History of England Chapter 03 by Thomas Babington Macaulay

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The History of England from the Accession of James II by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book I. Chapter III.

I intend in this chapter to give a description of the state in which England was at the time when the crown passed from Charles II to his brother. Such a description, composed from scanty and dispersed materials, must necessarily be very imperfect, Yet it may perhaps correct some false notions which would make the subsequent narrative unintelligible or uninstructive.

If we would study with profit the history of our ancestors, we must be constantly on our guard against that delusion which the well-known names of families, places, and offices naturally produce, and must never forget that the country of which we read was a very different country from that in which we live. In every experimental science there is a tendency towards perfection. In every human being there is a wish to ameliorate his own condition. These two principles have often sufficed, even when counteracted by great public calamities and by bad institutions, to carry civilization rapidly forward. No ordinary misfortune, no ordinary misgovernment, will do so much to make a nation wretched as the constant progress of physical knowledge and the constant effort of every man to better himself will do to make a nation prosperous.

It has often been found that profuse expenditure, heavy taxation, absurd commercial restrictions, corrupt tribunals, Disastrous wars, seditions, persecutions, conflagrations, inundations, have not been able to destroy capital so fast as the exertions of private citizens have been able to create it. It can easily be proved that, in our own land, the national wealth has, during at least six centuries, been almost uninterruptedly increasing. That it was greater under the Tudors than under the Plantagenets. That it was greater under the Stuarts than under the Tudors. That, in spite of battles, sieges, and confiscations, it was greater on the day of the Restoration than on the day when the long Parliament met.

That, in spite of maladministration, of extravagance, of public bankruptcy, of too costly and unsuccessful wars, Of the pestilence and of the fire, it was greater on the day of the death of Charles, the second, than on the day of his restoration. This progress, having continued during many ages, became at length, about the middle of the eighteenth century, portentously rapid, and has proceeded, during the nineteenth, with accelerated velocity. In consequence, partly of our geographical and partly of our moral position, we have, during several generations, been exempt from evils which have elsewhere impeded the efforts and destroyed the fruits of industry. While every part of the continent, from Moscow to Lisbon, has been the theatre of bloody and devastating wars, no hostile standard has been seen here but as a trophy.

While revolutions have taken place all around us, our government has never once been subverted by violence. During more than a hundred years there has been in our island no tumult of sufficient importance to be called an insurrection. Nor has the law been once borne down, either by popular fury or by regal tyranny. Public credit has been held sacred. The administration of justice has been pure. Even in times which might by Englishmen be justly called evil times, we have enjoyed what almost every other nation in the world would have considered as an ample measure of civil and religious freedom. Every man has felt entire confidence that the state would protect him in the possession of what had been earned by his diligence and hoarded by his self-denial.

Under the benignant influence of peace and liberty, Science has flourished, and has been applied to practical purposes on a scale never before known. The consequence is that a change, to which the history of the old world furnishes no parallel, has taken place in our country. Could the England of 1685 be, by some magical process set before our eyes, we should not know one landscape in a hundred, or one building in ten thousand? The country gentleman would not recognize his own fields. The inhabitant of the town would not recognize his own street. Everything has been changed, but the great features of nature, and a few massive and durable works of human art. We might find out Snowdon and Windermere, the Cheddar Cliffs and Beachy Head.

We might find out here and there a Norman Minster, Or a castle which witnessed the wars of the roses. But with such rare exceptions, everything would be strange to us. Many thousands of square miles which are now rich corn-land and meadow, intersected by green hedgerows and dotted with villages and pleasant country seats, would appear as moors overgrown with firs, or fens abandoned to wild ducks. We should see straggling huts built of wood, and covered with thatch, where we now see manufacturing towns and seaports renowned to the farthest ends of the world. The capital itself would shrink to dimensions not much exceeding those of its present suburb on the south of the Thames. Not less strange to us would be the garb and manners of the people, the furniture and the equipages, The interior of the shops and dwellings.

Such a change in the state of a nation seems to be at least as well entitled to the notice of a historian as any change of the dynasty or of the ministry.

One of the first objects of an enquirer who wishes to form a correct notion of the state of a community at a given time must be to ascertain of how many persons that community then consisted. Unfortunately, the population of England in 1685 cannot be ascertained with perfect accuracy, for no great state had then adopted the wise course of periodically numbering the people. All men were left to conjecture for themselves, and as they generally conjectured without examining facts, and under the influence of strong passions and prejudices, their guesses were often ludicrously absurd. Even intelligent Londoners ordinarily talked of London as containing several millions of souls. It was confidently asserted by many that, during the thirty-five years which had elapsed, between the accession of Charles I and the Restoration, the population of the city had increased by two million.

Even while the ravages of the plague and fire were recent, It was the fashion to say that the capital still had a million and a half of inhabitants. Some persons, disgusted by these exaggerations, ran violently into the opposite extreme. Thus, Isaac Vossius, a man of undoubted parts and learning, strenuously maintained that there were only two millions of human beings in England, Scotland, and Ireland taken together. We are not, however, left without the means of correcting the wild blunders into which some minds were hurried by national vanity, and others by a morbid love of paradox. There are extant three computations which seem to be entitled to particular attention. They are entirely independent of each other, they proceed on different principles, and yet there is little difference in the results.

One of these computations was made in the year 1696 by Gregory King, Lancaster Herald, a political arithmetician of great acuteness and judgment. The basis of his calculations was the number of houses returned in 1690 by the officers who made the last collection of the hearth-money. The conclusion at which he arrived was that the population of England was nearly five millions and a half. About the same time, King William III was desirous to ascertain the comparative strength of the religious sects into which the community was divided. An inquiry was instituted, and reports were laid before him from all the dioceses of the realm. According to these reports, the number of his English subjects must have been about five million, two hundred thousand.

Lastly, in our own days, Mr. Finlayson, an actuary of eminent skill, subjected the ancient parochial registers of baptisms, marriages, and burials, to all the tests which the modern improvements in statistical science enabled him to apply. His conclusion was that, at the close of the seventeenth century, the population of England was a little under five million, two hundred thousand souls. Of these three estimates, framed without concert by different persons from different sets of materials, the highest, which is that of King, does not exceed the lowest, which is that of Finlayson, by one-twelfth. We may therefore with confidence pronounce that, when James II reigned, England contained between five million and five million five hundred thousand inhabitants.

On the highest supposition, she then had less than one-third of her present population, and less than three times the population which is now collected in her gigantic capital.

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The history of England, from the accession of James, the second, by Thomas Bavington, Macaulay. The increase of the people has been very great in every part of the kingdom. But generally, much greater in the northern than in the southern shires. In truth, a large part of the country beyond Trent was, down to the eighteenth century, in a state of barbarism. Physical and moral causes had concurred to prevent civilization from spreading to that region. The air was inclement. The soil was generally such as required skillful and industrious cultivation. and there could be little skill or industry in a tract which was often the theatre of war, and which, even when there was nominal peace, was constantly desolated by bands of Scottish marauders, before the union of the two British crowns, and long after that union.

There was as great a difference between Middlesex and Northumberland as there now is between Massachusetts and the settlements of those squatters, who, far to the west of the Mississippi, administer a rude justice with the rifle and the dagger. In the reign of Charles II, the traces left by agents of slaughter and pillage were distinctly perceptible, many miles south of the Tweed, in the face of the country, and in the lawless manners of the people. There was still a large class of moss-troopers, whose calling was to plunder dwellings and to drive away whole herds of cattle. It was found necessary Soon after the Restoration, to enact laws of great severity for the prevention of these outrages.

The Magistrates of Northumberland and Cumberland were authorized to raise bands of armed men for the defense of property, and order and provision was made for meeting the expense of these levies by local taxation. The parishers were required to keep bloodhounds for the purpose of hunting the freebooters. Many old men who were living in the middle of the eighteenth century could well remember the time when those ferocious dogs were common. Yet even with such auxiliaries it was often found impossible to track the robbers to their retreats among the hills and morasses, for the geography of that wild country was very imperfectly known. Even after the accession of George III, the path over the fells from Borrodale to Ravenglass was still a secret, carefully kept by the dalesmen, some of whom had probably in their youth escaped from the pursuit of justice by that road.

The seats of the gentry and the larger farmhouses were fortified. Oxen were penned at night beneath the overhanging battlements of the residence, which was known by the name of the Peale. The inmates slept with arms at their sides. Huge stones and boiling water were in readiness to crush and scold the plunderer, who might venture to assail the little garrison. No traveller ventured into that country without making his will. The judges, on circuit with the whole body of barristers, attorneys, clerks, and serming men, rode on horseback from Newcastle to Carlyle, armed and escorted by a strong guard, under the command of the sheriffs. It was necessary to carry provisions, for the country was a wilderness which afforded no supplies.

The spot where the cavalcade halted to dine under an immense oak is not yet forgotten. The irregular vigor with which criminal justice was administered shocked observers whose lives had been passed in more tranquil districts. Juries, animated by hatred and by a sense of common danger, convicted housebreakers and cattle-stealers with the promptitude of a court-martial in a mutiny, and the convicts were hurried by scores to the gallows. Within the memory of some whom this generation has seen, the sportsmen who wandered in pursuit of game to the sources of the Tyne found the heaths round Kildar Castle, peopled by a race scarcely less savage than the Indians of California, and heard with surprise the half-naked women Chanting a wild measure, while the men with brandished dirks danced a war-dance.

Slowly, and with difficulty, peace was established on the border. In the train of peace came industry, and all the arts of life. Meanwhile, it was discovered that the regions north of the Trent possessed in their coal-beds a source of wealth far more precious than the gold-mines of Peru. It was found that in the neighbourhood of these beds almost every manufacturer might be most profitably carried on. A constant stream of emigrants began to roll northward. It appeared by the returns of 1841 that the ancient archiepiscopal province of York contained two-sevenths of the population of England. At the time of the Revolution, that province was believed to contain only one-seventh of the population.

In Lancashire, the number of inhabitants appeared to have increased ninefold, while in Norfolk, Suffolk, and Northamptonshire, it has hardly doubled. Of the taxation, we can speak with more confidence and precision than of the population. The revenue of England, when Charles II died, was small when compared with the resources which she even then possessed. or with the sums which were raised by the governments of the neighbouring countries. It had, from the time of the Restoration, been almost constantly increasing. Yet it was little more than three-fourths of the revenue of the United Provinces, and was hardly one-fifth of the revenue of France.

The most important head of receipt was the excise, which in the last year of the reign of Charles produced five hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds, Clear of all deductions. The net proceeds of the customs amounted in the same year to five hundred and thirty thousand pounds. These burdens did not lie very heavy on the nation. The tax on chimneys, though less productive, call forth far louder murmurs. The discontent excited by direct imposts is, indeed, almost always out of proportion to the quantity of money which they bring into the exchequer. And the tax on chimneys was, even among direct imposts, peculiarly odious, for it could be levied only by means of domiciliary visits. And of such visits the English have always been impatient, to a degree which the people of other countries can but faintly conceive.

The poorer householders were frequently unable to pay their hearth-money to the day. When this happened, their furniture was distrained without mercy. For the tax was farmed, and a farmer of taxes is, of all creditors, proverbially the most rapacious. The collectors were loudly accused of performing their unpopular duty with harshness and insolence. It was said that as soon as they appeared at the threshold of a cottage, the children began to wail, and the old women ran to hide their earthenware. Nay, the single bed of a poor family had sometimes been carried away and sold. The net annual receipt from this tax was two hundred thousand pounds. When, to the three great sources of income which have been mentioned, we add the royal domains, then far more extensive than at present, the first fruits and tenths which had not yet been surrendered to the church, the Duchess of Cornwall and Lancaster, the forfeitures and the fines, we shall find that the whole annual revenue of the crown may be fairly estimated at about fourteen hundred thousand pounds.

Of this revenue, part was hereditary. The rest had been granted to Charles for life, and he was at liberty to lay out the whole exactly as he thought fit. Whatever he could save by retrenching from the expenditure of the public departments was an addition to his privy purse. At the post-office, more will thereafter be said. The profits of that establishment had been appropriated by Parliament to the Duke of York. The King's revenue was, or rather ought to have been, charged with the payment of about eighty thousand pounds a year, the interest of the sum fraudulently destined in the exchequer by the cabal. While Danby was at the head of the finances, the creditors had received dividends, Though not with the strict punctuality of modern times.

But those who had succeeded him at the treasury had been less expert, or less solicitous to maintain public faith. Since the victory won by the court over the weeks, not a farthing had been paid, and no redress was granted to the sufferers, till a new dynasty had been many years on the throne. There can be no greater error than to imagine that the device of meeting the exigences of the state by loans was imported into our island by William III. What really dates from his reign is not the system of borrowing, but the system of funding. From a period of immemorable antiquity, it had been the practice of every English government to contract debts. What the revolution introduced was the practice of honestly Paying them.

By plundering the public creditor, it was possible to make an income of about fourteen hundred thousand pounds. With some occasional help from Versailles, support the necessary charges of the government, and the wasteful expenditure of the court. For that load, which pressed most heavily on the finances of the great continental states, was here scarcely felt. In France, Germany, and the Netherlands, armies such as Henry IV and Philip II had never employed in time of war were kept in the midst of peace. Bastions and ravelling were everywhere rising, constructed on principles unknown to Parma and Spinola. Stores of artillery and ammunition were accumulated, such as even Richelot, whom the preceding generation had regarded as a worker of prodigies, would have pronounced fabulous.

No man could journey many leagues in those countries without hearing the drums of a regiment on march, or being challenged by the sentinels on the drawbridge of a fortress. In our island, on the contrary, it was possible to live long and to travel far without being once reminded by any martial sight or sound that the defence of the nations had become a science and a calling. The majority of Englishmen who were under twenty-five years of age had probably never seen a company of regular soldiers. Of the cities, which in the civil war had valiantly repelled hostile armies, scarcely one was now capable of sustaining a siege. The gates stood open night and day, the ditches were dry, the ramparts had been suffered to fall into decay, or were repaired only that the townsfolk might have a pleasant walk on summer evenings.

Of the old baronial keeps, many had been shattered by the cannon of Fairfax and Cromwell, and lay in heaps of ruin, overgrown with ivy. Those which remained had lost their martial character, and were now rural palaces of the aristocracy. The moats were turned into preserves of carp and pike. The mounds were planted with fragrant shrubs, through which spiral walks ran up to summer-houses, adorned with mirrors and paintings. On the capes of the sea-coast and on many inland hills were still seen tall posts, surmounted by barrels. Once these barrels had been filled with pitch. Watchmen had been set around them in seasons of danger, and, within a few hours after a Spanish sail had been discovered in the channel, or after a thousand Scottish Moss Troopers had crossed the Tweed, the signal fires were blazing fifty miles off, and whole counties were rising in arms.

But many years had now elapsed since the beacons had been lighted, and they were regarded rather as curious relics of ancient manners than as parts of a machinery necessary to the safety of the state.

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III. III. The only army which the law recognized was the militia. That force had been remodeled by two acts of parliament. Passed shortly after the Restoration. Every man who possessed five hundred pounds a year derived from land, or six thousand pounds of personal estate, was bound to provide, equip, and pay, at his own charge, one horseman. Every man who had fifty pounds a year derived from land, or six hundred pounds of personal estate, was charged in like manner with one pikeman or musketeer. Smaller proprietors were joined together in a kind of society. For which our language does not afford a special name, but which an Athenian would have called a scintelia, and each society was required to furnish, according to its own means, a horse-soldier or a foot-soldier.

The whole number of cavalry and infantry thus maintained was popularly estimated at a hundred thirty thousand men. The king was, by the ancient constitution of the realm, and by the recent and solemn acknowledgement of both houses of Parliament, The sole captain-general of this large force. The lords-lieutenant and their deputies held the command under him, and appointed meetings for drilling and inspection. The time occupied by such meetings, however, was not to exceed fourteen days in one year. The justices of the peace were authorized to inflict severe penalties for breaches of discipline. Of the ordinary cost, no part was paid by the Crown. But when the train-bands were called out against an enemy, their subsistence became a charge on the general revenue of the state, and they were subject to the utmost rigor of martial law.

There were those who looked on the militia with no friendly eye. Men who had traveled much on the continent, who had marveled at the stern precision with which every sentinel moved and spoke in the citadels built by Wabon, who had seen the mighty armies which poured along all the roads of Germany to chase the Ottoman from the gates of Vienna, and who had been dazzled by the well-ordered pomp of the household troops of Lewis, sneered much at the way in which the peasants of Devonshire and Yorkshire marched and wheeled, shouldered muskets and ported pikes. The enemies of the liberties and religion of England looked with aversion on a force which could not, without extreme risk, be employed against those liberties and that religion, and missed no opportunity of throwing ridicule on the rustic soldierly.

Enlightened patriots, when they contrasted these rude levies with the battalions which, in times of war, a few hours might bring to the coast of Kent or Sussex, were forced to acknowledge that, dangerous as it might be to keep up a permanent military establishment, it might be more dangerous still to stake the honor and independence of the country on the result of a contest between plowmen officered by justices of the peace and veteran warriors led by marshals of France. In Parliament, however, it was necessary to express such opinions with some reserve, for the militia was an institution eminently popular. Every reflection thrown on it excited the indignation of both the great parties in the state, and especially of that party which was distinguished by peculiar zeal for monarchy and for the Anglican Church.

The array of the counties was commanded almost exclusively by tory noblemen and gentlemen. They were proud of their military rank, And considered an insult offered to the service to which they belonged as offered to themselves. They were also perfectly aware that whatever was said against a militia was said in favor of a standing army, and the name of the standing army was hateful to them. One such army had held dominion in England, and under that dominion the king had been murdered, the nobility degraded, the landed gentry plundered, the church persecuted. There was scarcely a rural grandee who could not tell a story of wrongs and insults suffered by himself or by his father at the hands of the parliamentary soldiers.

One old cavalier had seen his manor-house blown up. The hereditary elms of another had been hewn down. A third could never go into his parish church without being reminded by the defaced scutcheons and headless statues of his ancestry that Oliver's redcoats had once stabled their horses there. The consequence was that those very royalists, who were most ready to fight for the king themselves, were the last persons whom he could venture to ask for the means of hiring regular troops. Charles, however, had a few months after his restoration begun to form a small standing army. He felt that, without some better protection than that of the train fans and beef-eaters, His palace and person would hardly be secure, in the vicinity of a great city swarming with warlike fifth-monarchy men who had just been disbanded.

He therefore, careless and profuse as he was, contrived to spare from his pleasures a sum sufficient to keep up a body of guards. With the increase of trade and of public wealth his revenues increased, and he was thus enabled, in spite of the occasional murmurs of the commons, to make gradual additions to his regular forces. One considerable addition was made a few months before the close of his reign. The costly, useless, and pestilential settlement of Tangier was abandoned to the barbarians who dwelt around it, and the garrison, consisting of one regiment of horse and two regiments of foot, was brought to England. The little army formed by Charles II was the germ of that great and renowned army which has, in the present century, marched triumphant into Madrid and Paris, into Canton and Kandahar.

