heated his mind by calumnies and misled him by sophi y but now he abhorred them; he abhorred himself. He beged in piteous terms that he might be admitted to the royal presence. There was a secret which he could not trust to paper, a secret which lay in a single word, and which, if he spoke that word, would secure the throne against all danger. On the following day he despatched letters, imploring the queen dowager and the lord treasurer to intercede in his behalf.*

When it was known in London how he had abased himself the general surprise was great; and no man was more amazed than Barillon, who had resided in England during two bloody proscriptions, and had seen numerous victims, both of the opposition and of the court, submit to their fate without womanish entreaties and lamentations.t

Monmouth and Grey remained at Ringwood two days. They were then carried up to London, under the guard of a large body of regular troops and militia. In the coach with the duke was an officer whose orders were to stab the prisoner if a rescue were attempted. At every town along the road the trainbands of the neighborhood had been mustered under the command of the principal gentry. The march lasted three days, and terminated at Vauxhall, where a regiment commanded by George Legge, Lord Dartmouth, was in readiness to receive the prisoners. They were put on board of a state barge, and carried down the river to Whitehall Stairs. Lumley and Portman had alternately watched the duke day and night till they had brought him within the walls of the palace.‡

Both the demeanor of Monmouth and that of Grey, during the journey, filled all observers with surprise. Monmouth was altogether unnerved. Grey was not only calm but cheerful, talked pleasantly of horses, dogs, and field sports, and even made jocose allusions to the perilous situation in which he stood.

The king cannot be blamed for determining that Monmouth

* The letter to the king was printed at the time by authority; that to the queen dowager will be found in Sir H. Ellis's Original Letters; that to Rochester in the Clarendon Correspondence.

"On trouve," he wrote, "fort à redire icy qu'il ayt fait une chose si peu ordinaire aux Anglois." July 13, 1685.

Account of the Manner of taking the Duke of Monmouth; Gazette, July 16, 1685; Citters, July

should suffer death. Every man who heads a rebellion against an established government stakes his life on the event; and rebellion was the smallest part of Monmouth's crime. He had declared against his uncle a war without quarter. In the manifesto put forth at Lyme, James had been held up to execration as an incendiary, as an assassin who had strangled one innocent man and cut the throat of another, and, lastly, as the poisoner of his own brother. To spare an enemy who had not scrupled to resort to such extremities would have been an act of rare, perhaps of blamable generosity. But to see him and not to spare him was an outrage on humanity and decency. This outrage the king resolved to commit. The arms of the prisoner were bound behind him with a silken cord; and, thus secured, he was ushered into the presence of the implacable kinsman whom he had wronged.

*

Then Monmouth threw himself on the ground, and crawled to the king's feet. He wept. He tried to embrace his uncle's knees with his pinioned arms. He begged for life, only life, life at any price. He owned that he had been guilty of a great crime, but tried to throw the blame on others, particularly on Argyle, who would rather have put his legs into the boots than have saved his own life by such baseness. By the ties of kindred, by the memory of the late king, who had been the best and truest of brothers, the unhappy man adjured James to show some mercy. James gravely replied that this repentance was of the latest, that he was sorry for the misery which the prisoner had brought on himself, but that the case was not one for lenity. A declaration, filled with atrocious calumnies, had been put forth. The regal title had been assumed. For treasons so aggravated there could be no pardon on this side of the grave. The poor terrified duke vowed that he had never wished to take the crown, but had been led into that fatal error by others. As to the Declaration, he had not written it. He had not read it. He had signed it without looking at it. It was all the work of Ferguson, that bloody villain Ferguson. "Do you expect me to believe," said James, with contempt but too well merited, "that you set your hand to a paper of such moment without knowing what it contained?" One depth of infamy only remained; and

* Barillon was evidently much shocked. "Il se vient," he says, "de passer icy une chose bien extraordinaire et fort opposée à l'usage ordinaire des autres nations." July 1, 1685.

even to that the prisoner descended. He was preeminently the champion of the Protestant religion. The interest of that religion had been his plea for conspiring against the gov ernment of his father, and for bringing on his country the miseries of civil war: yet he was not ashamed to hint that he was inclined to be reconciled to the Church of Rome. The king eagerly offered him spiritual assistance, but said nothing of pardon or respite. "Is there no hope?" asked Monmouth. James turned away in silence. Then Monmouth strove to rally his courage, rose from his knees, and retired with a firmness which he had not shown since his overthrow.*

Grey was introduced next. He behaved with a propriety and fortitude which moved even the stern and resentful king, frankly owned himself guilty, made no excuses, and did not once stoop to ask his life. Both the prisoners were sent to the Tower by water. There was no tumult; but many thousands of people, with anxiety and sorrow in their faces, tried to catch a glimpse of the captives. The duke's resolution failed as soon as he had left the royal presence. On his way to his prison he bemoaned himself, accused his followers, and abjectly implored the intercession of Dartmouth. "I know, my lord, that you loved my father. For his sake, for God's sake, try if there be any room for mercy." Dartmouth replied that the king had spoken the truth, and that a subject who assumed the regal title excluded himself from all hope of pardon.†

