Chapter XV.

AFTER THE REVOLUTION.

WILLIAM THE THIRD.

“_I am constant as the northern star,_ _Of whose true-fixed and resting quality_ _There is no fellow in the firmament._”

A PRINCE now passes by on horseback. He is small, almost diminutive, but by no means insignificant. His figure is slender and apparently feeble, but few men have borne such hardships and sustained such reverses of fortune as he. His forehead is ample, his nose aquiline, his eye bright and keen, his lips thin and compressed, his cheek pale and deeply furrowed by the marks of sickness and care. His whole aspect is pensive, severe, almost morose. At a glance you judge him to be neither a happy nor a good-humoured man. His bearing is simple; he cares nothing for pomp and parade, and he has no particular desire for popularity; yet there is an unmistakable dignity in his presence, and you feel as you gaze upon him that here is a man of high spirit and of great intellectual power, of constant and lofty soul, of unshaken courage and calm fortitude.

This is William of Orange, the man whom the exasperated English people called upon to invade their country in order to preserve their liberties and the Protestant faith. He accepted the invitation, and without striking a blow marched from Torbay to London, where he and his wife became King and Queen of Great Britain and Ireland.

You are once more standing outside Whitehall. It is the thirteenth day of February, in the year of grace 1689. All London is agog with excitement. Trumpets sound and kettledrums roll as the Garter King of Arms in tabard and plumed hat rides up to the gates, followed by officials carrying the maces of the two Houses of Parliament, the Lord Chancellor and the Speaker, the chief officers of state, and a long train of coaches filled with noblemen and gentlemen. Then in loud, clear tones he proclaims the Prince and Princess of Orange King and Queen of England, and charges all Englishmen to bear, from that moment, true allegiance to the new sovereigns. He concludes by praying that God, who has already wrought a signal deliverance for Church and nation, will bless William and Mary with a long and happy reign.

Loud cheers break forth, and the procession re-forms and winds its way along the Strand to Temple Bar. The streets, the balconies, the very housetops are crowded with gazers, and all the steeples from the Abbey to the Tower ring out a joyous peal. The proclamation is repeated at Temple Bar and in front of the Royal Exchange, amidst the shouts of citizens and the din of trumpets.

In the evening every window from Whitechapel to Piccadilly is illuminated. The state rooms of the palace are thrown open, and are filled with a brilliant company of courtiers eager to see and to do homage to their new sovereigns. The features of the Prince of Orange are familiar to them from his portraits, but now for the first time most of them see him in the flesh. They cannot fail to note, even in this scene of gaiety, his cold, reserved manner and his lack of kingly grace. The new queen, however, charms all beholders. She is beautiful, winning, and gracious, with a good heart, an excellent disposition, and an affection for her sullen husband which nothing can daunt. It is clear from the first that Mary’s popularity will be great, and that William, though he may be respected, will never be loved by his new subjects.

Look at yonder graybeard gazing up at the gay lights glittering in the windows. He has seen many changes in his sixty-five years of life, and he cannot but reflect on the strange vicissitudes through which the Stuart kings, now barred for ever from the British throne, have passed. Listen to him as he talks to the youth at his side. “My lad,” he says, “I remember well the Scotchman James the First feasting in this very hall, and expounding to his son Charles and the courtiers in right learned language the pestilent principles of what he called ‘statecraft’ and the divine right of kings to rule and to suspend the laws of the land at their will and pleasure. Right well did young Charles learn the lesson, and perchance we should blame his father and not him for all that happened. He held by the hateful doctrines which he had sucked in as a youth, like the obstinate man that he was, and ruthlessly destroyed our liberties till we were forced to take up arms and fight him for seven long, miserable years. I got this wound, that makes me go lame, at Naseby, the last great battle of the war. That was forty-three years ago save three months. I mind well seeing King Charles step through a hole in yonder wall on to the black-draped scaffold and lay his head on the block. It was a pitiful sight. I did not hold with killing him, mark you, but perchance it was better so.

“Then came the Commonwealth and the days of ‘Old Noll.’ It was not a ‘Merrie England’ in his time, I warrant you. There were no Maypoles and no Bartholomew fairs in his day; it was almost a sin to eat a mince pie. You young fellows would think yourselves hardly done by if those times were to return. But we were a strong nation then, my lad. Foreigners feared us, the Dutchmen had to eat humble pie, and money flowed right merrily into our coffers. It was a harsh and cheerless time, no doubt, and there was no liberty to speak of, but trade was brisk, and this land has never seen such good prosperous days since.