The life-guards, who now formed two regiments, were then distributed into three troops, each of which consisted of two hundred carabiners exclusive of officers. This corps, to which the safety of the king and royal family was confided, had a very peculiar character. Even the privates were designated as gentlemen of the guard. Many of them were of good families, and had held commissions in the Civil War. Their pay was far higher than that of the most favored regiment of our time, and would in that age have been thought a respectable provision for the younger son of a country squire. Their fine horses, their rich housings, their cuirasses, and their buff coats adorned with ribbons, velvet, and gold lace made a splendid appearance in St.

James's Park. A small body of grenadier dragoons, who came from a lower class and received lower pay, was attached to each troop. Another body of household cavalry, distinguished by blue coats and cloaks, and still called the Blues, was generally quartered in the neighborhood of the capital. Near the capital lay also the corps which is now designated as the First Regiment of Dragoons, but which was then the only regiment of dragoons on the English establishment. It had recently been formed out of the cavalry which had returned from Tangier. A single troop of dragoons, which did not form part of any regiment, was stationed near Berwick, for the purpose of keeping the peace among the moss-troopers of the border.

For this species of service the dragoon was then thought to be peculiarly qualified. He has since become a mere horse-soldier. But in the seventeenth century he was accurately described by Montecuculi as a foot soldier who used a horse only in order to arrive with more speed at the place where military service was to be performed.

The household infantry consisted of two regiments, which were then, as now, called the First Regiment of Foot Guards and the Coldstream Guards. They generally did duty near Whitehall and St. James's Palace. As there were then no barracks, And as, by the petition of Wright, it had been declared unlawful to quarter soldiers on private families, the Redcoats filled all the alehouses of Westminster and the Strand. There were five other regiments of foot. One of these, called the Admiral's Regiment, was especially destined to service on board of the fleet. The remaining four still rank as the first four regiments of the line. Two of these represented two brigades which had long sustained on the continent the fame of British valor.

The 1st, or Royal Regiment, had, under the great Gustavus, borne a conspicuous part in the deliverance of Germany. The 3rd Regiment, distinguished by flesh-colored facings, from which it had derived the well-known name of the Boffs, had, under Maurice of Nassau, fought not less bravely for the deliverance of the Netherlands. Both these gallant bands had at length, after many vicissitudes, been recalled from foreign service by Charles II, and had been placed on the English establishment. The regiments which now rank as the second and fourth of the line had, in 1685, just returned from Tangier, bringing with them cruel and licentious habits contracted in a long course of warfare with the Moors.

A few companies of infantry which had not been regimented lay in garrison at Tilbury Fort, at Portsmouth, at Plymouth, and at some other important stations on or near the coast.

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THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND FROM THE ACCESSION OF JAMES II. Book One, Chapter Three, Part Four. Since the beginning of the seventeenth century, Great change had taken place in the arms of the infantry. The pike had gradually given place to the musket, and at the close of the reign of Charles, the second, most of his foot were musketeers. Still, however, there was a large intermixture of pikemen. Each class of troops was occasionally instructed in the use of the weapon, which peculiarly belonged to the other class. Every foot-soldier had at its side a sword for close fight. The musketeer was generally provided with a weapon which had, during many years, been gradually coming into use, and which the English then called a dagger, but which, from the time of William III, had been known among us by the French name of bayonet.

The bayonet seemed not to have been then so formidable an instrument of destruction as it has since become, for it was inserted in the muzzle of the gun, And in action much time was lost, while the soldier unfixed his bayonet in order to fire, and fixed it again in order to charge. The dragoon, when dismounted, fought as a musketeer. The regular army, which was kept up in England at the beginning of the year 1685, consisted, all ranks included, of about seven thousand foot, and about seventeen hundred cavalry and dragoons. The whole charge amounted to about... Two hundred and ninety thousand pounds a year, less than a tenth part of what the military establishment of France then cost in time of peace.

The daily pay of a private in the life-guards was four shillings, in the blues two shillings and sixpence, in the dragoons eighteen pence, in the foot-guards ten pence, and in the line eight pence. The discipline was lax, and the deed could not be otherwise The common law of England knew nothing of courts-martial, and made no distinction in times of peace between a soldier and any other subject. Nor could the government then venture to ask even the most loyal Parliament for a mutiny bill. A soldier, therefore, by knocking down his colonel, incurred only the ordinary penalties of assault and battery, and by refusing to obey orders, by sleeping on guard, or by deserting his colours, incurred no legal penalty at all.

Military punishments were doubtless inflicted during the reign of Charles II, but they were inflicted very sparingly, and in such a manner as not to attract public notice, or to produce an appeal to the courts of Westminster Hall. Such an army, as has been described, was not very likely to enslave five millions of Englishmen. It would indeed have been enabled to suppress an insurrection in London if the train bands of the city had joined the insurgents. Nor could the king expect that if a rising took place in England he would obtain effectual help from his other dominions. For, though both Scotland and Ireland supported separate military establishments, those establishments were not more than sufficient to keep down the Puritan malcontents of the former kingdom, and the popish malcontents of the latter.

The government had, however, an important military resource, which must not be left unnoticed. There were in the pay of the United Provinces six fine regiments, of which three had been raised in England, and three in Scotland. The native prince had reserved to himself the power of recalling them, if he needed their help against a foreign or domestic enemy. In the meantime, they were maintained without any charge to him, and were kept under an excellent discipline to which he could not have ventured to subject them. If the jealousy of the Parliament and of the nation made it impossible for the king to maintain a formidable standing army, no similar impediment prevented him from making England the first of maritime powers.

Both Whigs and Tories were ready to applaud every step, Tending to increase the efficiency of that force, which, while it was the best protection of the island against foreign enemies, was powerless against civil liberty. All the greatest exploits achieved within the memory of that generation by English soldiers had been achieved in war against English princes. The victories of our sailors had been won over foreign foes, and had averted havoc and rapine from our own soil. By at least half the nation, the Battle of Naseby was remembered with horror, and the Battle of Dunbar with pride, chequered by many painful feelings. But the defeat of the Armada, and the encounters of Blake with the Hollanders and Spaniards, were recollected with unmixed exultation by all parties.

Ever since the Restoration, the Commons, even when most discontented and most parsimonious, had always been bountiful to profusion, where the interest of the navy was concerned. It had been represented to them, while Danby was minister, that many of the vessels in the royal fleet were old and unfit for sea. And although the house was at that time in no giving mood, an aid of near six hundred thousand pounds had been granted for the building of thirty new men-of-war. But the liberality of the nation had been made fruitless by the vices of the government. The list of the king's ships, it is true, looked well. There were nine first-rates, fourteen second-rates, thirty-nine third-rates, and many smaller vessels.

The first-rates, indeed, were less than the third-rates of our time, and the third-rates would not now rank as very large frigates. This force, however, if it had been efficient, would in those days have been regarded by the greatest potentate as formidable, but it existed only on paper. When the reign of Charles terminated, his navy had sunk into degradation and decay, such as would be almost incredible if it were not certified to us by the independent and concurring evidence of witnesses whose authority is beyond exception. Pepys, the ablest man in the English admiralty, drew up in the year 1684, memorial on the state of his department, for the information of Charles. A few months later, Bonrepos, the ablest man in the French Admiralty, having visited England for the especial purpose of ascertaining her maritime strength, laid the result of his inquiries before Louis.

The two reports are to the same effect. Bonrepos declared that he found everything in disorder and in miserable condition, that the superiority of the French Marine was acknowledged with shame and envy at Whitehall, and that the state of our shipping and dockyards was of itself a sufficient guarantee that we should not meddle in the disputes of Europe. Pepys informed his master that the naval administration was a prodigy of wastefulness, corruption, Ignorance and indolence. That no estimate could be trusted, that no contract was performed, that no check was enforced. The vessels which the recent liberality of Parliament had enabled the government to build, and which had never been out of harbour, had been of such wretched timber that they were more unfit to go to sea than the old hulls which had been battered thirty years before by Dutch and Spanish broadsides.

Some of the new men-of-war, indeed, were so rotten that unless speedily repaired they would go down at their moorings. The sailors were paid with so little punctuality that they were glad to find some usurer who would purchase their tickets at forty per cent discounts. The commanders, who had not powerful friends at court, were even worse treated. Some officers, to whom large arrears were due, after vainly importuning the government during many years, had died for want of a morsel of bread. Most of the ships which were afloat were commanded by men who had not been bred to the sea. This, it is true, was not an abuse introduced by the government of Charles. No state, ancient or modern, had before that time made a complete separation between the naval and military service.

In the great civilised nations of antiquity, Simon and Lysander, Pompey and Agrippa, had fought battles by sea as well as by land. Nor had the impulse which nautical science received at the close of the fifteenth century produced any division of labour. At Flodden, the right wing of the victorious army, was led by the Admiral of England. At Jarnac and Monconteur, the Huguenot ranks, were marshaled by the Admiral of France. At the John of Austria, the conqueror of Lepanto, Nor Lord Howard of Effingham, to whose direction the Marine of England was confided when the Spanish invaders were approaching our shores, had received the education of a sailor. Raleigh, highly celebrated as a naval commander, had served during many years as a soldier in France, the Netherlands, and Ireland.

Blake had distinguished himself by his skilful and valiant defence of an inland town before he humbled the pride of Holland and of Castile on the ocean. Since the Restoration, the same system had been followed. Great fleets had been entrusted to the direction of Rupert and Monk. Rupert, who was renowned chiefly as a hot and daring cavalry officer, and Monk, who, when he wished his ship to change her course, moved the mirth of his crew by calling out, Wheel to the left! But about this time, wise men began to perceive that the rapid improvement both of the art of war and of the art of navigation made it necessary to draw the line between two professions which had hitherto been confounded. Either the command of a regiment or the command of a ship was now a matter quite sufficient to occupy the attention of a single mind.

In the year, 1672, the French government determined to educate young men of good family from a very early age, especially for the sea service. But the English government Instead of following this excellent example, not only continued to distribute high naval commands among landsmen, but selected for such commands landsmen who, even on land, could not safely have been put in any important trust. Any lad of noble birth, any dissolute courtier for whom one of the king's mistresses would speak a word, might hope that a ship of the line, and with it the honour of the country and the lives of hundreds of brave men, would be committed to his care. It mattered not that he had never in his life taken a voyage, except on the Thames, that he could not keep his feet in a breeze, that he did not know the difference between latitude and longitude.

No previous training was thought necessary, or at most he was sent to make a short trip in a man-of-war, where he was subjected to no discipline, where he was treated with marked respect, and where he lived in a round of revels and amusement. If, in the intervals of feasting, drinking, and gambling, he succeeded in learning the meaning of a few technical phrases and the names of the points of the compass, he was thought, fully qualified, to take charge of a three-decker. This is no imaginary description. In 1666, John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, at 17 years of age, volunteered to serve at sea against the Dutch. He passed six weeks on board, diverting himself as well as he could, in the society of some young libertines of rank, and then returned home to take the command of a troop of horse.

After this, he was never on the water till the year 1672. When he again joined the fleet, and was almost immediately appointed captain of a ship of eighty-four guns, reputed the finest in the navy. He was then twenty-three years old, and had not, in the whole course of his life, been three months afloat. As soon as he came back from sea, he was made colonel of a regiment of foot. This is a specimen of the manner, in which naval commands of the highest importance were then given. And a very favourable specimen, for Mulgrave, though he wanted experience, wanted neither part nor courage. Others were promoted in the same way, who not only were not good officers, but who were intellectually and morally incapable of ever becoming good officers, and whose only recommendation was that they had been ruined by folly and vice.

The chief bait which allured these men into the service was the prophet at conveying bullion, and other valuable commodities from port to port. For both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean were then so much infested by pirates from Barbary, that merchants were not willing to trust precious cargoes to any custody but that of a man of war. A captain might thus clear several thousands of pounds by a short voyage, And for this lucrative business he too often neglected the interests of his country and the honour of his flag, made mean submissions to foreign powers, disobeyed the most direct injunctions of his superiors, lay in port when he was ordered to chase a Sallie Rover, or ran with dollars to Leghorn, when his instructions directed him to repair to Lisbon.

And all this he did with impunity. The same interests which had placed him in a post for which was unfit maintained him there. No admiral, bearded by these corrupt and dissolute minions of the palace, dared to do more than mutter something about a court-martial. If any officer showed a higher sense of duty than his fellows, he soon found out that he lost money without acquiring honour. One captain, who by strictly obeying the orders of the admiralty, Mr. Cargo, which would have been worth four thousand pounds to him, was told by Charles with ignoble levity that he was a great fool for his pains. The discipline of the navy was of a piece throughout. As the courtly captain despised the admiralty, he was in turn despised by his crew.

It could not be concealed that he was inferior in seamanship to every foremast man on board. It was idle to expect that old sailors, familiar with the hurricanes of the tropics and with the icebergs of the Arctic Circle, would pay prompt and respectful obedience to a chief who knew no more of winds and waves than could be learned in a gilded barge between Whitehall Stairs and Hampton Court. To trust such a novice with the working of a ship was evidently impossible. The direction of navigation was therefore taken from the captain and given to the master, but this partition of authority produced innumerable inconveniences. The line of demarcation was not, and perhaps could not be, drawn with precision.

There was therefore constant wrangling. The captain, confident in proportion to his ignorance, treated the master with lordly contempt. The master, well aware of the danger of disobliging the powerful, too often, after a struggle, yielded against his better judgment. And it was well if the loss of the ship and crew was not the consequence. In general, the least mischievous of the aristocratical captains were those who completely abandoned to others the direction of the vessels, and thought only of making money and spending it. The way in which these men lived was so ostentatious and voluptuous that, greedy as they were of gain, they seldom became rich. They dressed, as if for a gala at Versailles, ate off plate, drank the richest wines, and kept harems on board, while hunger and scurvy raged among the crews, and while corpses were daily flung out of the portholes.

Such was the ordinary character of those who were then called gentlemen captains. Mingled with them were to be found, happily for our country, naval commanders of a very different description. Men whose whole life had been passed on the deep, and who had worked and fought their way from the lowest officers of the forecastle to rank and distinction. One of the most eminent of these officers was Sir Christopher Mings, who entered the service as a cabin-boy, who fell fighting bravely against the Dutch, and whom his crew, weeping and vowing vengeance, carried to the grave. From him sprang, by a singular kind of descent, a line of valiant and expert sailors. His cabin-boy was Sir John Narborough, and the cabin-boy of Sir John Narborough was Sir Cloudsley Shovel.

To the strong natural sense and dauntless courage of this class of men, England owes a debt never to be forgotten. It was by such resolute hearts that in spite of much maladministration, and in spite of the blunders and treasons of more courtly admirals, our coasts were protected, and the reputation of our flag upheld, during many gloomy and perilous years. But to a landsman, these tarpaulins, as they were called, seemed a strange and half-savage race. All their knowledge was professional, and their professional knowledge was practical, rather than scientific. Of their own element, They were as simple as children. Their deportment was uncouth. There was roughness in their very good nature. And their talk, where it was not made up of nautical phrases, was too commonly made up of oaths and curses.

Such were the chiefs, in whose rude school were formed these sturdy worriers, from whose Smollett, in the next age, drew Lieutenant Bowling and Commodore Trunnion. But it does not matter that there was in the service of any of the Stuarts a single naval officer, such as, according to the notions of our times, a naval officer ought to be. That is to say, a man versed in the theory and practice of his calling, and steeled against all the dangers of battle and tempest, yet of cultivated mind and polished manners. There were gentlemen, and there were seamen, in the navy of Charles II, But the seamen were not gentlemen, and the gentlemen were not seamen. The English navy at that time might, according to the most exact estimates which have come down to us, have been kept in an efficient state for three hundred and eighty thousand pounds a year.

Four hundred thousand pounds a year was the sum actually expended, but expended, as we have seen, to very little purpose. The cost of the French marine was nearly the same, The cost of the Dutch Marine considerably more. The charge of the English Ordnance in the seventeenth century was, as compared with other military and naval charges, much smaller than at present. At most of the garrisons there were gunners, and here and there, at an important post, an engineer was to be found. But there was no regiment of artillery, no brigade of sappers and miners, no college in which young soldiers, could learn the scientific part of the art of war. The difficulty of moving field-pieces was extreme. When, a few years later, William marched from Devonshire to London, the apparatus which he brought with him, though such as had long been in constant use on the continent, and such as would now be regarded at Woolwich as rude and cumbrous, excited in our ancestors, an admiration resembling that which the Indians of America felt for the Castilian Harcabusses.

The stock of gunpowder, kept in the English forts and arsenals, was boastfully mentioned by patriotic writers as something which might well impress neighbouring nations with awe. It amounted to fourteen or fifteen thousand barrels, about a twelfth of the quantity which it is now thought necessary to have in store. The expenditure, under the head of ordnance, was, on an average, A little above £60,000 a year. The whole effective charge of the Army, Navy and Ordnance was about £750,000. The non-effective charge, which is now a heavy part of our public burdens, can hardly be said to have existed. A very small number of naval officers, who were not employed in the public service, drew half pay. No lieutenant was on the list.

nor any captain who had not commanded a ship of the first or second rate. As the country then possessed only seventeen ships of the first and second rate that had ever been at sea, and as large a proportion of the persons who had commanded such ships had good posts on shore, the expenditure under this head must have been small indeed. In the army, half-pay was given merely as a special and temporary allowance to a small number of officers, belonging to two regiments, which were peculiarly situated. Greenwich Hospital had not been founded. Chelsea Hospital was building, but the cost of that institution was defrayed partly by a deduction from the pay of the troops, and partly by private subscription.

The King promised to contribute only twenty thousand pounds for architectural expenses, and five thousand a year for the maintenance of the invalids. It was no part of the plan. that there should be out-pensioners. The whole non-effective charge, military and naval, can scarcely have exceeded ten thousand pounds a year. It now exceeds ten thousand pounds a day. Of the expense of civil government, only a small portion was depraved by the Crown. The great majority of the functionaries, whose business was to administer justice, reserve order, either gave their services to the public gratuitously, Or were enumerated in a manner which caused no drain on the revenue of the state. The sheriffs, mayors, and aldermen of the towns, the country gentlemen, who were in the commission of the peace, the headboroughs, bailiffs, and petty constables, cost the king nothing.

The superior courts of law were chiefly supported by fees.

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The History of England from the Accession of James II by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book I. Chapter III. Part V. Our relations with foreign courts had been put on the most economical footing. The only diplomatic agent who had the title of ambassador resided at Constantinople, and was partly supported by the Turkish company. Even at the court of Versailles, England had only an envoy, and she had not even an envoy at the Spanish, Swedish, and Danish courts. The whole expense under this head cannot, in the last year of the reign of Charles II, have much exceeded twenty thousand pounds. In this frugality there was nothing laudable. Charles was, as usual, niggardly in the wrong place, and munificent in the wrong place.

