainders of their foot behind them, and having made some pillage about the middle of
the night, they drew off their ordnance, and retreated unto Newbury: on the next
morning, his excellency, being absolute master of the field, did marshal again his soldiers
into order, to receive the enemy, if he had any stomach in the field, and to that purpose



THE CRISIS OF THE WAR. 103
discharged a piece of ordnance, but, no enemy appearing, he marched towards
Reading.”
The battle of Newbury, like that of Edge-hill, was followed by no decided results.
It was fought, says Clarendon, all day, without any such notable turn, as that either
party could think they had much the better: the night parted them, when nothing else
could. The parliamentarians, indeed, loudly claimed the victory; and not without reason,
since the king's army suffered them, with the morning light, to take quiet possession of
the town, and to march forward, unmolested, towards London. Technically considered,
it appears, there were errors and oversights on both sides in the conduct of this great
encounter; but it was marked throughout by those nobler characteristics than mere
calculating skill, which distinguished the whole course of this fatal war—undaunted
bravery and inflexible resolution. Rupert’s charges were never more fierce or frequent,
—never had they been so admirably sustained. Upon the immovable rampart presented
by the pikes of the London trained-bands, again and again the stormy valour of his
choicest cavaliers broke in vain. Those regiments, “ of whose inexperience of danger,
or any kind of service beyond the easy practice of their postures in the Artillery Garden,
men had till then too cheap an estimation, behaved themselves to wonder; and were, in
truth, the preservation of the army of the parliament that day.”
In this sanguinary field, “according to the unequal fate that attended all conflicts
with such an adversary,” the loss of known and distinguished individuals was chiefly on
the king's side; “for whilst some obscure, unheard-of colonel or officer was missing from
the ranks of the parliament, and some citizen’s wife bewailed the death of her husband,
there were, on the king's side, above twenty field-officers, and persons of rank and
public name, slain upon the spot, and more of the same quality wounded.”
Three noblemen of high rank and estimable character were of the number. The
young Earl of Sunderland was struck down by a cannon-bullet. The brave and enlight-
ened Earl of Carnarvon, on his return from a victorious charge of a body of the enemy’s
horse, passing carelessly among some of the scattered troopers, was, by one of them, who
recognized him, run through the body. But the loss most deeply and generally deplored
was that of Lord Falkland,-" a loss which no time will suffer to be forgotten, and no
success of good fortune could repair.” So wrote the affectionate and eloquent Clarendom,
in the commencement of that eulogium, which will be read with delight as long as friend-
ship exists, and excellence excites admiration. He was “a person,” continues the noble
historian, “ of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweet-
mess and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to
mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other
brand upon this odions and accursed civil war than that single loss, it must be most
infamous and execrable to all posterity. He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and
good parts, in any man; and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most
liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortume. . . His house being
within little more than ten miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with
the most polite and accurate men of that University; who found such an immenseness



104. THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
of wit, and such a solidity of judgment, in him; so infinite a fancy bound in by a most
logical ratiocination: such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant of anything, yet
such an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing; that they frequently resorted
and dwelt with him, in a college situated in a purer air: so that his house was a university
in a less volume, whither they came not so much to repose as study, and to examine and
refine those grosser propositions which laziness and content made current in vulgar
conversation. . . He was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be
reputed a lover of all good men. He was so jealous of the least imagination that he
should incline to preferment, that he affected even a moroseness to the court and to the
courtiers. And if anything but not doing his duty could have kept him from receiving
a testimony of the king’s grace, he had not been called to his council. Not that he was,
in truth, averse from public employment; for he had a great devotion to the king's
person; but he abhorred that an imagination or doubt should sink into the thoughts of
any man, that in the discharge of his trust and duty in parliament he had any bias
to the court, or that the king himself should apprehend that he looked for a reward for
being honest. . . For as he had a full appetite of fame by just and generous actions,
so he had an equal contempt of it by any servile expedients. . . For these reasons he
submitted to the king’s command, and became his secretary, with as humble and devoted
an acknowledgment of the greatness of the obligation, as could be expressed, and as true
a sense of it in his heart. . . He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper; and
therefore upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in those troops
which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be most likely to be farthest
engaged: and in all such encounters he had about him an extraordinary cheerfulness,
without at all affecting the execution that usually attended them, in which he took no
delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not, by resistance, made necessary:
insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to have incurred
great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms; so that a man
might think he came into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and
charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet in his natural inclination he was addicted
to the profession of a soldier.
“From the first entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and vivacity
grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit stole upon him, which he had
never been used to; yet being one of those who believed that one battle would end all
differences, and that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would
be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor, he resisted those indispositions.
But after the king's return from Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two houses,
not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him,
grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he, who had been so exactly easy and
affable to all men, and held any cloudiness and less pleasantness of visage a kind of rude-
ness and incivility, became on a sudden less communicable; and thence very sad, pale,
and exceedingly affected with spleen. When there was any overture or hope of peace, he
would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he



THE CRISIS OF THE WAR. 105
N-
thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence and
frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word “Peace | Peace l’
and would passionately profess, that the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom
did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart. This
made some think, or pretend to think, that he was so much enamoured of peace, that he
would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price; which was a most
unreasonable calumny: as if a man that was himself the most punctual and precise in
every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience or honour, could have wished the
king to have committed a trespass against either. And yet this scandal made some
impression upon him, or at least he used it for an excuse of the daringness of his spirit.
For, at the leaguer before Gloucester, when his friends passionately reprehended him for
exposing his person unnecessarily to danger (for he delighted to visit the trenches and
nearest approaches, to discover what the enemy did,) as being so much beside the duty
of his place, that it might be understood rather to be against it, he would say merrily,
that his office could not take away the privilege of his age; and that a secretary in war
might be present at the greatest secret of danger; but withal alleged seriously, that it
concerned him to be more active in enterprises of hazard than other men; that all might
see that his impatience for peace proceeded not from pusillanimity, or fear to adventure
his own person.”
The noble historian pours out “ his love and grief,” at still greater length, on the
death of his admired friend, both in his great work, and in the memoirs of his own life;
but we can afford room only for one characteristic anecdote. “He was so ill a dissembler
of his dislike and disinclination to all men,” relates Clarendon, “that it was not possible
for such not to discern it. There was once, in the House of Commons, such a declared
acceptation of the good service an eminent member had done to them, and, as they said,
to the whole kingdom, that it was moved, he being present, ‘ that the speaker might, in
the name of the whole house, give him thanks; and then, that every member might, as
a testimony of his particular acknowledgment, stir or move his hat towards him;’ the
which (though not ordered,) when very many did, the Lord Falkland (who believed the
service itself not to be of that moment, and that an honourable and generous person could
not have stooped to it for any recompense,) instead of moving his hat, stretched both his
arms out, and clasped his hands together upon the crown of his hat, and held it close
down to his head; that all men might see, how odious that flattery was to him, and the
very approbation of the person, though at that time most popular.”
Other contemporary writers concur, though in more condensed language, in the
eulogium of Falkland, and confirm Clarendon's account of the circumstances which
attended his death. On the morning of the fight, we are told by Whitelocke and
Rushworth, he dressed himself with a degree of nicety, which, though formerly habitual
to him, had, since his period of gloom, given way to negligence; telling his friends, with
an air of gaiety, that if he were slain in battle they should not find his body in foul linen.
In answer to their earnest and affectionate entreaties to take no part in the fight, as not
being a military man, he replied, while returning sadness again overspread his expressive
2 E.

I06 THE CRISIS OF THE WAR.
countenance, that he was weary of looking upon his country’s misery, “ and did believe
be should be out of it ere might.” He then put himself into the first rank of the Lord
Byron’s regiment; and, advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both
sides with musketeers, presently received a shot from a musket, and fell from his horse to
the ground, where his body lay undiscovered till the next morning. “Thus,” concludes
Clarendon, “fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age;
having so much despatched the true business of life, that the eldest rarely attain to that
immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the World with more innocency:
whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken
from him.”
The Earl of Essex pursued his march towards Reading, unmolested by the king's
army, until he entered an enclosed country, within a few miles of that place; when
Rupert, with a strong party of horse and musketeers, fell upon his rear, and threw them
into great disorder, killing many, and taking many prisoners. At Reading, a committee
of the Lords and Commons met their victorious general, to congratulate him on the great
service he had done the parliament, and to learn the wants of his army, with an assurance
that they should be all forthwith supplied. He then moved forward towards the capital,
leaving Reading to be occupied by a garrison of royalists. In London, a form of solemn
thanksgiving was appointed; the day after his arrival, the earl received a visit of thanks
from the speaker and the whole house of Commons; the City rang with notes of triumph;
all thoughts of peace were banished; and the mutual jealousies which had long existed
between his excellency and Waller were reconciled, by the politic submission of Sir
William to his placable and triumphant rival. King Charles, meantime, and his nephew,
retired with their army to Oxford, more dispirited than, in reality, the events of the
campaign of 1643 appeared to warrant.


107
CHAPTER, XIII.
T H E C H U R C H IN D E S O L A T I O N.
THOUGH the most prominent actors in that great national tragedy, the eventful progress
of which we have so far sketched, were, with one exception, only statesmen and soldiers;
yet the conflict which engaged their energies, was, in reality, a religious conflict. “The
quarrel,” observed a contemporary writer, “dependeth only and absolutely between the
Papists and the Protestants (he meant, between the Church and the Puritans) for either
must the gospel prevail with us, or else their idolatry will overtrample all.” Hence, those
measures which tended to the entire destruction of the Church of England kept pace with
the growth of the parliamentary power, in the houses of Lords and Commons, and in the
field.
It was no more than common gratitude, on the part of the parliament, to compliment
Prynne and his compeers with an oration, and to reward them with a share of the fines
imposed on the Star Chamber judges; since (if we except the indiscretions of the bishops
themselves) the first serious mischief to the church came from the hands of that indefati-
gable libeller. Assaults, indeed, more formidable followed, from the press and the pulpit,
before the loosened fabric was ready for the finishing stroke of the parliamentary levellers.
“The Histrio-Mastix,” and “Sion's Plea against Prelacy,” were succeeded by the famous
“Smectymnuus,” which Calamy, one of its writers, asserted to have been the first deadly
blow to episcopacy; and again, the controversy opened by “Smectymnuus ” drew forth
Milton, in his least admirable character, as a religious partisan, with such terrible effect,
that a Writer, well acquainted with the controversies of that age, avers his belief, that the
“great talents, the learning, the blameless lives, the powerful arguments, of Usher and
Hall, would have preserved the church, if Milton had not descended, with all his over-
whelming might of learning, eloquence, and scorn, into the contest.” Presently the prelates’
benches were exposed, naked, to the mockery of the people; the bishops themselves,
fined and imprisoned for an act of fatuity, by party exaggeration absurdly called treason,
were dismissed unheeded to obscurity and want. By this time, sequestration, fine, and
imprisonment, had, in like manner, cleared the pulpits of London and the other large
towns, of “malignant ministers;” and had made way for preachers of a different tem-
per, who, not alone silently submissive to the will of their patrons, were prepared
on all occasions to sound, on their behalf, in the popular ear, the trumpet of alarm and
agitation.
From removing those persons out of sacred offices who had obstructed the march of
the new reformation, it was a natural step to proceed to sweep away also such holy things,
likewise, as had been discovered to be offensive. In the month of August, 1643, the


108 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
Lords at length concurred in the Commons’ ordinance “for demolishing and taking away
all monuments of idolatry and superstition.” The beautiful crosses at Cheapside and
Charing Cross were among the earliest objects which fell a prey to this Gothic enactment.
The cross at Cheapside, commonly known, on account of its magnificence, by the name of
“ the Golden Cross,” was the first to perish. First of all, the images were broken down;
“the sequel day,” we are told, the whole was razed to the ground. “It was a monumental
ornament,” writes an eye-witness, a Scotch Covenanter—one not likely therefore, to own
excessive sympathy in such a case, “worthy of a royal city, and the beautiful object of
admiration to all beholders and strangers. The third day thereafter,” he continues,
“they caused to take down all the new and old crosses on churches and steeple-tops.”
The next step began that war upon the cathedrals, which was revived, from time to time,
through succeeding years; until, at length, in a moment of panic terror, lest extinct epis-
copacy should once more lift its head, the entire demolition of those sublime moments of
the nation’s ancient piety was gravely recommended, in a committee, upon the prudential
maxim, that “if you tear down the nests, the birds will be sure not to return.” The
noblest ecclesiastical structures were plundered and defaced. Aided by the rabble, who
always regard with a feeling of hostile superstition those prodigious edifices, whose mag-
nificence amazes, and whose grandeur awes, them; and by the soldiery, whose habits of
indiscriminate ravage were exasperated by puritan animosity; the coarse zealots, to whom
the work of destruction was intrusted, set about their task in delighted earnest. Cromwell,
at Peterborough, in pursuance of a “ thorough reformation,” set the example of desecrating
the cathedrals. At Canterbury, the soldiers and people overthrew the communion-table,
tore the velvet covering, violated the monuments of the dead, broke down “the rarest
windows in Christendom,” destroyed the organ, the ancient wood-work, and the brazen
eagle which supported the bible; tore up, or took away, the service-books and vestments,
and strewed the pavement with fragments. Observing, in the arras hangings of the choir,
some figures of the Saviour, they drew their daggers, and, with many oaths and execra-
tions, pierced them through and through. A statue of the same Divine Person, in a
niche of the exterior, was exposed to similar outrage. They discharged their muskets at
it, “triumphing much " when the shots took effect upon the head and face of the figure.
Still worse enormities are reported to have occurred, during the occupation of Lichfield
by the profligate followers of Sir John Gell. The carvings, the rich windows, the curious
pavement, the costly tombs, the records belonging to the Close and city, were all destroyed
or mutilated. The governor set the example of spoliation by appropriating to himself the
communion-plate and linen. The soldiers kept courts of guard in the aisles, and made the
lofty roofs echo to their lewd revelry. The pulpit was occupied from time to time by
various fanatical preachers, who encouraged these acts of profanation. Here, as well as,
among other places, at Sudley, they established a slaughter-house within the consecrated
building, and cut up the carcases upon the altar. At Sudley, they threw the offal into
the burial vault of the noble family of Chandos. St. Paul’s was converted into a stable
for the cavalry horses. In several churches, they brought calves, swine, and other animals
to the fonts; where they sprinkled them with water, and named them, in derision of the

-
- -
- -
- -
º
- -
- º
- --
- -
- --
- -
-
-
- -
-
- -
º
|
|
|
-
-
º
ºž
º
º







THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION. 109
holy Sacrament of baptism. At Westminster, under the very eyes of the parliament, the
soldiers sat drinking and smoking at the altar, lived in the abbey, and converted its sacred
precincts to the vilest uses. In the chapel at Lambeth, Parker's monument was thrown
down, the remains of the prelate buried in a dunghill, and the leaden coffin which enclosed
them sold.
Though it be true that of these, and the numberless other enormities of the same
kind recorded, some were merely the natural outbursts of vulgar wantonness, in a period
of reaction and excitement, for which the governing powers should not be held respon-
sible; yet the same excuse cannot be alleged in regard to others. Can the warmest
friends of freedom, political or religious, defend that course of cruel “statesmanship,”
to which all nobler principles were sacrificed in the case of the unhappy but cou-
rageous Laud P Besides the fines imposed upon the archbishop, as one of the
judges of Prynne and his fellows, he was fined £20,000 for his share in the pro-
ceedings of the convocation of 1640. If we are without proof that this enormous
mulct was ever paid, the reason is, because, before it could be levied, other means
were found to deprive the imprisoned primate of all he had. Some months after
his palace had been converted into a prison for delinquents, over whom, to render the
insult more galling, Leighton, one of the victims of Star Chamber severity, was appointed
keeper, there was presented to the House of Lords the following “humble petition of
William, Archbishop of Canterbury, showing: That he hath neither lands, lease, nor
money; that the small store of plate he had is long since melted down for his necessary
support and expenses, caused by his present troubles; that his rents and profits are
sequestered, and now all his goods taken from him, and no maintenance at all allowed
him; insomuch that if some friends of his had not had compassion on his wants, and
sent him some little supply, he had not been able to subsist till this present; and now
this supply is at the last. He humbly prays that your lordships would take his sad con-
dition into your considerations, that somewhat may be allowed him out of his estate to
supply the necessities of life; assuring himself that your lordships will not, in honour
and justice, suffer him either to beg or starve.” At the reading of this affecting appeal,
the Lords appear to have been touched with some feelings of compassion. They resolved
to allow their venerable prisoner and former compeer something, for charity, to supply
his wants; they even recommended his petition to the consideration of the other house.
The Commons replied, that they would send an answer by messengers of their own;
“but,” remarks the parliamentary historian, “we hear no more of it from that quarter.”
We hear, some time after, of very different measures. Two members of the Commons'
house went over to Lambeth, with a file of musketeers to search for treasure. A sum
amounting to £78 was discovered, and taken away “for the maintenance of the king's
children;” “God, in his mercy,” said the primate, “ look favourably upon the king, and
bless his children from needing any such poor maintenance l’ A previous search had
been made for arms; it having been reported, that the archbishop had provided himself
with arms sufficient for 2,000 men. The messengers remained long in the palace :
examined every room; and when at length they withdrew, paraded through the streets,
-,-,--

2 F
110 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
-
2.
ºc
:
º
º
*
3.
-3.
amid shouts of popular execration, a quantity sufficient for about 200; the whole of which
had passed into Laud's possession by purchase from his puritanical predecessor, Abbot.
Nor did the walls of the Tower protect the grey-haired primate from personal insult.
The preachers appointed to officiate before him, of whom one was captain of a troop of
horse, as well as the incumbent of a parish, and who appeared in the pulpit in his buff
coat and scarf, under his gown, made their sermons the vehicles of such unseemly
invective against him, that the congregation would rise up in their seats to observe
whether he could endure their taunts with patience. His imprisonment had already
continued between two and three years, when the House of Commons at length resolved
to proceed with the impeachment. In order to strengthen as much as possible the
evidence against him, it was determined to seize his private papers and memorandums.
The person employed for this purpose was his implacable enemy, Prynne. It was unfor-
tunate for his own reputation, as well as for the poor, defenceless archbishop, when the
natural sense of injury in the bosom of that individual was put to so severe a test. Prynne
burst upon his present victim and former prosecutor, before the infirm prelate had left
his bed; and proceeded, with ruffian insolence, to search the pockets of his apparel.
He carried off all the papers which Laud had prepared for his defence, including his
diary, and his book of private devotions; although the archbishop pleaded hard for the
sacredness, at all events, of the last. Terrible things, the Presbyterian pulpit announced,
had been brought to light in this search. An ordinance was now passed for the perpetual
sequestration of all the temporalities of the see of Canterbury, and for transferring the
patronage to the parliament. It is worthy of remark, that the final determination to
proceed with this “interrupted sacrifice,” coincided with the vote for the embassy to
Scotland: it had become necessary, observes a republican writer, to do something effectual
for the encouragement of the Scots.
That nation was, from the beginning of the unhappy disputes in the south, suffi-
ciently alive to the important influence upon the fate of England which circumstances,
or treachery, had thrown into their hands. Far were they from being really indifferent,
though they might affect to be so, to the applications which had been made to them by
the parliament, for sympathy and aid. Hitherto the messages of their English friends
had contained none of those explicit propositions in favour of the ecclesiastical polity of
Scotland, which they had expected. When, however, the committee of parliament
arrived, with full power to satisfy them on this as well as on all other points, that coyness,
by which the leaders in England had been so much disconcerted, vanished at once.
The convention of estates, and the assembly of the kirk, to either of whom Vane and his
colleagues were instructed to address themselves, had been long ready to receive their
proposals. The arrival of the committee was celebrated as a triumph; and their creden-
tials, in separate letters, to the convention and the assembly, were read with enthusiasm.
Vane's subtilty was not confined to his mystic theological treatises. The agent of an
independent faction, and himself more extravagant and inflexible in his own religious
views than his associates, yet aware that the Scots, on the other hand, though eager to do
all that could be required of them, on condition of being allowed to impose their system of


THE CHURCH IN DEsol ATION. 111
church discipline on England, would on no other condition be induced to move—this
statesman, so much vaunted for his purity and loftiness of mind, determined by bare
finesse to surmount all difficulties. He insisted that the engagement, which was to cement
the two nations in bonds of brotherhood and religion, should not, like the previous
national vows of the Scots, among themselves, be termed a covenant merely, but a “ solemn
league and covenant; ” for the ulterior objects of the party required that it might be
broken whenever its violation should be found convenient : which a league might be, but
not a mere covenant. Again, in the famous article which provided for the security of the
Kirk of Scotland, and for the reformation of the Church of England on the same model,
after the following words, as originally proposed by the Scots, “according to the example
of the best reformed churches,” (by which they intended their own), he procured the inser-
tion of the clause, “and according to the Word of God,” thereby opening a retreat for the
Independents. With these, and some other amendments of the same kind, this memo-
rable instrument was finally brought before the synod. Some of the leading speakers,
whom Vane had gained over, commended it in terms of lavish eulogium; the assembly
failed to detect the juggle; and immediately, with one voice, voted for all its provisions.
A desirable bait was, indeed, held before the eyes of the Scots, in a treaty founded,
upon the “solemn league and covenant,” and negotiated at the same time. Among the
stipulations of this treaty it was agreed that the Scotch forces, to be supplied for the
more effectual prosecution of the war, should be paid by England £30,000 per month;
and should receive for their outfit an advance of £100,000, with satisfaction for all
arrears due to the Scots for their exertions in 1640 and 1641, besides a reasonable recom-
pense on the conclusion of peace; that, meantime, they should have assigned to them, as
security, the lands and estates of papists, prelates, malignants, and their adherents; lastly,
that no pacification should be entered into without the advice of the Scots, who should
have an equal power in conducting the negotiations. This last important stipulation was
effectually followed out, when, in the ensuing February, the Scotch commissioners in
London sat down, with joint authority, by the side of the most conspicuous members of
the two houses, in the great committee for administering public affairs. The draught
of the covenant was quickly brought to Westminster: was referred, as a case of conscience,
to the consideration of the assembly of divines; being by them approved, was adopted by
both houses of parliament; and the 21st of September was fixed for the memorable
solemnity of its public adoption.
Never had the cause been in so promising a condition. Never had sectarian freedom
enjoyed so glorious a field-day. The scene was St. Margaret's Church, where both houses,
with the assembly of divines and the Scotch commissions, assembled at an early hour.
First of all, Mr. White, one of the Assembly, “prayed an hour, to prepare the audience.”
Nye then mounted the pupit, and made an oration in praise of the covenant, “ showing
the warrant of it from Scripture, the examples of it since the creation, and the benefit of
it to the church. The oath,” he said, “ was such, and in the matter and consequence of
such concernment, as it was truly worthy of them,-yea, of those kingdoms, yea, of all
the kingdoms of the world. It could be no other but the result and answer of such

II2 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
prayers and tears, of such sincerity and sufferings, as theirs, that three kingdoms should
be thus new-born in a day. They were entering upon a work of the greatest moment
and concernment to themselves, and to their posterities after them, that ever was under-
taken by any of them, or any of their fathers before them. It was a duty of the first
commandment, and therefore of the highest and noblest order and rank of duties; it
therefore must come forth attended with choicest graces, as fear and humility, and in the
greatest simplicity and plainness of spirit, and respect of those with whom they covenanted:
it was to advance the kingdom of Christ here upon earth, and make Jerusalem once more
the praise of the whole earth.” Dr. Gouge then took his turn in prayer. Next Nye
read the covenant from the pulpit, and gave notice that every person present should
immediately, by swearing thereunto, worship the great name of God, and testify his
doing so by lifting up his hands. Immediately a forest of hands rose up. The whole
assembly then, by turn, advanced to the chancel, where a transcript of the covenant had
been prepared, and subscribed to it in the following order, first, the assembly of divines,
then the Scotch commissioners, afterwards the Lords and Commons of England. The
ceremony was concluded by an address from Henderson, the moderator of the synod of
Scotland, and one of the commissioners for that country for this occasion. He took up
the strain in which Nye had preceded; and foretold, from the experience of Scotland,
what prodigious benefits would follow that day’s solemnity: his nation had found nothing
hard, to which they had bound themselves by their covenants; they would, no doubt, by
their assistance, enable the parliament of England to destroy the popish authors of her
miseries. “Were that covenant,” exclaimed the orator, “now painted upon the walls of
the pope's palace, it would, without doubt, put him into the quaking condition of Bel-
shazzar, when he beheld the sentence which foretold his downfal.”
The nature of a covenant implies a voluntary adhesion, or none; and the noblemen,
barons, kights, burgesses, and others, who held up their hands in St. Margaret's Church,
may be considered as having freely engaged themselves. But on other persons,—on all
officers, civil and military, on the ministers of the church, and the people in general, it
was imposed by the authority of parliament. Previously, however, an exhortation was
published, for the information and encouragement of the people; it not being thought
safe to leave that business wholly to the clergy, on whom notwithstanding it was enjoined.
This document was chiefly designed to prove the consistency of the covenant with the
oath of supremacy and allegiance, and with the peculiar engagements of the clergy. Safely,
nevertheless, may we assert, though some good and wise men led the way in adhesion to
this monstrous oath, that sophistry more insulting was never offered to the intellect of a
community. In fact, the “exhortation” openly recommends perjury as a duty; and so
grossly had the habitual hypocrisy, which the course of events had imposed on the nation,
now clouded men's minds, that the Earl of Lincoln, who openly in the house of Lords
protested against the covenant, three or four more of the peers, and a few commoners,
who did not make their appearance in the assembly at St. Margaret's Church, are the
only persons, except the clergy, known to have demurred. A grand stroke of statesman-
ship, it might be, on the part of Pym and Vane, of Say and St. John, who now neither

THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION. 113
would nor could roll back the mighty current on which they had ridden so far; but, had
no other mischiefs followed, it was not a light one, that a festering wound was thereby
fixed in the moral sense of the mation. This peculiar mischief of the covenant is pointed
out by a pamphlet of the time, in which one of the subscribing peers is thus addressed:
“Have your consciences, my lord, grown so dead to Scripture, and your understandings
so dull to rules of law, that in plain English you promise God Almighty to assist any
body to kill the king, and set up new covenants of your own, point blank against your
oaths of allegiance and supremacy, and publish all this to the people, as the articles of
your new creed; and yet, that your lordship should tell me that your affection and duty
to the king continues still the same, that you have still not only the same desire, but the
same hope of peace? You tell me of a trick your lordships have found out to save you
harmless from any obligation by this oath—a salvo to all your other oaths lawfully taken,
and those being diametrically contrary to this, you have upon the matter engaged your-
selves to nothing by this new covenant, and so have cunningly evaded the design of the
contrivers. Oh, my lord, can you please yourselves with these shifts 2 Is this the
wisdom, vigilance, integrity, and courage of the highest court of judicature, to lead the
people by their example to so solemn an act as a covenant with God Almighty, which at
the instant you took it, you intended should signify nothing? Will the poor people of
England, whereof, it may be, many have looked up to your example with reverence, and
thought many things fit or lawful only because you did them, when they shall find that
you have “vowed in the presence of Almighty God, the Searcher of all hearts, as you shall
answer at the great day when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that you will,
according to your power, assist the forces raised and continued by the parliament, against
the forces raised by the king’—will they, I say, think that your lordship intended nothing
by this vow, but what you were obliged to by your oaths of allegiance and supremacy;
that is, ‘to defend the king to the utmost of your power, against all conspiracies and
attempts whatsoever, which shall be made against his person, his crown, and dignity, and
to do your best endeavour to disclose and make known to him all treasons and conspiracies
which shall be against him, to assist all jurisdictions, privileges, pre-eminences, and
authority, belonging to him, or united to the imperial crown of the realm,’ and, indeed,
to do all things which by this your new sacred vow you have forsworn to do? Will this
salvo reconcile all these contradictions? And is this subtility the first-fruits of your
‘humility, and reverence of the Divine Majesty, your hearty sorrow for your own sins
and the sins of the nation, and your true intention to endeavour the amendment of your
own ways?’ For God’s sake, my lord, talk not of preserving the true reformed protestant
religion, and opposing papists and popery, when your actions destroy the elements of
Christianity l’”
The class on whom the imposition of the covenant pressed, as it was designed to press,
more heavily than on any other, was the clergy. The second article runs thus: “We
shall, without respect of persons, endeavour the extirpation of popery and prelacy, (that is,
church-government, by archbishops, bishops, their chancellors and commissaries, deans,
deans and chapters, archdeacons, and all other ecclesiastical officers depending on that
-

2 G

114 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
hierarchy.)” “It grieved them,” observed Fuller, “to see prelacy so unequally yoked;
superstition, heresy, schism, profaneness” (such is, in fact, the order of enumeration),
“following after.” But a worse evil than insult was inflicted, when all who refused by
this appeal of lawful solemnity to engage for the destruction of that form of church
government, which they believed to be of Divine institution, and had already bound
themselves by oaths and subscriptions to maintain, were thrust out, with their families,
to beggary, or shut up in dungeons. Such was already the fate of numbers of their
brethren. The parliamentary committee for the removal of scandalous ministers, and the
subordinate committees in correspondence with them, had been all this time prosecuting
their objects with earnest zeal. Some of the deprived clergymen were ejected on charges
of immorality and incompetence; but the greater part, for superstition or malignancy;
that is, for attachment to the ordinances of the church, or for loyalty to the king. It is
surprising that, with so many facilities and inducements, the work proceeded no faster;
since the doors of the committees were never closed against the representations of faction
or mistake; and since the desire of providing “godly' ministers with livings, and
neglected congregations with such approved pastors from their own party, must be
supposed to have naturally stimulated their zeal. But the covenant supplied a test
which it was impossible for the clergy to evade: even the puritans among them—those
individuals who were dissatisfied only with the rites and doctrines, but not disposed to
quarrel with the constitution, of the church, and whose vehement outcries against the
popish tendency of the former had so largly assisted in its destruction—were now, in
many cases, involved in the same ruin with their brethren, and vainly regretted the
course they had pursued. In fact, the more strict and conscientious of puritan church-
men must have largely shared in the general amount of suffering; for as almost every
enormity, on which part soever begun, was quickly answered by some corresponding
abuse on the other, we have no reason to question the truth of those statements that
remain, of the oppressions to which the stricter ministers were exposed when they chanced
to be found within the king's quarters. The clergy were, indeed, on all sides, in a con-
dition so deplorable, being, as Mr. Hallam allows, “utterly ruined,” that the phrase
“persecutio undecima "-the eleventh persecution—applied to that melancholy period,
seems to imply no exaggeration.
It is creditable to themselves, though matter of regret to us, that so few contemporary
records of the sufferings of the clergy, in that period, exist: for the most part, they
endured in dignified silence. Bishop Hall’s relation of his own “Hard Measure,” as one of
the imprisoned and deprived bishops, is nearly unique, as an autobiographical memoir
of an ejected churchman. Yet not a few of the sufferers were too illustrious to escape the
notice of history. Among such, Hammond and Jeremy Taylor, it is true, found shelter
with friends; but Lydiat was dismissed to penury; and Walton completed, in indigence,
his prodigious labours, designed for a generation who had deprived him of bread, and who
decried all human learning as savouring of ungodliness. Persecution and want shortened
the life of the “ever-memorable Hales.” The melancholy story of the great Chillingworth
is related by Cheynell, his persecutor in life and death, to enhance his credit with his

（1，1，1）
ºs ſae （III^ ， CINI， H （No ci ſo： ： ： ： ：
Ø
， ，






THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION. 115
presbyterian brethren. That scholar, so eminent, to use the words of Cheynell himself,
for “the excellency of his gifts and the depth of his learning,” had fallen into the hands
of Waller at the surrender of Arundel Castle; and being unable, from the infirm state of
his health, to bear a journey to London with his fellow-prisoners, was removed to Chi-
chester. There this man Cheynell (who gravely charges himself with “foolish pity’”
towards his victim), and other violent presbyterians, so harassed him with the insolence
of unseasonable controversy, that within a fortnight he expired; although, with tender
treatment, as the inflated zealot himself acknowledges, he might have recovered. But
here the inhumanity of his gaolers did not cease. Chillingworth's friends, says Cheynell,
were, “out of mere charity,” permitted to afford him “the civility of a funeral,” though
“nothing which belongs to the superstition of a funeral;”—i. e. the use of the burial-
service was prohibited. “It was favour enough,” continues this stern adherent of the
presbytery, “to permit Master Chillingworth’s disciples or followers, the malignants of
the city, to attend the hearse and inter his body.” “The malignants” attended accord-
ingly; and were met, at the grave prepared for the illustrious dead, by Cheynell, with
Chillingworth’s immortal work in his hand; which, after having pronounced a speech full
of rancorous abuse, he flung into the grave, apostrophising it thus: “Get thee gone,
thou cursed book, which hast seduced so many precious souls l Get thee gone, thou
corrupt, rotten book, earth to earth, and dust to dust; get thee gone into the place of
rottenness, that thou mayest rot with thy author, and see corruption.” The lively picture
of sectarian spite here set before us admitted of one touch more —“So much,” concluded
the iron-hearted bigot, “ so much for the burial of his errors Touching the burial of
his corpse, I need say no more than this ; it will be most proper for the men of his
persuasion to commit the body of their deceased friend—brother—master—to the dust;
and it will be most proper for me to hearken to that counsel of my Saviour, ‘Let the dead
bury their dead, but go thou and preach the kingdom of God!’ And so,” says he,
finishing, with great self-applause, this hateful portrait of himself, “I went from the
grave to the pulpit, and preached on that text to the congregation.”
The case of Dr. Featly was peculiar, but characteristic. The doctor was a man of
moderation and learning; a doctrinal puritan, and one of the few episcopalian clergymen
nominated to seats in the assembly of divines, who consented to sit: he was, indeed, the
only one of his class who continued long to attend the meetings of that body. In conse-
quence, however, of opposing himself to such measures as the abolition of bishoprics and
the sale of church lands, he was brought before one of the committees of the House of
Commons, who proposed to dispossess him of his preferment. But Featly’s abilities and
integrity reflecting some credit on the synod, the house refused to confirm this vote of
the committee. Shortly afterwards, however, a correspondence of his with the great
Archbishop Usher, at that time in Oxford, was betrayed to the parliament. Upon this,
the house again took up the inquiry. Featly was charged with “adhering to the enemy.”
Lambeth, and another living which he had in the country, were both sequestered, his
estate and library seized, and himself committed to a common gaol, where he remained
till want and misery sank him to the grave.


II 6 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
But the most lamentable effect of the temper which governed those persons who
imposed the covenant on the people of England—perhaps the most disgraceful blot on
the history of the Long Parliament—was the destruction of Laud. It is a woful story,
justly appreciated by posterity; and one which the warmest foes of episcopacy and
monarchy, in our times, are willing to pass over in silence. But the salutary lesson it
affords, history will not dispense with ; and here (for to this place they naturally belong)
we will insert on our busy canvass the few touches, which cannot be refused to so grand
and affecting an exhibition of bravely-endured oppression.
To the articles formerly exhibited against the archbishop, ten others were added on
the 24th of October, 1643; when he also received an order to put in his answer to the
whole, in writing, on the 30th of that month. They relate chiefly to two heads of charges
—to popish innovations in the church, and endeavouring to establish an arbitrary
and tyrannical government. An extension of time, for a fortnight, was, on his petition,
granted to the primate. He farther applied for the restoration of his papers; the answer
was, that he might have copies of them at his own charge, when his judges had already
reduced him to a state of absolute penury | Left, thus, at the mercy of his revengeful
and unprincipled prosecutor Prynne, he requested funds sufficient for employing counsel :
this, too, was refused. Counsel were, however, assigned him, of whom Hale was one.
The trial was again adjourned; but on the 12th of March, 1644, the archbishop was
brought by the lieutenant of the Tower, and the usher of the black-rod, to the bar of the
Lords. The process commenced by a speech from Sergeant Wilde, who, with Maynard
and others, had been appointed to conduct the prosecution. He began with a Latin
quotation : Repertum est hodierno die facinus, quod nec poeta fingere, nec histrio sonare,
nec mimus imitari, potuerit—“this day is an atrocity brought to light, such as no poet
could feign, no actor represent, no mimic imitate Aware what usage he might expect,
Laud had at one time thought of declining to defend himself; but he conquered this
weakness, and “resolved to undergo all scorn and whatsoever else might happen to him,
rather than betray his own innocency.” To the charge of attempting to introduce an
arbitrary and tyrannical government, he replied by alleging, that in his judgments, and
his advice, as a privy councillor, he had, to the best of his knowledge, regulated his course
| 22
according to the laws, and had done nothing without the concurrence of his colleagues.
The charge of popery he met by adducing a list of two-and-twenty persons whom he had
converted from the Romish religion to protestantism.
The method of conducting this cause, tried equally the courage and the health of the
aged and infirm churchman. Each day, at about two o'clock, the charge against the prisoner
was concluded. From that time till four, he was allowed to prepare his answer; but was
not permitted to converse with his counsel until after it had been made. One or more
of the committee then replied; and it was evening before the wearied archbishop was
dismissed from the presence of his unfeeling peers, to return, by water, for the night, to
his gloomy residence in the Tower. Several of the miserable band of ten or twelve mem-
bers, to which that noble house was now reduced, would retire even before the completion
of the charge. “I never had,” writes Laud, “any one day, the same lords all the morn-


THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION. II.7
ing. And no one lord was present at my whole trial, but the Lord Grey, of Werke, the
Speaker.” He was exposed to insult from his enemies both within the house and without.
On one occasion, Hugh Peters followed, and pestered him with abuse, until the Earl of
Essex coming up, freed him from his merciless tormentor: at another time, Nicholas, one
of the committee of managers, applied to him language of intolerable brutality. Then,
only, Laud gave way to feelings of indignation. “If,” he exclaimed, “my crimes are
such that I may not be used like an archbishop, yet let me be used like a Christian "
The lords felt shame, and reproved the ruffian pleader. Yet in the teeth of these dis-
couraging circumstances, the prisoner defended himself with such consummate ability
and unaffected courage, as extorted admiration and bitter praise even from Prynne.
At the conclusion of the trial, the archbishop was allowed to make his general defence
to the whole charge. On arriving at the bar of the Lords, he immediately perceived that
each of hisjudges was busied with the examination of a book laid before him : these were
so many copies of his diary; which Prynne had printed, in an imperfect and interpolated
form, and produced in this unexpected manner, if possible to silence and confound him.
The scheme failed; undauntedly he proceeded with his defence. His counsel replied to
the matter of law; the judges, when referred to, pronounced, “in their timid way,” that
no proofs of legal treason had been adduced. All was useless. Laud’s doom, like Straf.
ford's, had been fixed. The machinery of petitions for “justice” was once more put in
motion. The primate of England was now dragged before the House of Commons. An
ordinance for his attainder was sent up thence to the Lords; where, to the eternal dis-
grace of that house, as far as any act of the cowardly creatures who then represented the
peers, could disgrace the greatest English court of justice, it found advocates and compli-
ance. Why harrow up the depths of honest indignation, by pursuing farther this hideous,
this unholy farce? We hasten to the conclusion. On the 10th of January, 1645, after
a hard struggle for the privileges of the axe to be substituted for the gallows, this being
the death insisted upon by the House of Commons,—those deliverers of England from
the yoke of her ancient monarchy, those vindicators of conscience against the terrible
persecutors of the order of Taylor, Hall, and Morley, were gratified with the sight of
Laud—of Laud, the grateful founder of the almshouses at Reading—the munificent bene-
factor of St. John’s College, and the Bodleian Library—the converter of Buckingham and
Chillingworth—ascending, with the “tottering step of eld,” but with a countenance ruddy
and serene, to the same platform which, four years before, had streamed with the noble
blood of his friend Strafford
His “sermon-speech,”as Fuller terms it—for he began with the encouraging and sublime
text, Hebrews xii. 2,-with its tone of deep, quiet pathos, is well known. So composedly
did he speak, that, observes Sir Philip Warwick, “he appeared to make his own funeral
sermon with less passion than he had in former times made the like for a friend.” Like
Strafford, he, in concluding, utterly denied the charge of his enmity to that part of the
constitution under whose vengeance he suffered. “I know the uses of parliaments,” he
said, “too well to be their enemy. But I likewise know that parliaments have sometimes
been guilty of misgovernment and abuse; and that no corruption is so bad, as the corrup-
tion of that, which, in itself, is excellent. But I have done,” he concluded: “I forgive
2 H
118 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
all the world; all and every of those bitter enemies which have persecuted me. And I
humbly desire to be forgiven of God first, and then of every man, whether I have offended
him or not, if he do but conceive that I have ; Lord, do Thou forgive me, and I beg
forgiveness of him. And so I heartily desire you to join in prayer with me.” The
dying archbishop then knelt down, and with awful impressiveness repeated that memo-
rable prayer, so often printed, but with which, nevertheless, we cannot refuse to recommend
these pages:—
“O eternal God and merciful Father look down upon me in mercy; in the riches
and fulness of all thy mercies, look down upon me; but not till thou hast mailed my sins
to the cross of Christ, not till thou hast bathed me in the blood of Christ, not till I have
hid myself in the wounds of Christ, that so the punishment due unto my sins may pass over
me. And since Thou art pleased to try me to the utmost, I humbly beseech Thee, give
me now in this great instant, full patience, proportionable comfort, and a heart ready to
die for thine honour, the king’s happiness, and the Church’s preservation. And my zeal
to this (far from arrogancy be it spoken l) is all the sin (human frailty excepted, and all
the incidents thereunto) which is yet known to me in this particular, for which I now
come to suffer; I say, in this particular of treason. But otherwise my sins are many
and great. Lord, pardon them all; and those especially (whatever they are) which have
drawn down this present judgment upon me ! And when Thou hast given me strength
to bear it, do with me as seems best in thine own eyes; and carry me through death,
that I may look upon it in what visage soever it shall appear to me. Amen And that
there may be a stop of this issue of blood in this more than miserable kingdom (I shall
desire that I may pray for the people too as well as for myself); O Lord, I beseech thee,
give grace of repentance to all blood-thirsy people. But if they will not repent, O Lord,
confound all their devices, defeat and frustrate their designs and endeavours upon them,
which are or shall be contrary to the glory of thy great name, the truth and sincerity of
religion, the establishment of the king, and his posterity after him, in their just rights
and privileges, the honour and conservation of parliaments in their just power, the pre-
servation of this poor church in her truth, peace, and patrimony, and the settlement of
distracted and distressed people under their ancient laws, and in their native liberty. And
when Thou hast done all this, in mere mercy to them, O Lord, fill their hearts with
thankfulness, and with religious, dutiful obedience to thee, and thy commandments, all
their days. Amen, Lord Jesus; Amen. And receive my soul into thy bosom 1 Amen.”
The archbishop had petitioned that three of his chaplains might be with him before
and at his death : he was allowed only one—it was Dr. Sterne; with whom the parliament
sent Sir John Clotworthy and another of their presbyterian friends. To Dr. Sterne, having
concluded his prayer, he delivered the paper; and begged of him to communicate it to
his brother chaplains, that they might see in what manner he had left this world; and he
prayed to God to bless them. Observing a person employed in taking down his speech
and prayer, he besought him not to misreport what he had uttered; “a phrase,” he
remarked, “might do wrong to one who was going from the world, and would have no
means to set himself right.” Then he advanced towards the block; but finding that part
of the scaffold crowded with spectators, he desired that they would give him room to die.


THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION, 119
“Let me,” said he, “escape from these miseries which I have endured so long. God’s
will be done! I am willing to leave the world; no man can be more willing to dismiss
me, than I am to be gone.” And perceiving through the crevices of the platform, that
some persons were standing beneath, immediately under the block, he requested that they
might be removed, or that dust might be spread over the crevices: it was no part of his
desire that his blood should fall upon the heads of the people. All this he did as collectedly
“ as if he rather had been taking order for some nobleman’s funeral, than preparing for
his own.” The zeal of Clotworthy could no longer respect this awful moment, or the
sublime propriety with which the archbishop performed his great part. He demanded of
the dying prelate, what was the most comfortable saying for a man at the point of death
Laud replied: “Cupio dissolvi, et esse cum Christo, I desire to depart, and to be with
Christ.” “A good desire,” admitted the inquisitor; “but them, how shall a dying man
find assurance?” The primate answered, that such assurance was to be found within,
but that it could not fitly be expressed in words. The assurance, however, Clotworthy
still insisted, “was founded upon a word; and that word should be known.” “It is
founded on the knowledge of Jesus Christ,” was the reply, “and on that alone.” Laud
now turned to the executioner, “as the gentler and discreter person of the two;' and
putting some money into his hands, with the same unaffected composure which he had
preserved throughout, said, “Here, homest friend; God forgive thee, as I do. Do thine
office upon me with mercy.” He then fell again upon his knees, and, having pronounced
a brief but expressive prayer, laid his head upon the block. A moment’s pause—he gave
the signal—“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit !” At one blow the axe did its fearful office;
and instantly the sufferer's countenance, which, up to that present moment, had retained
the animated flush, that, through life, was peculiar to it, became pale as ashes; to the
confusion of some present, who affirmed that he had painted his cheeks, in order that, by
his complexion at least, he might obtain the credit of fortitude.
Thus fell Laud; and with him fell the Church of England; for the same day that the
house of Lords passed the ordinance for his destruction, they likewise passed an act for
the suppression of the Liturgy, and for setting up the Directory for public Worship—a
meagre formulary, prepared for the assembly of divines, in which no place is found for the
creed, the Lord’s prayer, or the commandments. The body of the primate was interred,
in the church of All-hallows, Barking, near the Tower. The Directory, in which burials
are ordered to be without any religious observance, was already in use; yet the sorrowing
friends of Laud enjoyed the mournful consolation of depositing his remains in the grave,
according to the majestic rites of that church for which he lived and died, and whose
funeral they might be said to have solemnized at the same time with the primate's.
This is not the place to speak of the schisms and religious confusion which followed;
yet the moisome weeds did not wait to spring up till the tree that supplied life to the
national morals was laid low : every stroke that before thinned its branches, had opened
a fresh space for them to overspread. Already the assembly of divines had applied to the
Lords and Commons in parliament for powers to correct the “brutish ignorance,” and
root out the gross vices, which contempt of the church and persecution of the clergy, had


I20 THE CHURCH IN DESOLATION.
let in upon the people. We will once more have recourse here to the very words of those
who saw, with their own eyes, the evils they describe. From the numerous contemporary
tracts, we select, for quotation, one which, though occasionally defective in taste, seems
free from the exaggerations of party. The writer imagines himself to hear England
deploring her condition in regard to morality and religion:
“I should traduce and much wrong religion,” he says, “if I should cast this war upon
her: yet methinks I hear her lament that she is not also without her grievances. Some
of her chiefest governors, for want of moderation, could not be content to walk upon the
battlements of the church, but they must mount also to the turrets of civil policy; some of
her preachers grew to be mere parasites—some to the court, some to the country; some
would have nothing in their mouths but prerogative, others nothing but privilege : some
would give the crown all, some nothing; some, to feed zeal would famish the understand-
ing; others, to feast the understanding, and tickle the outward ear with essays and
flourishes of rhetoric, would quite starve the soul of her true food.
“But the principal thing that I hear that reverend lady, that queen of souls, complain
of, is, that that seamless garment of unity and love, which our Saviour left her for
a legacy, should be torn and rent into so many scissures and sects. I hear her cry out
at the monstrous exorbitant liberty, that almost every capricious mechanic takes to him-
self to shape and form what religion he lists. For the world is come to that pass, that
the tailor and shoemaker may cut out what religion they please; the vintner and tapster
may broach what religion they please; the dyer may put what colour, the painter may
put what face upon her he pleases; the blacksmith may forge what religion he pleases,
and so every artisan, according to his profession and fancy, may form her as he pleases.
Methinks I hear that venerable matron complain, how her pulpits are become beacons;
how, for lights, her churches are full of firebrands: how every caprice of the brain is
termed tenderness of conscience, every frantic fancy, or rather frenzy, of some shallow-
brained sciolist; and whereas others have been used to go mad from excess of knowledge,
men grow mad now-a-days from excess of ignorance. It stands upon record in my story,
that when the Norman had got firm footing within my realm, he did demolish many
churches and chapels in the New Forest, to make fitter for his pleasure; but amongst
other judgments which fell upon this sacrilege, one was, that tame fowl grew wild: I fear
God Almighty is more angry with me now than then, and that I am guilty of worse
crimes; for not my fowl but my folk and people are grown, in many places, half wild;
they would not worry one another so in that wolfish belluine manner, else. They would
not precipitate themselves else into such a mixed mongrel war; a War which makes
strangers cry out, that I am turned into a kind of great bedlam, that Barbary is come
into the midst of me, that my children are grown so savage, so fleshed in slaughter, and
become so inhuman and obdurate, that with the same tenderness of sense they can see
a man fall, as a horse, or some other brute animal; they have so lost all reverence
to the image of their Creator, which was used to be more valued in me than among


other nations.”
121
CHAPTER, XIV.
cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR.
THE return of the Earl of Essex to London, and the king’s retirement to Oxford, after
the fight at Newbury, though those movements terminated the campaign of 1643, as it
regarded the two main armies, did not put an end to the military operations of the year.
The greater part of England was alive with a ceaseless war of skirmishes and sieges.
Prince Rupert, in the midland counties, maintained his reputation for courage and
activity, for severity and rapine. In the west, his brother Maurice, after receiving the
submission of several garrisons, which the brilliant successes of the royal arms at
Roundway Down and Bristol had frightened into ready submission, besieged Plymouth,
without taking it; and then sat down with a large force before the paltry ditches
of the little town of Lyme.—The war in the north presented features of more
interest.
The Earl of Manchester, having reduced Lynn, drew his forces into Lincolnshire, and
on the 11th of October, was joined by Cromwell, now his lieutenant-general, and by Sir
Thomas Fairfax. The following day, they were attacked by a strong body of cavalry,
from the royalist garrisons of Lincoln, Newark, and Gainsborough, at Waisby field,
near Horncastle. That spirit of religious enthusiasm, which was the secret of Cromwell’s
extraordinary influence over his own unconquered regiments of troopers, had by this time
widely diffused its electric sympathy through the ranks of the army in which he com-
manded. On the appearance of the enemy, he gave the word of onset—“Truth and
Peace ;” called on his soldiers to charge, in the name of the Highest; uplifted his loud
harsh voice in a psalm, which officers and men, column after column, took up with hearty
zeal; and, while it was yet sounding through their ranks, bore fiercely down upon the
startled enemy. Midway, a volley met them from the royalist dragoons: they answered
it by a louder note of that solemn defiance. A second discharge saluted them, when
within a few paces of the hostile column. Cromwell’s horse was shot dead, and fell upon
him; and when, after a moment's struggle, he rose from the ground, he was again struck
down, by an officer who had, at first, singled him out for the charge. Stunned for
a moment, he presently rose a second time from among the slain, mounted the horse
of a common soldier, which chanced to be at hand, and plunged forward into the fight.
But by this time a regiment, commanded by Sir William Savile, which had received the
first overwhelming shock of the parliamentarians, giving ground, disordered and put to
flight the whole van of the royalists. The rout quickly became general. Manchester,
hastening up with the infantry, found Waisby Field, and the road towards Lincoln,
strewed with the royalist dead and dying; the survivors were utterly dispersed. A

2 I
122 cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR.
thousand of the king's troops are said to have perished in this short but terrible action.
The next day the Marquess of Newcastle raised the siege of Hull.
Now began the splendid and more decisive campaign of 1644. Vainly had Charles
sought to prevent, what he had long foreseen, the irruption of the Scots. In his name,
though contrary to his proclamation, those levies were raised, whose entrance on the field
was to turn against him the balanced scale of fortune: and on the 19th of January, 21,000
men of that nation, led by Lesley, Earl of Leven, marched, knee-deep in snow, upon the
soil of England; the same Lesley, who, on receiving that title (such was the faith of those
who were never weary of charging the king with faithlessness I) had solemnly promised
his sovereign never more to bear arms against him. Passing Alnwick, after a summons
to the brave Sir Thomas Glemham, who, with many of the gentry of Northumberland,
was shut up in that fortress, they came before Newcastle, into which place the marquess .
had thrown himself the day before. Disappointed in their hope of surprising the town,
they continued their march southward, skirmishing, now and then, with small parties of
the royalists; and some days later, were discovered by the marquess, who had gone in
pursuit of them, occupying a strong position by the sea, near Sunderland. For weeks,
the two armies kept each other at bay; till at length the marquess, “seeing no possibility”
of forcing the Scots to an engagement, drew off towards Durham. Had he resolved on
creating such a possibility and vigorously followed it up, Newcastle might now have risen
from the dubious reputation of a gallant amateur commander, to the fame of a great
general; and if he had not arrested the final triumph of the parliament, might at least
have forced it into a more honourable path to victory, than one carved out by the swords
of hypocritical mercenaries.
Unable, in the distracted state of affairs in England, to reduce the Irish rebels to
obedience, Charles had consented to a truce, and had invited the veteran soldiers of that
country to join his forces in England. Numbers flocked over; but nothing was accomplished
by those auxiliaries, to compensate for the odium of employing men practised in such
barbaraties as had disgraced the savage contest in Ireland, and many of them suspected,
at least, of Popery. So generally hateful was the name of Irishmen, that many of the
king's adherents, in Newcastle's army and elsewhere, laid down their arms as soon as it
became known that the king had proposed to accept the services of that people; and the
parliament passed an ordinance for the massacre of Irish prisoners of war, without any
apparent shock to the public feeling. Some parties of these veterans having made their
appearance in the county of Chester, the gallant Lord Byron, who commanded there for
the king, united them with the forces already under his command, and laid seige to
Nantwich, the only garrison in those parts which still held out for the parliament. This
incident gave occasion to one of those brilliant actions, which marked the dawn of Sir
Thomas Fairfax's military fame. In the depth of that inclement winter he marched
across from Lincolnshire, joined the forces of Sir William Brereton, from the county of
Leicester, and, appearing unexpectedly before Nantwich, forced the besiegers to draw off,
and routed them with a severe loss. Of 3,000 foot, commanded by Byron, more than half
were slain or captured. This defeat was a severe blow to the king's cause. His Irish


cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR. 123
auxiliaries, on whom he had mainly depended to enable him to take the field early in the
spring, never came together again, but were all cut off in detail. Fairfax's despatch,
written after the battle, mentions, as having been captured in the camp, 120 Irish women,
of whom a great proportion were armed with long knives. Among the prisoners taken,
was also the famous Colonel George Monk, afterwards the instrument of restoring the
Stuart family to the throne. He was sent up to London, and imprisoned in the Tower;
but consented to transfer his services to the parliament, and by his courage and activity
soon took a distinguished part in the military affairs of the period.
Fairfax, in obedience to the orders of the parliament, marched back again into York-
shire, and joined his father, Lord Fairfax, at Selby, to co-operate with the Scots. Falling
in, near that town, with a party commanded by Colonel Bellasis, the governor of York,
who had marched out to prevent the junction, he totally defeated them, and captured
their officers and cannon, including Bellasis himself. York was now seriously endangered;
the Marquess of Newcastle, therefore, yielding to the solicitations of the alarmed inhabit-
ants, broke up his position at Durham, and entered that city on the 19th of April. The
next day the Scots came to Wetherby. There, the day following, they were joined by the
Fairfaxes, and proceeded at once to besiege the marquess. The wide extent of the walls
of York, and the facilities of annoying the besiegers, which the river afforded to so strong
a garrison as was now enclosed within their circuit, for Newcastle's horse was between
4,000 and 5,000 strong, rendered the investment merely an irregular blockade, and ex-
posed the besiegers to continual sorties. But these inconveniences were presently remedied
by the advance of the Earl of Manchester's forces, out of Lincolnshire, to the support of
his friends. That commander was now at the head of the completest army yet brought
into the field by either party. It consisted of 14,000 men, chiefly disciplined on Crom-
well’s plan, splendidly armed, and liberally furnished with all necessary supplies. Their
general was likewise stimulated by the daring genius of his lieutenant, and by the presence
of a parliamentary committee, at the head of whom was the subtle Vane—since Pym's
death, acknowledged leader of the house of Commons. On his march, Manchester
possessed himself, by storm, of Lincoln; and with the help of Cromwell’s “Invincibles,”
drove back Goring, whom the Marquess of Newcastle had despatched with the greater
part of his cavalry, to attempt the relief of that place. The arrival of a third army before
York was the signal for breaking off negotiations for an armistice, then pending between
the marquess and Fairfax; and it immediately enabled the besiegers, by means of a large
additional force, to press the siege with a degree of vigour which seriously distressed the
marquess, and obliged him to send and acquaint the king with his perilous condition.
The parliamentarians now drew their lines close up to the walls; erected batteries, which
overlooked the town: took possession of the suburbs, in the midst of the flames which
the garrison had set to them; and repulsed with equal valour, the frequent sallies of the
fearless enemy within.
The king, to return to the occurrences of the winter, while waiting for the season
when he must resume, in the field, a contest, every day growing more unequal, adopted
two expedients, from which he hoped either to derive some advantages in carrying on