“When Cromwell died—the night after the great storm—and his son Dick couldn’t be bothered with business of state, we sent across the sea for Charles’s son, and I remember well the joy with which these fickle folk greeted him as he rode into London on Oak-apple Day. But, my lad, I blush with shame to think of the foreign wickedness he brought with him, of the way he squandered the public money and ‘made Israel to sin.’ Not to my dying day shall I forget standing in the Strand—the very year in which you were born—and hearing the Dutch guns roaring in the Thames. It was a bitter disgrace; we all felt it, and we all longed for Blake and Old Noll again to send the Dutchman to the right about in double-quick time. Aye, and the second Charles did worse than that; he sold himself and us to the French king for a dirty pension, and plotted to overturn the Church and rob us of our liberties. But, thank God! he went to his own place before he had time to do his worst. And then came his brother, James the Second. Well, you know all about him. Two short months ago he lay within these very walls. Now they say he’s with the French king, and here’s his son-in-law standing in his shoes. The Dutchman is welcome, lad; he is the saviour of the country, and he has secured our liberties. Please God, under him the old days of good government and prosperity shall come back again.”

The liberties of the land were indeed secured, for no future British king would dare to tread the path which the Stuarts had trod to their destruction. William and Mary now ruled in England by virtue of a solemn contract made between themselves and their subjects. Before the crown was offered to them they were required to assent to the Declaration of Rights, which branded as illegal all the arrogant pretensions of the Stuarts. This Declaration asserted anew the national liberties, and is the third great charter of British liberty.

THE GREAT DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

“_If I lose mine honour,_ _I lose myself._”

Who comes hither? A soldier of commanding stature and strikingly handsome face; dignified, yet winning in manner; blessed, it would seem, with all possible gifts and graces. He is John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire—one of the greatest military geniuses who ever lived, the victor of one of the decisive battles of the world, the man who overthrew the vast fabric of power which Lewis the Fourteenth had erected, the general who never fought a battle that he did not win and never besieged a place that he did not take! But do not be dazzled by his noble appearance and his military glory. His genius is transcendent, his courage is of the highest order, his personal graces are remarkable, yet he goes down to posterity as one of the greatest and meanest of mankind. Treacherous, ungrateful, sordid, and miserly, he is despicable as a man though unrivalled as a diplomatist and glorious as a soldier.

William the Third died before his work was done. The long duel between him and Lewis was only at its opening stages when he passed away, after a life of stubborn resistance to his invincible foe. His mantle fell on the shoulders of John Churchill, and he it was who finished the task which William did not live long enough to accomplish. Churchill was the son of a Devonshire cavalier, and early became a man of fashion and pleasure at the court of Charles the Second. At seventeen years of age he was an ensign in the army, and at twenty-two the colonel of an English regiment in the service of France. By this time the “handsome Englishman,” as Marshal Turenne dubbed him, had already shown the qualities of a great soldier. When an advance post was given up to the enemy, Turenne actually wagered a supper that Marlborough would recover it with half the number of men who had abandoned it, and the wager was won. He was absolutely fearless, bold and adventurous, cool and unruffled in temper, calm and far-seeing in judgment, and capable of enduring all sorts of fatigue.

Thanks to the friendship of the Duke of York, afterwards James the Second, to whose fortunes he attached himself, he was raised to the peerage. At the time of Monmouth’s rising he was major-general of the forces, and the victory at Sedgemoor was largely due to his coolness and resource in rallying the royal troops when thrown into confusion by the night attack of the rebels.

Marlborough owed much of his rapid promotion to his wife. In 1678 he married a penniless beauty of the court named Sarah Jennings. She was a lady of violent temper and a most domineering disposition, but she also possessed a strange power of winning and retaining affection. Marlborough’s love for his wife “ran like a thread of gold through the dark web of his career.” He hated letter-writing, chiefly because his spelling was so bad, yet in the midst of his marches and sieges, and even from the battlefield itself, he constantly wrote his wife letters breathing the most passionate devotion.

