More than forty years had elapsed since
Fox had begun to see visions and to cast out devils. He was then a
youth of pure morals and grave deportment, with a perverse temper,
with the education of a labouring man, and with an intellect in the
most unhappy of all states, that is to say, too much disordered for
liberty, and not sufficiently disordered for Bedlam. The
circumstances in which he was placed were such as could scarcely
fail to bring out in the strongest form the constitutional diseases
of his mind. At the time when his faculties were ripening,
Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Independents, Baptists, were striving
for mastery, and were, in every corner of the realm, refuting and
reviling each other. He wandered from congregation to congregation;
he heard priests harangue against Puritans; he heard Puritans
harangue against priests; and he in vain applied for spiritual
direction and consolation to doctors of both parties. One jolly old
clergyman of the Anglican communion told him to smoke tobacco and
sing psalms; another advised him to go and lose some blood.
The young inquirer turned in disgust from these advisers to the
Dissenters, and found them also blind guides.24 After some time he
came to the conclusion that no human being was competent to instruct
him in divine things, and that the truth had been communicated to
him by direct inspiration from heaven. He argued that, as the
division of languages began at Babel, and as the persecutors of
Christ put on the cross an inscription in Latin, Greek and Hebrew,
the knowledge of languages, and more especially of Latin, Greek and
Hebrew, must be useless to a Christian minister.
Indeed, he was so far from knowing many languages, that he knew
none; nor can the most corrupt passage in Hebrew be more
unintelligible to the unlearned than his English often is to the
most acute and attentive reader. One of the precious truths which
were divinely revealed to this new apostle was, that it was
falsehood and adulation to use the second person plural instead of
the second person singular. Another was, that to talk of the month
of March was to worship the bloodthirsty god Mars, and that to talk
of Monday was to pay idolatrous homage to the moon. To say Good
morning or Good evening was highly reprehensible, for those phrases
evidently imported that God had made bad days and bad nights.
A Christian was bound to face death itself rather than touch his hat
to the greatest of mankind. When Fox was challenged to produce any
Scriptural authority for this dogma, he cited the passage in which
it is written that Shadrach, Meshech and Abednego were thrown into
the fiery furnace with their hats on; and, if his own narrative may
be trusted, the Chief Justice of England was altogether unable to
answer this argument except by crying out, "Take him away, gaoler."
Fox insisted much on the not less weighty argument that the Turks
never show their bare heads to their superiors; and he asked, with
great animation, whether those who bore the noble name of Christians
ought not to surpass Turks in virtue. Bowing he strictly prohibited,
and, indeed, seemed to consider it as the effect of Satanical
influence; for, as he observed, the woman in the Gospel, while she
had a spirit of infirmity, was bowed together, and ceased to bow as
soon as Divine power had liberated her from the yranny of the Evil
One.
His expositions of the sacred writings were of a very peculiar kind.
Passages, which had been, in the apprehension of all the readers of
the Gospels during sixteen centuries, figurative, he construed
literally. Passages, which no human being before him had ever
understood in any other than a literal sense, he construed
figuratively. Thus, from those rhetorical expressions in which the
duty of patience under injuries is enjoined he deduced the doctrine
that selfdefence against pirates and assassins is unlawful. On the
other hand, the plain commands to baptize with water, and to partake
of bread and wine in commemoration of the redemption of mankind, he
pronounced to be allegorical. He long wandered from place to place,
teaching this strange theology, shaking like an aspen leaf in his
paroxysms of fanatical excitement, forcing his way into churches,
which he nicknamed steeple houses interrupting prayers and sermons
with clamour and scurrility,31 and pestering rectors and justices
with epistles much resembling burlesques of those sublime odes in
which the Hebrew prophets foretold the calamities of Babylon and
Tyre.
He soon acquired great notoriety by these feats. His strange face,
his strange chant, his immovable hat and his leather breeches were
known all over the country; and he boasts that, as soon as the
rumour was heard, "The Man in Leather Breeches is coming," terror
seized hypocritical professors, and hireling priests made haste to
get out of his way. He was repeatedly imprisoned and set in the
stocks, sometimes justly, for disturbing the public worship of
congregations, and sometimes unjustly, for merely talking nonsense.
He soon gathered round him a body of disciples, some of whom went
beyond himself in absurdity. He has told us that one of his friends
walked naked through Skipton declaring the truth and that another
was divinely moved to go naked during several years to marketplaces,
and to the houses of gentlemen and clergymen. Fox complains bitterly
that these pious acts, prompted by the Holy Spirit, were requited by
an untoward generation with hooting, pelting, coachwhipping and
horsewhipping. But, though he applauded the zeal of the sufferers,
he did not go quite to their lengths. He sometimes, indeed, was
impelled to strip himself partially. Thus he pulled off his shoes
and walked barefoot through Lichfield, crying, "Woe to the bloody
city." But it does not appear that he ever thought it his duty to
appear before the public without that decent garment from which his
popular appellation was derived.
If we form our judgment of George Fox simply by looking at his own
actions and writings, we shall see no reason for placing him,
morally or intellectually, above Ludowick Muggleton or Joanna
Southcote. But it would be most unjust to rank the sect which
regards him as its founder with the Muggletonians or the
Southcotians. It chanced that among the thousands whom his
enthusiasm infected were a few persons whose abilities and
attainments were of a very different order from his own. Robert
Barclay was a man of considerable parts and learning. William Penn,
though inferior to Barclay in both natural and acquired abilities,
was a gentleman and a scholar. That such men should have become the
followers of George Fox ought not to astonish any person who
remembers what quick, vigorous and highly cultivated intellects were
in our own times duped by the unknown tongues.