The public service was starved that courtiers might be pampered. The expense of the navy, of the ordnance, of pensions to needy old officers, of missions to foreign courts, must seem small indeed to the present generation. But the personal favorites of the sovereign His ministers, and the creatures of those ministers, were gorged with public money. Their salaries and pensions, when compared with the incomes of the nobility, the gentry, the commercial and professional men of that age, will appear enormous. The greatest estates in the kingdom then very little exceeded twenty thousand a year. The Duke of Ormond had twenty-two thousand a year. The Duke of Buckingham Before his extravagance had impaired his great property, had nineteen thousand six hundred a year.

George Monk, Duke of Albemarle, who had been rewarded for his eminent service with immense grants of crown land, and who had been notorious both for covetousness and for parsimony, left fifteen thousand a year of real estate, and sixty thousand pounds in money, which probably yielded seven per cent. These three dukes were supposed to be three of the very richest subjects in England. The Archbishop of Canterbury can hardly have had five thousand a year. The average income of a temporal peer was estimated by the best informed persons at about three thousand a year. The average income of a baronet at nine hundred a year. The average income of a member of the House of Commons at less than eight hundred a year.

A thousand a year was thought a large revenue for a barrister. Two thousand a year was hardly to be made in the court of King's Bench except by the Crown lawyers. It is evident, therefore, that an official man would have been well paid if he had received a fourth or fifth part of what would now be an adequate stipend. In fact, however, the stipends of the higher class of official men were as large as at present, and not seldom larger. The Lord Treasurer, for example, had eight thousand a year, and, when the Treasury was in commission, the Junior Lords had sixteen hundred a year each. The Paymaster of the Forces had a poundage, amounting, in time of peace, to about five thousand a year. On all the money which passed through his hands, the Groom of the Stowell had five thousand a year, the Commissioners of the Customs, twelve hundred a year each, the Lords of the Bed-Chamber, a thousand a year each.

The regular salary, however, was the smallest part of the gains of an official man at that age. From the noblemen who held the white staff and the great seal, down to the humblest tide-waiter and gauger, what would now be called gross corruption was practised without disguise and without reproach. Titles, places, commissions, pardons were daily sold in market, overt by the great dignitaries of the realm. And every clerk in every department imitated to the best of his power the evil example. During the last century, no prime minister, however powerful, has become rich in office, and several prime ministers have impaired their private fortune in sustaining their public character. In the seventeenth century, a statesman who was at the head of affairs might easily, and without giving scandal, Accumulate in no long time an estate amply sufficient to support a dukedom.

It is probable that the income of the Prime Minister during his tenure of power far exceeded that of any other subject. The place of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland was popularly reported to be worth 40,000 pounds a year. The gains of the Chancellor Clarendon of Arlington, of Lauderdale, and of Danby were certainly enormous. The sumptuous palace to which the populace of London gave the name of Dunkirk Mouse, the stately pavilions, the fishponds, the Deer Park, and the Orangery of Euston, the more than Italian luxury of Ham, with its busts, fountains, and aviaries, were among the many signs which indicated what was the shortest road to boundless wealth. This is the true explanation of the unscrupulous violence with which the statesmen of that day struggled for office, the tenacity with which, in spite of vexations, humiliations, and dangers, they clung to it, and of the scandalous compliances to which they stooped in order to retain it.

Even in our own age, formidable as is the power of opinion, and high as is the standard of integrity, There would be great risks of a lamentable change in the character of our public men if the place of First Lord of the Treasury or Secretary of State were worth a hundred thousand pounds a year. Happy for our country, the emoluments of the highest class of functionaries have not only not grown in proportion to the general growth of our opulence, but have positively diminished. The fact that the sum raised in England by taxation has, in a time, Not exceeding two long lives, being multiplied fortyfold, is strange, and may at first sight seem appalling. But those who are alarmed by the increase of the public burdens may perhaps be reassured when they have considered the increase of the public resources.

In the year 1685 the value of the produce of the soil far exceeded the value of all the other fruits of human industry. Yet, Agriculture was in what would now be considered as a very rude and imperfect state. The arable land and pasture land were not supposed by the best political arithmeticians of that age to amount to much more than half the area of the kingdom. The remainder was believed to consist of moor, forest, and fen. These computations are strongly confirmed by the road-books and maps of the seventeenth century. From those books and maps, it is clear that many routes which now passed through an endless succession of orchards, cornfields, hayfields, and beanfields, then ran through nothing but heath, swamp, and warren.

In the drawings of English landscapes, made in that age for the grand duke Cosmo, scarce a hedgerow is to be seen, and numerous tracts, now rich with cultivation, appear As bare as Salisbury Plain. At Enfield, hardly out of sight of the smoke of the capital, was a region of five-and-twenty miles in circumference, which contained only three houses, and scarcely any enclosed fields. Deer as free as in an American forest, wandered there by thousands. It is to be remarked that wild animals of large size were then far more numerous than at present. The last wild boars, indeed, which had been preserved for the royal diversion, and had been allowed to ravage the cultivated land with their tusks, had been slaughtered by the exasperated rustics during the license of the Civil War.

The last wolf that has roamed our island had been slain in Scotland a short time before the close of the reign of Charles, the second. But many breeds, now extinct or rare, both of quadrupeds and birds, were still common. The fox, whose life is now in many counties held almost as sacred as that of a human being, was then considered as a mere nuisance. Oliver St. John told the Long Parliament that Stratford was to be regarded not as a stag or a hare to whom some law was to be given. But as a fox, who was to be snared by any means and knocked on the head without pity. This illustration would be by no means a happy one, if addressed to country gentlemen of our time. But in St. John's Day there were not seldom great massacres of foxes to which the peasantry thronged, with all the dogs that could be mustered.

Traps were set, nets were spread, no quarter was given, and to shoot a female with cub was considered as a feat which merited the warmest gratitude of the neighborhood. The red deer were then as common in Gloucestershire and Hampshire as they now are among the Grampian Hills, and on one occasion Queen Anne traveling to Portsmouth saw a herd of no less than five hundred. The wild bull with his white mane was still to be found wandering in a few of the southern forests. The badger, made his dark and tortuous hole on the other side of every hill where the copsewood grew thick. The wild cats were frequently heard by the night wailing round the lodges of the rangers of Whittlebury and Needwood. The yellow-breasted Martin was still pursued in Cranbourne Chase for his fur, reputed inferior only to that of the sable.

Fen Eagles, measuring more than nine feet between the extremities of the wings, preyed on fish along the coast of Norfolk. On all the downs, from the British Channel to Yorkshire, huge postards, strayed in troops of fifty or sixty, and were often hunted with greyhounds. The marshes of Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire were covered during some months of every year by immense clouds of cranes. Some of these races the progress of cultivation has extubated. Of others, the numbers are so much diminished that men crowd to gaze at a specimen as at a Bengal tiger or a polar bear. The progress of this great change can nowhere be more clearly traced than in the statute-book. The number of enclosure acts passed since King George II came to the throne exceeds four thousand.

The area enclosed under the authority of those acts exceeds, on a moderate calculation, Ten thousand square miles. How many square miles, which were formerly uncultivated or ill-cultivated, have during the same period been fenced and carefully tilled by the proprietors without any application to the legislature, can only be conjectured. But it seems highly probable that a fourth part of England has been, in the course of little more than a century, turned from a wild into a garden.

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The History of England, from the Accession of James, the Second, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three. Part 6. Even in those parts of the kingdom which, at the close of the reign of Charles II, were the best cultivated, the farming, though greatly improved since the Civil War, was not such as would now be thought skilful. To this day no effectual steps have been taken by public authority for the purpose of obtaining accurate accounts of the produce of the English soil. The historian must therefore follow, with some misgivings, the guidance of those writers on statistics whose reputation for diligence and fidelity stands highest. At present, an average crop of wheat, rye, barley, oats, and beans is supposed considerably to exceed thirty millions of quarters.

The crop of wheat would be thought wretched if it did not exceed twelve millions of quarters. According to the computation made in the year 1696 by Gregory King, the whole quantity of wheat, rye, barley, oats, and beans, then annually grown in the kingdom, was somewhat less than ten millions of quarters. The wheat, which was then cultivated only in the strongest clay, and consumed only by those who were in easy circumstances, he estimated at less than two millions of quarters. Charles Davenant, an acute and well-informed, though most unprincipled and rancorous politician, differed from King as to some of the items of the account, but came to nearly the same general conclusions.

The rotation of crops was very imperfectly understood. It was known, indeed, that some vegetables lately introduced into our island, particularly the turnip, afforded excellent nutriment in winter to sheep and oxen, but it was not yet the practice to feed cattle in this manner. It was therefore by no means easy to keep them alive during the season when the grass is scanty. They were killed and salted in great numbers at the beginning of the cold weather, and during several months even the gentry tasted scarcely any fresh animal food, except game and river-fish, which were consequently much more important articles in housekeeping than at present. It appears from the Northumberland Household Book that, in the reign of Henry VII, fresh meat was never eaten even by the gentleman attendant on a great earl, except during the short interval between Midsummer and Michaelmas.

But in the course of two centuries an improvement had taken place, and under Charles II, It was not till the beginning of November that families laid in their stock of salt provisions, then called Martinmus beef.

The sheep and the ox of that time were diminutive when compared with the sheep and oxen which are now driven to our markets. Our native horses, though serviceable, were held in small esteem, and fetched low prices. They were valued, one with another, By the ablest of those who computed the national wealth, at no more than fifty shillings each. Foreign breeds were greatly preferred. Spanish jennets were regarded as the finest charges, and were imported for purposes of pageantry and war. The coaches of the aristocracy were drawn by grey Flemish mares, which trotted, as it was thought, with a peculiar grace, And endured better than any cattle reared in our island the work of dragging a ponderous equipage over the rugged pavement of London.

Neither the modern dray-horse nor the modern race-horse was then known. At a much later period, the ancestors of the gigantic quadrupeds, which all foreigners now class among the chief wonders of London, were brought from the marshes of Welchoran, The ancestors of Childers and Eclipse from the sands of Arabia. Already, however, there was among our nobility and gentry a passion for the amusements of the turf. The importance of improving our studs by an infusion of new blood was strongly felt, and with this view a considerable number of barbs had lately been brought into the country. Two men whose authority on such subjects were held in great esteem, the Duke of Newcastle and Sir John Fenwick, pronounced that the meanest hack ever important from Tangier would produce a dynar progeny than would be expected from the best sire of our native breed.

They would not readily have believed that a time would come when the princes and nobles of neighboring lands would be as eager to obtain horses from England as ever the English had been to obtain horses from Barbary.

The increase of vegetable and animal produce, though great, seems small when compared with the increase of our mineral wealth. In 1685, the Tin of Cornwall, which had, more than two thousand years before, attracted the Tyrian sails beyond the pillars of Hercules, was still one of the most valuable subterranean productions of the island. The quantity annually extracted from the earth was found to be, some years later, sixteen hundred tons, probably a third of what it now is. But the veins of copper which lie in the same region were, in the time of Charles, the second, altogether neglected, nor did any landowner take them into the account in estimating the value of his property. Cornwall and Wales at present yield annually near fifteen thousand tons of copper, worth near a million and a half sterling, That is to say, worth about twice as much as the annual produce of all English mines of all descriptions in the 17th century.

The first bed of rock salt had been discovered in Cheshire not long after the restoration, but does not appear to have been worked till much later. The salt, which was obtained by a rude process from brine pits, was held in no high estimation. The pans in which the manufacture was carried on exhaled a sulphurous stench, and, when the evaporation was complete, the substance which was left was scarcely fit to be used with food. Physicians attributed the scorbutic and pulmonary complaints which were common among the English to this unwholesome condiment. It was therefore seldom used by the upper and middle classes, and there was a regular and considerable Importation from France. At present, our springs and mines not only supply our own immense demand, but send annually more than seven hundred millions of pounds of excellent salt to foreign countries.

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The History of England, from the Accession of James II, by Thomas Bavington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three, Part Seven. Far more important, has been the improvement of our ironworks. Such works had long existed in our island, but had not prospered, and had been regarded with no favourable eye by the government and by the public. It was not then the practice to employ coal for smelting the ore. The rapid consumption of wood excited the alarm of politicians. As early as the reign of Elizabeth there had been loud complaints that whole forests were cut down for the purpose of feeding the furnaces, and the Parliament had interfered to prohibit the manufacturers from burning timber. The manufacture consequently languished.

At the close of the reign of Charles II, great part of the iron which was used in this country was imported from abroad, and the whole quantity cast here annually seems not to have exceeded ten thousand tons, At present, the trade is thought to be in a depressed state if less than a million of tons are produced in a year. One mineral, perhaps more important than iron itself, remains to be mentioned. Coal, though very little used in any species of manufacture, was already the ordinary fuel in some districts, which were fortunate enough to possess large beds, and in the capital, which could easily be supplied by water-carriage. It seems reasonable to believe that at least one half of the quantity, then extracted from the pits, was consumed in London.

The consumption of London seemed to the writers of that age enormous, and was often mentioned by them as a proof of the greatness of the imperial city. They scarcely hoped to be believed when they affirmed that two hundred and eighty thousand chaldrons, that is to say, about three hundred and fifty thousand tons, were, in the last year of the reign of Charles II, brought to the Thames. At present, three millions and a half tons are required yearly by the metropolis, and the whole annual produce cannot, on the most moderate computation, be estimated at less than thirty millions of tons. While these great changes have been in progress, the rent of land has, as might be expected, been almost constantly rising.

In some districts it has multiplied more than tenfold. In some it has not more than doubled. It has probably on the average quadrupled. Of the rent, a large proportion was divided among the country gentlemen. Class of persons whose position and character it is most important that we should clearly understand, for by their influence and by their passions the fate of the nation was at several important conjunctures. Determined. We should be much mistaken if we pictured to ourselves the squires of the seventeenth century as men bearing a close resemblance to their descendants, the county members and chairmen of quarter sessions with whom we are familiar. The modern country gentleman generally receives a liberal education, passes from a distinguished school to a distinguished college, and has ample opportunity to become an excellent scholar.

He has generally seen something of foreign countries, and a considerable part of his life has generally been passed in the capital, and the refinements of the capital follow him into the country. There is perhaps no class of dwelling so pleasing as the rural seats of the English gentry. In the parks and pleasure-grounds, nature, dressed, yet not disguised by art, wears her most alluring form. In the buildings, Good sense and good taste combine to produce a happy union of the comfortable and the graceful. The pictures, the musical instruments, the library, would in any other country be considered as proving the owner to be an eminently polished and accomplished man. A country gentleman who witnessed the revolution was probably in receipt of about a fourth part of the rent which his acres now yield to his posterity.

He was, therefore, as compared with his posterity, a poor man, and was generally under the necessity of residing with little interruption on his estate. To travel on the continent, to maintain an establishment in London, or even to visit London frequently, were pleasures in which only the great proprietors could indulge. It may be confidently affirmed that of the squires, whose names were then in commissions of peace and lieutenancy, Not one in twenty went to town once in five years, or had ever in his life wandered so far as Paris. Many lords of manors had received an education differing little from that of their menial servants. The heir of an estate often passed his boyhood and youth at the seat of his family, with no better tutors than grooms and gamekeepers, and scarce attained learning enough to sign his name to a If he went to school and to college, he generally returned before he was twenty to the seclusion of the old hall, and there, unless his mind were very happily constituted by nature, soon forgot his academical pursuits in rural business and pleasures.

His chief serious employment was the care of his property. He examined samples of grain, handled pigs, and— On market-days, made bargains over a tankard with drovers and hop-merchants. His chief pleasures were commonly derived from field-sports, and from an unrefined sensuality. His language and pronunciation were such as we would now expect to hear, only from the most ignorant clowns. His oaths, coarse jests, and scurrilous terms of abuse were uttered with the broadest accent of his province. It was easy to discern from the first words which he spoke whether he came from Somersetshire or Yorkshire. He troubled himself little about decorating his abode, and, if he attempted decoration, seldom produced anything but deformity.

The litter of a farm-yard gathered under the windows of his bedchamber, and the cabbages and gooseberry bushes grew close to his hall door. His table was loaded with coarse plenty, and guests were cordially welcomed to it. But as the habit of drinking to excess was general in the class to which he belonged, and as his fortune did not enable him to intoxicate large assemblies daily with claret or cannery, strong beer was ordinary beverage. The quantity of beer consumed in those days was indeed enormous. For beer, then, was to the middle and lower classes not only all that beer is, but all that wine, tea, and ardent spirits now are. It was only at great houses, or on great occasions, that foreign drink was placed on the board.

The ladies of the house, whose business it had commonly been to cook the repast, retired as soon as the dishes had been devoured, and left the gentlemen to their ale and tobacco. The coarse jollity of the afternoon, was often prolonged till the revellers were laid under the table. It was very seldom that the country gentleman caught glimpses of the great world, and what he saw of it tended rather to confuse rather than to enlighten his understanding. His opinions respecting religion, government, foreign countries, and former times, having been derived not from study, from observation, or from conversation with enlightened companions, But from such traditions as were current in his own small circle.

Were the opinions of a child he adhered to them, however, with the obstinacy which is generally found in ignorant men accustomed to be fed with flattery, his animosities were numerous and bitter. He hated Frenchmen and Italians, Scotchmen and Irishmen, Papists and Presbyterians, Independents and Baptists, Quakers and Jews. Towards London and Londoners, he felt an aversion which more than once produced important political effects. His wife and daughter were in tastes and acquirements below a housekeeper or a still-room maid of the present day. They stitched and spun, brewed gooseberry wine, cured marigolds, and made the crust for venison pasty. From the description, it might be supposed that the English squire of the seventeenth century did not materially differ from a rustic miller or alehouse keeper of our time.

There are, however, some important parts of his character still to be noted, which will greatly modify this estimate. Unlettered as he was, and unpolished, he was still, in some most important points, a gentleman. He was a member of a proud and powerful aristocracy, and was distinguished by many Both of the good, and of the bad qualities which belonged to aristocrats. His family pride was beyond that of a Talbot or a Howard. He knew the genealogies and coats of arms of all his neighbors, and could tell which of them had assumed supporters without any right, and which of them were so unfortunate as to be great grandsons of aldermen. He was a magistrate, and, as such, administered gratuitously To those who dwelt around him, a rude patriarchal justice, which, in spite of innumerable blunders, and of occasional acts of tyranny, was yet better than no justice at all.

He was an officer of the train-bands, and his military dignity, though it might prove the mirth of gallants who had served a campaign in Flanders, raised his character in his own eyes and in the eyes of his neighbours. Nor, indeed, was his soldiership Justly a subject of derision. In every county there were elderly gentlemen who had seen service which was no child's play. One had been knighted by Charles I after the Battle of Edge Hill. Another still wore a patch over the scar which he had received at Naseby. A third had defended his old house till Fairfax had blown in the door with a petard. The presence of these old cavaliers with their old swords and holsters and with their old stories about Goring and Lunsford gave to the musters of militia an earnest and warlike aspect, which would otherwise have been wanting.