When Marlborough wooed and won Sarah Jennings, she was the bosom friend and constant companion of the Princess Anne, whom she had known from girlhood. Soon she obtained complete mastery over the weak and feeble nature of the princess, who became a mere puppet in her hands. The friends laid aside all the formalities of rank in their intercourse; Anne was Mrs. Morley, and the duchess Mrs. Freeman. Anne saw with her favourite’s eyes, heard with her ears, and spoke with her tongue. If she attempted to show one spark of independence, she was immediately crushed and deafened by the violent reproaches of the woman who was nominally her servant but really her tyrant. Anne’s husband, Prince George of Denmark, did not count. He was considered the most harmless and stupid man in the three kingdoms. “I have tried him drunk,” said Charles the Second, “and I have tried him sober, and there is nothing in him.”

Counting upon his wife’s complete control of the princess, Marlborough soon began to plot against William. His plan was to take advantage of the king’s unpopularity and drive him from the throne in favour of Anne. The plot was discovered, and William, usually calm and cool, was roused to the utmost indignation. “Were I and my Lord Marlborough private persons,” he cried, “the sword would have to settle between us.” At once the earl was stripped of his offices, and his wife was driven from St. James’s. Anne, however, refused to be parted from her friend, and left the court with her. Then Marlborough opened a treacherous correspondence with the deposed king at St. Germains. He basely revealed the plan of William’s intended expedition to Brest, expressed his deep sorrow at having deserted his rightful sovereign, and obtained a written promise of pardon. The attack on Brest was a complete failure; the enemy, thanks to Marlborough, was forewarned and forearmed, and more than a thousand Englishmen were slain. This piece of foul treachery is the blackest stain on Marlborough’s character.

Queen Mary died childless in 1694, and Anne became the acknowledged heiress to the throne. William was obliged to recall her to court, and with her returned the Marlboroughs, who were reluctantly received into favour once more. William hated the earl’s baseness and treachery, but he was obliged to recognize his splendid gifts, and to declare that he, of all men, was the fittest to carry on the great work of checking the ambition of Lewis. Marlborough was therefore sent to Flanders at the head of the army, and had only just taken command when William met with the accident which was the immediate cause of his death.

The succession of Anne practically made the Marlboroughs King and Queen of England. Three days later Marlborough was appointed captain-general of the British forces at home and abroad, and was entrusted with the entire direction of the war. Offices and gifts were showered upon his wife, and the ministers were chosen from his friends and adherents. Most of these men had been in treasonable correspondence with James; but now, in accordance with the loose notions of honour prevalent at the time, they abandoned him, and for their own selfish ends determined to keep Anne on the throne, secure the Protestant succession, and proceed with the war.

Great Britain, Holland, Austria, and most of the smaller states of Germany were soon leagued in arms against France, and in 1703 Lewis found armies arrayed against him in the Spanish Netherlands, in South Germany, in North Italy, and Spain. Marlborough was in command of the allied British, Dutch, and Germans in the Netherlands. Though he had not yet displayed his superb military genius, he had already exhibited his unrivalled powers of conciliating the jarring elements which formed his army. In North Italy the Austrian forces were under Prince Eugene of Savoy, a man of extraordinary courage and talent, who was worshipped by his soldiers, and still lives as a hero in song. No two such generals had ever commanded armies against Lewis before.

The beginning of the war was uneventful. Marlborough, however, managed to capture a number of fortresses along the line of the Meuse, and by doing so cut off the French from the Lower Rhine and made the invasion of Holland impossible. For the rest, the campaign was indecisive. On his return to England he was created Duke of Marlborough, the title by which he is best known.

Marlborough was now on the threshold of his great career. He was fifty-four years old, and was about to win victories at an age when the work of most men is done. Like his predecessor William, he owed little to early training and much to his natural abilities. The keynote of his greatness as a general was the vigour and audacity of his plans. His greatest obstacle was the slowness and timidity of the Dutch, who refused again and again to co-operate in the brilliant movements which he suggested. Calm and unruffled, patient and tactful, he composed all the differences of his allies, and proved himself even greater in the council chamber than on the battlefield.

Lewis now began a campaign on a scale of grandeur which was only equalled by Napoleon himself. He sent the flower of his army into Bavaria, where the local troops joined them. Then the army of the Danube, in massed and irresistible might, began its march on Vienna. Marlborough saw that Austria was bound to be conquered unless prompt action was taken, so, early in 1704, he made a dash for the Danube. To do this he had to march right across Germany from the Lower Rhine, while Prince Eugene had to cross the Alps from Italy. Both undertakings were full of difficulty, but the difficulties were overcome. By his boldness and secrecy he completely deceived his enemy, and not until he had crossed the Neckar and united his forces with those of Eugene was his real object revealed.