The truth is that no powers of mind constitute a security against
errors of this description. Touching God and His ways with man, the
highest human faculties can discover little more than the meanest.
In theology the interval is small indeed between Aristotle and a
child, between Archimedes and a naked savage. It is not strange,
therefore, that wise men, weary of investigation, tormented by
uncertainty, longing to believe something, and yet seeing objections
to every thing, should submit themselves absolutely to teachers who,
with firm and undoubting faith, lay claim to a supernatural
commission. Thus we frequently see inquisitive and restless spirits
take refuge from their own scepticism in the bosom of a church which
pretends to infallibility, and, after questioning the existence of a
Deity, bring themselves to worship a wafer. And thus it was that Fox
made some converts to whom he was immeasurably inferior in every
thing except the energy of his convictions. By these converts his
rude doctrines were polished into a form somewhat less shocking to
good sense and good taste. No proposition which he had laid down was
retracted. No indecent or ridiculous act which he had done or
approved was condemned; but what was most grossly absurd in his
theories and practices was softened down, or at least not obtruded
on the public; whatever could be made to appear specious was set in
the fairest light; his gibberish was translated into English;
meanings which he would have been quite unable to comprehend were
put on his phrases; and his system, so much improved that he would
not have known it again, was defended by numerous citations from
Pagan philosophers and Christian fathers whose names he had never
heard. Still, however, those who had remodelled his theology
continued to profess, and doubtless to feel, profound reverence for
him; and his crazy epistles were to the last received and read with
respect in Quaker meetings all over the country. His death produced
a sensation which was not confined to his own disciples. On the
morning of the funeral a great multitude assembled round the meeting
house in Gracechurch Street. Thence the corpse was borne to the
burial ground of the sect near Bunhill Fields. Several orators
addressed the crowd which filled the cemetery. Penn was conspicuous
among those disciples who committed the venerable corpse to the
earth. The ceremony had scarcely been finished when he learned that
warrants were out against him. He instantly took flight, and
remained many months concealed from the public eye.
A short time after his disappearance, Sidney received from him a
strange communication. Penn begged for an interview, but insisted on
a promise that he should be suffered to return unmolested to his
hiding place. Sidney obtained the royal permission to make an
appointment on these terms. Penn came to the rendezvous, and spoke
at length in his own defence. He declared that he was a faithful
subject of King William and Queen Mary, and that, if he knew of any
design against them, he would discover it. Departing from his Yea
and Nay, he protested, as in the presence of God, that he knew of no
plot, and that he did not believe that there was any plot, unless
the ambitious projects of the French government might be called
plots. Sidney, amazed probably by hearing a person, who had such an
abhorrence of lies that he would not use the common forms of
civility, and such an abhorrence of oaths that he would not kiss the
book in a court of justice, tell something very like a lie, and
confirm it by something very like an oath, asked how, if there were
really no plot, the letters and minutes which had been found on
Ashton were to be explained. This question Penn evaded. "If," he
said, "I could only see the King, I would confess every thing to him
freely. I would tell him much that it would be important for him to
know. It is only in that way that I can be of service to him.
A witness for the Crown I cannot be for my conscience will not
suffer me to be sworn." He assured Sidney that the most formidable
enemies of the government were the discontented Whigs. "The
Jacobites are not dangerous. There is not a man among them who has
common understanding. Some persons who came over from Holland with
the King are much more to be dreaded." It does not appear that Penn
mentioned any names. He was suffered to depart in safety. No active
search was made for him. He lay hid in London during some months,
and then stole down to the coast of Sussex and made his escape to
France. After about three years of wandering and lurking he, by the
mediation of some eminent men, who overlooked his faults for the
sake of his good qualities, made his peace with the government, and
again ventured to resume his ministrations. The return which he made
for the lenity with which he had been treated does not much raise
his character. Scarcely had he again begun to harangue in public
about the unlawfulness of war, when he sent a message earnestly
exhorting James to make an immediate descent on England with thirty
thousand men.
Some months passed before the fate of Preston was decided. After
several respites, the government, convinced that, though he had told
much, he could tell more, fixed a day for his execution, and ordered
the sheriffs to have the machinery of death in readiness. But he was
again respited, and, after a delay of some weeks, obtained a pardon,
which, however, extended only to his life, and left his property
subject to all the consequences of his attainder. As soon as he was
set at liberty he gave new cause of offence and suspicion, and was
again arrested, examined and sent to prison. At length he was
permitted to retire, pursued by the hisses and curses of both
parties, to a lonely manor house in the North Riding of Yorkshire.
There, at least, he had not to endure the scornful looks of old
associates who had once thought him a man of dauntless courage and
spotless honour, but who now pronounced that he was at best a
meanspirited coward, and hinted their suspicions that he had been
from the beginning a spy and a trepan. He employed the short and sad
remains of his life in turning the Consolation of Boethius into
English. The translation was published after the translator's death.
It is remarkable chiefly on account of some very unsuccessful
attempts to enrich our versification with new metres, and on account
of the allusions with which the preface is filled. Under a thin veil
of figurative language, Preston exhibited to the public compassion
or contempt his own blighted fame and broken heart. He complained
that the tribunal which had sentenced him to death had dealt with
him more leniently than his former friends, and that many, who had
never been tried by temptations like his, had very cheaply earned a
reputation for courage by sneering at his poltroonery, and by
bidding defiance at a distance to horrors which, when brought near,
subdue even a constant spirit. The spirit of the Jacobites, which
had been quelled for a time by the detection of Preston's plot, was
revived by the fall of Mons.