124 cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR.
the war, or at least to prepare the way for peace upon endurable terms. He had long
felt, that the strongest ally of his enemies was in the witchery that accompanied the very
sound of the word parliament, to the ears of Englishmen. Of this spell he now tried to
get possession. The anti-parliament, composed of those peers and commoners who had
deserted, or had been expelled, from the houses at Westminster, was assembled at Oxford,
about the time that the Scots passed the Tweed. The numbers which met in this con-
vention, were respectable—more than half as many in the lower, and full three times as
many in the upper house, as appeared at the rival assembly, which still laid exclusive
claim to the name and rights of the parliament of England. Their proceedings evinced
that moderation which became the friends of their bleeding country, in the distracted
circumstances of the time. Without displaying any extreme warmth of loyalty, or
indulging in a tone of exasperation towards their brethren at Westminster, they earnestly
sought peace, and would have purchased it by large concessions; but the other side now
repelled all advances, in the sovereign style of conquerors. They forwarded the covenant
to Oxford, declaring that engagement to be the immediate work of God, for the further-
ance, by their means, of “his own truth and cause against the heresy, superstition, and
tyranny of antichrist;” proclaimed their solemn determination mever to lay down their
arms, till they had made peace on their own terms; gave warning that they would
henceforth endure no lukewarmness, in their cause ; and finally, offered a pardon to all
who should, before a certain day, desert the king, give in their adherence to the parlia-
ment, and take the covenant. The existence of the parliament at Oxford they did not
acknowledge. Frustrated in its object of a pacification, that assembly now turned its
attention to the means of prosecuting the war. Those means, notwithstanding the
generous loyalty of multitudes, who impoverished their families to their last acre, to lay
the produce at the king's feet, were by this time miserably exhausted. The principal
measure proposed by the Oxford parliament, with this view, was, in imitation of their
opponents, to levy an excise. When the members separated, they had scarcely to reckon
among their acts any greater benefit to the royal cause, than the absorption, though but
for a season, of the mean passions and paltry discontents of a contemptible court, in the
interest excited by the nobler endeavours even of that which the king himself termed
his “mongrel parliament.”
Charles's second expedient proved no less abortive. Cardinal Richelieu, who, from
the beginning of the troubles, had encouraged the enemies of the crown, both in England
and Scotland, was now dead; his master, Louis XIII., had followed; and Cardinal
Mazarine, the new prime minister of France, was thought willing to second the friendly
disposition of the regent towards the English court. Great hopes were therefore enter-
tained by Charles of successful consequences from the mediation of the new French
envoy, who now made his appearance, in the person of the Count of Harcourt. But the
suspicions of the parliament were excited. The count had scarcely set foot on English
ground, when his retinue was searched by a messenger from the Commons, who arrested
Montague, an accredited agent of the king and queen of England at Paris, disguised
among his attendants, and committed him to the Tower. In London, the ambassador




cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR. 125
was received with apparent respect, and allowed to proceed to Oxford. Charles was soon
undeceived, with regard to the authority of this person to negotiate for aid from France.
On the other hand, the parliament, to whom Harcourt now returned, declined his offered
mediation, on the ground of his bringing no credentials to either house. They even
intercepted his despatches; among which, a letter from Goring to the queen disclosed
that the embassy was planned and arranged by her majesty. On the part of the French
government, it was, in fact, a diplomatic manoeuvre, designed to amuse both parties; it
ended without any other result, than to confirm the confidence of the parliament, and to
leave the king, as it found him, to his own precarious resources.
As the season of warlike activity approached, Charles looked on with anxious uncer-
tainty, while his enemies employed their utmost efforts to send into the field a force
sufficient to realize their professed intention of overwhelming him at one blow.
While their levies were proceeding in London, the usual speeches were made to the
citizens, to persuade them freely to part with their contributions: and after the prepara-
tions were completed, the customary fast was appointed to pray for success. Such was
the effect of the eloquence of Essex and Warwick, of Vane, Hollis, and Glyn, upon the
citizens assembled in Guildhall, that even the loss of Pym threw no observable damp
over the public zeal. How the more solemn business of the fast-day was conducted
in the assembly of divines, we are informed, in a passage of inimitably rich naïveté, by
Baillie. “We spent from nine to five graciously,” writes the complacent commissioner.
“After Doctor Twiss had begun with a brief prayer, Mr. Marshall prayed large for two
hours, most divinely confessing the sins of the assembly, in a wonderful pathetic and
prudent way. After, Mr. Arrowsmith preached an hour, then a psalm ; thereafter
Mr. Vines prayed near two hours, and Mr. Palmer preached an hour, and Mr. Seaman
prayed near two hours, then a psalm; after, Mr. Henderson brought them to a sweet
conference of the heat confessed in the assembly, and other seen faults to be remedied,
and the conveniency to preach, against all sects, especially anabaptists and antinomians.
Dr. Twiss closed with a short prayer and blessing. God was so evidently in all this
exercise, that we expect certainly a blessing.”
The Earl of Manchester’s army has been mentioned already. In the middle of May,
Essex and Waller likewise marched from London, each at the head of 10,000 men. As
soon as the former had reached Windsor, and the latter had encamped at Basing, the king
advanced from Newbury, where his army had mustered, to Reading; raised the fortifi-
cations of that town, in order to augment his forces with the troops of the garrison; and
again retired to Oxford, to observe the movements of his enemies.
The parliamentarian armies now pushed on, and occupied Reading; Abingdon, which
the royalists had likewise abandoned; and, in effect, the whole of Berkshire. The situa-
tion of Charles was, indeed, become critical. Waller forced a passage across the Isis;
the Thames was crossed by Essex; and thus Charles found himself and his troops shut up
in a narrow isthmus between two powerful armies. In London, a report prevailed, that
Oxford was already taken, and the king a prisoner. The court was in consternation,
apprehending all the dismal horrors of a siege. Essex, on his march to Islip, at which
2 K -
126 cAMPAIGN OF 1644—MARSTON-MooR.
town he designed to fix his quarters, drew up his army upon an open space, where those
in the city had a full view of it; while, with his train of officers, he rode round, and sur-
veyed, without molestation, nearly the whole circuit of its defences. The only means left
to Charles of saving that venerable seat of learning from the destructive miseries of war,
was to withdraw himself, if possible, to a distance; for he was aware that the object now
chiefly aimed at by his enemies, was the possession of his person. Accordingly, on the
3rd of June, he visited his quarters at Woodstock; brought his army close under the
walls of Oxford, there to wait his farther pleasure; ordered out a body of foot with cannon,
on the road towards Abingdon, in order to divert the attention of his pursuers from his
real purpose; and prepared everything for his, escape. As soon as night fell, he sum-
moned the prince and their attendants, and, escorted by his own regiment of cavalry,
passed, in silence, the north gate, accompanied by many lords and gentlemen of the
court, and followed by a long train of equipages crowded with ladies. The Duke of York,
with most of the lords of the privy-council, remained behind; some troops of horse, a
regiment of foot, and all the heavy ordnance, under the command of the Earl of Peter-
borough, being left for their defence. Charles gave orders, that the services in his chapel
at Christ Church should be continued on Sundays and Tuesdays, as if he still were
present. Already, several weeks before, the queen had fled from Oxford, to seek, in the
loyal capital of Devonshire, a retreat where the cradle of her expected royal infant might
be secure from the ungenial clangour of rebel arms. -
Marching between the two armies of the enemy, the king arrived, by daybreak on the
4th of June, at Hanborough; and in the afternoon at Burford, where he halted. By
this time, Waller had knowledge of his flight, and had pushed on in pursuit as far as
Whitney; when, presently, the scouts of the royal army came galloping in with the intel-
ligence: a general cry of "to horse to horse!” was heard through the town; and
Charles, with his sword drawn, was seen riding about to hasten away his followers. At
Evesham he designed to rest; but hearing that both armies were pursuing by forced
marches, he advanced to Worcester.
Such, however, was not the fact; for, on arriving at Burford, Essex resolved that
Waller should pursue the king, while he himself penetrated into the west, to relieve Lyme,
and reduce those loyal regions to the power of the parliament.
To this arrangement Waller submitted with reluctance, alleging against it a previous
command of their common masters, that if the two armies separated, the west was to be
assigned to himself; but finding it necessary to yield, he executed the order with charac-
teristic despatch. By the way, he took possession of Sudley, the seat of the Lord
Chandos; and finding, on his arrival at Worcester, that the king had marched out to
Bewdley, he concluded that Charles's object was to entrench himself within the walls of
Shrewsbury, and therefore advanced northward without resting, till he had passed the
royal army. In truth, Charles, as his famous letter, written about this time to Prince
Rupert, evinces, was in the greatest perplexity, without any fixed plan, having no other
design in his marches than merely to avoid his pursuer, “with whom he could not, with
such a handful of foot, and without cannon, reasonably propose to fight.” It is to the


CAMPAIGN OF 1644—MARSTON-MooR. 127
unfortunate monarch’s condition at this time, that Clarendon pathetically applies the
complaint of King David, when pursued by Saul, that he was hunted like “a partridge
on the mountains, and knew not whither to resort, or to what place to repair to rest.”
Some of those affecting incidents in the military life of the king, which are preserved in
the royal itinerary, quoted by D'Israeli, apply to this period. The following appear
among the entries in that “ brief chronicle.” The king and his party sometimes lodged
in a bishop’s palace, or at the seat of a lord, at a country gentleman’s, clergyman’s, or
merchant’s abode; but not unusually at a yeoman’s house; and on one occasion, the
record says, at “a very poor man’s house.” “ Dinner in the field,” observes the pleasant
commentator, “is an usual entry; but the melancholy one of ‘no dinner this day,” is
repeated for successive days. “Sunday no dinner, supper at Worcester—a cruel day.”
‘This march lasted from six in the morning till midnight.” “His majesty lay in the field
all night, in his coach.’ ‘The king had his meat and drink dressed at a poor widow’s.’
Such was the life of Charles the First, during several years.”
Finding that he had deceived Waller, the king now marched back with all expedition
to Worcester, thence again to Evesham, and the same night to Broadway, where he
quartered his army. “From thence,” says Clarendon, in his picturesque narrative of this
interesting expedition, “they mounted the hills near Camden; and there they had time
to breathe, and to look down with pleasure on the places they had passed through; having
now left Waller, and the ill ways he must pass through, far behind; for even in that
season of the year the ways in that vale were very deep.” Charles now sent messengers.
to Oxford, with orders to the troops left there to join him, with his cannon, at Burford.
The alacrity and joy evinced in obeying this order, enhanced the satisfaction with which
he once more found himself in his old quarters, surrounded by his loyal cavaliers, after a
harassing and wearisome march of seventeen days; during which his fortitude had been
tried by “accidents and perplexities to which majesty has been seldom exposed,” and his
abilities in the field put to a test which entitles them to respect.
The king had no intention to remain idle. Having shortly rested and recruited his
army, he marched to meet Waller, now on his return to seek him; and, upon the 28th of
June, discovered that general’s army, which had by this time been strengthened by a
reinforcement of about 1,000 horse and foot from Warwick and Coventry, drawn up, in
order of battle, at the foot of a hill on the west of Bambury. Both parties spent the night
in the field, separated from each other by the river Charwell. The following day occurred
the series of spirited skirmishes, known as the fight at Copredy Bridge. The brunt of
that irregular action lay chiefly between the Earl of Cleveland, and Middleton, Waller's
lieutenant-general. The ultimate advantage was evidently on the royalist side; for Waller
lost all his ordnance, and was so weakened by the capture aud dispersion of his forces,
that he presently returned, without making any further attempt, to London. The king,
meantime, marched westward, in pursuit of Essex. -
The celebrated letter, already alluded to, in which Charles, in great alarm at the
intelligence from York, “commanded and conjured’ his nephew to march to the relief of
that city, found Rupert surrounded by a fresh halo of military glory. A short time
before, he had relieved Newark, besieged by Sir John Meldrum—one of the most brilliant


128 cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR.
exploits, of that kind, performed in the whole war; had taken Stockport, Bolton, and
Liverpool; and had raised the siege of Lathom House, the mansion of the Earl of
Derby, so gallantly defended against the parliament’s forces, by the countess. It is
impossible, even in the midst of the attraction and hurry of more important actions, to
omit the particulars of this heroic defence.
The earl had gone over to protect his hereditary dominions in the Isle of Man, from
the threatened invasion of the parliamentarians. Scarcely had he reached the isle, when
the countess, whom he had left in charge of Lathom, received secret intelligence that her
house would shortly be attacked. She instantly called in the aid of the gentlemen of the
county, and made all provision requisite for a defence, with so much secresy and
despatch, that when, shortly afterwards, Fairfax appeared before the place, he was sur-
prised to find that resistance was contemplated. He sent a trumpet to require a conference
with the countess; to this she agreed, but detained the messenger, while, “to make the
best show she could, she placed her inefficient and unarmed men on the walls and tops of
the towers, and marshalled all her soldiers in good order, with their respective officers,
from the main guard in the first court to the great hall,” where she calmly awaited the
visit of her enemy. The meeting was conducted, on both sides, with much courtesy and
apparent respect. Fairfax proposed to her an honourable and secure removal, with her
family and retinue, to Knowsley Hall; an engagement that she should remain there free
from molestation; and half the earl’s revenues for her support. She replied, “I am here
under a double trust—of faith to my lord, and of allegiance to my king: give me a month
to consider my answer.” Fairfax refused. “Then I hope, sir, that you will excuse me,”
rejoined the countess, “if I preserve my honour and obedience, though it be to my ruin.”
A fortnight passed, before the general had decided on his method of attack. He then
sent in military form to demand an immediate surrender. The countess answered, that
“she had not yet forgotten what she owed to the church of England, to her prince, and
to her lord; and that till she had lost her honour, or her life, she would defend that place.”
Scarcely had the besiegers began their trenches, when the noble lady ordered a body of
200 men to sally out upon them; who slew sixty, and returned with a loss of only two of
their own party. The assailants now proceeded more warily, but were so often interrupted
by the defenders, in the formation of their lines, that little progress was made. At length,
after having spent three months before the place, they approached the moat, and planted
a powerful battery. Among the guns on this battery was a mortar of unusual dimensions.
A shot thrown from this piece fell into an apartment where the countess and her children
were at dinner. The heroine rose from the table, ascertained that no one was hurt, and
instantly ordered another sally; in which all the guns of the enemy were spiked, or flung
into the moat, except the huge mortar, which the brave garrison dragged in triumph into
the fortress. In the midst of incessant annoyance from the enemy, the besiegers con-
trived to repair their battery: the work was no sooner completed than they were once
more dispersed, their cannon spiked, and the intrepid party of royalists again retired
almost unhurt within their walls, leaving a hundred parliamentarians dead upon the spot.
In all these actions the admirable countess encouraged the soldiers by her presence, and
frequently exposed herself to personal danger. Nor did the inspiring example of her

º






cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR. 129
piety less contribute to maintain their valour: no action was attempted without previous
prayer for success; no success was received without solemn thanksgiving. At length
Fairfax, accustomed to victory, lost all patience. He now appointed Colonel Rigby to
conduct the siege, whom his private enmity to the Earl of Derby recommended to that
office. The colonel made known his arrival by a fresh summons to Lathom House to
surrender. It was conveyed in insulting terms: “Trumpeter,” answered the countess
to the messenger, “tell that insolvent rebel Rigby, that if he presume to send another
summons within these walls, I will have his messenger hanged up at the gates.” The
garrison, however, was by this time reduced to extremity; when they had the happiness
to descry from the towers the banners of Prince Rupert, who, on the earnest representa-
tions of the Earl of Derby, had turned aside for their relief, in his march towards York.
Rigby instantly raised the siege, and retreated with his forces to Stockport.
Prince Rupert had taken in so many reinforcements in his way, that when, on the 1st
of July, he came in sight of York, his army numbered about 20,000 men. The combined
forces before that city broke up at his approach, and after an attempt to intercept him,
which he avoided by a skilful disposition of his army, they withdrew their forces to
Hessey Moor, near the village of Marston, where they met in a council of war to delibe-
rate what course should be pursued. Irreconcilable jealousies and dissensions already
distracted the confederacy; and the question, whether they should fight with the prince,
which the English generals desired, or draw off their armies from the neighbourhood of
the city, which the Scots were inclined to, seems to have been practically decided by the
advance of the Scotch army some miles on the road towards Tadcaster. The delibera-
tions on the great crisis that had arrived, in the council of the Marquess of Newcastle,
within the walls of York, were marked by equal, and, in their results, more fatal dissen-
sions. The marquess, in accordance with his higher views, and better knowledge of the
state of the enemy's camp, delivered his opinion, after his courteous and ceremonious
manner, for delay. Why renew, by instantly forcing on a battle, that union already
dissolving? The mere arrival of the prince was already doing the work of the royalists,
without risk; the ripening of the enemy’s dissensions, by time, would soon accomplish
the rest. At least, let them avoid a battle till the arrival of reinforcements from the
north, which he daily expected. The haughty Rupert chafed equally at the calm, refined
tone, and the cold considerate advice; he would not argue the point. He had a letter
from the king, absolutely commanding him to give the enemy battle. That order super-
seded deliberation: he had only to obey. The marquess replied, that if that was his
highness's resolve, he, for his part, was ready to submit to his orders as strictly as if they
were the king's in person. After the prince had retired, some of Newcastle's friends
besought him not to take part in the battle, since it appeared the command was taken
from him. His reply was, that happen what might, he would not shun an engagement;
his sole ambition having ever been to live and die a loyal subject of the king.
Accordingly, early in the morning of the 2nd, when the foot and artillery of the par-
liament were already in motion to follow the Scots on the road towards Tadcaster, Rupert,
with a powerful body of horse, appearing on the edge of Marston Moor, threatened their
2 L

130 cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MooR.
rear, while the columns of his foot were seen in the distance, steadily advancing as if to
choose their ground for battle. At once the march of the parliamentarians was counter-
manded, their advanced divisions recalled, and a position taken as rapidly as the nature
of the ground permitted, fronting that already occupied by the prince. The royalists
being in possession of the moor, the enemy drew up, among cornfields, upon a rising
ground, which skirted its northern boundary; a ditch and slight embankment running
along between the opposed fronts of the two hosts.
While Rupert waited the arrival of his infantry, the parliamentarians formed in view.
In the centre rose the dense masses of their foot, commanded by Lord Fairfax and the
Earl of Leven. Sir Thomas Fairfax with his cavalry, formed the right wing, Manchester
and Cromwell the left. The prince opposed the great strength of his army to the columns
of the younger Fairfax, and there, at the head of his cavaliers, selected his own position;
Goring and Sir Charles Lucas he placed in the centre; on the left, Newcastle fought
valiantly at the head of his devoted “white coats,” but what share he took in the com-
mand is uncertain.
For the narrative of the fatal fight of Marston Moor, we recur to Mr. Forster's Life of
Cromwell, already quoted. Whether in regard to careful research among authorities, or
to the vivid colouring which the author has given to his vigorous conception, it is a
passage that discourages rivalry.
“Gazing with silent and inveterate determination at each other, these 46,000 subjects
of one king, stood upon Marston Moor, eight miles from a city wherein every boom of the
distant cannon would strike upon the inhabitants as the death-knell of a friend or brother.
The lines of the parliamentarians had begun to form as early as ten in the morning—the
royalists’ preparations were complete at five o’clock in the afternoon—it was now within
a quarter to seven. Yet there still stood these formidable armies, each awaiting from the
other, with a silent and awful suspense, the signal of battle.
“A stir was seen at last in a dark quarter of Manchester's and Cromwell’s Inde-
pendents, and a part of their infantry moved forwards. Secure from behind the ditch,
Rupert's musketeers at once poured out upon the advancing column a heavy and
murderous fire, and it was in vain the parliamentarians attempted to form under the
plunging batteries directed against them simultaneously from the rear. At that moment
was seen the genius of Cromwell. With a passionate exclamation to his Ironsides, he
ordered them to sweep round the ditch to their right, clear the broken ground, and fall
in with himself upon the cavalry of the dissolute Goring. The movement occupied some
time, and a fearful slaughter was meanwhile suffered by Manchester’s infantry; but,
having once emerged, these inveterate republicans stood, for an instant to receive, like a
rock, the onset of Goring's horse, and them, ‘like a rock tumbled from its basis by an
earthquake,' rolled back upon them. Nothing could withstand the astonishing charge.
The cavaliers who survived, offered no further resistance, but wheeled off to join the horse
of Rupert. Cromwell and his men next struck the guns and sabred the artillerymen
beside them, and then, with as much leisurely order as at a parade, rode towards the
drain. Every place was deserted as they advanced. One spot of ground only still held



cAMPAIGN of 1644—MARSTON-MOOR. I31
upon it, for an instant, the Marquess of Newcastle's unflinching regiment of old tenants
and retainers, and was covered the instant after with an ‘unbroken line' of honourable
dead. Their victory was complete, and the right wing of the royalists irrevocably broken.
“Rupert and his cavalry had meanwhile obtained as great a victory on the left. The
encumbered ground on which Fairfax stood was most unfavourable to an advancing
movement. Rupert accordingly stood keenly by till he saw the parliamentary forces
stagger under the heavy charges poured upon them as they emerged in narrow columns
through ditches and lanes, and then, with his characteristic impetuosity, charged, over-
threw, routed, and dispersed both foot and cavalry, with tremendous slaughter.
“The after meeting of the two victors decided the day. While the centres were
unsteadily engaged, Cromwell, who had held his triumphant Ironsides steadily in hand,
and checked their pursuit, in the very nick of time ordered them suddenly to face round
and wheel upon their centre to the left. Rupert had given a similar order to his conquering
cavalry, to wheel round on their centre to the right; and now, with a shock more terrible
than any of this terrible day, these desperate leaders, each supposing himself the victor,
dashed each in front of a victorious foe! Cromwell received a wound in the neck, and
the alarm for his safety gave a slight appearance of momentary unsteadiness even to his
gallant Ironsides, but they rallied with redoubled fury, and, in conjunction with Lesley, an
accomplished Scotch officer, who led up at the moment a brilliant attack, fairly swept
Rupert off the field.
“It was now ten o’clock, and by the melancholy dusk which enveloped the moor, might
be seen a fearful sight. Five thousand dead bodies of Englishmen lay heaped upon that
fatal ground. The distinctions which separated in life these sons of a common country
seemed trifling now ! The plumed helmet embraced the strong steel cap as they rolled
on the heath together, and the loose love-lock of the careless cavalier lay drenched in the
dark blood of the enthusiastic republican.
“But it is not with such thoughts the victors trouble themselves now. They have
achieved the greatest conquest of the war, and the whole of the northern counties are open
to the parliament's sway. The headstrong Rupert has received a memorable lesson, and
retreats in calamity and disgrace towards Chester. The Marquess of Newcastle, weary
of a strife never suited to his taste, but hateful to him now, crossed the sea an exile.
Fifteen hundred prisoners remain with Manchester, Fairfax, Leven, and Cromwell; the
valuable ordnance of the vanquished—artillery, small arms, tents, baggage, and military
chest—all have been left in their victorious hands !”
Nearly a hundred colours are said to have been captured, including the prince's own
standard, bearing a red cross, with the arms of the palatinate. Of some others, the quaint
devices displayed little taste or humanity. Many of them the soldiers tore up, and stuck
the fragments for trophies in their caps. Others were recovered and forwarded to West-
minster; where, at the reception of ambassadors from Holland, a ceremony at which the
houses affected unusual pomp, forty-eight of these blood-stained ensigns of defeated
royalty were displayed upon the table, to regale, perchance to awe, those representatives
of the maritime republic.
A.
I32
CHAPTER, XV.
THE cAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644.
It has already been told, that the king, finding himself freed, by the result of the action
at Cropredy Bridge, on the 29th of June, from all likelihood of being further molested
by Waller, directed his march westward in pursuit of the Earl of Essex. To this course
he was determined by various considerations; but particularly by his anxiety for the
queen, now, with the infant princess Henrietta, exposed to the annoyances of a siege in
Exeter, and by the apparent strength of his cause in the western counties, not only
in the amount of organized forces, but also in the general loyalty of the people. Essex’s
advance to Weymouth had already left Prince Maurice at liberty to unite the most
considerable royalist force in the west with the main army under the king, by compelling
that youthful and indiscreet commander to raise the siege of Lyme. The spirited
resistance made by the garrison and inhabitants of this little town, during the two
months wasted in its blockade, was the subject of repeated votes of thanks in the parlia-
ment, and of lively interest in the capital; and is not unworthy of special mention, even
at the distance of two centuries, in a narrative which professes to rest its peculiar claim
to attention on an earnest sympathy with whatever, in this protracted and extraordinary
struggle, is eminently calculated to engage the sympathy of Englishmen.
Charles had entered Gloucestershire, when the first true account reached him of the
issue of the fatal battle of Marston-Moor, of the retirement of the Marquess of Newcastle
and his friends to the continent, and the dispersion of Rupert’s fine army. This grievous
news must have been felt the more poignantly, because it followed a succession of
rumours which ascribed to the prince a brilliant victory; it nevertheless appears to have
produced no other effect upon the spirits and designs of the king, than that of adding
firmness and alacrity to his present purpose. It demonstrated, in fact, that the prosecu-
tion of the campaign in the west was the only important military undertaking now open
to him. He hastened on to Bath; and, receiving some accession of strength in his
passage through Somersetshire, reached Exeter on the 26th of July.
His royal consort, however, was no longer there. On the first rumour of Essex's
approach, Henrietta, alarmed by the rancorous personal hostility with which the parlia-
mentarians regarded her, had quitted the town, leaving behind her the royal infant,
scarcely a fortnight old; had withdrawn, under Prince Maurice's protection, into Corn-
wall, and embarked in a Dutch vessel of war for France, “not without some barbarous
but vain interruption of the rebels.” Hastily embracing the new pledge of an affection more
faithful and devoted, in the opinion of some writers, than became a king, Charles reviewed
the troops of his nephew assembled in the vicinity, and immediately resumed his march.



THE CAMPAIGN IN THE west—1644. 133
In the meantime the object of his pursuit was already far in advance. After lying
for some days near the army of Prince Maurice, the lord-general had driven from before
Plymouth an insufficient force, left there by the prince under the command of Sir Richard
Grenvil (brother of Sir Bevil Grenvil, who fell in the previous year at Lansdown fight),
and had marched forward into Cornwall: a step forced upon him by his officers, contrary
to his own better judgment. For the leaven of republicanism was already working in the
councils of the main army of the parliament; though not to the same extent as in that
under Manchester, in which the dark machinations and daring soldiership of Cromwell
had by this time made him absolute. That movement, with its dishonourable conse-
quences, is attributed chiefly to the counsel of Lord Roberts (a person of weight in the
army by his intimate alliance with Vane and his party, as well as by his own activity
and zeal), who possessed estates, and pretended to vast influence, in Cornwall.
The discontents which distracted the parliamentarians were more than equalled among
the royalists. The liveliest jealousy prevailed between the king's council and his military
officers. Among the cavaliers, wit and conviviality could not fail to be popular: to the
influence which Lord Wilmot, who was in command of the horse, had acquired by his
excellence in these qualities, he added an ambitious temper and a strong disposition to
overrate his own claims to distinction. Charles had other grounds also of dislike
to Wilmot; for, though blinded to the fact in the case of his nephews by family affection,
he could not be ignorant that by entrusting offices of the highest moment to men of
reckless dispositions and irregular lives, he both discredited his cause and weakened his
resources. He had consequently resolved to rid himself of his troublesome lieutenant-
general of the cavalry. Of this design Wilmot had probably gained some intimation,
which so exasperated his usual arrogance and indiscretion, that the king was provoked
to carry his plan into effect in a rougher and more hasty manner than he at first intended.
It was now the month of August. Essex, unable either to advance farther, or to retreat,
had seized the little port of Fowey, to prevent his being blocked up by sea as well as by
land, and fixed his head-quarters at Lostwithiel, where they were overlooked by the
king's at Boconnock.
Here Wilmot, while in the act of delivering one of his turbulent harangues, was
arrested on a charge of high treason, dismounted at the head of his troops, and sent
under guard to Exeter. The next morning Charles ordered the cavalry to be drawn out;
and, visiting in person each division, acquainted them, that at the request of his nephew,
Prince Rupert, and upon his resignation, he appointed Colonel Goring their general,
whom he had accordingly sent for to the army, and commanded them all to obey him.
“With respect to Lord Wilmot,” he continued, “I have for very good reasons put
him under present restraint.” The following day a petition was presented by the officers,
requesting to be made acquainted with the particulars of the charge against their general.
The request was granted. A copy was at the same time forwarded to Wilmot himself,
who returned an answer sufficient to clear him in the opinion of his admirers; but on
learning that his old enemy and superior officer, Goring, was already in possession of the
command, he obtained leave to retire into France. Wilmot's dismissal involved also that
2 M

134 THE CAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644.
of Lord Percy, the partner of his irregularities, and now the partaker of his voluntary
exile. To him succeeded the tried and gallant Lord Hopton. Another and a more
important change, which was made about the same time, proved of more doubtful
character and result. This was the substitution of Prince Rupert for the Earl of Brent-
ford, as commander-in-chief. The earl was incompetent indeed from age and infirmity,
but so was his highness from passion, impetuosity, and high-born insolence. Rupert was
brave—the bravest of the brave; but little can be hoped from an army in which the hot
courage of a life-guardsman, with the abused privileges of birth, forms the general's only
qualification for command.
Always the foremost of the great contending parties to desire peace, twice within
the last two months had the king attempted to open negociations for obtaining it. His
first message was addressed to Waller, after the fight at Cropredy; whose answer ran,
that “he had no power to receive any proposal on that subject, without the consent of
the two houses of Parliament at Westminster, to whom he accordingly referred his ma-
jesty.” Presently afterwards Charles renewed the attempt, in a letter to the parliament,
which was delivered by Sabran, the diplomatic agent of France; no notice, however, was
taken of it. He now addressed himself to Essex, in a letter written with his own hand,
and in terms of much frankness and esteem. But, though delivered by the earl’s nephew,
Lord Beauchamp, then on his way through the enemy’s quarters to France, and contain-
ing warm appeals to Essex’s honour and patriotism, with earnest assurances that by
engaging in “that blessed work,” the restoration of peace to the distracted and bleeding
country, he would secure for himself and his army the highest marks of the writer’s per-
sonal regard, the royal autograph failed of its object. The general bluntly reminded his
nephew that he was employed by the parliament to fight, not to treat ; declared that he
would enter into no negotiations without their consent ; and immediately despatched the
king's letter to Westminster, enclosed in one from himself, representing the extremity to
which he was reduced, and urgently entreating succour.
A part of the duty undertaken, and punctually discharged by Lord Beauchamp, was
to acquaint Essex with the unanimous concurrence of the officers, and the army in general,
in the wish expressed by the king. But as no answer was returned to the royal message,
a resolution was adopted by the majority of the officers, to second it by one in their own
names. To this step, though indicating a want of respect for the sovereign, while his own
letter remained still unnoticed, Charles nevertheless gave his consent. The manifesto
received from Essex what Clarendon calls a “surly answer; which,” continues the histo-
rian, “produced the effect the king wished and expected: they who had been most active
in preparing the address, were now the most ashamed of their folly; and the whole army
seemed well composed to obtain that by their swords, which they could not by their pen.”
That Charles should have employed, or concurred in these repeated urgent appeals to the
patriotism and humanity of his enemies, at a moment when he already had their main
army at such manifest disadvantage, when he was daily expecting a large reinforcement,
and had no reason to apprehend the probability of relief arriving in the enemy’s quarters
—seems to denote a sincere anxiety on his part to put a stop to the public calamities.


º
|||||||||||
| 2.
- | -
|||ſ||
|
L.
~
-
º










THE CAMPAIGN IN THE west—1644. 135
By the arrival of the expected reinforcement, consisting of about 2,000 horse and foot
commanded by Grenvil, the king was enabled more effectually to distress the parliamenta-
rians. One after another their posts were occupied by his troops. At length Beacon
Hill, a rising ground adjoining the town on the land-side, and Pernon Castle, a fort at
the harbour's mouth, which commanded the sea and the line of coast, were seized by his
advanced parties. The game was manifestly now in the king's hands; and so cool a
tactician was not likely at the critical moment to dismiss that patient wisdom, which, in
all that depended immediately on himself, marked the conduct of the campaign.
For more than a week both armies remained in a state of inactivity, each in expecta-
tion of the other's movements. “All the action, or rather recreation we had,” writes Sir
Edward Walker, the king's historiographer, “being every day to see ours and their parties
relieve their advanced guards; and sometimes a man or horse was slain.” Intelligence
at length reaching the king, that Middleton, whom Waller had left in command of his
shattered army, was marching into the west, at the head of a force which the small par-
ties of royalists left in his rear were unable to check; he resolved without further loss of
time to resume active operations. Orders had already been issued for a general attack,
when the king directed its suspension, while Goring, with the greater part of the cavalry
and a body of fifteen hundred foot, making a circuit to the west, occupied St. Blaise, a
little town at the head of the nearest creek in that direction; a movement which cut
Essex off from the only remaining point of coast, on which supplies for his army could be
landed. The space where he was now confined measuring only about three miles by two,
and all prospect of relief from Middleton being precluded by the advance of a royalist
corps against him, from the north of Devon, the earl became painfully sensible of the
hopelessness of farther maintaining himself in his position.
A council of war, assembled in this emergency, resolved that the cavalry should endea-
vour to save themselves by cutting their way through the quarters of the royalists; and
that the general should at the same time escape with the infantry on board such vessels of
war as were then lying in Fowey Harbour. Information of this design was immediately
brought to the king, who sent orders to Goring to move in the direction of the intended flight
by land, and keep his only remaining forces under arms all night to prevent it. From
these precautions, however, nothing followed. The night proved hazy and dark: an hour
before dawn the entire body of Essex’s horse, led by Sir William Balfour, stealthily
marched out; passed between the king's and Prince Maurice's quarters; and were per-
mitted to gain the open country, without any further annoyance than a few straggling
shots which did no execution. When day broke, and distinctly showed the fugitives, a
party of royalist horse mustered in pursuit; but as the retreating squadrons amounted to
four times the number of their pursuers, they were able to repulse every assault by turn-
ing upon them in overwhelming force. In the end, only a score or two of wounded
remained with the king's troops, who, on their part, lost several men, and some standards.
This disgraceful failure was chiefly owing to the misconduct of Goring. That jovial
and reckless officer being engaged in a drinking-party when he received the announcement
of Balfour’s design, with the king’s orders to intercept him, treated the whole matter


136 THE cAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644.
as a groundless alarm, and prolonged the festivities of the night till the fugitives had fairly
got beyond the reach of effectual pursuit.
A different fate awaited the foot. In the morning Essex quitted his position at Lost-
withiel, and drew all his remaining forces into Fowey. Lostwithiel was immediately
occupied by the royalists: all this day (August 31st) partial skirmishes took place. The
next morning an officer came from the earl, and demanded a parley; but before he could
carry back the king's answer, Essex, with Lord Roberts, Sir John Merrick, and other
officers, was on his way to Plymouth by sea, leaving the veteran Skippon to procure such
terms as he could. The king, as usual, manifested the clemency of his disposition, and
his regard for the lives of his people, by granting conditions which even the writers on
the side of the parliament acknowledge to have been “very honourable * to their side.
All their artillery and ammunition, consisting of forty pieces of ordnance, about one
thousand stand of arms, and two hundred barrels of gunpowder, were delivered up; but
the men were allowed to march out with their colours, the officers to wear their swords,
and to be accompanied by their servants, horses, and baggage. A guard was likewise
granted to protect the disarmed soldiers on their way towards Southampton; it proved,
however, either insufficient for that duty, or unwilling to discharge it. At Lostwithiel,
and other towns, where the unfortunate men had shortly before committed various acts
of oppression and rapine, a severe retaliation was now practised. The inhabitants,
pretending to discover their own apparel and other property upon their persons, stripped
and otherwise ill-treated many of them. In these barbarities the royalist troops also
took part. A contemporary writer has preserved a remarkable anecdote relating to this
subject, which he says he had often heard. He asserts, “ that Skippon being despoiled
of his scarlet coat, his case of pistols, and rapier, did ride up unto the king, and very
roundly told him of the violation of the articles by his soldiers. The king, not well
remembering him, did ask him who he was; he replied, that his name was Skippon.
The king demanded, who were those soldiers that had thus injured him He showed
them to his majesty, for as yet they continued within the reach of his eye; they were
about nine in number. Immediately the marshal was called, and these soldiers were
apprehended; seven of the nine were condemned to the tree, and suffered according to
their sentence.” This story, though deriving some apparent probability from Charles's
well-known compassion and sense of justice, is inconsistent with other and more authentic
statements. Sir Henry Slingsby, a competent authority, tells us, that he “never observed
any great severity in the king, used either towards the enemy when he had him in his
power, or to the soldiers in his own army, except only at Wing, a house of my Lord
Caernarvon’s ’’ (near Uppingham), “where he commanded a soldier to be hanged upon a
sign-post for stealing a chalice out of a church.” The true relation is, most likely, that
given by Sir Edward Walker, who simply records, that “after the soldiers of Essex's
army had passed by the place where his majesty stood, some of the king's soldiers rudely
fell on and stripped many of them; which his majesty hearing, he sent presently his own
guards and chief officers to prevent it. And when,” continues, Sir Edward, “in my
manuscript I used this light phrase, “our soldiers freed them from the burden of their

THE CAMPAIGN is THE west—1644. 137
t
clothes; on reading it to his majesty, he suddenly interrupted me, saying, “Fie, that is
ill said, and it was worse done,’ and gave me order to alter that expression.”
In truth, the king's compassion blinded his judgment, in this instance, to the evil of
too much consideration for his rebellious subjects. He by no means reaped those advan-
tages which he had a right to reap, from so signal a discomfiture of the enemy—“a great
and glorious victory, gotten without blood.” He obtained indeed a useful supply of
military stores, but few men; not above a hundred of the disbanded soldiers offering
themselves for the royal service; while his antagonists at Westminster lost only, of both,
what they had so little difficulty in supplying, that six weeks had not elapsed before
they were again in a condition to give battle to their sovereign, with a force superior to
his own.
So contemptible a close to the military career of Essex (for he scarcely appeared in
the field any more), though the subject of popular censure and complaint, does not seem
to have sunk him much below his previous level in the opinion of his employers. At all
events, in dealing with one of the few men of high rank who actively promoted the
rebellion, the parliament felt it the best policy to conceal their displeasure; and the
fugitive general was, to all appearance, as well received at Westminster as if he had
entered the city covered with laurels. The commons assured him that their opinion of
his fidelity remained unshaken, and immediately took measures for repairing his losses.
But at the same time they sent orders to both Manchester and Waller to join him as
soon as the army should be reconstructed; and, according to their wont, “ appointed a
day of public humiliation.”
Charles, in the meantime, yielding to his usual sanguine temper, greatly overrated
the effect of Essex's surrender. Expecting that event to produce consternation in the
metropolis, he renewed, in more confident language, his message to the parliament for
peace. He flattered himself that the people, no longer beguiled by the prestige of success
on the side of his enemies, would flock to the royal standard in its progress to London,
whither, as he informed the houses, it was now his intention to proceed. No farther
indication appeared, however, of the fulfilment of these expectations, than a petition
from the inhabitants of Somersetshire, echoing his own desire for peace, and promising,
if it should be refused by the parliament, “to spend their lives and fortunes in assisting
him to compass by the sword what by fair means could not be effected.” But this pros-
pective assurance was accompanied neither by reinforcements of men, nor by supplies of
necessaries for the army, whose wants were by this time grown urgent. The infantry
were “naked and unshod;” the cavalry murmuring both at the dismissal of their late
commander, and at their long arrears of pay; the whole army, now for many months on
constant duty, was worn by fatigue and reduced in numbers. Charles's march towards
London was made tedious and irksome by these hinderances. He recovered indeed most
of the towns which Essex had taken, except Plymouth, where the earl, landing on his
way to Southampton, had placed Lord Roberts in command. The king drew up before
the walls, and summoned the garrison to surrender; but, on receiving a determined
refusal, withdrew, leaving Grenvil with some troops to invest the place. Goring, who,

2 N
H38 THE CAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644.
when too late, had pursued the cavalry of Essex as far as Tiverton, afterwards, in some
degree to compensate his negligence, dashed on northward, and made himself master of
the rebel town of Barnstaple. Blandford likewise was captured, with the expulsion
of Waller, again at this time in arms at the head of a considerable force, which hovered
about the king, rather to observe than to interrupt his movements, and constantly dis-
lodging at the approach of such parties as were sent against them. The relief of the
brave garrisons at Donnington, Banbury, and Basing, which now anxiously engaged the
king's thoughts, was an object of greater importance.
The first of these places obtains frequent mention in the records of the present
campaign. Though known by the name of Donnington “Castle,” it was in fact one of
those numerous private residences, which in the course of the civil wars were fortified,
and became the scenes of deeds of bravery and devotedness, worthy of a larger sphere
and more extensive celebrity. Waller's orders to Middleton were, to watch the king’s
movements; but first to take Donnington, then occupied by Sir John Boys with only
a company or two of foot; a design which, it was supposed, would not detain him long.
The event, however, proved otherwise. Boys, a brave and determined loyalist, was so
well supported by his little band, that Middleton, after losing three hundred officers and
men, devolved the enterprise on Colonel Horton, who commanded at Abingdon,
and marched forward to the support of Essex. Towards the end of September, Horton
advanced with a large force. No notice being taken of his summons, he raised batteries,
and opened a fire, which, at the end of twelve days, had levelled a great part of the
structure with the ground. He was now joined by a part of Manchester's troops, and
immediately sent a second and more peremptory message. To show the temper of the
war, the insolence displayed on the one side, and the firmness on the other, this
document is here inserted, with the governor’s answer —
“SIR,
“We have formerly testified our clemency in tendering you quarter, upon your
surrender of the castle for the service of the king (!) and parliament; and now again we
being desirous (notwithstanding our increase of powers) to manifest our mercy, do hereby
once for all freely offer yourself and men fair quarter, in case you yield the castle for the
use above-said, before Wednesday next at ten o’clock in the forenoon: and farther, we
here testify, in the presence of God, that if this our favour be not accepted, and the castle
surrendered, there shall no active man among you have his life, if God shall ever please
to yield them to our mercy.
“Yours, JEREMy HoRTON.”
“SIR,
“Neither your new addition of forces, nor your high threatening language shall
deter me, nor the rest of these honest men with me, from our loyalty to our sovereign;
but we do resolve to maintain this place to the uttermost of our powers; and for the
matter of quarter, yours may expect the like on Wednesday, or sooner if you please.
This is the answer of,


“Sir, your servant, Jo. Boys.”

THE CAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644. 139

Manchester himself soon after appeared before Donnington, and meeting with
a similar reception, fixed the following day for storming the castle. His troops, aware
of the spirit which animated the garrison, shrank from the dangerous service. A fresh
battery was then constructed, the cannonade recommenced with great vigour, and an
attempt was made to approach the walls by mining. The besiegers, however, were pre-
sently driven from their works, with the loss of many of their number, including the
officer in command of the battery, and a large quantity of arms and ammunition. On
the king's approach, the earl drew off his baffled forces. During the last nineteen days
of the siege, one thousand great shots were expended upon the walls of Donnington.
The history of Basing House is not less remarkable. In the family of the loyal and
gallant Marquess of Winchester, who defended it for the king, was found a traitor—that
nobleman's brother, Lord Edward Paulet. With him Grenvil entered into a correspon-
dence, the object of which was to deliver up Basing to Waller. Thither Grenvil, then in
the service of the parliament, was to proceed with a troop of horse, in advance of Waller,
in order to make everything ready for the enterprise. On the day appointed Grenvil left
London, joined his troop at Bagshot, and, conducting them to Oxford, acquainted his
majesty with the plot. Charles instantly despatched an express to the marquess.
Paulet and his confederates being seized, confessed everything; while Grenvil, though
not immediately entrusted with a command by the royalists, joined Lord Digby in the
west, and was afterwards employed in the blockade of Plymouth.
In the mean time a strong parliamentarian force appeared before Basing House, and
commenced operations early in May. The siege was sustained with much gallantry and
the endurance of many hardships, by the marquess and his followers, till September; on
the 11th of which month the assailants were repulsed, and the garrison relieved, by Colonel
Gage and a party of royalists from Oxford.
At Banbury Castle, the commander on the parliament's side was Colonel John Fiennes,
son of Lord Say: it was defended by Sir William Compton, brother to the loyal Earl of
Northampton. The siege, which began in August, is memorable for numerous fierce
assaults, gallantly repelled by the garrison, and for many vigorous sallies resolutely sus-
tained by the besiegers. During the latter part of it, Cromwell was present. The king,
affected by the accounts successively brought him, of the extremity to which Compton
and his brave associates were reduced, and, at the same time, not sufficiently considering
all the difficulties of his own position, in the midst of hostile armies, readily agreed to
the proposal of Northampton, to proceed, with some regiments of horse, to his brother's
aid. The expedition proved completely successful, the besiegers being routed and dis-
persed with great loss; but in the mean time events occurred which occasioned the earl’s
absence, with his numerous followers, to be felt as a serious detriment to the king’s
affairs.
Had Charles still retained his purpose of marching upon the metropolis, it would have
been the height of imprudence to waste time and strength in enterprises of such trivial
moment, however interesting to his feelings, as the recovery or relief of a few inconsider-




T 2
140 THE CAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644.
*
able fortresses. But, in fact, this design, at no time entertained on sufficient grounds, he
had found it necessary to abandon. For the space of six weeks after Skippon’s surrender,
Charles was detained by the necessities and discontents of his army in the counties of
Devon, Somerset, and Wilts. The middle of October found him advanced no farther
than Salisbury. There he learned from Rupert, to whom he had sent orders to join Sir
Marmaduke Langdale and Colonel Gerrard with the forces out of Wales, and hasten to
his support, that they would not at present be in a condition to move forward. He there-
fore determined to close the campaign, and return without delay to winter-quarters at
Oxford. Even this, however, the enemy purposed not to let him effect without interrup-
tion. Essex’s army had by this time been reorganized, and reinforced by the addition of
the city regiments, five thousand strong, besides numerous recruits. Waller continued to
attend the motions of the royal army, while the victorious forces of Manchester and
Cromwell, no longer needed in the north, where York had surrendered to the parliament,
and the Scots remained in force sufficient to keep down the royalists, were at hand, ready
to form a junction. Such, in effect, were the orders of the parliament to the commanders
of the three armies; and then to bring the king to an engagement. The united forces of
the parliamentarians mustered near Basingstoke, amounting to eight thousand infantry,
and nearly an equal number of horse: the king’s were much less numerous, even before
the Earl of Northampton had been detached to the relief of Banbury Castle. With this
circumstance the enemy was made acquainted by Hurry, the Scot, formerly mentioned
as a renegade from the republican party, at Chalgrave Field. This man seized the present
moment to consummate a double treason; under pretence of retiring to the continent, he
obtained leave to withdraw from the royal army, in which it is probable he considered his
services not sufficiently valued; availed himself of his pass, to hasten to London; and
there sought to make his peace by betraying the unprovided condition and diminished
numbers of the king. The immediate consequence was the battle of Newbury.
Charles had posted his army advantageously, near that town, his skill in the dispo-
sition of troops being seconded, in this instance, by his intimate knowledge of the ground;
on which, a year before, he had met his foes in a sanguinary conflict. Through the town
of Newbury, in an eastern direction, runs the river Kennet, and is joined just below it by
another stream (the Lambourne), which in its course from the north-west, washes, at half
a mile’s distance, the walls of Donnington Castle. A little farther west than Donnington,
lies the village of Speen : it was occupied by the army of Prince Maurice, and was pro-
tected by the guns of the castle, and by works at the entrance of a heath lying still farther
to the west. The chief strength of the royal forces was disposed in the opposite direction,
north and north-east of the town, fronting the London road; on which, at the distance of
a mile or two, the enemy made their appearance about noon on the 25th, and immedi-
ately attempted to get possession of an advantageous post on an adjacent hill. In this
attempt, though repulsed in the first instance, they on the following morning succeeded.
The king's front was strengthened by a breast-work, and by occupying with musketeers
several detached country houses, in and near the village of Shaw. One dwelling in parti-



THE CAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644. 141
cular, “a strong stone house,” obtained celebrity as the scene of the deadliest struggle in
the ensuing fight; it was filled by a determined party of riflemen, while others were
distributed in considerable force among the surrounding gardens.
The engagement began on the 26th with a smart exchange of shot between the artil-
lery of the town, and a party of the enemy; who were now in possession of the hill before-
mentioned, on which they had planted a battery. It was not, however, till the afternoon
of that day, that any serious effort was made on either side; then the royalists, having
brought two of their guns round to the south of the river, opposite the hill, the slopes of
which were at that time covered by the regiment of Ludlow, the republican memorialist,
swept the eminence with fatal effect. Ludlow has described, among his losses on this
occasion, the affecting death of a young officer of the regiment, his cousin.
The plan of the parliamentarians was, at once to attempt both of the principal royalist
positions, and thereby nearly to surround the king. It was late in the afternoon ere any
movement indicated their purpose. Suddenly, under cover of an active cannonade along
their whole line, the army was seen emerging, in two columns, from behind the protect-
ing eminence. The right column, consisting of the forces under Essex and Waller, (the
former crying out, that the time was now come “to revenge the business of Cornwall”)
with a large body of horse commanded by Cromwell, passed along the king's left, crossed
the stream near Donnington Castle, got possession of a wood at the head of the heath,
instantly drove in and dispersed the force of Prince Maurice, and made themselves
masters of the artillery and village. Of the defeated royalists, part took refuge within the
works at Donnington; others fled in confusion towards the town, followed down the hill,
at Speen, by Cromwell’s victorious horse. In the open space, which intervened between
Speen and Newbury (now, and perhaps then, known as Speenhamland,) stood the king,
with the young Prince Charles, surrounded by the royal guards. Here the tide of repub-
lican victory was checked. Charles, by the interposition of his personal authority, arrested
the precipitate flight of the soldiers. At the same moment the two regiments of the king's
and queen’s guards gallantly charging the pursuers, the latter fell back to the hill at
Speen, the possession of which they quietly retained.
Meantime the second column, which comprised Manchester's battalions, after pausing
on the slope of the eminence to observe the effect of the movement on Speen, animated
by the proofs of its successful result, descended to the more difficult work of forcing the
strong position at the villa, already described, called Doleman's house. The music of the
republican warriors as they marched down the hill, was a solemn psalm, resounding along
the steady lines. At the first they were met by Prince Charles's regiment of horse, who,
having received and returned the fire of the advancing column, withdrew to the entrench-
ments in the neighbouring gardens. It was among these pleasant retreats of the modest
luxury of a country town in the 17th century, that the severest conflict and most terrible
slaughter took place. File after file of the republicans strove to force their way into this
suburban fortress; but instantly fell, leaving the lawns and hedge-rows covered with dead
and wounded. Three hours had elapsed while the infantry of the parliament were thus
engaged, the cavalry standing all the time drawn up for their support, exposed to a galling
2 O

142 THE CAMPAIGN IN THE WEST-1644.
fire, from which Ludlow's regiment again suffered most severely. At length a reserve of
the enemy coming up, they retreated towards the hill; to the top of which the royalists
pursued them with great execution, and bringing off two pieces of ordnance, retired with
them to their entrenchments. One more attempt was made, by an overwelming mass of
cavalry, to force the position: it failed; and the silence and solemnity of an autumnal
moonlight reigned over the second field of Newbury.
The king had been a personal witness to that part of the conflict from which his army
had suffered most. He resolved not to expose it to a second encounter with a force so
superior, till he had reinforced his ranks. An hour, therefore, before midnight, the artil-
lery and military stores were, by his order, secured beneath the walls of Donnington
Castle; the several divisions at the same time quitted their ground, and mustered in
silence on the heath. These movements did not pass unobserved by the enemy; who,
however, offered no interruption. Dawn discovered the main force of the royalists far
advanced on their march to Oxford. ...Charles himself, with his immediate attendants, and
a squadron of life-guards, had taken the western road, with a design to hasten the Welsh
and northern reinforcements, whose expected junction under Rupert had so long detained
the prince in the west. The uncle and nephew met at Bath.
In the meantime the parliament's forces entered Newbury. They summoned
Donnington Castle to surrender, threatening Colonel Boys that if he did not instantly
comply, they would not leave One stone upon another. “If so, I am not bound to repair
it,” was the governor’s scornful reply. Being urged, a second and a third time, with the
offer that he should be permitted to march out with all the arms, ammunition, and stores
deposited in the castle—“Carry away,” he said, “ the castle walls themselves, if you can ;
but, with God’s help, I am resolved to defend the ground they stand on, till I have orders
from the king, my master, to quit it, or will die upon the spot.” An assault was con-
sequently determined, but the officer who led the storming party having fallen at their
head, and great differences prevailing among the generals, nothing farther was done.
From Bath the king returned without delay to Oxford, attended by Rupert, and his
reinforcements. On the 6th of November, the whole army mustered near that city;
and on the 8th Charles surprised his enemies by appearing once more in sight of New-
bury, at the head of full six thousand foot and five thousand horse. The day following
he took possession of the heath behind Donnington Castle; and, resuming his former
position between Speen and Newbury, offered the enemy battle. A sufficient space of
time was allowed them to quit the town, without any indication appearing that the
challenge was accepted. A herald was then sent forward to announce, that the king's
design was now to retire. Another pause ensued, when the army, with drums beating,
and trumpets sounding, repassed the river unmolested, and took up their quarters for the
might under Donnington Castle : the king slept within the fortress. The next morning
he marched out, followed by the train of artillery and equipages, which he had deposited
there at the close of the battle of Newbury; proceeded leisurely towards Oxford; and on
the 23rd, reached once more the deanery at Christ-Church, then the only palace of the
sovereign of three kingdoms.
7222222 (22.22%
/
* Gºº









143
CHAPTER, XVI.
T R. E. A. T Y O F U X B R ID G. E.
THREE several times, during the western campaign of 1644, we have seen the king offering
to open negociations for a peace. That he was now sincerely desirous of peace, if that
“blessing,” as he emphatically termed it, could have been obtained on terms compatible
with his conscientious views of duty and honour, no unprejudiced reader of the history
of the time can doubt; that he continued to press the subject upon the attention of the
parliament from any serious expectation of being able, by such means, to put a close to
the devastating contest, is a point more questionable. The parliament had gone too far
to be safe, as individuals, from the vengeance of the violated laws, unless they could find
means to restrain the sovereign executive within limits, to which neither the king's
conscience nor his just pride would allow him to submit. Nevertheless, though he had
little reason to hope for any good from a negociation, it became not the father of his
people to turn a deaf ear to the cry which now rose on all sides—from hut and castle,
from the lord and the peasant alike—for a termination to be put to the useless calamities
of that protracted, bloody, and unnatural war.
Sensible of the same pressure from public feeling, the weight of which, on this point,
now began to lie chiefly upon their side; hoping, however, to be able more readily
afterwards to throw the blame upon the king, in the estimation of the multitude, who
were less capable of judging what either party might or might not concede, than of their
apparent willingness to enter on a treaty—the parliament also at length yielded. From
time to time, ever since the transmission of the king's message after the discomfiture of
Essex, we meet, in the records of their proceedings, with motions made and votes passed
to consider of propositions for a treaty. Propositions on their part were at length framed,
and commissioners (two from the Lords, four from the Commons, and three for Scotland),
were named, to carry them to the king. They left London on the 20th of November.
Whitelocke, who was one of them, has left an amusing account of their journey. At
Wallingford, where they at first expected to find the king, they apprehended some risk
from the rude loyalty of the governor, with whom they dined; again, on their arrival at
Oxford, the insolence of some of Charles's officers moved the commissioners’ indignation.
By the populace they seem to have been regarded with as little favour: “As we passed
along the streets,” says the memorialist, “the rude multitude, the people—part of that
people of England for whom we underwent so many hazards of our lives, and fortunes, to
preserve them in their rights and liberties, and from slavery and popery, reviled us with
the names of traitors, rogues, and rebels, and the like, and threw stones and dirt into our
Coaches: a great encouragement and reward for our service for them l’”

144 TREATY OF Ux BRIDGE.
The reception of the commissioners by the king himself seems to have been tolerably
satisfactory, except to the three who appeared for Scotland. That to them he “was less
civil than to their brethren,” cannot excite surprise; for not only had the rebellion, which
now wasted the realm, first broken out among the Scots, but that people had, likewise,
by means of the covenant, and the intrigues of their commissioners in London, gained a
degree of influence which they unrelentingly employed for his destruction. The very
propositions now submitted to him, had derived no small part of their harshness from
suggestions made north of the Tweed, to which the authorities at Westminster yielded a
slavish consent.
It was Sunday, when the commissioners were admitted to the royal presence, and
presented the propositions. They were read by the Earl of Denbigh. At the reading of
the names of those persons whom the parliament proposed to be excepted from pardon—
which the earl pronounced “with great courage and temper,”—the Princes Rupert and
Maurice, hearing their names among the number, “fell into a laughter;” at which the
king seemed displeased, and desired them to be quiet. “Have you power,” said he,
addressing the commissioners, “to treat?” “No,” they replied; “our commission is
merely to receive your majesty’s answer in writing.” “Then,” rejoined the king, “a
letter-carrier would have done as well.” “I suppose your majesty,” retorted Lord
Denbigh, “looks upon us as persons of another condition than letter-carriers?” “I know
your condition,” was the reply; “but I mean, that your commission gives you power to
do no more than a letter-carrier might have done.” This hasty remark appears afterwards
to have been regretted on all sides.
While the commissioners where waiting in the town for the royal answer, Lord
Lindsey, who was confined by his wounds, invited Whitelocke, and Hollis, two of their
number, to visit him. Presently after their arrival, the King, Prince Rupert, and several
other persons of high rank, entered; when his majesty began an earnest conversation with
Whitelocke and Hollis, on the business of their mission. In reply to his repeated request,
that they would advise him what answer it were best to return to the parliament's
message, they expressed their conviction that his appearance in person at Westminster,
would, more than anything else, promote the attainment of peace. By Charles's desire
they then withdrew into a private room, where Whitelocke wrote down what both agreed
to recommend to the king as the substance of his answer. The paper, written in a
disguised hand, and without a signature, was left on the table; “and the king went in,
and took it, and then with much favour and civility bid us farewell.” This singular
transaction was kept secret by the two commissioners, from their colleagues, and can only
be excused as springing from an earnest desire for the success of their negotiation. A
charge of high treason, founded upon it, was some months afterwards brought against them
in the parliament by Lord Savile, one of the lords then at Oxford with the king, who,
on the failure of the treaty, went over to the rebels.
The king's letter by the commissioners contained merely a request, that a safe-conduct
might be forwarded for the Duke of Lennox and the Earl of Southampton, by whom he
would send his reply; and it bore no superscription. The safe-conduct was refused,




TREATY OF Ux BRIDGE. 145
until it should be formally applied for to “the Parliament of England and Scotland
assembled at Westminster.” This demand the king conceded, though with reluctance;
and the result of the visit of those noblemen to London was an agreement to appoint
commissioners on both sides for a treaty, to be held at Uxbridge, the place selected by
the parliament. --
The commissioners nominated by the parliament consisted of four for the Lords, viz.
the Earls of Northumberland, Pembroke, Salisbury, and Denbigh; eight for the Commons,
viz. Pierrepoint, Hollis, Lord Wenman, Sir Harry Vane, St. John, Whitelocke, Crew,
Prideaux; four Scotch lords, and three divines, Marshall, Wines, Cheynell, and the
famous Alexander Henderson; with eighty attendants. The king's commissioners, at the
head of whom were the Duke of Richmond and the Marquis of Hertford, amounted, with
their retinue, to one hundred and eight persons. In this number were included, with a
view to the affairs of the church, Drs. Stewart, Sheldon, Ferne, Hammond, Potter, Lany,
and other learned divines. Such of the royal commissioners as had received any honours
from the king, “since the great seal was carried away from the parliament,” the Commons
refused to acknowledge by their new titles. This they did, not so much from personal
dislike to the individuals, as in defence of one of their own most remarkable acts. When,
by the persuasion of Hyde, Lord Keeper Littleton had forwarded the great seal to his
master at York, the houses passed a declaration, that “whatever should, from that time,
pass under the great seal, should be null and void;’ and shortly afterwards ordered a
copy of it to be made, which they applied, in such matters' transacted on their sole
authority, as by law required the attestation of the great seal. To this impediment,
however, Charles quickly put an end by declaring, that “he waved the matter of honour,
and was content that his commissioners should treat under those titles that were admitted
by the parliament.” The king’s commissioners were, probably without exception, most
anxious for the success of the treaty. Such unanimity the opposite party were far from
entertaining. A small number, principally Hollis and Whitelocke, sincerely wished for
an accommodation; the majority, however, neither sought nor desired the establishment
of peace; while some, in particular Vane, St. John, and Prideaux, were there expressly
to prevent it, and to act as spies upon the conduct of those who might be willing to
obtain it at the cost of the slightest secession from the unreasonable demands of the
parliament.
We adopt, in regard to the further preparatory steps, Whitelocke's lively narrative, as
the account of an eye-witness. “January 29th,” writes the memorialist, “the commis-
sioners for the treaty on both parts met at Uxbridge, and had their several quarters;
those for the parliament and all their retinue on the north side of the town, and those
for the king on the south side: the best inn of the one side was the rendezvous of the
parliament’s commissioners, and the best inn of the other side of the street was for the
king’s commissioners. -
“The evening that we came to town several visits passed between particular commis-
sioners of either party, who had long discourses together to the furtherance of the
business of the treaty. -
2 P

