It is no dishonourable epitaph. The career that closed left no brilliant mark, but in its tenor, as in its ending, it is typical of the grave and balanced dignity, the loyalty to his Church, to his sovereign, to himself, that were distinctive of that race of the English n.o.bility who were now to give place to a newer fashion. For us, the closing of that career is chiefly interesting, as it revives in Clarendon the memory of that older order to which he was so pa.s.sionately attached, and as it carried away one of the few remaining barriers between him and friendless isolation.

The question of the succession to Southampton gave new subject of difference between the Chancellor and the King. Charles was determined, as he had been when there was a talk of Southampton's resignation, to replace the Treasurership by Commissioners, and had been persuaded by the faction opposed to Clarendon no longer to have one Minister supreme in finance.

Again Clarendon remonstrated, and urged that this was a scheme fitted for a republic, and incompatible with the principles of monarchy. It seemed to him one more symptom of the subst.i.tution of an official bureaucracy for personal rule. It is no reflection upon his sincerity to admit that, in this, as in many of the principles to which he so obstinately adhered in these later days, he was sometimes moved rather by prejudice than by sound reason. He knew the rottenness of the Court, and the little trust that was to be placed in those who had gained Charles's ear; and that knowledge blinded him to the fact that inveteracy in opposition to prevailing views was no safe or prudent policy for him at this juncture. Himself a man risen from the middle cla.s.s, he nevertheless held that the natural custodians of the executive power were men who by hereditary rank, and by outstanding position, could acquire, if not the confidence, at least the implicit obedience, of the people. Long a.s.sociation with men of the highest rank, had imbued him with their feelings, and made him the champion of their privileges. Familiar with the ign.o.ble wiles and stratagems which impelled political adventurers, he clung, like many a man before and since, to the habits and the prejudices of a lifetime, and refused to admit any change operating in the spirit of the age. Amongst the forces opposed to him, he still looked with special dislike upon the active and indomitable spirit of Sir William Coventry. Coventry's ability Clarendon was compelled to admit; but he gave him perhaps too little credit for energy and foresight, and for undoubted administrative efficiency. We need not take Coventry altogether at Clarendon's valuation.

The two men were out of sympathy, and Coventry was far from sharing that ungrudging loyalty to King and Church which Clarendon reckoned as the test of a sound citizen. Coventry irritated that love of discipline which was the habit of Clarendon's life. He belonged to a new generation, and did not conceal his contempt for that careful attention to precedent which was to Clarendon a second nature. His advancement had seemed to Clarendon unduly rapid, and his impetuous self-a.s.sertion, both in Parliament and in the Privy Council, provoked Clarendon's ire. His one actuating motive, in Clarendon's eyes, was boundless ambition, and he saw him only as the confederate of those who thought to govern at once King and Parliament, by dexterous parliamentary management, and by grasping at the machinery of administration. Coventry's later life proved that he was no eager seeker after office. Only a few months after Clarendon's fall, he stoutly opposed the insolence of Buckingham, and felt the effects of royal displeasure when Buckingham had regained his hold on the facile disposition of the King. He lost all his appointments; and even though, after a short detention in the Tower, he recovered his freedom and gained the cordial support of a powerful body of friends, he refused to range himself with any party, and declined all suggestions that he should again take office.

Of his personal ability, of the respect which he inspired in others than Clarendon, and of his administrative efficiency, we have abundant evidence from other authorities, including both Evelyn and Pepys. He professed himself, in confidential conversation with Pepys, as inspired by no personal prejudice against Clarendon or Southampton. Even the fullest confidence in Clarendon's rect.i.tude cannot blind us to the fact that neither he nor the Treasurer was now in the full vigour of his prime, that more direct and personal supervision of the details of administration than they could give was needed to restore either efficiency or confidence, and that Coventry might honestly believe this. It is no reflection on the loyalty with which Clarendon clung to a thankless task, if we admit that it might have fared better with him had he recognized sooner that the accomplishment of that task, as he had conceived it, was now hopelessly impossible. The truth is that Clarendon's memory still turned to a time, not so distant, when the relinquishment of office by a Minister meant a permanent breach with the Sovereign, suspicion of treason, the downfall of his fortunes, and also the hazard of his life. The change brought about by government by party, in which a Minister might retire from office, and none the less continue to play a high and influential part in the political history of his country, was slowly but surely coming. Had Clarendon recognized it, there seems to have been nothing to prevent his retiring from office, and still continuing to exercise a potent influence in the counsels of the nation. But he found no precedent in history for such a course. Retirement to him meant defeat, disgrace, and ruin. It may be doubted whether his own dogged tenacity, brave and conscientious as it was, did not itself give his ultimate retirement that added meaning. In adhering to the service of the King, he perhaps forgot that loyalty may only be wasted on an unwilling object, and that satiety is a prolific breeder of ingrat.i.tude.