The joy of the whole party was boundless. The nonjuring priests ran
backwards and forwards between Sam's Coffee House and Westminster
Hall, spreading the praises of Lewis, and laughing at the miserable
issue of the deliberations of the great Congress. In the Park the
malecontents wore their biggest looks, and talked sedition in their
loudest tones. The most conspicuous among these swaggerers was Sir
John Fenwick, who had, in the late reign, been high in favour and in
military command, and was now an indefatigable agitator and
conspirator. In his exultation he forgot the courtesy which man owes
to woman. He had more than once made himself conspicuous by his
impertinence to the Queen. He now ostentatiously put himself in her
way when she took her airing; and, while all around him uncovered
and bowed low, gave her a rude stare and cocked his hat in her face.
The affront was not only brutal, but cowardly. For the law had
provided no punishment for mere impertinence, however gross; and the
King was the only gentleman and soldier in the kingdom who could not
protect his wife from contumely with his sword. All that the Queen
could do was to order the parkkeepers not to admit Sir John again
within the gates. But, long after her death, a day came when he had
reason to wish that he had restrained his insolence. He found, by
terrible proof, that of all the Jacobites, the most desperate
assassins not excepted, he was the only one for whom William felt an
intense personal aversion.
A few days after this event the rage of the malecontents began to
flame more fiercely than ever. The detection of the conspiracy of
which Preston was the chief had brought on a crisis in
ecclesiastical affairs. The nonjuring bishops had, during the year
which followed their deprivation, continued to reside in the
official mansions which had once been their own. Burnet had, at
Mary's request, laboured to effect a compromise. His direct
interference would probably have done more harm than good. He
therefore judiciously employed the agency of Rochester, who stood
higher in the estimation of the nonjurors than any statesman who was
not a nonjuror, and of Trevor, who, worthless as he was, had
considerable influence with the High Church party. Sancroft and his
brethren were informed that, if they would consent to perform their
spiritual duty, to ordain, to institute, to confirm, and to watch
over the faith and the morality of the priesthood, a bill should be
brought into Parliament to excuse them from taking the oaths.
This offer was imprudently liberal; but those to whom it was made
could not consistently accept it. For in the ordination service, and
indeed in almost every service of the Church, William and Mary were
designated as King and Queen. The only promise that could be
obtained from the deprived prelates was that they would live
quietly; and even this promise they had not all kept. One of them at
least had been guilty of treason aggravated by impiety. He had,
under the strong fear of being butchered by the populace, declared
that he abhorred the thought of calling in the aid of France, and
had invoked God to attest the sincerity of this declaration. Yet, a
short time after, he bad been detected in plotting to bring a French
army into England; and he had written to assure the Court of Saint
Germains that he was acting in concert with his brethren, and
especially with Sancroft. The Whigs called loudly for severity. Even
the Tory counsellors of William owned that indulgence had been
carried to the extreme point. They made, however, a last attempt to
mediate. "Will you and your brethren," said Trevor to Lloyd, the
nonjuring Bishop of Norwich, "disown all connection with Doctor
Turner, and declare that what he has in his letters imputed to you
is false?" Lloyd evaded the question. It was now evident that
William's forbearance had only emboldened the adversaries whom he
had hoped to conciliate. Even Caermarthen, even Nottingham, declared
that it was high time to fill the vacant sees.
Tillotson was nominated to the Archbishopric, and was consecrated on
Whitsunday, in the church of St. Mary Le Bow. Compton, cruelly
mortified, refused to bear any part in the ceremony. His place was
supplied by Mew, Bishop of Winchester, who was assisted by Burnet,
Stillingfleet and Hough. The congregation was the most splendid that
had been seen in any place of worship since the coronation. The
Queen's drawingroom was, on that day, deserted. Most of the peers
who were in town met in the morning at Bedford House, and went
thence in procession to Cheapside. Norfolk, Caermarthen and Dorset
were conspicuous in the throng.
Devonshire, who was impatient to see his woods at Chatsworth in
their summer beauty, had deferred his departure in order to mark his
respect for Tillotson. The crowd which lined the streets greeted the
new Primate warmly. For he had, during many years, preached in the
City; and his eloquence, his probity and the singular gentleness of
his temper and manners, had made him the favourite of the Londoners.