Marlborough was bound to fight a battle speedily, though his chances of success were doubtful, and the consequences of defeat fatal. If Lewis won, beyond all doubt “a universal despotic dominion would be established over the bodies, a cruel spiritual thraldom over the minds of men.” France and Spain, united in a close family alliance, would prove irresistible. Protestantism would be destroyed, a despotism worse than that of the Roman Empire would be set up, and the British race would be arrested in its mission to overspread the earth. Marlborough was not unaware of the consequences of defeat. “I know the danger,” he said, “yet a battle is absolutely necessary; and I rely on the bravery and discipline of the troops, which will make amends for our disadvantages.”

On August 13, 1704, the armies faced each other. The enemy, numbering fifty-six thousand men, was posted in a strong position, with the Nebel, a marshy stream, in front, hill country on the left, and the Danube on the right. A short distance from the great river stood the village of Blenheim, which had been strongly defended by a palisade and trench, and was occupied by Marshal Tallard’s infantry. At sunrise the allies were in motion, but their movements were covered by a thick haze, and not until the allied right and centre were nearly within cannon-shot of the enemy was Tallard aware of their approach. Eugene, with twenty thousand men, marched through broken and wooded country towards the Nebel, which had to be crossed before he could attack the Bavarians opposed to him. Not until midday did his troops cross the stream, and when they faced the enemy they were so weary that they could do little more than hold their own.

While Eugene was struggling on the right, the remainder of the allies were inactive. During this interval, Marlborough ordered divine service to be performed by the chaplains at the head of each regiment, for with all his faults he was sincerely religious. Then he rode along the lines and found officers and men in the highest spirits, waiting impatiently for the signal to attack. At length an aide-de-camp galloped up from the right with the welcome news that Eugene was across the stream. At once a strong brigade of infantry under Lord Cutts was sent to assault the village of Blenheim, and Marlborough himself led the main body down the eastward slope of the valley of the Nebel, and crossed the stream.

Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault of Blenheim under a shower of grape and musketry. He ordered his men to reserve their fire until he struck his sword against the palisades. The troops advanced with great steadiness, but they were repulsed with severe loss; and Marlborough, finding how strongly Blenheim was held, gave up the attempt to capture it, and bent all his energies to breaking through the centre. The ground which he had to traverse was very swampy; but he constructed something like an artificial roadway, and late in the afternoon, despite artillery fire and cavalry charges, he crossed the blood-stained stream with eight thousand horsemen. The infantry were then brought across to “hold up” the French troops in Blenheim.

Marlborough chiefly relied on his cavalry, and by means of this arm Blenheim was won. Leading two furious charges in person, he completely broke the squadrons of the enemy. They discharged their carbines, wheeled round, and spurred from the field, leaving the infantry to be ridden down by the victorious allies. Marlborough then drove the French southward to the Danube, where they were obliged to drown or yield. The troops in Blenheim, after several gallant but unsuccessful attempts to cut their way out, laid down their arms. The French army was almost entirely destroyed. About twelve thousand men were killed and fourteen thousand taken prisoners; all the cannon, a vast number of colours and standards, tents and equipages, were captured; and the French general and twelve hundred officers of rank were in the hands of the conqueror.

“It was a famous victory.” Austria was saved, the French were driven out of Germany, and the Elector of Bavaria was forced to make peace. The moral effect of the battle, however, was still greater. For half a century the French had been considered invincible; now the spell was broken, and the prestige of France had vanished. For the rest of the war Lewis had to act on the defensive, and “Malbrook” became a name of fear to every child in France. The British nation in gratitude presented Marlborough with £500,000, with which to purchase the manor of Woodstock, and erect a house which should be named after the battle. Blenheim Palace still remains one of the most magnificent of England’s “stately homes,” and a not unworthy monument to Marlborough’s great military genius.

Next year Marlborough began to attack the great line of fortifications which then extended almost from Antwerp to Namur. He proposed to fight a decisive action near to the field of Waterloo, but was prevented from doing so by the persistent opposition of the Dutch. At the end of 1705 the position of affairs was “as you were.” Next year, however, Marlborough again covered himself with glory by destroying a French army at Ramillies. The effect of the victory was enormous. The French garrisons were panic-stricken, and place after place fell. “It really looks more like a dream than the truth,” wrote Marlborough. Before long he was master of the whole of Belgium. Prince Eugene also fared well in Italy, where lie drove the French troops across the Alps. Austrian and British troops also entered Spain, where they met with a stubborn resistance and made but little progress.