Before the storm broke, there was another Court scandal--for it is worthy of no higher name-that stirred the turbid political waters, and further complicated the difficulties of Clarendon's position. The Duke of Buckingham, that strange personality--half statesman, half buffoon--who occupied no inconsiderable part of the stage in Charles's Court, managed to embroil himself in some extraordinary escapade, or some more than usually freakish piece of mischief, which for once stirred the ordinarily phlegmatic temper of the King. To probe its details would serve no good purpose; if it did not originate in, it was no doubt aggravated by, one of those entanglements common to the life of the bagnio, which Charles's Court so faithfully reflected. Some wrangle as to the enjoyment of the facile charms of one of the royal mistresses, or the disputed paternity of some b.a.s.t.a.r.d, very probably was the origin of an ign.o.ble quarrel which presently reached the dimensions of an affair of State, occupied the attention of the Privy Council for no inconsiderable period, and involved a charge of treason, formulated and then abandoned with the reckless frivolity of the comic stage. We shall probably not be far wrong in ascribing the beginning of the trouble to Lady Castlemaine, who found her hold upon the royal favour threatened by some ill-timed intrigue of Buckingham. A charge of treason was brought against Buckingham, who was known to have at his command a rascally band of bullies and charlatans, who disturbed the streets of London, and whose outrages were not kept outside the precincts even of the Court itself. An a.s.sortment of sorry evidence was brought before the Council, and Buckingham was shown to have trafficked with astrologers and cut-throats, whose designs seemed to have threatened even the life of the King. He had permitted them to address him in language which indicated that he had cherished ambitions of hair- brained folly, if not of treasonable insolence, and which flattered him with thoughts of his boundless influence with the mob. The matter was brought to Clarendon's knowledge by the King; but the Chancellor endeavoured as far as possible to hold aloof from the squalid inquiry, which was pushed forward chiefly by Arlington and his sworn ally, the Lady Castlemaine. A warrant was issued for Buckingham's apprehension; and when he withdrew from the Court, a proclamation was published that charged him with treason, and required his surrender. The sheriff's messenger that followed him to his retreat in the country was openly defied, and Buckingham managed for weeks to elude the clutches of the law. The dignity of justice was degraded, and the King's warrant was mocked, as long as Buckingham thought he might rely upon the weakness of the King, and his fears of Buckingham's being provoked to reprisals which might attach new scandal to the Court. While the warrant was out against him, the Duke was bold enough to resort to Clarendon, and to invoke his aid in securing for him an interview with the King, in which he was confident that he might allay the pa.s.sing anger. Clarendon could only advise his surrender, and a.s.sure him that nothing would be allowed to interfere with the even-handed administration of justice. Clarendon refused to denounce to Buckingham those who were his enemies, and evidently had no desire to secure for himself, by so doing, the grat.i.tude or the alliance of such a man. The Duke at length found that it was either necessary or safe to surrender himself; and, in the examination which ensued, he showed all his usual insolence, and his confidence in his hold over the King. He treated the evidence as worthless, and forced Charles himself to admit that some of the correspondence had its origin in Court intrigue. The quarrel with Lady Castlemaine was composed, and from being bitter enemies, she and the Duke became sworn allies, who joined forces in denouncing Clarendon, and found abettors in those who had lately been the Duke's accusers. A man of much less than Clarendon's pride and dignity might well have despised such intrigues; but events soon proved how fickle was the support upon which he could rely in trusting to the grat.i.tude of the King. The incident, as lightly closed as it had been recklessly begun, resulted only in knitting more closely the designs of those who were relentlessly pursuing the object of ending his power and procuring his downfall. No scruples were likely to stay the hands of the sorry band of conspirators.