But the congratulations and applauses of his friends could not drown
the roar of execration which the Jacobites set up. According to
them, he was a thief who had not entered by the door, but had
climbed over the fences. He was a hireling whose own the sheep were
not, who had usurped the crook of the good shepherd, and who might
well be expected to leave the flock at the mercy of every wolf. He
was an Arian, a Socinian, a Deist, an Atheist. He had cozened the
world by fine phrases, and by a show of moral goodness: but he was
in truth a far more dangerous enemy of the Church than he could have
been if he had openly proclaimed himself a disciple of Hobbes, and
had lived as loosely as Wilmot. He had taught the fine gentlemen and
ladies who admired his style, and who were constantly seen round his
pulpit, that they might be very good Christians, and yet might
believe the account of the Fall in the book of Genesis to be
allegorical. Indeed they might easily be as good Christians as he;
for he had never been christened; his parents were Anabaptists; he
had lost their religion when he was a boy; and he had never found
another. In ribald lampoons he was nicknamed Undipped John. The
parish register of his baptism was produced in vain. His enemies
still continued to complain that they had lived to see fathers of
the Church who never were her children. They made up a story that
the Queen had felt bitter remorse for the great crime by which she
had obtained a throne, that in her agony she had applied to
Tillotson, and that he had comforted her by assuring her that the
punishment of the wicked in a future state would not be eternal. The
Archbishop's mind was naturally of almost feminine delicacy, and had
been rather softened than braced by the habits of along life, during
which contending sects and factions had agreed in speaking of his
abilities with admiration and of his character with esteem. The
storm of obloquy which he had to face for the first time at more
than sixty years of age was too much for him. His spirits declined;
his health gave way; yet he neither flinched from his duty nor
attempted to revenge himself on his persecutors. A few days after
his consecration, some persons were seized while dispersing libels
in which he was reviled. The law officers of the Crown proposed to
institute prosecutions; but he insisted that nobody should be
punished on his account. Once, when he had company with him, a
sealed packet was put into his hands; he opened it; and out fell a
mask. His friends were shocked and incensed by this cowardly insult;
but the Archbishop, trying to conceal his anguish by a smile,
pointed to the pamphlets which covered his table, and said that the
reproach which the emblem of the mask was intended to convey might
be called gentle when compared with other reproaches which he daily
had to endure. After his death a bundle of the savage lampoons which
the nonjurors had circulated against him was found among his papers
with this indorsement: "I pray God forgive them; I do."
The temper of the deposed primate was very different. He seems to
have been under a complete delusion as to his own importance. The
immense popularity which he had enjoyed three years before, the
prayers and tears of the multitudes who had plunged into the Thames
to implore his blessing, the enthusiasm with which the sentinels of
the Tower had drunk his health under the windows of his prison, the
mighty roar of joy which had risen from Palace Yard on the morning
of his acquittal, the triumphant night when every window from Hyde
Park to Mile End had exhibited seven candles, the midmost and
tallest emblematical of him, were still fresh in his recollection;
nor had he the wisdom to perceive that all this homage had been
paid, not to his person, but to that religion and to those liberties
of which he was, for a moment, the representative. The extreme
tenderness with which the new government had long persisted in
treating him seems to have confirmed him in his error. That a
succession of conciliatory messages was sent to him from Kensington,
that he was offered terms so liberal as to be scarcely consistent
with the dignity of the Crown and the welfare of the State, that his
cold and uncourteous answers could not tire out the royal
indulgence, that, in spite of the loud clamours of the Whigs, and of
the provocations daily given by the Jacobites, he was residing,
fifteen months after deprivation, in the metropolitan palace, these
things seemed to him to indicate not the lenity but the timidity of
the ruling powers. He appears to have flattered himself that they
would not dare to eject him. The news, therefore, that his see had
been filled threw him into a passion which lasted as long as his
life, and which hurried him into many foolish and unseemly actions.
Tillotson, as soon as he was appointed, went to Lambeth in the hope
that he might be able, by courtesy and kindness, to soothe the
irritation of which he was the innocent cause. He stayed long in the
antechamber, and sent in his name by several servants; but Sancroft
would not even return an answer.
Three weeks passed; and still the deprived Archbishop showed no
disposition to move. At length he received an order intimating to
him the royal pleasure that he should quit the dwelling which had
long ceased to be his own, and in which he was only a guest. He
resented this order bitterly, and declared that he would not obey
it. He would stay till he was pulled out by the Sheriff's officers.
He would defend himself at law as long as he could do so without
putting in any plea acknowledging the authority of the usurpers. The
case was so clear that he could not, by any artifice of chicanery,
obtain more than a short delay. When judgment had been given against
him, he left the palace, but directed his steward to retain
possession. The consequence was that the steward was taken into
custody and heavily fined. Tillotson sent a kind message to assure
his predecessor that the fine should not be exacted. But Sancroft
was determined to have a grievance, and would pay the money.
From that time the great object of the narrowminded and peevish old
man was to tear in pieces the Church of which he had been the chief
minister. It was in vain that some of those nonjurors, whose virtue,
ability and learning were the glory of their party, remonstrated
against his design. "Our deprivation,"--such was the reasoning of
Ken,--"is, in the sight of God, a nullity. We are, and shall be,
till we die or resign, the true Bishops of our sees. Those who
assume our titles and functions will incur the guilt of schism. But
with us, if we act as becomes us, the schism will die; and in the
next generation the unity of the Church will be restored. On the
other hand, if we consecrate Bishops to succeed us, the breach may
last through ages, and we shall be justly held accountable, not
indeed for its origin, but for its continuance." These
considerations ought, on Sancroft's own principles, to have had
decisive weight with him; but his angry passions prevailed. Ken
quietly retired from the venerable palace of Wells. He had done, he
said, with strife, and should henceforth vent his feelings not in
disputes but in hymns. His charities to the unhappy of all
persuasions, especially to the followers of Monmouth and to the
persecuted Huguenots, had been so large that his whole private
fortune consisted of seven hundred pounds, and of a library which he
could not bear to sell. But Thomas Thynne, Viscount Weymouth, though
not a nonjuror, did himself honour by offering to the most virtuous
of the nonjurors a tranquil and dignified asylum in the princely
mansion of Longleat. There Ken passed a happy and honoured old age,
during which he never regretted the sacrifice which he had made to
what he thought his duty, and yet constantly became more and more
indulgent to those whose views of duty differed from his.