Even those country gentlemen who were too young to have themselves exchanged blows with the cuirassiers of the Parliament had from childhood been surrounded by the traces of recent war, and fed with stories of the martial exploits of their fathers and uncles, Thus the character of the English squire of the seventeenth century was compounded of two elements, which we seldom or never find united. His ignorance and uncouthness, his low tastes and gross phrases, would in our time be considered as indicating a nature and a breeding thoroughly plebeian. Yet he was essentially a patrician, and had in large measure Both the virtues and the vices, which flourish among men, set from their birth in high place, and used to respect themselves and to be respected by others.

It is not easy for a generation, accustomed to find chivalrous sentiments only in company with liberal studies and polished manners, to image to itself a man with the deportment, the vocabulary, and the accent of a carter, Yet punctilious on matters of genealogy and precedence, and ready to risk his life rather than see a stain cast on the honour of his house. It is, however, only by thus joining together things seldom or never found together in our own experience, that we can form a just idea of that rustic aristocracy which constituted the main strength of the armies of Charles I, and which long supported with strange fidelity the interest of his descendants. The gross, uneducated, and travelled country gentleman was commonly a Tory, but though devotedly attached to hereditary monarchy, he had no partiality for courtiers and ministers.

He thought not without reason that Whitehall was filled with the most corrupt of mankind, And that of the great sums which the House of Commons had voted to the crowns as the restoration had been embezzled by cunning politicians, and part squandered on buffoons and foreign courtesans. His stout English heart swelled with indignation at the thought that the government of his country should be subject to French dictation. Being himself, generally, an old cavalier, or the son of an old cavalier, he reflected with bitter resentment on the ingratitude with which the Stuarts had requited their best friends. Those who heard him grumble at the neglect with which he was treated, and at the profusion with which wealth was lavaged on the bastards of Nell Gwynne and Madame Carwell, would have supposed him ripe for rebellion.

But all this hill humor lasted only till the throne was really in danger. It was precisely when those whom the sovereign had loaded with wealth and honours shrank from his side that the country gentleman, so surly and mutinous in the season of his prosperity, rallied round him in a body. Thus, after murmuring twenty years at the misgovernment of Charles II, they came to his rescue in his extremity, when his own secretaries of state and the lords of his own treasury had deserted him, and enabled him to gain a complete victory over the opposition. Nor can there be any doubt that they would have shown equal loyalty to his brother James, if James would, even at the last moment, have refrained from outraging their strongest feeling.

For there was one institution, and one only, which they prized even more than hereditary monarchy, and that institution was the Church of England. The love of the Church was not, indeed, the effect of study or meditation. Few among them could have given any reason drawn from scripture or ecclesiastical history for adhering to her doctrines, her ritual, and her polity. Nor were they, as a class, by any means strict observers of that code of morality which is common to all Christian sects. But the experience of many ages proves that men may be ready to fight to the death, and to persecute without pity for a religion whose creed They do not understand, and whose precepts they habitually disobey.

The rural clergy were even more vehement in Toryism than the rural gentry, and were a class scarcely less important. It is to be observed, however, that the individual clergyman, as compared with the individual gentleman, then ranked much lower than in our days. The main support of the church was derived from the tithe, and the tithe bought the rent A much smaller ratio than at present. King estimated the whole income of the parochial and collegiate clergy at only four hundred and eighty thousand pounds a year. Davenant at only five hundred and forty-four thousand a year. It is certainly now more than seven times as great as the larger of these two sums. The average rent of the land has not, according to any estimate, increased proportionally.

It follows that the rectors and vicars must have been, as compared with the neighbouring knights and squires, much poorer in the seventeenth century than in the nineteenth century. The place of the clergyman in society had been completely changed by the Reformation. Before that event, ecclesiastics had formed the majority of the House of Lords, had, in wealth and splendour, equalled and sometimes outshone the greatest of the temporal barons, and had generally, held the highest civil officers. Many of the treasurers, and almost all the chancellors of the Plantagenets, were bishops. The lord keeper of the privy seal and the master of the rolls were ordinarily churchmen. Churchmen transacted the most important diplomatic business.

Indeed, all that large portion of the administration, which rude and warlike nobles were incompetent to conduct, was considered as especially belonging to divines. Men, therefore, who were averse to the life of camps, and who were at the same time desirous to rise in the state, commonly received the tonsure. Among them were sons of all the most illustrious families and near kinsmen of the throne, scroops and nevilles, bouchiers, staffords, and poles. To the religious houses belonged the rents of immense domains, and all that large portion of the tithe which is now in the hands of laymen. Down to the middle of the reign of Henry VIII, therefore, no line of life was so attractive to ambitious and covetous natures as the priesthood.

Then came a violent revolution. The abolition of the monasteries deprived the church at once of the greater part of her wealth, and of her predominance in the upper house of Parliament. There was no longer an abbot of Glastonbury or an abbot of Reading seated among the peers, and possessed of revenues equal to those of a powerful earl. The princely splendour of William of Wycombe and of William of Wainfleet had disappeared. The scarlet hat of the cardinal, the silver cross of the legate, were no more. The clergy had also lost the ascendancy, which is the natural reward of superior mental cultivation. Once the circumstance, that a man could read had raised a presumption that he was in orders. But in an age which produced such laymen as William Cecil, Nicholas Bakeham, Roger Ascombe, and Thomas Smith, Walter Mildmay, and Francis Walsingham, there was no reason for calling away prelates from their dioceses to negotiate treaties, to superintend the finances, or to administer justice.

The spiritual character not only ceased to be a qualification for high civil office, but began to be regarded as a disqualification. Those worldly motives, therefore, which had formerly induced so many able, aspiring, and highborn youths to assume the ecclesiastical habit, ceased to operate. Not one parish in two hundred then afforded what a man of family considered as a maintenance. There were still indeed writers in the church, but they were few, and even the highest were mean when compared with a glory which had once surrounded the princes of the hierarchy. The state kept by Parker and Grindle seemed beggarly to those who remembered the imperial pomp of Wolsey, his palaces which had become the favourite abodes of royalty, Whitehall and Hampton Court.

The three sumptuous tables daily spread in his refectory, The forty-four gorgeous copes in his chapel, his running footmen in rich liveries, and his bodyguards with gilded pole-axes. Thus, the sacerdotal office lost its attraction for the higher classes. During the century which followed the accession of Elizabeth, scarce a single person of noble descent took orders. At the close of the reign of Charles, the second, two sons of peers were bishops. Four or five sons of peers were priests, and held valuable preferment. But these rare exceptions did not take away the reproach which lay on the body. The clergy were regarded as, on the whole, a plebeian class, and, indeed, for one who made the figure of a gentleman, ten were menial servants.

A large proportion of these divines, who had no benefices, or whose benefices were too small to afford a comfortable revenue, lived in the houses of laymen. It had long been evident that this practice tended to degrade the priestly character. Lorde had exerted himself to effect a change, and Charles I had repeatedly issued positive orders that none but men of high rank should presume to keep domestic chaplains. But these injunctions had become obsolete. Indeed, during the domination of the Puritan, many of the ejected ministers of the Church of England could obtain bread and shelter only by attaching themselves to the households of royalist gentlemen. And the habits which had been formed in those times of trouble continued long after the re-establishment of monarchy and episcopacy.

In the mansions of men of liberal sentiments and cultivated understandings, the chaplain, was doubtless treated with urbanity and kindness. His conversation, his literary assistance, his spiritual advice, were considered as an ample return for his food, his lodging, and his stipend. But this was not the general feeling of the country gentleman. The coarse and ignorant squire, who thought that it belonged to his dignity to have grace said every day at his table, by an ecclesiastic, in full canonicals, Found means to reconcile dignity with economy. A young levitt, such was the phrase then in use, might be had for his board, a small garret and ten pounds a year, and might not only perform his own professional functions, might not only be the most patient of butts and of listeners, might not only be always ready in fine weather for bowls and in rainy weather for shovel-board, but might also save the expense of a gardener or of a groom.

Sometimes the reverend man nailed up the apricots, and sometimes he carried the coach-horses. He cast up the farriers' bills. He walked ten miles with a message or a parcel. He was permitted to dine with the family, but he was expected to content himself with the plainest fare. He might fill himself with the corned beef and the carrots, but as soon as the tarts and cheese-cakes made their appearance, he quitted his seat, and stood aloof till he was summoned to return thanks for the repast, from a greater part of which he had been excluded. Perhaps after some years of service he was presented to a living sufficient to support him, but he often found it necessary to purchase his preferment by a species of simony, which furnished an inexhaustible subject of pleasantry to three or four generations of scoffers.

With his cure he was expected to take a wife, The wife had ordinarily been in the patron's service, and it was well if she was not suspected of standing too high in the patron's favour. Indeed. The nature of the matrimonial connections, which the clergymen of that age were in the habit of forming, is the most certain indication of the place which the order held in the social system. An oxonian, writing a few months after the death of Charles II, complained bitterly not only that the country attorney, and the country apothecary looked down with disdain on the country clergyman, but that one of the lessons most earnestly inculcated on every girl of honourable family was to give no encouragement to a lover in orders, and that, if any young lady forgot this precept, she was almost as much disgraced as by an illicit amour.

Clarendon, who assuredly bore no ill-will to the priesthood, mentions it as a sign of the confusion of ranks which the great rebellion had produced. that some damsels of noble families had bestowed themselves on divines. A waiting-woman was generally considered as the most suitable helpmate for a parson. Queen Elizabeth, as head of the church, had given what seemed to be a formal sanction to this prejudice by issuing special orders that no clergyman should presume to espouse a servant-girl without the consent of the master or mistress. During several generations, accordingly, the relation between divines and handmaidens was a theme for endless jest. Nor would it be easy to find, in the comedy of the seventeenth century, a single instance of a clergyman who wins a spouse above the rank of cook.

Even so late as the time of George, the keenest of all observers of life and manners, himself a priest, remarked that in a great household the chaplain, was the resource of a lady's maid, whose character had been blown upon, and who was therefore forced to give hopes of catching the steward. In general, the divine who quitted his chaplainship for a benefice and a wife found that he had only exchanged one class of vexations for another. Hardly one living in fifty enabled the incumbent to bring up a family comfortably. As children multiplied and grew, the household of the priest became more and more beggarly. Holes appeared more and more plainly in the thatch of his parsonage, and in his single cassock.

Often it was only by toiling on his glebe, by feeding swine, by loading dung-carts, that he could obtain daily bread. Nor did his utmost exertions always prevent the bailiff from taking his concordance and his inkstand in execution. It was a white day on which he was admitted into the kitchen of a great house, and regaled by the servants with cold meat and ale. His children were brought up like the children of the neighbouring peasantry. His boys followed the plough, and his girls went out to service. Study he found impossible, for the Avhausen, of his living, would hardly have sold for a sum sufficient to purchase a good theological library. and he might be considered as unusually lucky if he had ten or twelve dog-eared volumes among the pots and pans on his shelves.

Even a keen and strong intellect might be expected to rust in so unfavourable a situation. Assuredly, there was at that time no lack in the English church of ministers distinguished by abilities and learning. But it is to be observed that these ministers were not scattered among the rural population. They were brought together at few places where the means of acquiring knowledge were abundant, and where the opportunities of vigorous intellectual exercise were frequent. At such places were to be found divines qualified by parts, by eloquence, by wide knowledge of literature, of science, and of life, to defend their church victoriously against heretics and sceptics. To command the attention of frivolous and worldly congregations.

To guide the deliberations of senates, and to make religion respectable, even in the most dissolute of courts. Some laboured to fathom the abysses of metaphysical theology. Some were deeply versed in biblical criticism, and some threw light on the darkest parts of ecclesiastical history. Some proved themselves consummate masters of logic. Some cultivated rhetoric with such assiduity and success that their discourses are still justly valued as models of style. These eminent men were to be found, with scarcely a single exception, at the universities, at the great cathedrals, or in the capital. Barrow had lately died at Cambridge, and Pearson had gone thence to the Episcopal bench. Cudworth and Henry Moore were still living there, South and Pocock, Jane and Aldrich, were at Oxford.

Priddeaux was in the close of Norwich, and Whitby in the close of Salisbury. But it was chiefly by the London clergy, who were always spoken of as a class apart, that the fame of their profession for learning and eloquence was upheld. The principal pulpits of the metropolis were occupied about this time by a crowd of distinguished men, from among whom were selected a large proportion of the rulers of the church. Sherlock preached at the temple, Tillotson at Lincoln's Inn, Wake and Jeremy Collier at Gray's Inn, Burnett at the Rolls, Stillingfleet at St. Paul's Cathedral, Patrick at St. Paul's Inn Covent Garden, Fowler at St. Giles's Cripplegate, Sharp at St. Giles's in the Fields, Tennyson at St.

Martin's, Spratt at St. Margaret's, Beveridge at St. Peter's in Cornhill. Of these twelve men, all of high note in ecclesiastical history, ten became bishops, and four archbishops. Meanwhile, almost the only important theological works which came forth from a rural parsonage were those of George Bull, afterwards Bishop of St. David's. And Bull never would have produced those works had he not inherited an estate by the sale of which he was enabled to collect a library, such as probably no other country clergyman in England possessed. Thus the Anglican priesthood was divided into two sections, which, in acquirements, in manners, and in social position, differed widely from each other. One section, trained for cities and courts, comprised men familiar, with all ancient and modern learning.

Men able to encounter Hobbes or Bossuet at all the weapons of controversy. Men who could, in their sermons, set forth the majesty and beauty of Christianity, with such justness of thought and such energy of language that the indolent Charles roused himself to listen and the fastidious Buckingham forgot to sneer. Men whose address, politeness, and knowledge of the world qualified them to manage the consciences of the wealthy and noble, men with whom Halifax loved to discuss the interests of empires, and from whom Dryden was not ashamed to own that he had learned to write. The other section was destined to ruder and humbler service. It was dispersed over the country, and consisted chiefly of persons not at all wealthier, and not much more refined, than small farmers or upper servants.

Yet it was in these rustic priests, who derived but a scanty subsistence from their tithe-sheaves and tithe-pigs, and who had not the smallest chance of ever attaining high professional honours, that the professional spirit was strongest. Among those divines, who had the boast of the universities and the delight of the capital, and, who had attained or might reasonably expect to attain opulent and lordly rank, a party respectable in numbers and more respectable in character, leaned towards constitutional principles of government, lived on friendly terms with Presbyterians, Independents and Baptists, would gladly have seen a full toleration granted to all Protestant sects, and would even have consented to make alterations in the liturgy for the purpose of conciliating honest and candid nonconformists.

But such latitudinarianism was held in horror by the country parson. He took, indeed, more pride in his ragged gown than his superiors in their lawn and their scarlet hoods. The very consciousness that there was little in his worldly circumstances to distinguish him from the villagers to whom he preached led him to hold in moderately high the dignity of that sacerdotal office, which was his single title to reverence. Having lived in seclusion, and having had little opportunity of correcting his opinions by reading or conversation, he held and taught the doctrines of indefeasible hereditary right, of passive obedience, and of nonresistance in all their crude absurdity. Having been long engaged in a petty war against the neighboring dissenters, he too often hated them for the wrong which he had done them, and found no fault with the Five Mile Act and the Conventical Act, except that those odious laws had not a sharper edge.

Whatever influence his office gave him, was exerted with passionate zeal on the tory side, and that influence was immense. It would be a great error to imagine, because the country rector was in general not regarded as a gentleman, because he could not dare to aspire to the hand of one of the young ladies at the manor-house, because he was not asked into the parlours of the great, but was left to drink and smoke with grooms and butlers, that the power of the clerical body was smaller than at present. The influence for class, is by no means proportional to the consideration which the members of that class enjoy in their individual capacity. A cardinal is a much more exalted personage than a begging friar, but it would be a grievous mistake to suppose that the College of Cardinals has exercised greater dominion over the public mind of Europe than the Order of St.

Francis. In Ireland, at present, a pier holds a far higher station in society than a Roman Catholic priest. Yet there are in Munstice and Connaught few counties where a combination of priests would not carry an election against a combination of peers. In the seventeenth century, the pulpit was to a large proportion of the population what the periodical press now is. Scarcely any of the clowns who came to the parish church ever saw a gazette or a political pamphlet. Ill-informed as their spiritual pastor might be, he was yet better informed than themselves. He had every week an opportunity of haranguing them, and his harangues were never answered. At every important conjuncture, invectives against the Whigs, and exhortations to obey the Lord's anointed resounded at once from many thousands of pulpits, and the effect was formidable indeed.

Of all the causes, Which, after the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament, produced a violent reaction against the exclusionists, the most potent, seems to have been the oratory of the country clergy.

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The History of England, from the Accession of James II, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One. Chapter Three. Part Eight.

The power which the country gentlemen and the country clergymen exercised in the rural districts was in some measure counterbalanced by the power of the yeomanry, an eminently manly and true-hearted race. The petty proprietors who cultivated their own fields with their own hands, and enjoyed a modest competence, without affecting to have scutcheons and crests, or aspiring to sit on the bench of justice, then formed a much more important part of the nation than at present. If we may trust the best statistical writers of that age, Not less than a hundred and sixty thousand proprietors, who with their families must have made up more than a seventh of the whole population, derived their subsistence from little freehold estates.

The average income of these small landholders, an income made up of rent, profit, and wages, was estimated at between sixty and seventy pounds a year. It was computed that the number of persons who tilled their own land was greater than the number of those who farmed the land of others.

A large portion of the yeomanry had, from the time of the Reformation, leaned towards Puritanism, had, in the Civil War, taken the side of the Parliament, had, after the Restoration, persisted in hearing Presbyterian and Independent preachers, had, at elections, strenuously supported the exclusionists, and had continued even after the discovery of the Rye House plot, and the proscription of the Whig leaders, to regard popery and arbitrary power with unmitigated hostility.

Great as has been the change in the rural life of England since the Revolution, the change which has come to pass in the cities is still more amazing. At present, above a sixth part of the nation is crowded into provincial towns of more than thirty thousand inhabitants. In the reign of Charles, the second, no provincial town in the kingdom contained thirty thousand inhabitants, and only four provincial towns contained so many as ten thousand inhabitants.

Next to the capital, but next at an immense distance, stood Bristol, then the first English seaport, and Norwich, then the first English manufacturing town. Both have since that time been far outstripped by younger rivals, Yet both have made great positive advances. The population of Bristol has quadrupled, the population of Norwich has more than doubled.