CHAPTER XXV

THE TRIUMPH OF FACTION

Just as peace had been cemented amongst his enemies, in preparation for a final attack, Clarendon was struck by a heavy blow of domestic bereavement. Throughout all the vicissitudes of his life, amidst the hardships of exile, and in the still heavier anxieties that surrounded his later years of seeming prosperity, Clarendon had ever found in his family a centre of affection, and a source of consolation--broken only for a season when his eldest daughter was raised, by her marriage with the Duke, to a position which Clarendon knew well involved danger, both for her and for himself. His wife had proved an affectionate helpmate, and it is to her credit that in these Court circles which jealousy had rendered vigilant of any trace of scandal, and keen to note any a.s.sumption of arrogance, the wife of the Chancellor provoked the attacks of no enemies, and managed to elude the wrangles and bickerings of the Palace. In the summer of 1667, after a brief illness, she who had been his life's companion was taken from him, when, deprived of all his early friends, he was most in need of the comfort of a loving heart. Belonging, by birth, to the higher grade of the squirearchy, Lady Clarendon had married in her own rank, with every promise of all the comfort and dignity of honoured station, and in the first years had enjoyed a rare felicity of happy wedded life. When the career of politics absorbed her husband, she submitted without murmur to the interruption of that happiness, and in after years, without repining, she accepted the burden of the breaking up of her home, long years of anxiety, and the trials and privations of exile. She carried her later elevation to high rank without pride or ostentation. She does not lose her right to our respect because she earned what the Greek historian p.r.o.nounces to be woman's highest glory, the least noisy echo either of praise or blame. That helpmate he lost just at the moment when all the forces of factious bitterness, of meanness, and of ingrat.i.tude, were preparing to vent their venom upon him.

The loss fell upon one already sorely tried by long and painful illness, against which he fought with courageous manliness. He was well aware that the weight of ill-will was rapidly acc.u.mulating against him. He had opposed the summoning of Parliament for the purpose of securing supplies to meet the exigencies of the war, on the ground that such antic.i.p.ation of the day fixed for the resumption of its business was illegal. The expedient he had contemplated was a temporary loan, and this had been easily twisted, by the perverseness of his enemies, into a suggestion of raising funds without the consent of Parliament, in order to maintain a standing army. His advice had been set aside, and Parliament had been summoned for July 25th. But peace had already been secured, and immediate supply was no longer necessary. The King prorogued Parliament on July 29th, but not before the House had pa.s.sed a resolution against a standing army. This abrupt dismissal of Parliament, when its presence was no longer called for, inflamed the anger against Clarendon. Those who had hoped to find an opportunity of pressing home their attack upon him in Parliament were indignant at the loss of this opportunity. Even the moderate men desired an explanation, and wished to be relieved of suspicions that arbitrary taxation was once more to be attempted. Those who were scandalized by the proceedings of the Court were prepared to make their anger felt, and had no mind to be silenced. The country members had trooped to Westminster from all parts of England, when long journeys were no easy matter. They returned home in no pleasant humour, grudging at once the expense which they had borne, and the muzzling to which they were subjected; [Footnote: See Pepys' _Diary_, under July 29,1667.] and the murmuring all fell upon Clarendon's devoted head. It was just as it grew most threatening that his wife's death plunged him into mourning.

"Within a few days after his wife's death, the King vouchsafed to come to his house to condole with him, and used many gracious expressions to him."

[Footnote: _Life_, iii. 282.] When Charles had a scheme on foot that was peculiarly shabby or selfish, he knew how to conceal his intention under a gracious manner. The limit of his patience to suffer Clarendon's scoldings, or of his power to resist the pressure of his boon companions, was nearly reached; but he could yet hope that a solution might be found that would save any vexatious upbraidings. Clarendon might surely be persuaded to retire, and the peace of the Court would not then be broken by these troublesome wranglings. Less than a fortnight afterwards, the Duke of York was made the bearer of an astounding message. The King, he told Clarendon, had asked after him, and had been told by the Duke that "he was the most disconsolate man he ever saw;" that not only was he grieved for the loss of his wife, but that he feared he had lost the favour of his master, who seemed of late to have "withdrawn his countenance from him." Charles had made an evasive answer; but on a later day he explained himself more fully to the Duke. He knew, he said, from sure information that the Chancellor was "very odious" to the Parliament, and that at its next meeting an impeachment would certainly be moved. "Not only had he opposed them in all those things upon which they had set their hearts, but he had proposed and advised their dissolution." For the good of his Majesty's service, and for his own preservation, it was imperatively necessary that he should deliver up the seal. He might choose himself what should be the manner of doing so--whether it should be done personally, or through an intermediary. The Duke did not deny the danger, but he lamented the resolution of the King.

Clarendon was profoundly astonished. That the plainness of his criticism and advice had come to irritate the King, and that a persistent plotting against his influence was on foot, could hardly have been news to him.