Sancroft was of a very different temper. He had, indeed, as little
to complain of as any man whom a revolution has ever hurled down
from an exalted station. He had at Fressingfield, in Suffolk, a
patrimonial estate, which, together with what he had saved during a
primacy of twelve years, enabled him to live, not indeed as he had
lived when he was the first peer of Parliament, but in the style of
an opulent country gentleman. He retired to his hereditary abode;
and there he passed the rest of his life in brooding over his
wrongs. Aversion to the Established Church became as strong a
feeling in him as it had been in Martin Marprelate. He considered
all who remained in communion with her as heathens and publicans. He
nicknamed Tillotson the Mufti. In the room which was used as a
chapel at Fressingfield no person who had taken the oaths, or who
attended the ministry of any divine who had taken the oaths, was
suffered to partake of the sacred bread and wine. A distinction,
however, was made between two classes of offenders. A layman who
remained in communion with the Church was permitted to be present
while prayers were read, and was excluded only from the highest of
Christian mysteries. But with clergymen who had sworn allegiance to
the Sovereigns in possession Sancroft would not even pray. He took
care that the rule which he had laid down should be widely known,
and, both by precept and by example, taught his followers to look on
the most orthodox, the most devout, the most virtuous of those who
acknowledged William's authority with a feeling similar to that with
which the Jew regarded the Samaritan. Such intolerance would have
been reprehensible, even in a man contending for a great principle.
But Sancroft was contending merely for a name.
He was the author of the scheme of Regency. He was perfectly willing
to transfer the whole kingly power from James to William. The
question which, to this smallest and sourest of minds, seemed
important enough to justify the excommunicating of ten thousand
priests and of five millions of laymen was, whether the magistrate
to whom the whole kingly power was transferred should assume the
kingly title. Nor could Sancroft bear to think that the animosity
which he had excited would die with himself. Having done all that he
could to make the feud bitter, he determined to make it eternal. A
list of the divines who had been ejected from their benefices was
sent by him to Saint Germains with a request that James would
nominate two who might keep up the episcopal succession. James, well
pleased, doubtless, to see another sect added to that multitude of
sects which he had been taught to consider as the reproach of
Protestantism, named two fierce and uncompromising nonjurors, Hickes
and Wagstaffe, the former recommended by Sancroft, the latter
recommended by Lloyd, the ejected Bishop of Norwich.
Such was the origin of a schismatical hierarchy, which, having,
during a short time, excited alarm, soon sank into obscurity and
contempt, but which, in obscurity and contempt, continued to drag on
a languid existence during several generations. The little Church,
without temples, revenues or dignities, was even more distracted by
internal disputes than the great Church, which retained possession
of cathedrals, tithes and peerages. Some nonjurors leaned towards
the ceremonial of Rome; others would not tolerate the slightest
departure from the Book of Common Prayer. Altar was set up against
altar. One phantom prelate pronounced the consecration of another
phantom prelate uncanonical. At length the pastors were left
absolutely without flocks. One of these Lords spiritual very wisely
turned surgeon; another left what he had called his see, and settled
in Ireland; and at length, in 1805, the last Bishop of that society
which had proudly claimed to be the only true Church of England
dropped unnoticed into the grave.
The places of the bishops who had been ejected with Sancroft were
filled in a manner creditable to the government. Patrick succeeded
the traitor Turner. Fowler went to Gloucester. Richard Cumberland,
an aged divine, who had no interest at Court, and whose only
recommendations were his piety and erudition, was astonished by
learning from a newsletter which he found on the table of a
coffeehouse that he had been nominated to the See of Peterborough.
Beveridge was selected to succeed Ken; he consented; and the
appointment was actually announced in the London Gazette. But
Beveridge, though an honest, was not a strongminded man. Some
Jacobites expostulated with him; some reviled him; his heart failed
him; and he retracted. While the nonjurors were rejoicing in this
victory, he changed his mind again; but too late. He had by his
irresolution forfeited the favour of William, and never obtained a
mitre till Anne was on the throne.
The bishopric of Bath and Wells was bestowed on Richard Kidder, a
man of considerable attainments and blameless character, but
suspected of a leaning towards Presbyterianism. About the same time
Sharp, the highest churchman that had been zealous for the
Comprehension, and the lowest churchman that felt a scruple about
succeeding a deprived prelate, accepted the Archbishopric of York,
vacant by the death of Lamplugh.
In consequence of the elevation of Tillotson to the See of
Canterbury, the Deanery of Saint Paul's became vacant. As soon as
the name of the new Dean was known, a clamour broke forth such as
perhaps no ecclesiastical appointment has ever produced, a clamour
made up of yells of hatred, of hisses of contempt, and of shouts of
triumphant and half insulting welcome; for the new Dean was William
Sherlock.
The story of his conversion deserves to be fully told; for it throws
great light on the character of the parties which then divided the
Church and the State. Sherlock was, in influence and reputation,
though not in rank, the foremost man among the nonjurors. His
authority and example had induced some of his brethren, who had at
first wavered, to resign their benefices. The day of suspension
came; the day of deprivation came; and still he was firm. He seemed
to have found, in the consciousness of rectitude, and in meditation
on the invisible world, ample compensation for all his losses. While
excluded from the pulpit where his eloquence had once delighted the
learned and polite inmates of the Temple, he wrote that celebrated
Treatise on Death which, during many years, stood next to the Whole
Duty of Man in the bookcases of serious Arminians. Soon, however, it
began to be suspected that his resolution was giving way. He
declared that he would be no party to a schism; he advised those who
sought his counsel not to leave their parish churches; nay, finding
that the law which had ejected him from his cure did not interdict
him from performing divine service, he officiated at Saint
Dunstan's, and there prayed for King William and Queen Mary. The
apostolical injunction, he said, was that prayers should be made for
all in authority, and William and Mary were visibly in authority.