146 TREATY OF UXBRIIDGE,
“The place being within the parliament’s quarters, they appointed Sir John Bennet's
house, at the farther end of the town, to be fitted for the place of meeting for the treaty.
The foreway into the house was appointed for the king’s commissioners to come in at,
and the back way for the parliament’s commissioners; in the middle of the house was a
fair great chamber, where they (the parliament's commissioners) caused a large table to
be made, like that heretofore in the Star-chamber, almost square. The king’s commis-
sioners had one end and one side of the table for them; the other end and side were for
the parliament's commissioners, and for the Scots’ commissioners, to sit by themselves.
Behind the chairs of the commissioners, on both sides, sat the divines and secretaries.
At each end of the great chamber was a fair withdrawing room, and inner chamber ; one
for the king’s, the other for the parliament’s commissioners, to retire to and consult when
they pleased.”
After the settlement of some disputes about precedence, raised by the Scottish
commissioners, (whom the parliament had by this time discovered to be very arrogant
and troublesome coadjutors), the powers and instructions to negotiate were, on each side,
delivered up to the opposite party; and on the 1st of February the business of the treaty
began by the negotiators for the parliament producing the propositions with which they
were entrusted. Up to this point, affairs had been conducted with something like a
mutual acknowledgment of equality; as soon, however, as essentials, not forms, came to
be mooted, it was found that the parliament, “ though they had not yet conquered, were
determined to treat only as conquerors.” The momentous subjects to be settled were all
ranged under three striking and popular heads—Religion; the command of the military;
the truce in Ireland. Referrible to each of these were several propositions, amounting
together to twenty-eight; neither from the substance nor the form of which, as already
fixed by the votes of the houses, were their agents permitted in any degree to deviate.
Thus all discussion of the reasonableness of the parliament’s demands was precluded;
nothing farther being yielded in this respect than an intimation from the commissioners,
that they were ready to explain, in private, the grounds on which they held them to be
reasonable and just. To crown the absurdity, they were commanded to insist that each
of the three great questions was to occupy successively the term of three days, and again
in rotation to be resumed, till the twenty days, already fixed for the continuance of the
treaty, had expired; when, unless all the propositions had been agreed upon, the treaty
was to close.
Not less magisterial was the substance of the propositions. It comprised, under the
first head, the following particulars, the abolition of the episcopal and the establishment
of the presbyterian form of church-government; that the Directory should be substituted
for the Book of Common Prayer; that the assembly of divines should be confirmed, and
that the king himself should take the covenant; under the second, that the command
of the army and navy should be vested absolutely in the parliament; under the third,
that the cessation in Ireland should be declared void, and hostilities be immediately
renewed. On the king's part it was replied, that he could not consent to the abolition
of episcopacy, which he conscientiously believed to be essential to the existence of a church,

TREATY OF UXBRIDGE, 147
but that he was willing to have the episcopal authority confined within the narrow limits
prescribed to it in the scheme of Archbishop Usher. Some other particulars he was
likewise prepared to yield; such as, freedom of worship to nonconformists, and the pay-
ment of a sum of £100,000 by the church into the public treasury. The power of the
sword, the next point in discussion, the king was persuaded to say he would resign, for
the space of three years, into the hands of commissioners, half of whom should be
nominated by himself, the other half by the parliament: subsequently, with strong
reluctance, he enlarged the period to seven years. On the third head he was inflexible.
One of the charges most frequently brought against Charles by his adversaries, and most
extensively believed by the people, was that, for the purpose of attaching the Roman
Catholics to his cause, he had instigated and encouraged the rebellion in Ireland; and
that the armistice agreed upon in that country was not the result of necessity on his part,
but a contrivance to enable him to avail himself of the services of the rebels in England.
On this argument, Clarendon represents himself as speaking to the following effect before
the commissioners: “He put them in mind of their (the parliament’s) bringing those
very troops which were levied by the royal authority for the suppression of the rebellion
in Ireland, to fight against the king at Edgehill; of their having given over the prosecu-
tion of that war, or sending any supply of arms, money, or ammunition thither; and
having, on the contrary, employed those magazines which were provided for that service
against his majesty; in consequence of which the privy-council of Ireland had written
home, that unless other means were provided for the preservation of that kingdom, they
would not be able any longer to carry on the war against the rebels. That notwith-
standing, it was not till the sum of £100,000, raised for that express purpose, had been
sent in one entire sum into Scotland, to dispose and enable the Scots to raise an army
to invade England, that the king had swerved in the least degree from the observation
of the act of parliament which had been passed for reducing the insurgents. But when
he saw that the parliament themselves, instead of prosecuting the end and intention of
that statute, only took advantage of it for the purpose of carrying on the war against
himself, he thought himself absolved before God and man if he did all he could to rescue
and defend himself against their violence, by making a cessation with the rebels in Ire-
land, and by drawing over some regiments of his own army from thence to assist him in
Ingland; to which measure was owing the preservation of the defenceless protestants
of that kingdom. Those unjustifiable proceedings of the parliament, though they had
compelled the king to yield to a cessation, yet could not prevail with him to make peace
with the rebels. His majesty did indeed,” he continued, “admit commissioners from
them to attend him with propositions for that purpose. But when he found those pro-
positions so unreasonable that he could not in conscience consent to them, and that they
were inconsistent with the security of his Protestant subjects there, he totally rejected
them, and dismissed the commissioners with severe animadversions. He nevertheless
gave authority to the Lord-Lieutenant and council to prolong the cessation, in the hope
that the rebels might be brought to a better temper. Should it turn out otherwise, his

148 TREATY OF Ux BRIDGE,
majesty trusts to be enabled through the establishment of a happy peace here, by means
of the present treaty, to chastise their odious and obstimate rebellion; and if now the
parliament will give his majesty sufficient security, that the war in Ireland shall be
prosecuted with vigour, by sending over the requisite supplies of men and money, he will
put an end to the truce.”
Thus those propositions which came into discussion under the three general heads of
the church, the army, and Ireland, admitting as they did, in the instructions given by the
parliament to their commissioners, of no modification, offered (for so they were designed
to do) insuperable obstacles to the procuring of peace. Had the possible result, however,
been different, had the difficulties presented in them been found surmountable, the
enemies of peace, viz. the Independents and the entire party of the movement, were
provided with others equally unpalatable, though less prominent, on which they were,
in that case, to fall back. Such, for example, was the exception from pardon of the
king’s best friends and most loyal subjects, including among them some of the most
eminent individuals in the realm, his two nephews, the Princes Rupert and Maurice,
being placed at the head of the list; such also was the confiscation of the estates of all
persons, in any degree obnoxious to the parliament, under the title of delinquents, for the
purpose of defraying the expenses of the war. An accommodation, in such circum-
stances, was clearly hopeless. Nevertheless the commissioners, on Charles's part, desirous
that their fellow-subjects should understand that no unreasonable impediment to their
just desire of peace arose from the king, applied for an extension of the period allowed
for the treaty; it was refused, notwithstanding the interposition, by letter, of the agent
of the French government, and of the ambassadors of the United States in a personal
appeal to both the houses. So resolved, in fact, were the parliament to make no conces-
sion in this particular, that the royal commissioners judged it necessary to observe the
letter of their safe-conduct, and precipitately returned to Oxford on the last day for
which their safety was guaranteed, wearied with the fruitless labour of twenty anxious
days and broken nights.
A formal seal was thus put to that hopelessness of a peaceful arrangement of the
quarrel between Charles the First and his rebel parliament, which, previously to the
negotiation, the one party had fixed, and the other too truly apprehended: the certainty
of victory in the field, with the consequent power to dictate, to crush, or extinguish, was
henceforth to be the only peace-maker. The king had foreseen this result, and sanguinely
believed himself prepared for the consequences; the late campaign had added no presage
of final success to the prospects of his adversaries; he had received promises of conti-
mental aid; while a diversion in his favour, of most flattering brilliancy, had lately been
made by means of the rapid exploits of Montrose in Scotland. At Westminster, in
justification, politically speaking, of the course pursued in the treaty, a more subtle
design was in agitation—a design carried on by the boldest and ablest men, based on
solid expectations, and supported by the command of the chief resources of the empire.
The third great party, the suffering and deluded people, who had had no voice in the late



TREATY OF Ux BRIDGE. 149
momentous but undeliberative assembly, were, as they always are, the last to comprehend
the true nature of their own position; they were in consternation at learning the abortive
close of the negotiations, and that the sword was not to be returned to the scabbard till
blood of theirs had dyed it yet more deeply; but they were as little disposed as ever to
distrust those who had so long led them to the sacrifice, encouraging their self-immolation
with the cry, abused in every age, but in none so grossly as in this, of religion and
liberty

2
Q




150
CHAPTER, XVII.
NEW MODEL OF THE PARLIAMENTARIAN ARMY-MONTROSE.
THE civil wars of the seventeenth century, though in effect political, had their origin in
the deeper sources of religious discontent. Puritanism had long been preparing the
people for resistance, when that injudicious attempt, already described, to force upon the
rude and fearless sects an ecclesiastical polity which they abhorred, recoiled upon its
authors, and English dissent acquired consistency, and ripened into rebellion, beneath the
cold but vigorous influences of Scotch presbyterianism. Political disaffection and personal
ambition eagerly availed themselves of the alliance, at once to cover and effectually to
promote their darker purposes. For a time, common hatred of a church, become in self-
defence somewhat intolerant, and a monarchy constitutional in its nature, but despotically
administered, bound together as harmoniously as could be expected of such a principle,
the distinct though not heterogeneous elements of the great movement; long, indeed,
after their mutual hostility had grown deadly, either side continued to wear the sem-
blance of unanimity, the more effectually to secure the ruin of that ancient authority,
ecclesiastical and monarchical, which both had made, by many insults and wrongs, a more
intolerable if not more dangerous foe. Yet the grave nonconformist, who had no objection
to a servile monarch, and the unflinching republican leveller who sought to be sole
monarch, at least of himself; the Independent who insisted on constructing his own
church, or, rather, on having none; and the presbyterian who insisted on intolerantly
forcing on all other men a church which he found divinely framed in his interpretation of
scripture, began early to feel alike the uneasiness of that copartnership into which pre-
judice, passion, worldly interest, and some sense of common Wrong, had combined to
hurry them.
We have already hinted at the existence of insubordination in the parliamentarian
army. Before the point of time at which we have now arrived, similar jealousies and dis-
contents had begun to explode in the more central arena of the parliament. The critical
moment was now near when the younger-born of those confederates was to seize, with
youthful but giant grasp, that power which the elder deemed his birthright. Yet the
seizure was to be made, in the first instance, furtively, and under the purest pretences.
The decent veil of unquestionable patriotism, the affectation of a personal sacrifice for the
sake of the public good, was to shroud the step which included disloyalty to the cove-
manted partnership of the rebel allies, and the final throwing away of the scabbard, into
which it was hitherto pretended the sword of rebellion was ever ready to be returned.
In seasons of commotion no act is to be done which has long to wait its agent. To make
the first great step towards republican domination, only one man in England was fit; but



PARLIAMENTARIAN ARMY-MONTROSTE. 151
that one man were so in the most consummate sense. For this work both courage and
dissimulation were needed, and in Cromwell daring without parallel was united to a depth
of hypocrisy not to be fathomed even by himself. In order to understand the subsequent
history of the civil wars of the seventeenth century, we must keep our attention fixed on
Cromwell and his knot of friends—at first the associates, then the submissive creatures—
but, from first to last, able and variously gifted as they were, the dupes, or the tools, of
that inscrutable person.
With this faction, but in particular with the bold republican theorist, young Vane,
Cromwell had by this time come to the conclusion that the epoch was arrived when the
first commanders of the parliamentarian armies must be set aside for men more suited to
existing circumstances. Of those qualifications, on the ground of which they had origi-
mally been appointed, some were now discovered to have no existence, while others actually
unfitted their possessors for present command. The military talents of Essex had been
overrated, and even his courage now appeared dubious ; the successes of Manchester's
army were chiefly to be ascribed to the ability and vigilance of his officers; the high civil
rank of Warwick and Denbigh did not prevent their insignificance as generals; in fine,
the interest such men had in the security of the throne, and their personal sympathy, as
peers, with the sovereign, had rendered them heartless and inactive in a cause, the success
of which must involve the complete humiliation if not the destruction of the monarchy.
The Scotch and presbyterian party had attempted, by means of a charge of cowardice,
deposed to by Crawford, a Scot, and major-general under Manchester, to wither the
laurels won by Cromwell at Marston Moor: the recent occurrences before Donnington
Castle presented a favourable occasion for re-opening the quarrel, with a prospect at once
of effectual advantage to the cause of independency, and of satisfactory vengeance for the
lieutenant-general. Having procured himself to be called upon in the House of Com-
mons to explain why the king’s challenge to a second battle had been disregarded by the
conjoined army, and his subsequent march to Oxford permitted without any attempt at
interruption, Cromwell threw the blame on Manchester’s unwillingness to obtain such a
victory in the field as must have proved an obstacle to the establishment of peace. “I
showed him evidently,” he said, “how this success might be obtained; and only desired
leave with my own brigade of horse, to charge the king's army in their retreat, leaving
it in the earl’s choice, if he thought proper, to remain neutral with the rest of his forces.
But, notwithstanding my importunity, he positively refused his consent, and gave no other
reason, but, that if we met with a defeat, there was an end of our pretensions—we should
all be rebels and traitors, and be executed and forfeited by law.” These charges were
immediately met by Manchester in the House of Lords. Having vindicated his own
conduct in the war, he retorted upon Cromwell himself the accusation of inefficiency at
the battle of Newbury. He proceeded to advance proofs of the lieutenant-general’s repub-
lican schemes and disaffection to the covenant; in one of his few unguarded moments,
Cromwell had told his superior officer that “it would never be well with England till he
were made plain Mr. Montague—meaning, till the privileges of peers were abolished;
that the Scots had crossed the Tweed for no other purpose than to establish a religious

152 NEW MODEL OF THE
despotism, and that in that cause he would as soon draw his sword against them as against
the king; and lastly, that it was his purpose to form an army of Independents, which
should compel both king and parliament to submit to such conditions as he should dic-
tate.” To this proceeding of Manchester's, Essex was a party, and a consultation was
held in the lord-general’s house, between the Scotch commissioners and the English
leaders of the presbyterian faction, of which the result would have been the public denun-
ciation of Cromwell in parliament as an incendiary, and an enemy of both nations, had
not Whitelocke and Maynard, who attended the conference in the capacity of legal
advisers, declared their opinion that the proofs were not sufficient to sustain such a charge
against “a gentleman of his subtle parts and great interest in the two houses.”
But a scheme was now ready for the light—a master-contrivance of republican policy
—which, if it could not silence the voice of parliamentary censure, would at least place
the army in a great degree beyond its reach. Under the conduct of the managers of this
scheme, on the 9th of November, the House of Commons resolved itself into a committee
to consider of the sad condition of the kingdom, in reference to the intolerable burden of
the war, and the little prospect there was of its being brought to a conclusion without
some alteration in the state of the army. In the committee a general silence was observed
for a space, each member looking upon others as if not knowing who was to begin the
debate. Cromwell at length rose. “The occasion of his rising,” he said, “was of no less
importance than to save the nation out of its present bleeding, may almost dying condi-
tion. Without a more speedy, vigorous, and effectual prosecution of the war, casting off
all lingering proceedings like soldiers of fortune beyond the sea to spin out the contest,
we shall make the kingdom weary of us, and hate the name of a parliament. For, what
do the enemy say?—nay, what do many say, that at the beginning of the war were
friends? Even this : that the members of both houses have got great places and com-
mands, and the sword into their hands; and what by interest in the parliament, and what
by power in the army, will perpetually continue themselves in grandeur, and not permit
the war speedily to end, lest their own power should determine with it. This I speak
here to our own faces, is but what others do utter abroad behind our backs. I am far
from reflecting on any ; I know the worth of those commanders, members of both houses,
who are yet in power.” “And especially,” he proceeded, “I recommend it to your
prudence, not to insist upon a complaint of oversight on the part of any commander-in-
chief upon any occasion whatsoever. For as I must acknowledge myself guilty of over-
sights, so I know they can rarely be avoided in military affairs. Therefore, waving a
strict inquiry into the causes of the present state of things, let us apply ourselves to the
remedy which is most necessary; for I am persuaded, that if the army be not put into a
better method, and the war more vigorously prosecuted, the people will enforce you to a
dishonourable peace.” He expressed a confident belief, that the parliament was composed
of such true English hearts—men of such zealous affections towards the general weal,
that no member of either house would scruple to perform a great act of self-denial for the
public good; and he concluded by proposing the following resolution: “That no mem-
ber of either house of parliament shall, during the war, enjoy or execute any office or


PARLIAMENTARIAN ARMY-MONTROSE. 153
command, military or civil, and that an ordinance be brought in to that purpose.” On
the important point of supplying, and in a more efficient manner, the places of those
whom this resolution was designed to dismiss, the same speaker, in a subsequent debate,
thus significantly expressed himself: “ God,” he reminded the house, “ had so blessed
their army, that there had grown up with it, and under it, very many excellent officers
who were fit for much greater charges than they were now possessed of; and he desired
them not to be terrified with an imagination, that if the highest offices were vacant, they
would not be able to put as fit men into them ; for, besides that it was not good to put so
much trust in any arm of flesh, as to think such a cause as this depended upon any one
man, he took upon him to assure them, that they had officers in their army who were fit
to be generals in any enterprise in christendom.”
Vane, in whose mind this resolution was probably first framed, spoke in support of it
with all the force of his peculiar eloquence. Whitelocke, though generally siding with
the movement, aware of the real object in view, acted with Hollis as its chief opponent,
and was followed by the whole body of the presbyterians. On its reaching the House of
Lords, where the great majority were of that party, and where every member plainly
perceived that the ordinance was designed to operate as a disqualification of the entire
hereditary mobility of the country for exercising the privileges immemorially attached to
their order, a stand was made, in appearance more successful. Three several messages
were successively sent up from the lower house, desiring expedition, and setting forth the
danger of delay in passing the ordinance, yet with so little disposition to recommend the
measure by any concession, that a proposal to exempt from its operation the lord-general,
was lost on a division. The Lords persevered, however; but in throwing out the bill
intimated in a conference that they would be willing to entertain one of similar, but less
extensive import, on being made acquainted with the particulars of the second great
measure then in preparation, namely, the re-construction of the army.
The managers in the Commons allowed them not long to wait: the very day after the
delivery of the reasons for rejecting the bill in the Lords' house, the committee of both
kingdoms reported to the Commons the scheme for “new model.” The concurrence of
this committee, which included that of the four Scotch commissioners, is said to have been
obtained by means of Vane's influence over the great head of the covenanters, the
Marquess of Argyle; that influence being probably fortified by the prospect of getting
rid of Cromwell, whom, with the instinctive sagacity of the bird watching the eye of the
serpent destined to swallow it, they had long regarded as their worst enemy. They would
naturally also be farther conciliated by finding that, in the room of Essex and Manchester,
whose method of carrying out their purposes was not calculated to satisfy any party, it
was proposed to place in the chief command Sir Thomas Fairfax, a presbyterian, and a
popular officer among the Scots who had served in England.
By the proposed “new model,” the three armies of the parliament, nominally of
10,000 men each, were reconstructed into one army of 22,000, viz. 7,600 cavalry, and
14,400 infantry. Under Fairfax, selected for the chief command, the next officer
appointed was Skippon, the new major-general. A list of twenty colonels, in charge of



2 R.

154 NEW MODEL () F THE
as many regiments, followed; in which occur the names of Algernon Sidney, Fleetwood,
Middleton, Ingoldsby, Rainsborough, and others of historical note. Among the inferior
officers were the names, not less known, of Ireton, Desborough, Harrison. But the
general roll of officers, as finally voted by the parliament, presented a remarkable
omission; the second place in command, that of lieutenant-general, was left blank, for
the insertion, at a more convenient opportunity, of a name which the contrivers of this
whole admirably prepared stroke of political intrigue had no intention to dispense with ;
to secure whose almost unlimited power and influence, the whole scheme had indeed been
concocted. On the subject of the list, the filling up of which was left entirely to Fairfax,
the doomed upper house made a stand against the demands of the Commons, as well as
on that of additional powers granted to the general. Finding, however, that they were
likely to gain nothing in the end by resistance but popular odium, and soothed by a vague
compliment to the rights and privileges of Peers, and as vague a promise from the
Commons to maintain them, they yielded to a force which they were in no condition to
control; the self-denying ordinance, limited in its enactments to the present time,
instead of being, as in the former instance, prospective to the close of the war, was quickly
passed, in conjunction with the ordinance for the new model. By that enactment, every
member of either house was discharged from all civil and military offices after the expira-
tion of forty days. Essex, Manchester, Denbigh, and Warwick had already appeared in
the House of Lords, and reluctantly laid down their commissions. Fairfax, conducted
into the Commons’ house by four members, received the congratulations of the speaker.
The Independents were already triumphant. Supported by a majority in the parliament,
and cheered on their reckless march of destruction, this small band of hot republicans,
with religion and freedom in their mouths, and, some few enthusiasts excepted, fanatic
selfishness and hatred in their hearts, were thus enabled to launch, at will, their
“thunderbolt of war”—an army 22,000 strong; the men drafted as the ablest and fittest
for their purpose from the old, well-trained regiments; the officers nominated by a
commander-in-chief, himself of good military talents but moderate intellect and unsus-
picious temper, whom it was designed to hoodwink and overrule by means of the blushless
hypocrisy and unhesitating soldiership of Cromwell. To crown the efficiency of the
scheme, Fairfax's commission studiously avoids all mention of the existence of regal
authority in the realm ; it contains no clause providing for the safety of the king's person;
but he is directed to “lead his armies against all and singular enemies, rebels, traitors,
and other like offenders, and every of their adherents; with them to fight, and them to
invade, resist, repress, subdue, pursue, slay, kill, and put in execution of death, by all
ways and means.”
But, before we pursue farther the main course of our “great argument,” it will be
necessary to glance at that brilliant episode which diversified it, while the events lately
narrated were passing. Allusion was made, in a former page, to a proposal from the Earl
of Montrose, through Queen Henrietta, to raise a diversion in favour of the royal cause
in Scotland; where, in spite of the known loyalty of a great proportion of the people, the
despotism of the covenant prevailed almost without opposition. The offer met with no



PARLIAMENTARIAN ARMY-MONTROSE. 155
encouragement; and the valour and genius of the earl found, for a season, no wider
sphere than some desultory command, on the Scottish borders, under the Marquess of
Newcastle. But the influence of Hamilton, by whom that proposal had been defeated,
rapidly declined, till Charles at length became so convinced of his late favourite's perfidy,
as, towards the close of the year (1643,) to cause him to be arrested at Oxford, with his
brother Laneric, and confined in Pendennis Castle. This step was the result of infor-
mation laid before the king by Montrose, who in the beginning of the troubles had served
with the convenanters in Scotland; who since his return to loyalty had followed all their
movements with keen and hostile observation; and hence was thoroughly acquainted with
the secret springs, both of danger and of hope, at work in that calculating and intriguing
faction. The plan of this adventurous nobleman for reviving the ancient Scottish loyalty
from its ashes, was now favourably received by his sovereign. He was appointed lieu-
tenant-general, under Prince Maurice, of all the royal forces north of the Tweed; the
Tarl of Antrim, an Irish nobleman of Scotch descent, who had married the widow of
the famous Duke of Buckingham, being associated with him in the enterprise. Antrim,
a weak vainglorious person, had no other requisite for the undertaking, besides a double
share of Montrose's hatred to Argyle, which in him was hereditary; with the possession
of estates in that savage part of the province of Ulster, whence a descent could most
conveniently be made upon the opposite coast. He, nevertheless, promised to raise
there, in a short time, a force of 10,000 men, and carry them across, to form the basis of
a royalist army.
Montrose received his commission, and was created a marquess, in the spring of 1644.
This was all that the impoverished king was able to do towards the furtherance of the
project. The marquess left the court accompanied only by a few gentlemen, his attendants,
and attempted to raise, in the northern counties, a force sufficient to penetrate into Scot-
land, and join the promised succours from the Earl of Antrim. He surprised Dumfries,
but was repulsed, and forced to retreat upon Carlisle. The disastrous battle of Marston-
Moor followed, and extinguished all hope of his obtaining means in England to renew
the attempt. The whole of Scotland was now in the hands of the rebels, nor was anything
heard of the Irish auxiliaries. Montrose held a consultation with his friends, the issue of
which was, that, considering further efforts to be useless, the party marched out of Car-
lisle, purposing to return to the king at Oxford. At the end, however, of the second day’s
march, the undaunted leader, attended by two faithful followers, Sir William Rollock and
another officer, privately quitted the cavalcade, determining, in pursuance of his original
plan, to endeavour to pass the border in secret.
“There is not in the annals of fiction,” writes Mr. Napier, the recent biographer of
the heroic marquess, “a more interesting and romantic incident than this undoubted
historical fact, that Montrose, disguised as the groom of two covenanting troopers, whom
Rollock and Sibbald personated, mounted on a sorry nag, and leading another in his
hand, rode in the rear of his two companions, to the borders, where he narrowly escaped
a detection that would have brought him instantly to the scaffold. Their first peril was
a conversation with a servant of Sir Richard Graham's, who, mistaking the trio for
156 NEW MC) DEL OF THE
soldiers of Lesley’s army, entertained them with the information that his master, Sir
Richard, had undertaken to act as a spy upon the borders for the very purpose of con-
veying to the covenanters intelligence of the motions of the royalists, and of making
prisoners any of Montrose's adherents who might be returning to Scotland. This trouble-
some companion at length separated from our adventurers, without having observed any-
thing to excite his suspicions, far less to inform him that it was Montrose himself with
whom he had been conversing. No sooner, however, was this peril past, than a greater
occurred. They were suddenly accosted by a Scotch soldier, who had formerly served
under the Marquess of Newcastle, and who was well acquainted with the person of
Montrose. Against the scrutiny of this old campaigner no masquerade was availing.
Montrose’s ‘ quick and piercing eye,’ and ‘singular grace in riding,’ were not to be dis-
guised; and, accordingly, this soldier, passing the seeming officers, at once addressed him-
self to their servant, and respectfully saluted him as my Lord of Montrose. In vain the
latter endeavoured to evade the compliment and sustain his part. “What,’ exlaimed the
soldier, still preserving the utmost respect in his countenance and manner, do I not
know my Lord Marquess of Montrose? Go your way, and God be with you wheresoever
you go.” Montrose bestowed a few crowns upon his unwelcome admirer, who left them
to their journey, and never betrayed the secret, though he might have made his own for-
tune by the discovery.”
These incidents materially quickened the pace of the travellers, who pushed on almost
without resting their horses, till Montrose found himself at the house of Tillibelton, the
residence of his cousin Patrick Graham, of Inchorakie. In this vicinity he passed some
days, endeavouring to ascertain the state of parties in Scotland; concealing himself by
day in an obscure cottage near the mansion, and passing the night with the shepherds
among the mountains—haunts well known to him from his youth—during the night.
From these rude companions of his concealment he learned some vague reports respect-
ing a party of Irish, lately landed upon the isles and western coast of Scotland; and his
conjecture that these might be a portion of the promised army from the Marquess of
Antrim, was confirmed by the contents of a letter, secretly put into his cousin's hands to
be forwarded to him at Carlisle, where he was still believed in Scotland to be staying.
This epistle was from Alaster Macdonald, a cousin of Antrim's, known in the history
of Montrose's wars as Kolkitto (i. e. Coll Keitache, or the left-handed.) It acquainted
Montrose that the writer had landed, by Antrim’s orders, in Argyleshire, with about
1,200 of the Ulster Caterans, or wild Irish of Scotch descent; that his transports had
been burnt by a fleet dispatched for that purpose by Argyle; that he had taken the castle
of Mingary, and burnt and plundered an extensive line of coast. The letter was written
from Badenoch, and concluded with the farther information that Argyle, with a well-
appointed army, was then following in his rear, and that, though letters and commissions
brought over by him had been forwarded to several of the king's friends, not a man had
hitherto joined the expedition. This news, as the total issue of Antrim’s promises, and
of many concurrent assurances that the loyal clans would appear in arms, the instant the
cry of “The King and the Graham” should be raised in the highlands, was sufficiently

| ， ، ، ، ، ، ، ، ، ،
：： （）








PARLIAMENTARIAN AIRMY-MONTROSE. 157
discouraging. Nevertheless, Montrose returned an instant answer, as if from Carlisle,
appointing a rendezvous with Macdonald. Accordingly, two days later, the chieftain met
his wild allies at Blair-Athol, not with the imposing insignia and attendance befitting his
title of lieutenant-general of the kingdom, but furnished with his bare commission, and
accompanied only by his cousin Patrick Graham, with whom he had travelled on foot
over the mountains. Yet, his martial figure and noble bearing were studiously recom-
mended to the band of Scoto-Irish by the garb of the Gael,-the plaid, the trouse, the
bonnet; the broad-sword by his side, the pike and target in hand. The next day he was
joined by eight hundred of the Athol highlanders, numbering, with their brethren of the
sister isle, about 2,000 men, armed with battle-axes, broad-swords, pikes, bows and
arrows; many, with no better weapons than clubs or stones, and the few muskets they
possessed being nearly useless for want of ammunition. It was in the presence of such
an army—if so it may be called—that, in the month of August, 1644, the Marquess of
Montrose fearlessly unfurled the royal standard among the crags and torrents of Athol,
in the heart of a land held in thraldom by a powerful rebel faction, and on a spot
lacerated by the despotic severity of Argyle, his own, and, as he deemed him, his
country’s foe.
No time was lost by the Committee of Estates in raising levies to oppose, and, if
possible, at once to crush, the attempt of Montrose. Lord Elcho, and the Earl of
Tullibardine, assembled the armed covenanters of Perthshire, Fife, and Angus; the
young Lord Kilpont was directed to join them with levies from Monteith. But Kilpont,
falling in with the Marquess's advanced guard, and ascertaining that he bore a commis-
sion from the king, at once transferred his division, amounting to about four hundred
men, to the royalist ranks. The army of the covenanters was discovered by Montrose
drawn up in order of battle on Tippermuir, a wide plain, a few miles from Perth. It
consisted of between 6,000 and 7,000 foot, supported by 700 or 800 horse, and covered
by nine pieces of cannon. Upon this vastly superior force his half-naked band, the men
of Athol in the van, rushed impetuously down. The cavalry of the covenanters instantly
fled in the direction of Perth; their example was followed by the terrified infantry; and
the motley adherents of the royal standard “fleshed” their mingled weapons upon the
less active lowlanders, and the heavy burgesses of “ St. John’s town,” from morning to
mightfall, when the capture of the whole of the enemy’s guns, ammunition, baggage, and
colours, with the undisputed possession of the town, rewarded their tumultuary valour.
In Perth the victors found provisions, clothing, and military stores in abundance. But
these fruits of conquest proved by no means an unmixed advantage to Montrose; a great
proportion of the Athol men, according to the usual practice of the clans, deeming the
expedition at an end, and retiring to the mountains with their share of spoil.
After a repose of three days in Perth, the lieutenant-general, finding that but few of
those friends came in who were expected to gather round the royal standard, crossed the
Tay and marched eastward. His encampment at Collace, near Cupar, was signalized by
an event which deeply affected him, and marks the barbarity of the age. Among those
adherents who had been brought over (unwillingly, as it afterwards appeared,) by Kilpont,

2 S

158 NEW MODEL OF THE
was his clansman, Stewart of Ardvoirlich, a man of fierce passions and gigantic strength,
whom he imprudently treated with the familiarity of an equal friend. This man, intending
to rejoin the covenanters, either bribed by them, or at least willing to make himself
acceptable to their party, resolved to assassinate Montrose, or some one of his principal
officers. Imagining that he had sufficient influence over Kilpont to extort his concurrence,
he conducted him to a solitary quarter of the camp, and there acquainted him with his
detestable purpose. Kilpont indignantly rejected the proposal, when the other, with
his dirk, suddenly struck him dead. The murderer fled—cut down two sentinels, who
threw themselves across his path to arrest him—and eventually escaped through the
thick haze of an autumnal morning. But the base treachery which marked these
assassinations did not prevent the attainment of their object. The Scottish parliament
justified and rewarded them by a vote of pardon and thanks to the perpetrator, for “his

good service to the kingdom;”
and Argyle, without a blush, made the assassin an officer
in his own regiment. After this tragedy, Stewart's friends, with the other followers of
Kilpont, deserted the royal standard.
With numbers diminished to less than 3,000 men—though now, it is true, possessing
a small party of horse, an arm which at Tippermuir he was absolutely without—the
noble adventurer pursued his march through Angus to Aberdeen. There a force far
superior to his own, under the command of Lord Burleigh, was assembled to oppose him.
Montrose, in an engagement which took place on the 13th, routed them nevertheless,
with little loss, and took forcible possession of the town, where his soldiers committed
many acts of cruelty and pillage which he vainly exerted himself to prevent. Spoil was,
in fact, their only pay, and bloodshed familiar to their habits. In the mean time Argyle,
with overwhelming numbers, continued to track his course: Perth and Aberdeen had
been, in succession, no sooner evacuated by the royalists, than they were occupied by the
enemy. At Aberdeen a proclamation was issued by the general of the Estates, denouncing
the king's lieutenant, and all his followers, as traitors to religion, their country, and their
sovereign, and offering a reward of twenty thousand pounds for Montrose's person, alive
or dead.
And now it was, that, to adopt the language of the modern admirer and vindicator
of Montrose, “he entered upon that almost incredible round of forced marches,
sudden onfalls, and rapid and masterly retreats; again and again retracing his steps,
even as the winter was setting in, through the wildest and most untrodden dis-
tricts, and over the most inaccessible mountains of Scotland, rarely in a beaten
track, and continually struggling through snow-wreaths, rocks, and mists, and inland
seas; which, even in the opinion of those who question both the principle and prudence
of his undertaking, must stamp the first campaign of Montrose in Scotland, as among
the most striking recorded efforts of military genius and enterprise.” “Thrice,” says
Baillie in astonishment, “he wound about from Spey to Athol.” Throughout the
greater part of these “coursings,” Argyle followed, but at a cautious distance; fearing,
though the pursuer, that conflict, which he who seemed the fugitive did not desire to
shun. For the tie that bound together the desultory parties of which Montrose's army

PARLIAMENTARIAN ARMY –MONTROSE, 159
consisted, was not discipline, nor, perhaps, loyalty, but rather that constant spirit of
enterprise, which even victory would have relaxed; his object was, not immediate partial
conflict, but, by rousing the loyal districts of Scotland with a sight of the king's standard,
and the war-cry of a known leader, to prepare the way for shaking off from his country
the whole incubus of rebellion. Once, but once only, he avoided battle. Macdonald had
been detached, with a division of his Kerns, on a separate expedition to the western
highlands, when Montrose fell in with the army of the Estates, augmented, by the recent
junction of the northern covenanters, to 15,000 foot and above 1,000 horse. To engage,
in a general attack, an army whose strength in cavalry alone nearly equalled that of his
own entire force, was impossible. He therefore availed himself of the shelter of a wood,
on the skirts of which some skirmishes took place, for several successive days, with no
advantage to the more numerous party. At length Argyle adopted a mode of warfare
more suited to his genius; he succeeded, by means of bribes and persuasions, in detaching
the majority of his enemy's lowland followers, who were mostly, indeed, unequal to the
tremendous hardships of a winter campaign in those inhospitable regions. But the
defection made no change in the purposes of Graham. He now, in turn, at the end of
November, became the pursuer. Learning that Argyle had dismissed his horse to winter-
quarters, and was marching southward with his infantry, he again traversed the mountains,
now clothed in all their wintry horrors, with the purpose of forcing him to fight; but the
wary covenanter, getting timely notice, left his army to shift for itself, hastened to Perth,
and thence to Edinburgh; where, moved by his own shame, or by the dissatisfaction of
his employers, he resigned his commission.
At Blair-Athol, their original place of rendezvous, Alaster Macdonald rejoined the
expedition with a reinforcement of 500 royalists. Montrose now resolved to retaliate
upon his foe the severities which Argyle had inflicted on those districts called “malig-
nant,” by carrying the war into the heart of that chieftain's country. Advancing through
Breadalbane, and along the borders of Loch Tay, he marched right upon the Campbell's
strong hold of Inverary, deemed by himself inaccessible to an enemy. The great Mac
Cailinmore, who stretched the despotism of rebellion over all Scotland, fled affrighted
before the leader of a little tumultuary band, on whose head he had so lately set a price.
Throwing himself into a fishing-boat, he made his escape to Dumbarton, leaving his broad
inheritance to be wasted by fire and rapine. Nor was the work of destruction negligently
done. “From Inverary to Lorn and Glenco, and thence through Lochaber to Glengarry
and Lochness,” the flocks and herds were all swept away, every thing combustible
committed to the flames, and the whole country reduced to “a howling wilderness.” No
blood, however, flowed in this fierce fray; “in regard,” drily remarks the contemporary
historian, “ that all the people also, following their lord’s example, had delivered
themselves by flight.”
Argyle's staff was given to General Baillie, under whom the renegade Hurry was
appointed second in command. Marching westward from Perth, Baillie found Argyle at
Dumbarton, and proceeded under his guidance to encounter Montrose, who was now
pursuing the work of devastation in Lochaber. “And the marquess, knowing well that


160 NEW MODEL OF THE
the enemy was gone, went home with pomp and convened all his friends from their lurk-
ing-places to follow upon Montrose’s rear. And, to make his power the more formidable,
he called over from Ireland Sir Duncan Campbell of Auchinbrech, a colonel in the Scotch
army there, and divers other commanders of his name. The project was, that when
Baillie's army did charge Montrose in the front, Argyle and his men (who were till then
to march slowly, and keep at a distance) should come up and fall upon his rear, whereby
he might inevitably be swallowed up.”
It was Montrose's first intention, with a view to avoid the obvious danger of being
enclosed between two armies, to advance eastward, and at once give battle to the general.
Suddenly, however, he learned that Argyle, pursuing his accustomed caution, had posted
his army securely under the walls of Inverlochy, there to wait the issue of the expected
conflict. By a rapid and secret march across the mountains of Lochaber, exceeding
in difficulty all that had gone before, he brought his little army, at Sunset on the
second day, within sight of the frowning towers of that ancient castle. On the first
alarm, that a division of the royalists had appeared in the vicinity of Inverlochy, the
chief of the Campbells, taking with him his most intimate friends (and among them,
says Bishop Guthry, “Mr. Mungo Law, minister of Edinburgh, whom he had invited
to go along with him to bear witness to the wonders he meant to perform,”) embarked
in his galley on the loch. The sun had just risen, when, springing from the foot
of Ben Nevis, where, “wet and weary, in frost and snow,” they had passed the night
in arms, Montrose's rude battalions poured down upon Inverlochy. His right consisted
of an Irish regiment led by Alaster Macdonald; his left, of a similar corps com-
manded by a gallant Hibernian gentleman, named O’Kyan; in the centre advanced the
noble Graham himself, accompanied by a few horse, and supported by the highlanders
of Athol and Glenco. From the boat, whence he issued his orders, Argyle beheld, in
the very first charge, his standard captured, and his whole army thrown into irretrievable
confusion. Numbers of the Campbells, though deserted by their chief, fell bravely fight-
ing, claymore in hand, where they stood; but the greater part, cut down in the pursuit,
strewed the banks or stained the waters of the loch, for the space of many miles. It would
appear hardly credible, did not the records of that decisive day agree in the statement,
that while the slain on the Campbell's side amounted to full fifteen hundred, on the part
of the loyalists no more than four individuals perished; of whom, however, one was Sir
Thomas Ogilvy, the dearest friend of Montrose, whose prowess had greatly contributed
to the result.
The battle of Inverlochy was fought on the 2nd day of February. On the 12th
Argyle appeared before the parliament at Edinburgh, “ having,” writes Guthry, “his left
arm tied up in a scarf, as if he had been at a bones-breaking; ” and there, with a degree
of Veracity proportioned to his courage, narrated the disastrous close of his expedition.
Meanwhile the victor transmitted to Oxford a manly and soldier-like despatch, in which,
after giving an account of his successes, he encourages Charles's hopes of a triumphant
issue to the great contest in which he was engaged, and implored him not to make peace
with the rebel parliament till they had laid down their arms. This letter reached the


PARLIAMENTARIAN ARMY-MONTROSE. 16I
king just before the expiration of the treaty at Uxbridge, and may have helped to
encourage him in that steadfast adherence to the great principles he had laid down for
his guidance, which some writers have branded as “infatuated obstimacy;” but it can
scarcely have had anything to do with the breaking up of the negotiations. That Charles
had become a thorough convert to Montrose's views with regard to Scotland, and expected
his lieutenant's brilliant exploits to have the effect of ultimately turning the scale of
fortune in his favour, is evident from his letters written about this time. We may blame
the sanguine temper and ready confidence which betrayed the king; for in the main
object of rousing Scotland to a sense of loyal duty to her sovereign, little or no progress
had been made; while all that had been achieved besides was likely to prove worthless,
if not injurious, to the royal cause. The motives of Montrose himself were not believed
free from the stimulus of private hatred: the names of Antrim and his popish Caterans
excited the most virulent abhorrence throughout the whole covenanting community; the
mode of carrying on the war was both barbarous in itself and futile in its results. Flaming
villages, and devastated fields, and towns plundered, or choked with the carcases of help-
less burghers; but neither affections conciliated, nor military positions established: these
were trophies worse than useless to a monarch engaged in a contest with his subjects.
In short, the wars of Montrose, even while victory followed without a check the standard
he so bravely bore, could afford no solid benefits to compensate the facilities presented by
them, for the malicious comments of the king's enemies, or the regrets they occasioned
to the judicious among his friends. It is for this reason that we have passed so hastily
over a history, the romantic details of which might have been expected to be found in a
work which professes to bring into prominence the heroic features of the history of the
civil wars. Montrose's ardour did not, however, in the least betray his judgment, when,
in the despatch referred to, he thus spoke of the parliament: “The more your majesty
grants, the more will be asked, and I have too much reason to know that they will not
rest satisfied with less than making your majesty a king of straw.”
2 T

162
CHAPTER, XVIII.
OXFORD–SUFFERINGS OF THE COUNTRY.
CHARLEs had quickly occasion to perceive, notwithstanding the comparatively favourable
issue of the late campaign, the fitful lustre thrown upon his arms by the actions of
Montrose, and the divided state of the enemy, that the cause of monarchy, in his view
so sacred, (and, because sacred, therefore ultimately sure,) had, since the failure of the
Uxbridge treaty, grievously sunk in the estimation even of his own court. The anti-
parliament, which, on the occasion of their first sitting at Oxford, in the winter of 1643-4,
advocated peace, but in a tone of respect and moderation, was now, at its re-assembling,
disturbed by a faction resolved to force the king to continue his attempts to procure
an accommodation on any terms. “Base and mutinous motions,” as Charles himself
characterized them, were brought forward by this party, to effect their object: among
others, one for the impeachment of Digby, the strenuous opponent of dishonourable com-
promise, on whose advice the king, at this time, placed much dependence. He therefore
prorogued the untractable assembly, and deprived the leaders of the faction of their power
to obstruct his measures, by sending them into honourable exile in attendance on the
queen. It was with reference to these occurrences that, in a letter to Henrietta, he let
fall the expression “mongrel parliament,” so frequently harped upon by those who them-
selves vehemently denied the right of that “junto,” as they styled it, to be regarded as
legitimate. His use of that contemptuous epithet is reasonably enough explained by the
king. “The truth is,” he writes to secretary Nicholas, in August, 1645, “that Sussex's
factiousness at that time put me somewhat out of patience, which made me freely vent
my displeasure against those of his party, to my wife; and the intention of that phrase
was, that his faction did what they could to make it come to that, by their raising and
formenting of base propositions.”
The clamour for peace, to be purchased by whatever sacrifice, nevertheless continued
loud in Oxford. In the pleasant, but somewhat anomalous head-quarters of the belligerent
monarch, were assembled nearly all those who, from motives of fear or self-interest, most
dreaded a disastrous termination, or even a longer continuance, of the war. Courtiers,
whose large hereditary rentals were now unequal to supply the demands of fashionable
luxury, or even of modest need, while their princely mansions and “immemorial woods,”
yielding their ancient honours to the destroying hand of sequestration, swelled the rebel
treasury at Goldsmith’s Hall, and strung the sinews of that war which consumed them-
selves: ladies, who looked forward with terror to another campaign, when the necessities
of the king would oblige him at once to reduce the garrison, and to leave Oxford exposed
to inroads from the advanced posts of the enemy, or even from fresh armies which




OXFORD–SUFFERINGS OF THE COUNTRY. 163
they might pour westward out of the capital: the unwarlike tribe of university doctors
and professors, at this time numerously reinforced by loyal country clergymen, who had
sought security from military violence and agrarian insult beneath the aegis of the
Christian Athena:-such, mingled with the men of diplomacy, the gallant cavaliers, and
the coarser soldiery, constituted the multifarious and thronging population of those fanes
consecrated to learning, those “awful cells,” the dim retreats raised for piety and medi-
tation. Of necessity, the ordinary calm pursuits of the university were interrupted, or
wholly suspended. The progress of the great contest—the news of every hour—presented
a subject too exciting, not to take precedence of, or to exclude, every ordinary topic. The
unwonted and incongruous multitude required extraordinary supplies of provision, which
had often to be brought from a distance; and, many times, Waggons laden with flour and
country produce were intercepted, herds of cattle, collected with no gentle hand by the
royalists, were swept off by bolder or more numerous bands, within the parliamentarian
lines, to fatten the London citizens, or to supply Fairfax's sturdy troopers with that vigour
which they displayed equally in devotion and in fighting. No marvel, that in the univer-
sity and city, as thus circumstanced, were found those who anxiously joined the common
cry for peace. In their united petition for it, in 1644, they represent to the king “ the
study of good literature, for so many ages famously extant in this ancient university,
neglected—our city reduced to great distresses;” and crave a termination to the cruel
contest between himself and his parliament, “ that the schools of good learning in the
kingdom, especially this famous university, may again flourish, and bring forth painful
labourers and pious instructors into the Lord’s vineyard.” The terrors and uneasiness of
the more numerous, and less informed, were at the same time encouraged by the deser-
tion to the parliament of several peers and other eminent persons, whose selfishness took
alarm at the growing difficulties of the king. Dering led the way; Savile, Andover,
Mowbray, followed. “What a running disease,” sneered the scurrilous London mer-
curies, “possesses these Oxford lords ! It is a sign the building is ready to fall, when the
pillars slip away.”
Oxford, however, notwithstanding its inconveniencies and its fears, both of which were
immeasurably augmented when the dreaded departure of the king became the signal for
the approach of the parliamentarian army to within musket-shot of its walls, was among
the few places in the kingdom that enjoyed an exemption from the more formidable evils
attendant on a state of civil warfare. Every county, and a large proportion of the towns,
of England, had been the scene of bloodshed and rapine. The occasional barbarities,
and habitual licence and oppression, of which the troops, and even the officers of the
royalist army, were guilty, are confessed and deplored on many occasions by the noble
historian : on the other hand, the entries in the ruder but not less honest record of
Whitelocke, frequently relate, about this time in particular, to the criminal atrocities of
the parliamentarian soldiers. On this painful subject a distinction has been drawn. It
is alleged that the disorders in the rebel armies were attributable only to the coarse
passions of the common soldiers, and were perpetrated in spite of the exertions of their
officers to preserve strict discipline; that in the king’s armies, on the contrary, the brutal

164 OXFORD–SUFFERINGS OF THE COUNTRY.
excesses of the men were countenanced by the laxity, insolence, and irreligion of the
chiefs. In this remark there appears to be, unhappily, some truth; but any degree of
odium which it may seem to withdraw from those in authority on the parliamentarian
side, returns with double force when we contemplate the parliament itself, the pretended
fountain of authority, sanctioning and commanding atrocities, which, without prompting,
the army would scarcely have hazarded. By an ordinance of Oct. 24, 1644, all Irishmen
taken in arms were to be put to death; a decree which the subordinate generals of the
parliament lost no time in rigorously executing: only the humane mind of Fairfax
revolted from this barbarity. It was the custom on board their fleet to bind back to back
and throw into the sea, without distinction, seamen or soldiers found in captured vessels
belonging to Ireland; and an instance will presently be related, in which, on pretence of
obedience to this barbarous law, a multitude of defenceless women were cut to pieces by
Cromwell’s troopers.
In connexion with crimes so atrocious and disgraceful, the destruction of property,
the suspension of trade and social intercourse, the dreary blank and the unchristian
bitterness thrown over the surface, or diffused through the familiar channels of daily life,
may appear less worthy of notice. Yet these too were grievous evils; and, like the others,
the more formidable, as both springing from, and reproducing, a demoralization of the
national mind. The country-houses of the nobility and gentry, often curious examples of
ancient magnificence, or splendid proofs of more recent taste, were mostly converted into
fortresses; and, in that capacity, were subject to every form of destruction incident to a
state of war—to plunder, defacement, burning, demolition. And these were sometimes
perpetrated in mere wantonness. Both Clarendon and Walker record, with indignant
regret, the unnecessary burning of Camden House, between Stow and Evesham, by order
of Prince Rupert ; an edifice which, not many years before, had cost above thirty
thousand pounds. The destruction of the woods on delinquents’ estates was a practice
to which the parliament had recourse continually, and on any pretext: for the use of the
navy, to raise funds for pensioning officers' widows, for provisioning the garrison of one
place, or undertaking the siege of another. The plundering and desecration of churches
was another practice, which continued throughout the war: the entrance of the parlia-
ment’s forces into a cathedral town was usually followed by the despatching of a
waggon-load of surplices, hoods, communion-plate, &c., to Westminster, or by a distribu-
tion of clerical plunder among the soldiers. For these spoils a market was found on the
continent: the curiosity shops of Holland were glutted with the pillage of our English
temples and palaces. Referring to the interruption of the ordinary affairs of life by this
protracted contest, the pamphlet before cited, entitled, “England’s Fears,” presents us
with the following animated lamentation: “Behold” (it is England who is personified as
speaking) “how my plundered yeoman wants hinds and horses to plough up my fertile
soil; the poor labourer, who used to mingle the morning dew with his annealed sweat,
shakes at his work for fear of pressing; the tradesman shuts up his shop, and keeps more
holidays than willingly he would; the merchant walks to the exchange only to learn news,
not to negotiate. Sweet Peace thou which wast used to make princes’ courts triumph










OXFORD–STUFFERINGS OF THE COUNTRY. 165
with tilt and tournaments, and other gallantries; to make them receive lustre by foreign
ambassadors; to make the arts and sciences flourish; to make cities and suburbs shine
with goodly structures; to make the country ring with the huntsman’s horn, and the
shepherd’s pipe: how comes it to pass that blood-thirsty discord now usurps thy place,
and flings about her snakes in every corner?”
In such a deplorable state of things, notwithstanding all the parade which one side, at
least, made of religion, neither unaffected piety nor true morality could flourish. Far
from repenting of those sins on account of which divine Providence had permitted the
scourge of rebellion and war to ravage the nation, new crimes were introduced. In the
midst of prolix details of trivial political occurrences, we met with this naked, unnoted
record, “twenty witches executed in Norfolk.” The kidnapping of children, probably
for sale in the plantations, grew so frequent a practice, that at length the parliament
passed an ordinance for its suppression, under the name of “spiriting.” Ministers of the
gospel habitually perverted the pulpit (to the use of which the public service of God was
now wholly restricted) to the purposes of strife and bloodshed: the famous sermon delivered
at Uxbridge by Robert Love, on the assembling of the commissioners there, to treat of peace,
in which he encouraged the rebels to the slaughter of their opponents as “the Lord’s
work,” was singular, not for its anti-christian spirit, but merely for the audacity implied
in the occasion. Respecting the demoralization introduced into families, we have abun-
dance of contemporary testimony. “Alas,” exclaims a writer of the time, “in this
intestine war of ours we are so desperately wicked and void of all natural affection, that
divers gentlemen, of both parties, have looked upon their nearest kinsmen that were
wallowing in their own blood, without offering them their aid, or casting a sigh of
compassion for them. Nay, some have been so cruel, and deprived of all natural affection,
that they and their abettors have ridden twenty miles in a dark night to surprise their
father, uncle, or brother, to carry them away to their own garrison, to wring out of their
hands some considerable ransom; which being refused, they have deprived them in another
night of all their cattle and means, and reduced them (that were knights’ fellows) to Job’s
case, without any compassion or reluctation.”
The neglect and ill-treatment to which ordinary prisoners of war were exposed, is
another frightful feature of the times. The story of the soldiers and others taken at
Cirencester, early in the war, which deeply implicates the king himself in a charge of
inhumanity, is, no doubt, a gross exaggeration. But it is too certain, that in the crowded
fortresses and other depôts belonging to both parties, humanity was not unfrequently out-
raged. Yet these deep shadows in the great picture of calamity, are relieved by some
touches of light: the struggles and sacrifices made by the friends of captives, in nego-
ciating exchanges, and in other methods for their deliverance, present incidents consola-
tory to the lover of mankind. Nor was beneficence of a more public sort wholly wanting;
an instance of which was witnessed in the congregation at Carfax church, Oxford, where
a collection was made, every Sunday, for the support of the numerous unhappy victims
of the war confined in that city.
A remarkable and ominous circumstance was, the number of executions which marked
2 U

I66 OXFORD–SUFFERINGS OF THE COUNTRY.
the period of the decline of the Presbyterian, and the sudden growth of the Independent
influence. Sir Alexander Carew, who in the beginning of the war had distinguished him-
self by his enmity to the king, but who afterwards became a sincere convert to loyalty,
and was detected in an attempt to surrender the fort at Plymouth to the royalists, was
beheaded, December the 23rd, on Tower Hill. The Hothams, father and son, whose
crime was similar to Carew's, and the elder of whom, by closing the gates of Hull against
his sovereign, may be said to have been the immediate cause of commencing the war,
suffered upon the fatal spot, the one on the 1st, the other on the 2nd of January. Cla-
rendon strikingly describes the umpitied fall of these persons as “an act of divine justice,
executed by those at Westminster.” The next victim flung to the devouring Moloch of
civil and religious strife, was the brave, the venerable, and learned Laud. More than
four years of his advanced age had “shed their snows" upon the prelate's head, since the
agonizing day when Strafford, then on his passage to eternity, knelt beneath the grating
of that honoured cell, to receive a last blessing from his deeply conscientious, but too
zealous, spiritual and political father; a long, and, to the sufferer, harassing suspension
of the blow, but arguing no forgetfulness on the part of his executioners, who, in patient
confidence of the end, stood all the while uplifting “ that two-handed engine at the door.”
Laud’s execution took place January 10th. On the 20th of the month following, occurred
that of Macguire, an Irishman of rank, sentenced for his share in his country’s rebellion.
In the case of this man, there was little to engage sympathy, if we except the persecution
which, in common with the archbishop, he encountered on the scaffold. The part acted
in Laud’s case by the zealous puritan Sir John Clotworthy, was performed in the instance
of the Irish baron by Gibbs, sheriff of London, and the Presbyterian minister Sibbald.
He persisted in denying that he had acted as an agent in the rebellion, either under a
commission from the king, or in reliance on any promise of absolution from the pope;
and he declined the attendance of Dr. Sibbald, on the ground of his own religion being
the Roman Catholic. The poor fellow sought earnestly to prepare himself for death, in
his own way. “Since I am here to die,” he said, “I desire to depart with a quiet mind,
and with the marks of a good Christian; that is, asking forgiveness first of God, and
next of the world. And I do, from the bottom of my heart, forgive all my enemies, even
those that have a hand in my death.” He concluded with a request, which he had before
urged, “I beseech you, gentlemen, let me have a little time to say my prayers.” The zeal
of his tormentors was, however, inexorable. His beads and crucifix, with some papers
containing his confessor's directions for his behaviour on the scaffold, were rudely taken
from him, by the hands of those champions of law, liberty, and toleration; and nearly
the last words of the wretched man were still the petition, in vain repeated, “For Jesus
Christ's sake, I beseech you to give me a little time to prepare myself for death !”
The growing vigour of the Independent party was evinced in many other ways. The
Assembly of Divines, a copy of the national assembly of the Scottish kirk, though, in the
first instance, composed almost exclusively of Presbyterians, rapidly yielded to the law-
less impulses which swayed without, and was filled with antinomians, anabaptists, millena-
rians,—with adherents, in short, of almost all those multifarious sects, whom the fanatical



OXFORD–SUFFERINGS OF THE COUNTRY. 167
temper of the period, and the nature of the contest in which the country was engaged,
had called into existence. These anomalous factions, united however by the common aim
of freedom for conscience, readily lent their aid in the work of ecclesiastical ruin; in
stripping away copes and surplices, in demolishing and mutilating ancient monuments, in
pulling down organs; but to the business of reconstruction, in any shape, they were
utterly opposed, and set themselves as earnestly against the proposed government by
presbyters, classes, and synods, as both the Presbyterians and their discordant colleagues
had before done against the existing authority of archbishops, bishops, and deans. “The
opposition between them,” writes a modern historian, “grew fierce and obstinate: day
after day, week after week, was consumed in unavailing debates. The lords Say and
Wharton, Sir Henry Vane, and Mr. St. John, contended warmly in favour of toleration:
they were as warmly opposed by ‘the divine eloquence of the chancellor’ of Scotland, the
commissioners from the kirk, and several eminent members of the English parliament.
Eighteen months had elapsed since the assembly was first convened, and yet it had
accomplished nothing of importance, except the composition of a Directory for the public
worship.” The once flourishing church of England had indeed been levelled with the ground,
but its root still survived in the affections and habits of the people;—spurned, trampled,
drained of all but its divine vitality, it was yet ready, when the allotted period of its judi-
cial ruin, and the ripened purposes of Providence, should be complete, to raise its stately
head, and extend its sheltering branches; while the discipline of the Directory was from
the first a thing void of every element of life. At no time more than very partially
observed, its authors quickly saw it wholly neglected—a naked and uncouth monument
of their presumption.
-
168
CHAPTER, XIX.
CAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY.
THE prosecution of the war, as far as the nature of the season allowed, had not been in
any degree intermitted during the conference at Uxbridge. In the middle of the treaty
the town of Weymouth was surprised, and partly occupied, by the king's troops; on the
other side, Shrewsbury, one of Charles's most important garrisons, was betrayed to the
parliament on the very day of its expiration. Great exertions were made by the parliament
to give effect to their new model, by voting abundant military supplies for the approach-
ing campaign. Nor was the king less anxiously engaged in preparations for the decisive
struggle which he foresaw. But the total want of pecuniary resources, to which he was
by this time reduced, presented a most embarrassing difficulty. He endeavoured, by
means of negotiations conducted through the queen’s agency at Paris, to obtain aid
from the French king and the Duke of Lorraine; the latter of whom appears to have
promised to bring over 10,000 men to his assistance. He also directed the Duke of
Ormond to settle, on any terms he chose, the differences in Ireland, that he might be
enabled to avail himself of the support of his Roman Catholic subjects in that country.
Apprehensive, in the mean time, that Oxford, towards which the enemy had of late
made threatening advances, must, sooner or later, undergo the dangers of a siege, he
determined to provide for the security of the Prince of Wales, by sending him into the
west, where the royal authority was still paramount. The place chosen for his royal
highness's residence, as promising both safety and convenience, was Bristol. Thither
accordingly the young prince proceeded, early in the month of March, with two regi-
ments of guards, under the command of Lord Capel and the Marquess of Hertford,
attended by Lord Colepepper, Hyde, and others of the king's council.
The establishment of a court for the prince, separate from that of his royal parent,
tended to the increase of those feuds among the royalists, which have been, in some
degree, described. His majesty's authority at Oxford, already extremely weak, was
farther lessened by it, without the least prospect of vigour being communicated to that
of his youthful representative. It was Charles's original intention not to invest the prince
with a military command, because he foresaw that the necessary delegation of the duties
of the office to others, in consequence of his youth, would not fail to aggravate the exist-
ing jealousies and disputes. But Rupert, when, in an evil hour, he was offered the chief
command of the army, had touched a string in the king's heart which never vibrated
without pleasure, by refusing to accept it unless in quality of lieutenant to his cousin.
Accordingly, Prince Charles was appointed generalissimo of all the king's armies; and
a deputation of noblemen and gentlemen coming at this time to solicit the king's