Strong as were his reasons for distrusting Charles, he can hardly have failed to have measured the depths of his dissimulation, or to have realized his readiness to yield to pressure. But his confidence in his own rect.i.tude made him bold. He refused to believe that the majority of the House distrusted him, or that his enemies had that commanding influence which they claimed in order to intimidate the King. He was confident that, be their malice what it might, the Parliament was not of their mind. In that belief he demanded to speak with the King, before he delivered up the seal. He could not, indeed, go to the King, as gout disabled him, and the usages of the day did not permit of his being seen abroad so soon after the death of his wife; but the Duke did not doubt that he could prevail with the King to do as he had often done before, and come to Clarendon House. That hope was not fulfilled; the King declined to visit Clarendon, but was prepared to see him at Whitehall.

It may well be doubted whether Clarendon would not have served his own cause better, and that with no injury to public interests, had he complied with the request. His health was now broken; the phalanx of his enemies was overwhelmingly strong; and even had he been allowed to breast the storm for a few years more, and had he found that courageous support which it was not in Charles's nature to give, in maintaining the fight, he must have carried on his work in the face of increasing petulance on the part of his master, and increasing bitterness of venom from his enemies. The hopes that had inspired him, when he saw the Restoration accomplished, had long vanished; it could have been with only a shadow of his old courage that he would still have continued to guide the ship of the State. Charles was shrewd enough in judging the temper of the nation, and could form a good estimate of the force of the opposition; and there is no reason to think that he was wrong in supposing that a timely surrender would have saved his Minister from anything more than the loss of office--a loss to which Clarendon would not have attached much importance. The very fact that his enemies were obnoxious to the darts of scandal, and that the nation was watching them jealously; the very probability that many would have resented the fall of a Minister who had notoriously fought against the flagrant indecencies of the Court--these were additional reasons why Arlington and his faction would have been content with the removal of the object of their hatred, and would perhaps have foregone further persecution. Clarendon's voluntary retirement, upon the private suggestion conveyed from the King, might have saved him from the hardships that darkened his closing years, and might have prevented his feeling, in its full force, the poison of the King's ingrat.i.tude.

But we must remember other considerations that could not be absent from Clarendon's mind. History had not yet many instances to show of a Minister who had fallen from high place, and yet was suffered to lead a private life in peace. It was just a quarter of a century since Ess.e.x had used the menacing words in regard to Strafford, "Stone-dead hath no fellow."

Arlington's ill-gotten influence might have felt itself threatened, if an ex-Chancellor with Clarendon's unrivalled prestige had been ready to permit his mansion in Piccadilly to be the resort of all who sought to form a powerful parliamentary opposition. The instinct of self- preservation may well have suggested to Clarendon that there might be few steps between his abdication and the Tower and scaffold. But still more, the central principles of his life forbade Clarendon to desert his post.

He might not infrequently be prejudiced; he certainly was often sternly obstinate; he took too little account of the views of other men, and failed to adapt himself to the changed circ.u.mstances of the day. But never, in all his career, did he compromise with his duty, or give way to threats of personal danger. Adversity and he had long been familiar, and it may be doubted whether he would not have preferred to accept those few last years of banishment, rather than have yielded one jot of his own relentless resolution, or given occasion to his enemies to boast that they had made him shrink before them. We may doubt the wisdom of his decision; we cannot refuse our homage to his undaunted courage.

But the breach between the King and the Chancellor, and Clarendon's threatened fall, were already the theme of Court gossip. The d.u.c.h.ess learned that his resignation had been demanded, and she, with his old friend Archbishop Sheldon, and the Duke of Albemarle, joined in remonstrating with the King in no measured terms. Other lesser persons followed their example, and Charles soon found that the change was not to be carried out without seriously impinging on his own cherished ease. He protested that he sought nothing but Clarendon's safety, and that he had believed from what he had heard "of the extreme agony the Chancellor was in upon the death of his wife, that he had himself desired to be dismissed from his office." Albemarle was sent to require Clarendon's presence at Whitehall, and seems both to have believed, and to have desired, that what was but a pa.s.sing misunderstanding might be easily arranged. The interview, at which the Duke of York was present, took place upon August 26th. Charles received him graciously and protested his sense of his high services, and his earnest desire to preserve him from the malice of his enemies. He did not scruple to add that he "had verily believed" that the demand for his resignation "had his own consent and desire." He had fancied that his brother concurred, however much he now protested. It is not impossible to believe that James may have found it convenient not to speak in exactly the same tone to his father-in-law and to his brother.