His Jacobite friends loudly blamed his inconsistency. How, they
asked, if you admit that the Apostle speaks in this passage of
actual authority, can you maintain that, in other passages of a
similar kind, he speaks only of legitimate authority? Or how can
you, without sin, designate as King, in a solemn address to God, one
whom you cannot, without sin, promise to obey as King? These
reasonings were unanswerable; and Sherlock soon began to think them
so; but the conclusion to which they led him was diametrically
opposed to the conclusion to which they were meant to lead him. He
hesitated, however, till a new light flashed on his mind from a
quarter from which there was little reason to expect any thing but
tenfold darkness. In the reign of James the First, Doctor John
Overall, Bishop of Exeter, had written an elaborate treatise on the
rights of civil and ecclesiastical governors. This treatise had been
solemnly approved by the Convocations of Canterbury and York, and
might therefore be considered as an authoritative exposition of the
doctrine of the Church of England. A copy of the manuscript was in
Sancroft's possession; and he, soon after the Revolution, sent it to
the press. He hoped, doubtless, that the publication would injure
the new government; but he was lamentably disappointed. The book
indeed condemned all resistance in terms as strong as he could
himself have used; but one passage which had escaped his notice was
decisive against himself and his fellow schismatics. Overall, and
the two Convocations which had given their sanction to Overall's
teaching, pronounced that a government, which had originated in
rebellion, ought, when thoroughly settled, to be considered as
ordained by God and to be obeyed by Christian men.60 Sherlock read,
and was convinced. His venerable mother the Church had spoken; and
he, with the docility of a child, accepted her decree. The
government which had sprung from the Revolution might, at least
since the battle of the Boyne and the flight of James from Ireland,
be fairly called a settled government, and ought therefore to be
passively obeyed till it should be subverted by another revolution
and succeeded by another settled government.
Sherlock took the oaths, and speedily published, in justification of
his conduct, a pamphlet entitled The Case of Allegiance to Sovereign
Powers stated. The sensation produced by this work was immense.
Dryden's Hind and Panther had not raised so great an uproar.
Halifax's Letter to a Dissenter had not called forth so many
answers. The replies to the Doctor, the vindications of the Doctor,
the pasquinades on the Doctor, would fill a library. The clamour
redoubled when it was known that the convert had not only been
reappointed Master of the Temple, but had accepted the Deanery of
Saint Paul's, which had become vacant in consequence of the
deprivation of Sancroft and the promotion of Tillotson. The rage of
the nonjurors amounted almost to frenzy. Was it not enough, they
asked, to desert the true and pure Church, in this her hour of
sorrow and peril, without also slandering her? It was easy to
understand why a greedy, cowardly hypocrite should refuse to take
the oaths to the usurper as long as it seemed probable that the
rightful King would be restored, and should make haste to swear
after the battle of the Boyne. Such tergiversation in times of civil
discord was nothing new. What was new was that the turncoat should
try to throw his own guilt and shame on the Church of England, and
should proclaim that she had taught him to turn against the weak who
were in the right, and to cringe to the powerful who were in the
wrong. Had such indeed been her doctrine or her practice in evil
days? Had she abandoned her Royal Martyr in the prison or on the
scaffold? Had she enjoined her children to pay obedience to the Rump
or to the Protector? Yet was the government of the Rump or of the
Protector less entitled to be called a settled government than the
government of William and Mary? Had not the battle of Worcester been
as great a blow to the hopes of the House of Stuart as the battle of
the Boyne? Had not the chances of a Restoration seemed as small in
1657 as they could seem to any judicious man in 1691? In spite of
invectives and sarcasms, however, there was Overall's treatise;
there were the approving votes of the two Convocations; and it was
much easier to rail at Sherlock than to explain away either the
treatise or the votes. One writer maintained that by a thoroughly
settled government must have been meant a government of which the
title was uncontested. Thus, he said, the government of the United
Provinces became a settled government when it was recognised by
Spain, and, but for that recognition, would never have been a
settled government to the end of time. Another casuist, somewhat
less austere, pronounced that a government, wrongful in its origin,
might become a settled government after the lapse of a century. On
the thirteenth of February 1789, therefore, and not a day earlier,
Englishmen would be at liberty to swear allegiance to a government
sprung from the Revolution. The history of the chosen people was
ransacked for precedents. Was Eglon's a settled government when Ehud
stabbed him? Was Joram's a settled government when Jehe shot him?
But the leading case was that of Athaliah. It was indeed a case
which furnished the malecontents with many happy and pungent
allusions; a kingdom treacherously seized by an usurper near in
blood to the throne; the rightful prince long dispossessed; a part
of the sacerdotal order true, through many disastrous years, to the
Royal House; a counterrevolution at length effected by the High
Priest at the head of the Levites. Who, it was asked, would dare to
blame the heroic pontiff who had restored the heir of David? Yet was
not the government of Athaliah as firmly settled as that of the
Prince of Orange?