Pepys, who visited Bristol eight years after the restoration, was struck by the splendour of the city. But his standard was not high, for he noted down as a wonder the circumstance that, in Bristol, A man might look around him and see nothing but houses. It seems that, in no other place with which he was acquainted, except London, did the buildings completely shut out the woods and fields. Large as Bristol might then appear, it occupied but a very small portion of the area on which it now stands. A few churches of eminent beauty rose out of a labyrinth of narrow lanes, Built upon vaults of no great solidity. If a coach or a cart entered these alleys, there was a danger that it would be wedged between the houses, and danger also that it would break in the cellars.

Goods were therefore conveyed about the town, almost exclusively, in trucks drawn by dogs, and the richest inhabitants exhibited their wealth Not by riding in gilded carriages, but by walking the streets with trains of servants in rich liveries, and by keeping tables loaded with good cheer. The pomp of the christenings and burials far exceeded what was seen at any other place in England. The hospitality of the city was widely renowned, and especially the collations with which the sugar refiners regaled their visitors. The repast was dressed in the furnace, and was accompanied by a rich beverage made of the best Spanish wine, and celebrated over the whole kingdom as Bristol milk. This luxury was supported by a thriving trade with the North American plantations and with the West Indies.

The passion for colonial traffic was so strong that there was scarcely a small shopkeeper in Bristol who had not a venture on board of some ship bound for Virginia or the Antilles. Some of these ventures, indeed, were not of the most honourable kind. There was, in the transatlantic possessions of the Crown, a great demand for labour, and this demand was partly supplied by a system of crimping and kidnapping at the principal English seaports. Nowhere was this system in such active and extensive operation as at Bristol. Even the first magistrates of that city were not ashamed to enrich themselves by so odious a commerce. The number of houses appears, from the returns of the hearth-money, to have been, in the year 1685, just 5,300.

And we hardly suppose the number of persons in a house to have been greater than in the City of London. And in the City of London we learn from the best authority that there were then fifty-five persons to ten houses. The population of Bristol must therefore have been about twenty-nine thousand souls.

Norwich was the capital of a large and fruitful province. It was the residence of a bishop. and of a chapter. It was the chief seat of the chief manufacture of the realm. Some men, distinguished by learning and science, had recently dwelt there, and no place in the kingdom, except the capital and the universities, had more attractions for the curious. The library, the museum, the aviary, and the botanical garden of Sir Thomas Browne, were thought by fellows of the Royal Society well worthy of a long pilgrimage. Norwich had also a court in miniature. In the heart of the city stood an old palace of the Dukes of Norfolk, said to be the largest town-house in the kingdom out of London. In this mansion, to which were annexed a tennis-court, a bowling-green, and a wilderness stretching along the banks of the Wansom, The noble family of Howard frequently resided, and kept a state resembling that of petty sovereigns.

Drink was served to guests in goblets of pure gold. The very tongs and shovels were of silver. Pictures by Italian masters adorned the walls. The cabinets were filled with a fine collection of gems purchased by that Earl of Arundel, whose marbles are now among the ornaments of Oxford. Here, in the year 1671, Charles and his court were sumptuously entertained. Here, too, all comers were annually welcomed, from Christmas to Twelfth Night. Ale flowed in oceans for the populace. Three coaches, one of which had been built at a cost of five hundred pounds, to contain fourteen persons, were sent every afternoon around the city to bring ladies to the festivities, and the dances were always followed by a luxurious banquet.

When the Duke of Norfolk came to Norwich, he was greeted like a king returning to his capital. The bells of the cathedral and of St. Peter Mancroft were rung, the guns of the castle were fired, and the mayor and aldermen waited on their illustrious fellow-citizen with complimentary addresses. In the year 1693, the population of Norwich was found by actual enumeration to be between 28 and 29,000 souls.

Far below Norwich, but still high in dignity and importance, were some other ancient capitals of shires. In that age it was seldom that a country gentleman went up with his family to London. The county town was his metropolis. He sometimes made it his residence during part of the year. At all events he was often attracted thither by business and pleasure, by assizes, Quarter sessions, elections, musters of militia, festivals and races. There were the halls where the judges, robed in scarlet and escorted by javelins and trumpets, opened the King's Commission twice a year. There were the markets at which the corn, the cattle, the wool, and the hops of the surrounding country were exposed to sale.

There were the great fairs to which merchants came down from London, and where the rural dealer laid in his annual stores of sugar, stationery, cutlery, and muslin. There were the shops at which the best families of the neighbourhood bought grocery and millinery. Some of these places derived dignity from interesting historical recollections. From cathedrals decorated by all the art and magnificence of the Middle Ages, from palaces where a long succession of prelates had dwelt, from closes surrounded by the venerable abodes of deans and canons, and from castles which had in the old time repelled the Nevilles or de Vere's, and which bore more recent traces of the vengeance of Rupert or of Cromwell.

Conspicuous amongst these interesting cities were York, the capital of the north, and Exeter, the capital of the west. Neither can have contained more than ten thousand inhabitants. Worcester, the queen of the Ciderland, had but eight thousand, Nottingham probably as many. Gloucester, renowned for that resolute defence which had been fatal to Charles I, Had certainly between four and five thousand. Darby, not quite four thousand. Shrewsbury was the chief place of an extensive and fertile district. The Court of the Marches of Wales was held there. In the language of the gentry, many miles around the Reakin, to go to Shrewsbury was to go to town. The provincial wits and beauties imitated, as well as they could, The fashions of St.

James's Park, in the walks along the side of the Severn. The inhabitants were about seven thousand.

The population of every one of these places has, since the Revolution, more than doubled. The population of some has multiplied sevenfold. The streets have been almost entirely rebuilt. Slate has succeeded to thatch. and brick to timber. The pavements and the lamps, the display of wealth in the principal shops, and the luxurious neatness of the dwellings occupied by the gentry would, in the seventeenth century, have seemed miraculous. Yet is the relative importance of the old capitals of counties by no means what it was. Younger towns, Towns which are rarely or never mentioned in our early history, and which sent no representatives to our early parliaments, have, within the memory of persons still living, grown to a greatness which this generation contemplates with wonder and pride, not unaccompanied by awe and anxiety.

The most eminent of these towns were indeed known in the seventeenth century as respectable seats of industry. Nay, their rapid progress and their vast opulence were then sometimes described in language which seems ludicrous to a man who has seen their present grandeur. One of the most populous and prosperous among them was Manchester. Manchester had been required by the protector to send one representative to his parliament, and was mentioned by writers of the time of Charles II as a busy and opulent place. Cotton had, during half a century, been brought thither from Cyprus and Smyrna, but the manufacture was in its infancy. Whitney had not yet taught how the raw material might be furnished in quantities almost fabulous.

Arkwright had not yet taught how it might be worked up, with a speed and precision which seem magical. The whole annual import did not, at the end of the seventeenth century, amount to two millions of pounds, a quantity which would now hardly supply the demand of forty-eight hours. That wonderful emporium, which in population and wealth far surpassed capitals so much renowned as Berlin, Madrid, and Lisbon, was then a mean and ill-built market-town containing under six thousand people. It then had not a single press. It now supports a hundred printing establishments. It then had not a single coach. It now supports twenty coach-makers.

Leeds was already the chief seat of the woollen manufactures of Yorkshire, But the elderly inhabitants could still remember the time when the first brick house, then and long after called the Red House, was built. They boasted loudly of their increasing wealth, and of the immense sales of cloth which took place in the open air on the bridge. Hundreds, nay, thousands of pounds had been paid down in the course of one busy market-day, The rising importance of Leeds had attracted the notice of successive governments. Charles I had granted municipal privileges to the town. Oliver had invited it to send one member to the House of Commons. But from the returns of the hearth-money it seems certain that the whole population of the borough, an extensive district which contains many hamlets, did not, in the reign of Charles II, Exceed seven thousand souls.

In 1841 there were more than a hundred and fifty thousand.

About a day's journey south of Leeds, on the verge of a wild moorland tract, lay an ancient manor, now rich with cultivation, then barren and unenclosed, which was known by the name of Hallamshire. Iron abounded there, And from a very early period, the rude whittles fabricated there had been sold all over the kingdom. They had indeed been mentioned by Geoffrey Chaucer in one of his Canterbury Tales, but the manufacture appears to have made little progress during the three centuries which followed his time. This languor may perhaps be explained by the fact that the trade was, during almost the whole of this long period, Subject to such regulations as the Lord and his court feet thought fit to impose.

The more delicate kinds of cutlery were either made in the capital or brought from the continent. Indeed, it was not till the reign of George I that the English surgeons ceased to import from France those exquisitely fine blades which are required for operations on the human frame. Most of the Hallamshire forges were collected in a market-town, which had sprung up near the castle of the proprietor, and which, in the reign of James I, had been a singularly miserable place, containing about two thousand inhabitants, of whom a third were half-starved and half-naked beggars. It seems certain from the parochial registers that the population did not amount to four thousand at the time of the reign of Charles the second.

The effects of a species of toil singularly unfavourable to the health and vigour of the human frame were at once discerned by every traveller. A large proportion of the people had distorted limbs. This is that Sheffield which now, with its dependencies, contains a hundred and twenty thousand souls, and which sends forth its admirable knives, razors, and lancers to the farthest ends of the world. Birmingham had not been thought of sufficient importance to return a member to Oliver's Parliament. Yet the manufacturers of Birmingham were already a busy and thriving race. They boasted that their hardware was highly esteemed, Not indeed as now, at Pekin and Lima, at Bukkara and Timbuktu, but in London, and even as far off as Ireland.

They had acquired a less honourable renown as coiners of bad money. In allusion to their spurious groats, some Tory wit had fixed on demagogues who hypocritically affected zeal against popery, the nickname of Birmingham's, Yet in 1685 the population, which is now little less than two hundred thousand, did not amount to four thousand. Birmingham buttons were just beginning to be known. Of Birmingham guns nobody had yet heard. And the place whence, two generations later, the magnificent editions of Baskerville went forth to astonish all the librarians of Europe, did not contain a single regular shop where a Bible or an almanac could be bought.

On market days, a bookseller named Michael Johnson, the father of the great Samuel Johnson, came over from Litchfield and opened stall during a few hours. This supply of literature was long found equal to the demand.

These four chief seats of our great manufactures deserve especial mention. It would be tedious to enumerate all the populous and opulent hives of industry, which, a hundred and fifty years ago, were hamlets without parish churches, or desolate moors inhabited only by grouse and wild deer. Nor has the change been less signal in those outlets by which the products of the English looms and forges are poured forth over the whole world. At present Liverpool contains more than three hundred thousand inhabitants. The shipping registered at her port amounts to between four and five hundred thousand tons. Into her custom-house has been repeatedly paid in one year a sum more than thrice as great as the whole income of the English Crown in 1685.

The receipts of her post-office, even since the great reduction of the duty, exceed the sum which the postage of the whole kingdom yielded to the Duke of York.

Her endless docks, quays, and warehouses are among the wonders of the world. Yet even those docks and quays and warehouses seem hardly to suffice for the gigantic trade of the Mersey, and already a rival city is growing fast on the opposite shore. In the days of Charles II, Liverpool was described as a rising town which had recently made great advances, and which maintained a profitable intercourse with Ireland and with the sugar colonies. The customs had multiplied eightfold within sixteen years, and amounted to what was then considered as the immense sum of fifteen thousand pounds annually. But the population can hardly have exceeded four thousand. The shipping was about fourteen hundred tons, less than the tonnage of a single modern indiaman of the first class, and the whole number of seamen belonging to the port cannot be estimated at more than two hundred.

Such has been the progress of those towns where wealth is created and accumulated. Not less rapid has been the progress of towns of a very different kind, towns in which wealth, created and accumulated elsewhere, is expended for purposes of health and recreation. Some of the most remarkable of these gay places have sprung into existence since the time of the Stuarts. Cheltenham is now a greater city than any which the kingdom contained in the seventeenth century, London alone excepted. But in the seventeenth century, and at the beginning of the eighteenth, Cheltenham was mentioned by local historians merely as a rural parish lying under the Cotswold Hills, and affording good ground both for tillage and pasture.

Corn grew, and cattle browsed over the space now covered by that long succession of streets and villas. Brighton was described as a place which had once been thriving, which had possessed many small fishing-barks, and which had, when at the height of prosperity, contained above two thousand inhabitants, but which was sinking fast into decay.

The sea was gradually gaining on the buildings, which at length almost entirely disappeared. Ninety years ago, the ruins of an old fort were to be seen lying among the pebbles and seaweed on the beach. And ancient men could still point out the traces of foundations on a spot where a street of more than a hundred huts had been swallowed up by the waves. So desolate was the place after this calamity that the vicarage was thought scarcely worth having. A few poor fishermen, however, still continued to dry their nets on those cliffs, on which now a town, More than twice as large and populous as the Bristol of the Stuarts presents, mile after mile, its gay and fantastic front to the sea.

9 Vol 1, chapter 03, part 09 16:13

The History of England. From the Accession of James II by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book I. Chapter III. Part IX.

England, however, was not in the seventeenth century destitute of watering-places. The gentry of Derbyshire, and of the neighbouring counties, repaired to Buxton, where they were lodged in low rooms under bare rafters, and regaled with oat-cake and with a vian, which the hosts call mutton, but which the guests suspected to be dog. A single good house stood near the spring, Tunbridge Wells, lying within a day's journey of the capital, and in one of the richest and most highly civilised parts of the kingdom, at much greater attractions. At present we see there a town which would, a hundred and sixty years ago, have ranked in population fourth or fifth among the towns of Britain. The brilliancy of the shops and the luxury of the private dwellings far surpasses anything that England could then show.

When the court soon after the restoration visited Tunbridge Wells, There was no town, but within a mile of the spring rustic cottages, somewhat cleaner and neater than the ordinary cottages of that time, were scattered over the heath. Some of these cabins were movable, and were carried on sledges from part of the common to another. To these huts, men of fashion, wearied with the din and smoke of London, sometimes came in the summer to breathe fresh air, and to catch a glimpse of rural life. During the season, a kind of fair was daily held near the fountain. The wives and daughters of the Kentish farmers came from the neighboring villages with cream, cherries, whittiers, and quails. To chaffer with them, to flirt with them, to praise their straw hats and tight heels, was a refreshing pastime to volupturies sick of the airs of actresses and maids of honor.

Milliners, toymen, and jewelers came down from London and opened a bazaar under the trees. In one booth the politician might find his coffee and the London Gazette. In another were gamblers playing deep at Basset, and on fine evenings the fiddles were in attendance, and there were Morris dancers on the elastic turf of the bowling green. In 1685 a subscription had just been raised among those who frequented the wells for building a church. which the Tories, who then domineered everywhere, insist on dedicating to St. Charles the Martyr. But at the head of the English watering-places without a rival was Bath. The springs of that city had been renowned from the days of the Romans. It had been, during many centuries, the seat of a bishop.

The sick repaired thither from every part of the realm. The king sometimes held his court there. Nevertheless, Bath The death was then a maze of only four or five hundred houses, crowded within an old wall in the vicinity of the Avon. Pictures of what were considered as the finest of those houses are still extant, and greatly resemble the lowest rag-shops and pot-houses of Ratcliffe Highway. Travellers, indeed, complained loudly of the narrowness and meanness of the streets. That beautiful city Which charms even eyes familiar with the masterpieces of Bramant and Palladio, and which the genius of Anstey and of Smollett, and of Francis Burney and of Jane Austen, as made classic ground, had not begun to exist.

Milsom Street itself was an open field lying far beyond the walls, and hedgerows intersected the space which is now covered by the crescent and the circus. The poor patients, to whom the waters had been recommended, lay on straw in a place which, to use the language of a contemporary physician, was a covert rather than a lodging. As to the comforts and luxuries which were to be found in the interior of the houses of Bath by the fashionable visitors, who resorted thither in search of health or amusement, we possess information more complete and minute than can generally be obtained on such subjects. A writer who published an account of that city, about sixty years after the Revolution, has accurately described the changes which had taken place within his own recollection.

He assures us that, in his younger days, the gentlemen who visited the springs slept in rooms hardly as good as the garrets which he lived to see occupied by footmen. The floors of the dining-room were uncarpeted, and were coloured brown with a wash made of soot and small beer, in order to hide the dirt. Not a wainscot was painted, not a hearth, or a chimney-piece was of marble. A slab of common free stone and fire-irons, which had cost from three to four shillings, were thought sufficient for any fireplace. The best apartments were hung with coarse woollen stuff, and were furnished with rush-bottomed chairs. Readers who take an interest in the progress of civilization, and of the useful arts, will be grateful to the humble topographer who has recorded these facts, and will perhaps wish that historians of far higher pretensions had sometimes spared a few pages from military evolutions and political intrigues for the purpose of letting us know How the parlours and bedchambers of our ancestors looked.

The position of London, relatively to the other towns of the empire, was, in the time of Charles II, far higher than at present. For at present, the population of London is little more than six times the population of Manchester, or of Liverpool. In the days of Charles II, the population of London was more than seventeen times the population of Bristol, or of Norwich. It may be doubted whether any other instance can be mentioned of a great kingdom, in which the first city was more than seventeen times as large as the second. There is reason to believe that, in 1685, London had been, during about half a century, the most populous capital in Europe. The inhabitants, who are now at least nineteen hundred thousand, were then probably little more than half a million.

London had, in the world, only one commercial rival, now long ago outstripped the mighty and opulent Amsterdam. English writers boasted of the forests of masts and yard-arms which covered the river from the bridge to the tower, and of the stupendous sums which were collected at the Customs House in Thames Street. There is, indeed, no doubt, that the trade of the metropolis Then bore a far greater proportion than at present to the whole trade of the country. Yet to our generation the honest vaunting of our ancestors must appear almost ludicrous. The shipping, which they thought incredibly great, appears not to have exceeded seventy thousand tons. This was indeed, then, more than a third of the whole tonnage of the kingdom, but is now less than a fourth of the tonnage of Newcastle.

and is nearly equaled by the tonnage of the steam-vessels of the Thames. The customs of London amounted in 1685 to about three hundred and thirty thousand pounds a year. In our time, the net duty paid annually at the same place exceeds ten millions.

Whoever examines the maps of London which were published towards the close of the reign of Charles, the second, will see that only the nucleus of the present capital then existed. The town did not as now fade by imperceptible degrees into the country. No long avenues of villas, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, extended from the great centre of wealth and civilisation, almost to the boundaries of Middlesex, and far into the heart of Kent and Surrey. In the east, no part of the immense line of warehouses and artificial lakes, which now stretches from the tower to Blackwall, had even been projected. On the west, scarcely one of those stately piles of buildings, which are inhabited by the noble and wealthy, was in existence.

And Chelsea, which is now a people by more than forty thousand human beings, was a quiet country village, with about a thousand inhabitants. On the north, cattle fed, and sportsmen wandered with dogs and guns over the site of the borough of Marylebone, and over far the greater of the space now covered by the boroughs of Finsbury and of the Tower Hamlets. Islington was almost a solitude, and poets loved to contrast its silence and repose with din and turmoil of the monster London. On the south, the capital is now connected with its suburb by several bridges, not inferior in magnificence and solidity to the noblest works of the Caesars. In 1685, a single line of irregular arches, overhung by piles of mean and crazy houses, and garnished after a fashion worthy of the naked barbarians of Dahomey, with scores of mouldering heads, impeded the navigation of the river.