But apart from all mistakes as to personal feeling, the King was positive not only as to the intention of impeachment, but that the fate of Strafford would be the probable result for Clarendon, if he did not yield to the storm. If he did so yield, Charles was confident that he could preserve him, and that he could in this way best provide for his own business. He added a consideration which really gave the lie to what he had just said. "He was sorry that the business had taken so much air, and was so publicly spoken of, that he knew not how to change his purpose." He had surely a better reason for not changing his purpose, if he was persuaded that no change could be made without hazard to the Chancellor's life.

Clarendon's reply to Charles's shuffling was firm and dignified. He had no desire that the King should change his resolution. But he would not suffer it to be believed that his delivery of the seal was his own willing act.

"He should not think himself a gentleman, if he were willing to depart, and withdraw himself from office, in a time when he thought his Majesty would have need of all honest men." Neither was he ready to acknowledge that the deprivation was "in order to do him good." It was "the greatest ruin he could undergo," and instead of saving him, it would deliver him, a discredited man, to the malice and vengeance of his enemies. His last declaration was the most scornful of all.

"He renounced his Majesty's protection or interposition towards his preservation. He feared no censure, if his Majesty should reveal all that he had counselled him in secret. If any one could charge him with a crime, he was ready to undergo the punishment."

Such words as these are strange, to be uttered by a falling Minister to his King, when that King is trying to cloak his own meanness by a pretence of a single-minded desire to save that Minister; they would be stranger still if they had been used by a man conscious of any guilt. But Clarendon did not stop there; he turned the tables fiercely upon the King.

"He doubted very much that the throwing off an old servant who had served the Crown in some trust near thirty years (who had the honour by the command of his blessed father, who had left good evidence of the esteem he had of his fidelity, to wait upon his Majesty when he went out of the kingdom, and, by the great blessing of G.o.d, had the honour to return with him again; which no other counsellor alive could say), on a sudden, without any suggestion of a crime, nay, with a declaration of innocence, would call his Majesty's justice and good nature into question."

Charles had pretended to be working for his servant's safety, and in accordance with what he thought that he desired. That servant brushes aside his subterfuges, renounces his protection, and plainly tells him that the course he proposes to follow will stamp him as an ungrateful master, and drive every honest man to abandon his service. No wonder that the King seemed "very much troubled." He pleaded the power of Parliament, and how he was "at their mercy." Clarendon could only advise him not to act the coward. He had a warning in the fate of Richard II. of what faint- heartedness in a King might bring. In his last thrust Clarendon forgot--as he himself admits--the bounds of prudence. "In the warmth of this relation, he found a seasonable opportunity to mention the Lady with some reflections and cautions, which he might more advisedly have declined."

The close of his final interview was perhaps an ill-chosen moment for wounding the King's pride by another reference to the foul-mouthed termagant, who now swayed the Court, and trampled on her royal lover with the usual insolence of the pampered courtesan.

The visit of the King and the Duke to Clarendon's chamber at Whitehall, where the interview took place, lasted two hours, and at its end the King rose in silence and retired ill-pleased. Meantime the tongues of the Court gossips were busy. When the conference closed, the garden was filled with a crowd of courtiers, eager to watch the countenance of the King. As the Chancellor left the presence of his master, "the Lady, the Lord Arlington, and Mr. May, [Footnote: Bab May, the Keeper of the Privy Purse, and minister to Charles's pleasures. See _ante_, p. 244.] looked together out of her open window with great gaiety and triumph, which all people observed." The fallen Minister could spare a moment's attention, to mark the dramatic fitness of the scene. [Footnote: Clarendon, _Life_, iii. 291.

Pepys gives us the scene with more detail (_Diary_, August 27). "Mr.

Pierce, the surgeon, tells me how this business of my Lord Chancellor's was certainly designed in my Lady Castlemaine's chamber; and that, when he went from the King on Monday morning, she was in bed, though about twelve o'clock, and ran out in her smock into her aviary looking into Whitehall Garden; and thither her woman brought her her nightgown; and stood joying herself at the old man's going away; and several of the gallants of Whitehall, of which there were many staying to see the Chancellor's return, did talk to her in her bird cage; amongst others Blancfort (the Marquis de Blanquefort), telling her she was the bird of Paradise."]