In 1708 Marlborough and Eugene won another great victory at Oudenarde. The French generals would not act together, and consequently their troops were thrown into disorder. A long, running fight on the heights of Oudenarde followed, and the French right wing was cut to pieces. The remainder of the army, flying back to France, was pursued, and the fortress of Lille was captured. Lewis begged for peace; but the allies offered him terms which he could not accept, and so, much against his will, the war went on.

Next year (1709) Marlborough fought his last battle, and again defeated the French at Malplaquet, in what he called a “very murdering battle.” The French position was very strong, with a narrow front protected on both sides by thick woods and heavy batteries. Nevertheless, after a series of desperate assaults, he met with his usual success, though his victory was dearly bought with a great sacrifice of life. Marlborough was deeply affected by the horrors of the scene, and spoke with real feeling of his misery at seeing so many of his old comrades killed. The British nation was now weary of the war, and ready to bring it to a close. Peace was signed at Utrecht in 1713.

Long before the treaty was signed, Marlborough, once the darling of the nation, was in dire disgrace. He had gone into the war as a Tory, but during its continuance had allied himself with the Whigs, and by 1708 the ministry almost entirely consisted of men of his new party. Anne was at heart a Tory, and she greatly disliked the change. Indeed, she only agreed to the appointment of the Whig leader, Lord Sunderland, because Marlborough threatened to resign and the duchess fiercely upbraided her for daring to have inclinations of her own. Anne was now tired of the Marlboroughs, and was only waiting for an opportunity to throw off their yoke. A Mrs. Masham, cousin of the duchess, had contrived to usurp the position of “Mrs. Freeman,” and she now encouraged the queen to rebel. A bitter quarrel broke out between the queen and the duchess on the occasion of the “Te Deum” for the victory of Oudenarde. The duchess had selected certain jewels for the queen to wear, but Anne rejected them, whereupon there was a furious scene. Violent quarrels and angry letters followed, but peace was patched up for a time, though the end was fast drawing near.

In 1710 a clergyman, named Dr. Sacheverell, in the course of a dull, foolish sermon at St. Paul’s, preached the old Tory doctrine of the divine right of kings. Very injudiciously, and against Marlborough’s advice, the Whig ministers determined to prosecute him for the sermon. The trial resolved itself into a great struggle between the two parties, and Sacheverell became a martyr. The nation generally supported him, and a storm of hatred arose against the Whigs. Thereupon the queen dismissed them from office, restored the Tories, sent “Mrs. Freeman” about her business, and removed Marlborough from his command. It is said that he actually went on his knees to the queen and begged her to let him retain the gold key which was the symbol of his office. There was a final interview between the queen and the duchess, at which the latter shed floods of tears, but could not shake Anne’s new-found determination. All was over, and “Mrs. Freeman” set about removing the brass locks from her apartments in the palace, and giving orders for the removal of the marble mantel-pieces and other fixtures.

The Tories, headed by Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, a subtle traitor in secret correspondence with the “old Pretender,” now wreaked their vengeance on Marlborough. He was charged with embezzling public money, and the charge was only too true, though it is but fair to say that sums of money thus obtained were generally regarded as the customary perquisites of his office. With all his greatness, Marlborough had a mean and miserable soul. It has been said that he was perhaps the only really great man who ever loved money for its own sake. He was actually accused of sending officers unnecessarily into the thick of the fight, so that he might fill his pocket by selling the commissions of those who fell.

Instead of answering his accusers he fled to the Continent, where he remained in voluntary exile until news reached him of Anne’s last illness. He landed at Dover on the day of her death. The new king, George the First, restored him to his command and his honours; but two years later he had a paralytic stroke, followed by another. His great physical strength, hardly tried by the fatigues of his many campaigns, and his brilliant intellect, broken down by the stress and anxieties of his labours and responsibilities, began to give way. He spent his declining days in riding, playing with his grandchildren, and keeping minute accounts of his most trifling expenditure. Even when old and infirm, it was said that he walked in order to save sixpence for a chair. He died on June 16, 1722, and was buried with great splendour in Westminster Abbey. So passes Marlborough. He leaves a stained memory, it is true, but let us not dwell upon his vices and failings. Let us rather remember how—

“Calm and serene, he drives the furious blast; And pleased th’ Almighty’s orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.”

Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault under a shower of grape and musketry, and ordered them not to fire a shot until he struck his sword against the palisades. While the flower of the French troops were thus “held up” in the village, Marlborough broke the center with the allied cavalry.