Of the metropolis, the city, properly so called, was the most important division. At the time of the restoration it had been built, the most part, of wood and plaster. The few bricks that were used were ill-baked. The booths where goods were exposed to sale projected far into the streets, and were overhung by the upper stories. Few specimens of this architecture may still be seen, In those districts which were not reached by the great fire. That fire had, in a few days, covered a space of little less than a square mile, with the ruins of eighty-nine churches, and of thirteen thousand houses. But the city had risen again, with a celerity which had excited the admiration of neighbouring countries.

Unfortunately, the old lines of the streets had been to a greater extent preserved, and those lines, originally traced in an age where even princes performed their journeys on horseback, were often too narrow to allow wheeled carriages to pass each other with ease, and were therefore ill-adapted for the residence of wealthy persons, in an age when a coach and six was a fashionable luxury. The style of building was, however, far superior to that of the city which had perished. The ordinary material was brick, of much better quality than had been formerly used. On the sites of the ancient parish churches had arisen a multitude of new domes, towers, and spires, which bore the mark of the fertile genius of Wren.

In every place, save one, the traces of the great devastation had been completely effaced. But the crowds of workmen, the scaffolds, and the masses of hewn stone were still to be seen where the noblest of Protestant temples were slowly rising on the ruins of the old cathedral of St. Paul. The whole character of the city has, since that time, undergone a complete change. At present, the bankers, the merchants, and the chief shop-capers, repair thither on six mornings of every week for the transaction of business, But they reside in other quarters of the metropolis, or at suburban country seats surrounded by shrubberies and flower-gardens. This revolution in private habits has produced a political revolution of no small importance.

The city is no longer regarded by the wealthiest traders with that attachment which every man naturally feels for his home. It is no longer associated in their minds with domestic affections and endearments. The fireside, the nursery, the social table, the quiet bed, are not there. Lombard Street and Threadneedle Street are merely places where men toil and accumulate. They go elsewhere to enjoy and to expend, on a Sunday, or in an evening, after the hours of business, some courts and alleys which a few hours before have been alive with hurrying feet and anxious faces, are as silent as the glades of a forest. The chiefs of the mercantile interest are no longer citizens. They avoid, they almost contemn, municipal honours and duties.

Those honours and duties are abandoned to men who, though useful and highly respectable, seldom belong to the princely commercial houses of which the names are renowned throughout the world. In the seventeenth century, the city was the merchant's residence. Those mansions of the great old burghers, which still exist, have been turned into counting-houses and warehouses. But it is evident that they were originally not inferior in magnificence to the dwellings which were then inhabited by the nobility. They sometimes stand in retired and gloomy courts, and are accessible only by inconvenient passages, but their dimensions are ample, and their aspect stately. The entrances are decorated with richly carved pillars and canopies.

The staircases and landing-places are not wanting in grandeur. The floors are sometimes of wood, tessellated after the fashion of France. The palace of Sir Robert Clayton in the old Jewry, Contained a superb banqueting-room, wainscoted with cedar, and adorned with battles of gods and giants in fresco. Sir Dudley North expended four thousand pounds, a sum which would then have been important to a duke, on the rich furniture of his reception-rooms in Basinghall Street. In such abodes, under the last Stuarts, the heads of the great firms lived splendidly and hospitably. To their dwelling-place they were bound by the strongest ties of interest and affection. There they had passed their youth, had made their friendships, had courted their wives, had seen their children grow up, had laid the remains of their parents in the earth, and expected that their own remains would be laid.

That intense patriotism, which is peculiar to the members of societies congregated within a narrow space, was, in such circumstances, strongly developed. London was to the Londoner what Athens was to the Athenian of the age of Pericles, what Florence was to the Florentine of the fifteenth century. The citizen was proud of the grandeur of his city, punctilious about her claim to respect, ambitious of her officers, and zealous for her franchises.

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The History of England, from the accession of James II, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three, Part Ten.

At the close of the reign of Charles, the pride of the Londoners was smarting from a cruel mortification. The old charter had been taken away, and the magistracy had been remodelled. All the civic functionaries were Tories, and the Whigs, though in numbers and in wealth superior to their opponents, found themselves excluded from every local dignity. Nevertheless, The external splendor of the municipal government was not diminished, nay, was rather increased by this change. For under the administration of some Puritans who had lately borne rule, the ancient fame of the city for good cheer had declined. But under the new magistrates, who belonged to a more festive party, and at whose boards guests of rank and fashion from beyond Temple Bar were often seen, Guildhall and the halls of the great companies were enlivened by many sumptuous banquets.

During these repasts, odes composed by the poet laureate of the corporation, in praise of the king, the duke, and the mayor, were sung to music. The drinking was deep, and the shouting loud. An observant Tory, who had often shared in these revels, has remarked that the practice of huzzahing after drinking healths dates from this joyous period. The magnificence displayed by the first civic magistrate was almost regal. The gilded coach, indeed which is now annually admired by the crowd, was not yet a part of his state. On great occasions he appeared on horseback, attended by a long cavalcade, inferior in magnificence only to that which before a coronation escorted the sovereign from the tower, to Westminster.

The Lord Mayor was never seen in public without his rich robe, his hood of black velvet, his gold chain, his jewel, and a great attendance of harbingers and guards. Nor did the world find anything ludicrous in the pomp which constantly surrounded him, for it was not more than became the place which, as wielding the strength and representing the dignity of the City of London, he was entitled to occupy in the State. That city being then not only without equal in the country, but without second, had during five-and-forty years exercised almost as great an influence on the politics of England as Paris has, in our own time, exercised on the politics of France. In intelligence, London was greatly in advance of every other part of the kingdom.

A government supported and trusted by London could in a day obtain such pecuniary means as it would have taken months to collect from the rest of the island. Nor were the military resources of the capital to be despised. The power which the Lord-Lieutenants exercised in other parts of the kingdom was in London entrusted to a commission of eminent citizens. Under the order of this commission were twelve regiments of foot and two regiments of horse. An army of drapers-apprentices and journeymen-tailors, with common councilmen for captains and aldermen for colonels, might not, indeed, have been able to stand its ground against regular troops, but there were then very few regular troops in the kingdom.

A town, therefore, which could send forth at an hour's notice thousands of men, abounding in natural courage, provided with Tolerable weapons, and not altogether untinctured with martial discipline, could not but be a valuable ally and a formidable enemy. It was not forgotten that Hampden and Pym had been protected from lawless tyranny by the London trainbands, that, in the great crisis of the Civil War, the London trainbands had marched to raise the siege of Gloucester, Or that, in the movement against the military tyrants which followed the downwall of Richard Cromwell, the London train bands had borne a signal part. In truth, it is no exaggeration to say that but for the hostility of the city, Charles I would never have been vanquished, and that without the help of the city, Charles II could scarcely have been restored.

These considerations May serve to explain why, in spite of that attraction which had, during a long course of years, gradually drawn the aristocracy westward, a few men of high rank had continued, till a very recent period, to dwell in the vicinity of the Exchange and of the Guildhall. Shaftesbury and Buckingham, while engaged in bitter and unscrupulous opposition to the government, had thought that they could nowhere carry on their intrigues so conveniently or so securely as under the protection of the city magistrates and the city militia. Shaftesbury had therefore lived in Aldersgate Street, at a house which may still be easily known by pilasters and wreaths, the graceful work of Inigo. Buckingham had ordered his mansion near Charing Cross, once the abode of the Archbishops of York, to be pulled down, and while streets and alleys, which are still named after him, were rising on that site, chose to reside in Dowgate.

These, however, were rare exceptions. Almost all the noble families of England had long migrated beyond the walls. The district where most of their townhouses stood lies between the city and the regions which are now considered as fashionable. A few great men still retain their hereditary hotels in the Strand, the stately dwellings on the south and west of Lincoln's inn fields. The piazza of Covent Garden, Southampton Square, which is now called Bloomsbury Square, and King Square in Soho Fields, which is now called Soho Square, were among the favorite spots. Foreign Princes were carried to see Bloomsbury Square as one of the wonders of England. Soho Square, which had just been built, was to our ancestors a subject of pride, with which their posterity will hardly sympathize.

Monmouth Square had been the name while the fortunes of the Duke of Monmouth flourished, and on the southern side towered his mansion. The front, though ungraceful, was lofty and richly adorned. The walls of the principal apartments were finely sculptured with fruit, foliage, and armorial bearings, and were hung with embroidered satin. Every trace of this magnificence has long since disappeared. And no aristocratical mansion is to be found in that once aristocratical quarter. A little way north from Holborn, and on the verge of pastures and cornfields, rose two celebrated palaces, each with an ample garden. One of them, then called Southampton House, and subsequently Bedford House, was removed about fifty years ago to make room for a new city, which now covers with its squares, streets, and churches a vast area renowned in the seventeenth century for peaches and snipes.

The other Montague house, celebrated for its frescoes and furniture, was, for a few months after the death of Charles II, burned to the ground, and was speedily succeeded by a more magnificent Montague house. which, having been long the repository of such various and precious treasures of art, science, and learning, as were scarcely ever before assembled under a single roof, has now given place to an edifice more magnificent still. Nearer to the court, on a space called St. James's Fields, had just been built St. James's Square and German Street. St. James's Church, had recently been opened for the accommodation of the inhabitants of this new quarter. Golden Square, which was in the next generation inhabited by lords and ministers of state, had not yet been begun.

Indeed, the only dwellings to be seen on the north of Piccadilly were three or four isolated and almost rural mansions, of which the most celebrated was the costly pile erected by Clarendon, and nicknamed Dunkirk House. It had been purchased, after its founder's downfall, by the Duke of Albemarle. Clarendon Hotel and Albemarle Street still preserved the memory of the site.

He who then rambled to what is now the gayest and most crowded part of Regent Street found himself in a solitude, and was sometimes so fortunate as to have a shot at a woodcock. On the north the Oxford Road ran between hedges, Three or four hundred yards to the south were the garden walls of a few great houses, which were considered as quite out of town. On the west was a meadow renowned for a spring, from which long afterwards Conduit Street was named. On the east was a field, not to be passed without a shudder by any Londoner of that age. There, as in a place far from the haunts of men had been dug twenty years before, When the great plague was raging, a pit into which the dead carts had nightly shot corpses by scores, it was popularly believed that the earth was deeply tainted with infection, and could not be disturbed without imminent risk to human life.

No foundations were laid there till two generations had passed, without any return of the pestilence, until the ghastly spot had long been surrounded by buildings. We should greatly err if we were to suppose that any of the streets and squares then bore the same aspect as at present. The great majority of the houses, indeed, have, since that time, been wholly, or in great part, rebuilt. If the most fashionable parts of the capital could be placed before us, such as they then were, we should be disgusted by their squalid appearance, and poisoned by their noisome atmosphere. In Covent Garden, filthy and noisy market, was held close to the dwellings of the Great. Fruitwomen screamed Carter's Fort.

Cabbage-stalks and rotten apples accumulated in heaps at the thresholds of the Countess of Berkshire and of the Bishop of Derham. The center of Lincoln's Inn Fields was an open space, where the rabble congregated every evening, within a few yards of Cardigan House and Winchester House. To hear Mountiebanks harangue, to see bears dance, to see dogs a tocsin. Rubbish was shot in every part of the area. Horses were exercised there. The beggars were as noisy and importunate as in the worst governed cities of the continent. A Lincoln's Inn, Mumpo was a proverb. The whole fraternity knew the arms and liveries of every charitably disposed grandee in the neighborhood. And as soon as his lordship's coach and six appeared, came hopping and crawling in crowds to persecute him.

These disorders lasted in spite of many accidents, and of some legal proceedings. Till in the reign of George, the second, Sir Joseph Jekyll, master of the rolls, was knocked down and nearly killed in the middle of the square. Then, at length, palisades were set up, and a pleasant garden laid out. St. James's Square was a receptacle for all the offal and cinders, for all the dead cats and dead dogs of Westminster. At one time a cudgel player kept the ring there, at another time an impudent squatter settled himself there, and built a shed for rubbish under the windows of the gilded saloons, in which the first magnates of the realm—norfolk, Ormond, Kent, and Pembroke—gave banquets and balls. It was not till these nuisances had lasted through a whole generation, and till much had been written about them, that the inhabitants applied to Parliament for permission to put up rails and to plant trees.

When such was the state of the region inhabited by the most luxurious portion of society, we may easily believe that the great body of the population suffered what would now be considered as insupportable grievances. The pavement was detestable. All foreigners cried shame upon it. The drainage was so bad that in rainy weather the gutters soon became torrents. Several facetious poets have commemorated the fury with which these black rivulets soar down Snow Hill and Ludgate Hill, bearing to Fleet Ditch a vast tribute of animal and vegetable filth from the stalls of butchers and greengrocers. This flood was profusely thrown to right and left by coaches and carts. To keep as far from the carriage road as possible was therefore the wish of every pedestrian.

The mild and timid gave the wall, the bold and athletic took it. If two roisterers met, they cocked their hats in each other's faces, and pushed each other about until the weaker was shoved toward the kennel. If he was a mere bully, he sneaked off. mattering that he should find a time. If he was pugnacious, the encounter probably ended in a duel behind Montague House. The houses were not numbered. There would indeed have been little advantage in numbering them, for of the coachmen, chairmen, porters, and errand-boys of London, a very small proportion could read. It was necessary to use marks which the most ignorant could understand. The shops were therefore distinguished by painted or sculptured signs, which gave a gay and grotesque aspect to the streets.

The walk from Charing Cross to Whitechapel lay through an endless succession of Saracen's Heads, Royal Oaks, Blue Bears, and Golden Lambs, which disappeared when they were no longer required for the direction of the common people. When the evening closed in, the difficulty and danger of walking about London became very serious indeed. The garret windows were opened, and pails were emptied with little regard to those who were passing below. Falls, bruises, and broken bones were of constant occurrence. For till the last year of the reign of Charles II, most of the streets were left in profound darkness. Thieves and robbers plied their trade with impunity, yet they were hardly so terrible to peaceful citizens as another class of ruffians.

It was a favorite amusement of dissolute young gentlemen to swagger by night about the town, breaking windows, upsetting sedans, beating quiet men, and offering rude caresses to pretty women. Several dynasties of these tyrants had, since the restoration, domineered over the streets. The Munns and Taitatus had given place to the Hectors, and the Hectors had been recently succeeded by the Scourers, At a later period arose the Nica, the Hoccubite, and the yet more dreaded name of Mohawk. The machinery for keeping the peace was utterly contemptible. There was an act of common counsel which provided that more than a thousand watchmen should be constantly on the alert in the city, from sunset to sunrise, and that every inhabitant should take his turn of duty.

But this act was negligently executed. Few of those who were summoned left their homes, and those few generally found it more agreeable to tipple in L-houses than to pace the streets. It ought to be noticed that in the last year of the reign of Charles II began a great change in the police of London, a change which has perhaps added as much to the happiness of the body of the people as revolutions of much greater fame, An ingenious projector named Edward Heming obtained letters pennant conveying to him, for a term of years, the exclusive right of lighting up London. He undertook, for a moderate consideration, to place a light before every tenth door, on moonless nights, from Michaelmas to Lady Day, and from six to twelve of the clock.

Those who now see the Capitol all the year round, From dusk to dawn, blazing with a splendor beside which the illuminations for La Hogue and Blenheim would have looked pale, may perhaps smile to think of Heming's lanterns, which glimmered feebly before One House in Ten during a small part of One Night in Three. But such was not the feeling of his contemporaries. His scheme was enthusiastically implauded, and furiously attacked. The friends of improvement extolled him as the greatest of all the benefactors of his city. What, they asked, were the boasted inventions of Archimedes when compared with the achievement of the man who had turned the nocturnal shades into noonday? In spite of these eloquent eulogies, the cause of darkness was not left undefended.

There were fools in that age who opposed the introduction What was called the New Light, as strenuously as fools in our age have opposed the introduction of vaccination and railroads, as strenuously as the fools of an age anterior to the dawn of history doubtless opposed the introduction of the plough and of alphabetical writing. Many years after the date of Heming's patent, there were extensive districts in which no lamp was seen. We may easily imagine What in such times must have been the state of the quarters of London, which were peopled by the outcasts of society? Among those quarters one had attained a scandalous preeminence. On the confines of the city and the temple had been founded, in the thirteenth century, a house of Carmelite friars, distinguished by their white hoods.

The precinct of this house had, before the reformation, been a sanctuary for criminals, and still retained the privilege of protecting debtors from arrest. Insolvents, consequently, were to be found in every dwelling, from cellar to garret. Of these a large proportion were knaves and libertines, and were followed to their asylum by women more abandoned than themselves. The civil power was unable to keep order, in a district swarming with such inhabitants, and thus whitefriars became the favorite resort of all who wished to be emancipated from the restraints of the law. Though the immunities legally belonging to the place, extended only to cases of debts, cheats, false witnesses, forgers, and highwaymen found refuge there.

For amidst a rabble so desperate, no peace officer's life was in safety. At the cry of rescue, bullies with swords and cudgels, and termagant hags with spits and broomsticks poured forth by hundreds, and the intruder was fortunate if he escaped back into Fleet Street, hustled, stripped, and pumped upon. Even the warrant of the Chief Justice of England could not be executed without the help of a company of musketeers. Such relics of the barbarism of the darkest ages were to be found within a short walk of the chambers where Summers was studying history and law, of the chapel where Tillotson was preaching, of the coffee-house where Dryden was passing judgment on poems and plays, and of the hall where the Royal Society was examining the astronomical system of Isaac Newton.

Each of the two cities, which made up the capital of England, had its own center of attraction. In the metropolis of commerce the point of convergence was the exchange, in the metropolis of fashion the palace. But the palace did not retain influence so long as the exchange. The revolution completely altered the relations between the court and the higher classes of society. It was by degrees discovered that the king, in his individual capacity, had very little to give, that coronets and garters, bishoprics and embassies, Lordships of the Treasury and Tellerships of the Exchequer, and even chargers in the royal stud and bedchamber, were really bestowed, not by him, but by his advisers. Every ambitious and covetous man perceived that he would consult his own interests far better by acquiring the dominion of a Cornish borough, and by rendering good service to the Ministry during a critical session, than by becoming the companion, or even the minion, of his prince.

It was therefore in the antechambers, not of George I and of George II, but of Walpole and of Pelham, that the daily crowd of courtiers were to be found. It is also to be remarked that the same revolution, which made it impossible that our kings should use the patronage of the state, merely for the purpose of gratifying their personal predilection, gave us several kings unfitted by their education and habits to be gracious and affable hosts. They had been born and bred on the continent. They never felt themselves at home in our island. If they spoke our language, they spoke it inelegantly and with effort. Our national character they never fully understood. Our national manners they hardly attempted to acquire.