Two or three days pa.s.sed, during which the plot ripened amidst the gossip of the quidnuncs. To those of his more sober-minded counsellors, who spoke for the Chancellor, the King professed much kindness for him, but "he had made himself odious to the Parliament, and was no more capable to do him service." The Lady, Arlington, and Bab May still honoured him by their fervent denunciation, and by their sure prediction of his speedy fall.

Evelyn visited him the day after his interview with the King, and "found him in his bedchamber, very sad." "He had enemies at Court," Evelyn goes on, "especially the buffoons and ladies of pleasure, because he had thwarted some of them and stood in their way; I could name some of them."

The next day Evelyn dined with him, and found him "pretty well in heart, though now many of his friends and sycophants abandoned him." Clarendon knew the world too well to be surprised or grieved by such abandonment, or to allow it to affect his fort.i.tude.

The Duke of York, none of the most adroit or persuasive of advocates, still stood his friend, and endeavoured to bend the purpose of the King.

Sir William Coventry, always--although afterwards he disclaimed it to Pepys--one of the most p.r.o.nounced of Clarendon's enemies, found it necessary to resign his post of secretary to the Duke, and the place was filled by one whom Clarendon suggested. It may be doubted whether the change was meant as more than an outward sign to Clarendon that he still retained his son-in-law's respect. The fight between his friends and enemies still proceeded apace. When the Duke of York attempted to stem the tide against him, Charles only replied, "that he had gone too far to retire; that he should be looked on as a child if he receded from his purpose." Selfishness and love of ease blunted Charles's judgment; they did not interfere with that obstinacy which was a dominant trait in the family character. Only two days later he took the decisive step, and sent Secretary Morrice with a warrant under the sign manual, to demand the seal.[Footnote: The seal was entrusted to Sir Orlando Bridgeman, as Lord Keeper.] The Chancellor delivered it "with all expressions of duty to the King." If Charles felt the stings of conscience for his sorry action, he could comfort himself with the congratulations of the Court pandar, Bab May. That worthy fell upon his knees, kissed the King's hand, and told him "that he was now King, which he had never been before." [Footnote: See Pepys, _Diary_, November 11, 1667.] It was an odd change, from the dignified loyalty of Clarendon to the fulsome flattery of Bab May. Even the scanty pride that had survived in one degraded by sottish debauchery might have been nauseated by the contrast.

Clarendon was mistaken if he thought that compliance with the King's request had either satisfied the rancour of his enemies, or secured for him the King's support. At first he hoped the storm was over, and after an interval sufficient to show that he was conscious of no guilt, and sought to hide himself from no inquiry, he intended to retire to the country, and live as a private gentleman. He had no fear either of Parliament or of his countrymen, and was ready to abide their question. He heard that the King dreaded his a.s.sumption of the part of leader of a Parliamentary opposition, and hastened to a.s.sure him that he had no such intention. His friends still resorted to his house, and those who respected themselves declined, at the bidding of an ign.o.ble clique, to lessen the signs of their respect for him. The King had not courage enough to forbid such demonstrations; but at the instigation of his new confidants he sulked and uttered vague hints, to which Clarendon's enemies gave open and more definite utterance. They had secured the cordial alliance of Buckingham, by persuading him that Clarendon had been at the root of his recent prosecution. Thus reinforced they resolved to make their vengeance more complete.

The King had induced Clarendon to yield, as the only means by which the wrath of Parliament could be stayed, and that had undoubtedly been the pretext put forward to the King by Arlington, and those who acted with him. But now they went further. So long as Clarendon remained at liberty, they dreaded his influence, and persuaded the King that he would spread suspicion and disaffection, and would obstruct every design of the Government. Charles was weak enough to believe a slander, which no one who has studied Clarendon's life and character can for one moment accept, and which Clarendon himself had expressly repudiated. When the Duke of York expostulated, Charles shuffled and prevaricated after his wont. "All might have been quiet, if only the Chancellor had been more practicable; but he had delayed so long, that now the King was compelled 'in the vindication of his honour,' to give some reason for what he had done." Those who praised the Chancellor so loudly were reflecting upon himself. But if he were freed from these inconvenient demonstrations, the Chancellor would not suffer, and he would use his sons as kindly as ever, Charles was not rancorous, but his gleams of good nature only mark his cowardice more strongly.

In his Speech at the opening of Parliament on October loth, the King attempted to smooth matters over. "There had been miscarriages;" but he "had altered his counsels;" "what had been done amiss had been by the advice of the person whom he had removed from his counsels, and with whom he should not hereafter advise." No man ever betrayed a faithful servant with more consummate self-abas.e.m.e.nt.