- -
- -
FISHER SON & Cº. LONDON.—HMAND EVILLE, PARIS
-




CAMPAIGN OF 1645—NAseby. 169
approval of an association of the four western counties, which they desired to place
under the prince's immediate direction; at the same time offering to provide for his
dignity, and to raise troops for the defence of his person; the king consented farther to
nominate him its general. In the end, this double command, conferred on a youth of
eighteen, became either wholly insignificant, or absolutely injurious to the royal cause.
A wiser policy, both projected and executed by one master-intellect, directed the
affairs of the parliament. From this time, during a long succession of years, the desti-
nies of England, as far as they were committed to the operation of second causes, are
mainly beheld in the career of Cromwell. Under the direction, secret or acknow-
ledged, of that extraordinary person, the reconstruction of the army was completed,
without mutinies, and almost without discontents among the soldiery : wherever any such
occurred, his activity and decision were effectual to repress them. The stern sobriety, or
solemn religious fervour, of that officer's own regiments; their familiar association of the
bible and the sword; their steady use of the one, and their licentious handling of the
other, became the common pattern for the regenerated forces of the parliament. Each
man could contend, in discourse, for his own views in religion; every one was ready to
conquer or die, in battle, for the common cause. Still, the utmost skill and vigilance -
could not altogether prevent the weakness and uncertainty incident to such a military
revolution as the New Model. But the king was himself in no condition to take
advantage of the unprepared state of his adversaries.
The significant omission which has been noticed, in the list of officers, was well
understood by the parties. Fairfax, the parliament, above all, Cromwell himself-knew
perfectly, that he who was the originator and life of this great plan, was not to be excluded
from the advantages of its practical operation. Or, if from any one of them the real
object was concealed, it was assuredly not from the astute Cromwell, but the confiding
Fairfax. From the day when the ordinance for the New Model passed the House of
Commons, Cromwell was no longer to be seen within its walls. The termination of the
prescribed period of forty days approached, but the lieutenant-general appeared not, with
the other officers who sat in the parliament, to deliver up his commission. The public
service, it was hinted, demanded his absence; it was allowed for a second period of forty
days. Orders were then issued by the parliament (but never designed to be obeyed) that
he should attend in his place, and that the new general should appoint some other officer
to his command. Fairfax replied by a humble request, “ that they would give lieutenant-
general Cromwell leave to stay with him some few days longer, for his better information.
without which he should not be able to perform what they expected from him.” The
petition was too reasonable to be denied. At length, when nearly another month had
elapsed, the following letter was read in the Commons from Sir Thomas Fairfax, and
divers of the chief officers of his army: “Upon serious consideration how the horse of this
army may be managed to the best advantage of the public, which are at present without
any general officer to command them, though as considerable a body as any you have had
since the beginning of these unhappy troubles; we have taken the boldness, humbly to
desire that this house would be pleased to appoint lieutenant-general Cromwell to this
2 x


170 cAMPAIGN OF 1645—NASEBY.
service, while this honourable house shall think fit to spare him from his attendance in
parliament. The general esteem and affection which he hath, both with the officers and
soldiers of this whole army; his own personal worth and ability for the employment; his
great care, diligence, courage, and faithfulness in the service you have already employed
him [in], with the constant presence and blessing of God that have accompanied him,
made us look upon it as the duty we owe to you and the public, to make it our humble and
earnest suit (if it may seem good to you), to appoint him unto this employment, which
shall be received by us with that thankfulness and acknowledgment of your favour, which
may best express how sensible we are of so great an obligation, and how much devoted
to you and the kingdom's service.” On this it was resolved, that Sir Thomas Fairfax be
desired, if he thinks fit, “to appoint lieutenant-general Cromwell to command the horse,
as lieutenant-general, during such time as this house shall please to dispense with his
attendance.” Of course, notwithstanding some subsequent renewals of the dispensation,
by way of blind, there was an end of the matter: and, as Clarendon remarks, “from this
time Cromwell absolutely governed the whole martial affairs” of the parliament.
The first exploit after the passing of the celebrated ordinance, was performed at Islip-
bridge, near Oxford. Having received orders to intercept a party of horse, (consisting of
the queen’s and two other regiments, under the command of the Earl of Northampton,)
marching to join the king at Oxford, he put himself at the head of some of his choice
troops; attacked and routed them; took two hundred prisoners, and got possession of her
majesty’s standard. From Islip he marched to Blechingdon Place, then a fortified post
under the command of Colonel Windebank. The house happened to contain a party of
ladies, on a visit to the colonel’s wife, at the moment when the dreaded “Invincibles”
made their appearance; and Windebank, softened by the sight of female terrors, agreed, at
Cromwell’s summons, to a surrender. His weakness cost him his life. The indignant
king ordered him to be tried at Oxford by a court-martial, in pursuance of whose sentence
he was shot in the Castle-yard. In a subsequent encounter, however, with Goring, an
officer of bravery equal to his own, though in conduct grievously inferior, Cromwell
received a severe reverse—the only one which befell him during the war. The occasion
was this:— -
By the surrender of Essex’s army, and Charles's unobstructed march back to
Newbury, the interest of the parliament in the western counties suffered greatly.
Cornwall became wholly the king's. In Devonshire they held only Plymouth itself in a
state of siege. In Dorsetshire, Pool was theirs, and Lyme. Of Weymouth, a place of
more importance, one moiety, as was before intimated, comprising the forts and the upper
town, had been taken possession of by the king's troops, under the command of Sir
Walter Hastings, governor of Portland; but it was lost again by Goring. That brave,
but desultory and dissatisfied officer, was engaged in an intrigue, with the double object
of being removed as far as possible from Rupert, with whom he was in continual strife,
and of obtaining the general command of the west, under the Prince of Wales. With
this design, he procured the king’s order to proceed with a strong force to complete the
occupation of Weymouth, and then to prevent the relief of Taunton, the only vestige of


cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY. 171
the parliament's power in Somersetshire, which the royalists were vigorously besieging,
while the enemy were as anxiously exerting themselves for its relief. Goring failed on
both points; the siege of Taunton having been raised while he lingered idly in Wiltshire,
and Weymouth, through his treachery, or negligence, being “retaken by that contemptible
number of the rebels, who had been beaten at the lower town, and who were looked upon
as prisoners at mercy.” These failures the king’s general of cavalry in some degree
balanced by two brilliant and successful attacks, both in one week, on the quarters of
Waller, whose period of service had not yet expired. But the king, having by this time
completed such other preparations as he was able to make for the field, sent orders to
Rupert, then at Worcester, to rejoin him with his forces, and, at the same time, recalled
Goring also with the cavalry to Oxford. Goring obeyed; with no good will, but with his
accustomed celerity of movement. In this march it was that he fell unexpectedly upon a
party of Cromwell’s horse, as, late in the evening, they were in the act of passing the Isis
at Woodstock. The attack was instant, and admirably executed. Cromwell’s powerful
squadrons were thrown into confusion, and defeated with great slaughter; and, on the
following day, May 7th, the king and Rupert marched out of Oxford, cheered by presages
of victory, destined to signal disappointment.
At the place of rendezvous appointed for the royalist forces, on the borders of Glou-
cestershire, the king's army mustered 5,000 foot and 6,000 horse. The general opinion
of Charles's officers was, that with this force he ought to follow Fairfax, who had pre-
viously marched westward for the purpose of raising the siege of Taunton; and prevent
the accomplishment of that object by forcing him to fight, before Cromwell, whom he
had left to follow, could come up to his support. But Rupert, who had a plan of his own,
overruled this advice. Still smarting from his defeat at Marston Moor, the prince no
sooner found himself in a condition to be revenged on the Scots, to whom chiefly he
ascribed the loss of that famous battle, than his hot impetuous temper scorned to brook
delay. Goring, therefore, was ordered back to Taunton, with 3,000 of his horse, the
most efficient corps in the king's service, to join with Sir Richard Grenvil, and renew the
siege ; while the main army, thus formidably reduced in strength, proceeded in a northerly
direction. At Tutbury Castle, intelligence was brought to the king, that, on his majesty's
departure being known, Fairfax had detached a party to the relief of Taunton, and had
himself marched back, and sat down before Oxford. Charles now returned also, intend-
ing to dispose his army in such a manner, that, if there should be occasion, he might
advance to the immediate relief of that city; in the interval, he resolved to attempt the
recovery of Leicester, then held by a strong rebel garrison. It was the evening of May
30th when the royalists drew up before the town: the next morning a battery was con-
structed, a breach opened, and within a few hours the place stormed, and taken at the
sword’s point. The garrison made a gallant defence, covering the breach with the bodies
of their assailants, of whom above two hundred officers and men perished; but in the
end were all made prisoners, and the place given up to those atrocities which commonly
attend the sudden storm and capture of a town. No distinction was made of royalist
from republican, though the king had many loyal subjects within the walls; nor were

172 cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY.
even the churches or hospitals exempted from the general pillage. The perpetration
of these acts of violence is attributed, chiefly, to the northern regiments brought down by
Sir Marmaduke Langdale. Leicester, however, presents but one among many instances
which show that the cavaliers, and the royalist soldiers generally, assumed, after the
adoption of the New Model, a greater height of licentiousness; as if in scornful contrast
with their enemies, who affected to regard themselves as the soldiers of God, and to
observe a severity of discipline, as well as a gravity of demeanour, consistent with that
lofty claim. -
But all the advantages of this victory were fatally thrown away. The king quickly
repaired the fortifications of Leicester; but, instead of remaining in this post till he had
been reinforced, either by General Gerrard, who had orders to advance for that purpose,
from Worcester, with his corps of 3,000 men; by Goring’s return from his western expe.
dition; or, at the least, till he had supplied by some more immediate means the loss
sustained in the late assault, and replaced the troops required for garrisoning the works,
he was persuaded, after a repose of only five days, to resume his march towards Oxford, at
the head of an army wholly “insufficient to fight a battle for the crown.” On the even-
ing of the first day, he learned that Fairfax had already retired. The general of the
parliament had been reminded by his masters, that “the policy resolved on at the consti-
tution of the new model, and openly declared by Cromwell, was, to strike at the king,
and keep him constantly in pursuit.” And now it was, that he solicited from the House
of Commons the appointment of that indispensable officer to the post of lieutenant-general.
On receiving their favourable reply, he forwarded the commission to Cromwell, then in
the associated eastern counties, with an earnest request that he would join him without
delay. The summons was by no means unexpected;—within two days, that faithful col-
league and stimulating adviser was at his side. At nightfall of the same evening an
alarm ran through the royal camp, that an outpost had been forced, and the sentinels
slain or carried off, by a party of the enemy's horse. This was the exploit of Ireton, whom
Fairfax had sent out to reconnoitre the king's position; he himself, with Cromwell, was
quartered six miles off, at Northampton. At this unlooked-for announcement, the king
instantly assembled a council of war. In the morning he had yielded to the forcible
suggestions of prudence, and had marched northward in order to strengthen himself by
reinforcements before risking an engagement: it was now resolved, on the instant, with
that rash, impetuous gallantry which characterized the royalist officers whenever the enemy
was at hand, not only to risk, but to advance and offer battle.
Accordingly, at break of day (the fatal 14th of June, 1645) the royal army was drawn
up on a rising ground about a mile south from Harborough ; a position affording every
requisite advantage. The main body of the infantry, numbering about 2,500 men, was
led by the king in person, and under him by the Lord Ashley; the right wing, of horse,
amounting to 2,000, was led by Prince Rupert; the left wing, consisting of cavalry from
the northern counties, with some detachments from Newark, in all not exceeding 1,600,
was entrusted to Sir Marmaduke Langdale. In the reserve, which altogether might be
about 1,300 strong, were the king's life-guards, commanded by the Earl of Lindsey,



cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY. 173
Prince Rupert's regiment of foot, and the royal horse-guards under Lord Bernard Stuart,
lately created Earl of Lichfield. In this order the army had already been standing for
some time, in expectation of the enemy, when, no sign appearing of their approach, the
king began to doubt the correctness of the last night's intelligence. Reports brought in
by the scouts threw no certain light on Fairfax's designs. “They are retreating before
us,” was now whispered along the ranks. Urged by his customary impatience, Prince
Rupert galloped forward a distance of about two miles, to ascertain the truth, and then
sent word that it was true the enemy seemed about to turn their backs, and that a rapid
movement of the royalists onward to the attack would have the effect of at once dispers-
ing them. The word was given to advance; the king put his army in motion; and,
relinquishing the favourable ground they had occupied, led forward his columns into the
plain, a fallow field about a mile in breadth, which lay between Harborough and the
village of Naseby. Along the crest of a gentle eminence, terminating this open space
towards Naseby, lay the army of the parliament. Here the infantry had sat down, with
their arms in their hands, composedly waiting the conflict; while Cromwell, availing him-
self of the leisure and opportunity afforded him by the march of the royal forces in the
plain below, was ordering some movements of cavalry on the wings. It was the indistinct
and broken view he obtained of these movements, which deceived the prince into the
opinion that Fairfax was retiring. In the centre of this enthusiastic host, Fairfax and
Skippon commanded; on the right wing, Cromwell; the left was given in charge to
Ireton, on whom the general had, upon the field, conferred the rank of commissary-
general. The word was, on either side, characteristic; that of the cavaliers being “Queen
Mary’’ (Henrietta Maria); that of the parliamentarians, “God our strength.” Such
had been the arrangements, deliberate and complete on the republican side, but disor-
dered and imperfect on the king's, for “ the army was engaged before the cannon was
turned, or the ground chosen by the royalists,”—when, at ten o’clock, that decisive and
disastrous fight began.
It began with shouts of alacrity and delight from the combatants on both sides; for,
on both, an impression prevailed among them, that they were on “the edge” of a battle
which was at length to decide the destinies of their common country. The first charge
was, as usual, given by Rupert. The movement was performed with a force and
impetuosity, against which Ireton, with all his bravery and steadiness, found himself
utterly unable to stand. His division was broken by the shock, and the commander
himself, transfixed with two severe wounds, and having his horse killed under him, was
taken prisoner; but, in the confusion of the melée, afterwards escaped to his party. The
prince, regardless, according to his custom, of the fate of the main body of the army in
which he commanded, pursued the scattered fugitives, drove them through their aston-
ished reserves, made himself master, for a time, of some of their guns, and never
thought of recalling his jaded horsemen until they had themselves fallen into irrecover-
able disorder. -
While this was going on, the royal centre advanced, at a quick pace, up the hill,
where the van of the parliamentarians gave way before their onset, and fell back upon
2 Y

174 cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY.
the rear. Old Skippon, to whom, in the scarcity of experienced officers, fell a dispro-
portionate share of the danger and exertion of the day, was, at the beginning of the
conflict, sharply wounded in the side; “the brave old man” refused, however, when
entreated, to quit the field, exclaiming “ that he would not stir so long as a man would
stand” by him. Fairfax now advanced to his support; and, animated by the personal
activity and daring of the general, the fight in the centre was more equally maintained.
At every point of the field he was to be seen, rallying his broken ranks, cheering on the
discouraged, and, by his dauntless example, inflaming to a higher pitch the valour of the
boldest. As he thus hurried through the thickest of the fray, his helmet was struck off;
but he continued to ride about bareheaded; and in this state coming up with his body-
guard, their commander, Colonel Charles D'Oyley, remonstrated with him on exposing
a life so valuable to such hazard, at the same time respectfully offering him his own
helmet. “It is well enough, Charles,” said Fairfax, refusing it, and again galloped on.
But now Cromwell, with equal execution, but far different result, was performing, on
the parliamentarians’ right wing, an exploit similar to that which Rupert had fruitlessly
accomplished on the right of the royalists. On the royal left, Langdale, at the head of
his northern and Newark horse, charged after the example of Prince Rupert, encounter-
ing the whole strength of Cromwell’s regiments, now augmented by some troops of
Ireton’s corps, whom their officers had succeeded in rallying, and bringing up a second
time. The attack, less energetically conducted than was the wont of those hardy
northerns, on account of the disadvantage of the ground, which obliged them to advance
up hill, was endured without flinching by Cromwell’s massy and more numerous bands of
Ironsides. The republican hero now in turn became the assailant, Charging them at
once in front and flank, first with a heavy fire of carbines, then at the sword’s point, he
routed the whole body, and drove them down the hill. Seven squadrons were under his
command, and never soldiers more steadily and cheerfully obeyed their leader. Four he
ordered to continue the pursuit, and prevent the broken royalists rallying; with the other
three he wheeled rapidly round to the centre, where the infantry had been long fiercely
engaged, on both sides alternately retreating and rallying, but with a preponderating
disadvantage on the side of the parliamentarians, which did not escape the anxious
observation of Cromwell. By this movement was the victory secured. The king's
battalions, already harassed with the doubtful struggle, wavered, gave way, and finding
themselves surrounded by the enemy, and deserted by their own cavalry, successively
threw down their arms, and fled, or yielded themselves prisoners. One regiment only
stood its ground, unmoved as a rock, amid the broken surges of the battle. Fairfax, again
addressing his colonel of the guard, demanded, whether that regiment had been charged?
“Twice,” D'Oyley replied; “but they moved not an inch.” Fairfax then, directing the
officer to make a third charge in front, himself attacked them simultaneously in the rear;
and the devoted band being cut through in all directions, the two met in the centre of
the ground they had just before occupied; Fairfax bearing in his hand the colours which
he had seized, after slaying the ensign, and now gave to a trooper to hold. By and by
the soldier began to boast that it was he who had seized those colours; and when the






cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY. 175
circumstance was reported to Fairfax, he forbade the public exposure of the vainglorious
falsehood, saying, “Let him have the honour; I have enough beside.”
Ever among the most intrepid in battle, the king excelled himself by his admirable
conduct on this fatal day. Again and again he rallied his broken columns, riding from
regiment to regiment, and encouraging the men with voice and gesture. In the midst of
these efforts, perceiving the defeat of his left wing, he had already given the word, and
was on the point of charging with his guards into the midst of Cromwell’s triumphant
squadrons, “when the Earl of Carmeworth, a Scottish nobleman, who chanced to ride next
to him, cried out, with two or three full-mouthed Scottish oaths: “What, Sir, would you
rush upon instant death !’ and, at the same moment, seizing the bridle of Charles's horse,
turned him round,” before the king understood what it was he meant. By this unhappy
interference of well-intentioned loyalty, all was lost. Imagining that the command had
been given to retreat, the whole regiment turned, and rode upon the spur the distance of
a quarter of a mile. The mistake was then discovered, and the word to “stand,” arrested
them, but too late to restore order in their ranks. Some few galloped back to the king,
whom they found with his staff still in the midst of the field, where Rupert had now
joined him, with large numbers of the victorious but disordered right wing. Vain,
however, was every effort to induce them again to form and renew the contest. They
had done their part: the victory they had won, others had thrown away. “One charge
more, friends,” exclaimed the king, “ and we recover the day !” It availed not; and
Charles and Rupert, with the brave cavaliers that surrounded him, fought their way out
of that fatal field, where, as Clarendon mournfully says, “the king and the kingdom were
both lost.” The defeated sovereign left in the hands of the victor 5,000 prisoners; all his
artillery; 9,000 stand of arms; the royal standard, with a hundred stand of colours
besides; his private carriages and baggage, with the cabinet containing his correspondence
with the queen; jewels, gold,—in short, everything that could enrich the conquerors,
glut their desire of vengeance, and stamp the victory as complete. That night the
fugitives passed through Leicester, followed to the walls by the horse of the parliamen-
tarians, and next day by their infantry.
Respecting the numbers slain in this decisive battle, the accounts differ, but all make
them under 2,000; a result less sanguinary than might have been expected from the
numbers engaged, and the determined character of the contest. As usual in the king’s
battles, the proportion of officers killed was excessive ; those gallant and loyal cavaliers
choosing rather to fall where they stood, than to submit or fly, and the common soldiers,
frequently raw recruits, being little hearty in the cause. While not more than ten officers
or gentlemen of quality surrendered, above one hundred and fifty lay dead upon the spot,
whose memories, says Clarendon, ought to be preserved. On the parliament’s side an
unpardonable enormity was committed in the pursuit. A hundred women, some of them
the wives of officers of distinction, were cut to pieces, or miserably wounded, under
pretence that they were Irish. Whether the benefit of this excuse, such as it is, really
belonged to the fanatical soldiers who perpetrated that deed of cruelty, or not, cannot be

176 cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY.
ascertained; but we have already seen, with what savage ferocity the natives of Ireland
were treated by the parliament and their military commanders.
A more serious blow to the king's cause, than even the loss of so many of his devoted
subjects, was the use made by his enemies of the mass of secret papers which came into
their possession with the spoil of Naseby; a “barbarous use,” it is not unnaturally styled
by Clarendon. On the other hand, “to conceal those evidences” would, they themselves
asserted, have been “a great sin against the mercies of God.” But the calmer, though
not unbiassed historian of our own times, has justly said, that “if their contents were of
a nature to justify the conduct of the parliament, one sees not on what ground it could be
expected that they should be suppressed.” Respecting the publication, Charles himself
never complained; the charge of forgery, advanced by some over-zealous loyalists, he
himself silenced, by a candid admission of the genuineness of those portions of the papers
which were produced; but he also maintained that others, which would have served to
explain ambiguous points, were designedly kept back. Twenty-two additional papers
were actually added by the Lords to the selection which the Commons sent up to them
in the first instance, after the whole mass, with the other contents of the king’s cabinet,
had already been many days in their hands, and in those of their officers. As to the
unfair, and even false light, in which the whole were exhibited in print to the coarse and
prejudiced eyes of the multitude, it would have been idle to explain.
The charges against the king that have been founded on these celebrated documents,
are of two classes: such as affect his general character for veracity; those which refer to
the nature of the facts disclosed. The former, for obvious reasons, have, in modern terms,
been chiefly insisted on by the king's enemies. That they should have been so insisted
on, without the smallest allowance,—may, with vehement invective and rancorous abuse,_
proves, at least, the deathless interest taken by passion and prejudice, as well as reason, in
those portions of our country’s history, which, beyond others, involve great moral questions.
As Englishmen of the nineteenth century, we need not blush to range ourselves on either
side in that majestic controversy of opinion, by which the realm was torn and desolated
in the seventeenth century; but, assuredly, powers of countenance quite marvellous must
have been at the command of men, who could come forward with a solemn charge
of falsehood against their sovereign for having occasional recourse to the arts of policy and
subterfuge, in order to maintain himself in a position of unexampled difficulty and
hardship, while the entire system of their own policy was mendacious; while they slew
the king's loyal subjects in his name; struck at his own life, and had raised up, for their
glory, though ultimately for their scourge, the most renowned of hypocrites. Among the
particular facts alleged, a favourite ground of contemptuous accusation is Charles’s imputed
subserviency to the counsels of his queen. Had this existed, even to the degree of an
unbecoming uxoriousness, one might have looked for more toleration of such a foible on the
part of those very strict assertors of christian purity; and the singular spectacle of a king
who could affirm (not on his death-bed, for a death-bed he was not allowed, but in the
immediate view of death), that he had never been unfaithful, in deed or thought, to his
cAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY. 177
marriage vows, might have expected to conciliate respect. But the charge is, in a great
degree, unfounded. The king had few sincere or judicious advisers; and when he
endeavoured to supply the want, by accepting the suggestions of Henrietta, it was
generally on subjects, respecting which it seems natural that a wife, in such circum-
stances, should be allowed to be heard ; such were the appointments in the prince's
household; the care of the king’s personal safety; sufficient stipulations, in treating for
peace, “in favour of those who have served you, as well the bishops as the poor Catholics.”
In a country, the constitution and laws of which admit, while the people warmly welcome,
the accession of a woman to the entire responsibility of the regal office, this loud outcry
against interference so moderate as that of the queen of Charles I. in the affairs of
government, sounds more like the clamour of faction than the voice of reason. Advice
like the following, from whatever quarter it might come, could hardly be unworthy of the
king's attention: “I have nothing to say, but that you have a care of your honour; and
that if you have a peace, it may be such as may hold; and if it fall out otherwise, that
you do not abandon those who have served you, for fear they do forsake you in your
need. Also, I do not see how you can be in safety, without a regiment of guards. In
my opinion, religion should be the last thing upon which you should treat [viz. at
Uxbridge]. For if you do agree upon strictness against the Catholics, it would discourage
them to serve you; and, if afterwards there should be no peace, you could never expect
succours, either from Ireland or any other Catholic prince; for they would believe you
would abandon them, after you had served yourself.” The employment of papists in his
army, a grievance much dwelt upon by his adversaries, has been pronounced, even by an
unfriendly judgment, to be among those “things for which no one can rationally blame
Charles;” an exculpation, which might as properly have been extended to the introduction
of his Irish subjects, or even of foreign mercenaries, into the royal service. The only
point, in all this published correspondence, which Charles appears to have been himself
solicitous to clear up, and one which, strange to say, the friends of the rebel party still
continue to allege, is that regarding the use of disrespectful terms in characterizing his
parliament assembled at Oxford: on this point the king's defence has been already
quoted.
Cromwell, who had returned to Harborough after pursuing the king, wrote thence
the same night to the Speaker of the House of Commons an account of the victory. In
the despatching of his letter, as in all things else, he took care to have the precedence of
the general. It is blunt and brief, and evidently designed to inspire his party in the
parliament with that exultation, and that contempt of their political enemies, which he
himself so strongly felt. “Honest men served you faithfully in this action, Sir; they
are trusty : I beseech you, in the name of God, not to discourage them. . . . He that
ventures life for the liberty of his country, I wish to trust God for the liberty of his con-
science, and you for the liberty he fights for.” On the 17th, the day following the receipt
of Fairfax's despatches, containing the official news of the victory, both houses were
sumptuously feasted by the City of London at Grocer's-hall; and before taking leave in
the evening, sang the forty-sixth psalm; in the version, probably, of the Kirk of Scot-

2 Z


178 CAMPAIGN of 1645—NASEBY.
land. The convoy of the prisoners, standards, guns, carriages, and such other portions
of the rich booty as had escaped the hands of the soldiers, was entrusted to Colonel
John Fiennes, who was ordered to march with them through the city to Westminster.
Arrived at the door of the Commons’ house, he was called in, and there, in the midst of
the triumph of the promoters of the new model, and the astonishment of the discon-
certed presbyterians, delivered “a particular narration of the fight.” The standards
were ordered to be hung up in Westminster Hall; and the prisoners being mustered
in the Artillery-ground, near Tothill-fields, such of them as gave satisfactory pledges to
the committee appointed to examine them, that they would henceforth be the faithful
slaves of the parliament, were set at large; but much the greater number “were shipped
off, to serve in foreign parts upon conditions;” a mode of disposing of “malignants” well
understood and largely practised by the patrons of the new “liberty of the subject.”


I79
CHAPTER XX.
DEC LIN E OF THE FIR, S T W A. R.
WHAT supported the king under the calamitous consequences of the defeat at Naseby,
will be best understood from the insertion in this place of an extract from that eloquent
letter to Prince Rupert, which Clarendon has described as “ containing so lively an
expression of his very soul, that no pen else could have written it.” The date of this
emphatic production is indeed several weeks later than the point of time which we have
now reached, namely, the beginning of August, 1645, when Charles's position had
become considerably worse; it nevertheless presents a correct transcript of his senti-
ments and resolves while under the immediate effect of that great blow, and may indeed
be regarded as the key to his future public acts. “As for the opinion of my business,
and your counsel thereupon, if I had any other quarrel but the defence of my religion,
crown, and friends, you had full reason for your advice. For I confess, that speaking
either as a mere soldier or statesman, I must say, there is no probability but of my ruin;
but as a Christian, I must tell you, that God will not suffer rebels to prosper, or his cause
to be overthrown; and whatsoever personal punishment it shall please him to inflict
upon me must not make me repine, much less to give over this quarrel, which, by the
grace of God, I am resolved against, whatsoever it cost me : for I know my obligations
to be, both in conscience and honour, neither to abandon God’s cause, injure my suc-
cessors, nor forsake my friends. Indeed, I cannot flatter myself with expectation of
good success, more than this, to end my days with honour and a good conscience; which
obliges me to continue my endeavour, as not despairing that God may in due time
avenge his own cause. Though I must avow to all my friends, that he that will stay
with me at this time must expect, and resolve, either to die for a good cause, or, which
is worse, to live as miserable in the maintaining it, as the violence of insulting rebels can
make him. Having thus truly and impartially stated my case unto you, and plainly told
you my positive resolutions, which, by the grace of God, I will not alter, they being
neither lightly nor suddenly grounded, I earnestly desire you not in any ways to hearken
after treaties; assuring you, as low as I am, I will not go less than what was offered in
my name at Uxbridge; confessing that it were as great a miracle that they should agree
to so much reason, as that I should be, within a month, in the same condition that I was
immediately before the battle of Naseby. Therefore, for God’s sake, let us not flatter
ourselves with these conceits.”
The reader will have collected, from the tenor of this noble letter, that Rupert was
infected with that eager desire of peace, which, after the loss of Naseby, pervaded the
minds of the king's friends generally, and gave rise to combinations and cabals among

180 DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR.
the military officers, local commissioners, and others, to obtain it at whatever cost.
In fact, the prince was weary of the duties of field, and still more so of that increasing
want of success to which no one had contributed so largely as himself. Incapable of self-
control, the outward restraints of discipline were intolerable to him, and the nobler
restraints of a magnanimous sense of duty he was unable to appreciate. This reckless
and insubordinate temper of their chief prevailed extensively among the cavaliers.
Sir Richard Grenvil, who was still possessed of a powerful command in Cornwall and
Devonshire, had rendered his own name odious, and discredited the cause of which he
was in some respects an able supporter, by an oppressive and presumptuous use of his
authority. The conduct of Goring, who affected a kind of military dictatorship in the
west, was still more injurious to the king, in consequence of that officer's superior abili-
ties, more popular manners, and more considerable charge. By his insolence, violence,
and rapacity, it was he who first gave occasion to extensive associations of clubmen; and
afterwards, through his supine negligence, connived at their excesses. To those faults,
which were calculated to occasion general disgust, was added a degree of moral profligacy
and profaneness in conversation which justly offended pious persons. It was, in short,
the state of lawlessness and disaffection to which, from being originally the most loyal
division of England, the western counties had been brought by the license indulged in
by Rupert and Maurice, Grenvil and Goring, which seems to have determined the king,
when flying before Cromwell’s victorious squadrons, instead of adopting the more obvious
plan of uniting the scattered remains of his late army with the corps under the command
of the two latter, to march at once into Wales, with the unpromising design of attempt-
ing to raise fresh forces beyond the Severn.
At Hereford, Prince Rupert separated from the king, to attend to the security of his
garrison at Bristol, while Charles proceeded through Abergavenny to Ragland Castle,
then a splendid baronial residence, which its owner, the Marquis of Worcester, had
strongly fortified and garrisoned. Here while waiting the issue of such directions as he
had given to the local authorities for levying troops, the king passed three weeks with
his learned and loyal host, in pursuits apparently so little suited to the exigencies of the
time, as to draw forth bitter animadversion from his military historian: “As if,” exclaims
the secretary at war, “the genius of that place had conspired with our fates, we were
there all lulled asleep with sports and entertainments; as though no crown had been at
stake, or in danger to be lost.” The king, however, was constantly engaged in negotiating
with those parties who were, or pretended to be, at work to raise levies for a new army;
he likewise inspected all the neighbouring garrisons, including Cardiff, where Colonel
Tyrrel, son-in-law of Archbishop Usher, had the command, and whither the venerable
primate had retired for security.
In the midst of these occupations, the king was startled by calamitous intelligence
from the seat of active warfare. Fairfax and Cromwell had retaken Leicester, two days
after Charles's march through it; had encountered and defeated Goring at Langport,
whither he had retired before the parliamentarians from the siege of Taunton; and had
subsequently advanced against Bridgewater. At the same time, the Scots, having after

DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR. 181
a tedious siege reduced Carlisle, advanced to Worcester, and, presently after, as far as
Hereford, to which they laid siege. To add to the king's embarrassment, the disaffection
of the Welsh was now found to be so complete, as not only to put an end to all hope of
raising levies in Wales, but even to countenance the current rumours that a plot was in
agitation among them to seize the king’s person, and deliver him up to the parliament.
To join Goring and Rupert beyond the Severn, in the face of two armies, was not
practicable : the only other direction which offered safety was towards the north.
Charles consequently resolved to attempt the accomplishment of a purpose which, for
some time, had dwelt in glowing colours on his fancy. He proposed by a rapid march to
penetrate into Scotland, and effect a junction with Montrose, whose romantic career of
victory was still proceeding unchecked. Having been joined by the Gordons, and other
clans, that brilliant adventurer had added to the list of his achievements, in May, the
defeat of Hurry, and on the 2nd of July, that of Bayley; who had been sent out, each at
the head of a separate army, to suppress him.
The king's march northward was over the mountains, by Brecknock and Radnor, to
Ludlow. At Welbeck, a garrisoned house belonging to the Marquess of Newcastle, he
was met by the cavaliers of Lincoln and Nottingham, by Sir Richard Willis, governor of
Newark, and by many gentlemen from Pomfret Castle, which had lately surrendered to
the rebels; in pursuance of whose advice, measures were taken to raise in that vicinity
some regiments of infantry for the royal service. A second and enlarged commission was
at the same time forwarded to Montrose, with orders to conduct his forces to the border
to co-operate with Charles’s army. But this plan likewise was doomed to frustration.
The Scottish Committee of Estates, alarmed at the successes of Montrose, had sent for
assistance from the Earl of Leven’s army before Hereford. That commander instantly
despatched Lesley to their aid, with the greater part of his cavalry. Charles was lying
at Doncaster when intelligence reached him of this unexpected movement. After a long
day’s march, Lesley had halted his tired soldiers for the night at Rotherham, about ten
miles distance, in ignorance of the king’s proximity, and by no means in a condition to
resist an attack. Meanwhile the intelligence brought to the king imported, that the pur-
pose of the Scots was to intercept the royal party, and that their own comprised the
whole strength of the Scottish horse. Charles had before learned, that Pointz and
Rossiter, two of the parliament’s colonels, each in command of a numerous corps of
cavalry, were drawing towards him with the same view. Persuaded that these combined
impediments to his advance were insuperable, he relinquished his favourite design; fell
back to Newark; and thence traversing the associated counties, where he had some smart
and successful skirmishing with parties of the enemy, re-entered Oxford on the 29th of
August, his steps having been tracked all the way, at a distance, by Pointz.
Bridgewater, though one of the strongest fortifications in England, did not impede
the victorious progress of Fairfax's army. It was carried by storm in two days. A fort-
night later Sherborne Castle was won in the same manner. Cromwell next marched
against the club-men, who had assembled, to the number of several thousands, near
Shaftesbury: they were obstinate in their resistance, but, after two or three hundred of
3 A


182 DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR.
their number had fallen beneath the swords of the “ Invincibles,” the rest quickly dis-
persed. The siege of Bristol followed. Rupert occupied that city with scarcely less than
5,000 horse and foot; it was well stored with provisions; and he had promised the king
to hold it against all attempts, for four months at least. Nor could less have been
expected from his courage and loyalty, on an occasion so important. Hardly had the
army approached the lines, when Cromwell, impatient of delay, advised the general-
in-chief to attempt Bristol also by storm. At midnight, on the 9th, the assault was made
with great fury; when the assailants, having succeeded in gaining possession of some of
the principal works, and the town being set on fire in several places, the prince, impetuous
in onset, but wholly deficient in the patient fortitude necessary for defensive warfare,
presently agreed to a surrender. Charles's astonishment and indignation were extreme, on
learning the fall of this important fortress, which included the loss of a large portion of
his magazines and warlike stores. He instantly wrote his nephew a letter, full of cutting
but dignified reproaches: he revoked all the prince's commissions; commanded him to
quit the country, for which purpose he supplied him with a pass; and, to prevent any
intrigue in his favour at Oxford, whither he had withdrawn, ordered Legge, the governor
of that city, a warm partisan of Rupert's, to be put under arrest and deprived of his com-
mand. “Tell my son,” said the king, in the postcript to his letter on this painful sub-
ject to Secretary Nicholas, “that I shall less grieve to hear that he is knocked on the
head, than that he should do so mean an action as is the rendering of Bristol Castle and
Fort, upon the terms it was.” A few days, however, only elapsed ere the gentler affec-
tions, more matural to Charles's bosom, resumed their ascendency; and in pity to both
his nephews (for, powerless as he now was, the dependence of both was wholly on him-
self), he wrote as follows to the younger.
“Newtowne, 20th Sept. 1645.
“NEPHEw,-What through want of time, or unwillingness to speak to you of so
unpleasant a subject, I have not yet (which now I must supply) spoken to you freely of
your brother Rupert's present condition. The truth is, that his unhandsome quitting the
castle and fort of Bristol hath enforced me to put him off those commands which he had
in my army, and I have sent him a pass to go beyond the sea. Now, though I could do
no less than this ; for which, believe me, I have too much reason upon strict examination;
yet I assure you that I am most confident that this great error of his, which indeed hath
given me more grief than any misfortune since this damnable rebellion, hath no way pro-
ceeded from his change of affection to me or my cause, but merely by having his judgment
seduced; and I am resolved so little to forget his former services, that whenever it shall
please God to enable me to look upon my friends like a king, he shall thank God for the
pains he hath spent in my armies. So much for him ; now for yourself. I know you to
be so far from his present misfortune, that it no way staggers me in that good opinion
which I have ever had of you; and so long as you shall not be weary of your employ-
ments under me, I will give you all the encouragement and contentment that lies in my



power. However, you shall always find me
“Your loving uncle, and most assured friend, CHARLEs R.”

DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR. 183
For the purpose of more completely securing the submission of the western counties,
which would, in effect, comprise that of the whole kingdom, Cromwell now separated from
the main army, and marched back to reduce those loyal garrisons in the south, which
blocked up the communication with London. Devizes was the first place he summoned.
“Win it and wear it,” was the answer of the governor, Sir Charles Lloyd; but the gal-
lantry of Sir Charles's language did not extend to his soldiership, for in less than two
days he surrendered. Berkeley and Winchester Castles were the next gems added to
Cromwell’s wreath of conquest. From Winchester the conqueror marched to Basing.
So many sieges had been sustained, so many assaults repelled, by this stronghold of deter-
mined loyalty, that it had acquired, through all the land, the reputation of being impreg-,
nable. Cromwell carried it by storm, and sent its owner, the Marquess of Winchester,
with two hundred inferior officers and soldiers taken in it, prisoners to the metropolis.
“Cursed be he that doeth the work of the Lord negligently l’—the frequent war-cry of
the fanatics, both in the pulpit and in the field of battle,_was conspicuously heard amid
the slaughter of those devoted royalists who fell at Basing. Of the like tenor was Crom-
well’s letter to the Speaker, announcing the event. “God,” he wrote, “exceedingly
abounds in his goodness to us, and will not be weary until righteousness and peace meet,
and that he hath brought forth a glorious work for the happiness of this poor kingdom.”
Turning, then, once more towards the west, Langford House, a post of the same
description, near Salisbury, was surrendered to him. Near Exeter, he came up with
Fairfax; who, having left a division of his army to invest that city, was advancing to
encounter the royalists, then mustering their scattered strength in the heart of the
county. Impatient of the general’s slow progress, Cromwell dashed forward beyond the
main army, attacked a royalist post near Ashburton, commanded by Lord Wentworth,
and took four hundred horse, with several standards, one of which was the king’s.
While victory every where attended the movements of the king's opponents, scarcely
any efforts were made by those who called themselves his friends, to which rational
judgments could attach the prospect of success. Devonshire and Cornwall still contained
royalist troops in number sufficient to form an effective army; but many of them were
discouraged by successive defeats, some in a state of mutiny, and all ill provided, and
objects of hatred to the inhabitants, whose loyalty they had exhausted by oppression and
insolent license. Of the generals who surrounded Prince Charles, Hopton and Capel
alone had virtue and conduct; the others, Goring, Grenvil, Wentworth, either appro-
priated or despised his authority; and, in proportion as misfortune crowded upon misfor-
tune, became more deeply and inextricably involved in mutual jealousies and a common
ambition. At length these selfish and permicious dissensions being in some degree
appeased by the sudden retirement of Goring into France, a force was drawn together
under Lord Hopton deemed adequate to relieve Exeter, and check the victorious progress
of Fairfax and Cromwell. The surrender of Dartmouth to the parliamentarian generals,
proclaimed the futility of this opinion. Marching from thence with all their strength, they
surprised Hopton at Torrington. The slight entrenchments of the royalists were easily
forced; and the army, heartless, disaffected, and ill-officered, was utterly routed and

184 - DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR.
dispersed at the first onset, leaving about five hundred of their number dead on the field.
Hopton fought with all his accustomed gallantry, but having received a wound in the face,
having had his horse killed under him, and being deserted by nearly all his troops, he
threw himself upon a fresh horse, and, followed by some broken squadrons of cavaliers,
crossed the Tamar, and took refuge in Cornwall, into which remote county Prince Charles
had previously retired.
The king had no sooner foreseem to what fatal period his affairs were tending, than
he provided for the removal of the prince to the continent, the instant his longer
stay in England should become inconsistent with safety. The defeat of Hopton
brought on this crisis. At Truro, whither that brave and virtuous noblemen retreated,
he found himself reduced to the last extremity; hemmed in by a powerful and vic-
torious enemy, surrounded by disaffection in the people, and confronted by open
mutiny among his few remaining troops. His officers attempted to force him to
surrender ; one only supporting him in a resolution to accept no terms from Fairfax,
at least until he had the express command of the Prince of Wales, “from whom his
forlorn charge had been delegated.” They then resolved unanimously, if the general
persisted in his refusal, to negotiate terms for themselves. From this time all show of
discipline was abandoned; not a man mounted guard, or performed any militrary duty,
but officers and privates alike mixed indiscriminately with those of Fairfax's army. The
general, by great exertion, secured his military stores within the forts of Pendennis and
St. Michael’s Mount; and, once more protesting, that neither for himself, nor any of the
garrisons, would he solicit or accept terms from the rebels, he followed the prince to
Scilly, where his royal highness had taken refuge on the entrance of Cromwell and Fairfax
into Cornwall. The disorganized troops, left to themselves, submitted and were disbanded.
We left the king at Oxford. Two days had not elapsed before he was again at the
head of his troops, leaving behind the Duke of Richmond, with many other noblemen
and gentlemen, whom the late unfortunate campaign had wearied of an irksome service
and a sinking cause. His present design was to avert from Oxford the miseries of a
siege, and at the same time to avail himself of the efforts of his friends in the more
loyal counties. He directed his march through Worcester, once more to Ragland,
a spot endeared to him, not only by the security it afforded in his misfortunes, but as the
abode of learning, of piety, and honour, which he so well knew how to prize.
This second visit of the king to the castle of Ragland, was signalized by a discussion
between himself and his noble entertainer, the Marquess of Worcester, on the Romish
controversy. The venerable marquess was a papist, ardent alike in attachment to his
church, and in loyalty to his sovereign; and he devoutly believed that his royal master's
misfortunes might have been averted by a timely return to the ancestral faith of the
Stuarts. The conference was conducted, on both sides, with a degree of ability, erudi-
tion, and temper, seldom united; but with more of warmth and eloquence on the mar-
quess's part, and more of coolness and judgment on the king’s. Charles's share in it
proves both his perfect mastery of the subject, and (what is otherwise clear from accu-
mulated proofs) his firm adherence to the reformed church of England; the marquess's

DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR. 185
well-ordered array of arguments making no impression, though urged with pathetic
sincerity, and at a moment when his favourite opinion, that the king’s ruin was only to
be prevented by his relinquishment of protestantism, seemed shrewdly seconded by
events. “My lord,” observed Charles, “I cannot so much blame as pity your zeal;
the soundness of religion is not to be tried by dint of sword, nor must we judge of her
truths by the prosperity of events, for then of all men Christians would be the most
miserable; we are not to be thought followers of Christ, or not, by observations drawn
from what is prosperous, or otherwise, but by taking up our cross and following Christ.”
The umpire in this interesting dispute was Dr. Bayley, subdean of Wales. The
doctor himself published a report of the conference; and it would be difficult to name
another publication, in which the questions in dispute are handled at once with so much
discernment and liberality, so mildly but so convincingly. The following is Dr. Bayley’s
account of the conclusion of this remarkable incident in the king's life:–
“‘I have one request more unto your majesty,’ said the marquess; ‘that you would
make one prayer to God, to direct you in the right way, and that you would lay aside all
prejudice and self-interest, and that you will not so much fear the subject, as the Superior,
who is over all; and then you cannot do amiss.’ ‘My lord,” replied the king, ‘all this
shall be done, by the grace of God.”
“Whereupon,” continues the doctor, “the marquess called upon us to help him, so
that he might kneel; and being upon his knees, he desired to kiss his majesty’s hand,
which he did ; saying, ‘Sir, I have not a thought in my heart that tends not to the
service of my God and you; and if I could have resisted the motion of his Spirit, I had
desisted long ago; but I could not. Wherefore, on both my knees, I pray to his divine
Majesty, that he will not be wanting to his own ordinance, but will direct your under-
standing to those things which may make you a happy king upon earth, and a saint in
heaven.” And thereupon he fell a weeping, bidding to light his majesty to his chamber.
As the king was going, he said to the marquess, ‘My lord, it is great pity that you
should be in the wrong.” Whereat the marquess replied, ‘It is greater pity that you
should not be in the right.” The king said, ‘God direct us both.” The marquess
answered, ‘Amen, amen, I pray God.” Thus they both parted; ‘ and as I was lighting
his majesty to his chamber, his majesty told me, that he did not think to have found the
old man so ready at it; and that he believed he was a long time putting on his armour,
yet it was hardly proof.” To which,” concludes Bayley, “I made answer, that I believed
his lordship had more reason to wonder how his majesty, so unprepared, could withstand
the onset.”
It was at this time that the king received the astounding intelligence of the loss of
Bristol. He had been arranging his plans, during the late march from Oxford, in full
confidence of success, for the relief of that loyal and important city: he now determined
to attempt raising the siege of Hereford. At Worcester he learned that Leven had
already abandoned the works before Hereford, and begun his retreat; weary of a pro-
tracted and hopeless siege, and deprived of the greater part of his cavalry by Lesley’s
return to Scotland, he judged it prudent not to wait the king's approach. The next
3 B
186 DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR.
day Charles entered the city, welcomed by its inhabitants with acclamations, but a prey,
under this gleam of success, to the most serious perplexities. The reports which he
continued to receive from Scotland, turned his thoughts once more towards that division
of his distracted realms. At Kilsyth, another victory had been obtained by Montrose
over the Duke of Argyle; not more decisive than the victory of Inverlochy—that was
impossible—but on a larger scale, and with more important results; the combined armies
of the covenant having been completed defeated and destroyed in this engagement, and
all Scotland recovered for the king. To attempt to join the victorious marquess would,
however, be an undertaking full of difficulty and hazard. The north of England had every
where submitted to the parliament; their infantry held its garrisons, their parties of cavalry
swept the open country. Beyond the Tweed, Lesley, with his horse, was interposed.
While deliberating on these and other obstacles, Charles heard that Pointz, with
the whole strength of the enemy’s cavalry in the north, amounting to above 3,000 men,
had posted himself in the way to Worcester, whither it would be his object, in the first
instance, to proceed. To avoid the manifest hazard of an engagement, the royalists
manoeuvred with the design of misleading their pursuers. But Pointz was faithful
to his orders, constantly to keep near the king; and when, on the evening of the second
day, the cavaliers expected to enter the town without interruption, they again beheld
with surprise the vigilant foe planted in their path. They now transferred their design
to Chester, which they hoped to reach by a circuitous route over the Welsh mountains;
intending, thence, to make their way northward by Lancashire and Cumberland. The
ensuing march of five days, through those rough, inhospitable regions, exposed the
party to hardships and privations which the king, burdened as he was with the peculiar
cares of his station, cheerfully shared with his harassed followers. The city of Chester
had been regarded as beyond the probability of hostile attack; they found it in a state
of alarm and consternation. A powerful body of troops, collected from the nearest
rebel garrisons, had, just before, surprised and in part occupied the suburbs. Receiving
this intelligence as he approached the town, Charles ordered Sir Marmaduke Langdale
to cross the Dee eastward above Chester, while himself with the remainder of his force
entered the town on the west; intending to dislodge the enemy by a simultaneous
attack in front and rear. But before these movements could be executed, the indefa-
tigable Pointz again made his appearance. He was immediately attacked by Langdale,
and repulsed with loss. While this was passing, the besiegers issued from the works,
joined the defeated corps, and thus enabled Pointz to rally and renew the fight. Lang-
dale’s horse were now in turn overpowered, and sought shelter under the walls; where
the royal guards, commanded by the Earl of Lichfield, stood drawn up to support them.
Here the contest became fierce and general. Again the cavaliers drove back the repub-
lican leader, but Langdale’s flying troopers, mingling with their ranks, began a degree
of confusion, which the steady volleys of the rebel foot, who lined the surrounding lanes
and hedges, completed. The king, who, from the walls of Chester, had witnessed the
fluctuating progress of this last effort for the maintenance of the royal power, saw his
gallant kinsman, the Earl of Lichfield, with many gentlemen besides, fall dead at his


% º
§ º -
|
%
|
-|º
-
º
º
-







10|ECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR. 187
feet, and all that had hitherto survived of his broken remnant of a host, either taken
prisoners, or driven in headlong rout and ruin from the field. Thenceforth the king's
sword was a useless bauble, less significant than the george upon his breast.
The preservation of Chester was an object of great moment, no other port remaining
open at which the expected reinforcements from Ireland could land. To allow himself,
however, to be shut up in that remote spot, would have been to Charles a worse evil than
its loss. He chose rather to retreat to Denbigh Castle, “one of the strongest and noblest
places,” writes his historiographer and companion, “I ever saw. The governor,” the same
authority continues, “was Mr. Salisbury, a gentleman of that county, who, under the
cover of a countryman, had more experience, courage, and loyalty, than many that made
far greater show.” At Denbigh, after waiting some days for stragglers to collect, the king
was enabled to muster about 2,400 cavaliers. Again, and with an intenser and more
painful interest than ever, the question was to be agitated, whither the betrayed and
discomfited sovereign should betake himself. To pursue the intended march northward,
even had his present force sufficed for the undertaking, it were now too late.
It was impossible that Montrose, with such materials only as were in his power, could
keep on foot a regular and efficient army. In a state so profoundly torn with factions,
political and religious, it was almost equally difficult to renew the semblance of royal
authority. He had, indeed, got possession of the capital, overrun the country in all
directions, and was preparing, as the king's captain-general and deputy in Scotland, to
assemble a parliament in Glasgow. At this crisis, the weapon with which he had obtained
these astonishing successes, crumbled in his grasp. Of his highland followers, many had,
as usual, retired to the mountains after the battle of Kilsyth; on the first hint of an
advance to the border, the remainder followed their example ; the Gordons likewise
deserted the king's standard, to follow petty feuds at home. Lesley was now at Berwick
with 5,000 or 6,000 men, the flower of Scotland’s cavalry, trained in the English war.
While Montrose was yet undecided whether to obey the king's orders without delay, or
to retreat northward till joined by reinforcements, Lesley, favoured by a dense fog, and
by the negligence of Montrose's officers, succeeded in surprising the unprepared royalists.
The action took place at Philiphaugh, near Selkirk, on the 18th day of September. The
greater part of Montrose's infantry, consisting of raw lowland levies, fled at the first onset
of Lesley’s steel-clad troopers; the rest, after a brief but gallant resistance, laid down their
arms on receiving a promise of quarter. Montrose himself, yielding to the persuasions of
his officers, cut his way through the enemy, at the head of about one hundred and fifty
noblemen and gentlemen, the whole of his cavalry. Some of the retreating party lost
their way, and were seized by the country people, and given up to the victor; but the
greater number, with the general, reached the highlands in safety, and there continued
the war. Such of the unfortunate captives as were of eminent rank, were reserved to glut
the vengeance of the covenanters on the scaffold. The common soldiers, being chiefly
Irish, notwithstanding their conditional surrender, were penned up in a field, and there
massacred in cold blood; the fanatical clergy who accompanied the army of the cove-
188 DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR.
nanters, proclaimed it an act of enormous impiety to spare those sanguinary foes, whom
the God of battles had put in their power. -
In England, therefore, it was necessary to seek an asylum ; and Newark, one of the
few strong places still held for the king, was finally selected. The vigilance of Pointz
being for a moment diverted by his desire to get possession of Chester, the fugitive party
were enabled to secure a day’s advance. At Chirk, the king was joined by a party of
Prince Rupert's cavalry from Bristol. At Bridgenorth, and again at Lichfield, he indulged
a day's halt; but much of this melancholy expedition is described, by one of his attendants,
as leading them “through unknown ways and passages, with many dark and late marches.”
A more formidable evil to the king, than darkness, cold, or hunger, was the mortification
of hearing, wherever he came, of some fresh disaster by the seizure of his remaining
garrisons and military posts. Charles bore all, however, with a mixture of magnanimity
and good humour which recalls to mind his illustrious predecessor, the Fifth Harry, when
environed with nearly the like circumstances:
“Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread a peril hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night:
But freshly looks, and overbears attaint,
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty.”

Some of the king's most serious perplexities were aggravated, if not caused, by a too
modest preference of other men's views to the dictates of his own quick perception and
clear judgment. The fact is alluded to by his noble historian, while referring to the
preference given, on this occasion, to Newark over Worcester, which had been first chosen
for the king’s retirement. This was attributed to the influence of Lord Digby, by whose
advice Charles was at this time chiefly guided. For it was Digby who had suggested the
king’s severity towards Prince Rupert, after the fall of Bristol; and Worcester was not
only easy of access from Oxford, whence the prince was expected to come and expostulate
with his uncle, before retiring to the continent, but that garrison was under the command
of Prince Maurice, who was said keenly to resent his brother's treatment. Hardly was
Charles beginning to enjoy some degree of repose at Newark, when intelligence arrived
that Rupert was already on his way, and had been joined by Maurice. Digby now sought
to place himself beyond the reach of the storm, by persuading the king to move farther
north, and even to renew his cherished design of penetrating into Scotland. In this last
object he failed, in consequence of the arrival of a messenger with intelligence that
Montrose had been forced to retreat into the highlands; but he obtained the same end,
by getting himself placed at the head of a separate expedition. The design was suddenly
broken to his officers by the king, at a rendezvous of the troops in Worksop Park.
Although, he said, it was now too late for himself to march into Scotland, he nevertheless
proposed that Sir Marmaduke Langdale, with the northern horse, should proceed thither
to aid the struggling marquess. “Willingly, your majesty,” interposed Langdale,


DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR. 189
prepared with his reply; “but on one condition. It is, that Lord Digby may command
in chief, and myself under him.” To the surprise of those not in the secret, Digby,
a nobleman hitherto employed in none but civil affairs, frankly assented. A commission
was drawn up on the spot, appointing the noble secretary general of all the forces already
raised, or to be raised, for the king, north of the Trent; and he immediately began his
march, at the head of 1,500 cavalry, and accompanied, besides Langdale, by the earls of
Carneworth and Niddesdale, and other noblemen and gentlemen from Scotland and the
north of England. The issue of this expedition, the last sent out by Charles, will presently
be told: we follow, for the moment, the personal fortunes of the king.
The next few days were among the most mortifying, though not the most calamitous,
in the life of King Charles the First. They constituted part of that ambiguous, that
tormenting period, at which those who are born to greatness, but doomed to misfortune,
experience some of the worst evils of both, without enjoying the beneficial compensations
of either. Already, the loss of power had marred his regal character in the view of the
selfish and the base; but not yet had suffering hung its consecrating halo round that
“ discrowned head,” nor had the contemplation of his kingly and christian patience yet
forced the world to pity those unexampled misfortunes, which
“Lent his life the dignity of woe.”
At Belvoir Castle, Rupert received a command from the king to proceed no farther
without his majesty’s orders. Next day, however, the contumacious prince came to
Newark, and was met, beyond the gates, by Sir Richard Willis the governor, by Lord
Gerrard, and other officers and troops; an attention which the factious governor had
never shown to the king himself. Accompanied by this escort, and by a numerous party
of his own officers who had attended him from Oxford, he made his way into the presence,
without any of the usual ceremonies, which hitherto had been punctually observed in that
fugitive court, and roughly told the king that he was come to justify his conduct. Charles
replied coldly and evasively, conversed for a time with Prince Maurice, and, to avoid
further discourse, retired for the night. The next day he invited the prince to make his
defence, when the king declared himself satisfied that his nephew had not been guilty of
treason, or disloyalty; but added, that he could not acquit him of indiscretion. Their
mutual confidence was not, however, restored. - - -
The king had resolved on an immediate return to Oxford. But, previously to his
departure, he judged it essential to the security of Newark to remove from the office of
governor, Sir Richard Willis, who was involved in continual disputes with the royal
commissioners, and to appoint Lord Bellasis in his room. This design Charles privately
intimated to Willis, in terms of earnest and affectionate regard; but, though coupled with
the offer of the command of the life-guards, vacant by the death of the gallant Earl of
Lichfield,—an office, says Clarendon, fit for any nobleman—the communication was
received by Willis with undissembled displeasure. Rupert took up his friend’s cause.
As if the former intrusion had not sufficiently demonstrated into how great contempt the
king's authority was fallen, the same parties, a second time, burst suddenly into the royal
presence. Willis first spoke: The king, he said, had, by what he had before imparted to
3 C

190 DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR.
him, dishonoured him in the eyes of the whole garrison. Rupert followed, asserting, that
the king had resolved to deprive Willis of his office, not for any fault, but because he was
his friend; to which Lord Gerrard added, that it was all a plot of Digby’s, whom he
would prove a traitor. Charles now rose in anger, and would have had Willis withdraw
with him for more privacy, but he insolently replied—“No : I have received a public
injury, and expect a public satisfaction.” With one voice they then exclaimed, that,
finding themselves no longer trusted, they desired to have passes to go beyond the seas.
“Your passes,” retorted the king, with concentrated indignation, “shall be granted you;
with orders not only to leave my service, but never again to make use of the swords you
wear.” Intimidated by the unusual tone, gesture, and language of their sovereign, the
intruders withdrew. Charles was presently surrounded by the loyal cavaliers and officers
in the town, who called on him to punish this outbreak of insolent disaffection, as the only
way to prevent a mutiny in the town; the prince's troops being already drawn up in the
market-place, whither he and his party had likewise returned. The king then armed
himself, mounted his horse, and, issuing orders to the guards to charge his nephew and his
adherents, if necessary, repaired to the spot. Finding the party there drawn up, as had
been reported to him, he advanced, sword in hand, before his officers, and addressing the
prince, said: “Nephew 1 for what purpose are you thus in arms?” “To defend ourselves
against our enemies,” replied Rupert. “I command you,” continued the king, “to march
out immediately to Belvoir Castle, and there stay till your passes are sent you.” The
prince obeyed, and presently marched off his followers. Becoming afterwards more
sensible of the impropriety of their behaviour, and finding that their commissions were
really taken from them, these factious cavaliers sent in a petition to the king, desiring, in
terms indicative of some contrition, to be tried by a court-martial. “Having met,” they
observed, “to make our several grievances known, we find we have drawn upon us some
misconstruction by the manner, by reason your majesty thought that appeared as a
mutiny.” The king remarked, that “he would not christen it, but it looked very like
.” As to the demand of a court-martial, he could not, he said, submit his decisions to
the judgment of any court. The prince, soon afterwards, made his submission, “acknow-
ledging his errors;” and, though he had actually obtained passes also from the parliament
to go beyond sea, he made no immediate use of them, but, in a little time, returned to
the court, and was entirely reconciled to the king. Charles, however, would not again
permit Willis to come into his presence.
The king left Newark on the 3rd of November. At ten o’clock at night all the
cavalry, comprising the remains of the life-guards, mixed with some broken squadrons of
other regiments, in all about five hundred men, mustered in the market-place. At eleven
the king mounted, put himself at the head of his guards, in the centre of the cavalcade,
and issued from the gates. As the royal party passed Belvoir Castle, the commandant,
Sir Gervas Lucas, came noiselessly forth with his cavaliers, and attended the king till
break of day. The line of march was beset with hostile garrisons; and from Burleigh,
and from Rockingham, the enemy’s horse hurried out in pursuit. In the evening, the
tired fugitives indulged themselves with a few hours’ rest, in an obscure village. Once

One
- DECLINE OF THE FIRST WAR. 191
more, by ten o’clock, Charles was in the saddle; he passed through Daventry as the day
broke; and arriving before noon at Banbury, was met by his cavalry from Oxford, whom
he had ordered there to attend him, and, under their escort, safely entered that city in
the evening. “And so,” writes the affectionate historian, “ he finished the most tedious
and grievous march that ever king was exercised in, having been almost in perpetual
motion from the loss of the battle of Naseby to this hour, with such a variety of dismal
accidents as must have broken the spirits of any man who had not been the most mag-
nanimous person in the world.”