Hundreds of pages written at this time about the rights of Joash and
the bold enterprise of Jehoiada are mouldering in the ancient
bookcases of Oxford and Cambridge. While Sherlock was thus fiercely
attacked by his old friends, he was not left unmolested by his old
enemies. Some vehement Whigs, among whom Julian Johnson was
conspicuous, declared that Jacobitism itself was respectable when
compared with the vile doctrine which had been discovered in the
Convocation Book. That passive obedience was due to Kings was
doubtless an absurd and pernicious notion. Yet it was impossible not
to respect the consistency and fortitude of men who thought
themselves bound to bear true allegiance, at all hazards, to an
unfortunate, a deposed, an exiled oppressor. But the theory which
Sherlock had learned from Overall was unmixed baseness and
wickedness. A cause was to be abandoned, not because it was unjust,
but because it was unprosperous. Whether James had been a tyrant or
had been the father of his people was quite immaterial. If he had
won the battle of the Boyne we should have been bound as Christians
to be his slaves. He had lost it; and we were bound as Christians to
be his foes. Other Whigs congratulated the proselyte on having come,
by whatever road, to a right practical conclusion, but could not
refrain from sneering at the history which he gave of his
conversion. He was, they said, a man of eminent learning and
abilities. He had studied the question of allegiance long and
deeply. He had written much about it. Several months had been
allowed him for reading, prayer and reflection before he incurred
suspension, several months more before he incurred deprivation. He
had formed an opinion for which he had declared himself ready to
suffer martyrdom; he had taught that opinion to others; and he had
then changed that opinion solely because he had discovered that it
had been, not refuted, but dogmatically pronounced erroneous by the
two Convocations more than eighty years before. Surely, this was to
renounce all liberty of private judgment, and to ascribe to the
Synods of Canterbury and York an infallibility which the Church of
England had declared that even Oecumenical Councils could not justly
claim. If, it was sarcastically said, all our notions of right and
wrong, in matters of vital importance to the well being of society,
are to be suddenly altered by a few lines of manuscript found in a
corner of the library at Lambeth, it is surely much to be wished,
for the peace of mind of humble Christians, that all the documents
to which this sort of authority belongs should be rummaged out and
sent to the press as soon as possible; for, unless this be done, we
may all, like the Doctor when he refused the oaths last year, be
committing sins in the full persuasion that we are discharging
duties. In truth, it is not easy to believe that the Convocation
Book furnished Sherlock with any thing more than a pretext for doing
what he had made up his mind to do. The united force of reason and
interest had doubtless convinced him that his passions and
prejudices had led him into a great error. That error he determined
to recant; and it cost him less to say that his opinion had been
changed by newly discovered evidence, than that he had formed a
wrong judgment with all the materials for the forming of a right
judgment before him. The popular belief was that his retractation
was the effect of the tears, expostulations and reproaches of his
wife.
The lady's spirit was high; her authority in the family was great;
and she cared much more about her house and her carriage, the plenty
of her table and the prospects of her children, than about the
patriarchal origin of government or the meaning of the word
Abdication. She had, it was asserted, given her husband no peace by
day or by night till he had got over his scruples. In letters,
fables, songs, dialogues without number, her powers of seduction and
intimidation were malignantly extolled. She was Xanthippe pouring
water on the head of Socrates. She was Dalilah shearing Samson. She
was Eve forcing the forbidden fruit into Adam's mouth. She was Job's
wife, imploring her ruined lord, who sate scraping himself among the
ashes, not to curse and die, but to swear and live. While the ballad
makers celebrated the victory of Mrs. Sherlock, another class of
assailants fell on the theological reputation of her spouse. Till he
took the oaths, he had always been considered as the most orthodox
of divines. But the captious and malignant criticism to which his
writings were now subjected would have found heresy in the Sermon on
the Mount; and he, unfortunately, was rash enough to publish, at the
very moment when the outcry against his political tergiversation was
loudest, his thoughts on the mystery of the Trinity. It is probable
that, at another time, his work would have been hailed by good
Churchmen as a triumphant answer to the Socinians and Sabellians.
But, unhappily, in his zeal against Socinians and Sabellians, he
used expressions which might be construed into Tritheism. Candid
judges would have remembered that the true path was closely pressed
on the right and on the left by error, and that it was scarcely
possible to keep far enough from danger on one side without going
very close to danger on the other. But candid judges Sherlock was
not likely to find among the Jacobites. His old allies affirmed that
he had incurred all the fearful penalties denounced in the
Athanasian Creed against those who divide the substance. Bulky
quartos were written to prove that he held the existence of three
distinct Deities; and some facetious malecontents, who troubled
themselves very little about the Catholic verity, amused the town by
lampoons in English and Latin on his heterodoxy. "We," said one of
these jesters, "plight our faith to one King, and call one God to
attest our promise. We cannot think it strange that there should be
more than one King to whom the Doctor has sworn allegiance, when we
consider that the Doctor has more Gods than one to swear by."
Sherlock would, perhaps, have doubted whether the government to
which he had submitted was entitled to be called a settled
government, if he had known all the dangers by which it was
threatened. Scarcely had Preston's plot been detected; when a new
plot of a very different kind was formed in the camp, in the navy,
in the treasury, in the very bedchamber of the King. This mystery of
iniquity has, through five generations, been gradually unveiling,
but is not yet entirely unveiled. Some parts which are still obscure
may possibly, by the discovery of letters or diaries now reposing
under the dust of a century and a half, be made clear to our
posterity. The materials, however, which are at present accessible,
are sufficient for the construction of a narrative not to be read
without shame and loathing.
