him to the common people, who always love to see the great unhend. At length, towards the close of 30 the year 1684, he was prevented, by a slight attack of what was supposed to be gout, from rambling as usual. He now spent his mornings in his laboratory, where he amused himself 35 with experiments on the properties of mercury. His temper seemed to have suffered from confinement. He had no apparent cause for disquiet. His kingdom was tranquil: he was 40 not in pressing want of money: his power was greater than it had ever been: the party which had long thwarted him had been beaten down; but the cheerfulness which had sup45 ported him against adverse fortune had vanished in this season of prosperity. A trifle now sufficed to depress those elastic spirits which had borne up against defeat, exile, and penury. 50 His irritation frequently showed itself by looks and words such as could hardly have been expected from a man so eminently distinguished by good humour and good breeding. It 55 was not supposed however that his constitution was seriously impaired.

His palace had seldom presented a gayer or a more scandalous appearance than on the evening of Sunday 60 the first of February 1685. Some grave persons who had gone thither, after the fashion of that age, to pay their duty to their sovereign, and who had expected that, on such a 65 day, his court would wear a decent aspect, were struck with astonishment and horror. The great gallery of Whitehall, an admirable relic of the magnificence of the Tudors, was 70 crowded with revellers and gamblers.... A party of twenty courtiers were seated at cards round a large table on which gold was heaped in mountains. Even then the King had complained that 75 he did not feel quite well. He had

no appetite for his supper: his rest
that night was broken; but on the
following morning he rose, as usual,
early.
early. ...

Scarcely had Charles risen from 80 his bed when his attendants perceived that his utterance was indistinct, and that his thoughts seemed to be wandering. Several men of rank had, as usual, assembled to see their sovereign 85 shaved and dressed. He made an effort to converse with them in his usual gay style; but his ghastly look surprised and alarmed them. Soon his face grew black; his eyes turned 90 in his head; he uttered a cry, staggered, and fell into the arms of one of

his lords. A physician who had charge of the royal retorts and crucibles happened to be present. He had no 95 lancet; but he opened a vein with a penknife. The blood flowed freely; but the King was still insensible.

He was laid on his bed. ... The Queen and the Duchess of York 100 were hastening to the room.

...

And now the gates of Whitehall, which ordinarily stood open to all comers, were closed. But persons

whose faces were known were still 105 permitted to enter. The antechambers and galleries were soon filled to overflowing; and even the sick room was crowded with peers, privy councillors, and foreign ministers.

All 110

the medical men of note in London were summoned. So high did political animosities run that the presence of some Whig physicians was regarded as an extraordinary cir- 115 cumstance. One Roman Catholic, whose skill was then widely renowned, Doctor Thomas Short, was in attendance. Several of the prescriptions have been preserved. One of them 120 is signed by fourteen Doctors. The patient was bled largely. Hot iron was applied to his head. A loathsome volatile salt, extracted from

125 human skulls, was forced into his mouth. He recovered his senses; but he was evidently in a situation of extreme danger.

The Queen was for a time as180 siduous in her attendance. The Duke of York scarcely left his brother's bedside. The Primate and four other Bishops were then in London. They remained at Whitehall all day, and 185 took it by turns to sit up at night in the King's room. The news of his illness filled the capital with sorrow and dismay. For his easy temper and affable manners had 140 won the affection of a large part of the nation; and those who most disliked him preferred his unprincipled levity to the stern and earnest bigotry of his brother.

145

On the morning of Thursday the fifth of February, the London Gazette announced that His Majesty was going on well, and was thought by the physicians to be out of danger. 150 The bells of all the churches rang merrily; and preparations for bonfires were made in the streets. But in the evening it was known that a relapse had taken place, and that 155 the medical attendants had given up all hope. The public mind was greatly disturbed; but there was no disposition to tumult. The Duke of York, who had already taken on 160 himself to give orders, ascertained that the City was perfectly quiet, and that he might without difficulty be proclaimed as soon as his brother should expire.

165

The King was in great pain, and complained that he felt as if a fire was burning within him. Yet he bore up against his sufferings with a fortitude which did not seem to 170 belong to his soft and luxurious. nature. The sight of his misery affected his wife so much that she fainted, and was carried senseless to Herrig-Förster, British Authors.

her chamber. The prelates who were in waiting had from the first exhorted 176 him to prepare for his end. They now thought it their duty to address him in a still more urgent manner. William Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, an honest and pious, 180 though narrow-minded, man, used great freedom. 'It is time,' he said, 'to speak out; for, Sir, you are about to appear before a Judge who is no respecter of persons.' The King 185

answered not a word.

Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, then tried his powers of persuasion. He was a man of parts and learning, of quick sensibility and 190 stainless virtue. His elaborate works have long been forgotten; but his morning and evening hymns are still repeated daily in thousands of dwellings. Though, like most of his order, 195 zealous for monarchy, he was no sycophant. Before he became a Bishop, he had maintained the honour of his gown by refusing, when the court was at Winchester, to let 200 Eleanor Gwynn lodge in the house which he occupied there as a prebendary. The King had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit. Of all the prelates he liked Ken the best. 205 It was to no purpose, however, that the good Bishop now put forth all his eloquence. His solemn and pathetic exhortation awed and melted the bystanders to such a degree that some 210 among them believed him to be filled with the same spirit which, in the old time, had, by the mouths of Nathan and Elias, called sinful princes to repentance. Charles however was 215 unmoved. He made no objection indeed when the service for the Visitation of the Sick was read. In reply to the pressing questions of the divines, he said that he was sorry for what 220 he had done amiss; and he suffered the absolution to be pronounced over

38

him according to the forms of the Church of England: but, when he 225 was urged to declare that he died in the communion of that Church, he seemed not to hear what was said; and nothing could induce him. to take the Eucharist from the hands 230 of the Bishops. A table with bread and wine was brought to his bedside, but in vain. Sometimes he said that there was no hurry, and sometimes that he was too weak.

235

240

245

Many attributed this apathy to contempt for divine things, and many to the stupor which often precedes death. But there were in the palace a few persons who knew better. Charles had never been a sincere member of the Established Church. His mind had long oscillated between Hobbism and Popery. When his health was good and his spirits high, he was a scoffer. In his few serious moments he was a Roman Catholic. The Duke of York was aware of this, but was entirely occupied with the care of his own interests. He 250 had ordered the outports to be closed. He had posted detachments of the Guards in different parts of the City. He had also procured the feeble signature of the dying King to an 255 instrument by which some duties, granted only till the demise of the Crown, were let to farm for a term of three years. These things occupied the attention of James to 260 such a degree that, though, on ordinary occasions, he was indiscreetly and unseasonably eager to bring over proselytes to his Church, he never reflected that his brother was in 265 danger of dying without the last sacraments. This neglect was the more extraordinary because the Duchess of York had, at the request of the Queen, suggested, on the morning 270 on which the King was taken ill, the propriety of procuring spiritual

assistance. For such assistance Charles was at last indebted to an agency very different from that of his pious wife and sister-in-law. A life of 275 frivolity and vice had not extinguished in the Duchess of Portsmouth all sentiments of religion, or all that kindness which is the glory of her sex. The French ambassador Baril- 280 lon, who had come to the palace to inquire after the King, paid her a visit. He found her in an agony of sorrow. She took him into a secret room, and poured out her whole heart 285 to him. I have,' she said, 'a thing of great moment to tell you. If it were known, my head would be in danger. The King is really and truly a Catholic; but he will die 290 without being reconciled to the Church. His bedchamber is full of Protestant clergymen. I cannot enter it without giving scandal. The Duke is thinking only of himself. Speak to 295 him. Remind him that there is a soul at stake. He is master now. He can clear the room. Go this instant, or it will be too late.'

Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, 300 took the Duke aside, and delivered the message of the mistress. The conscience of James smote him. He started as if roused from sleep, and declared that nothing should prevent 305 him from discharging the sacred duty which had been too long delayed. Several schemes were discussed and rejected. At last the Duke commanded the crowd to stand aloof, 310 went to the bed, stooped down, and whispered something which none of the spectators could hear, but which they supposed to be some question about affairs of state. Charles an- 315 swered in an audible voice, 'Yes, yes, with all my heart.' None of the bystanders, except the French ambassador, guessed that the King was declaring his wish to be ad- 300

mitted into the bosom of the Church of Rome.

325 man.

340

'Shall I bring a priest?' said the Duke. 'Do, brother,' replied the sick 'For God's sake do, and lose no time. But no; you will get into trouble.' 'If it costs me my life,' said the Duke, 'I will fetch a priest.'