192
CHAPTER, XXI.
GLAMORGAN–CILOSE OF THE FIRST WAR.

EvKRYTHING which the king or his friends now attempted, was sure to bear upon it the
fatal marks of a failing, or utterly fallen, cause. What indiscretion planned, rashness
undertook; and both seemed to labour for no other end than to supply imbecility, or ill
fortune, with occasions to complete the work of ruin.
At Doncaster, Lord Digby surprised and routed a party of about 1,000 foot, lately
raised in that neighbourhood for the parliament; but being himself attacked at Sher-
borne by Colonel Copley, who commanded a powerful detachment of the enemy's horse,
he was, in turn, defeated, with the loss of a considerable number of his troops. A circum-
stance which greatly aggravated the calamitous result of this action, was the capture of
Digby’s cabinet of official correspondence; of which, as in the similar misfortune of the
king at Naseby, the parliament hesitated not to take the most ungenerous advantage.
Some of the papers taken related to Charles's negotiations with the Irish, and were pecu-
liarly open to interpretations injurious to the royal character and interests. In no less
than two subsequent instances, both in like manner connected with the affairs of Ireland,
the same indiscretion in exposing state-documents to all the chances of war, was produc-
tive of similar prejudice to the king. About the middle of October, the titular archbishop
of Tuam was killed near Sligo, when duplicates of the important negotiation then in
progress were found on his person; and again, at the commencement of the following
year, many letters and papers of moment, relating to the same transations, came into the
possession of the parliament, by means of the capture, at Padstow, of a vessel from Ireland.
Digby rallied his dispersed followers at Skipton, and continued his march through West-
moreland and Cumberland, as far as Dumfries. Unable there to obtain intelligence of
Montrose, and equally unable, if he returned, to elude the vigilance of the Scottish army,
he disbanded his troops near Carlisle, and transported himself and his officers to the
Isle of Man: there, the fugitives were hospitably entertained by the loyal Earl and
heroic Countess of Derby, till they could cross over to Dublin. In Ireland a new and
curious scene of this eventful drama was opened, in which Digby performed a con-
spicuous part.
That the king should be willing to receive aid from any quarter of his dominions, or
from any class of his subjects, in the obstinate and unequal contest in which he was
engaged, can surely be matter neither of surprise nor blame. The truce with the Roman
Catholic insurgents in Ireland, though the reason alleged for it, on the king's part, was
want of means to continue the war, was in reality designed to enable him to recall the
GLAMORGAN–CILOSE OF THE FIRST WAR. 193
loyal part of his own troops, and to avail himself besides of the services of such of the
rebel party as might be willing to postpone their more immediate objects, and follow
the royal standard in the English war. Very little, however, was gained, to compensate
for the odium which attached to that moderate and plausible measure. As the truce
itself never took effect universally, the king dared not call home the bulk of his army;
and the few troops belonging to either party who passed over into England were quickly
scattered and destroyed. In the mean time the Irish demanded, as the conditions of
peace and the price of their support, such concessions on the score of religion as neither
the prejudices of his English subjects, nor his own conscience, would allow him to grant.
Vague promises were abundantly at the king's command; but the insurgents knew their
own strength and their sovereign's weakness; they had before them the example of
the successful rebellion of the Scots for religious freedom; and they determined to
accept nothing less than the legal establishment of equal privileges for themselves.
Hitherto these negotiations had been carried on at Oxford, by means of deputies from
Ireland: they were now transferred to the management of the Marquess of Ormond, at
Dublin. For a time, the king’s lieutenant was left to his own discretion, regarding the
stipulations to be granted. He was unwearied in his labours to effect the object entrusted
to him, and even endangered his personal safety by appearing in a conference at Kilkenny
with the self-constituted supreme council of Ireland. Finding, however, that the obsti-
macy of the Irish, on the point of religion, was not to be overcome, and urged at the
same time by his daily increasing difficulties, Charles expressly enlarged the powers of
his lieutenant. Ormond was authorized to stipulate for the present suspension of the
penal laws against the Roman Catholics, and for their abolition on the establishment of
peace; or, if nothing less would suffice, to agree to their immediate repeal.
But the negotiation, even on these terms, not keeping pace with the necessities or
the impatience of the king, another minister was to be chosen, of less prudence, or
more unhesitating zeal. Such a negotiator was found in Lord Herbert of Ragland,
son of the good old Marquess of Worcester, and himself afterwards possessor of that
title; but better known in history as Earl of Glamorgan, a dignity conferred upon him
with a view to his services in this negotiation. “Herbert felt the most devoted attach-
ment to his sovereign. He had lived with him for twenty years in habits of intimacy;
in conjunction with his father he had spent above £200,000 in support of the royal cause;
and both had repeatedly and publicly avowed their determination to stand or fall with the
throne.” To his tried and sanguine devotion to his master’s service, Glamorgan like-
wise added the valuable qualification of fitness on the score of religion; as himself
a papist, he was likely to conciliate the good-will of those with whom it would be his
business to treat. Thus prepared, the earl cheerfully undertook to crown the services by
which his family had already evinced their zeal in the cause of the crown, by proceeding
to Ireland on a secret mission to the confederates. He was to demand an immediate aid
of 10,000 men; in return for which he was to agree to such concessions, on the grand
point of religious toleration, as the king dared not through any public channel propose;
and, in case of a disclosure before the success of the undertaking should have enabled

3 D
194 GLAMORGAN–CIOSE OF THE FIRST WAR.
Charles to disregard opinion, the chivalrous agent was willing to submit to all the
consequences of a public disavowal of his acts, as far as might be necessary for the
royal interests. The chief warrant with which Glamorgan was furnished, bears date
Oxford, March 12th, 1645; and is of such an amplitude as strikingly demonstrates
the king's confidence in the loyalty of his agent, his strong conviction of the desperate
state of his affairs, after the failure of the Uxbridge treaty, and the discovery of his
enemies’ intentions which then came to light, and the excess of that sanguine temper,
or that fondness for the perilous intricacies of political intrigue, which could induce him
to build expectancies so large on so narrow and insecure a foundation.
Glamorgan, after some stay in Wales, to raise money for his enterprise, and to
receive his final instructions and credentials, with difficulty reached Ireland. A short
time he passed at Dublin, freely communicating with Ormond, and joining in the
negotiations still publicly carried on with the popish deputies. He then proceeded to
Kilkenny; and having satisfied the supreme council respecting his authority, by the
production of several warrants and commissions, bearing the king's private seal, besides
letters accrediting him to the pope, to Cardinal Spada, and to the papal nuncio expected
in the island, he concluded a treaty, by which it was stipulated, that the Roman Catholics
should not only enjoy the free exercise of their religion, but should retain possession of
all those churches, with their privileges and revenues, which had been seized by them
since the outbreak of the rebellion in 1641 : in effect, that popery should become the
established religion throughout the greater part of the kingdom. In return for so liberal
a concession, it was agreed that they should, by a day named, furnish the ten thousand
troops required for the king, and should assign to his use, for three years, a large pro-
portion of the ecclesiastical revenue.
The discovery of this transaction, which both Charles and his agent had apprehended
as probable, actually took place, in consequence of the fate that, as has been already inti-
mated, befell the popish archbishop of Tuam before Sligo. For a time it was suppressed;
but a second copy of the documents being transmitted to the government at Dublin,
with an intimation that the English parliament were already in possession of the originals,
it became requisite to take some decisive step for the purpose of vindicating the king to
his protestant subjects; who, by the bare rumour of what had been going on, were, in
both countries, thrown into a state of extraordinary excitement. Many asserted it to be
impossible that his majesty could have consented to a step seemingly so irreconcilable
both with their sense of what was right, and with his own repeated declarations; by
others, royalists as well as republicans, the report was received with unmixed indignation
at what they termed Charles's perfidy. Digby, who was now in Dublin, and who perhaps
had been no party to the secret instructions of Glamorgan, inveighed loudly against the
earl’s presumption in concluding such a treaty; and Ormond, in a council called on this
emergency, yielding to that nobleman’s demand, ordered him into custody on a charge of
treason. A check was thus put to the scandal; but, in order to its effectual suppression,
it was necessary to follow up the decisive act of the council by some demonstration from
the king. Accordingly, in a message to the two houses, the king denied that he had



GLAMORGAN–CILOSE OF THE FIRST WAR. 195
authorized Glamorgan to enter into any treaty whatever, or furnished him with credentials
beyond a commission to raise troops for his service. To Ormond, who was more perfectly
acquainted with the facts, he adopted an evasive style; and Glamorgan himself, after
the lapse of a few weeks, he encouraged, not only with assurances of his continued favour
and esteem, but with hints of “revenge and reparation ” for the indignity that had been
put upon him. In truth, the earl was at no time apprehensive for his safety; and long
before the king's disavowal had been laid before the parliament, he was liberated, and had
returned to Kilkenny, with the approbation of the lord-lieutenant, to continue the public
negotiations for peace.
This ravelled story of unkingly intrigue it is impossible to contemplate without senti-
ments of melancholy and humiliation. And its entanglements are rendered more
complicated, though more intelligible, by the consideration, that the Irish papists, for the
sake of securing whose unavailing assistance the integrity of truth was thus violated, and
the protestant zeal of the three kingdoms insulted, were themselves the party ultimately
meant to be deceived. Charles I., if a martyr, was a martyr for the principles of the
church of England, as contradistinguished equally from popery on the one hand, and from
sectarianism on the other. Had Glamorgan fully succeeded, the king would have availed
himself of the services of the Roman catholics of Ireland; but he must of necessity have
yielded to the stern and universal demands of that vast protestant majority by which
alone he could reign, and have refused the stipulated reward of those services. The only
point, in these transactions, on which the mind can rest with satisfaction, is the romantic
loyalty of Glamorgan; and even this virtue is divested of the character of heroism by the
debasing admixture of duplicity and contrivance.
Glamorgan at length succeeded in concluding a treaty, and received an immediate aid
of 6,000 men, with a promise that the remaining 4,000 should be presently furnished.
He assembled his troops at Waterford, intending from thence to attempt the relief of
Chester; but while waiting for transports, he received intelligence that Chester, after
suffering great extremities, had surrendered. No port on all that coast now remained, at
which the Irish forces could be landed with any hope of success. Few indeed of the
royal garrisons still held out. Peters, Cromwell’s favourite preacher, whom the hero of
the deluded republicans usually employed, after every victory, to adorn it with those
peculiar flowers of rhetoric which were most grateful to his patron, now found in this
function continual employment for his activity and zeal. The fall of Tiverton, of Exeter,
and other places in the west, followed the dissolution of Lord Hopton’s army. The prin-
cipality in general had by this time declared for the parliament: only Ragland and
Harlech for some months longer defied the conqueror. Glamorgan’s now useless forces were
dispersed. Two or three hundred men accompanied Lord Digby to the coast of Cornwall,
and thence to Jersey, to form a guard for the Prince of Wales; a more considerable body
proceeded to Scotland, to aid Montrose; the remainder he sent back to their canton-
ments in the interior. Still, in the midst of his distresses, the king continued, as if
under a spell, to look hopefully towards Ireland. Expectation in that quarter failed him,
as it had ever done. The peace concluded, through Glamorgan’s agency, with the council

196 GLAMORGAN–CLOSE OF THE FIRST WAR,
of the nation, was opposed by the clergy, following the instigation of the pope's nuncio,
Rinuccini. War was renewed; and Ormond, helplessly shut up in Dublin, found himself,
in the end, forced to make terms either with the popish or with the parliamentarian party.
He preferred the latter, and returned to England.
Before the king left Newark, the garrison was already threatened by Pointz and
Rossiter, each with a force superior to that within the walls: scarcely was he gone, when
Leven also, in obedience to the mandate of the parliament, once more marched southward,
and the united Scotch and English armies sat down before that loyal fortress. The only
other place of strength remaining to the king, north of Oxford, was Worcester. Here,
in the month of March, the brave old Lord Ashley, on whom had now fallen the chief
command for the crown in the northern counties, got together a body of about 2,000
horse and foot, with whom he proceeded to join the king at Oxford. The enemy, how-
ever, getting notice of his purpose, he was attacked at the end of the first day’s march,
on the borders of Gloucestershire, defeated, and, with the majority of his troops, taken
prisoner. The few that escaped were utterly dispersed. And now not an enemy to the
parliament remained anywhere in the field. “You have done your work,” said the
captive nobleman to his conquerors, “ and may now go play; unless” (a sagacious reser-
vation 1) “you fall out among yourselves.” All, indeed, was over for the king. For,
what could have availed now a few thousands of mercenary auxiliaries—Dutch, Lorrainers,
Danes, or French—with whom, even for their sovereign, and under more hopeful auspices,
hardly would the most devoted English loyalists have fought side by side? The sanguine
and courageous Henrietta Maria herself, after having exhausted her interest and inven-
tion in diplomatic schemes and correspondence,—after crossing and recrossing the sea,
to rouse the tardy loyalist, or to urge the reluctant ally to become the messenger of intelli-
gence or the angel of an ever-deceiving hope, forgetting for a time, in the mother, the
consort and the queen, now confined her chief anxieties to her children; and sought no
greater happiness than to be assured of Prince Charles's safety in the islets of the Chan-
nel, or to provide for his becoming reception among his indifferent kindred in the French
court.
On the other side all was commensurate triumph. The sentiments of the par-
liamentarians on the fortunate termination of the war, are well conveyed in the follow-
ing paragraphs, which describe the reception of Fairfax and Cromwell in London.
“The war being now quite finished,” writes the contemporary historian May,
“Fairfax, the victorious preserver of the English parliament, returned to London
about the middle of November. All good men longed to see that great soldier, whom
they could not but admire, by whose valour they were delivered from the worst of evils,
and were now in expectation of a happy peace. The next day after he came to London,
that he might see the gratitude of the parliament, the House of Peers sent their speaker,
Manchester, whom the earls of Northumberland, Pembroke, and many other nobles,
accompanied; who congratulated his return, and gave him great thanks for his most
faithful and happy service to the commonwealth. When the Lords were gone, Lenthall,
the speaker of the House of Commons, with almost three hundred members of that



GLAMORG AN–CLOSE OF THE FIRST WAR. 197
house, came to congratulate the general; to whom Lenthall made a speech, wherein
he discoursed of the greatness of his actions, extolling them by examples of the most
great and famous heroes of ancient times. “You,” said he, ‘noble general, shall all
posterity admire and honour; and the people of England, since they can give you no
thanks equal to your merits, do freely confess themselves for ever indebted to you, as the
happy instrument of God, and finisher of our wars with incredible success.’ To which
the modest Fairfax made a short reply, acknowledging himself unworthy of so great
an honour, and giving most humble thanks to the parliament; accounting it his greatest
happiness in this world to be made by God instrumental for the good of his country.”
Respecting Cromwell we are told, in Mr. Forster’s life of that remarkable man, the
motley hero of the Civil Wars, that he also was “received in London with very extra-
ordinary honours. The instant he entered the house the members rose and welcomed
him, and the speaker in their name, after an elaborate eulogium, delivered the hearty
thanks of the house for his many and great services.”
But the gratitude of parliament, it is added, was not confined to such demonstrations
of their confidence and esteem. They voted that Sir Thomas Fairfax should be created
a baron, and an annuity of £5,000 per annum settled on him, and that the elder Fairfax
should be made an earl. An annual grant of half that amount was likewise conferred on
Cromwell; and in the beginning of the year 1646, an ordinance passed the Commons,
“ that all the lands of the Earl of Worcester, Lord Herbert, and Sir John Somerset, his
sons, in the county of Southampton, should be settled upon lieutenant-general Cromwell,
and his heirs, to be accounted as part of the £2,500 per annum formerly appointed him
by this house.” With such facility did that revolutionary senate apportion out among
those who were at once their creatures and their masters, the inheritance of ancient and
honourable families, whose only crime was to recognize, and fearlessly to discharge, the
duty of subjects to their sovereign
“So ended,” observes one of Cromwell's early biographers, “the first war; with the
praises and triumphs of this man of war, adored and worshipped by his party, who stuck
not to blaspheme God and his scriptures, attributing all those hosannas, and psalms, and
songs of deliverance and victory, to this their champion—in effect, making a mere idol of
him; which fanatic religious veneration he missed not to improve, though, for the present,
he covered his ambition with modesty and humility, ascribing all things, in a canting way
of expression, to the goodness and omnipotence of God, which he frequently and impiously
abused, intituling it to all his wicked and villanous designs and actions.”
3 E

198
CHAPTER, XXII.
T H E S C O TT IS H. C. A. M. P.
CHARLEs I., unhappy in war, was still more unhappy in the business of diplomacy.
Passion, singleness of purpose, and recklessness of means, impart, even to men of
moderate intellect, both vigour in action and the appearance of great mental power. No
one, acquainted with the history of the domestic troubles in England in the seventeenth
century, will be disposed to underrate the capacity of several among those who raised the
storm, and directed its terrors. But they had the advantages of launching upon an
impulse already in action, and of standing, with respect to the king, in the relation of the
assailant to the defendant, of the revolutionist to the conservative. Cromwell derived
energy from his restless ambition; Vane, from passionate admiration of his own political
theories; the commonwealth men and Independents in general, from the scorn of restraint
and hatred of authority, which is a passion native to every heart; the Presbyterians, from
bigoted idolatry of their self-devised form of church-government. To withstand these
fierce conjoined motives, Charles had little besides a calm sense of duty to God, to his
kingly state, and to posterity—a sustaining principle indeed; and hence he rises in our
estimation, in exact proportion as the gloom of adversity gathers round him; but little
fitted to impart practical energy to the character. Defeated, betrayed, powerless, almost
friendless—can we wonder that he should be baffled in those conflicts of cunning
statesmanship, into which, by the unfortunate exigencies of his position, he was now
forced?
Charles was assured that by this time the hearts of his subjects, beginning to awake from
their delusions, had, even within the rebel camp and the republican capital, turned again,
in multitudes, to their king. He at no time abandoned his faith in the settled attachment
of the people to the monarchy, the religion, and the laws, of their country. He believed
that his presence, even among such of them as were most subservient to an affectedly
popular, but really arbitrary government, and most completely beguiled by faction, would
stimulate the renascent warmth of loyalty: he felt secure, that there were many friends
whom the sight of him would encourage, and some among his worst enemies whom it
would abash. Peace, moreover, peace on any terms compatible with the existence of the
monarchy and the church, had now become absolutely indispensable. No sooner, then,
had he found himself once more in Oxford, than he directed all his endeavours to Open
negotiations for this great object. Three successive messages, penned with “the most
powerful persuasions imaginable,” had been despatched, before his haughty victors at
Westminster deigned to reply: their answer, when at length they condescended to answer,
was, a refusal to receive the king's commissioners, with an intimation that they were


THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 199
themselves engaged in drawing up propositions for his majesty to sign. Again the
parliament relapsed into silence, notwithstanding the frequent renewal of the correspon-
dence, on the king’s part, “with many gracious expressions of his desire of peace, and
many novel concessions.” Meantime Fairfax, having reduced the western counties, was
advancing to invest Oxford, and Charles was now in imminent danger of being enclosed
by a hostile army, flushed with numerous victories, and too powerful to leave him any
chance of successful resistance. At length, late in the month of March, he sent a message
which suddenly roused the parliament from their insolent affectation of disregard. Charles
desired, if he might have the engagement of the two houses, the Scottish commissioners,
and the chief officers of the English and Scottish armies, for his safety, to proceed to
London, and there conduct a personal treaty. To this proposal, which he fortified by
promising to concede, either absolutely or for a term of years, everything required on the
other side, except the sacrifice of his friends and the church, an answer was quickly
vouchsafed. They reproached the king as the cause of all the bloodshed that had taken
place, and reproved him for coupling with them in his message the military commanders,
who were “subject and subordinate to their authority;” they absolutely refused his
request, on the ground that the king's presence in London would neither be safe for him
nor convenient to themselves; and concluded by again referring to those propositions
which they were preparing, as the only conditions on which they would treat of peace.
Among the numerous letters written by the king in the course of these transactions,
the following, to Lord Digby, is strongly indicative of his pressing danger and delusive
hopes; of the profound trouble of his royal mind, yet of its control by the enlarging
magnanimity of his character. -
“Since my last to you,” writes the afflicted monarch, “misfortunes have so multiplied
upon me, that I have been forced to send this (to say no more) but strange message to
London; yet whatever becomes of me, I must not forget my friends, wherever they are.
“I am endeavouring to get to London, so that the conditions may be such as a
gentleman may own, and that the rebels may acknowledge me king; being not without
hope that I shall be able so to draw either the Presbyterians or Independents to side with
me for extirpating one or the other, that I shall be really king again.
“Howsoever, I desire you to assure all my friends, that if I cannot live as a king I shall
die like a gentleman, without doing that which may make honest men blush for me.”
In the parliament's stern refusal of a personal conference, there was more of policy
and fear, than of hatred. A yawning gulf already divided the two great rebel parties;
which both saw but too clearly, though each eagerly strove to hide the prospect. As yet
neither of them could dispense with the other. In the common cause against the
“malignants,” the republicans were still willing to tolerate the Presbyterians; the Pres-
byterians, confident in the final elevation of their idol “platform,” stolidly consented to
march beneath the banners of their perilous confederates. But the reign of Independency,
though yet in its infant and unassured state, was continually receiving new accessions of
support. By various circumstances, such as voluntary absence of members, votes of
incapacity, &c.—the House of Commons had become greatly reduced in numbers; no

200 THE SCOTTISH CAMP.
new members having been elected to supply the vacancies thus occasioned. An obvious
method which this circumstance suggested to the republicans for recruiting their strength,
was, by a vote of the house at once to overleap the legal difficulties which had hitherto
been opposed to fresh elections. Accordingly, in the autumn of 1645, one hundred and
forty-six new members were elected, and eighty-nine in the year following; of whom it
was the business of the heads of the rising party to take care that a large proportion
should be fully prepared either to lead or to follow in any course which their interest
required. Among those introduced into the Commons in 1645, were Sidney, Ludlow,
Skippon, Hutchinson, and others of similar character and views, no regard being now
had to the self-denying ordinance; of those admitted in the early part of 1646, one was
the notorious Harry Marten, who had been previously expelled the house for his profligate
revolutionary sentiments, but was now recalled through the growing influence of the
Independent party. Nor indeed were all the exertions of Cromwell and Vane, of Ireton
and St. John, more than sufficient, at this time, to maintain their progressive ascendency.
While Charles was thus being pushed towards the edge of the precipice, a friendly
hand was at last stretched out to him by a foreign power;-this once only, during his
protracted struggles, and now impotently, if not insidiously. In the lifetime of Richelieu,
and down to the fatal overthrow at Naseby, France, the only continental power from
which Charles I. could reasonably expect effectual aid, was, on the contrary, secretly
leagued against him. From the first outbreak of the tumults in Scotland, they were
insidiously formented by that wily and implacable politician; and those agents whom he
sent over to England, on pretence of promoting an accommodation, were in reality
employed to lend encouragement to the rebels, or, at best, while apparently favouring
the royal cause, to perform a part wholly insignificant. But that tremendous blow
startled France from her course of policy. To Mazarine, the new absolute minister, it
appeared that matters were proceeding too far. It might carry some danger to the
continental despotisms of Europe, farther to aid, or even idly to look on, while a huge
democracy reared its head on the ruins of one of her ancient monarchies. From such
misgivings proceeded the famous mission of Montreuil. The instructions which this
envoy brought over from the queen-regent of France (or the cardinal, in her name), and
from Charles’s consort, Henrietta, as the basis of his negotiations, were, by every argu-
ment in his power to persuade the king to yield to the demands of the Presbyterians, as
the less hostile of the two parties, into the arms of one of which he must inevitably throw
himself. A pledge, that the unhappy king would no longer refuse his consent, appears
already to have been conveyed to the Scots, on the authority of the Queen of England
and her two advisers, Jermyn and Culpeper. It is perhaps not greatly surprising, that
a bigoted Roman Catholic (to whom all forms of Christianity but her own were alike
indifferent), the mere butterfly of a court, and a moderately-informed soldier and states-
man, should jointly misapprehend the degree of Charles's constancy on such a point as
the primitive and inalienable authority of English bishops. Temperately, but firmly,
he signified to Montreuil his absolute refusal; an unexpected decision, the king’s per-
severing in which, ultimately occasioned the recall and disgrace of the too sanguine


THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 201
envoy; and when Sir William Davenant brought over from the queen and her council
a distinct proposal to the same effect, attempting to recommend it by arguments more
suitable for a court-poet to urge than for a religious monarch to hear, the offended king
forbade him his presence.
In the mean time, the danger of being shut up in Oxford grew imminent; Fairfax's
officers having already blockaded the neighbouring garrisons of Wallingford and Wood-
stock, and the investing of Oxford itself being suspended only till the general, now
released from the siege of Exeter, had completed his survey of the ground, and issued
orders for its circumvallation. Of the selfishness and intolerance of the Presbyterians,
Charles had had ample experience; with respect to the Independents, as a body, no such
painful advantage had, as yet, fallen to his lot. A personal knowledge of some eminent
individuals, of apparently enlarged and generous sentiments, had impressed him with
a too favourable opinion of that party. Such a mistake would be more discreditable to
the royal sagacity, could the king have read the page of futurity as we now read the
records of history; but Charles had to collect the opinions of the Independents as he
could, from the specious professions of Cromwell, and through the cloudy metaphysics
of the younger Vane. In his present extreme need he made trial of their loyalty, or
generosity. Two letters exist, written to Vane by the hands of Ashburnham, one of the
grooms of the king's bedchamber, in one of which Charles solicits the good office of that
influential statesman in the following earnest terms:
“Be very confident that all things shall be performed according to my promise.
By all that is good I conjure you to despatch that courtesy for me with all speed, or it
will be too late; I shall perish before I receive the fruits of it. I may not tell you my
necessities, but if it were necessary so to do, I am sure you would lay all other considera-
tions aside, and fulfil my desires. This is all; trust me, I will repay the favour to the
full. I have done. If I have not an answer within four days, I shall be necessitated
to find some other expedient. God direct you ! I have discharged my duty.”
The favour thus pathetically implored, was that of permission to repair to London.
He had renewed his application for a personal conference, in a letter which, being unfor-
tunately produced when the house were “not in the vein,” was thrown by, and neglected.
For aught that appears, the parliamentary leader of the Independents treated the fallen
monarch’s private correspondence with the like contemptuous silence.
Montreuil's earliest reports from the Scottish camp before Newark, sounded favourably.
Charles's pertinacious refusal to countenance their idolized form of church-government,
gave offence, but the possession of the king's person, which the envoy was instructed to
hold out to the commissioners, seemed a prospective advantage over their enemies in the
English parliament, which was not to be neglected. After some time spent in communi-
cating with their brethren at Westminster, they offered the king an asylum, on condition
that he made his appearance attended only by two individuals, and let himself fall, as it
were by accident, into the hands of a party of cavalry, to be stationed in the way for this
purpose. Charles, however, did not omit the needful precaution of previously sending
a trusty person to ascertain that all had been arranged according to agreement. The
3 F

202 THE SCOTTISH CAMP.
messenger selected for this purpose was Hudson, his “plain-spoken” chaplain, as the
king familiarly styled him—one of those ecclesiastics whom the rude iniquity of the
times had thrust into employments alien to their education and former habits, Hudson
had filled the office of the king's scoutmaster-general in the north, and was well acquainted
with every road and by-path of those regions. He found Montreuil in an altered mood.
The Scottish commissioners in London differed, in their view of the project in hand, from
the officers and the commissioners of the Estates before Newark. Montreuil had now
lost all confidence in the parties, and presaged ill for the design. But the king's situation
was become desperate. Oxford, strong by natural position, had been made, by the skill
and cost bestowed on its fortifications, almost impregnable; it was besides well garrisoned
and provisioned, and might therefore be successfully defended for several months. One,
nevertheless, of two alternatives, could alone save the king, from the certain captivity,
to which, at the termination of that period, famine would compel him to submit, if he
lingered there. The first was, to procure more favourable terms by an immediate
surrender. He attempted it, and failed. Neither Ireton nor Rainsborough, who both
lay with their divisions in the neighbourhood, would engage to protect their sovereign,
and conduct him in safety to the parliament. The king was therefore forced to fall back
on the Scots as his only resource. At this moment a messenger came in from Newark,
with the intelligence that the commissioners had settled their differences on the proposed
arrangement, and that Lesley’s promised escort was actually ordered out. Charles hastily
acquainted his council that it was his intention, without delay, to quit Oxford, but not
on what design; leaving them to surmise that he meant to put in practice a romantic
scheme which had sometimes been the subject of his discourse, viz. to throw himself
naked into the midst of friends and foes in London, and leave the rest to Providence,
and the remains of the ancient English loyalty. At dead of night, April 27, 1645, he
took a final farewell of that spot so dear to his heart; the solemn groves, the antique
towers, the noiseless streets of Oxford—fit capital for the empire of a learned and sorrow-
stricken king !
The stroke of three was quivering through the keen atmosphere of the early spring
morning, when the same number of horsemen, crossing Magdalene bridge, reached the
gateway that opened upon the London road. Here the party halted, and one of them
spoke, in low tones, to a military personage, apparently in charge of the portal. “Let
not a post,” he said, “be opened, until five days be past.” The other returned an earnest
assent; it was the king, giving his last order to Sir Thomas Glemham, governor of
Oxford. The three cavaliers passed on. “Farewell, Harry !” exclaimed the governor.
Nor could anything be observed in the king's appearance which betrayed inconsistency
in this familiar adieu. For Charles, habited as a serving-man, with clipped beard and
shorn locks, wearing a Spanish cap of the period, and having in charge a cloak-bag,
followed his favourite attendant, Ashburnham; while Hudson, covered with a military
mantle, personated a captain going to London about his composition—in those times
a traveller's frequent errand. Only Hudson and Ashburnham were armed.
Notwithstanding this dangerously decisive step, Charles was still unresolved in what
si： ： ： ： ： ：bs：：： || S.I.）
----，
， ，
，
Tſe-TIT （Eſtapa：I






THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 203
direction to proceed; whether, in pursuance of the plan lately in agitation, to cast him-
self upon the protection of the Scots; to revive the favourite project of attempting to
join Montrose; or to dare the greater hazard of making his appearance in the metropolis.
The choice among these fearful projects, he left to be decided by such information as he
might casually pick up on the road. To what dangers the king's unprotected flight
exposed his person, soon began to be apparent. The travellers encountered a party of
the parliamentarian troopers, who inquired to whom they belonged? “To the honourable
House of Commons,” was the satisfactory reply. Another soldier coming up with them,
and observing Ashburnham unusually free in the distribution of money – “Is your
master,” he demanded of the king, “one of the lords of parliament?” “No,” answered
the counterfeit groom, “my master is of the lower house.”
While stopping to bait at the village inn of Hillingdom, near Uxbridge, the question
of their destination was anxiously debated among the fugitives. They looked over the
“mercuries” and “news-books;” from these they learned, that the parliament had
already notice from before Oxford of the king's escape: in what temper the intelligence
was received, may be gathered from two ordinances, published presently afterwards. The
first of these insolent proclamations decreed, that, if the sovereign should appear in
his capital without the parliament’s consent, his person should be apprehended, and his
followers imprisoned; that all who “ harboured or concealed” the king, or knew of his
being harboured or concealed, and did not instantly reveal it to the speakers of the two
houses, should be capitally proceeded against. By the second ordinance it was com-
manded, that every person who had borne arms for the king should depart beyond the
lines of communication, on pain of forfeiting his life as a spy.
The intelligence now collected was decisive against entering the metropolis. The
party turned out of the high road, northward, through Harrow and St. Alban’s; fre-
quently meeting with soldiers, whose inquiries they were enabled to satisfy with a ready
answer, and a moderate donation. At Harborough, the place appointed, they sought the
promised troop of Scottish horse, but could learn nothing of them. The brave divine,
who now saw his worst suspicions of the Scots realized, offered to proceed alone to
London, and negotiate with the heads of the parties for the king's honourable reception.
This proposal was overruled, and the king resolved to persevere in proceeding northward,
but by a circuitous route. Charles's disguise being now known, it became necessary to
change it, and he assumed the character of a clergyman. The aid of a barber was
required; when the man's persevering inquiries about the unworthy brother craftsman
who had last operated upon the tresses of the king, were likely to prove dangerous.
It was the unpractised hand of Ashburnham which had hastily performed that office,
on the night of the flight from Oxford. At Downham, in Norfolk, the king and
Ashburnham passed four days, while Dr. Hudson was despatched to Montreuil for
information and advice. The Frenchman, whose whole conduct in his difficult and
unfortunate embassy, denoted an honest purpose to serve the king, advised that, although
the cautious determination of the Scots not to appear implicated in his escape, made
them still evade subscription to any engagement, and had prevented their despatching


204 THE SCOTTISH CAMP.
the escort promised, the king should nevertheless deliver himself up to them as the most
eligible choice now remaining. Accordingly, as Hudson farther brought back with him
a solemn confirmation, by their commissioners, of the verbal agreement previously made,
the king no longer hesitated. Charles had left Oxford on the 26th of April; and, late
on the 5th of May, he arrived at Southwell, where Montreuil resided. Thus, records
Ashburnham (who assumes the responsibility of this transaction) “in obedience to his
majesty’s pleasure, I performed my duty; and with humble acknowledgments to God’s
protection (after nine days’ travel upon the way, and in that time having passed through
fourteen guards and garrisons of the enemy) we arrived safe at the Scots' army before
Newark.” From Montreuil’s residence, the king proceeded to the head-quarters of
General Leven, by whom he was conducted to Kelham House, where a guard was
assigned him by the commissioners. That this ceremony was intended rather for his
security as a captive, and to prevent all communication with the officers, than to do him
honour as their prince, the king at once satisfied himself by attempting to give the word.
He was immediately interrupted by Leven : “I am the older soldier, Sir,” said the Scot:
“your majesty had better leave that office to me.”
Thus, from the first moment, it was sufficiently apparent, that not loyalty but self-
interest directed the conduct of the Scots. Having the king safe among them, their
policy was to exhibit the strongest marks of surprise as well as of joy, “that he had so far
honoured their army, as to think it worthy his presence after so much opposition.” The
general raised his hands in amazement on Charles’s making his appearance in his quarters,
and the Earl of Lothian exhibited equal surprise when the deluded prince referred to the
conditions on which he had come among them. “ For himself, he had been privy to
nothing of the kind, and he believed the same of the other commissioners residing with
the army.” It was now the king's turn to be astonished. “How came I then,” he
asked, “to be invited hither, with an assurance that all differences were reconciled, and
with a promise that David Lesley was to meet and bring me here with a troop of cavalry?”
He confronted them with Montreuil. The negotiations they could no longer deny, but
affected to assign no other meaning to all that had passed, than an indication that “they
approved of his majesty’s confidence in them, and honouring their army with his residence,
while he settled a peace with his two kingdoms.” What the peace meant, Lothian took
care to explain by limiting all his discourse upon the subject to the taking of the covenant,
and subscribing the propositions magisterially to be laid before him by the parliament.
They crowned their duplicity by a letter addressed to the committee of both kingdoms,
at Westminster, in which the general and committee of estates, gave the parliament
the following account of “that strange providence” that had befallen them. “The
king,” asserts this veracious document, “ came into our army yesterday in so private
a way, that, after we had made search for him upon the surmises of some persons who
pretended to know his face, yet we could not find him out in sundry houses. And
We believe your lordships will think it was matter of much astonishment to us, seeing we
did not expect he would have come in any place under our power. We conceived it not
fit,” they dutifully and piously continued, “to enquire into the causes that persuaded him


THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 205
to come hither, but to endeavour that his being here might be improved to the best
advantage, for promoting the work of uniformity, and for settling of religion and right-
eousness, and attaining of peace according to the league and covenant.”
On the 6th of May the parliament was startled by the news of the king's arrival in
the Scotch camp. The commonwealth-men instantly perceived that this important
circumstance, though the completion of their triumph over the royalists, was likely to
retard the growing superiority of their party in the struggle with the more powerful
Presbyterians. After a protracted debate, they carried a vote in the Commons, that the
Scots should order their general to conduct the king to Warwick Castle; and that
Ashburnham and Hudson should be delivered up to the parliament as delinquents.
The Scots, drawing confidence from the serious interest at stake, contested both parts
of this vote. To the parliament’s argument, that, as mercenaries in English pay, they
could claim no share in the disposal of the king, they opposed their national right in him
as sovereign of Scotland no less than of England. They farther alleged the claim he had
established to their protection, by having come voluntarily into the Scottish camp. The
latter plea they likewise extended to the persons who had accompanied the king. Charles,
however, foreseeing that they would probably soon yield this point, commanded Ashburn-
ham to make his escape, and go over to the queen; but Hudson was given up, interrogated
at Westminster, and imprisoned. At the same time, as all motive for prolonging the
struggle was now at an end, the king attested the sincerity of his pacific intentions, by
ordering Lord Bellasis to deliver Newark to the parliament, and disband his troops. The
like orders he sent respectively to the governors of Oxford, Lichfield, Worcester, and all
other fortresses which yet held out for him in England. The Irish garrisons, in like
manner, were soon afterwards given up. Finally, Montrose, who had hitherto continued
to display the royal banner among his native mountains, submitted to the king's orders,
sheathed the last and bravest sword drawn in the royal cause, and sought shelter on a
foreign soil. The Scots were most anxious to avoid a rupture with the parliament, but
were resolved, nevertheless, to hold their prize. The day following the surrender of
Newark beheld the king riding with Lesley, in the van of the Scottish army, on its march
towards Newcastle. In this order, within little more than a week from his first appearance
in the camp before Newark, Charles was conducted, along a street lined with troops, to
the general’s quarters in that garrison; his residence—to speak more correctly, his prison
—through a dreary space of nine months.
Great was now the ire of the parliament. They directed Pointz, with a brigade of
5,000 horse, to observe the motions of those contumacious auxiliaries; at the same time,
Fairfax likewise received orders to move towards the north. No longer courted as dear
brethren in the bonds of the covenant, the Scots, long since declining in favour, became
at once the objects of measures and invectives alike severe. Their free quarters, pillaging,
and various other forms of oppression, had become intolerable. The old grievance, their
placing garrisons in Newcastle, Berwick, and Carlisle, in violation of their engagements,
was urged with fresh asperity. Their dismissal out of the kingdom was voted, together
with a grant of £100,000 for unsettled claims, provided they immediately surrendered
3 G

206 THE SCOTTISH CAMP.
those posts, and departed. But those allies of the parliament were no longer in haste. In
“a declaration of the lord-general, the officers, and soldiers of their army,” they mildly
answered, that they had come into the kingdom at the earnest desire of their brethren,
not for any mercenary ends; that they were most willing to return home in peace, nor
should the matter of money, or want of just recompense for the services performed, be an
argument of delay. This declaration is dated June 29th. On the 6th of July, the vote
of dismission was nevertheless repeated in sharper terms. The parliament declared “ that
the kingdom had no farther need of the Scotch army, and was unable to pay them longer.”
Ceasing now to profess that they were no mercenaries, and that, having discharged a
friendly office, they desired nothing so much as to retire from the kingdom, the Scots
suddenly remembered, that, “according to the large treaty,” certain arrears were due to
them “for their pains, hazards, charges, and sufferings; whereof.” they desire “a compe-
tent proportion to be presently paid, and security to be given for the remainder.” Their
first estimate raises this demand to two millions, of which, however, they acknowledged,
£700,000 had already been received, “in monies, provisions, assessments, quarters, and
otherwise.” The settlement of the enormous balance they were not indeed in a condition
to enforce at the sword’s point, against the numerous, brave, and victorious army of their
English brethren; but, in possession of the king's person, they had a pledge, that at least
some reasonable compromise would be allowed. They lowered their claim to £500,000; and
the house of Commons finally agreed to the immediate payment of £200,000, to be raised
from the sale of lands taken from the bishops and other delinquents, and that a second sum
of £200,000 should also be paid within two years, to be secured, in the mean time, not, as
the Scots desired, in the same manner as the first, but “on the public faith of the nation.”
This large grant of money it may not be just to describe as the price of the king, though
loyal men called it so, and though Charles himself declared, when he heard of it, that he
“ was bought and sold;” but the negotiations for its liquidation certainly kept exact pace
with those for the transfer of that anointed head from the one party to the other; and
granting it to have been due, as affirmed, to the Scots, that people (“who would not,”
they had declared, “suffer any private respect of this kind to retard the advancement of
the cause ’’) did nevertheless use their advantage in the possession of the royal person, as
the means of enforcing payment. The whole transaction is one which charity and
patriotism would gladly unite to blot from our history, did not severe truth keep watch
over the record |
Other, and, to the king, no less painful negotiations, were at the same time in progress.
The Presbyterian party in England, and with them the Scots, were willing that Charles
should retain the name of king, and the shadow of royal authority. The condition on
which they were disposed to grant these—the act whereby he was required to declare his
acceptance of so much, and nothing more—was his signing the Solemn League and
Covenant. From the hope that they would be able to force this step upon him, proceeded
all the satisfaction with which his proposal to come among them was at first received by
his northern subjects; and, notwithstanding the positive declarations of the king, on this
point, to Montreuil, they still cherished the belief that the loss of three kingdoms, the


THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 207
absence of all he loved and trusted, and the infinite uneasinesses and regrets attached to
his present situation, would yet bend the stubborn conscience—in their view, the kingly
wilfulness—of Charles, to yield all that Mazarine and Henrietta had promised. With
this impression they began, from the day of their unfortunate sovereign’s arrival at
Newark, to attempt his conversion to the Presbyterian creed; the great indispensable
preliminary to his taking the covenant, as this latter was the farther needful step to his
acceptance of the parliament's proposals, so long in preparation. Charles had pledged his
Word, before leaving Oxford, that if he came among them he would hear their ministers,
and make all such concessions on the score of religion as his conscience would allow.
Nor did considerations of delicacy, or respect, prevent the Scots from taking the full
advantage both of his promise and his helplessness. The same fervid bigotry raged
among men of all orders and professions in Scotland. Whether the persons with whom,
from choice or necessity, he conversed, were divines, or statesmen, or soldiers, still the
covenant and the kirk formed the theme of discourse; and of the only instance related,
in which any party interposed between the persecuted king and vulgar urgency, or even
insult, on this topic, the credit is due to the multitude. “A Scotch minister,” says
Whitelocke, “preached boldly before the king at Newcastle, and after his sermon, called
for the fifty-second Psalm, ‘Why dost thou, tyrant, boast thyself—thy wicked works to
praise P’ His majesty thereupon stood up, and called for the fifty-sixth Psalm, which
begins, ‘Have mercy, Lord, on me, I pray, for men would me devour.” The people waved
[refused] the minister's psalm, and sang that which the king called for.” At length, the
great champion of the Presbyterian form of church-government, Henderson, who had
attended the Uxbridge conference for the purpose of arguing for the divine authority of
that scheme, made his appearance at Newcastle. Charles readily consented to listen to a
man so celebrated; and a controversy, in writing, ensued, which exhausts the subject,
and remains a monument of polemic skill honourable to the combatants. Those modern
writers who take the unfriendly view of Charles I.’s character endeavour to discredit the
statement, that the king was the unaided author of the papers produced by him on this
occasion. A higher degree of confidence, however, appears justly due to the judgment
of a hostile, but not uncandid contemporary, Rushworth, who tells us that, “these papers
show his majesty’s great ability in those controversies, being [drawn up] at a time when
he could not have the assistance of his chaplains.” The general views by which Charles's
conduct was governed, with relation to the subject of episcopal authority, are laid down
in the following paragraph, with which he introduces the subject:— -
“No one thing made me more reverence the Reformation of my mother, the church
of England, than that it was done (according to the apostle's defence, Acts xxiv. 18),
‘ neither with multitude nor with tumult,” but legally and orderly, and by those whom I
conceive to have the reforming power; which, with many other inducements, made me
always confident that the work was very perfect as to essentials; of which number church-
government being undoubtedly one, I put no question but that would have been likewise
altered if there had been cause. Which opinion of mine was soon turned into more than
confidence, when I perceived that in this particular (as I must say of all the rest) we



208 THE SCOTTISH CAMP.
retained nothing, but according as it was deduced from the apostles to be the constant
universal custom of the primitive church; and that it was of such consequence, as by
the alteration of it we should deprive ourselves of a lawful priesthood; and then, how the
sacraments can be duly administered, is easy to judge. These are the principal reasons
which make me believe that bishops are necessary for a church, and, I think, sufficient
for me (if I had no more) not to give my consent for their expulsion out of England.
Dut I have another obligation, that to my particular is a no less tie of conscience, which
is, my coronation oath. Now if (as St. Paul saith, Rom. xiv. 23), “he that doubteth is
damned if he eat,’ what can I expect, if I should not only give way knowingly to my
people's sinning, but likewise be perjured myself?”
The controversy opened at the close of May, and, in the middle of July, was termi-
nated by the illness of the Scottish divine, who retired to Edinburgh, and died there in
August. “Some said,” records Whitelocke, “he died of grief because he could not
persuade the king to sign the propositions.”
This famous document was presented to the king, towards the close of July. It was
the same, with some aggravations, as the list of propositions brought forward, the year
before, at Uxbridge : by it Charles was required to take the covenant, and consent to the
abolition of episcopal government; absolutely to resign the command of the military force
of the empire into the hands of the parliament; to agree to the proscription of all the most
distinguished loyalists; and to acknowledge the legality of everything that had been done
by his enemies. The commissioners, who presented these articles, had no power to debate
allowed them : they were simply to take back the king's answer, at the end of ten days:
“A trumpeter,” he is said to have again remarked, “ had done as well.” They, however,
earnestly pressed him to sign, as the only means that now remained of settling the king-
dom. The Scottish leaders were more urgent—probably, on this point, more sincere.
“The people,” said the Earl of Loudon, “weary of war, and groaning under taxes, though
they desire peace, yet are so much against the pulling down of monarchy, under which
they have long flourished, that they which are weary of your government, dare not go
about to throw it off, until they have, once at least, offered propositions of peace to your
majesty; lest the vulgar, without whose concurrence they cannot perfect the work, should
fall upon them.” These were the honest sentiments both of the Scotch nation and the
English presbyterians. Having extinguished the fire of loyalty in their bosoms, and cast
off all decent respect for the person of the sovereign, they nevertheless perceived the
convenience of retaining him as an instrument in their power, and indulged a secret
pride in the prospect of treating their monarch as their slave. They incessantly harassed
the king with menaces of the ruin that must follow the rejection of their stern advice.
“The parliament,” continued Loudon, “is in possession of your navy, of all the towns,
castles, and forts of England. They enjoy (besides sequestration) your revenue. Soldiers
and monies are raised by their authority; and after so many victories and successes, they
have a standing army, so strong as to be able to act anything in church or state at their
pleasure.” The alternative of restoration to a constitutional, though not an absolute
throne, depended on the king’s present decision. The parliament, who had the power,



THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 209
might, by refusal, or even by delay, be provoked to adopt the determination of excluding
him from the throne. For themselves, they had given him abundant warning; to him
alone would be attributable the consequences of his choice.
Charles had strong reasons of a political nature for rejecting this advice. His distrust
of the presbyterians was hereditary and profound; and could he fail to bear in mind the
sad confirmation, afforded in his own career, of his father's maxim, “no bishop, no king”?
He still clung to the belief, that, notwithstanding the seeming unanimity of the two great
factions, they would presently be divided, even on the one question that most nearly
concerned himself. In believing that the royal authority was still sufficient, at the least,
to adjust the balance between the presbyterian and commonwealth factions, he was, doubt-
less, mistaken; for with them, bare political power, not attachment or the sense of duty,
was allowed any weight; and power he had none. He never ceased also to place some
degree of reliance on the returning loyalty of the multitudes. It was, nevertheless,
sincere regard for the religious polity of England, blended with a solemn conviction that
his duty was, to risk all things for its maintenance, which chiefly dictated his answer to the
propositions. “He was ready cheerfully to grant and give his assent to all such measures
as should be really for the good and peace of his people, without respect to his own parti-
cular interests; but never could he consent to what was absolutely destructive to that
just power, which, by the laws of God and the land, he was born to.” He added, that
many of the propositions were such, that their exact meaning and extent could not be
ascertained otherwise than in a personal conference; for which purpose he desired to
repair to his capital, as soon as he had the assurance of the two Houses and the Scotch
commissioners, that he might appear there with freedom, honour, and safety.
The death of his theological opponent afforded the king no respite from controversy
on the proposed surrender of the church. A correspondence with Jermyn, Colepeper,
and Ashburnham, now in attendance on the queen at St. Germain’s, furnished painful
occupation for several successive weeks. It was an easy task for the pen of Charles—
a pen which had foiled the learned Scotch divine—to sport at pleasure with the argu-
ments of such polemics; but the pertinacity of the courtiers, in returning incessantly
to the point, was proportioned to the sense they entertained of the difficulty and danger
of the king’s position, to their incapacity to appreciate his motives, and to the strength of
their less generous reasons for desiring peace at whatever sacrifice on his part. Again
and again, Charles condescended to repeat the grounds of his inflexibility. He was no
less firmly convinced that episcopacy is of divine institution, than the Scots that their
synodical government was so ; he could not dispense with his coronation-oath, which
obliged him to maintain the Church of England; he farther believed, from the experience
of his father's and his own reigns, that, through the church, the presbyterians really
struck at the monarchy, and that their cherished polity is essentially hostile to kingly
government. “Believe it,” he writes, “religion is the only firm foundation of all power.
That cast loose, or depraved, no government can be stable.” And, in a letter to the
prince, written about this time, he lays it down as “the chief particular duty of a king
to maintain the true religion.” The three courtiers, however, still persevered. And,
3 H



210 THE SCOTTISH CAMP.
although Charles was so little moved by their arguments, that he declared “they were
not only against his conscience, but absolutely destructive to the end” of those who
adduced them, “viz. the maintenance of monarchy;” although he “conjures them,
as they are Christians, no more thus to torture him,” assuring them, that “the more
they pressed him on this subject, the more they would contribute to his ruin; yet, urged
on every side with entreaty, argument, and menace, Charles's resolution at length
staggered. He consulted Juxton and Duppa, bishops of London and Salisbury, whether
he might lawfully “ yield a compliance with the iniquity of the times,” on the subject of
church-government. The result was a proposition, authorized to be made privately by an
agent in London, to the leaders of the presbyterian party, to allow of their church disci-
pline for five years, and to resign the command of the militia for ten years, or even for
the term of his reign, on their agreeing to the re-establishment of episcopacy, OIl 8,
moderated scale, at the close of the former period. But the parties with whom he had
to deal, were resolved to enforce their “bond.” The Scots refused to yield any tittle of
the covenant; nor would either parliament or Scots abate one iota of the propositions.
Like the rest of the king's concessions, therefore, this also was regarded merely as a fur-
ther indication of weakness, and set aside as unworthy of consideration.
Many months had now been consumed at Newcastle in endless discussions on the
covenant and propositions; at London, in debates in parliament, and disputes between
that assembly and the Scots, respecting the disposal of the refractory king, and the tacit,
if not avowed, condition of his surrender. At length, towards the middle of December,
the Scots’ commissioners intimated to their captive what course they had determined to
pursue, by laying before him a resolution of the parliament at Edinburgh, not to allow
the king to enter Scotland. Charles perceived the crisis to be near, and once more vainly
renewed his petition to be heard in the metropolis—a petition, he said, “which, if refused
to a subject by a king, he would be thought a tyrant for it.” The same day on which the
vote against admitting the king into Scotland passed in the parliament at Edinburgh, also
witnessed the departure from London of a numerous train of military carriages, laden
with coin to the value of £200,000, the first instalment of the sum to be paid to the
Scots. On Christmas-day—(a sacred festival, not now for the first time devoted by them
to public business,) the Commons passed a resolution in which the Lords also concurred,
that the king's house at Holdenby, in Northamptonshire, should be the place of his con-
finement. In the mean time, that serviceable officer, Skippon, who, with a strong force
under his command, had been ordered to convey the money to the Scots, arrived at
Northallerton with his valuable charge, transferred it to the care of their commissioners,
and “received their acquittance.” In addition to this form of acknowledgment, the com-
missioners presented a request, voted by the parliament at Edinburgh, that no violence
should be offered to the person of the royal captive, and that no obstacle should be
opposed to the legal succession in his family. The Scotch army then marched out of
Newcastle, and Skippon immediately took possession of it with his troops.
On the 23rd day of January, the lords Pembroke, Denbigh, and Montague, with Sir
William Armyn, and five other members of the Commons, attended by a strong escort of



THE SCOTTISH CAMP. 211
horse, entered Newcastle from London, to take charge of the king. Their arrival was
communicated to him by the commissioners of Scotland. “I came among you,” said
Charles, “for protection, which you had already guaranteed: what is the reason that you
now deny it me, by preventing my accompanying your army into Scotland?” “It is
because your majesty refuses to sign the covenant and the propositions. We are therefore
to deliver you to the commissioners of the parliament of England, who will conduct you
to your manor of Holdenby.” Charles received the English commissioners with great
cheerfulness and affability, distinguishing, with special kindness, the old Earl of Pem-
broke, who had formerly been high in office at court, and was believed to retain still some
affection for his master. The king was glad, he said, to see that the earl’s advanced years
had not prevented his undertaking that long and winterly journey. But the commis-
sioners were not to be moved by courtesies from what they regarded as points of duty.
Charles requested that he might now be allowed the attendance of two of his chaplains,
a comfort of which he had so long been deprived: he was answered, that they had
brought down with them two learned ministers, and that “the attendance of any other
chaplains would not be for his majesty’s benefit.” -
In the way to Holdenby, the people flocked about the king, with acclamations, tears,
and prayers; and many diseased persons solicited and received the royal touch. In these
indications of unextinguished or reviving loyalty, they received no disturbance from
the troops. The army, at this time, lay at Nottingham; and as the king's cavalcade
approached the gates, Fairfax came out to meet it, alighted, kissed the king’s hand, and,
remounting, accompanied and conversed with him through the town. “ Dethronement,”
“ commonwealth,” and other such portentous words, had already been heard, like the
muttering of distant thunder, in the rebel horizon. But they found no echo in the hearts
of the people; no recognition in the ear of Fairfax. Whatever dark purposes might
already be engendered in bosoms subsequently stained with regicidal guilt, it could not
be difficult to impose on that undiscerning frankness, which Cromwell’s hypocrisy sported
with, even while the head of the royal victim was extended on the block. As the pro-
cession drew near the place of its destination, it was met by the noblemen and gentlemen
of the county, who, with a multitude of the inferior classes, had assembled to express their
duty to their sovereign, and to welcome his entrance once more beneath a royal roof. It
was on the 16th of February, 1646-7, that King Charles alighted at the door of his mag-
nificent mansion of Holdenby.