Soon after Monmouth had been lodged in the Tower, he was informed that his wife had, by the royal command, been sent to see him. She was accompanied by the Earl of Clarendon, Keeper of the Privy Seal. Her husband received her very coldly, and addressed almost all his discourse to Clarendon, whose intercession he earnestly implored. Clarendon held out no hopes; and that same evening two prelates, Turner, Bishop of Ely, and Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, arrived at the Tower with a solemn message from the king. It was Monday night. On Wednesday morning Monmouth was to die. He was greatly agitated. The blood left his cheeks; and it was some time before he could speak. Most

* Burnet, i. 644; Evelyn's Diary, July 15; Sir J. Bramston's Memoirs; Reresby's Memoirs; James to the Prince of Orange, July 14, 1685; Barillon, July 8; Buccleuch MS.

+ James to the Prince of Orange, July 14, 1685; Dutch_despatch of the same date; Luttrell's Diary; Dartmouth's note on Burnet, i.

of the short time which remained to him he wasted in vain attempts to obtain, if not a pardon, at least a respite. He wrote piteous letters to the king and to several courtiers, but in vain. Some Catholic divines were sent to him from court. But they soon discovered that, though he would gladly have purchased his life by renouncing the religion of which he had professed himself in an especial manner the defender, yet, if he was to die, he would as soon die without their absolution as with it.*

Nor were Ken and Turner much better pleased with his frame of mind. The doctrine of non-resistance was, in their view, as in the view of most of their brethren, the distinguishing badge of the Anglican Church. The two bishops insisted on Monmouth's owning that, in drawing the sword against the government, he had committed a great sin; and, on this point, they found him obstinately heterodox. Nor was this his only heresy. He maintained that his connection with Lady Wentworth was blameless in the sight of God. He had been married, he said, when a child. He had never cared for his duchess. The happiness which he had not found at home he had sought in a round of loose amours, condemned by religion and morality. Henrietta had reclaimed him from a life of vice. To her he had been strictly constant. They had, by common consent, offered up fervent prayers for the divine guidance. After those prayers they had found their affection for each other strengthened; and they could then no longer doubt that, in the sight of God, they were a wedded pair. The bishops were so much scandalized by this view of the conjugal relation that they refused to administer the sacrament to the prisoner. All that they could obtain from him was a promise that, during the single night which still remained to him, he would pray to be enlightened if he were in error.

On the Wednesday morning, at his particular request, Doctor Thomas Tennison, who then held the vicarage of Saint Martin's, and, in that important cure, had obtained the high esteem of the public, came to the Tower. From Tennison,

whose opinions were known to be moderate, the duke expected more indulgence than Ken and Turner were disposed to show. But Tennison, whatever might be his views concerning nonresistance in the abstract, thought the late rebellion rash and wicked, and considered Monmouth's notion respecting mar

* Buccleuch MS.; Clarke's Life of James the Second, ii. 37; Orig. Mem.; Citters, July 14, 1685; Gazette de France, Aug. TTM.

riage as a most dangerous delusion. Monmouth was obstinate. He had prayed, he said, for the divine direction. His sentiments remained unchanged; and he could not doubt that they were correct. Tennison's exhortations were in a milder tone than those of the bishops. But he, like them, thought that he should not be justified in administering the Eucharist to one whose penitence was of so unsatisfactory a nature.*

The hour drew near; all hope was over; and Monmouth had passed from pusillanimous fear to the apathy of despair. His children were brought to his room that he might take leave of them, and were followed by his wife. He spoke to her kindly, but without emotion. Though she was a woman of great strength of mind, and had little cause to love him, her misery was such that none of the bystanders could refrain from weeping. He alone was unmoved.†

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It was ten o'clock. The coach of the lieutenant of the Tower was ready. Monmouth requested his spiritual advisers to accompany him to the scaffold; and they consented; but they told him that, in their judgment, he was about to die in a perilous state of mind, and that, if they attended him, it would be their duty to exhort him to the last. As he passed along the ranks of the guards he saluted them with a smile, and mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. Tower Hill was covered up to the chimney tops with an innumerable multitude of gazers, who, in awful silence, broken only by sighs and the noise of weeping, listened for the last accents of the darling of the people. "I shall say little," he began. "1 come here, not to speak, but to die. I die a Protestant of the Church of England." The bishops interrupted him, and told him that, unless he acknowledged resistance to be sinful, he was no member of their church. He went on to speak of his Henrietta. She was, he said, a young lady of virtue and honor. He loved her to the last, and he could not die without giving utterance to his feelings. The bishops again interfered, and begged him not to use such language. Some altercation followed. The divines have been accused of dealing harshly with the dying man. But they appear to have only discharged what, in their view, was a sacred duty. Monmouth knew their principles, and, if he wished to avoid their importunity,

*Buccleuch MS.; Clarke's Life of James the Second, ii. 37, 38; Orig. Mem.; Burnet, i. 645; Tennison's account in Kennet, iii. 432, Ed. 1719.

+ Buccleuch MS..