To find a priest, however, for such 330 a purpose, at a moment's notice, was not easy. For, as the law then stood, the person who admitted a proselyte into the Roman Catholic Church was guilty of a capital crime. The Count 335 of Castel Melhor, a Portuguese nobleman, who, driven by political troubles from his native land, had been hospitably received at the English court, undertook to procure a confessor. He had recourse to his countrymen who belonged to the Queen's household; but he found that none of her chaplains knew English or French enough to shrive the King. The 345 Duke and Barillon were about to send to the Venetian minister for a clergyman, when they heard that a Benedictine monk, named John Huddleston, happened to be at White350 hall. This man had, with great risk to himself, saved the King's life after the battle of Worcester, and had, on that account, been, ever since the Restoration, a privileged person. 355 In the sharpest proclamations which had been put forth against Popish priests, when false witnesses had inflamed the nation to fury, Huddleston had been excepted by name. 360 He readily consented to put his life

a second time in peril for his prince; but there was still a difficulty. The honest monk was so illiterate that he did not know what he ought to 365 say on an occasion of such importance. He however obtained some hints, through the intervention of Castel Melhor, from a Portuguese ecclesiastic, and, thus instructed, was

brought up the back stairs by Chif- 370 finch, a confidential servant, who, if the satires of that age are to be credited, had often introduced visitors of a very different description by the same entrance. The Duke then, 375 in the King's name, commanded all who where present to quit the room, except Lewis Duras, Earl of Feversham, and John Granville, Earl of Bath. Both these Lords professed 380 the Protestant religion; but James conceived that he could count on their fidelity. Feversham, a Frenchman of noble birth, and nephew of the great Turenne, held high rank 385 in the English army, and was Chamberlain to the Queen. Bath was Groom of the Stole.

The Duke's orders were obeyed; and even the physicians withdrew. 390 The back door was then opened, and Father Huddleston entered. A cloak had been thrown over his sacred vestments, and his shaven crown was concealed by a flowing wig. 'Sir,' 395 said the Duke, 'this good man once saved your life. He now comes to save your soul.' Charles faintly answered, 'He is welcome.' Huddleston went through his part better than 400 had been expected. He knelt by the bed, listened to the confession, pronounced the absolution, and administered extreme unction. He asked if the King wished to receive the 405 Lord's Supper. 'Surely,' said Charles, 'if I am not unworthy.' The host was brought in. Charles feebly strove to rise and kneel before it. The priest bade him lie still, and assured 410 him that God would accept the humiliation of the soul, and would not require the humiliation of the body. The King found so much difficulty in swallowing the bread 415 that it was necessary to open the door and to procure a glass of water. This rite ended, the monk held up

a crucifix before the penitent, charged 420 him to fix his last thoughts on the sufferings of the Redeemer, and withdrew. The whole ceremony had occupied about three quarters of an hour; and, during that time, the 425 courtiers who filled the outer room

had communicated their suspicions to each other by whispers and significant glances. The door was at length thrown open, and the crowd again 430 filled the chamber of death.

It was now late in the evening. The King seemed much relieved by what had passed. ...

During the night Charles earnestly 435 recommended the Duchess of Portsmouth and her boy to the care of James; 'And do not,' he good-naturedly added, 'let poor Nelly starve.' The Queen sent excuses for her absence 440 by Halifax. She said that she was too much disordered to resume her post by the couch, and implored pardon for any offence which she might unwittingly have given. 'She ask my 445 pardon, poor woman!' cried Charles; 'I ask hers with all my heart.'

The morning light began to peep through the windows of Whitehall;

and Charles desired the attendants to pull aside the curtains, that he 450 might have one more look at the day. He remarked that it was time to wind up a clock which stood near his bed. These little circumstances were long remembered, because they 455 proved beyond dispute that, when he declared himself a Roman Catholic, he was in full possession of his faculties. He apologized to those who had stood round him all night for the 460 trouble which he had caused. He had been, he said, a most unconscionable time dying: but he hoped that they would excuse it. This was the last glimpse of that exquisite 485 urbanity, so often found potent to charm away the resentment of a justly incensed nation. Soon after dawn the speech of the dying man failed. Before ten his senses were 470 gone. Great numbers had repaired to the churches at the hour of morning service. When the prayer for the King was read, loud groans and sobs showed how deeply his people 476 felt for him. At noon on Friday, the sixth of February, he passed away without a struggle.

West Indies. Two years before his death he was elected Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford.

Froude is as much an historian as a man of letters, one of the chief charms of his works lying in his wonderfully clear and simple prose-style. Like his master Carlyle, he had a marvellous gift for delineating character and for vivid representation of the past. Unfortunately much of his work is marred by gross inaccuracy of statement and by want of impartial judgment. His greatest historical work is the voluminous History of England, from the Fall of Wolsey to the Defeat of the Spanish Armada (12 vols. 1856-70), besides which The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century (1872-74) and