We have seen that, in the spring of 1690, Shrewsbury, irritated by
finding his counsels rejected, and those of his Tory rivals
followed, suffered himself, in a fatal hour, to be drawn into a
correspondence with the banished family. We have seen also by what
cruel sufferings of body and mind he expiated his fault. Tortured by
remorse, and by disease the effect of remorse, he had quitted the
Court; but he had left behind him men whose principles were not less
lax than his, and whose hearts were far harder and colder.
Early in 1691, some of these men began to hold secret communication
with Saint Germains. Wicked and base as their conduct was, there was
in it nothing surprising. They did after their kind. The times were
troubled. A thick cloud was upon the future. The most sagacious and
experienced politician could not see with any clearness three months
before him. To a man of virtue and honour, indeed, this mattered
little. His uncertainty as to what the morrow might bring forth
might make him anxious, but could not make him perfidious. Though
left in utter darkness as to what concerned his interests, he had
the sure guidance of his principles. But, unhappily, men of virtue
and honour were not numerous among the courtiers of that age.
Whitehall had been, during thirty years, a seminary of every public
and private vice, and swarmed with lowminded, doubledealing,
selfseeking politicians. These politicians now acted as it was
natural that men profoundly immoral should act at a crisis of which
none could predict the issue. Some of them might have a slight
predilection for William; others a slight predilection for James;
but it was not by any such predilection that the conduct of any of
the breed was guided. If it had seemed certain that William would
stand, they would all have been for William. If it had seemed
certain that James would be restored, they would all have been for
James.
But what was to be done when the chances appeared to be almost
exactly balanced? There were honest men of one party who would have
answered, To stand by the true King and the true Church, and, if
necessary, to die for them like Laud. There were honest men of the
other party who would have answered, To stand by the liberties of
England and the Protestant religion, and, if necessary, to die for
them like Sidney. But such consistency was unintelligible to many of
the noble and the powerful. Their object was to be safe in every
event. They therefore openly took the oath of allegiance to one
King, and secretly plighted their word to the other. They were
indefatigable in obtaining commissions, patents of peerage,
pensions, grants of crown land, under the great seal of William; and
they had in their secret drawers promises of pardon in the
handwriting of James.
Among those who were guilty of this wickedness three men stand
preeminent, Russell, Godolphin and Marlborough. No three men could
be, in head and heart, more unlike to one another; and the peculiar
qualities of each gave a peculiar character to his villany. The
treason of Russell is to be attributed partly to fractiousness; the
treason of Godolphin is to be attributed altogether to timidity; the
treason of Marlborough was the treason of a man of great genius and
boundless ambition.
It may be thought strange that Russell should have been out of
humour. He had just accepted the command of the united naval forces
of England and Holland with the rank of Admiral of the Fleet. He was
Treasurer of the Navy. He had a pension of three thousand pounds a
year. Crown property near Charing Cross, to the value of eighteen
thousand pounds, had been bestowed on him. His indirect gains must
have been immense. But he was still dissatisfed. In truth, with
undaunted courage, with considerable talents both for war and for
administration, and with a certain public spirit, which showed
itself by glimpses even in the very worst parts of his life, he was
emphatically a bad man, insolent, malignant, greedy, faithless. He
conceived that the great services which he had performed at the time
of the Revolution had not been adequately rewarded. Every thing that
was given to others seemed to him to be pillaged from himself. A
letter is still extant which he wrote to William about this time. It
is made up of boasts, reproaches and sneers. The Admiral, with
ironical professions of humility and loyalty, begins by asking
permission to put his wrongs on paper, because his bashfulness would
not suffer him to explain himself by word of mouth. His grievances
were intolerable. Other people got grants of royal domains; but he
could get scarcely any thing. Other people could provide for their
dependants; but his recommendations were uniformly disregarded. The
income which he derived from the royal favour might seem large; but
he had poor relations; and the government, instead of doing its duty
by them, had most unhandsomely left them to his care. He had a
sister who ought to have a pension; for, without one, she could not
give portions to her daughters. He had a brother who, for want of a
place, had been reduced to the melancholy necessity of marrying an
old woman for her money. Russell proceeded to complain bitterly that
the Whigs were neglected, that the Revolution had aggrandised and
enriched men who had made the greatest efforts to avert it. And
there is reason to believe that this complaint came from his heart.
For, next to his own interests, those of his party were dear to him;
and, even when he was most inclined to become a Jacobite, he never
had the smallest disposition to become a Tory. In the temper which
this letter indicates, he readily listened to the suggestions of
David Lloyd, one of the ablest and most active emissaries who at
this time were constantly plying between France and England. Lloyd
conveyed to James assurances that Russell would, when a favourable
opportunity should present itself, try to effect by means of the
fleet what Monk had effected in the preceding generation by means of
the army.63 To what extent these assurances were sincere was a
question about which men who knew Russell well, and who were
minutely informed as to his conduct, were in doubt. It seems
probable that, during many months, he did not know his own mind. His
interest was to stand well, as long as possible, with both Kings.
His irritable and imperious nature was constantly impelling him to
quarrel with both. His spleen was excited one week by a dry answer
from William, and the next week by an absurd proclamation from
James. Fortunately the most important day of his life, the day from
which all his subsequent years took their colour, found him out of
temper with the banished King. |