The House was asked by some to thank the King "for removing the Chancellor," but it was thought premature to do so, and a committee was appointed to draft a reply. The King--so Clarendon's enemies represented-- was offended by the omission, and the Court party pressed for a specific vote, which should endorse his action in the dismissal. That was carried after a keen debate, and by similar Court action it was pushed through the House of Lords. The Duke remonstrated, but was told by the King "that it should go the worse for the Chancellor if his friends opposed." We need not be surprised that Charles doubled the weakness of the coward by the allied bl.u.s.tering of the bully.

Again the King thought that he had satisfied the rancour of Clarendon's enemies, and had vindicated sufficiently the petty jealousy which he himself still felt at the memory of the Chancellor's sway. But he soon found that he had to satisfy more exigent taskmasters. Clarendon's power, they urged, was only scotched, not killed. His influence would soon be supreme, and "he would come to the House with more credit to do mischief."

Grounds of accusation were greedily sought for, and readily supplied, [Footnote: Briefly stated, these were-- 1. That the Chancellor had advised the King to dissolve the Parliament and said there could be no further need of Parliaments. That it would be best for the King to raise a standing army, and govern by that.

2. That he had reported that the King was a Papist in his heart.

3. That he had advised the grant of a Charter to the Canary Company for which he had received great sums of money.

4. That he had raised great sums of money by the sale of offices.

5. That he had introduced an arbitrary government into his Majesty's several plantations.

6. That he had issued _quo warrantos_ against most corporations till they paid him good sums of money.

7. That he received large sums for the settlement of Ireland.

8. That he had deluded the King, and betrayed the nation in all foreign treaties.

9. That he had farmed the customs at under rates, in return for money.

10. That he had received bribes from the Vintners, to free them from penalties due.

11. That he had raised a great state, and got grants of Crown lands.

12. That he had advised the sale of Dunkirk.

13. That he had caused letters under the great seal to be altered.

14. That he had arbitrarily raised questions of t.i.tles to land.

15. That he had been the author of the fatal counsel of dividing the fleet in June, 1666.

16. That he had been in correspondence with Cromwell during the King's exile.] and these contrivances soon resulted in a violent harangue from Edward Seymour, who now made himself conspicuous in the attack upon the fallen Minister. It is not easy to trace the special source of Seymour's violence, but we can find sufficient to account for it in the character of the man himself. He was of ill.u.s.trious descent, as the head of the great house of Seymour; [Footnote: Seymour was the direct representative of the great Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector; but the Dukedom had, by special remainder, pa.s.sed to a younger son, over the head of Edward Seymour's ancestor. "You are of the family of the Duke of Somerset," said William III. when he was first presented. "Pardon me, Sire," answered Seymour, "the Duke of Somerset is of my family." ] possessed of abundant wealth, and unbounded territorial interest in the west. But his birth and wealth were accompanied by overweening pride and ambition, and by a restlessness of rancorous temper that made him for more than a generation a thorn in the side of every successive Government. With high ability, he combined the character of a selfish voluptuary; and although possessed of great wealth, his support was always to be bought by the offer of a place, and he did not disdain the malpractices of a cozener in his eagerness to increase his store. After serving as Speaker, he remained in the Parliament, over which he had presided, as a captious and unruly partisan, forgetting alike dignity and honour in his factious virulence. Such was the spokesman chosen by Clarendon's enemies to frame the indictment. It was enough for Seymour that the task seemed likely to gratify his own ambition. His pride of birth and station no doubt gave a zest to the attack upon one who had raised himself from the smaller squirearchy to the place of foremost Minister. The Chancellor, he avowed vaguely, had designed to govern by a standing army. Seymour swore that he would produce ample proofs, and meantime he urged that a charge of treason should be laid against Clarendon in the House of Lords. The wiser spirits, and those who preserved some regard for the decencies of justice, refused to a.s.sent to a course so flagrantly illegal, upon the unsupported clamour of an arrogant youth.

After protracted debate a committee was appointed to examine precedents in cases of impeachment. On October 29th, it presented its report, and another keen debate ensued. Some argued that they should prefer a general impeachment, without adducing any special charge; others, like Maynard, argued that "common fame is no ground to accuse a man where matter of fact is not clear; to say an evil is done, and therefore this man hath done it, is strange in morality, more in logic." As a result, another committee was appointed to reduce the charge against the Chancellor into heads; and that committee then formulated their charges in seventeen heads. Again a debate ensued upon these charges. They were discussed _seriatim_, and the sixteenth head was reached without one being found to involve a charge of treason.