The most important part of their duty They performed better than any ruler who preceded them, for they governed strictly according to law, but they could not be the first gentlemen of the realm. The heads of polite society, if ever they unbent, it was in a very small circle, where hardly an English face was to be seen, and they were never so happy as when they could escape for a summer to their native land. They had, indeed, their days of reception for our nobility and gentry, but the reception was a mere matter of form, and became at last as solemn a ceremony as a funeral. Not such was the court of Charles, the second. Whitehall, when he dwelt there, was the focus of political intrigue and of fashionable gaiety.

Half the jobbing and half the flirting of the metropolis went on under his roof. Whoever could make himself agreeable to the prince, or could secure the good offices of the mistress, might hope to rise in the world, without rendering any service to the government, without being even known by sight to any minister of state. This courtier got a frigate, and that a company, a third the pardon of a rich offender, a fourth the lease of crown land on easy terms. If the king notified his pleasure that a briefless lawyer should be made a judge, or that a libertine baronet should be made a peer, the gravest counsellors, after a little murmuring, submitted. Interest, therefore, drew a constant press of suitors to the gates of the palace, and those gates always stood wide.

The king kept open house every day and all day long for the good society of London, the extreme Whigs only excepted. Hardly any gentleman had any difficulty in making his way to the royal presence. The levee was exactly what the word imports. Some men of quality came every morning to stand round their master, to chat with him while his wig was combed and his cravat tied, and to accompany him in his early walk through the park. All persons who had been properly introduced might, without any special invitation, go to see him dine, sup, dance, and play at hazard, and might have the pleasure of hearing him tell stories, which indeed he told remarkably well, about his flight from Worcester, and about the misery which he had endured when he was a state prisoner in the hands of the canting, meddling preachers of Scotland.

By-standers, whom his majesty recognized, often came in for a courteous word. This proved a far more successful king-craft than any that his father Our grandfather had practised. Tis not easy for the most austere Republican of the school of Marvel to resist the fascination of so much good-humour and affability, and many a veteran cavalier, in whose heart the remembrance of unrequited sacrifices and services had been festering during twenty years, was compensated in one moment for wounds and sequestrations by his sovereign's kind nod, and— God bless you, my old friend. Whitehall, naturally, became the chief staple of news. Whenever there was a rumour that anything important had happened, or was about to happen, people hastened thither to obtain intelligence from the fountain-head.

The galleries presented the appearance of a modern club-room at an anxious time. They were full of people inquiring whether the Dutch mail was in, What tidings the express from France had brought, whether John Sobieski had beaten the Turks, whether the doge of Genoa was really at Paris. These were matters about which it was safe to talk aloud. But there were subjects concerning which information was asked, and given in whispers. Had Halifax got the better of Rochester? Was there to be a Parliament? Was the Duke of York really going to Scotland? Had Monmouth really been summoned from the Hague? Men tried to read the countenance of every minister as he went through the throng to and from the royal closet.

All sorts of auguries were drawn in from the tone in which His Majesty spoke to the Lord President, or from the laugh with which His Majesty honoured the jests of the Lord Privyseal. And in a few hours The hopes and fears inspired by such slight indication had spread to all the coffee-houses, from St. James's to the Tower. The coffee-house must not be dismissed with a cursory mention. It might indeed at that time have been not improperly called a most important political institution. No parliament had sat for years. The municipal council of the city had ceased to speak the sense of the citizens. Public meetings, harangues, resolutions, and the rest of the modern machinery of agitation had not yet come into fashion.

Nothing resembling the modern newspaper existed. In such circumstances, the coffee-houses were the chief organs through which the public opinion of the metropolis vented itself. The first of these establishments had been set up by a turkey-merchant who had acquired among the Mahometans A taste for their favorite beverage. The convenience of being able to make appointments in any part of the town, and of being able to pass evening socially at a very small charge, was so great that fashion spread fast. Every man of the upper or middle class went daily to his coffee-house to learn the news and to discuss it. Every coffee-house Had one or more orators, to whose eloquence the crowd listened with admiration, and who soon became, what the journalists of our time have been called, a fourth estate of the realm.

The court had long seen, with uneasiness, the growth of this new power in the state. An attempt had been made, during Danby's administration, to close the coffee-houses. But men of all parties missed their usual places of resort so much that there was a universal outcry. The government did not venture, in opposition to a feeling so strong and general, to enforce a regulation of which the legality might well be questioned. Since that time, ten years had elapsed, and during those years the number and influence of the coffee-houses had been constantly increasing. Foreigners remarked, That the coffee-house was that which especially distinguished London from all other cities, that the coffee-house was the Londoner's home, and that those who wished to find a gentleman commonly asked not whether he lived in Fleet Street or Chancery Lane, but whether he frequented the Grecian or the Rainbow.

Nobody was excluded from these places, who laid down his penny at the bar, Yet every rank and profession and every shade of religious and political opinion had its own headquarters. There were houses near St. James's Park, where fops congregated, the heads and shoulders covered with black or flaxen whigs, not less ample than those which are now worn by the Chancellor and by the Speaker of the House of Commons. The Whig came from Paris, So did the rest of the fine gentleman's ornaments, his embroidered coat, his fringed gloves, and the tassel which upheld his pantaloons. The conversation was in that dialect, which, long after it had ceased to be spoken in fashionable circles, continued in the mouth of Lord Foppington, to excite the mirth of theatres.

The atmosphere was like that of a perfumer's shop, tobacco in any other form than that of richly-scented snuff, was held in abomination. If any clown, ignorant of the uses of the house, called for a pipe, the sneers of the whole assembly, and the short answers of the waiters soon convinced him that he had better go somewhere else. Nor, indeed, would he have far to go. For, in general, the coffee-rooms reeked with tobacco, like a guard-room, and strangers sometimes expressed their surprise that so many people should leave their own firesides to sit in the midst of eternal fog and stench. Nowhere was the smoking more constant than at Wills, that celebrated house situated between Covent Garden and Rose Street, was sacred to political letters.

There the talk was about poetical justice and the unities of place and time. There was a fashion for Perrault and the Moderns, a faction for Boilieu and the Ancients, One group debated whether Paradise Lost ought not to have been in rhyme. To another, an envious bowtaster demonstrated that Venice Preserved ought to have been hooted from the stage. Under no roof was a greater variety of figures to be seen. There were earls in stars and garters, clergymen in cassocks and bands, pert Templars, sheepish lads from the universities, translators and index-makers in ragged coats of frieze. The great press was to get near the chair, where John Dryden sate. In winter that chair was always in the warmest nook by the fire.

In summer it stood in the balcony. To bow to the laureate and to hear his opinion of Racine's last tragedy, or of Bosser's treatise on epic poetry, was thought a privilege. Pinched from his snuff-box was an honor sufficient to turn the head of a young enthusiast. There were coffee-houses where the first medical men might be consulted. Dr. John Radcliffe, who, in the year 1685, rose to the largest practice in London, came daily at the hour when the exchange was full, from his house in Bow Street, then a fashionable part of the capital, to Garroway's, and was to be found, surrounded by surgeons and apothecaries, at a particular table. There were Puritan coffee-houses where no oath was heard, and where lank-haired men discussed election and reprobation through their noses.

Jew coffee-houses, where dark-eyed money-changers from Venice and Amsterdam greeted each other, and popish coffee-houses, where, as good Protestants believed, Jesuits planned over their cups another great fire and cast silver bullets to shoot the king. These gregarious habits had no small sharing forming the character of the Londoner of that age. He was, indeed, a different being from the rustic Englishman. There was not then the intercourse which now exists between the two classes. Only very great men were in the habit of dividing the year between town and country. Fewer squires came to the capital thrice in their lives. Nor was it yet the practice of all citizens, in easy circumstances, to breathe the fresh air of the fields and woods during some weeks of every summer.

A cockney in a rural village was stared at as much as if he had intruded into a kraal of hottentots. On the other hand, when the Lord of a Lincolnshire or Shropshire Manor appeared in Fleet Street, he was as easily distinguished from the resident population as a Turk or a Lascar, His dress, his gait, his accent, the manner in which he gazed at the shops, stumbled into the gutters, ran against the porters, and stood under the water-spouts, marked him out as an excellent subject for the operations of swindlers and barterers. Bullies jostled him into the kennel. Hackney-coachmen splashed him from head to foot. Thieves explored with perfect security the huge pockets of his horseman's coat. While he stood entranced by the splendour of the Lord Mayor's show, money-droppers saw from the cart's tail introduce themselves to him, and appear to him the most honest friendly gentleman that he had ever seen.

Painted women, the refuse of Lukner Lane and Weston Park, passed themselves on him for countesses and maids of honour. If he asked his way to St. James's, his informants sent him to Mile End. If he went into a shop, He was instantly deserved to be a fit purchaser of everything that nobody else would buy, of second-hand embroidery, copper rings, and watches that would not go. If he rambled into any fashionable coffee-house, he became a mark for the insolent derision of fops and the grave waggery of Templars. Enraged and mortified, he soon returned to his mansion. And there, in the homage of his tenants and the conversation of his boon companions, found consolation for the vexatious unhumiliations which he had undergone.

There he was once more a great man, and saw nothing above himself, except when at assizes he took his seat on the bench near the judge, or when, at the master of the militia, he saluted the Lord Lieutenant.

11 Vol 1, chapter 03, part 11 24:07

The History of England, from the Accession of James II, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three, Part Eleven. The chief cause which made the fusion of the different elements of society so imperfect was the extreme difficulty which our ancestors found in passing from place to place. Of all inventions, the alphabet and the printing press alone accepted these inventions, which a bridge distance have done most for the civilization of our species. Every improvement of the means of locomotion benefits mankind morally and intellectually. as well as materially, and not only facilitates the interchange of the various productions of nature and art, but tends to remove national and provincial antipathies, and to bind together all the branches of the great human family.

In the seventeenth century the inhabitants of London were, for almost every practical purpose, further from Reading than they now are from Edinburgh, and further from Edinburgh than they now are from Vienna. The subjects of Charles II were not, it is true, quite unacquainted with that principle which has, in our own time, produced an unprecedented revolution in human affairs, which has enabled navies to advance in face of wind and tide, and brigades of troops, attended by all their baggage and artillery, to traverse kingdoms at a pace equal to that of the fleetest racehorse. The Marquess of Worcester, had recently observed the expansive power of moisture rarefied by heat. After many experiments, he had succeeded in constructing a rude steam engine, which he called a fire-water work, and which he pronounced to be an admirable and most forcible instrument of propulsion.

But the Marquess was suspected to be a madman, and known to be a papist. His inventions, therefore, found no favourable reception. His fire-water work, Might, perhaps, furnish matter for conversation to meeting of the Royal Society, but was not applied to any practical purpose. There were no railways, except a few made of timber, on which coals were carried from the mouths of the Northumbrian pits to the banks of the Tyne. There was very little internal communication by water. Few attempts had been made to deepen and embank the natural streams, but with slender success. Hardly a single navigable canal had been even projected. The English of that day were in the habit of talking with mingled admiration and despair of the immense trench by which Louis the Fourteenth had made a junction between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.

They little thought that their country would, in the course of a few generations, be intersected, at the cost of private adventurers, by artificial rivers making up more than four times the length of the Thames, the Severn, and the Trent together. It was by the highways that both travellers and goods generally passed from place to place, and those highways appear to have been far worse than might have been expected from the degree of wealth and civilisation which the nation had even then attained. On the best lines of communication the ruts were deep, the descents precipitous, and the way often such as it was hardly possible to distinguish in the dusk from the unenclosed heath and fen which lay on both sides.

Ralph Falsbury, the antiquary, was in danger of losing his way on the great north road between Barnby Moor and Tuxford, and actually lost his way between Doncaster and York. Pepis and his wife, travelling in their own coach, Lost their way between Newbury and Reading. In the course of the same tour, they lost their way near Salisbury, and were in danger of having to pass the night on the plain. It was only in fine weather that the whole breadth of the road was available for wheeled vehicles. Often the mud lay deep on the right and the left, and only a narrow track of firm ground rose above the quagmire. At such times, obstructions and quarrels were frequent. And the path was sometimes blocked up during a long time by carriers, neither of whom would break the way.

It happened almost every day that coaches stuck fast, until a team of cattle could be procured from some neighbouring farm, to tug them out of the slough. But in bad seasons the travellers had to encounter inconveniences still more serious. Thalsby was in the habit of travelling between Leeds and the capital. has recorded in his diary such a series of perils and disasters as might suffice for a journey to the frozen ocean or to the desert of Sahara. On one occasion he learned that the floods were out between Ware and London, that passengers had to swim for their lives, that a Higgler had perished in the attempt to cross. In consequence of these tidings, he turned out of the high-road, and was conducted across some meadows, where it was necessary for him to ride to the saddle-skirts in water.

In the course of another journey, he narrowly escaped being swept away by an inundation of the Trent. He was afterwards detained at Stamford four days on account of the state of the roads, and then ventured to proceed only because fourteen members of the House of Commons, who were going up in a body to Parliament with guides and numerous attendants, took him into their company. On the roads of Derbyshire, travellers were in constant fear for their necks, and were frequently compelled to alight and lead their beasts. The great route through Wales to Holyhead was in such a state that in 1685 a viceroy going to Ireland was five hours in travelling fourteen miles from St. Assef to Conway. Between Conway and Beaumaris he was forced to walk a great part of the way, and his lady was carried in a litter.

His coach was, with much difficulty and by the help of many hands, brought after him entire. In general, carriages were taken to pieces at Conway, and borne on the shoulders of stout Welsh peasants to the Menai Straits. In some parts of Kent and Sussex, none but the strongest horses could, in winter, get through the bog, in which, at every step, they sank deep. The markets were often inaccessible during several months. It is said that the fruits of the earth will sometimes suffer to rot in one place, while in another place, Distant only a few miles, the supply fell far short of the demand. The wheeled carriages were, in this district, generally pulled by oxen. When Prince George of Denmark visited the stately mansion of Petworth, in wet weather, he was six hours in going nine miles, and it was necessary that a body of sturdy hinds should be on each side of his coach, in order to prop it.

Of the carriages which conveyed his retinue, several were upset and injured. A letter from one of his party has been preserved, and which the unfortunate courtier complains that during fourteen hours he never once alighted, except when his coach was overturned or stuck fast in the mud. One chief cause of the badness of the roads seems to have been the defective state of the law. Every parish was bound to repair the highways which passed through it. The peasantry were forced to give their gratuitous labor six days in the year. If this was not sufficient, hired labor was employed, and the expense was met by a parochial rate. The Terut connecting two great towns which have a large and thriving trade with each other Should be maintained at the cost of the rural population scattered between them is obviously unjust, and this injustice was peculiarly glaring.

In the case of the Great North Road, which traversed very poor and thinly inhabited districts, and joined very rich and populous districts. Indeed, it was not in the power of the parishes of Huntingdonshire to mend a highway worn by the constant traffic between the West Riding of Yorkshire, and London. Soon after the Restoration, this grievance attracted the notice of Parliament, and an Act, the first of our many Turnpike Acts, was passed, imposing a small toll on travellers and goods, for the purpose of keeping some parts of this important line of communication in good repair. This innovation, however, excited many murmurs, and the other great avenues to the capital were long left under the old system.

A change was at length effected, but not without much difficulty, for unjust and absurd taxation, to which men are accustomed, is often borne far more willingly than the most reasonable impost which is new. It was not till many toll-bars had been violently pulled down, till the troops had in many districts been forced to act against the people, and till much blood had been shed, that a good system was introduced. By slow degrees, reason triumphed over prejudice, and our island is now crossed in every direction by near thirty thousand miles of Turnpike Road. On the best highways, heavy articles were, in the time of Charles, the second, generally conveyed from place to place by stage wagons. In the straw of these vehicles nestled a crowd of passengers, who could not afford to travel by coach or on horseback, And who were prevented by infirmity, or by the weight of their luggage, from going on foot.

The expense of transmitting heavy goods in this way was enormous. From London to Birmingham the charge was seven pounds a tonne. From London to Exeter, twelve pounds a tonne. This was about fifteen pence a tonne for every mile. More by a third than was afterwards charged on turnpike roads. and fifteen times what is now demanded by railway companies. The cost of conveyance amounted to her prohibitory tax on many useful articles. Coal, in particular, was never seen except in the districts where it was produced, or in the districts to which it could be carried by sea, and was indeed always known in the south of England by the name of sea-coal. On by-roads, and generally throughout the country, north of York and west of Exeter, Goods were carried by long trains of pack-horses.

These strong and patient beasts, the breed of which is now extinct, were attended by a class of men, who seemed to have borne much resemblance to the Spanish muleteers. A traveller of humble condition often found it convenient to perform a journey mounted on a pack-saddle between two baskets, under the care of these hardy guides. The expense of this mode of conveyance was small, but the caravan moved at a foot's pace, and in winter the cold was often insupportable. The rich commonly travelled in their own carriages with at least four horses. Cotton, the facetious poet, attempted to go from London to the peak with a single pair, but found, at St. Albans, that the journey would be unsupportably tedious, and altered his plan.

The coach and six is in our time never seen, except as part of some pageant. The frequent mention, therefore, of such equipages in old books is likely to mislead us. We attribute to magnificence what was really the effect of a very disagreeable necessity. People in the time of Charles II travelled with six horses because with a smaller number there was great danger of sticking fast in the mire. Nor were even six horses always sufficient. Van Breux, in the succeeding generation, described with great humour the way in which a country gentleman, newly chosen a member of Parliament, went up to London. On that occasion, all the exertions of six beasts, two of which had been taken from the plough, could not save the family coach from being embedded in a quagmire.

Public carriages had recently been much improved. During the years which immediately followed the restoration, a diligence ran Between London and Oxford in two days. The passengers slept at Beaconsfield. At length in the spring of 1669, a great and daring innovation was attempted. It was announced that a vehicle described as the Flying Coach would perform the whole journey between sunrise and sunset. This spirited undertaking was solemnly considered and sanctioned by the heads of the University, and appears to have excited the same sort of interest which is excited in our own time by the opening of a new railway. The vice-chancellor, by a notice affixed in all public places, prescribed the hour and place of departure.

The success of the experiment was complete. At six in the morning the carriage began to move from before the ancient front of All Souls College, and at seven in the evening the adventurous gentleman who had run the first risk was safely deposited at their inn in London. The emulation of the sister university was moved, and soon a diligence was set up, which in one day carried passengers from Cambridge to the capital. At the close of the reign of Charles II, flying carriages ran thrice a week from London to the chief towns, but no stage-coach. Indeed, no stage-waggon appears to have proceeded further north than York, or further west than Exeter. The ordinary day's journey of a flying coach was about fifty miles in the summer, but in winter, when the ways were bad and the nights long, little more than thirty.