212
CHAPTER, XXIII.
T H E KING’s F A M I LY.

IT were vain to speculate, what might have been the effect on the fortunes of the king
himself, and on the future settlement of the nation, had Charles, instead of repairing to
the Scots, chosen one of those other courses, which, at an earlier period, were open to him :
had he, for example, sought in person to rouse the sympathy of France or Holland, or
thrown himself upon the generosity of his enemies at Westminster. One other resource
there was besides, which his highminded Chancellor of the Exchequer, had he been then
present with his master, would have recommended. “I would rather,” said Hyde, “he
should have stayed in Oxford, and after defending it to the last biscuit, been taken prisoner
with his honest retinue about him, and then relied upon his own virtue in imprisonment,
than to have thrown himself into the arms of the Scots. Not that I imagined they could
have done what every body concludes they have or will do; but that I thought it an
unkingly thing to ask relief of those who had done all the mischief.” Nor was this
method of putting a close to the contest strange to the king's contemplations, or unsuited
to his temper. He shrank, however, from the view of the extensive misery it must occa-
sion, and probably dreaded the disgrace of being made a spectacle of captive royalty to his
rebel subjects.
Fortunate for Oxford, at least, was the king's choice. The walls of that city enclosed
many of those persons who were dearest to him, and who were at the same time the least
fitted to endure the miseries of a protracted siege, or to contribute towards effectual resist-
ance. The Duke of York, the ladies and families of many of the nobility and gentry,
numerous clergymen and learned residents in the university, were there; whose presence
must have aggravated the evils, while it accelerated the advance, of the inevitable result,
viz., ultimate surrender. For, though the number, experience, and bravery of the garrison,
enabled them to defy assault, they were nevertheless wholly unequal to act on the offen-
sive, against Fairfax's host; and relief in any shape from without was hopeless. The terms
of the capitulation were honourable to both parties. The Duke of York was to be conducted
to London, there to have fitting provision made for him by the parliament. To the
princes Rupert and Maurice, liberty was given to reside six months longer in England,
and then to go beyond sea. The garrison to march out with every military honour. The
inhabitants to remain, if they chose, three months longer in the city, and to go where
they pleased. Those whose estates were under sequestration to be admitted to compound
at the rate of two years’ income, and no further restraint to be placed upon them, except
in London, where all persons coming from Oxford, or from any other of the king's garri-

THE KING's FAMILY. 213
sons, were forbidden to wear or possess arms, or to be out of their lodgings after nine
o'clock at night. The university, and city, to be continued in the undisturbed enjoyment
of their respective privileges under the parliament. His majesty’s servants to have liberty
either to repair to him within one month, or to retire to his palace at Hampton Court.
Some of these conditions the parliament endeavoured to recall, after they had already
been agreed to by the army. But in the mean time the two princes, maintaining the
accustomed impatience of their character, marched out with their retinue of cavaliers and
attendants, some days before the formal surrender of the place. Having, in their pas-
sage towards Dover, diverged to Oatlands, though allowed by the articles of surrender to
approach no nearer to the metropolis than a distance of twenty miles, the houses testified
their displeasure in an expostulatory letter hastening their departure. After visiting their
brother, the Prince Elector, then residing in England in the character of a pensioner on
the parliament, they joined the queen and the Prince of Wales at St. Germain’s, where
Rupert accepted from the king of France an appointment to the command of all the
English that were, or might be, embodied in that country.
The terms granted to such of the remaining garrisons, as unhesitatingly obeyed the
king’s order to submit, were little less favourable. Only Ragland was yielded without
conditions. This gallant little fortress had been summoned on the 8th of June by Colonel
Morgan, at the head of a force from Worcester. For some time the brave old marquess
wholly disregarded the message, refusing to believe that Charles could have tacitly
included Ragland in a general warrant of surrender. “Wherefore,” was his answer, “I
make choice (if it so please God) rather to die nobly than to live with infamy.” Presently
afterwards, Fairfax himself appeared before Ragland, and repeated the summons. A
correspondence ensued, in which the marquess refers, in affecting terms, to the intimacy
which had subsisted between himself and the family of the lord-general; and, on the
19th day of August, the venerable old nobleman was persuaded to pull down the royal
standard, but not till it had previously ceased to float over any other fortress in the island.
The large possessions of the marquess had already been confiscated by the parliament.
He was consequently prevented from becoming, at the age of fourscore, a houseless
dependent on the bounty of his enemies, only by his death, which followed immediately
after his arriving in London, when the lords ordered a sum to be advanced for the expenses
of his funeral.
A person not less admirable for his firm and disinterested support of the cause of
legal government, fell into the parliament's hands at the surrender of Worcester. This
was the famous Welsh judge, David Jenkins; round whose name radiates a renown very
different from that which encircles most of the legal reputations of that age, famous for
distinguished lawyers. Judge Jenkins had already been looked up to, during an entire
generation, by his fellow jurists as an oracle of constitutional wisdom, and by the court
and people as an upright and able administrator of the laws, when the civil war broke
out. It was from no courtly temper, (for he had uniformly opposed all encroachments
on the liberties of Englishmen), from no sentimental loyalty (for he was a stern
man), but purely to vindicate the law, that he declared himself a foe to rebellion, by
3 I
214 THE KING’s FAMILY.
imprisoning on his circuit parties who appeared in arms against the king, and by
himself drawing his sword in the royal cause. Several attempts had been made to crush
this dangerous and indefatigable adversary, by means of fine and imprisonment, inflicted
under a show of law, previously to his being brought, in February, 1647, before the
House of Commons, in company with one Sir Francis Butler. When the two delinquents
appeared at the bar, Butler knelt as he was directed, but Judge Jenkins refused. In the
reprimand which followed, Lenthall, the speaker, addressing both as notorious delinquents,
particularly referred to the elder prisoner's omission of the usual mark of respect to the
house, “which,” he said, “ was the greater fault in him, seeing he pretended to be know-
ing in the laws of the land.” During these animadversions, the judge, in a low voice,
desired his companion not to say much. “Let all their malice,” he said, “light upon me:
I am an old man, and you comparatively young.” The speaker having concluded, Judge
Jenkins asked if he might now have liberty to speak? “Yes,” answered Lenthall, “ so
you be not very long.” “No,” continued the judge, “I will not trouble either myself or
you with many words. In your speech, Mr. Speaker, you said the house was offended at
my behaviour in not making any obeisance to you at my coming here ; and that this was
the more wondered at, because I pretended to be knowing in the laws of the land. I
answer, that, I thank God, I not only pretend to be, but am, knowing in the laws of the
land (having made it my study for these five-and-forty years; ) and that I am so is the
cause of my behaviour. For as long as you had the king's arms engraven on your mace,
and that your great seal was not counterfeit, had I come here I would have bowed in
obedience to his writ and authority, by whom you were first called. But, Mr. Speaker,
since you and this house have renounced your duty and allegiance to your sovereign liege
lord, and are become a den of thieves, should I bow myself in this house of Rimmon, the
Lord would not pardon me in this thing.”
This dauntless outburst of honest indignation instantly threw the whole assembly into
an uproar. It was half an hour before any order could be restored; during all which
time ten or even twenty members would be haranguing confusedly together, with furious
looks and gestures. At length the tumult a little abated. The house voted the prisoners
guilty of high treason, without any form of trial; and calling for the keeper of Newgate,
inquired what were the usual days of execution for treason. “Wednesdays and Fridays,”
was the answer of that functionary. And it was only in consequence of a remark of
Marten, on the question whether the execution should take place on the following Wed-
nesday or Friday, that this monstrous purpose was suspended. That republican suggest-
ing, in terms ludicrously contemptuous, that the old man courted death as a martyr for
the laws, in the hope that his execution would produce a great effect on the people, the
house, tranquillized by this wholesome fear, and by the humour of its buffoon, agreed to
remand the prisoners. On their return to prison, Butler asked his intrepid companion if
he had not been too hardy in his language to the house? “ Not at all,” replied the judge.
“Rebellion has been so successful in this kingdom, and has gotten such a head, that weak
loyal persons will be allured to comply with it, if some vigorous and brave resistance be
not made against these men, even to their faces. This was the cause why I said such


THE KING's FAMILY. 215
home-things to them. And whenever the day of my execution come, I shall be like
Samson, and destroy more Philistines that I have ever hitherto done in all my life.
And in this thought of mine I am so wrapped up, that I hope they will not long defer
my execution.”
Perceiving Butler's wonder to be excited by this extraordinary declaration, the judge
proceeded: “I will tell you all that I intended to do and say at that time. First, I will
eat much liquorice and gingerbread to strengthen my lungs, that I may extend my voice
far and near; for no doubt great multitudes will come to witness the old Welsh judge's
death. Then will I come with venerable Bracton’s book hung on my left shoulder, and
the Statutes at Large on my right shoulder, and the Bible with a ribbon put round my
neck, hanging on my breast. I will then tell the people that I am brought there to die
for being a traitor, and in the words of a dying man I will tell them that I wish all the
traitors in the kingdom might come to my fate. But indeed I am no traitor; and the
better to inform you that I am none, the house of Commons never thought me a traitor;
for had they believed me such, they would have had me tried in a legal manner, according
to the customs of this kingdom for a thousand years. For this cause they debarred me
of my birthright—a trial by my peers, that is, by a jury; because they well knew no
honest jury would ever have found me guilty of treason for only being loyal and true to
our lawful and rightful sovereign. But since they will have me a traitor, right or wrong,
I thought it was but just to bring my counsellors with me, who have all along advised me
in what I have done. Then shall I open Bracton, to show them that the supreme power
is in the king—the statute-book, to read the oath of allegiance—the Bible, to show them
their duties to the lawful authority.” (The judge, as he proceeded, read at full length
the passages he referred to, and then continued his imaginary address.) “This book,
these statutes, this holy and sacred volume, have all been my evil counsellors, and therefore
shall be hanged with me! So when they shall see me die affirming such things, thousands
will be incited to inquire farther into this matter; and having found all I told them to be
true, they will learn to loathe and detest the present tyranny.”
But, for the execution of this scheme—the most romantic, surely, that was ever
conceived in a lawyer's brain—no opportunity was given. The house, in fact, comprised
not a few men who understood the weight which the decisions of such a venerable
expounder of the law would attach to their proceedings. A committee of members visited
Judge Jenkins in Newgate, and offered, that if he would own the power of the parliament
to be lawful, they would not only take off the sequestration from his estate, which was
about £500 per annum, but would besides settle on him a life-annuity of £1,000. “ Far
be it from me,” he answered, “to own rebellion, however successful, to be lawful; leave
me.” The leader of the party persisted: he should enjoy the same, if he would only suffer
them to print that he acknowledged their power to be lawful. “Not for all the money
you have robbed the kingdom of” was the judge's indignant reply, “would I commive at
your so doing. And should you impudently put any such matter in print, I would sell
my doublet and coat, to buy pens, ink, and paper, to set forth the house of Commons in
their proper colours.” One argument yet remained to the tempters. “You have a wife

216 THE KING's FAMILY.
and nine children, who will all starve, if you refuse this offer.” “What I did they desire
you to press me in this matter?” “I will not say they did; but I think they press you
to it without speaking at all.” The old man’s anger was now raised to the highest pitch;
and with an answer too vehement for these pages, but glowing with the incorruptible
integrity of his soul, he rid himself of his tormentors. In various gaols, the Welsh judge
continued, during eleven years, to suffer captivity, with the same constancy with which
he expounded the violated laws of his country.
The surrender of so many garrisons brought large sums into Goldsmith’s Hall, for
compositions; a source of revenue which the needs of the victorious party induced them
to encourage, though at the risk of surrounding themselves with royalists. The entire
property of such among the king's friends as were expressly excepted from pardon, with
that of other delinquents deemed incorrigible, was mercilessly confiscated. With reference
to the practice of compounding for delinquency, so generally adopted, we find on record
the following manly sentiments of Hyde: the passage occurs in a letter to Secretary
Nicholas. “I am very glad your patrons at London are constant in their unmercifulness
to the excepted, among whom I will not leave my place to be listed amongst the com-
pounders. For my part, let him want mercy that will ask or take it from them. I
remember my old acquaintance Cato, when he was told that Caesar had a desire to have
friendship with him, and was willing to give him a pardon, grew into a passion, and said, he
was a tyrant to offer him a pardon, for by it he assumed to himself a power over the lives
of the citizens of Rome. I assure you, Mr. Secretary, I will not receive a pardon from
the king and parliament when I am not guilty; and when I am, I will receive it only
from him who can grant it.”
Besides the two great military commanders, whose rewards have been noticed, a long
list of claims by the Presbyterian leaders, upon the financial resources of the parliament,
was at this time allowed. Waller was complimented with the title of a baron, with
£2,500 per annum. To Haslerig and Stapleton was assigned, with the like rank, an
income of £2,000 per annum each. Sir William Brereton had an annuity of £1,500 voted
to him, and Skippon one of £1,000; with many more.
Charles himself also was now numbered with the parliament’s pensioners. The vote
that consigned the sovereign to Holdenby, was accompanied with a grant of £50 per diem
for the maintenance of his court. The Duke of York, on the invitation of the houses, was
brought to London, and consigned to the care of Northumberland (who had already two
of the king's children in his charge), with an annuity, for his support, of £7,000. But
the same liberality does not appear to have been extended to all the members of this
unhappy family, now in their power. About the same day on which the duke was
conducted to St. James's, the Lady Dalkeith, with whom the queen, when obliged to fly
from Exeter, had left her infant daughter, secretly conveyed the princess from Oatlands
(to which residence she had been taken on the surrender of that city, in April), leaving
behind a statement of the causes of her flight: “After patiently expecting the pleasure of
the parliament,” she said, “she had found it impossible to obtain any justice to the
princess, or favour to her highness, or her attendants.” This lady was a person of spirit

THE KING's FAMILY. 217
and magnanimity, and succeeded in safely transporting the little object of her loyal and
affectionate anxiety to St. Germain’s.
There, the pensioner of a government which had assisted in precipitating her husband's
ruin,_surrounded by relations who had small ability, and less will, to afford her effectual
assistance,—Henrietta kept up the flutter and intrigue of a court, without its dignity or
magnificence. The disloyal assiduities of some of the nobles in her train, or her own
anger and disappointment at the tremendous reverse in her fortunes, appear to have
chilled the queen's affection towards her lord, and obliterated from her mind all regard
for the country whose throne she had shared. Too indulgent to the lighter partners of
her exile, she at the same time severely judged those measures which unexampled mis-
fortune, or incessant importunity, had wrung from her afflicted husband. Davenant, to
whose ill-judged embassy the king wanted patience to listen, hinted that the queen had
thoughts of retiring into a monastery. The nerve of conjugal tenderness instantly quivered.
To the envoy he made, on this point, no reply; but in his next letter to his correspondents
at St Germain’s, he thus distressingly alludes to the suggestion: “This, if it fall out,
(which God forbid!) is so destructive to all my affairs—I say no more of it—my heart is
too big; the rest being fitter for your thoughts than my expression. In another way I
have mentioned this to the queen (my grief being the only thing I desire to conceal from
her, with which I am as full now as I can be without bursting), commanding you to
remember her to answer me, and help to conceal my sorrow from her as much as may be.”
The little court of Henrietta received, at this time, an important addition by the arrival
of the Prince of Wales. In the orders issued by Charles, providing for the prince’s
safety, he had directed, that in case expatriation were found inevitable, the heir to the
British throne should be placed under the care of his royal mother, “in all things except
religion.” But the council whom he had placed about the prince, in the exercise of that
discretion with which they were invested, wished rather to retain him in Jersey. Their
authority, however, was overruled by the positive command of the queen; and, against
the strenuous protest of Capel and Hyde, the royal youth was transferred, under the care
of Digby, Jermyn, and Wentworth, to a court from which his cause received no political
benefits, to countervail the moral mischief of implanting in an apt disposition those seeds
of libertinism and irreligion, by the growth of which England was afterwards corrupted
and degraded.
3 K

218
CHAPTER, XXIV.
HOLDEN BY.

THE authors of this great revolution were far from enjoying quiet satisfaction in their
successes. The continuance of an unmitigated burden of taxation upon the people, while
the individuals in power had grown rich at the public cost ; the intolerant, yet inadequate
character of the new church-establishment; the delay of an agreement with the king;
the maintenance of a large military force in the heart of the kingdom, preying upon its
resources, and diffusing around its own lawless and fanatical spirit, while not an enemy
was to be seen or feared: these, and similar grievances, were beginning to cloud the
popularity of the parliament. The citizens of London, once wholly subservient to their
wishes, now ruffled the sittings of the houses with petition upon petition, for the disband-
ing of the army, and the settlement of the kingdom. Rejected, as interfering with the
privileges of the supreme authority in the nation, these remonstrances were repeated in
stronger terms, and presented at the doors with insolence and menace. Ordered to be
publicly burnt in Westminster and at the Exchange, they were succeeded by others more
formidable, from the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk, and Essex, and by disturbance and
violence in the metropolis. In the midst of these marks of disaffection without, the
discords in the parliament itself, between the Independent and Presbyterian factions,
though prudently permitted, on both sides, to slumber till the retirement of the Scottish
army, were in reality becoming more than ever profound and unappeasable. The chase
was over; the rich quarry lay bleeding at the feet of the hunters: but no principle,
besides the robber-law of the strongest, presided over the distribution of the spoil. To
which side, on that principle, appertained the lion’s share, was the grand question now
waiting to be decided.
At present, the superiority appeared wholly on the side of the Presbyterians. In
numerical strength, that party had at no time ceased to have greatly the advantage,
notwithstanding the open evasion, in recent elections, of the self-denying ordinance. Late
events had likewise conspired to restore their pristine courage and enthusiasm. The
sovereign, by putting himself in the power of the Scots, had, in effect, thrown the weight
of his personal importance into the Presbyterian scale. His misfortunes, and the magma-
mimity with which he bore them, were, however, beginning to soften many bosoms that
had been steeled against him in the days of his prosperity. The war was at an end; but
its professed objects appeared to be as remote as ever. To what purpose had the people
suffered and bled? If for nothing, or worse than nothing, then better were it the nation
retraced its steps; better to endure the blows of the less ignoble arm, and to be at least
able to claim the grace of submission to authority based on law, and vene able from

HOLDENB.Y. 219
prescription, than to be dragged at the fierce heels of power sprung from rebellion. Such
thoughts tended to strengthen that party which was known to be the more placable
towards the king; and, though obstimately bent on maintaining the supremacy of their
discipline in the church, willing, in other respects, to retain the forms, with a portion of
the efficiency, of the ancient national institutions. In deepening and diffusing these
impressions, the disbanded royalists, now everywhere mingled with the people, naturally
aided; but in their origin, they were the genuine growth of the popular mind. The
indications of their existence were too plain to be either overlooked or mistaken by the
Independents. Contrary to the natural temper of that party, they seem, for a space, to
have been daunted. Unusual wariness and reserve clouded the countenance and darkened
the language of Vane: Cromwell, perhaps doubtful for a moment of his course, appeared
more than ever inscrutable. The death of Essex, which happened in this conjuncture,
was fortunate for the Independent faction, but the joy occasioned by this event was
carefully dissembled. All the members of both houses, with the whole of the officers,
civil and military, then in London, attended the magnificent funeral with which the
parliament honoured the remains of their late general. On some minor occasions, an
uncontrollable burst of the republican spirit escaped; as when the arguments of the Scots,
in support of their right to dispose of the king's person, were seized in the printer’s
hands, and ordered to be publicly burnt; but, with a few such exceptions, it was by
Presbyterian influence that the houses, and, consequently, the nation, were governed,
during Charles's detention at Newcastle and at Holdenby.
The army was therefore to be employed for securing a further succession of victories.
Its exploits in war were now to be paralleled by its achievements in policy; the foe, the
weapons, and the warfare, all changed, only the leaders the same. But the discipline
required to this end was not now to be begun. The army may be said to have been, at
this time, completely the creature and the tool of that great military and political genius,
Cromwell. Ever since the institution of the New Model, its whole structure had pre-
sented merely an amplification of the regiment originally raised, disciplined, and com-
manded by the strenuous member for Cambridge. Those veterans from the various corps
then disbanded, whose habits of discipline, daring temper, and free religious opinions,
assimilated them to the lieutenant-general’s own character, and fitted them for his pur-
poses, were selected to fill the ranks of the new army. With these were incorporated,
from time to time, such prisoners, taken from the king's armies and garrisons, and recom-
mended by similar qualifications, as either were indifferent whether they acknowledged
for master the king or the parliament, or judged the service of the latter a more free and
promising field for the display of their experience and valour. Religious, the parent of
political, republicanism, had from the first been the Cromwellian creed. The army under
Essex had been attended by a regular and competent band of chaplains, puritan or pres-
byterian; but of these divines, few joined that under Fairfax, and those who did, were soon
driven away by the insolence of the soldiery, and the manifest inutility of their own labours.
In the new reign of religious freedom, there was no lack of those gifts which were
regarded as superseding, not ordination merely, but education. All could dispute; and

220 HOLDENEY.
their disputing, writes Baxter, was with as much fierceness as if they had been ready to
second every argument with the sword; most could pray in public, some with surprising
fluency and unction; many could preach, and exercised their talents in this way in a
style highly popular and attractive. The officers, of whom the greater part had been
raised from the ranks, were selected by Cromwell for promotion, from regard to these, no
less than to their military qualifications; and the leader himself, as became his station,
excelled in all such accomplishments of the theological profession. It is not surprising,
that an army so constituted should affect to repudiate the term “common soldiers.”
From the time, when, in consequence of the extinction of the king's forces, such habits
had, through leisure and encouragement, become universal, they no longer regarded them-
selves individually as subject to the ordinary rules of military subjection, nor collectively
as the servants of the parliament. As “privates” (such was the term then introduced
into our language) they were entitled to the consideration of gentlemen, as well as to the
rights of citizens; as an army, they began to consider themselves in the light of an inde-
pendent estate in the realm. This army, so fiercely emergetic in itself, so powerful as an
instrument, Cromwell, its creator, governed with absolute mastery; all below him were
his tools: the one man nominally above him, was, by his own confession, not less so than
others. Policy at present demanded that the hand which moved the wires should be
concealed, and Cromwell, in hourly communication with the camp, devoted his time to
assiduous attendance in his place at Westminster; covering all his schemes with the
general’s authority, and putting forward, in public acts and documents emanating from
himself and his subordinates, the popular name of Fairfax.
It had become evident to the presbyterian leaders, that their own existence as a party,
no less than the public safety and convenience, demanded the disbanding of the now
useless army. They resolved to reduce it to a peace-establishment of five thousand horse,
with a sufficient force of infantry to occupy a few reserved garrisons, after the greater
part of those in existence should be dismantled; and, at the same time, with a view to
destroy the dangerous authority of Cromwell and Ireton, it was voted that, with the
exception of Fairfax, no officer should be retained of higher rank than that of colonel,
and that no member of the Commons should hold a commission. Hardly was it to be
thought, however, that a force so framed, conscious of its own power and the weakness of
its nominal masters, would at once bow submissively to their vote for its annihilation;
that the ambitious soldier, whom the service had raised to distinction, would willingly
return to his obscure and laborious employment in civil life; or that, holding himself
entitled to public gratitude and reward, he would endure to be dismissed in silence, and
even in arrear of his ordinary wages. As an inducement to compliance, the discharged
officers and men were invited to join the force destined to carry on the war in Ireland;
but very few offered for that service, although the popular Skippon was prevailed upon to
accept the command. The Independents now saw that the season had arrived for acting
with energy and decision. By their instigation, the army began to draw towards London,
and fixed its quarters in the county of Essex. A remonstrance, in the form of a petition
to the general, to be presented by him to the House of Commons, was adopted by unani-

HOLDENB.Y. 221
mous consent; in which it was required that the parliament should pass an ordinance
providing legal indemnity to the soldiers for their conduct during the war, the payment
of their arrears, exemption from impressment for foreign service, compensation for the
maimed, pensions for the widows and families of those who had perished, and weekly pay
as long as they should remain embodied. The parliament immediately instructed the general
to put a stop to the petition, and to suppress those conferences in the army from which it
had emanated; and issued a declaration, admonishing the subscribers to desist, on pain of
receiving punishment as enemies to the state, and disturbers of the public peace. This
magisterial tone was exactly what the promoters of the movement most desired to call
forth. Loud murmurs followed from the army. The general, willing to obey his masters,
but sympathizing with his companions in arms, and deceived by their leaders, acted with
easy vacillation. A commission from the two houses, in support of his authority,
proceeded to the head-quarters of the army at Walden; but so far from effecting their
object, they were witnesses to the preparation of a second remonstrance, in defence of the
former, and signed by the officers, who now openly took part with the men in these sedi-
tious demonstrations. In fact, the whole army had by this time been completely organized
for political purposes; and had with this view constituted within itself two deliberative
bodies, to consider and conduct its affairs; a council of officers, in imitation of the House
of Peers, and a popular assembly, consisting of deputies from each regiment, chosen
chiefly from the non-commissioned officers. The members of this mimic House of Com-
mons it was, to whom was given the name of adjutators (afterwards, by an expressive
corruption, changed to agitators), a word, in our times, well known. In this second
remonstrance, the officers denied the justice of the term “seditious ” applied to the
former; maintained, that by bearing arms as soldiers for the common liberties, they had
not, as citizens, forfeited their own; and vindicated, in lofty terms, the right of petition-
ing, as emphatically claimed for the subject in the declarations of the houses themselves.
With the remonstrance was likewise presented a letter addressed to Fairfax by the
agitators, similar in purport, but couched in bolder language, declaring their intention to
enforce that redress for which the officers petitioned. It was brought by three subaltern
officers or troopers, Sexby, Allen, aud Sheppard; who, through the intervention of
Skippon, made their way to the bar of the Commons, and performed their errand “with
wonderful confidence.” -
The parliament, by what Whitelocke acknowledges to have been a course of retributive
justice, began now to experience the evils of that tumultuous and irregular mode of
petitioning, which they themselves formerly had encouraged against the king. Though
not free from alarm, they had not yet their eyes open to the extent of their danger, or
to discern the hand which was to hurl them from that sphere, where, in the language
of the agitators, they had “sought to become masters, and to degenerate into tyrants.”
Resolving not to depart from their purpose to disband the army, they now endeavoured
to carry it by concession. First, two months’ pay was to be advanced to the disbanded
soldiers; then, security was added for the remainder, with a promise of an ordinance of
indemnity against pressing, and to provide for the maimed and widows. Deceived by
3 L

222 HOLDENB.Y.
the marvellous dissimulation of Cromwell, who asserted in his place, that, notwithstanding
appearances, the army was ready to conform to everything parliament should ordain, and
that he would undertake for its entire submission and obedience; the houses directed
the wily lieutenant-general, and the other general officers in London, to undertake the
business of mediation. Thus was fuel doubly added to the flame. The demands of men,
united in powerful combinations, always are found to rise in the proportion of those
concessions, which, by inspiring terror, they are enabled to extort. Moreover, Cromwell,
Ireton, and Fleetwood, the officers whom the house had the infatuation to send down,
were supplied by this circumstance with an opportunity, clear from all suspicion, of
fostering the mutiny which their machinations had begun. In compliance, however,
with the order of the houses, they announced to the assembled military legislature the
votes passed in favour of the army, and acquainted them that they were come to settle
“the distempers in the army.” “We know of no distempers,” exclaimed the representa-
tive tribunes; “but we do know of many grievances, and of these we demand immediate
redress.” In the end, Fairfax, who, on pretence of ill health, had likewise absented
himself, was desired to repair to his post. He carried with him the promised ordinance
of indemnity, and an ordinance for the payment of arrears for eight weeks; accompanied,
however, with a confirmation of the previous orders of the parliament to proceed, without
delay, in the business of disbanding. Instead of yielding obedience to his instructions,
he, on arriving at Bury St. Edmund's, to which place his head-quarters had been
removed, communicated them to the council of officers; who resolved, that they were
wholly insufficient to satisfy the soldiers, and immediately began to draw the divisions
together, to consult what was next to be done for the common interest and safety.
Meantime, the king was surrounded with every mark of deference and respect con-
sistent with a state of strict captivity. All approach of strangers to the royal presence
was forbidden, except to those who bore the parliament’s order. No attendants were
allowed, but such as the commissioners appointed or approved; no correspondence was
permitted, unless through their hands. A portion of his time the king spent in study
and devotion—the solitary devotion of his chamber; for the houses, in answer to an
earnest appeal to them to permit Sheldon and another royal chaplain to come to him,
confirmed the refusal of the commissioners, and Charles refused, in turn, the services
of Marshall and Caryl, the two presbyterian divines. He even precluded grace from
being said in his presence, after the puritan fashion, by himself dexterously anticipating
the commissioner’s chaplains when rising for that purpose. But this discountenance he
softened, by treating them with marked general-courtesy. He had, indeed, acquired
an affability of deportment which, in his happier years, was wanting; and which, com-
bined with his cheerful patience in misfortune, effected a thorough revolution in the
breasts of many of his enemies. In his walks in the gardens of the fine old mansion at
Holdenby, he had always one of the commissioners by his side; and when the choice
fell on Lord Pembroke, Charles patiently accommodated his naturally quick movements
to the feeble steps of his companion. His attentions to the old earl, when the latter was
confined by illness, were almost filial. General Brown, another of the commissioners,
HOLDENBY, 223
allowed his republican antipathies to be wholly subdued by the king’s civilities; a dere-
liction of principle for which “the woodmonger,” as Brown was called, incurs the bitter
reproach of Ludlow.
Charles's habitual temperance and self-government being now seconded by regularity
in exercise and recreations, he enjoyed in his seclusion uninterrupted good health. He
rode frequently, and played at his favourite game of bowls, commonly on the neighbour-
ing green at Althorp. An office of some difficulty to the guards in attendance on the
king, was, to keep off the people, who thronged about him for the purpose of receiving
the royal touch. The House of Commons, to put an end to this inconvenience, “ordered
a declaration to be drawn up, to inform the people of the superstition of being touched
by the king for the evil.” The king's gaolers were not always successful in intercepting
his correspondence. One day, in passing a narrow bridge on the way to Althorp, a packet
of letters from France was put into Charles's hand by a person in the dress of a country-
man. The man was seized; and acknowledging himself to be Colonel Bosville, formerly
an officer in the royal service, he was sent up to be examined before the Commons, and
was by them committed to Newgate. On another occasion, a lady was apprehended in
a similar attempt. By such incidents only—trivial in the view of the historian, but
important in the estimation of a captive, though a king—was Charles's residence at
Holdenby externally varied. What a contrast to these trifles, must, in spite of his
“unparalleled patience,” have been presented, could the observer have looked upon the
mind within' What stirring remembrances of the past had stood then revealed; what
anxious thoughts, alternating between hope and fear, regarding the future | Upon the
king's writing-table still lay the Newcastle propositions. On the requisitions of that
appalling document, not a word had since reached him from the parliament. At length,
as he had promised, he wrote a more detailed answer; and his letter, on this occasion,
as being exclusively his own composition, transcribed with his own hand, enforces respect
for its ability, and excites emotion by its pathos. It contains concessions which must
have cost him, in his solitude, many sighs. He would confirm (he said) the presbyterian
church-government for three years; for ten years would surrender the power of the
sword; would agree to legalize the parliament’s great seal, and all the acts to which it
had been applied; and would give satisfaction with respect to Ireland.
In this manner more than three months had passed, when, one day, Charles, attended
by the commissioners, and by Colonel Graves, the officer in command of the guard,
being on the bowling-green at Althorp, a strange soldier was observed to mingle with
the spectators. Graves, struck by the man’s scrutinizing manner, as well as by his
uniform, questioned him. The soldier answered in a tone of confidence and freedom.
He inveighed, in the religious phraseology of Fairfax's camp, against the parliament, and
confirmed a report already current at Holdenby, that a body of cavalry was in the neigh-
bourhood. The colonel was startled. He communicated his apprehensions to the king,
and Charles quitted the ground in the midst of vague but general alarm. In his way
back to Holdenby, he called to mind, that, some weeks before, in April, an officer had
found means secretly to deliver a proposal to him, in the name of the army, that he


224 HOLDENIBY.
would suffer himself to be conducted to the general’s quarters, when they would restore
him to his honour, crown, and dignity. He answered, that he should always retain
a lively sense of the army's proposal, but that he would not take a step, the effect of
which must be again to light up the flames of civil War.
That night the guard was doubled at Holdenby House. An hour before midnight,
was heard the clash and clatter of armed horsemen. A party of troopers drew up before
the gates. Graves and Brown, going out to them, inquired who commanded. “We all
command,” was the reply. At the same moment a soldier advanced: it was the same
individual who had caused the alarm at Althorp. “Your name, and business here?”
demanded the officers. “Joyce, a cornet in Whalley’s regiment, and my business is to
speak with the king.” “From whom?” “From myself.” The officers laughed. “It
is no laughing matter,” continued Joyce; “I demand to speak with the king.” “Stand
to your arms within there!” cried Graves. But the guard, perceiving that the party outside
were their comrades and friends, unbarred the gates and doors, and they all shook hands
together. While this was doing, the colonel silently disappeared. Some others of the
commissioners, who now advanced, held the cornet in discourse until they were enabled
to allege that it was too late an hour—the king had retired to rest. But Joyce was not
to be denied: he would deliver his errand with all possible gentleness and respect, but
speak with the king he must, and presently. He then placed sentinels, and, proceeding
upstairs, knocked loudly at the back entrance to the king's chamber. The grooms of the
bedchamber, who answered this strange summons, started at seeing before them the
burly figure of the trooper, a perfect model of his class, well armed, and presenting
a cocked pistol, with a bold but not insolent air of authority, sufficiently characteristic of
his present business, but by no means suggesting his original occupation of a tailor.
They asked if the commissioners approved of his intrusion. Joyce bluntly answered,
“No I I have set a guard at their chamber-doors, and have my orders from those that
fear them not.” This altercation woke the king, who rang his silver bell, and, after some
consideration, commanded his singular visitor to be admitted. The cornet, on entering,
apologized with more courtesy than his exterior promised, for having disturbed the king
out of his sleep. “No matter,” replied Charles, “if you mean me no hurt: you may
take away my life if you will, having the sword in your hands.” Joyce solemnly
protested that he was come, in the name of the army, to protect his majesty's person.
“Mr. Joyce,” continued the king, “will you, if I consent, engage for two things—that
I shall not be forced against my conscience, and that I shall be treated as my condition
requires, and be free to see my friends?” To these demands the cornet replied with an
explicit frankness so satisfactory to the king, that, by this time, Charles had dismissed
all apprehension, and appeared pleased with this extraordinary adventure. “I will
willingly go along with you,” he concluded, “if your fellow-soldiers will confirm what
you have promised;” and the arch-agitator took his departure, with the king’s assurance
that he would be ready at six o'clock the next morning to hear their determination.
When morning came, the king, surrounded by the astonished commissioners, appeared
at the door of the mansion, where Joyce, with his detachment of fifty mounted troopers,
§
- \\
º
- -
º
$
º:
º
ºft
#
||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
º # ,
|
º

HOLDENB.Y. 225
stood drawn up in the court, ready to receive him. The cornet advanced with
the mien of a great general. Charles demanded, what authority he had to secure
his person 2 “The soldiery of the army,” replied Joyce. “That,” objected Charles,
“is no lawful authority: have you nothing in writing from Sir Thomas Fairfax *
Deal with me ingenuously, Mr. Joyce. What commission have you?” “Here is my
commission,” answered Joyce; “here, behind me,” pointing to his fifty troopers. The
king glanced steadily along the line, and, with a smile, said, “I never before read such a
commission. But it is written in characters fair and legible enough—a company of as
handsome proper gentlemen as I have seen a long while. But what if, nevertheless, I
refuse to go with you? I am your king; I hope you will not force me. Give me,
however, satisfaction on these reasonable points—that I may be used with due respect,
and that I may not be forced in anything against my conscience and honour; though I
hope that my resolution is so fixed that no force can cause me to do a base thing. You are
masters of my body, my soul is above your reach.” The troopers signified their assent
with acclamations, and Joyce added, that it was not their principle to force any man’s
conscience, least of all their king's: it was their enemies who used that practice.
The commissioners now stepping forward, one of them, Lord Montague, addressed the
soldiers, holding up before them a paper. “Here,” said he, “are our instructions from
the parliament, to keep the king at Holdenby. We protest against his Majesty’s removal,
and desire to know whether you agree to what Mr. Joyce has said and done?” With
one voice they cried, “ All, all!” Major Brown observed, that it was not the first time
that he had been at the head of a party, and that he durst affirm, though they cried
“All, all !” that scarce two in the company knew what had passed. “Let all,” he
continued, raising his voice, “who are willing the king should stay with the commissioners
of parliament, now speak.” The men unanimously exclaimed, “None! None!” “Then,”
said the major, “I have done.” The soldiers answered, “We understand well enough
what we do.” Joyce now inquired to what place the king desired to go? “To New-
market.” What distance would he choose to ride that day? “Oh,” replied Charles,
smiling, “I can ride as far as you, or any man here.” And the party, including the
commissioners, set forward, under the direction of the adventurous cornet.
The news of this astonishing exploit, with the menacing attitude and unanimous spirit
of the army, struck terror into the Presbyterians. They perceived the unsubstantial
nature of their parliamentary majority, and the imminent peril which threatened them.
Convinced that they were no match for those intrepid disciples of the school of Machiavel,
whose work they had been doing, they ordered, in abject alarm, the immediate payment
of all arrears due to the army, and expunged the obnoxious vote against its petition from
their journals.
3 M

- 226
CHAPTER XXV.
T H E T. R. I U M P H OF T H E A. R. M. Y.
THE army's head-quarters had been removed to Newmarket. Fairfax was with some of
his officers, in the neighbourhood of that place, when a private soldier, riding suddenly up,
acquainted him with the seizure of the king; at which the general testified such unaffected
surprise, as, when confirmed by his subsequent assertions, must remove all suspicion of
his privity to the design of Joyce. Returning instantly into the town, he met Cromwell.
The lieutenant-general had just alighted from his horse, having ridden all night, after
attending a late sitting of the Commons, in which, by force of tears and protestations, he
had so thoroughly convinced the house of the sincerity, and the success, of his efforts to
reduce the mutinous troops to obedience, that some of the members exclaimed, “He
deserved a statue of gold, for his great services.” Fairfax immediately despatched
Whalley, with his regiment, to take charge of the king, to prevent his advance to New-
market, and, if possible, to induce him to return to Holdenby. The commissioners,
whom Whalley besought to second this request, declined to interfere, on the plea that
the king had been forcibly taken out of their hands; and Charles himself, when appealed
to, absolutely refused. It was at Childerley, in Cambridgeshire, near the house of Sir
John Cutts, that the parties had encountered; and in that hospitable mansion it was
finally agreed that the sovereign should take up his temporary abode.
On the following day, Fairfax, attended by Cromwell, Ireton, and the other general-
officers, waited on the king. They were received by him in the garden; where this band
of victor-courtiers (all kneeling down, except Cromwell and the general) kissed the hand
from which they had successively wrung the sceptre and the sword. Charles inquired,
whether it was by the general’s orders that he had been brought from Holdenby ?
Fairfax solemnly denied his concurrence in the design. Cromwell also vehemently pro-
tested, that the scheme had been executed without his knowledge: yet we are assured,
that at the house of that arch-deceiver the plot had been contrived, and that the individuals
chosen for its execution were exclusively at his command. “ Unless you hang up Joyce,”
said the king, “I cannot believe you.” The cornet was sent for, to answer for himself.
He repeated, in substance, what he had told the king at Holdenby, respecting his
authority, and offered to appeal to the army in a general rendezvous. “If three, or even
four parts of the army,” said the spirited agitator, “do not approve of what I have done,
I am content to be hanged at the head of my regiment.” Charles reiterated his convic-
tion, that Joyce would not have ventured on so audacious a measure, “without the
countenance of great persons; ” and Fairfax, who expressed his determination to bring



THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY. 227
the offender before a court-martial, found himself baffled by an influence stronger than
the general’s orders. º
The king had flattered himself, that the stroke of policy by which he had been trans-
ferred from the custody of the parliament to that of the now rival power, had received
the general’s sanction; for he reposed on the personal honour of Fairfax. He had now
the means of being undeceived; but the buoyant faith of Charles clung to its object, and
he appears still to have regarded the general as, at the least, looking on with tacit con-
mivance; while the dexterous manoeuvre itself he considered as only the first step of the
army towards realizing its friendly intentions. When Fairfax came to take his leave, he
intimated privately to his sovereign his sincere desire to serve him. The king replied,
“Sir, I have as good interest in the army as yourself.” The general was astonished, and
distressed. “By this,” he says, “I plainly saw what broken reed he leaned on.”
Towards Joyce the king testified no displeasure; on the contrary, he seems to have taken
rather a liking to the cornet’s conversation.
But the king's spirits must naturally have been raised, and his expectations excited,
by the mere change in his immediate circumstances. He had suddenly emerged from
the gloom of a total, cheerless seclusion from his people, as well as from his personal
friends. At Newmarket, whither his desire to proceed was gratified, he found himself
surrounded, not merely with formal respect, but with looks of intense though mingled
interest, with shouts of gratulation, and with the long-unheard language of attachment.
His friends and domestics, “the old familiar faces,” were now freely admitted to his
presence. In spite of remonstrance from the parliament (who, even in the peril and
degradation to which they were reduced, would not bate one jot of their intolerance), the
voice of piety, heard in the solemn tones of his revered parent the Church of England,
from the lips of Sheldon and Hammond, once more hallowed his dwelling. Cambridge
sent forth her masters, her fellows, and rejoicing students, with shouts of “Vivat Real,”
to congratulate him. The neighbouring counties poured their gentry and people through
the thronged presence-chamber, when the king dined or supped. In the enjoyment of
his favourite exercises, tennis or riding, he forgot that he was a captive. His public
progress with the army was preceded by an officer of rank, who rode bareheaded before
him, as if in a festival procession; the streets, as he passed, were fragrant with garlands,
strewn in his path; to the prayers and acclamations of the people and the troops, he was
permitted to reply, in terms of familiar condescension, without the interference even of a
suspicious and disapproving look.
But the present elation of the royal mind had a farther excuse. Charles's Presby-
terian gaolers, even more unfeeling than disloyal, treated the sovereign with some degree
of cold respect, but were wholly regardless of the father. When formerly he had besought
the parliament to restore to him his children, the heartless answer was, that “they could
take as much care at London, both of their bodies and souls, as could be done at Oxford l’”
The same request, urged by an approving letter from Fairfax, now met with a different
reception. Northumberland was ordered to take his interesting charge, the Dukes of
York and Gloucester, and their gentle sister, the Princess Elizabeth, to pass two days with
228 THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY.
their royal father. This meeting between the king and his children, after an eventful
separation, took place at Caversham, while the army was advancing towards London;
and the indulgence, so grateful to Charles, was frequently repeated after his arrival at
Hampton Court. On this occasion, a yet louder burst of public interest demonstrated
that the people were still the English people, and still felt as the king's subjects. Even
the ambiguous Cromwell appears to have been subdued by the view of family endear-
ment, presented in this reunion, to some sense of awakening loyalty,+unless we admit
human nature to be indeed capable of a degree of dissimulation so intense, as, on any
other hypothesis, would be requisite to explain his behaviour. Meeting at Caversham
with Sir John Berkley, he told that honest loyalist, that he had lately seen the tenderest
sight that ever his eyes beheld; which was the interview between the king and his
children. “And then,” says Berkley, “he wept plentifully at the remembrance of it,
saying, that never man was so abused as he had been in his sinister opinion of the king,
who he now thought was the most conscientious and upright man in the kingdom; con-
cluding with this wish, that God would be pleased to look upon him according to the
sincerity of his heart toward the king.” - -
Charles himself, sensible of the dangers which still surrounded him, and actually alive,
both as a sovereign and as a parent, to the honour and welfare of his family, availed
himself of the more private opportunities which the visits of his children supplied, earnestly
to address them on the subject of their duties and probable destinies. The Duke of
York was at this time about fourteen years of age; the princess, a year or two younger;
the Duke of Gloucester, an intelligent child of seven years. On these objects of his
tenderness, doubly endeared by the sad peculiarity of their circumstances, he impressed
his solemn counsel and injunctions. His own fate, he told them, he looked upon as full
of peril and uncertainty. He was at present wholly in the power of the army, from
whose custody his enemies in the parliament were quite unable to withdraw him. But
what the real designs of his new masters were, he could not discern. He hoped well,
yet with much fear and doubt. He therefore reminded them all of the affection and duty
they owed to the prince, their brother; and recommended them to prepare for the proba-
bility of a darker turn of his affairs to succeed the present gleam of prosperity. To the
Duke of York he spoke with peculiar earnestness, not only as he was the eldest, but
because his name had already been whispered as the watch-word of a treasonable project,
by some of the Independents, who, uniting with the king's most violent enemies in the
wish to put him aside, were yet unprepared for the doubtful experiment of a common-
wealth. He put the youth solemnly in mind of his allegiance to the Prince of Wales, in
case of his own death; and commanded him, that if a change should occur in the
behaviour of the army, and his children and friends should be again debarred from
approaching him, he should endeavour to make his escape, and place himself under the
protection of his brother-in-law, the Prince of Orange. The like injunction, never to
allow himself to be made king, unless he should arrive at the throne by the previous
removal of his father and his brothers, Charles likewise laid upon the little Gloucester.
With the Princess Elizabeth, a child of uncommon sensibility and quickness of under-


THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY. 229
standing, the king took great delight in conversing. On one point in which he relieved her
from submission and obedience to her royal mother, viz. in religion, he had the gratifica-
tion to discover in her a degree both of knowledge and of firmness, unusual at her years.
The subject of religion was that with which, on each repetition of his counsels, the king
concluded. He enjoined them all alike to persevere, against all entreaty and opposition,
in the profession of that form of Christianity in which they had been educated, “what
discountenance and ruin soever might befall the poor church.” That these admonitory
discourses were heard by his little group of serious and wondering listeners with a devout
purpose to obey, the king felt a natural but just assurance. Nor was it long before their
obedience began to be put to a practical test: a few months afterwards, the Duke of
York, under the care of Colonel Bamfield, a gentleman employed for that purpose by
the king, made his escape from St. James's, and, in female attire, crossed safely into
Holland.
The brightness which at that moment shone on Charles's prospects, proved, as he
foresaw, transient and deceptive. Under the management of Cromwell and Ireton, the
army had grown to be a republic. “The agitators had become masters of their masters.”
In the Military legislature, the upper house, or council of officers, continued indeed to be
governed absolutely by the lieutenant-general and his adroit son-in-law; but the council
of agitators had views of their own, and, aware of their strength and importance, were
resolved to pursue them. These views appear to have been at that time consistent with
their notions of loyalty. They had foiled the Presbyterians; they were charmed with
the honour and influence conferred on the army by the king's residence among them;
and as far as their rude habits and independent mode of thinking allowed, were willing to
return to the obedience of subjects. It had always been the policy of Cromwell, to throw
himself headlong into each current of faction, as it successively rose to supreme influence;
to appear at the head of every movement; to outstrip the foremost partizans. Ever
keeping in view his own ambitious ends, he employed indifferently all men, and all
methods, to promote them. “When,” observes Berkley, “he thought the parliament
would make his fortune, he resigned himself totally to them; when the Presbyterians
prevailed, he took the covenant ; when he quitted the parliament, his chief dependence
was on the army, which he endeavoured by all means to keep in unity; and if he could
not bring it to his sense, he, rather than suffer any division in it, went over himself, and
carried his friends with him into that way which the army chose.” The idol of the army
was, for the moment, the king. To affect an earnest loyalty, therefore, was now his
business; and such was the energy, and, at the same time, the flexibility of this wonderful
man's nature, that by conforming, not his words and demeanour only, but his thoughts
and will, to this pretence, he, for the time, really became so; could drop tears (not
altogether “crocodile's tears”) profusely, on the sovereign's hand, while he kissed it in
token of dutiful affection; and could blame the business-like delays of Ireton, in drawing
up those proposals of the army, which were to be the means of restoring the king to his
power and dignities. On his first experience of the feeling which prevailed among the
military, Charles himself may have been deluded—may have forgotten the transitory and


- 3 N
230 THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY.
variable nature of those impressions which sway the multitude, or may have mistaken,
for genuine dispositions to serve him, the feigned loyalty and calculated respect of
Cromwell and his friends. But the tact of the sovereign, long habituated to judge of
professions—the diffident temper, rendered suspicious by having been often betrayed—
quickly resumed their empire: coldness, reserve, aversion, succeeded. He began to regard
the advances made to him, the deference with which he was approached, and those more
liberal terms on which the army was disposed to close with him, than had been offered
by the Presbyterians, as only so many results of their conviction of his importance to
their own interests. While moving in accordance with the movements of the army, he
shunned the sight of those republican cohorts who had annihilated the splendid ranks of
his cavaliers. He listened to the emissaries of the Scots and the Presbyterians; and, in
fine, by his coldness towards the officers, and his manifest confidence in his own ability,
in that trembling equipoise of the two great parties, to adjust the balance as he pleased,
he drew from the acute and fearless Ireton that plain remark, the best summary extant
of the actual state of parties at the time—“Sir, you have an intention to be the arbitrator
between the parliament and us, and we mean to be arbitrators between your majesty and
the parliament.”—It is requisite, however, to return, and slightly trace those steps by
which the military leaders placed themselves in a position amply to realize the purpose
thus avowed.
At a general rendezvous in the vicinity of Newmarket, the army declared, in a solemn
engagement, subscribed by all the officers and soldiers, that the late votes of the parlia-
ment were insufficient, and that they would not disband till they were satisfied: they
then immediately began their march towards London. In fact, it was not their intention
to be satisfied. It was said, not long afterwards, by Cromwell, “that he knew nothing
to the contrary, but that he was as well able to govern the country as Stapleton and
Hollis,” the heads of the Presbyterian faction; and already the army, inspired by the
spirit of Cromwell, despised those concessions which merely tended to redress actual
grievances, and remove just grounds of complaint. They looked much farther: they
had schemes for the settlement of the kingdom, which they intended should supplant
those of the imbecile Presbyterians. At every step in their advance towards the capital,
some fresh petition or remonstrance was issued. Superintended by Cromwell, and shaped
by the acute legal pens of Ireton and Lambert, these successive proclamations revealed,
by degrees, the ulterior designs of their authors. The contest was the more alarming
for the parliament, because, not only was that assembly divided into two parties (of
which one, and a very powerful one, though a minority, supported the demands of the
army), but the nation itself was also, in like manner, divided. In reply to petitions
against the army, sent up to the parliament by several counties, a greater number of
counties, by their petitions and addresses, threw themselves directly upon the army for
protection. In the metropolis, likewise, petition and counter-petition succeeded to each
other. While one party called upon the houses to appease the soldiery by fresh conces-
sions, another was plotting to compel them to resist all farther demands. In the mean
time, the army advanced, successively, to St. Alban's, to Watford, to Uxbridge; the



THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY. 231
soldiers crying out as they marched: “Justice I justice l’” The affrighted parliament
ordered out the city militia for their defence, with Skippon, in his ancient office of major-
general, as commander. At the same time they acquainted Fairfax with such farther
votes in favour of his legions, as the contending factions at Westminster could agree to
adopt. But the army had, by this time, resolved on means more direct and characteristic
for harmonizing their designs with the votes of a parliamentary majority. In a declara-
tion, addressed to both houses, they required that steps might be taken to disqualify all
persons who had acted in opposition to the military; that the House of Commons should
(according to a well-known and expressive term) be “purged” of individuals disqualified
to sit; and, in particular, that eleven members, whom the declaration denounced by
name, should be excluded, until, by due course of law, they had been cleared from certain
charges which the army was preparing to prove against them. The members impeached
were, Hollis, Glyn, Stapleton, Maynard, and the other chief leaders of the Presbyterian
side; the charge imported that these persons had interfered with the rights and liberties
of the nation, and, in particular, had endeavoured to embroil the army and the parliament.
That fallen assembly, in which the spirit of Elliott, of Pym, and of Hampden, had once
presided, instantly complied. The eleven accused members were encouraged by a vote.
for leave of absence, to withdraw; not one of all those voices being now heard in remon-
strance, which had so clamorously sounded forth, when, not twenty thousand men in
arms, but the king alone in person, claimed a less number of victims. The recent ordi-
nance for providing for the defence of the capital, was annulled; a month’s pay was
granted to the soldiers in reward of their services, and an ordinance passed for raising
£60,000 per month for the regular payment of the army, and for Ireland. So tamely
was England transferred from a legislative, though illegal, government, to a military.
despotism The Presbyterian majority in the Commons, which had commonly numbered
forty, was instantly exchanged for a majority, on the Independent side, of nearly an equal
amount. Yet, the defeated houses retained one mark at least of equality—their com-
missioners were permitted to meet those of the army, as on equal terms, to treat of an
accommodation ; they likewise obtained one concession—the retirement of the army,
for some short space of time, to a greater distance from the capital.
An important point in this struggle, regarded the place of the king's residence.
The parliament had passed a vote that he should be conducted to Richmond; and, with
this vote, Charles's own wishes concurred, as well from increasing distrust of the army,
and a belief that his friends were strong in the capital, as from weariness at being
dragged from place to place in compliance with the movements of a force, of which he
ought to have been, but was not, the master. On this point, however, as on others, the
parliament was obliged to yield ; and on the removal of the army northward, he took
possession of the Duke of Bedford’s house at Woburn,
Among those royalists who came over to visit the king, on his falling into the hands
of the army, was Sir John Berkley, a man of capacity, and distinguished as a soldier by
his exertions in the royal cause at Exeter. Berkley was despatched by the queen, with
the connivance of Cromwell and the other leaders, to aid the sovereign in his negotiations

232 THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY.
with the army. A treaty was immediately opened, the success of which was eagerly
desired and promoted by the agitators and their clients; and, whether from temporizing
compliance with the army, or with a real desire to restore the king, on their own condi-
tions, to the throne, was no less zealously urged forward by Cromwell and Ireton, who,
on their side, undertook its management. In the absence of all probability, that even
the ambitious and far-reaching thoughts of the victor of Marston and Naseby had yet
contemplated a military dictatorship as endurable in England; and with the knowledge
that titles, honours, and emoluments were, in the event of an accommodation, to be
showered on himself and his friends, we can hardly refuse to prefer the second hypothesis.
At length Berkley was allowed to peruse the rough draft of proposals “for the settlement
of the nation,” to be submitted to the king. To his practical, unfastidious mind, the
demands of the army appeared moderate, in a degree beyond expectation. It seemed
a great step towards the desired issue, that both parties, royalists and Independents, were
animated by a common hatred of the Presbyterians. The plan proposed put the covenant
and the liturgy on the same footing, abolishing all penalties for the neglect of either;
but, while providing for liberty of conscience, it implicitly protected the church in all its
legal rights. It modified in favour of the crown the article relating to the militia, as
formerly proposed by the parliament, and it confined within the small number of seven .
those adherents of Charles who were not to be admitted to pardon. With these pro-
visions, however, were inserted some others that savoured of their democratic origin;
such as the reform of the House of Commons, by abolishing small boroughs, and aug-
menting the number of county members; by limiting the sittings of parliament within
not less than one hundred and twenty, nor more than two hundred and forty days, and
the duration of each particular parliament to two years. It was farther stipulated, that
none of the king’s friends should be allowed to sit in the next parliament. One entire
night Berkley passed with Ireton in discussions on this momentous document. At the
suggestion of the cavalier, the stern commissary-general consented to its modification in
more than one point. And when, encouraged by Ireton’s facility, Berkley proceeded
to urge the omission of the article which excepted seven unnamed royalists from pardon,
and that which excluded the king's friends from the next parliament, Ireton offered such
reasons for retaining them as candour could not easily refute. With respect to the first,
he alleged, that, if after having proved victors in the war, the Independents made no
difference between their friends and their enemies, they would manifestly lie open to the
charge of betraying their party, and to the suspicion of having sought their own private
ends. On the second, he replied, “I confess that I should myself be afraid of a parlia-
ment in which the king's friends should have a majority. Let, however, the agreement
be carried into effect; and if then it be found that your party and ours work cordially
together, nothing can be easier than to obtain a farther modification in these particulars.”
He concluded by conjuring Berkley, as he tendered his royal master's welfare, to endeavour
to prevail with him to accede to the proposals. Nor was Cromwell, seemingly, less
favourably disposed. “In all my conferences with him,” records Berkley, “I found no
man, in appearance, so zealous for a speedy settlement as Cromwell; sometimes wishing

THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY. 233
that the king was more frank, and would not tie himself so strictly to narrow maxims;
sometimes complaining of his son Ireton’s slowness in perfecting the proposals, and his
not accommodating them more to his majesty's sense.”
Charles, however, on the contrary, was disappointed and displeased. In vain was it
intimated by Berkley, that better terms could scarcely be expected from men “who had,
through so great dangers and difficulties, acquired so great advantages;” that a crown so
nearly lost must be thought cheaply retrieved on such conditions. The king had other
thoughts: the army, he said, could not stand without him; and he doubted not very
shortly to see them glad to make larger concessions. In the midst of these conferences
arrived Ashburnham, to share with Berkley in the labours and responsibilities of his
mission—a man of another temper, courtly and fastidious, whose soft manners, and whose
delicate and devoted, rather than judicious loyalty, had obtained for him an unusual share
of the king's regard. The influence of this new counsellor, and, still more, the intercourse
which Charles was now carrying on with the metropolis, confirmed him in his unfavourable
view of the army’s overture. Such was the disposition in which Ireton, and the other
officers, found him on the day when the proposals were formally submitted for his con-
currence. It was refused; and refused with the imprudent addition of ungracious and
even scornful remarks. The military tribunes looked alternately on each other, and on
the king's advisers, with mingled astonishment and regret. Referring to the first of the
clauses already objected to by Berkley, the king declared, with repeated allusions to the
case of Strafford, that no man should suffer for his sake; on the subject of religion, he
said, that he would have the church established according to law. On the other side, it
was alleged, that to obtain the re-establishment of the church was not the army's province;
they deemed it sufficient for them to wave the point. “You cannot do without me,”
reiterated Charles. “Unless I sustain you, you must fall to ruin; and I will not afford
you my support at so mean a price.” Berkley, who knew the men he had to deal with,
and regarded the crisis as decisive of his sovereign’s fate, here whispered Charles apart:—
“Sir, you speak as if you had some secret strength and power that I do not know of;
and, since your majesty has concealed it from me, I wish you had concealed it from these
men also.” The king seemed now to awake to self-recollection, as if from a dream. He
strove to soften what had been said; but it was too late to recall the impression. Colonel
Rainsborough, who, from the first, had shown himself averse to the treaty, was observed
to have by this time withdrawn. Returning at speed to the army, he rushed into the
council of agitators, then assembled in eager expectation of news from the conference, and
delivered a report of what had passed, in terms, which, instantly transmitted from man to
man, raised a general flame of indignation against the king.
The army was at the same time engaged in other important negotiations. A treaty
with the parliament was now in the hands of the commissioners of the respective parties;
with, however, on the side of the military, no purpose to bring it to a close, before the
success of a farther contemplated stroke of policy should have enabled them to dictate
their own terms. This was, to wrest from the Presbyterians the city of London; a
3 O

234 THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY.
weapon in their hands (with its slavish municipality, its turbulent citizens, and its swarms
of disbanded soldiers) so formidable, that the more violent of that party were preparing,
with its aid, seconded by the intrigues of their Scottish brethren, to set both parliament
and army at defiance. When the army consented to remove farther from London, it did
so, not in ignorance of this design, but rather because the leaders foresaw, that, in the
actual temper of the defeated Presbyterians, a pretext would thereby sooner be supplied
for the occupation of the capital. As a preparatory step, they now required that the
militia should be re-transferred to the friends of the Independents. The parliament
complied, and passed an ordinance to that effect; but presently found their doors beset by
tumultuous crowds of petitioners, who demanded its instant repeal, together with the
restoration of the eleven impeached members. A new “solemn league and covenant’”
was, at the same time, exposed for subscription, containing an oath of allegiance to the
sovereign, with a solemn engagement to restore him to his parliament against all oppo-
sition. It was, probably, from confidence in the success of this scheme, that Charles, too
ready to be beguiled by every flattering prospect, had so peremptorily rejected the
proposals of the army. The Earl of Lauderdale, the chief of the Scottish commissioners
in London, had arrived at the general’s head-quarters, to solicit the royal concurrence.
Believing the rejection of their proposals to have been chiefly the effect of Scottish
intrigue, the soldiers broke into the earl’s bedchamber, ordered him to rise without delay,
and, regardless of his plea as a commissioner from the Estates, compelled him to return
to London without seeing the king. Meantime, information was brought of other and
more violent proceedings in the capital. Subscription to the new engagement had been
voted, by both houses, an act of treason against the nation. But this vote had served no
other purpose than to inflame the popular disposition to violence and disorder. Troops
had begun to be levied, and the cashiered Presbyterian officers, Waller, Massey, Pointz,
and others, engaged for the defence of the city. A second petition was prepared, and
attended on its presentation by a crowd of apprentices and citizens of the inferior class,
supported by the discarded soldiery. The Commons delayed an answer, purposely pro-
tracting their debates, in hope to weary out the patience of the clamorous petitioners,
who thronged the doors and windows, demanding, with loud and insolent menaces, that
the house should proceed to vote. The imprisoned legislators, worn out by fatigue and
alarm, consented to repeal the ordinance respecting the militia, and the vote condemning
the engagement for the king. Taking advantage of a momentary subsidence of the
tumult caused by this compliance, the speaker, with a few of the more resolute members,
now attempted to retire, but were thrust back with violence. The speaker was forcibly
replaced in the chair by the rabble, and commanded to put the following resolution:
“That the king be invited to come forthwith to London, with an assurance of honour,
freedom, and safety.” It was instantly passed, with a loud affirmative, avers Ludlow,
from the more prudent time-servers in the assembly, but with his own no less emphatic
negative. The members were then permitted to quit the house. On the following
morning both houses met, and adjourned for three days; but in the interval, Manchester

THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY. 235
and Lenthall, the speakers, with the principal members of the Independent party, and
such others from the ranks of their opponents as declined irrevocably to compromise
themselves with the stronger faction, withdrew to seek the protection of the army.
Fairfax had, by this time, reached Hounslow on his second approach towards the
capital; and as the fugitive senators passed along the lines upon the heath, they were
welcomed by the troops with loud gratulations. In the evening the whole number,
consisting of eight peers and fifty-eight commoners, besides the two speakers, assembled
in council at Sion House, and being joined by Fairfax, Cromwell, and the other general-
officers, entered into a solemn obligation “to live and die with the army.” Here they
were also joined by a sergeant-at-arms, and by others of the Independent side; who
reported that the two houses, finding themselves deserted by their speakers, had elected
others in their room, and openly adopted the views of the Presbyterians and the city;
that the extorted vote, inviting the king to Westminster, had been confirmed; that every
effort was made by raising and disciplining troops, and otherwise, to provide for the
defence of the city; and that many royalists, making use of the king's name, were openly
associated with the Presbyterians. The importance of this last particular, in that doubtful
conjuncture, could not escape the discerning mind of Cromwell. In whatever degree the
king might have entitled himself to the lieutenant-general’s indignation by his late
behaviour, it was now no season to change his own policy or bearing. At this crisis he
might be more than ever necessary. Cromwell, therefore, instantly despatched an express
to the royal captive, entreating him that he would at least soften his rejection of the
army’s desires, by addressing a conciliatory letter to the general, in which he should
disavow any connexion with the proceedings in the city, and should farther throw out some
general expressions of satisfaction at the treatment he had met with in the army, and of
regret that he could not directly sanction their proposals. -
A letter was accordingly drawn up; but Charles hesitated, and refused his signature
until it had been three or four times debated. A whole day had been thus lost, when at
length Berkley and Ashburnham were dismissed with it in charge. On the road they
were met by messengers from Cromwell, urging despatch. They hastened; but it was
too late. The city, by turns, assuming an attitude of defiance, and again crouching in the
most abject terror, had finally sent a deputation with offers of submission, whose arrival
at Sion House preceded the appearance of the royal letter. The gates of London were
already thrown open, the forts on the line of communication were given up, Southwark
occupied by a division under Rainsborough. Charles's useless messengers found neither
Cromwell nor Ireton at hand to read the letter; all the grace, and therefore the utility,
of which, had been lost by its unhappy delay. Those great officers (“grandees of the
army,” as they presently began to be styled) were, at that moment, occupied with
greater affairs than the king's. The following day witnessed the triumphant entry of the
Independents into the capital. Fairfax on his charger, preceded by Hammond’s regiment
of foot, with Rich's and Cromwell's regiments of cavalry, and surrounded by his body-
guards and a crowd of gentlemen, headed the procession. A train of carriages succeeded,
in which were the speakers and the seceding members, now regarded as constituting
236 THE TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY.
exclusively the parliament. The long line was closed by Tomlinson's regiment of horse.
In this order the victorious march was continued to Westminster, the conquerors, as they
passed through Hyde Park, receiving the forced congratulations of the lord mayor and
aldermen, and at Charing Cross the deprecatory submission of the common-council. In
Palace Yard the general alighted, and retired into a private house, while the Lords and
Commons proceeded to their respective places of assembly.
The Houses being assembled, Fairfax was invited to attend. Seated within the bar,
first of the Peers, then of the Commons, he received the formal submission of the parlia-
ment, in two resolutions assented to with breathless haste. By the first, the Houses
passed an ordinance appointing Fairfax governor of the Tower of London; the second
conveyed to him the thanks of the parliament for “restoring them to their privileges.”
After the general had retired, the Presbyterians gathered courage to make some use of
the numerical majority which they could still command in the Commons. They, indeed,
allowed the lord mayor, one of the sheriffs, and four aldermen, with some officers of the
militia, to be sent prisoners to the Tower, and suffered seven out of eight peers who had
continued to sit during the absence of the speakers, to be impeached; but a resolution
to annul all the votes passed in that interval, viz. from July 26th to August 7th, was
through their exertions rejected; and a vote only to repeal them substituted in its place.
The eleven members, who had re-appeared during the tumults, now fled into voluntary
exile. On the following day, the whole army marched through London, and was distri-
buted about the neighbouring villages, in Surrey and Kent. As it had now no intention
either to disband or to remove from the vicinity of the metropolis, the king's palace at
Hampton Court was chosen for his residence; and on the 24th day of August he was
conducted thither from Oatlands (then, likewise, a magnificent royal mansion), where he
had passed those last ten days, in which, with just so much regard to the monarch’s rights
as comported with their own interests, prejudices, and passions, the two parties had
brought to an issue their quarrel for the possession of his person and his authority.