But the zealots had now gone too far to turn back. Another of the band, conspicuous for his profligacy even in a Court of libertines, Lord Vaughan, the son of the Earl of Carbery, [Footnote: With bitterness, which is perhaps pardonable, Clarendon gives him a line of unflattering portraiture: "A person of as ill a face as fame, his looks and his manners both extreme bad" (Clarendon, _Life_, iii. 317).] undertook to prove another charge. The Chancellor, he avowed, had discovered the King's secrets to the enemy. He was prepared to prove it, and, to stimulate the virulence of those who were bent on Clarendon's ruin, Vaughan pa.s.sed the whisper along the benches, that this was in truth the source of the King's anger against him. Charles, it would seem, had dissembled the cause of his own jealousy to his Minister; he was content that it should be suggested as a new incentive to that Minister's foes. Opposition was trampled upon, and, with unseemly haste, on November 12th, Seymour was sent to the House of Lords to impeach the Earl of Clarendon at the bar, and to desire that his person be secured.

A new stage in the fight now began. The House of Lords, weak as, in Clarendon's opinion, it had often been in yielding to the encroachments of the Commons, yet contained many members who were not prepared to abandon the very semblance of justice, and of dignified procedure, either at the bidding of a Court clique, or before the unseemly rancour of a party in the House of Commons. They urged that the demand of the Commons should be peremptorily refused, and they maintained their ground so firmly before the bl.u.s.tering of those who were ready not only to commit, but to convict, the Chancellor, in obedience to the dominant faction, that the debate was perforce adjourned. The delay continued, and the dispute raged fiercely.

To the persecution of the Chancellor there was now added the additional zest of a struggle between the two Houses, All business was suspended while the fight went on. The angry clique saw all their schemes threatened, the King found his cherished ease disturbed; by some means or other the wrangle must cease. To those who refused to bend to the storm, hints were conveyed that they were incurring the anger of the King.

Desperate plans were discussed; and if other means failed, a guard of soldiers might be sent to arrest the Chancellor and convey him to the Tower. How far Charles was privy to these designs, it is impossible to say. Reverence for the law would be no potent motive either to him, or to the gang who had for the moment secured his confidence.

His friends urged Clarendon to make his escape. They saw the danger increasing, and they guessed that no ill-timed interruption would be placed in his way. Such an escape would relieve the King of a vexing situation, and would satisfy those enemies who might, by means of it, effectually destroy his reputation and his influence. An escape would doubtless have been construed as an evidence of guilt; but to give way to the malignity of his persecutors would at least have been better than life-long imprisonment, or death upon Tower Hill. To yield to such advice was not in keeping with Clarendon's character. He was eager to stand his trial. Rightly or wrongly, he did unquestionably feel absolute confidence in the support of his countrymen at large. Even were he proved to have been mistaken, and were the power of his enemies greater than he reckoned, he was yet ready to bear the consequences so long as his good name was secure. Were he to fly, he would abase his pride before his foes, and would give just ground for impugning his innocence. Nay, more, how could he trust that he would not be captured at the first attempt to escape? It might only be a trap laid by his enemies, who would bring him to trial with that frustrated attempt as their securest evidence of his guilt.

Rumours were rife of the King's growing irritation, of the specific charges to be preferred, of the proposed const.i.tution of the commission by which he was to be tried. The Duke of York, still faithful to the Chancellor's cause, resolved to seek an explanation from the King. He asked if his Majesty was determined either to have the Chancellor's life, or his condemnation to perpetual imprisonment. Charles repudiated with his usual facility, either idea, and swore that he wished the matter were ended. Had the Chancellor, asked the Duke, ever proposed to govern by an army? "Never," answered the King; "on the contrary, his fault was that he always insisted too much upon the law." The Duke asked again, if he might say as much to others. "With all my heart," said the King.

The statement of the King was creditable, and gave hopes to Clarendon's friends. But when the words were repeated, they were found to be disheartening to the conspirators, who thereupon carried their complaints to the King. "They had tried to serve him, and now knew not how to behave themselves." Their weapons would be gone, if the King indulged in such inconvenient candour. The messenger was repudiated by the King with just as much readiness as he had shown in giving his original a.s.surances. The Duke remonstrated, and the King's only answer was "that he would be more careful hereafter what he said to him." The Duke might surely have learned that the King's candid truths were often uttered only to be repudiated when convenient.