237
CHAPTER XXVI.
H A M P T O N C O U R. T.
THE reception of the army at London was to decide its treatment of the king and his
cause. Had Cromwell met with determined opposition from the parliament and the
citizens, it is probable that by affecting a frank agreement with Charles, on his own terms,
he would have withdrawn the royalists from the presbyterian ranks, and, at the same
time, enlisted the loyal sympathies of the people on his side. But a measure so discou-
raging to the secret yearnings of his ambition, was rendered superfluous by the cowardice
and disunion of his opponents. He was relieved from the necessity of shutting up those
vast undefined personal prospects which had dawned upon his thoughts, within that
“tower of strength '' (for such it was still) “ the king's name.” Yet the time was not
come, when it would be safe to discard the pretext of a contemplated or desired recon-
cilement; the mask, which, though adorned with a coronet and ribbon, would, if perma-
nently fixed, have pressed heavily upon the brow of the aspiring military magnate, policy
could easily persuade him to wear for a season longer. The council of officers passed
a resolution, not to recede from their proposals; and, on the king's removal to Hampton
Court, its members appeared to vie with each other in attentions to the royal captive.
The period of three months passed by Charles at Hampton Court, is not unaptly said
by his affectionate and lettered attendant Herbert, to have consisted of “halcyon days.”
It was, at least in its commencement, a gleam—the last allowed him—of prosperity and
peace. He once more found himself surrounded by the splendour, the vivacity, and the
dignified observances of a court. He was waited on, without restraint, by his own
servants; his chaplains publicly celebrated divine service in his chapel; the presence-
chamber was thronged by nobility of the highest rank. Mingled with these were the
general officers of the army, the great leaders in parliament, and the principal citizens.
It seemed as if an act of amnesty and oblivion had tacitly passed, and as if the king's
residence near his capital, and beneath his own royal roof, had soothed the jarring heats
of party, and charmed into peace the strifes of passion and self-interest. The loyalty which
really survived in the bosoms of the people, was outwardly assumed, from curiosity, fashion,
or policy, by those whose bosoms were unacquainted with its power. Not only were
Cromwell, Ireton, and other general'officers, found mixing at Charles's levees with the legi-
timate denizens of the court—the Richmonds, the Ormonds, the Dorsets, the Southamptons,
but their families were emulous to keep up the appearance of respect. “This last week,”
observes the writer of a letter dated late in October, “Cromwell’s, Ireton’s, and Whalley’s
wives went to court; where Mr. Ashburnham, taking Mrs. Cromwell by the hand, and all

3 P

238 HAMPTON COURT.
the rest having their peculiar servants [i. e. obsequious cavaliers], were led into the court,
and feasted by them.” Besides this unrestrained intercourse with all parties, the king
enjoyed other liberties of greater importance to his happiness. He had frequent visits
from his children; he was allowed an unrestricted correspondence with the queen and the
Prince of Wales; while, in the pleasures of the chase, and other equestrian recreations,
the only restraint upon his freedom was his own pledged word not furtively to quit his
present place of residence. The general expectation, which these circumstances encou-
raged, that Charles was presently to return to his capital, and publicly reassume the
functions of sovereignty, was confirmed by his frequent intercourse with Cromwell, already
master of the political as well as the military power of his country. Wolsey’s terrace-
walks and stately galleries bore witness to frequent conferences between the descendant
of the ancient but unhappy Stuart line, and that coarse though gifted being, who now,
with alternations of supple hypocrisy and most earnest purpose, strove to impart accept-
ability to his assiduous visits. That negotiations were for some weeks carried on between
these two great and interesting personages, the issue of which the whole country believed
would be Charles's reinstatement on the throne, is beyond dispute. On what conditions
this event was to be accomplished, seems no less ambiguous than the sincerity of the
negotiating parties. It is probable that the hero of Independency urged the king to
yield those points which were required in the proposals of the army—the surrender of
his chief prerogatives and principalfriends; the concession of unlimited popular demands;
universal toleration in matters of conscience. Respecting the rewards stipulated on the
other side, though matter of confident rumour, we have no better authority than the
gossip of female politicians, or the jealous invectives of the conclave of agitators at
Putney. If these may be trusted, Cromwell professed that he would, at this time, have
been content with the earldom of Essex, the garter, and the government of Ireland, for
himself, and honours and emoluments in proportion for his son-in-law and eldest son.
But the part Cromwell had now to play, required the exercise of all his wonderful
foresight, skill, boldness, and unmatchable dissimulation. While engaged in gaining
the king, he was losing his friends, and farther exasperating his enemies in the parlia-
ment: in the army, the focus of his influence, his popularity was rapidly declining.
The agitators murmuringly insinuated that the whole army was to be compromised in
a private bargain with the king; the officers complained that the doors of the lieutenant
and commissary-generals were open to Ashburnham and Berkley, when they were closed
against themselves. Charles, himself too often driven to ambiguity and indirectness,
was profoundly suspicious of Cromwell’s good faith, notwithstanding the most solemn
asseverations both of himself and Ireton, that they were ready to peril their lives in
support of the objects of the treaty. It was with a view to satisfaction on this head,
that Berkley and the gentlemen of the king's bedchamber were so often to be seen at
head-quarters. Cromwell entreated the king to use greater privacy in his messages.
“If I am an honest man,” he said, “I have spoken enough as to the sincerity of my
intentions; if not, nothing is enough.” -
In the mean time, with the exception of an occasional murmur that the enemies of
HAMPTON COURT. 239
the parliament were allowed free access to the king, and were taking advantage of it to
their injury, that assembly seemed willing, in the prosecution of those disputes which
their presbyterian strength enabled them still to maintain with the army, to forget his
existence. At length the army’s proposals were brought before the houses for their
approbation, previously to their being again submitted to the king. By the exertions
chiefly of the Scottish party they were set aside, and, in their stead, the Newcastle pro-
positions, modified by some inconsiderable changes, were presented at Hampton Court.
The necessity of a final decision painfully revived, in Charles's mind, the question of
Cromwell’s sincerity. He resolved to put him to a fresh test. A frequent messenger
between Cromwell and the king was Major Huntingdom, an officer of the lieutenant-
general’s own regiment, who, in the course of this employment, had conceived a strong
attachment for his majesty, and had in return obtained the royal confidence. The king,
sending for Huntingdon, earnestly inquired, “Whether he, who knew Cromwell intimately,
considered that he was in heart the same, as he had by his tongue so freely and frequently
expressed himself to be * This grave question staggered the major, and he besought the
king to wait for his answer till the next day. That night he hastened to Putney, and at
dawn the next morning applied at Cromwell’s quarters for an audience. Cromwell rose
from bed to receive him. He communicated his business. Cromwell then asseverated
with all imaginable solemnity, that he from his heart meant to do everything in his
power, as he had promised, to restore the king; imprecating maledictions on himself,
his wife, and children, if he failed in his word, and protesting, that though deserted by
the army, if but ten men stood by him, he would be true to the king and his cause.
Huntingdon, aware of the violent measures against the king then agitated in the army,
and too well acquainted with Cromwell to be easily convinced, was still so cautious as to
stipulate, that should anything happen to hinder the lieutenant-general's intentions,
he would give the king warning, in time to provide against the danger. Relying on these
assurances, Charles no longer hesitated once more to refuse the parliament’s propositions.
He intimated his confidence in Cromwell and his inseparable counsellor Ireton, by sub-
mitting his answer to be altered by them as they pleased. It repeated the former state-
ments of his inability to consent to the propositions, without violence to his conscience
and his honour. It then passed, with some respectful allusions to the services and just
expectations of the army, to the proposals submitted to him from that quarter, to which,
he presumed, the houses of parliament were no strangers; and concluded by declaring
his belief, that they “would think with him, that those proposals were much more calcu-
lated to conduce to the satisfaction of all interests, and to be the basis of a lasting peace,
than the propositions now tendered.” This answer was presented to the Commons on
the 13th of September. It raised a violent flame in the house. The king was called
an obstruction in the way of all good resolutions: he was an Ahab, and coloquintida;
and they ought to think no more of him, but proceed as if no such person existed.
In levelling these acrimonious speeches against the royal person and authority, none
were more vehement than “the two grand impostors,” as Huntingdom, on this occasion,
terms Cromwell and Ireton. When this monstrous fact was reported to Charles, it



240 HAMPTON COURT.
maturally excited his amazement. Again he sent Huntingdom—not now to inquire, but
to expostulate. The major brought back no other satisfaction, but this characteristic
and ingenious remark of Cromwell’s, that “what he had said in the House of Commons
was only to sound the depths of those virulent humours, wherewith the Presbyterians
(whom he knew to be no friends to the king) were possessed.” But the perfidy was too
rank to be salved; and Cromwell was seen no more at Hampton Court.
For so remarkable a change many different reasons were assigned, all of them intended
to conceal the true One, namely, that no motive mow remained for keeping up a wearisome
deception; and some of them contrived to throw the whole odium upon the king. That
the conduct of Cromwell had engendered angry suspicions among the violent spirits of
the army, was undoubtedly the fact; hence he affirmed that considerations of personal
safety obliged him to break off his intercourse with the court. Another pretence was
the alleged “incurable duplicity” of Charles, as manifested in his correspondence with
the Scots. At the instigation of the Duke of Hamilton, that people were commencing
warlike preparations; and when Cromwell, himself already well informed, questioned
the king as to his knowledge of the fact, the latter, though actually in treaty with the
duke, resorted to concealment. Charles was, doubtless, in this as in other instances,
open to the charge of dissimulation. But, as we are unable to define the exact point
to which the royal artifice extended, so likewise we are in no condition to declare that
this was not one of those occasions when the tortuous maxims of potentates and states-
men may allowably interpose their veil, before that sacred majesty of truth, which the
Christian and the gentleman display, in all private matters, without disguise. The king's
scrupulous regard to his word was evinced, about this time, on two remarkable occasions;
of which one will be more particularly mentioned farther on; the other is in immediate
connexion with the present subject. It is related by Burnet, that on an occasion when
the king, attended by a very small guard, was engaged in hunting, the lords Lanerick
and Lauderdale suddenly made their appearance with a body of fifty horsemen, and
entreated him to make his escape, assuring him that themselves and their party were
willing to sacrifice their lives for his deliverance. But Charles refused, on the sole
ground, that he had engaged his honour not to leave the custody of the army without
giving them notice, and he would rather die than break his faith.
As to the well-known stories of the reported conversation between Cromwell and
Ireton and Lord Broghill, and of a letter, ripped by the hands of the great republican
generals from the saddle of a traveller's horse at the Blue Boar in Holborn: which are
said to have proved, not only the double-dealing of the king while listening both to the
Presbyterians and the army, but likewise his perfidious design to destroy Cromwell and
his friends as soon as he should be restored; these apocryphal relations plainly originated
in the invention of his enemies, and the childish improbability of them is apparent to all
except those historians whose wishes, or whose prejudices, incline them to the belief of
their authenticity.
The custody of the king had now become worthless to the army. His longer resi-
dence, and especially his holding a crowded court, so near to the metropolis, now.

HAMPTON COURT. 24, 3.
enthusiastically disposed in his favour, could not fail to impede their “good resolutions.”
How to dispose of him was the next question. To let him fall into the hands of the
Presbyterian party, would be to relinquish the advantage they had gained. A private
assassination had been unsafe; Cromwell, moreover, was not a man of blood. The
inventive mind of the lieutenant-general lighted on a scheme both facile and unobjection-
able; for effecting which he found a convenient instrument in the king's trusted attendant,
Ashburnham, the weakness of whose character he had had abundant opportunities of
studying; while the lawless proceedings of the army offered a plausible groundwork.
Charles's contemptuous rejection of the proposals, supervening upon the republican and
famatic motions already become general among the soldiers, had wrought them into
a perfect abhorrence of the king and all kingly government. To this disposition they
were further stimulated by confidence in their own power, and resentment of their treat-
ment by the legislature. For the parliament, as if determined to exert against the
military the last remnant of its feeble authority, with the view, as it seemed, to provoke
them to some desperate step that might wholly alienate the people's affections from them,
continued obstinately to withhold both the promised gratuity and regular arrears of pay.
Among all those ingredients, however, of the witch’s caldron of successful rebellion,
from the ferment of which now sprung what has been called a third party, namely, the
faction of the levellers, religious fanaticism was the most powerful. This was the prin-
ciple which, in the outbreak of the war, united Cromwell’s troopers to each other, and
to him; it was by means of this (the solitary spirit having now become “legion,”) that
a combination was being formed, which afterwards demanded all the power, dexterity,
and courage of that gifted adventurer to break. At Putney, before Berry as president
of the agitators took the chair, or before Rainsborough, the fiercest of the republican
demagogues, launched his invectives against the king, Peters and Dell, Cromwell’s
inspired chaplains, mounted the pulpit to prepare the minds of the military legislators,
by evincing, from the perverted words of scripture, his famous maxim, that “there was
no law in England but the law of the sword, and what it gives,” and, as a consequence,
that the rightful legislator is the wearer of the sword. The tenets of the levellers were
the proper issue of the tenets of the Independents; as the latter had been of those of
the Puritans. It is a very natural progress downwards; for the successive steps of it are
marked, from the birth, in every human bosom.
It is the same inborn principle of proud self-will, which begins by questioning the
foundations of authority, and casting aside the veneration due to ancient, heaven-taught
wisdom, and which ends by making men’s passions and self-interest the law to themselves,
and the rule whereby they would coerce and compel all others. And this the levellers
admitted, indirectly, by assuming, in the first instance, the title of “rationalists.” They
acknowledged no duty but such as God had made plain to their reason; and what their
reason approved, in church and state, in the making or the executing of laws, was alone
binding; and this only till farther light was afforded. This new supreme power, the
sovereignty of the people (of the people, considered, not as one body but as distinct
individuals), was of course hostile to all other authority whatever: to the parliament as
3 Q

242 HAMIPTON COURT.
well as to the king; to graduate rank in the army, as well as to a hierarchy in the church.
But the first great obstacle in the way of its exercise was the king. The king had rejected
their proposals; they were no longer to regard either them or the king himself; but to
consult their own good, and the safety of the kingdom—which, indeed, was theirs by
conquest;-“ and to use such means towards both, as they should find rational.” The
levellers held meetings of a character peculiarly secret and solemn, at which (in the phrase
taught them by Cromwell) “they sought the Lord” to reveal his will to his saints, that
is, to the most excited of the fanatics; those who were forwardest to execute whatever
should be resolved as fittest to be done. As a logical consequence, the regicidal principle
was at length broached, in those dark conclaves. The king was an impediment in the
way of the general good of the people: the people were greater than the king, possessed
of a higher sovereignty: therefore the people might judge, and, if need were, destroy the
king. The motion of bringing the sovereign to a formal trial was early familiar in the
debates of the agitators; though the terrific consequences might not so soon be distinctly,
or at any time by all, held up to contemplation. “Not,” said Joyce, “that I would have
a hair of his head to suffer, but that the people might not bear the blame of the war.”
But Joyce was both less logical, and less bloody, than some of his associates; for trial, as
it presupposes criminality, so it supposes condemnation, and condemnation implies punish-
ment. In accordance with, and as the gradual growth of, these deliberations—if so they
may be styled—two papers, the one a statement of grievances, entitled, “the case of the
army,” the other, “the agreement of the people,” were presented by the agitators to their
general. The “ agreement,” a daring and powerful manifesto, said to have been origi-
nally framed by the famous republican Lilburne, proposed a new constitution for the
empire. It asserted, of course, a right of sovereignty to be in the people, and it proposed
to secure to them the three great privileges, of which the nation ought never to consent
to divest itself—equality of law, freedom of conscience, and exemption from forced military
service. The exercise of the people's sovereign power was to reside with their represen-
tatives in parliament; but no mention occurs of either king or lords. -
That these precursors of regicide were felt by Cromwell and Ireton to be only
“marshalling them the way that they must go,” is indubitable; since, though regularly
made acquainted by their spies with everything that passed in the most secret meetings,
they not merely connived at, but encouraged those licentious schemes which were there
brought forward. The most active heads of the movement were, in fact, soldiers and
subalterns in their own regiments, and that of the general. Yet the fears of these officers
were by no means wholly feigned, on observing, at how fiercely precipitated a pace those
apt learners were now running in the path which they had opened for them. The time
arrived when a pause was to be made; when, at all events, leaders of a higher strain, men
who knew how to divest progress of undue precipitancy, and who could unite security with
daring, were to step forward into those places in the van, which hitherto they had found
it convenient to occupy only in the persons of subordinates. Up to this mature point of
the great design, Cromwell, though he had ceased in person to visit the king, continued
to receive the royal messengers at his quarters, with an appearance of anxious desire for

HAMPTON COURT. 243
the success of their negotiations. At length, the lieutenant-general had grown so cold in
his demeanour, and so nearly inaccessible, that even the unsuspicious Ashburnham saw
plainly, that nothing farther was to be hoped from pursuing the correspondence. His
more sagacious master had all along been haunted by suspicions of the fact. “He was not
surprised,” he said; “for he had always had some secret misgivings, that Cromwell and
Ireton never designed any real service to himself, but made use of his interest to advance
their own ; which lay some other way than by his restoration.” Suddenly, Charles
perceived that the guards were doubled about the palace. An excuse for this change was
pretended, by Cromwell, in a letter alleging the danger of violence to the royal person.
But it was farther observable, that the temper and behaviour of the men seemed likewise
to have changed with the change in their officers. The sentinels disturbed the king’s
repose with loud and unmannerly noises, and filled the corridors of the palace with the
coarsest fumes of that Indian weed which was known peculiarly to offend the delicate
organ of the monarch. Charles remonstrated against the doubling of the guard, as
injurious to his honour; and, in a letter to the general, withdrew his parole. “He would
be no longer bound,” he said, “by his word to continue with the army, for where his
word was given, there ought to be no guards: his word was his guard. They must
henceforth look to him as well as they could.” At the same time, Berkley and Ashburn-
ham were forbidden any more to attend upon their master, and the gates of the palace
were equally closed against his other friends and visitors.
Charles appeared to have put little faith in those perils of assassination which he was
told beset him. He sometimes looked upon the frequent intimations given him to that
effect, as artifices probably designed to inveigle him to some dangerous step—perhaps,
into the very perils pretended to be pointed out. They added, nevertheless, to those
perplexities which now tormented, and determined him to attempt his deliverance by one
more romantic effort. Colonel Legge alone, of all his trusted servants, was allowed access
to the king's person. By his agency Charles made Berkley and Ashburnham acquainted
with his resolution to escape, leaving it in particular to Ashburnham to find the means
and to fix the direction of his flight. To conceal himself in London—to deliver himself,
a second time, to the Scots—to cross the sea to Jersey, an island which still acknowledged
his authority, and where Hyde and other illustrious loyalists had found refuge, were
plans successively discussed, and finally abandoned for one worse than all.
On the afternoon of November 11th, the king commanded, that, having letters to
write, he might be exposed to no interruption; and this order was suspended only when,
at dusk, lights were brought into his chamber. Supper-time arrived, and the commis-
sioners, with Whalley, who had still the command of the king's guard, were assembled as
usual; but Charles appeared not. Wondering for a space, at this unwonted delay, they
knocked, and, receiving no answer from within, entered the royal apartment. On the floor
lay the king’s cloak, suggesting to the imaginations of the party, already filled with the
current rumours of a projected assassination, that violence had been attempted upon
his person. Some letters, left by him on his writing-table, quickly relieved their appre-
hensions. Of these papers, one was addressed to Lord Montague, who, on opening it,

244 HAMPTON COURT,
found a request that a certain picture in the king's chamber might be restored to the
Duke of Richmond, its owner; and, in a postscript, he earnestly recommended to the
care of the commissioner his favourite greyhound, whose disconsolate whine had alone
greeted the intruders at their entrance. In a second letter, he thanked Whalley for the
attentions paid to his comfort, while in that officer’s custody. The third threw light upon
the motives which had driven him to the step implied in the others. It bore the signa-
ture, “E. R.,” and gave an account of the resolution adopted at the meetings of the
agitators, to take away the king's life. This letter was recognized by Whalley, as one
which, in the discharge of his duty, he had shown, he said, to his majesty; but had
accompanied it with an assurance, that he might be confident no such thing would be
attempted: “though menacing speeches,” he admitted, “ came frequently to his ear, the
general officers abhorred so bloody and villanous an act. For himself, in particular, he
had assured the king, he was sent to safeguard, not to murder him ; and would rather
die at his feet in his defence.” The last letter was one addressed by Charles to the
parliament, and contained an explicit statement of the impressions and views under which
the royal prisoner had withdrawn. It commenced with the king’s assertion of his natural
right to the common liberty; and thus he proceeds: “I call God to witness with what
patience I have endured a tedious restraint ; which so long as I had any hopes that this
sort of my suffering might conduce to the peace of my kingdoms, I did willingly undergo.
But now finding by too certain proofs that this my continued patience would not only
turn to my personal ruin, but likewise be of much more prejudice to the public good, I
thought I was bound, as well by natural as political obligation, to seek my safety, by
retiring myself for some time from the public view both of my friends and enemies. I
shall earnestly and incessantly endeavour,” he continues, “the settlement of a safe and
well-grounded peace, wherever I am . . .” for . . . “ as I cannot deny but that my
personal security is the urgent cause of this my retirement, so I take God to witness that
the public peace is no less before my eyes; and I can find no better way to express this
my profession, than by desiring and urging, that, besides what concerns myself, all chief
interests, the Presbyterians, the Independents, the army, those who have adhered to me,
and even the Scots, may have not only a hearing, but likewise just satisfaction given
unto them. Let me be heard,” he with dignity concludes, “with freedom, honour, and
safety, and I shall instantly break through this cloud of retirement, and show myself to
be PATER PATRIAE.”
While all parties were in consternation at the king’s flight, and while the parliament,
first despatching messengers to the seaports and other outlets of the kingdom, passed an
ordnance making it high treason to conceal his person, or the place of his retreat, and (in
terror lest he should have hid himself in London) issued a proclamation for the banish-
ment of all persons who had ever borne arms for him, to a distance of twenty miles from
the metropolis; Cromwell took instant advantage of the relief afforded him by the success
of this grand manoeuvre, to bend all his energies to the suppression of the mutinous
temper in the army. It was an exigency which fully demanded that amazing union of
cunning, dexterity, and courage, which enabled him so often to baffle his enemies, and

HAMPTON COURT. 245
to crush a danger at that particular instant when its extinction must prove as complete,
as its farther progress would have been fatal. The king's disappearance had increased the
angry excitement which possessed the soldiery. It was now no fiction, that the levellers
menaced the lives, not alone of Cromwell and Ireton, but of their superior officers gene-
rally; who perceived that the success of their objects, and the very existence of the
army, depended upon their success in restoring subordination and discipline. With this
view, Fairfax directed a general rendezvous to be held at Ware. - -
A great part of the troops came upon the ground reluctantly and in disorder; but as
the general officers rode round the field, the soothing language of the popular Fairfax, and
the stern determination which had settled upon the brow of Cromwell, quickly thinned
the masses of the disaffected. At length, all but three or four regiments signified their
readiness to subscribe an engagement to submit to their general, which had been
prepared for the occasion. Still Lilburne's, Harrison's, and Rainsborough's kept aloof.
The men, collected in groups, listened eagerly to the harangues of their agitators, who
distributed among them copies of the “ agreement of the people,” and placards bearing
seditious mottoes, which they placed in their hats. Cromwell, Ireton, and the most reso-
lute of their friends, riding up to the mutineers, the lieutenant-general ordered them to
remove the offensive paper. They hesitated; when, drawing his sword, he charged
through the astonished groups, seized a dozen of the ringleaders, one of whom, being
chosen by lot, was instantly shot dead upon the place, and his companions handed over
to an officer to be tried by a court-martial. The others then gloomily submitted. Crom-
well (assuming that tone of blandishment, and pious lachrymation, which he had always
found irresistible in camp or senate, in that strange age of religious imposture) promised
speedy settlement of all their reasonable demands, and dismissed them to their several
quarters. Hastening to Westminster, he made his report of the day’s events to the
houses. Without the grosser colouring of vanity (for he attributed its successful close to
“God’s mercy and the endeavours of his excellency and his officers,”) the narrator, never-
theless, shone as the hero of his tale, and received the thanks of the parliament accord-
ingly. It is remarkable, therefore, that in the long despatch from Fairfax, in which the
same facts are detailed, no mention is found of the name of Cromwell.
The lieutenant-general was likewise the first to calm the anxiety of the Commons,
respecting the king's disappearance, by acquainting them, on the day following that
which revealed his departure, that the royal fugitive had taken refuge in the Isle of Wight.
Notwithstanding the ostentatious care pretended in placing the guard at Hampton Court,
a private door, which opened from the king's apartments into the park, was left without
a sentinel. By this entrance, Berkley and Ashburnham obtained access to him, after
their appearance at the palace had been prohibited, to arrange the manner and means
of his escape. It was by this door that Charles also himself, accompanied only by his
faithful attendant Legge, had issued from his palace-prison. The night was excessively
dark and stormy. Crossing the river at Ditton, they found the two faithful, but ill-
assorted counsellors, waiting with horses. They went towards Oatlands, the king, who
was more familiarly acquainted with the forest than his companions, undertaking the
3 R

246 HAMPTON COURT.
office of guide; but his skill was unavailing, in the darkness, to prevent their wandering
from the track, and day had broke before the party reached Sutton, where Berkley had
provided a relay of horses.
Among the places which had occurred or been suggested to the king, as safe if not
advantageous retreats, it does not appear that he had definitively selected any one before
adventuring on his sudden and ill-considered flight. While descending a hill, he pro-
posed that the party should lead their horses, and confer as they walked on this important
point. Jersey had originally been thought of as perhaps the most desirable destination,
and Berkley now asked if a vessel had been provided ; but the king's resolve had been
too hastily put in execution. Meantime the travellers were directing their course towards
Southampton. Berkley proposed that they should strike out farther westward, but his
advice was overruled, on the ground that they ought not to quit the neighbourhood of
the army till the result of the expected rendezvous was known, and the king's treaty
completed with the Scots. In this perplexity he suddenly resolved to go to the Isle of
Wight—“ for the first time,” observes Berkley, “for aught I could then discover.” But
Charles was determined by motives with which, unfortunate as they proved, Berkley was
unacquainted. Ashburnham, a few days previously, had recommended to the king Sir
John Oglander's house in the Isle of Wight, as a secure asylum. It was farther eligible,
he said, on account of the convenient distance of the island from the metropolis; of the
facilities it offered for escape, or communication with the king's friends by sea; and of
its having few or no soldiers. But its chief recommendation rested on an opinion
he entertained that the governor, Colonel Hammond, might be gained over. He had
lately met Hammond, who, renewing a slight acquaintance formerly existing between
them, had told him, that since he found the army was resolved to break all promises
with the king, he had determined to get out of the way by returning to his government,
for he would have no share in such perfidious actions.
The party had arrived within twenty miles of the island, when some natural misgivings
arose in Charles's mind. Hammond was, in some degree, known to him as the nephew
of his favourite and justly famous chaplaim, the author of the “Practical Catechism ;”
and he had reason to believe him a man of honour, and one who bore no animosity to
his person. But he had long served as a colonel in the parliamentarian army, and now
held the highly responsible office of military governor, by the appointment of his enemies,
The king therefore prudently despatched Berkley and Ashburnham to sound Hammond,
while, attended only by Legge, he himself proceeded to Tichfield, the seat of the Earl
of Southampton, intending to await, in the bosom of that loyal family, the issue of their
negotiation. They were to show the governor copies of the two letters which warned
the king of the danger of assassination, with Charles's letter to the parliament; and to
tell him, that in yielding to the necessity of flight, not from the army, but from the
daggers of assassins, the king had made choice of him to confide in, as a person of hon-
ourable extraction, and one who, though engaged against him in the war, he had reason
to believe, had been actuated by no feeling of personal hostility. They were to ask
for protection for the king and his servants; or, if he could not grant this, that he would
HAMIPTON COURT. 247
leºve them to themselves. The two had already taken leave, when Berkley, foreseeing
the possibility of their forcible detention, came back and advised the king, that if their
return should be delayed beyond the next day, he should think no more of them, but
secure his own escape. Charles thanked him for the caution, and they parted.
A violent storm detained the king's envoys that night at Lymington; but in the
morning they crossed over, and met with the governor in the way between Carisbrooke
Castle and Newport. It is among the extraordinary circumstances in this negotiation,
that Ashburnham, notwithstanding his personal knowledge of Hammond, instead of
himself addressing him, should have deputed his companion, who had no such advantage.
Berkley, saluting the governor, abruptly opened his message by asking him, “Who he
thought was near him P” and continued,—“even good King Charles, who has come from
Hampton Court for fear of being murdered privately.” “This,” observes Ashburnham
in his narrative, “ was a very unskilful entrance into our business.” While Sir John
delivered the king's message, the governor, who saw instantly into what a difficult posi-
tion he was thrown by this unexpected communication, turned pale, trembled, and had
nearly fallen from his horse. “O gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “you have undone me by
bringing the king into the island,-if you have brought him;-and if not, pray let him
not come ; for, what between my duty to his majesty, and my gratitude for this fresh
obligation of his confidence on the one hand, and the observance of my trust to the army
on the other, I shall be confounded !” By degrees Hammond recovered his self-possession,
expressed at length his willingness to serve the king, and invited the two negotiators to
dine with him, when they might confer farther. They failed to draw from him any
definite promise; but he proposed that one of them should remain with him in the
castle, while the other should take horse and go to the king, who, he was confident,
would be satisfied with such a general assurance as he could give. Berkley avers that
he gladly embraced the proposal to remain; “though,” adds he, “I had the image of the
gallows very perfectly before me.” Hammond, however, presently reopened the confer-
ence, and, after a long debate, pledged himself “to perform whatever could be expected
from a person of honour and honesty.” Before Berkley could speak, Ashburnham, who
now seemed as much in haste to close the interview as he had been slow to begin it,
replied: “I will ask no more.” “Now then,” added Hammond, “let us all go together
to the king.” Ashburnham consented. Berkley, in astomishment, stepped aside from
the governor, and, addressing Ashburnham, asked, “What, do you mean to carry this
man to the king, before you know whether he will approve of this undertaking or not ?
You will indeed surprise him.” “I’ll warrant you,” was all the other's reply. “And so
you shall,” observed the more prudent negotiator: “for you know the king much better
than I do, and therefore when we shall come where he is, I assure you I will not see him
before you have satisfied his majesty concerning your proceedings.” “Well,” returned
Ashburnham, “I will take it upon me.” That Ashburnham so readily consented to
Hammond’s proposal to accompany them, proceeded, he says, first, from his wish that
the king should have the opportunity to make his own conditions; and, secondly, from
considering that it was useless to refuse, as Hammond would have sent his spies, and so


248 HAMPTON COURT.
discovered the king's place of concealment. At Cowes, the governor proposed to take
the captain of the castle with him. Berkley again objected, but Ashburnham silenced
him by observing—“No matter, they are but two, whom we could easily manage.”
When the four arrived at Tichfield, Berkley remained below with Hammond and the
-captain, while Ashburnham, according to his promise, went up to the king, and told him
what had passed. The scene that ensued more than realized all Berkley's apprehensions,
and awakened the faithful but incompetent envoy to a fearful sense of his imprudence.
Charles started in agony, struck his breast, and, casting a look of bitter reproach on
Ashburnham, exclaimed, “What, have you brought Hammond with you? Oh Jack
you have undone me, for I am by this means made fast from stirring; he will imprison
me!” Ashburnham now, in his despair, proposed what he calls an expedient. If the
king mistrusted Hammond, he would, with his majesty’s permission, undertake to secure
him. “I understand you well enough,” answered Charles; “but how would the murder
of this man be viewed 2 If I should follow your counsel, it would be said, and believed,
that he had ventured his life for me, and that I had unworthily taken it from him. I
have sent to Hamptom for a vessel, and was expecting news of it every moment. But it
is now too late to think of anything, except going through the way you have forced upon
me, and leaving the issue to God.” -
While this discourse was passing, Hammond and the captain grew so impatient at the
long delay, that Berkley was forced to send and request that his majesty and Mr. Ash-
burnham would remember they were below. On their admission, they found Ashburnham
weeping bitterly. “Sir John Berkley,” said the king, “I hope you are not so passionate
as Jack Ashburnham : do you think you have followed my directions?” Berkley
answered, “No, indeed, Sir,” and briefly entered into a vindication of himself, as having
desired to conduct the negotiation otherwise. Charles now turned to Hammond, received
him cheerfully; and the governor repeated his protestations, with more earnestness and
warmth than he had shown at Carisbrooke, that the king might depend upon his doing
all that honour and honesty could demand. “But remember, Colonel Hammond,” said
Charles, “that I am to judge in this case what is meant by honesty and honour.”—The
party then mounted, and set forward towards the island.

249
CHAPTER, XXVII.
T H E IS L E O F W I G. H. T.
CHARLEs appeared to resume his habitual cheerfulness. The events of the first six weeks
after his arrival in the Isle of Wight, were calculated to lessen the annoyance which he
had felt on finding himself absolutely in the power of Hammond, and to flatter his friends
with the hope that he had gained, by his last adventure, not ease and security alone, but
freedom and the probable means of restoration. The inhabitants of the island were,
without exception, loyal; and, in that secluded spot, where the despotism of the army
had scarcely yet been felt, were not afraid to display the attachment they felt to their
unfortunate sovereign. With expressions of unrestrained delight, they attended him to
the stately portal of Carisbrooke, presenting him with flowers, even at that advanced
season, the produce of their mild climate, and still employed by the simpler English of
the seventeenth century to express sentiments which, in our days, are ascribed to them
only by the artist and the poet. His chaplains and servants, as soon as the place of his
retreat became known, hastened to him, and were admitted. Entrance was denied to
none who claimed it on the plea of duty. Hammond appeared willing to forget that he
had any other master but the king. On writing to the parliament a statement of the
remarkable incidents by which his illustrious inmate had come into his custody, he
professsed, with perfect sincerity, a determination to use his utmost endeavours to
preserve the royal person, even at the risk of his own life, from any such horrid attempt
as had been threatened at Hampton Court; and, acquainting the houses that the accom-
modations afforded by Carisbrooke Castle were “no ways suitable to his quality,” he
solicited a vote for the continuance of the king's allowance, on the consideration of which
they immediately entered. Hammond carried still farther the frankness and good-will
with which the king had inspired him. At his request, Charles sent a message to the
parliament, once more repeating the assurance of his anxious desire to settle a peace by a
personal treaty; and, for the first time, proposed such terms as involved the surrender of
both church and crown. He suggested the policy of a like communication to the army,
through one of the king's personal friends, who, besides a letter to the general, should be
furnished with others, more confidential, to Cromwell and Ireton, urging them to close
with the king's offers.
To execute this mission, Charles chose Sir John Berkley; who readily undertook it,
though, as he tells us, not without apprehensions of the event. Berkley found Fairfax
engaged in a meeting of officers; he sent in the general’s letters, and, after long waiting,
was himself admitted. His welcome corresponded to the inattention implied in that
3 s

250 THE ISILE OF WIGHT,
delay. Fairfax received him with a severe countenance, and, in the cold manner natural
to him, merely said, that “they were the parliament’s army, to whom they would send the
king's letters.” Berkley looked round upon Cromwell, Ireton, and the other officers with
whom he was acquainted: they saluted him with an ominous coldness and distance, unlike
anything he had ever experienced from them before, and, with a smile of bitter disdain,
showed him Hammond’s letter. The envoy saw that was no place for him, and hurried
to his inn. There he waited, but no one sought him. At length he sent his servant out,
to see if he could light on some of his acquaintance. A general-officer whispered in the
man’s ear, that he would meet his master at twelve o’clock, in a retired spot which he
named. The information obtained at this midnight interview was answerable to its secrecy
and solemnity. “You remember,” said Berkley’s mysterious interlocutor, “that we, who
were zealous for an engagement with the king, resolved to discover if we were cozened.
We mistrusted Cromwell and Ireton, as I informed you. I come now to tell you that we
mistrust neither; but know them, and all of us, to be the archest villains in the world.
For we are resolved, notwithstanding our engagements, to destroy the king and his
posterity. This afternoon Ireton proposed that you should be sent prisoner to London,
and that none should speak to you upon pain of death, and I hazard my life now by doing
so. It is intended to send eight hundred of the most disaffected of the army to secure
the king's person, which we believe not to be secure where he is, and then to bring him
to trial. I dare think no more –This will be done in ten days. If the king can escape,
let him do it !” Berkley, in astonishment, demanded the reason of this change in the
officers: “what had the king done to deserve it?” The other knew of nothing. Had
they been able to take any advantage of his conduct, they would have been but too happy
to make it public. “This, however,” continued the informant, “I conceive to be the
case. Though, at the late rendezvous, one of the mutineers was shot, and eleven made
prisoners, and the rest in appearance subdued, yet they were not so in fact. Two-thirds
of the army have since come to Cromwell and Ireton, and plainly told them, that ‘ they
were determined, be the danger what it might, still to persevere; and if the officers
refused to unite with them, they would divide from them.” The inference which Cromwell
drew was equally consistent with his genius and his ambition. “If we cannot bring the
army to our sense, we must go to theirs: division would ruin all.’ He employed Peters
as his negotiator. ‘ I acknowledge, observed the dexterous lieutenant-general to his
warlike chaplain, ‘ that in this thing I have been led astray. The glories of the world so
dazzled my eyes (alluding to the wealth and honours, which it is said he had agreed to
accept, as the price of promoting the restoration of the king), that I could not discern
clearly the great work the Lord was doing. But now I am resolved to humble myself,
and desire the prayers of the saints, that God may be pleased to forgive me my self-
seeking.” To this language he added soothing messages to the prisoners, with assurances
that no farther harm should be allowed to happen to them.” Thus was effected that
reconciliation, which we shall presently find publicly and solemnly recognized.
Berkley immediately sent off despatches by his cousin, who had accompanied him
from the Isle of Wight. In a letter intended for the governor’s eye, he gave a general
ºs I （， ，II，II，I CINC， No， No， čo º nos ： Hael）
（IIIaeſſoſ,ſ ºſºtritºire）)， ±)|-





THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 251
w
account of the state of things in the army; in a second, written in cipher, he commu-
nicated to the king the particulars of his secret conference, “naming the person, and
concluding with a most passionate supplication to his majesty to think of nothing but his
immediate escape.” In the morning he sent an officer to Cromwell, to let him know that
he had letters and instructions for him from the king. Cromwell sent word back by the
same messenger, that he durst not see him, it being very dangerous for both. However,
he assured him, that he would serve his majesty as long as he could do it without his own
ruin; but desired Berkley not to expect that he should perish for his sake. The discom-
fited negotiator immediately took horse for London.
Before he left Carisbrooke, Berkley had desired to be furnished with authority to treat
with the Scottish commissioners, in case, as he feared might happen, he failed with the
army. As this request was refused, he imagined that now no farther impediment would
delay the king's escape, which at that time seemed easy to be effected. He daily rode in
any direction he pleased about the island. It was doubtful whether Hammond would
attempt to hinder his going; but should he do so, the faithful adherents of the king
within the castle were fully sufficient to overpower the guard, which consisted only of a
few feeble old men, not well affected to the parliament. A frigate, provided by the queen,
was lying at Southampton, ready to receive him. But the king's disposition to intrigue—
in other words, his excessive, and, assuredly, groundless confidence in the skill of himself
and his friends in the profounder arts of diplomacy—once more betrayed him. In an
interview, in London, with Lauderdale and Laneric, Berkley was surprised to find that
the king was still engaged in carrying on the treaty with the Scots, employing at this
time the agency of a certain Dr. Gough. This person, an intriguing popish priest sent
over by the queen and Jermyn, obtained an insight into those proceedings of the army
which had alarmed Sir John, had likewise conjured the king to make his speedy escape,
and besought him not to insist too nicely upon terms in so frightful an exigency of his
affairs. The Scottish commissioners themselves employed the like urgency, informing
him that they had certain intelligence of a design to subject him to close confinement,
preparatory to some attempt upon his life. On the other hand, Ashburnham, who at
this moment absolutely guided the king's measures, held Charles from day to day in the
meshes of that hesitation which was too natural to his diffident and conscientious temper;
and at last it was determined between them, not to close with the Scots until he should
have conferred personally with the commissioners. They came; and were preceded, the
space of a day, by commissioners from the parliament.
The parliamentary commissioners brought down with them the four propositions (or
bills, as they are commonly styled), famous in the history of this time, which Charles was
to consider as all the answer that would be vouchsafed to the large offers contained in his
last message, and to which he was required to give his assent as the previous condition of
a personal treaty. It was on occasion of the voting of these propositions by the parlia-
ment, that the final and irreparable breach took place between them and the commis-
sioners of Scotland. By the first proposition the command of the army was to be
vested in the parliament for twenty years, with a provision which, in effect, rendered this
252 THE ISLE OF WIGHT,
enactment perpetual; the second recalled all oaths, proclamations, and declarations,
issued against the parliament during the war, and declared that assembly to have taken
up arms in their own just and necessary defence; the third annulled all titles of honour,
granted under the great seal, since it had been carried off by Lord Littleton in 1642, and
deprived all peers, to be afterwards created, of the right of sitting in parliament, except
with the consent of the two houses; the fourth, with the view of insuring the perpetual
submission of the parliament to the army, conferred on the houses the power of adjourn-
ing from place to place at their discretion. Their absolute enslavement, at this time, to
the despotism of the army, notwithstanding the numerical strength of the Presbyterians,
is sufficiently apparent in the tenor of all four. That the king would give the required
assent, was expected by no party; by none but determined enemies, acting in the spirit
of conquerors, could such a series of propositions have been submitted to him. He would
naturally object on two grounds. 1. The oppressive tenor of the propositions themselves,
which was such as would have left him absolutely at the mercy of his inveterate enemies.
“If,” wrote a contemporary, “he pass these bills, he will dishearten his friends, unking
himself and his posterity for ever, be carried up and down like a stalking-horse to their
designs, and be crowned ludibrio coronae, with straw or thorns. For who can think that,
at the end of twenty years, these usurpers will lay down what they have so unjustly
extorted, contrary to all laws divine and human, and contrary to their own declarations,
oaths, and covenants? And who can, or dare, wrest those powers out of their hands,
being once settled and grown customary in them; the people's spirits broken with habitual
servitude, a numerous army and garrisons hovering over them, and all places of judicature
filled with corrupt judges, who shall, by constrained interpretations of the law, force
bloody precedents out of them, against whomsoever shall dare to be so good a patriot as
to oppose their tyranny?” 2. The monstrous demand of an assent, as preliminary to a
treaty, to concessions which involved the whole substance of the hardest possible terms
that could be proposed in the treaty itself, and these unaccompanied by the shadow of a
concession on the other side. But the Scottish commissioners had, besides, objections
peculiar to themselves. The interests of their nation, and of the Presbyterians generally,
were, by this vote, wholly set aside; they were themselves on the point of closing with
the king on their own terms; they burned with long-cherished resentment against their
imperious allies, and they were unwilling by any further oppression of the king to add to
the opprobrium they had formerly brought upon themselves by the base transfer of his
person, agreed to at Newcastle. They asked for a copy of the bills, which they complained
had not been communicated to them; and remonstrated, in high and uncompromising
terms, against the whole proceeding, as unjust in itself, and as being, for want of their
concurrence, a violation of the covenant. -
The parliament, or the Independents and republicans who ruled it, rejected with
scorn this attempt to control their actions, and voted the interference of any foreign
nation in their proceedings, an invasion of the independence of the kingdom. An elabo-
rate answer to the Scots' remonstrance was composed by Marten. This man, even as early
as the spring of the year 1646, when there was a debate in the Commons about sending
-


THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 253
propositions to the king, had not scrupled to say that “the man to whom the propositions
should be sent, ought rather to come to the bar himself, than be sent to any more.” On
the present occasion he took part in the affairs of his faction “with an infinite zeal,” as it
has been called, which must have delighted the agitators. His cold and biting sarcasms,
made more effective by the reputed levity of his character, as “ the buffoon of the house,”
must have been felt by the Scots. An extract from this savage, yet statesman-like invec-
tive, will throw light, not only on the temper of the Independents at this time, but on the
sentiments really entertained by them towards the Scots, from the beginning of the war.
With respect to the alleged infringement of the covenant, “I do not conceive,” he says,
“ the parties to that league intended thereby to be everlastingly bound to each other;
the grounds of striking it being merely occasional, for the joining in a war to suppress a
common enemy. Accordingly we did join ; the enemy is, if we be wise, suppressed, and the
war, as you say, ended; what should the covenant do, but, like an almanac of the last
year, show us rather what we have already done, than what we be now to do?” Again :
“Your entitling yourselves to a cognizance in the conditions of our peace, and conse-
quently in the matter of our laws, when they relate to an agreement, as I confess the four
bills do which were sent, is grounded upon a very great mistake of the eighth article in
the treaty; the words whereof are, indeed, very rightly recited by you, and the article
itself so rational, so ordinary, so necessary, in all wars joined in by two states, that
I do almost wonder as much what need there was to have inserted it, as I do how it
is possible for you to mistake it. It stands briefly thus: one of you (for the purpose) and
I (pardon, if you please, the familiarity of the instance), have solemnly engaged ourselves
each to other for our mutual aid against a third person, because we conceived him too
strong for either of us single, or because one of us doubted he might have drawn the
other of us to his party, if not pre-engaged against him; but whichsoever of us was first
in the quarrel, or whatever was the reason of the other's coming in, we are engaged; and,
though there were no writings drawn betwixt us, no terms expressed, were not I the
veriest skellum that ever looked man in the face, if I should shake hands with the com-
mon adversary, and leave you fighting? Against such a piece of business, supposing it
to be like to be in nature, this article provides, and says, that since these two kingdoms
were content to join in a war, which, without God’s great mercy, might have proved fatal
to them both, neither of them shall be suffered to make its peace apart ; so as, if the
parliament of Scotland, upon consideration of reasons occurring to themselves, should
offer to readmit the king into that kingdom, I say, not with honour, freedom, and safety,
but in peace, the parliament of England might step in, and forbid the banns; telling
them we are not satisfied that an agreement should yet be made; similiter, if this parlia-
ment would come to any peace with him by bills or propositions, or by what other name
soever they call their plasters, you may, being so authorized, in the name of that king-
dom, or the parliament thereof, intervene and oppose; telling us that you, who are our
fellow-surgeons merely in lancing of the sore, are not satisfied in the time for healing of it
up; but for you to read a lecture to us upon our medicaments and their ingredients, to
3 T

254 THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
take measure of wounds, and to prefer your measure before that of our own taking, was
never dreamt on by the framers of this article.”
A few pages after the above powerful paragraph, he becomes still more explicit:
“When,” says he, “you ask, why we do not observe the same forwardness in communicating
our matters to you, the same patience in expecting your concurrence with us, and the
same easiness of admitting your harangues and disputations among us, which you have
heretofore tasted at our hands, and how we are become less friendly than we were ? I
have this to say, there is some alteration in the condition of affairs: so long as we needed
the assistance of your countrymen in the field, we might have occasion to give you meet-
ings at Derby House, and now and then in the painted chamber, it being likely that the
kingdom of Scotland might then have a fellow-feeling with us for the wholesomeness or
perniciousness of your counsels; whereas, now since we are able, by God’s blessing, to
protect ourselves, we may surely, with his holy direction, be sufficient to teach ourselves
how to go about our own business, at least without your tutoring, who have nothing in
your consideration to look upon, but either your particular advantage, or that of the
kingdom whence you are.”
The parliament’s commissioners were ordered to stay but four days in the Isle of
Wight. In the mean time the commissioners of Scotland presented their protest against
the four propositions, and obtained the more important object of the king's signature to
the private treaty with themselves. The king, on his part, consented in this treaty to
the establishment of Presbyterianism in England for three years, with every other conces-
sion, in matters relating to religion, which his conscience would allow, and agreed to
confirm the covenant in Scotland; the commissioners stipulating, on the other side, that
the kingdom of Scotland, failing all peaceful endeavours to that end, should send an army
into England for his restoration to the full enjoyment of his rights and revenues. That
no accident might break that seal of secrecy with which this transaction had hitherto been
conducted, the writing itself was enclosed in lead, and buried in a garden, till some more
safe opportunity occurred for conveying it away.
To the two houses, Charles replied: that “neither the desire of being freed from his
tedious and irksome condition of life, nor the apprehension of worse treatment, should
ever prevail with him to give his assent to any bills as part of the agreement, until the
whole had been concluded in a personal treaty.” The king returned his answer to the
commissioners sealed, but they insisted that it should be delivered to them open. Dread-
ing the worst consequences, should they return without any answer, he consented, on their
solemnly engaging, that, after they had read the letter, no difference should be made in
his present treatment. In this promise, Hammond, who appeared with the commissioners,
was held by Charles to be included. No sooner, however, had the commissioners with-
drawn, than Hammond, in an angry mood locked the gates, doubled the guards, and
ordered the king's chaplains and attendants to quit the castle. Charles summoned the
governor to his presence. He came, with a sullen, low’ring demeanour. A dialogue then
ensued, marked, it must be confessed, hardly less by bitterness on the king's part, a

THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 255
bitterness which returned no more, after (in his own language) “worse” had befallen
him, than by a brutal contrast, on the governor’s, to that courtesy which hitherto he had
shown towards his royal charge.
The King.—“Why do you use me thus? Where are your orders for it? Was it the
Spirit that moved you?” (Hammond was in the habit of using the affected “godly”
language of his party.) For a time the governor remained silent; he then alleged the
king’s answer to the commissioners.
The King.—“Did you not engage your honour you would take no advantage from
thence against me?”
Hammond.—“I said nothing.”
The King.—“You are an equivocating gentleman; will you allow me any chaplain?
You pretend for liberty of conscience; shall I have none?”
Hammond.—“I cannot allow you any chaplain.”
The King.—“You are now neither like a gentleman nor a Christian.”
Hammond.—“I’ll speak with you when you are in better temper.”
The King.—“I have slept well to-night.”
Hammond.—“I have used you very civilly.”
The King.—“Why do you not so now, them?”
Hammond.—“Sir, you are too high.”
The King.—“My shoemaker is in fault, then. My shoes are of the same last, &c.
(twice or thrice repeated); shall I have liberty to go about to take the air?”
Hammond.—“No, I cannot grant it.”
The king then charged him with his allegiance, and told him that he “must answer
this.” Hammond wept. The poor man was, in fact, piteously perplexed; not with “a divided
duty” merely, but with peril to his life. He probably knew that the king was at that
moment meditating an escape, and had, no doubt, his orders from Cromwell what to do,
in case of that rejection of the bills which the lieutenant-general expected and desired.
Charles was left in the solitude of his guarded chamber, and his banished attendants
pursued their melancholy way to Newport. While conferring together there, on this
new and menacing crisis of the king's affairs, a drum was heard to “beat confusedly”
in the streets. It announced the rash attempt of Burley, an old royalist officer resident
in the island, to raise a party for the king's rescue. The inhabitants flocked together,
with shouts of “God and King Charles.” It was manifest, however, to Ashburnham,
Berkley, and their companions, that so crude and feeble an enterprise must fail, and they
exerted themselves successfully “to persuade those poor, well-affected people to desist.”
Burley, notwithstanding, was seized by Hammond's order, tried before one of Cromwell’s
judges, found guilty of levying war against the king, and executed with savage conformity
to all the cruelties prescribed by the statute-book in cases of high treason.
The parliament had, in effect, constantly refused to treat with the king, by refusing
to do so except upon the basis of their own inadmissible propositions. They were now,
to the great joy of the Independents, relieved by their victim himself from the irksome
necessity of maintaining even the forms of decent respect. Immediately on the return

256 THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
of the commissioners to Westminster, a resolution to the following purport, drawn up
by Marten, was proposed in the Commons: “That no farther addresses should be made
to the king, nor any message be received from him, by the houses; and that if any
person, without their leave, contravened this order, he should be liable to the penalties
of treason.” Sir Thomas Wroth was the first to speak in support of this proposition.
Next rose Ireton, and, in a speech, the affected moderation of which presented a contrast
with the coarse violence of the previous orator, said, “the king had denied that protec-
tion to the people which was the condition of obedience to him; that after long patience
they should now at last show themselves resolute; that they should not desert the brave
men—the many thousand godly men—who had fought for them beyond the possibility
of retreat or forgiveness, and who would never forsake the parliament unless the parlia-
ment first forsook them.” After some further debate, says the writer who has recorded
these speeches, Cromwell brought up the rear. It was time, he said, to answer the
public expectation, that they were able and resolved to govern and defend the kingdom
by their own power, and teach the people that they had nothing to hope from a man
whose heart God hardened in obstimacy. “Do not,” he concluded (after extolling in the
highest terms the valour and godliness of the soldiers), “let the army think themselves
betrayed to the rage and malice of an irreconcilable enemy, whom they have subdued
for your sake, from whom they should meet revenge and justice; do not drive them to
despair, lest they seek safety by other means than adhering to you, who will not stick
to yourselves; and (laying his hand on his sword) how destructive such a resolution in
them will be to you all, I tremble to think, and leave you to judge.” The resolution
passed by a majority of 141 to 92. The concurrence of the parliament, in the extremest
views of the army being thus far secured, Cromwell resolved to mark this unity of object
as absolute and irrevocable, by a solemn public act. A meeting of the general-officers
and chief agitators (now entirely reconciled, upon the principles of the levellers), was held
at Windsor in the presence of the parliament’s commissioners. The preliminaries of this
conference were fasting and prayer. In this last exercise Cromwell and Ireton distinguished
themselves in a manner worthy of the signal occasion; the “godly” were enraptured,
and described the “ outpourings of the spirit” (whatever spirit it was) “ which on that
occasion breathed from the lips of those great men, as such sweet music as the heavens
never before knew.” This scene of awful profanity was acted in the royal halls of Windsor
Castle! And there also, as if to fill up the hateful climax in a manner the most grotesquely
incongruous, was formally adopted the resolution, long before conceived in their obscurer
conclaves, that the king should be brought to trial by the nation, as a shedder of his
people's blood. “We declare,” say the army, in their public resolutions at this meeting,
in language as explicit as it was yet prudent publicly to employ, “that we are resolved
firmly to adhere to and stand by the parliament in their vote not to make any farther
addresses, &c. and in what shall be farther necessary for prosecution thereof, and for the
settling and securing of the parliament and kingdom, witHouT THE KING and AGAINST
HIM, or any other that shall hereafter partake with him.” Hitherto the Lords had
hesitated to adopt the recent vote of the Commons:—the army’s “agreement” decided

THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 257
them. To make all sure, the houses were farther obliged to agree in a request to Fairfax
to quarter a regiment of infantry at Whitehall, and one of cavalry at the Mews, for their
protection. The general complied; and presently afterwards laid aside, for a time, even
the appearance which he had hitherto maintained, of executing, in his own person, the
functions of his dictatorial office. Alleging exhaustion by “the multiplicity of business,”
he transferred to a committee of officers, at the head of whom were Cromwell, Ireton,
and Fleetwood, the settlement of all affairs relating to the army—i.e., for so it really was,
to the entire interests and welfare of the nation. By such means was the imprisoned
king already set aside, and a republic, or rather a military despotism, imposed upon
the nation.
But loyalty, if it can be said ever to have been extinct among the people, was now
rapidly rekindling in their bosoms; even the sternest of the Presbyterians, except such
as were silenced, by the immediate dread of military violence, asserting the equity of the
king's claim to be heard in a personal conference. It became necessary therefore to
invest the late proceedings with some appearance of reason. A “Declaration” was
consequently prepared, to vindicate their necessity and justice. In this famous document
was brought together the whole mass of errors and crimes, real and imaginary, with which
the government was chargeable, from, and even before, the king’s accession. The failures,
the exactions, the illegal punishments, the bloodshed,—in short, all the grievances
embodied in their first remonstrance on the state of the kingdom, and every calumny
added in subsequent declarations, were raked together, and, with other charges, hitherto
unheard of, or suffered to sleep in the obscure recesses of slander, were exhibited in the
darkest colours which malevolence could command. It was more than insinuated that
the death of King James had been caused by poison, administered to him through the
contrivance of Charles and the Duke of Buckingham. On this point even Selden rose
to vindicate the king. He had been, he said, one of the committee nominated to investi-
gate the causes of King James's death, and he remembered nothing in the evidence which
reflected on his majesty. He therefore moved the omission of that clause, but was put
down by the republicans, who threatened him with instant expulsion.
Yet the parliament’s “Declaration” was thought less forcible than might have been
expected from the talents and malignity of its authors, employed on a field of mistake and
misfortune so extensive, calamitous, and obnoxious to prejudice and misrepresentation.
It was not left, however, to work its effects unanswered. Charles published a counter-
declaration from his own hand; and a more regular and minute defence appeared from
the pen of the faithful Hyde. In the king's appeal to the people, having vindicated his
desire, and his frequent endeavours to settle a peace, and pointed out the grounds on
which his rejection of the four bills was both reasonable and inevitable, he proceeds, as
follows, with a statement, certainly not too highly coloured, of his patience under the
severe treatment he was then suffering: “That by the permission of Almighty God, I am
reduced to this sad condition, as I no way repine, so I am not without hope but that the
same God will, in due time, convert these afflictions unto my advantage. In the mean

3 U
258 THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
time, I am content to bear these crosses with patience and a great equality of mind; but
by what means or occasion I am come to this relapse in my affairs, I am utterly to seek,
especially when I consider that I have sacrificed to my two houses of parliament, for the
peace of the kingdom, all but what is more dear to me than my life, my conscience and
honour; desiring nothing more than to perform it in the most proper and natural Way, a
personal treaty . . . . -
“And now I would know,” he eloquently concludes, “what it is that is desired: is it
peace? I have showed the way, being both willing and desirous to perform my part in
it, which is a just compliance with all chief interests. Is it plenty and happiness? They
are the inseparable effects of peace. Is it security? I, who wish that all men would
forgive and forget, like me, have offered the militia for my time. Is it liberty of con-
science? He who wants it is most ready to give it. But if I may not be heard, let every
one judge who it is that obstructs the good I would or might do. What is it that men
are afraid to hear from me? It cannot be reason (at least, none will declare themselves
so unreasonable as to confess it), and it can less be impertinent or unreasonable discourses;
for thereby, peradventure, I might more justify this my restraint than the causes them-
selves can do: so that, of all wonders yet, this is the greatest to me. But it may easily
be gathered, how those men intend to govern who have used me thus: and if it be my
hard fate to fall, together with the liberty of this kingdom, I shall not blush for myself,
but much lament the future miseries of my people; the which I shall still pray to God to
avert, whatever becomes of me.”
Cromwell, in the mean time, not fully assured of Hammond, was prosecuting an
anxious and subtile correspondence, designed to confirm that functionary in obedience to
the directions and the views of his masters. The following letter is highly characteristic,
both of the writer and his correspondent:-‘‘DEAREST Robin, Now (blessed be God) I
can write, and thou receive, freely. I never in my life saw more deep sense, and less will
to show it unchristianly, than in that which thou didst write to us at Windsor; and
though in the midst of thy temptation, which indeed (by what we understand of it) was
a great one, and occasioned the greater by the letter the general sent thee, of which thou
wast not mistaken when thou didst challenge me to be the penner. How good has God
been to dispose all to mercy And although it was trouble for the present, yet glory is
come out of it, for which we praise the Lord with thee, and for thee; and truly thy
carriage has been such as occasions much honour to the name of God and religion. Go
on in the strength of the Lord, and the Lord be still with thee! But, dear Robin, this
business hath been (I trust) a mighty providence to this poor kingdom, and to us all. The
house of Commons is very sensible of the king's dealings, and of our brethren’s, in this
late transaction. You should do well, if you have anything that may discover juggling,
to search it out, and let us know it; it may be of admirable use at this time; because we
shall (I hope) instantly go upon business in relation to them tending to prevent danger. .
Let us know how it is with you in point of strength, and what you need from us;
some of us think the king well with you, and that it concerns us to keep that island in


THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 259
great security, because of the French, &c.; and if so, where can the king be better? If
you have more force, you will [be] sure of full provision for them. The Lord bless thee:
pray for thy dear friend and servant,
* O. CROMWELL.”
The measures, regarding the secure possession of the king, which were taken by the
parliament after the vote of non-addresses, were such as are indicated in this curious epistle.
The houses confirmed the precautions of Hammond by an order for the dissolution of the
royal household, authorizing the general to appoint attendants on the king, in any number
not exceeding thirty; a vote, presently afterwards superseded by one which referred it to
Hammond “to appoint eight such persons as he should think fit,” with full liberty to
“ place and displace ’’ at pleasure. Troops were, at the same time, marched into the
island; and Rainsborough (originally a seaman, though latterly colonel of a regiment
under Fairfax), being appointed to the command of the fleet, with the view at once of
satisfying the fiercest among the republicans as to the sincerity with which the
“grandees” had embraced the regicidal cause, and of setting aside Warwick, the
Presbyterian, was ordered round with his ships to blockade the island. In carrying
this last precautionary measure into effect, an important difficulty occurred.
260
CHAPTER, XXVIII.
POPULAR INDIGNATION–SECOND WAR.
THE late republican vote had opened the eyes of the people. Blood of theirs had been
lavishly shed—treasure to an enormous amount, wrung from the sinews of the commonalty,
or obtained by casting out to confiscation and beggary the ancient nobility of the land,
had been squandered—its most venerable institutions subverted—on pretence of restoring
the nation to a state of freedom and happiness. And what was the result, as now seen
and felt by all? Three great parties, each irreconcilably hostile to both the others,
poured over every district, town, hamlet, hearth, and bosom, the bitterness of social hatred
and division. One estate of the legislature, having first usurped the proper functions of
the whole, had then seized those of the executive, and was now itself being swallowed up
in the despotism of its mercenary instruments. More than a year had elapsed since the
army of the parliament had been left victorious, and without an enemy; but the exactions
necessary for its maintenance, instead of being abolished, had increased; and still it
continued clamorous for more pay, as well as larger power, though every post of authority
and emolument in the realm was already occupied either by its officers, mostly low-born
and insolent men, or by its obsequious creatures in that degraded assembly which still
bore the name of an English parliament. The sovereign (to surround whose throne with
constitutional landmarks, which a dutiful and affectionate people were never, on their side,
to overpass, had been held forth as the sufficient object of seven years of strife), was now
a captive in a remote fortress, denied the privilege of negotiating with his rebellious
subjects, and denied in terms which intimated a purpose to supersede his office by the
introduction of an arbitrary form of government, unknown to the constitution, and alien
to the habits and wishes of the people, and even obscurely to countenance the rumours
current that he was destined to perish on the scaffold or in the dungeon. Such were
those circumstances that engaged the thoughts, and supplied the conversation, of the
people; of whom three-fourths had either retained the old loyalty of Englishmen, through
those struggles which they had been taught to regard as no less needful for the king's
welfare than their own, or, if extinguished for a season, felt it now rekindle from indig-
nation against their betrayers. The press, never more emergetic than throughout this
period, lent its aid in spite of penalties; the king's immediate friends, though uncertain
and disunited, were variously active; in short, the whole country appeared to heave with
throes of indignant agitation, and the renewal of that unnatural and disastrous War
began, on all sides, to be apprehended.
The general discontent, as usual, first found a voice in petitions, which were poured
into the parliament from many quarters, but all concurring in the same prayer for the


POPULAR INDIGNATION.—SECOND WAR. 26L
return of the king. The petition from the county of Surrey, though distinguished by its
bold and constitutional language, marks, with a little allowance, the general style of these
addresses. On its presentation, which was attended by a large body of the petitioners, a
quarrel took place between the populace and the military, at the doors of the house of
Commons, in which blood was shed. Similar disturbances broke out at the principal
towns in Norfolk, Suffolk, Kent, Cornwall, and other counties. But the most serious
tumults arose in the city of London. Either as serviceable adherents, or as thorns in
their sides, the parliament had, from the beginning, found the apprentices of London
taking an eager interest in all their proceedings. That this interest had long ceased to
be favourable, was probably owing, at first, less to the encroachments of the house of
Commons upon the more important liberties of the subject, than to restrictions imposed
upon the enjoyments of youthful and laborious portions of the community by the sour
spirit of puritanism. The ancient sports and pastimes of the people were forbidden as
utterly unsanctified; holidays were exchanged for fasts; the Sunday itself was invested
with an air of Levitical severity, offensive to the national feeling, perhaps inconsistent
with the gracious temper of Christianity. Not long previously to the date now before us,
the apprentices had obtained, by petition, from the legislature, the boon of a play-day
once a month. It was, apparently, while not strictly confining themselves within the
limits of this notable remnant of English liberty, that, eager on their part for an outbreak,
they began to dispute with the guard, who were placed to enforce the prohibitory
ordinance. Partisans collected, weapons were drawn, the guard was overpowered; the
militia, assembling to suppress the riot, shared in the discomfiture of their brethren, and
took refuge in houses from the popular fury, but not till several persons had been killed
or wounded. The cry of “God and King Charles” was now raised on all sides, and some
disbanded officers and soldiers joining with the citizens, they got possession of Ludgate
and other defensible posts, drove the Lord Mayor within the ramparts of the Tower, and
boldly advanced against the troops at Westminster. Cromwell, eager to seize any tolerable
pretext for crushing the power of his enemies in the metropolis, charged, and, after an
obstinate resistance, dispersed the tumultuous masses. The like ill-success attended other
desultory risings. But these uncertain flashes were quickly followed by steadier fires of
loyal insurrection. It becoming manifest that the army must be withdrawn from the
neighbourhood of London, and that its best officers must again buckle on their harness,
the Independent leaders sought an appearance of reconciliation with the city. By their
direction, the parliament voted that no change should be made in the fundamental
government of the realm by king, lords, and commons: the citizens, in return, engaging
“to live and die with the parliament,” the city was once more allowed to take charge of
its militia, under their old commander Skippon, and Whitehall and the Mews were
relieved from the presence of Fairfax's troops.
Wholly unprepared for systematic action themselves, the king's friends were every-
where looking anxiously towards the north, in expectation of those warlike preparations
among the Scots which were to be the signal of a general rising. Rage against the Inde-
pendents, coupled with a report that Charles had secretly signed the covenant and engaged
3 X

262 POPULAR INDIGNATION-SECOND WAR.
to enforce it in both kingdoms, excited a degree of enthusiasm, for a time, throughout
Scotland. But the publication of the actual terms of the engagement with the king again
stifled every loyal feeling in that factious country. The English loyalists grew impatient
at waiting for their ambiguous and dilatory allies. It was nevertheless a casual accident
that drew out the first open declaration for the king. Poyer, who held a colonel’s com-
mission under the parliament, and was intrusted with the governorship of Pembroke
Castle, was among those who had agreed to declare themselves as soon as the Scots
appeared upon the border. His movements had, however, excited suspicion, and Colonel
Fleming suddenly appeared before the walls of Pembroke, bearing Fairfax's orders to
take the command. Poyer refused to give up his commission, raised the royal standard,
and repulsed Fleming on his attempting to take forcible possession of the castle. The
Welsh cavaliers, led by Colonel Langhorne, flew to arms, surprised Chepstow, and laid
siege to Caernarvon. Horton was sent against the insurgents, but with so little success,
that Cromwell deemed it expedient once more to take the field in person. His appearance
in the principality, at the head of his veterans, was, as every where else, the signal of
disaster to the royal cause. Langhorne was defeated; Chepstow recovered; Caernarvon
relieved, with the destruction of the besiegers. Still Poyer proclaimed defiance from
Pembroke. Cromwell resolving to carry the fortress in his usual sudden manner, prepared
the troops, by exciting harangues from himself and his fierce chaplains, for an overpower-
ing assault at midnight. Heated with fanatical enthusiasm, and eager to follow their
great captain to a fresh series of victories, they dashed across the ditch, scaled the
ramparts, and were about to throw themselves upon the garrison, whom they thought
unprepared, when on a sudden they found themselves attacked with the utmost fury;
and, after a short but sanguinary conflict, were compelled to return to their camp. For
more than six weeks the bravery of Poyer detained the impatient lieutenant-general before
this petty fortress.
The men of Kent had, in the mean time, remembered their ancient loyalty. Com-
motions, demonstrative of the popular temper, had occurred at Canterbury as early as
Christmas-day, when the mayor and aldermen were roughly handled by the citizens for
insisting that the usual business of the market should be transacted on that holy festival.
The deputy-lieutenants, creatures of the Independent party, were proceeding summarily
to inflict the punishment of traitors on the persons apprehended in this tumult, when
their design was arrested by a more formidable insurrection, in which the people seized
the military posts, and filled the air with cries of “God, King Charles, and Kent l” In
the absence of superior leaders (for the men of influence in the county kept themselves
aloof till the appearance of the Scots), a gentleman named Hales aspired to impart con-
sistency and purpose to the loyal emotions which agitated his county. Though known
only as the youthful heir to a baronetcy, his summons to the loyalists of Kent was eagerly
obeyed; associations were formed, arms collected, troops disciplined, in his name. The
spirit which prevailed on land had early communicated itself to the neighbouring fleet in
the Downs. The parliament hoped that the authority of Rainsborough would smother
every disposition to mutiny. While traversing Kent, however, the admiral was by no

POPULAR INIDIGNATION-SECOND WAR. 263
means confirmed in this expectation; and, on arriving at Deal, he hastened to go on
board. As he approached his vessel, observing probably some marks of disorder on board,
he began, in the rough imperious tone habitual to him, to issue his commands. The
seamen, assembled on the deck, answered by refusing to admit him on board, and taunt-
ingly desiring him to return to the parliament and acquaint them that they were the king's
fleet, and had resolved to serve his majesty. Then dismissing, in a similar manner, all
other officers whom they suspected of unwillingness to concur with them, they weighed
anchor, and stood over for Holland, to take on board the Duke of York, whom they
chose for their admiral-in-chief.
A body of the Kentish cavaliers appeared on Blackheath, expecting to be joined by
the inhabitants of London, but finding themselves confronted instead by Fairfax, who
marched through the metropolis to give them battle, they fell back upon Rochester and
Maidstone. In Maidstone, the insurgents made a vigorous stand, maintaining, for six
hours, an obstinate contest for the possession of the town; but their loss was propor-
tionate to their valour. Two hundred fell in the streets; twice that number were taken
prisoners; and, discouraged by this defeat, many of those who escaped returned to their
homes. The party who had taken refuge in Rochester, now led by Goring, to whom
Hales had yielded the post of honour, once more advanced to Blackheath and sought
the co-operation of the city. For a time the parliament was exposed to imminent
danger. No armed force was now at hand, to support their authority; the city swarmed
with royalists; the news of Hamilton’s advance, which was expected hourly, would
probably at once decide the common-council to declare for the king. Fortunately for
them, the adoption of still more conciliatory measures was facilitated by the absence of
the officers with the army. The imprisoned aldermen were set at liberty; the impeach-
ment of the six peers was abandoned; the eleven excluded members were allowed to
return to their seats. These concessions, with the immediate prospect of others, all
denoting the returning ascendency of the Presbyterians, decided the city; and Goring,
in no condition to cope with Fairfax, now advancing in his rear, crossed the Thames into
Essex, where he was welcomed by Lord Capel, Sir Charles Lucas, Sir George Lisle, and
other gentlemen and officers of name, who with a considerable levy were in arms to
support the men of Kent. The royalists now formed a body of about 3,000 horse and
foot, “with officers,” says Clarendon, “enough to have commanded a very good army.”
Wholly incompetent as this force must have proved to encounter Fairfax in the field,
it appeared to Goring sufficient to maintain itself in a position of strength until the
result of the other movements for the king could be ascertained. With this purpose
he threw himself into Colchester: the town was without any regular defence; but Goring,
relying on his own resources and the constancy of his gallant cavaliers, hastily erected
works before the avenues, and bade defiance to the parliamentarians, who presently made
their appearance.
Forty thousand troops was the number for which Hamilton succeeded in extorting
a vote from the Scottish parliament. in the midst of the fiercest opposition from Argyle
and the faction of the Kirk; but when, in July, the army mustered on the southern

264 POPULAR INDIGNATION.—SECOND WAR.
frontier, it did not exceed one-third of that amount, and many even of these had been
brought to their standards by force, in some instances not without bloodshed; they were
besides ill provided with arms and ammunition. At length Hamilton announced to Sir
Marmaduke Langdale and Sir Philip Musgrave, who had agreed to co-operate with him
in the north of England, that his preparations were nearly completed, and desired them
to fulfil their engagements. His orders were promptly and successfully obeyed. At
dawn, on a market-day in Berwick, a hundred cavaliers, with Langdale at their head,
deployed from the bridge-foot on the English side, and being joined by a party simulta-
neously collected in the town, took such quiet possession of the place, that ere an hour
had elapsed, the drawbridge was again lowered, the ports opened, and the market
proceeded without farther interruption. At the same time, and with equal facility,
Carlisle was seized by Musgrave. The loyal inhabitants of Northumberland, and the
adjoining counties, instantly appeared in arms; and Langdale was preparing to lead them
against Lambert, the parliament’s general in the north, when he was interrupted by
directions and entreaties from Hamilton, that nothing more might be dome till the Scottish
army had come up, for fear of farther exasperating the jealousy of the covenanters.
It was on the 8th that the Scots, preceded by rumours which at least tripled their
numbers, crossed the border. Monroe, however, the Scottish general in Ireland, having
wafted home his veterans, 3,000 strong, followed in the rear, whilst Langdale, with 4,000
gallant English, who had staked their all on the issue, led the van by the appointment
of the duke, who himself assumed the chief command. A determined movement on
London might have crushed the Independents, and saved the king; for Cromwell yet
lay before the walls of Pembroke, Fairfax and Ireton were busy at the siege of Colchester,
and Lambert, after skirmishing with Langdale, had retreated before him, soliciting aid
from Cromwell. But if Hamilton’s courage and ability were equal to the enterprise he
had undertaken, he was restrained by party policy, and the jealousies and disputes of the
camp. Forty days had elapsed before this luckless armament had completed a march of
eighty miles. The main body then attained the banks of the Ribble, near Preston
in Lancashire; Langdale being still far in advance, while Monroe, with the rearguard,
lay thirty miles off at Kirby, in Westmoreland.
Cromwell, seldom so long held in check, had at length succeeded in reducing Pem-
broke, and had taken Poyer and his brave associates Langhorne and Powell. He instantly
marched northward, and, forming a junction with Lambert at Knaresborough, determined
to attack the invaders with the advantage afforded him by their straggling march. Sir
Marmaduke, on whom the whole strength of the roundheads fell at once, was forced,
after a stout resistance, to give way before their numbers and impetuosity. Retiring to
the entrance of a narrow road which led to Preston, the cavaliers obstinately disputed
the ground for six hours, against overpowering odds, without the smallest support from
their allies. At the entrance to the town they were joined by Hamilton, with his guard
of horse and a few officers, but in such disorder as merely to add to the confusion of the
retreat. In the streets the fight was resumed, and continued to the bridge, over which
Bayley, with the Scottish foot, had just marched. At this point the contest was again
-
nºw
ºn tº
-
Nº No ºils








POPULAR INDIGNATION.—SEcond waR. 265
hotly renewed, Cromwell’s infantry and “the Lancashire regiments being” (in the words
of the lieutenant-general's animated despatch) “long engaged at push of pike. At length,”
he continues, “they were beaten from the bridge, and our horse and foot following them,
killed many, and took divers prisoners, and we possessed the bridge and a few houses
there, where we lay that night, the enemy being drawn up within musket-shot of us.”
This refers to such of the wearied and overmatched English as still kept together, for
the Scots were by this time in rapid retreat. Nothing could exceed the dismay and
disorder of this might-march, the roads being bad, the weather rainy, and the whole
army distracted with terror of the victorious foe. With the morning the pursuit was
again renewed, and continued to Warrington, where Bayley, though strongly posted
upon a bridge, in command of 6,000 men, surrendered to Cromwell without a blow. The
duke, in the mean time, accompanied by his principal officers and a few troops of cavalry,
had wandered to Uttoxeter, where falling in with a party of the Lord Grey of Groby's
men, whom Cromwell’s vigilance had roused to the pursuit, he yielded himself to their
mercy, with his own hand stripping off his scarf, george, and sword, and resigning them
to the officer in command. Langdale shared the fate of his unfortunate commander.
Having disbanded his remaining followers, he was taken in a village-inn near Nottingham,
where, in disguise, he had sought shelter. Never was victory so complete obtained at
smaller cost; for after the dispersion of the English under Langdale, not fifty men fell
on the side of the victors; whilst of the Scots, except the division under Monroe, and
the stragglers who succeeded in joining him, none recrossed the border. Such was the
disgraceful issue of an expedition, in the van of which, on its setting forth, its vain leader
is described as marching “with his life-guard and trumpeters before him, all in scarlet
cloaks full of silver lace, in great state, with standards and equipage like a prince 1”
While the parliament were suspending those dishonoured standards in Westminster
Hall, and offering public thanksgiving for their victory, Cromwell followed up the
disastrous blow by a march upon Edinburgh, to extinguish the remaining power of
the Hamiltonians.
Not less disgraceful, in its degree, proved an enterprise undertaken at the same time
by the Earl of Holland, who, though implicated in all the measures of the Presbyterians,
had sufficient interest to procure a commission from Paris to raise an army for the king.
Affecting scorn of all precaution against the Independents, he openly made his house in
London the general rendezvous of the royalists; and, on the same day on which the Scots
moved towards England, he also, at the head of a party of 500 cavaliers in warlike array,
several of them noblemen and gentlemen of the highest quality, marched out of the city,
and fixed his quarters at Kingston in Surrey. On the second day, through the negligence
of his chief military officer, Dalbier, the earl’s party was surprised, and dispersed by Colonel
Rich’s horse. At St. Neot's, whither he fled with about a hundred followers, he was a
second time attacked, and taken. Dalbier was slain, and with him the son of Sir Kenelm
Digby; but the most lamented loss in this contemptible insurrection was that of Lord
Francis Williers, the Duke of Buckingham’s brother, who fell, refusing quarter, in the
3 Y

266 POPULAR INIDIGNATION-SECOND WAR.
affray at Kingston. The duke himself escaped into the Netherlands, and the earl had
leisure, during a long imprisonment in Warwick Castle, to brood over the rashness of this
attempt to retrieve—what nothing could have retrieved—his reputation as a loyal subject
of the king.
During these disastrous transactions, Fairfax, with Ireton as nominally second in com-
mand, but in reality supreme, was prosecuting the siege of Colchester. The particulars
of this siege still survive in the popular remembrance; in the journal printed by Rush-
worth, and in other authentic accounts, it abounds in painful and stirring incident. Inde-
fatigable in exertion, of heroic bravery, patient of the extremest privation, the devoted
band who there rallied round Goring, have consecrated with the odour of loyalty that
otherwise homely town. For many weeks, abjuring all thoughts of a surrender, they
fought cheerfully, surrounded by famine and conflagration; because they could not be
persuaded, that while the heart of the nation was yearning for the king's return,--while
the royal standard was actually floating, or ready to be raised, over half England,-
while an army, which they fondly believed both brave and devoted to the cause, was
advancing towards the capital, they would be ultimately left unsuccoured within the walls
they had so well defended in his name. One after another, however, these hopes were
extinguished by the successes of the republican army, or by the deplorable incapacity and
mismanagement of the king’s friends. The discomfiture of the Scots closed the door
against hope from arms. Another prospect of relief might indeed remain : the Presby-
terian party had for a time recovered its influence and courage; and the parliament, once
more under their management, had repealed the vote of no more addresses, and resolved
to open a treaty with the king in the Isle of Wight. But men who were reduced to live
on the putrid flesh of horses, and on more disgusting substances, and could not calculate
upon a scanty supply even of such food for to-morrow, were unable to wait the issue of a
tedious negotiation. They offered Fairfax to capitulate; who answered, that the common
soldiers might expect quarter, but that the officers must surrender at discretion. No
alternative remained but to agree to these terms, or perish. They accepted them ; and
while Fairfax's council deliberated on their fate, were required to assist its deliberations
by furnishing a list of all the names of the captives. Presently afterwards a guard was
sent to conduct to execution Sir George Lisle, Sir Charles Lucas, and a Florentine
gentleman, called in the histories Sir Bernard Gascoign, but whose true name was Guas-
coni, whom the council had selected to die, “for the example of others, and that the
peace of the kingdom might no more be disturbed in that manner.” Lucas, the first to
suffer, tearing open his doublet, exclaimed to the musketeers who were drawn up in
readiness, “Fire, rebels l’ and instantly fell. Lisle ran to him, kissed his dead body,
and turning to the soldiers, desired them to advance nearer. One of them replied: “Fear
not, sir, we shall hit you.” “Friends,” he answered smiling, “I have been nearer when
you have missed me.” Guasconi, as a foreigner, was pardoned. Lord Capel, and the
remaining prisoners of note, sent to Fairfax while this tragedy was in progress, entreating
that either it might be forborne, or that, as they had all alike been guilty, if guilt there

POPULAR INDIGNATION.—SECOND WAR. 267
were, they might all die together; a request which Capel afterwards addressed in person,
for himself, to Ireton; but the council choosing to reserve him and Goring for a different
fate, they were sent to Windsor Castle, and afterwards committed to the Tower.
To the history of the miserable series of disasters by which the second civil war was
precipitated to a close, it would be merely adding a congenial page, were we to trace the
movements of that portion of the fleet whose revolt was hailed as a bright omen by the
royalists. The intrigues of courtiers without a court, the absence of command, where
all sought to be commanders, above all, the want of money to procure stores and pro-
visions,—quenched, ere it had blazed to any purpose, the enthusiasm of the seamen.
Six weeks the Prince of Wales, who had nominally taken the command, lay idly upon the
English coast, without even attempting the release of his royal father, from a captivity
become every day more fearful, both in its sufferings and its prospects. The commerce
of London was intercepted by the royalists, and the captured vessels again given up in
return for petty sums or dubious promises of adherence; but Warwick, now reinstated in
his command, was at sea with a force little inferior to the prince’s, and the prudent citizens
determined to abide the result of a collision between the hostile fleets. During two days
the royalists offered battle, which, however, the Presbyterian admiral avoided : on the next,
Charles's factious council pursuaded him to return to the coast of Holland. Thither he
was afterwards followed by Warwick, but at a distance which intimated still an unwilling-
ness to engage.
268
CHAPTER, XXIX.
T H E C A T A S T R O P. H. E.
CROMWELL’s “dearest Robin ‘’ was entirely won over, and performed his part with
admirable fidelity to his employers. Except confinement to a single apartment, nothing
was wanting to constitute the king's condition one of strict captivity. Four soldiers,
selected for their devotedness to the army, were intrusted with the immediate charge of
his person; of whom two, succeeding to the task by rotation, were constantly present
with him. During his meals, at his public devotions, and in such recreations as could be
had within the narrow limits of his prison—a game at bowls, or a walk upon the walls of
Carisbrooke, Charles was still accompanied by his keepers ; when he retired to the
seclusion of his private chamber, one of them took his post as sentinel at either door.
These irksome restraints, however, he was enabled to bear with more than his habitual
patience; for adversity had supplied him with the considerateness of self-knowledge, and
opened in his heart sources of latent sympathy with his fellow-men; and, in return, he
had the consolation of meeting, in this extremity of his fortunes, with instances of
devotedness, more generous, if not more sincere, than he had known in his days of
prosperity. Firebrace, a discarded page, contrived to get himself occasionally employed
by one of the warders to keep watch at the door of the king's bed-chamber, and at such
times, by conversing with him, and by passing and receiving papers through a crevice in
the wainscot, supplied the royal captive with information respecting the progress of affairs
without, and assisted him to maintain a constant correspondence with the queen, the
princes, and the leading royalists in England and Scotland. Osborne, who officiated as
gentleman-usher, and in that capacity held the king’s gloves at meal-time, likewise kept
up a secret intelligence with him by means of letters concealed within the fingers. It was
this person who denounced the attempt of Rolfe, captain of the guard at the castle, to
carry off and destroy the king. Pretending to be persuaded by Rolfe, who sought to
engage him as an accomplice, he purposed to enable Charles to avail himself of this
opportunity to escape; but the design failed, in consequence of Rolfe’s suspicions being
roused; and Hammond, presenting himself in the king's chamber, found the royal
prisoner in bed, but the iron bar of the window by which he had intended to escape sawn
through, and removed from its place.
The measures of the constitutional or Presbyterian party in the parliament towards an
accommodation with the king, proceeded with a degree of dilatoriness strangely at variance
with the urgency of the case, and the rapidity of events without. At length Cromwell's victory
over the Scots stimulated them to greater activity, and on the 15th of September, fifteen

|
º







THE CATASTROPHE. 269
commissioners, five lords and ten commoners, appointed to conduct the negotiations, on their
part, met Charles at Newport. A numerous body of the king's friends, including several
bishops, his chaplains, lawyers, and such privy-counsellors as had taken no part in the
War against the parliament, were permitted to attend, and, in private, assist him with
their advice; but not to take any part in the debates, which were sustained by the king
alone in person. From the 18th of September to the 27th of November, 1648, the
discussions were lengthened out. Daily, throughout that long period, a contest of
arguments, on the most important political and religious subjects, was carried on by
Charles; in the course of which the eminent and practised statesmen opposed to him
Were struck, not more by the clearness of his intellect, his readiness in debate, and the
extent of his information, than by the mildness and dignity of his deportment. Sir
Harry Vane, who represented the Independent or Republican party at the conferences,
and had been foremost among those who affected to regard the king as a weak-minded
person, now acknowledged that he had been deceived; for that he found him “a man of
great parts and abilities.” “The king is much changed,” observed the Earl of Salisbury,
another of the commissioners, to Sir Philip Warwick; “ he is extremely improved of late.”
“No,” replied Sir Philip, “he was always so, but you are now at last sensible of it.”
Changed he was indeed, outwardly; for the loyal hearts gathered round him on that
occasion were deeply grieved by the traces of suffering and anxiety manifest in his
appearance.
The pertinacious obstimacy of the Presbyterians (if not in part assumed, in order to
convince their opponents of their courage and consistency), appears, when politically
viewed, scarcely less astonishing than any other particular in the extraordinary series of
incidents which our subject has brought under consideration. Of the rigour of their
former propositions, as presented at Newcastle and Hampton Court, nothing whatever
was abated ; as before at Uxbridge, the commissioners were not empowered to concede,
or to modify any article, but were obliged to submit every proposition of the king's, which
they judged worthy of consideration, to be debated at Westminster. Thus, before any-
thing had been concluded, Fairfax's army, augmented by several regiments sent home
by Cromwell, flushed with victory, and demanding revenge and empire, had already
returned to the vicinity of the metropolis: Hammond received, but disregarded, an order
to confine the king again in Carisbrooke Castle; while the republicans were everywhere
stimulating the people to oppose any settlement not sealed with the blood of their king.
The result of the treaty, wrung from the unfortunate prince by the dire necessity of his
position, rather than by the argument and persuasions of the other side, was the surrender
of the militia with every other essential power and prerogative of royalty; but on two
points he remained immovable. Required to consent to the abolition of episcopacy,
without the toleration even of his own or his consort’s private worship, and to abandon his
friends and adherents to the vengeance of his victors, he refused. In vain Hollis and
the other Presbyterians implored him, with tears in their eyes, to concede everything.
Charles took leave of the commissioners with unshaken firmness of purpose, though
with unwonted sadness. “My lords,” he addressed them, in a tone of voice which drew
3 Z

270 , THE CATASTROPHE,
tears from his attendants, “I believe we shall scarce ever see each other again; but God’s
will be done ! I have made my peace with him, and shall undergo without fear whatever
he may suffer men to do to me. My lords, you cannot but know that in my fall and
ruin you see your own, and that also near you. I pray God send you better friends than
I have found. I am fully informed of the carriage of them who plot against me and
mine; but nothing affects me so much as the feeling I have of the sufferings of my sub-
jects, and the mischief that hangs over my three kingdoms, drawn upon them by those who,
upon pretences of good, violently pursue their own interests and ends.” In a similar
strain he concluded an admirable letter addressed to Prince Charles, detailing the pro-
gress and close of the negotiations, and conveying his last counsels to the prince: “We
know not but this may be the last time we may speak to you, or the world, publicly :
we are sensible into what hands we are fallen; and yet we bless God we have those
inward refreshments the malice of our enemies cannot perturb. We have learned to busy
ourself by retiring into ourself; and therefore can the better digest what befalls us; not
doubting but God’s providence will restrain the power of our enemies, and turn their fierce-
ness to his praise. . . If God gives you success, use it humbly and far from revenge. If he
restore you to your right upon hard conditions, whatever you promise, keep. These men who
have forced laws which they were bound to preserve will find their triumphs full of troubles.
Do not you think anything in this world worth the obtaining by foul and unjust means. . .
As we direct you to weigh what we here recommend to you, so we assure you we do not
more affectionately pray for you, to whom we are a natural parent, than we do that the
ancient glory and renown of this nation be not buried in irreligion and fanatic humour;
that all our subjects, to whom we are a politic parent, may have such sober thoughts as
to seek their peace in the orthodox profession of the Christian religion, as it was estab-
lished since the reformation in this kingdom, and not in new revelations; and that the
ancient laws, with the interpretation according to the known practice, may once again
be a hedge about them.”
In obedience to an order which he had received from Fairfax to resign the charge of
the king, and repair to him at Windsor, Hammond departed with the commissioners,
leaving Charles in the custody of two officers, of whom one was Rolfe. The next day
secret intelligence was conveyed to the king that a military force was on its way to seize,
and once more place him in the immediate custody of the army. His attendants con-
jured him to save his life by instant flight, for which everything was arranged, and the
might which succeeded favourable; but Charles, previously to the treaty, had given his
parole not to quit the island within twenty days after its termination, nor would he
listen to any arguments tending to excuse the violation of his word. Early the following
morning (the 30th of November), he was roused from sleep by a summons to depart.
A troop of horse and a company of foot, conducted him from the island, and at noon he
found himself a close prisoner in Hurst Castle, a comfortless block-house on a narrow
unwholesome line of beach, projecting two or three miles from the coast of Hampshire.
The last deadly struggle between the army and the parliament, begun by this final
seizure of the king, was maintained by the latter with a courage, the issue indeed of
C.Catterindie.
|-（Israeſ） so N. × cae （o NipoN ſºſ, M.A.N. IL EVILI,F） ſº A Rae,
| .




THE CATASTROPHE, 271
despair, which recalls the better times of that assembly. Ten days before the conclusion
of the treaty, a remonstrance against it was presented by the army to the house of Com-
mons. Signed by Fairfax and all his officers, this terrible paper, the production, it is said,
of Ireton, embodied, in explicit language, all those menaces and suggestions which, a few
months earlier, were portentously whispered in the dark conclaves of the agitators, and
for the untimely utterance of which blood was shed at Ware by those who now proclaimed
the same views to the world as their determined objects. It called for justice on the king
as the capital source of all the public grievances, and prescribed a democratic constitution
for the kingdom. The Presbyterians parried by successive large majorities this attempt
to overwhelm them. A second more violent declaration was sent in, denouncing the
majority of the house as apostates from their former principles, and threatening its
purgation as the only means, should they persist, of putting an end to the treaty. The
house calmly proceeded in hearing the commissioners from the Isle of Wight, who were
then making their report, and, at its close, resolved to take into consideration the
concessions made by the king. The debate, unparalleled hitherto, in the house of
Commons, for its length and vehemence, terminated, in spite of the efforts of Vane and
the Independents, by a vote, carried, on a division, by a majority of 140 to 104, that
those concessions furnished a sufficient ground for the future settlement of the kingdom.
Meanwhile the army, in anticipation of this result, and in perfect contempt of a
vote of the houses ordering that the troops should not approach the metropolis, had
marched upon the city, and were distributed at Whitehall, the Mews, St. James’s, and in
the adjacent suburbs. Early the next morning, the city-guard was withdrawn from the
houses of parliament, and the posts were occupied by a regiment of horse and another of
foot, under the command of Sir Hardress Waller and Colonel Pride, “the drayman,” as
he was called. This officer stationed himself at the door of the house of Commons, with
a list in his hands, containing the names of members whom a committee of republicans
had previously marked as hostile, or doubtful; by his side stood Lord Grey of Groby, to
assist in identifying these persons as they made their appearance. About one-third of
the Presbyterian majority of 150 were by this process arrested, and placed in confinement;
and the same course being pursued, on the two following days, for the exclusion of the
remainder, the number of members was reduced to about fifty, all known friends to “the
cause.” This extraordinary outrage, perpetrated in the name of freedom and justice, was
long familiarly known as “Pride's Purge:” in the same quaint dialect of a rude age, the
contemptible residue that usurped the name of parliament, bore the equally well-remem-
bered appellation of “ the Rump.” Cromwell, all whose movements were timed with
consummate judgment, did not arrive in London till the second day after the purification
of the Commons. It was sufficient that his spirit, imbibed, in some cases unconsciously,
by others, shaped the proceedings of the army, and ruled events in subservience to his
ends; his personal interference he reserved for seasons when the energy or the acuteness
of his subordinates should be at fault. Enough, for the present, that the sword waved
openly over the legislative benches. He cared not, that men should remember how he
had long before predicted the future necessity of such an act of violence to be performed


272 THE CATASTROPHE.
by the army; yet he had not hesitated to ascribe it, now that it had taken place, to the
direct inspiration of the Almighty! He was conducted by the soldiery with acclamations
of joy to the royal apartments in Whitehall, and on the same day he received the
thanks of the parliament for his eminent services: the houses then resolved on an
adjournment of some days, to afford time for the council of the army, now in effect
the government, to debate the more momentous question concerning the mode of
proceeding against the king.
That Charles's life was to be made a sacrifice, had already been determined. Several
motives, springing from the respective tempers and views of the men, had conspired to
unite this band of daring and enthusiastic spirits, acting in the name of a nation which
viewed their deeds with astonishment and abhorrence, in the terrible resolution to offer to
the world the spectacle, then unexampled in its annals, of a sovereign prince arraigned
before a tribunal of his subjects, and led forth to public execution. Some few fell into
the design from policy; they had offended beyond the rational hope of forgiveness, and
now covered their just dread of retribution under an exaggerated alarm at the king’s want
of good faith in his engagements, should he ever be restored to power; or sought to avert
the eyes of justice and the world from the guilt themselves had hitherto incurred, by
rendering the whole nation accessary to a deed which might paralize vengeance itself with
horror. Others were actuated by a malignant thirst of revenge on one whom they had so
long regarded as an enemy; again, others were impelled by a burning desire to carry out
some generous, perhaps, but visionary scheme of government: and both these classes
justified their ends, wholly or in part, on religious grounds; which, in wild variety,
constituted, in those times, the real or pretended basis of almost all men’s more serious
public actions. It was held by many, that historical incidents in the Old Testament, or
the oracles of the Hebrew prophets, distorted by ignorance and misapplied by passion,
furnished, not hints and examples alone, but authoritative rules and precepts, for the
political conduct of Englishmen; and that, to shrink from any act necessary to the
establishment of the kingdom of Christ and his saints upon the ruins of temporal
authorities, was to incur the terrible execrations denounced against the enemies of God.
Of such enthusiasts, Harrison was among the fiercest; Hutchinson and Ludlow among
the most honest and sober-minded. “I did it all,” declared the first, “according to the
best of my understanding, desiring to make the revealed will of God in his holy scriptures
my guide.” Ludlow has left on record, as his ample justification, that he was fully
“persuaded that an accommodation with the king was unsafe for the people of England,
and unjust and wicked in the nature of it. The former, besides that it was obvious to all
men, the king himself had proved, by the duplicity of his dealing with the parliament,
which manifestly appeared in his own papers, taken at Naseby and elsewhere. Of the
latter I was convinced by the expresswords of God’s law; ‘that blood defileth the land,
and the land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of
him that shed it.” (Numb. xxxv. 33.) And therefore I could not consent to the counsels of
those who were contented to leave the guilt of so much blood upon the nation, and thereby
to draw down the just vengeance of God upon us all, when it was most evident that the
, ، ، ،，| 1:1 （0：1， 0， ， ， ， ， ， ， ， ，
| |×
ae！， ， ，
|-| |-，，|×




THE CATASTROPHE, 273
war had been occasioned by the invasion of our rights, and open breach of our constitu-
tion, on the king’s part.” Similar is the vindication offered by Mrs. Hutchinson of her
husband’s conduct as a regicide: “Although he did not then believe but it might one
day come to be again disputed among men, yet both he and others thought they could
not refuse it without giving up the people of God, whom they had led forth and engaged
themselves unto by the oath of God, into the hands of God’s and their enemies; and
therefore he cast himself upon God’s protection, acting according to the dictates of a
conscience which he had sought the Lord to guide.”
As to Cromwell, there can be no reasonable doubt, that the deep under-current of
his mind took the same course as early, and maintained it as steadily, as that of his most
zealous confederates, however he might find it expedient to conceal his settled purpose
under affected indifference, or a hypocritical show of sympathy for the king. Before he
set out on his campaign in the second war, he arranged several meetings of the leading
republicans, both in the parliament and army, expressly to ascertain their sentiments
regarding the disposal of Charles. He listened to the arguments on either side, but was
too wily to make the same confession of his own views which he had succeeded in extract-
ing from others. His object being attained, he broke off the conference with one of
those coarse practical jests, by means of which, as on other occasions by his ready com-
mand of tears, he was accustomed at once to stifle the intensity of his own feelings and
resolves, and to baffle and mislead those who might seek to fathom them. “ He professed
himself,” says Ludlow, “unresolved; and having learned what he could of the principles
and intentions of those present, he took up a cushion and flung it at my head, and then
ran down the stairs. The next day, passing me in the house, he told me he was convinced
of the desirableness of what was proposed, but not of the feasibleness of it.” Even after
the king had been sent for to Westminster to undergo a public trial, this farce of hesita-
tion and perplexity was still kept up. A private conference took place at this time
between Cromwell and the keepers of the great seal, Whitelocke and Widdrington, whom
he had summoned to Whitehall to deliberate on some plan for the settlement of the
nation. At these interviews with his lawyers, Cromwell was lying in one of the king's
sumptuous beds; and in this posture he likewise gave audience to other persons of the
highest consideration.
Subsequently, in an interview with the commissioners sent from Scotland to protest
against putting the king to death, though still pretending to be haunted with doubts, and
assuming still the language of moderation, he spoke more explicitly; not surprised,
however, into plainness by the complexure of the argument, but considering that now
was the time for the great leader to declare himself:—“Cromwell entered into a long
discourse on the nature of the regal power, according to the principles of Mariana and
Buchanan; he thought a breach of trust in a king ought to be punished more than any
other crime whatsoever. As to their covenant, they swore to the preservation of the
king’s person in defence of the true religion; if then it appeared that the settlement of
thé true religion was obstructed by the king, so that they could not come at it but by
putting him out of the way, then their oath could not bind them to the preserving him
4. A

274, THE CATASTROPHE.
any longer. Their covenant bound them to bring all malignants, incendiaries, and enemies
to the cause, to condign punishment: and was not this to be executed impartially? What
were all those on whom public justice had been done, especially those who suffered for
joining with Montrose, but small offenders, acting by commission from the king, who was
therefore the principal, and so the most guilty?”
It appears to have been “the learned and witty’ Marten, who, at the meetings which
were held in this interval, first uttered in plain terms the advice, that “they should serve
the king as the English did his Scotch grandmother—cut off his head.” It was adopted.
The purification of the Commons had secured the certainty of concurrence on their part.
On the 23d of December, a committee of thirty-eight persons was appointed to prepare
charges for the impeachment. In order to give their designs some resemblance to the
forms and principle of law, the house voted, “ that by the fundamental law of the land
it is treason for the king of England to levy war against the parliament and kingdom.”
To the surprise of the Independents, when the vote was sent up to the Lords for their
concurrence, that house, which had so long been sunk into the tamest subserviency,
rejected it without a dissentient voice, though twice the usual number of members voted.
Such a revival of courage was the more creditable, as this vote was carried, not only
amidst the clamours of a furious and triumphant soldiery, but under a shower of petitions
for the king's destruction, which the republicans had procured to be sent in from the
common-council of London, several other towns, and some counties in England. This,
however, was the last effort of that expiring assembly. From four to six members met
occasionally for a few weeks longer, when the Commons resolved that the House of Peers
was useless and dangerous, and ought to be abolished. In fact, its existence, as well as
that of the crown, was incompatible with the next vote of the other house, “that the
people are, under God, the origin of all just power,” and with the declarations which
they grounded upon it, “ that the House of Commons of England, being chosen by and
representing the people, have the supreme authority,” and thence, “that whatsoever is
enacted and declared for law by the Commons in parliament, hath the force of a law, and
the people are concluded thereby, though the consent of the king and the peers be not had
thereto.” The same day an ordinance passed the Commons for constituting a high court
of justice for the trial of the king. The number of commissioners named in it was a
hundred and thirty-five, including all the great officers of the army, four peers, the
speaker, and the other principal members of the expurgated House of Commons. Only
one great name among the king's enemies was absent, that of Vane, who disapproved of
this mode of disposing of his person, and withdrew from London till after the execution.
The twelve judges, ten of whom had received their appointments from the parliament,
unanimously refused to be of the commission, declaring is whole purpose and constitution
to be contrary to every principle of English law. Whitelocke and his colleage Wid-
drington, the most eminent lawyers of the time also refused to sit on so unhallowed a
tribunal.
While these events were in progress, Charles had been conducted, under the escort
of Harrison and a body of horse, to Windsor. There he enjoyed the melancholy conso-
|
-








THE CATASTROPHE. 275
lation of an interview with the Duke of Hamilton, now a state-prisoner: there also, in
that abode of illustrious kings, he was made to drink the bitterest cup of humiliation,
which, as a king, could be offered to his lips, when an order from the council of war
forbad all farther observance towards him of humble deference and regal state:—he was
now only Charles Stuart, the traitor to the sovereign people. He felt this insult, less,
probably, for itself than for its ominous significance: the end of all was now clearly in
view, and with heroic patience he prepared himself to meet it. He too, except in the
immediate presence of his self-elected judges, was willing to forget that he was born to
wield a monarch's sceptre, and threw himself for support upon the common stay of good
men in adversity, practical religious faith.
Into the particulars of the king's trial we design not to enter: they are too numerous
and great for the exhausted space marked out for this narrative; and such of them as
have not come down, embalmed by tradition in the hearts and memories of the people,
have been made familiar as household words by many recent popular publications.
The unaffected, imperturbable demeanour of the king, except when he smiled contempt-
uously at that passage in the arraignment, in which he was charged as “a tyrant, traitor,
and murderer,”—the fearless loyalty of that noble lady, who, on the first day of the trial,
twice startled the regicidal court, the insolent verbosity of “lord president” Bradshaw,
—the rational, consistent, and patriotic refusal of Charles to acknowledge the jurisdiction
of his illegal judges, the mockery of proof-the refusal of the king's entreaty, both
previous to and after the delivery of the sentence, to be heard, the tears of the people,
and the punishment of the poor soldier, who, amidst enforced cries of “justice P’ from
his companions, uttered a blessing on his king, and was silenced by a blow ;-these
incidents the children round every English cottage-hearth repeat, while their fathers
indignantly spurn the falsehood, that either the trial, or the awful act of blood which
followed, was demanded by the people of England.
The English loyalists were, as a party, wholly incapable of arresting the tragical
catastrophe. The great body of the people looked on, and expected the terrible issue in
mental prostration and bewilderment. The continental kingdoms were not merely
indifferent to the fall of monarchy in England, but had long since been paying their
court to the anomalous authority rising on its ruins. Only the united provinces of
Holland sent over ambassadors to intercede for the life of their ally; but they were not
allowed to see the king, nor could they obtain an audience of the parliament until the
axe of the executioner had first done its office. Reasons too probable have been suggested,
why even Charles's consort, Henrietta Maria, whose abhorred religion and impolitic
advice had largely contributed to her husband’s mifortunes, may have felt more coldly
than became a wife, or even a good subject, at such a crisis. She wrote, however, to the
parliament “a very passionate lamentation of the sad condition the king her husband
was in, desiring that they would grant her a pass to come over to him; offering to use
all the credit she had with him, that he might give them satisfaction. However, if they
would not give her leave to perform any of those offices towards the public, she prayed
that she might be permitted to perform the duty she owed him, and to be near him in

276 THE CATASTROPHE.
the uttermost extremity.” This letter, delivered by the ambassador of France, was laid
aside unread. Nor was Prince Charles unmindful of his filial duty. It is said that
Colonel John Cromwell, a cousin of the lieutenant-general, employed in the service of
Holland, was commissioned by the prince to grant any conditions which his powerful
kinsman might demand, if he would consent to preserve the king's life. He was encouraged
to undertake this mission by the recollection of an assurance given to him some time
before by Oliver, that he would rather draw his sword in favour of the king than allow
the republicans to make any attempt upon his person. How little reliance was to be
placed on such assurances, had been seen in one of the debates connected with the
disposal of the king's person, as late as January 9th, when Cromwell is affirmed to have
uttered the following extraordinary speech:—“Sir,” said he, addressing the speaker, “if
any man whatsoever have carried on this design of deposing the king, and disinheriting
his posterity, or if any man have still such a design, he must be the greatest traitor and
rebel in the world: but SINCE THE PROVIDENCE OF GoD HAs CAST THIS UPoN Us, I cannot
but submit to Providence, though I am not yet prepared to give you my advice.” The
envoy, having with difficulty made his way to his great cousin's presence, delivered his
message with so much zeal and earnestness, and urged so forcibly the advantage which
would accrue to Cromwell himself, his family, and posterity, from compliance—at the
same time showing his credentials, and a carte-blanche with which he had been supplied,
—that Oliver is said to have hesitated ; but finally he put him off with a message, that
both himself and the council of officers had been seeking God, and it was resolved by
them all that the king must die. Such a paper was certainly enclosed in a letter
addressed by the prince to Fairfax, intimating the price at which he desired to purchase
his father's life from the grandees of the army. They might themselves fill up the blank
paper with the conditions: be they what they might, they were already granted; the seal
and signature of the prince were already affixed. It may be, that Fairfax's refusal to
pass the terrific gulf, on the edge of which he now stood, was grounded as much on this
offer as on any new-born moral firmness in his own nature. He seems to have induced
those associates also, whom he had hitherto suffered to bear him on without resistance,
to pause: it was, however, but for a moment; this letter also, when read, was laid aside.
All the boon that Seymour, the messenger who brought it, could obtain, was permission,
at the last moment, to deliver a second letter from the prince into the king's hands, and
to receive his farewell instructions for his son.
It was on the 27th that sentence was pronounced upon the king. The same evening
he sent a message to the commissioners, requesting that his children might be brought
to him, and that he might also be attended by the bishop of London, Dr. Juxon. The
next day, Sunday, he spent at St. James's, where he heard a sermon, and received the
holy sacrament from the bishop; and in conference with him, or in private devotion,
passed that evening and the greater part of the following day. His nephew the Prince
Elector, the Duke of Richmond, the Marquess of Hertford, and some others of the
nobility, came to pay their last duty to their sovereign. “Excuse me,” he said, “to them,
and to any others that may express the same desire. My time is short and precious ;

THE CATASTROPHE. 277
I hope they will not take it ill that none have access to me but my children. The best
office they can do me now is to pray for me.” Charles was now wholly subdued to his
condition: he had sought the strength he needed, in the spirit of Christian submission
and forgiveness; and he found it, in a degree fully proportionate to the greatness of his
need. One pang alone remained,—the taking leave of his children, the Princess Elizabeth,
and the Duke of Gloucester. The princess being just old enough to be sensible of her
father's condition, wept excessively; the duke, too young fully to apprehend the cause,
wept with her. Charles raised them from where they knelt, and, placing them on his
knees, gave them such advice as was suitable to their years, and the solemnity of the
occasion. He bade the lady Elizabeth tell her mother that his thoughts had never
strayed from her, and that his love should be the same to the last; and begged her to
remember to tell her brother James, whenever she should see him, that it was his father’s
last desire that he should no longer look on Prince Charles as his elder brother only, but
should be obedient to him as his sovereign, and that they should both love one another,
and forgive their father’s enemies. “But,” said the king, “ sweet-heart, you will forget
this?” “No,” she replied, “I will never forget it whilst I live.” He prayed her not to
grieve for him, for he should die a glorious death; it being for the laws and liberties
of the land, and for maintaining the true protestant religion. “Forgive those people,
therefore,” he said, “as I forgive them, but never trust them; for they have been false to
me, and to those that gave them power, and I fear also to their own souls.” He then
desired her to read Bishop Andrewes's Sermons, Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, and
Archbishop Laud’s book against Fisher, which would confirm her in a pious attachment
to the church of England, and secure her against popery. Then addressing the little
Gloucester, he said, “Sweet-heart, now they will cut off thy father's head.” Upon which
words the child looking very stedfastly at him, “Mark, child,” he continued, “what I say;
they will cut off my head, and perhaps make thee a king: but mark what I say—you
must not be a king so long as your brothers, Charles and James, live; for they will cut
off your brothers’ heads when they can catch them, and cut off thy head, too, at last;
and therefore I charge you do not be made a king by them;” at which the child said
earnestly, “I will be torn in pieces first l” This ready reply from one so young filled the
king's eyes with tears of joy. In conclusion, he commanded them both to be obedient
to their mother; prayed God Almighty to bless them, and desired the princess to convey
his blessing to the rest of her brothers and sisters, with commendations to all his friends;
and dividing a few jewels among them, he kissed and again blessed them, and hastily,
with an overflowing heart, retired to his devotions.
The commissioners likewise strictly employed Sunday in their devotions: they fasted,
and prayed for a blessing on the commonwealth; while Hugh Peters regaled the ears of
the republicans with a sermon on Psalm cylix. 6–8, &c. : “Let the high praises of God
be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hands, to execute vengeance on the
heathen, and punishments upon the people; to bind their kings with chains, and their
nobles with fetters of iron; to execute upon them the judgment written. Such honour
have all his saints. Praise the Lord.” The business of Monday was the drawing up
4 B

278 THE CATASTROPHE.
and engrossing of the warrant for the king's execution “upon the morrow.” Of the
hundred and thirty-five commissioners, seventy-one was the largest number ever present
at the trial. Forty-eight only appeared on the day when the king's execution was
pronounced: fifty-nine have made their names “for ever memorable” by signing the
warrant for his decapitation. We will not undertake, within the narrow space which
circumstances have fixed for the conclusion of this narrative, to describe “the last scene
of all” in the history of the most unfortunate Prince of a race marked for misfortune;
preferring, lest the current of the present writer's sympathies should have unwittingly
run more often than he designed in favour of the royal victim, to close it in the words
of authors more disposed, though in different degrees, to admire the gifted hero of the
vast but fruitless revolution completed on the scaffold at Whitehall.
“The mournful and tragic scene,” writes Mr. Forster, “that was enacted on the 30th
of January, 1649, in the open street fronting Whitehall, is familiar to every reader of
history. Through the whole of that scene Charles bore himself with a dignified com-
posure, and was to the last undisturbed, self-possessed, and serene. He addressed the
crowd from the scaffold, forgave all his enemies, protested that the war was not begun
by him, declared that the people's right was only to have their life and goods their own,
“a share in the government being nothing pertaining to them,’ and concluded with words
which, perhaps, expressed a sincere delusion, that he ‘died the martyr of the people.’
When his head fell, severed by the executioner at one blow, ‘a dismal groan issued
from the crowd :’
* He nothing common did, or mean,
Upon that memorable scene;
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try:
Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.’
—So, in a few years after, wrote a most generous adversary, Andrew Marvel, and in
an ode to Oliver Cromwell himself. The lapse of two centuries has confirmed the poet's
praise.”
Concerning Cromwell's share in the transactions of this extraordinary crisis, Mr. Noble,
his admirer, but not his blind apologist, thus records his testimony: “His hypocrisy to
the public, and jocularity throughout the dreadful tragedy of the king's trial and execution
(though great part of it was forced, and only a cover to hide the perturbation of his mind
within), gave greater pain than the action itself. There might be the primary principle
of nature, self-defence, to plead in his justification, at least extenuation, in putting the
king to death, but none to indulge a vein of mirth and pleasantry in the misfortunes of
any one, particularly a person of so high a degree, and who stood in so sacred a relation
to him as his sovereign; yet, during the last scenes of the king's life, he talked jestingly,
and acted buffoonery; and this, too, when he was professing himself only guided by
%
Ž
º
--~~~~~~~~~ -- º
%
Ż
%
2222222222
cº- º
zºº
Ż
%
Ż%
- # 2: 3. à
º
i i.
º
2%
-
- -
2. º
º
º
º
§
§
§ º
§
§
§§§ º
:
º







--
- t|
- -
THE CATASTROPHE. 279
Providence, and lamenting the condition of his sovereign, whose lamentable fate he was
fixing. It is certain that he went to feast his eyes upon the murdered king, and some
say, put his finger to the neck, to feel whether it was entirely severed; and viewing the
inside of the body, observed how sound it was, and how well made for longevity. Bowtell,
a private soldier, said, ‘ that Cromwell could not open the coffin with his staff, but, taking
the other's sword, effected it with the hilt of it:’ while he was inspecting the body,
Bowtell asked him what government they should have now; he said, ‘the same that then
* There was no excuse for this; yet did he before, during the trial and execution,
mock his Maker by hypocritical prayers; and at those times and after, would shed tears
WaS.
for his master's unhappy situation and death.”
The author of a modern life of Cromwell, after citing the above passage from his
predecessor, adds these just and temperate remarks: “The death of the king alienated
for ever from Cromwell all the more moderate of the English people, who had continued
to believe that a treaty with his majesty was not altogether impracticable. No one was
any longer permitted to doubt that personal motives weighed more with the ambitious
soldier than the love of country ; and that, in hastening the execution of his sovereign,
he had yielded to the impulse of a selfish apprehension, rather than to the desire which
he professed to entertain of vindicating the injured rights of his fellow-subjects. At the
same time he brought dishonour upon the cause for which he had appeared in the field
with so much advantage. He threw a stain upon the patriotism of others, who sincerely
laboured to renew the constitution, and thereby to place on a firmer basis the privileges
of the people and the just authority of the sovereign : and, by disgusting the nation with
a tyranny more intolerable than any that had ever been inflicted by a legitimate prince,
he paved the way for the restoration of the monarchy, in the same undefined and arbitrary
form in which it originally descended to the House of Stuart.”
T H E E N D.
LONDON : FISHER, SON, AND Co., PRINTERS.

|liſill
IVERSITY OF MICH]
3 691 y
90.15 07485 3
ſſſſſſſſſſſ！！！
（），
įſ.|－
¡¿
H.
（
|
§.####… .
（i.