The Chester coach, the York coach, and the Exeter coach generally reached London in four days during the fine season, but at Christmas, not till the sixth day. The passengers, six in number, were all seated in the carriage, for accidents were so frequent that it would have been most perilous to mount the roof. The ordinary fare was about tumpens'-hapenny a mile in summer, and somewhat more in winter. This mode of travelling, which by Englishmen of the present day would be regarded as insufferably slow, seemed to our ancestors wonderfully and indeed alarmingly rapid. In a work published a few months before the death of Charles II, the flying coaches are extolled as far superior to any similar vehicles ever known in the world.

Their velocity is the subject of special commendation, and is triumphantly contrasted with the sluggish pace of the continental posts. But with boasts like these was mingled the sound of complaint and invective. The interests of large classes had been unfavourably affected by the establishment of the new diligencers, and, as usual, many persons were, from mere stupidity and obstinacy, Disposed to clamour against the innovation, simply because it was an innovation. It was vehemently argued that this mode of conveyance would be fatal to the breed of horses, and to the noble art of horsemanship, that the Thames, which had long been an important nursery of seamen, would cease to be the chief thoroughfare from London up to Windsor, and down to Gravesend, that saddlers and spurriers would be ruined by hundreds, That numerous inns at which mounted travellers have been in the habit of stopping would be deserted, and would no longer pay any rent.

That the new carriages were too hot in summer and too cold in winter. That the passengers were grievously annoyed by invalids and crying children. That the coach sometimes reached the inn so late that it was impossible to get supper, and sometimes started so early that it was impossible to get breakfast. On these grounds, it was gravely recommended that no public coach should be permitted to have more than four horses, to start oftener than once a week, or to go more than thirty miles a day. It was hoped that if this regulation were adapted, all except the sick and the lame would return to the old mode of travelling. Petitions embodying such opinions as these were presented to the King in Council, from several companies of the City of London, from several provincial towns, and from the justice of several counties.

We smile at these things. It is not impossible that our descendants, when they read the history of the opposition, offered by cupidity and prejudice to the improvements of the nineteenth century, may smile in their turn. In spite of the attractions of the flying coaches, it was still unusual for men who enjoyed health and vigor, and who were not encumbered by much baggage, to perform long journeys on horseback, If the traveller wished to move expeditiously, he rode post. Fresh saddle-horses and guides were to be procured at convenient distances along all the great lines of road. The charge was threepence a mile for each horse, and fourpence a stage for the guide. In this manner, when the ways were good, it was possible to travel for a considerable time as rapidly as by any conveyance known in England.

Till vehicles were propelled by steam. There was as yet no post-chaise, nor could those who rode in their own coaches ordinarily procure a change of horses. The king, however, and the great officers of state were able to command relays. Thus Charles commonly went in one day from Whitehall to Newmarket, a distance of about fifty-five miles, through a level country. and this was thought by his subjects a proof of great activity. Evelyn performed the same journey in company with the Lord Treasurer, Clifford. The coach was drawn by six horses, which were changed at Bishop Stortford and again at Chesterford. The travellers reached Newmarket at night. Such a mode of conveyance seems to have been considered as a rare luxury, confined to princes and ministers.

Whatever might be the way in which a journey was performed, The travellers, unless they were numerous and well armed, ran considerable risk of being stopped and plundered. The mounted highwayman, a marauder known to our generation only from books, was to be found on every main road. The waste tracks which lay on the great routes near London were especially haunted by plunderers of this class. Hounslow Heath on the Great Western Road, and Finchley Common on the Great Northern Road, were perhaps the most celebrated of these spots. The Cambridge scholars trembled when they approached Epping Forest, even in broad daylight. Seamen, who had just been paid off at Chatham, were often compelled to deliver their purses on Gad's Hill.

Celebrated near a hundred years earlier by the greatest of poets as the scene of the depredations of Falstaff. The public authorities, seemed to have been often at a loss how to deal with the plunderers. At one time it was announced in the Gazette that several persons, who were strongly suspected of being highwaymen, but against whom there was not sufficient evidence, would be paraded at Newgate in riding-dresses. Their horses would also be shown, and all gentlemen who had been robbed were invited to inspect this singular exhibition.

On another occasion, A pardon was publicly offered to a robber if he would give up some rough diamonds of immense value which he had taken when he stopped the Harwich mail. A short time after appeared another proclamation, warning the innkeepers that the eye of the government was upon them. Their criminal connivance, it was affirmed, enabled Banditti to infest the roads with impunity. That these suspicions were not without foundation is proved by the dying speeches of some penitent robbers of that age, who appear to have received much from the innkeeper's services, much resembling those which Farquhar's Boniface rendered to Gibbet. It was necessary, to the success and even to the safety of the highwaymen, that he should be a bold and skilful rider, and that his manners and appearance should be such as suited the master of a fine horse.

He therefore held an aristocratical position in the community of thieves, appeared at fashionable coffee-houses and gaming-houses, and bettered with men of quality on the race-ground. Sometimes, indeed, he was a man of good family and education. A romantic interest therefore attached, and perhaps still attaches, to the names of freebooters of this class. The vulgar eagerly drank in tales of their ferocity and audacity, of their occasional acts of generosity and good-nature, of their amours, of their miraculous escapes, of their desperate struggles, and of their manly-bearing at the bar and in the cart. Thus it was related of William Nevison, the great robber of Yorkshire, that he levied a quarterly tribute on all the northern drovers, and in return not only spared them himself, but protected them against all other thieves.

That he demanded Perses in this most courteous manner, that he gave largely to the poor what he had taken from the rich, that his life was once spared by the royal clemency, but that he again tempted his fate, and at length died, in 1685, on the gallows of York. It was related how Claude Duval, The French page of the Duke of Richmond, took to the road, became captain of a formidable gang, and had the honor to be named first in a royal proclamation against notorious offenders. How, at the head of his troop, he stopped a lady's coach, in which there was a booty of four hundred pounds. How he took only one hundred, and suffered the fair owner to ransom the rest by dancing a caranto with him on the heath.

How his vivacious gallantry stole away the hearts of all women! How his dexterity at sword and pistol made him a terror to all men! How, at length, in the year, he was seized when overcome by wine! How dames of high rank visited him in prison, and with tears interceded for his life! How the king would have granted a pardon, but for the interference of Judge Morton! The terror of highwaymen, who threatened to resign his office unless the law were carried into full effect, and how after the execution the corpse lay in state, with all the pomp of scutcheons, wax-lights, black hangings, and mutes, till the same cruel judge, who had intercepted the mercy of the crown, sent officers to disturb the obsequies.

In these anecdotes there is doubtless a large mixture of fable. But they are not on that account unworthy of being recorded, for it is both an authentic and an important fact that such tales, whether false or true, were heard by our ancestors with eagerness and faith.

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The History of England from the Accession of James, the Second by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three, Part Twelve. All the various dangers by which the traveller was beset, were greatly increased by darkness. He was, therefore, commonly desirous of having the shelter of a roof during the night, and such shelter it was not difficult to obtain. From a very early period the inns of England had been renowned. Our first great poet had described the excellent accommodation which they afforded to the pilgrims of the fourteenth century. Nine-and-twenty persons, with their horses, found room in the wide chambers and stables of the Tabard in Southwark. The food was of the best, and the wines, such as drew the company on to drink largely.

Two hundred years later, under the reign of Elizabeth, William Harrison gave a lively description of the plenty and comfort of the great hostelries. The continent of Europe, he said, could show nothing like them. There were some in which two or three hundred people, with their horses, could without difficulty be lodged and fed. The bedding, the tapestry, above all, the abundance of clean and fine linen, was matter of wonder. Valuable plate was often set on the tables. Nay, there were signs which had cost thirty or forty pounds. In the seventeenth century England abounded with excellent inns of every rank. The traveller sometimes in a small village lighted on a public house such as Walton has described, where the brick floor was swept clean, where the walls were stuck round with ballads, where the sheets smelt of lavender, and where a blazing fire, a cup of good ale, a dish of trouts fresh from the neighbouring brook, were to be procured at small charge.

At the larger houses of entertainment were to be found beds hung with silk, Choice cookery, and claret equal to the best which was drunk in London. The innkeepers, too, it was said, were not like other innkeepers. On the continent, the landlord was the tyrant of those who crossed the threshold. In England, he was a servant. Never was an Englishman more at home than when he took his ease in his inn. Even men of fortune, who might in their own mansions have enjoyed every luxury, were often in the habit of passing their evenings in the parlour of some neighbouring house of public entertainment. They seemed to have thought that comfort and freedom could in no other place be enjoyed with equal perfection.

This feeling continued, during many generations, to be a national peculiarity. The liberty and jollity of inns long furnished matter to our novelists and dramatists. Johnson declared that a tavern chair was the throne of human felicity, and Shenston gently complained that no private roof, however friendly, gave the wanderer so warm a welcome as that which was to be found at an inn. Many conveniences which were unknown at Hampton Court and Whitehall in the seventeenth century are in all modern hotels. Yet on the whole it is certain that the improvement of our houses of public entertainment has by no means kept pace with the improvement of our roads and of our conveyances. Nor is this strange, for it is evident that all other circumstances being supposed equal, the inns will be best where the means of locomotion are worst.

The quicker the rate of travelling, the less important is it that there should be numerous agreeable resting-places for the traveller. A hundred and sixty years ago, a person who came up to the capital from a remote county generally required by the way twelve or fifteen meals and lodging for five or six nights. If he were a great man, he expected the meals and lodging to be comfortable and even luxurious. At present, we fly from York or Exeter to London by the light of a single winter's day. At present, therefore, A traveler seldom interrupts his journey merely for the sake of rest and refreshment. The consequence is that hundreds of excellent inns have fallen into utter decay, and in a short time no good houses of that description will be found, except at places where strangers are likely to be detained by business or pleasure.

The mode in which correspondence was carried on between distant places may excite the scorn of the present generation. Yet it was such as might have moved the admiration and envy of the polished nations of antiquity, or of the contemporaries of Raleigh and Cecil. A rude and imperfect establishment of posts for the conveyance of letters had been set up by Charles I, and had been swept away by the Civil War. Under the Commonwealth, the design was resumed. At the restoration, the proceeds of the post-office, after all expenses had been paid, were settled on the Duke of York. On most lines of road, the mails went out and came in only on the alternate days. In Cornwall, in the fens of Lincolnshire, and among the hills and lakes of Cumberland, letters were received only once a week.

During a royal progress, a daily post was dispatched from the capital to the place where the courts adjourned. There was also daily communication between London and the Downs, and the same privilege was sometimes extended to Tunbridge Wells and Bath at the seasons when those places were crowded by the Great. The bags were carried on horseback day and night at the rate of about five miles an hour. The revenue of this establishment was not derived solely from the charge for the transmission of letters. The post office alone was entitled to furnish post-horses, And from the care with which this monopoly was guarded, we may infer that it was found profitable. If, indeed, a traveller had waited half an hour without being supplied, he might hire a horse wherever he could.

To facilitate correspondence between one part of London and another was not originally one of the objects of the post office, but, in the reign of Charles, the second, an enterprising citizen of London, William Dockray, set up at great expense, a penny post, which delivered letters and parcels six or eight times a day in the busy and crowded streets near the Exchange, and four times a day in the outskirts of the capital. This improvement was, as usual, strenuously resisted. The porters complained that their interests were attacked, and tore down the placards in which the scheme was announced to the public. The excitement caused by Godfrey's death, and by the discovery of Coleman's papers, was then at the height.

A cry was therefore raised that the penny post was a popish contrivance. The great Dr. Oates, it was affirmed, had hinted a suspicion that the Jesuits were at the bottom of the scheme, and that the bags, if examined, would be found full of treason. The utility of the enterprise was however so great and obvious that all opposition proved fruitless. As soon as it became clear that the speculation would be lucrative, The Duke of York complained of it as an infraction of his monopoly, and the courts of law decided in his favour. The revenue of the post-office was, from the first, constantly increasing. In the year of the Restoration, a committee of the House of Commons, after strict inquiry, had estimated the net receipt at about twenty thousand pounds.

At the close of the reign of Charles, the second, The net receipt was a little short of fifty thousand pounds, and this was then thought a stupendous sum. The grocery-seat was about seventy thousand pounds. The charge for conveying a single letter was twopence for eighty miles, and threepence for a longer distance. The postage increased in proportion to the weight of the packet. At present, a single letter is carried to the extremity of Scotland, or of Ireland, for a penny. The monopoly of post-horses has long ceased to exist. Yet the gross annual receipts of the department amount to more than eighteen hundred thousand pounds, and the net receipts to more than seven hundred thousand pounds. It is, therefore, scarcely possible to doubt that the number of letters now conveyed by mail is seventy times the number which was so conveyed at the time of the accession of James, the second.

No part of the load which the old mills carried out was more important than the newsletters. In 1685, nothing like the London Daily Paper of our time existed, or could exist. Neither the necessary capital nor the necessary skill was to be found. Freedom, too, was wanting, a want as fatal as that of either capital or skill. The press was not indeed at that moment under a general censorship. The Licensing Act, which had been passed soon after the Restoration, had expired in 1670. Any person might therefore print, at his own risk, a history, a sermon, or a poem, without the previous approbation of any officer. But the judges were unanimously of opinion that this liberty did not extend to gazettes, and that by the common law of England, no man, not authorized by the Crown, had a right to publish political news.

While the Whig Party was still formidable, the government thought it expedient occasionally to connive up the violation of this rule. During the great battle of the Exclusion Bill, many newspapers were suffered to appear. The Protestant Intelligence, the Current Intelligence, the Domestic Intelligence, the True News, the London Mercury—none of these was published oftener than twice a week. None exceeded in size a single small leaf. The quantity of matter which one of them contained in a year was not more than is often found in two numbers of the times. After the defeat of the Whigs, it was no longer necessary for the king to be sparing in the use of that which all his judges had pronounced to be his undoubted prerogative.

At the close of his reign, no newspaper was suffered to appear without his allowance, and his allowance was given exclusively to the London Gazette. The London Gazette came out only on Mondays and Thursdays. The contents, generally, were a royal proclamation, two or three Tory addresses, notices of two or three promotions, an account of a skirmish between the Imperial troops and the Janissaries on the Danube, a description of a highwayman, an announcement of a grand cockfight between two persons of honour, and an advertisement offering a reward for a stray dog. The whole made up two pages of moderate size. Whatever was communicated, respecting matters of the highest moment, was communicated in the most meagre and formal style.

Sometimes, indeed, when the government was disposed to gratify the public curiosity, respecting an important transaction, a broadside was put forth giving fuller details than could be found in the Gazette. But neither the Gazette, nor any supplementary broadside printed by authority ever contained any intelligence which it did not suit the purposes of the court to publish. The most important parliamentary debates, the most important state trials recorded in our history, were passed over in profound silence. In the capital, the coffee-houses supplied in some measure the place of a journal. Thither the Londoners flocked, As the Athenians of old flocked to the market-place, to hear whether there was any news.

There, men might learn how brutally a Whig had been treated the day before, in Westminster Hall, what horrible accounts the letters from Edinburgh gave of the torturing of covenanters, how grossly the Navy Board had cheated the Crown in the vituling of the Fleet, and what grave charges the Lord Privyseal had brought against the Treasury in the matter of hearth-money. But people who lived at a distance from the great theatre of political contention could be kept regularly informed of what was passing there only by means of newsletters. To prepare such letters became a calling in London, as it now is among the natives of India. The news-writer rambled from coffee-room to coffee-room, collecting reports, squeezed himself into the Sessions House at the Old Bailey if there was an interesting trial, Nay, perhaps, obtained admission to the gallery of Whitehall, and noticed how the king and duke looked.

In this way he gathered materials for weekly epistles, designed to enlighten some county town or some bench of rustic magistrates. Such were the sources from which the inhabitants of the largest provincial cities and the great body of the gentry and clergy learned almost all that they knew of the history of their own time. We must suppose That at Cambridge there were as many persons curious to know what was passing in the world as at almost any place in the kingdom out of London. Yet at Cambridge, during a great part of the reign of Charles II, the doctors of laws and the masters of arts had no regular supply of news except through the London Gazette. At length, the services of one of the collectors of intelligence in the capital were employed.

That was a memorable day on which the first newsletter from London was laid on the table of the only coffee-room in Cambridge. At the seat of a man of fortune in the country, the newsletter was impatiently expected. Within a week after it had arrived, it had been thumbed by twenty families. It furnished the neighbouring squires with matter for talk over their October, and the neighbouring rectors with topics for sharp sermons against Whiggery, Many of these curious journals might doubtless still be detected by a diligent search in the archives of old families. Some are to be found in our public libraries, and one series, which is not the least valuable part of the literary treasures collected by Sir James Mackintosh, will be occasionally quoted in the course of this work.

It is scarcely necessary to say that there were then no provincial newspapers. Indeed, Except in the capital, and at two universities, there was scarcely a printer in the kingdom. The only press in England north of Trent appears to have been at York. It was not only by means of the London Gazette that the government undertook to furnish political instruction to the people. That journal contained a scanty supply of news without comment. Another journal, published under the patronage of the court, consisted of comment without news. This paper, called The Observator, was edited by an old Tory pamphleteer named Roger Lestrange. Lestrange was by no means deficient in readiness and shrewdness, and his diction, though coarse and disfigured by a mean and flippant jargon, which then passed for wit in the green-room and the tavern, was not without keeness and vigour.

But his nature, at once ferocious and ignoble, showed itself in every line that he penned. When the first observators appeared, there was some excuse for his acrimony. The Whigs were then powerful, and he had to contend against numerous adversaries, whose unscrupulous violence might seem to justify unsparing retaliation. But in 1685 all the opposition had been crushed. A generous spirit Would have disdained to insult a party which could not reply, and to aggravate the misery of prisoners, of exiles, of bereaved families. But from the malice of Lestrange the grave was no hiding-place, and the house of mourning no sanctuary. In the last month of the reign of Charles, the second, William Jenkin, an aged dissenting pastor of great note, who had been cruelly persecuted for no crime for that of worshipping God, according to the fashion generally followed throughout Protestant Europe, died of hardships and privations at Newgate.

The outbreak of popular sympathy could not be repressed. The corpse was followed to the grave by a train of a hundred and fifty coaches. Even courtiers looked sad. Even the unthinking king showed some signs of concern. Lestrange, alone, set up a howl of savage exultation, laughed at the weak compassion of the trimmers, proclaimed that the blasphemous old impostor had met with the most righteous punishment, and vowed to wage war not only to the death, but after death. with all the mock saints and martyrs. Such was the spirit of the paper, which was at this time the oracle of the Tory party, and especially of the parochial clergy. Literature, which could be carried by the postbag, then formed the greater part of the intellectual nutriment ruminated by the country divines and the country justices.

The difficulty and expense of conveying large packets from place to place was so great that an extensive work was longer in making its way from Pattenoster Row to Devonshire or Lancashire than it is now in reaching Kentucky. How scantily a rural parsonage was then furnished, even with books, the most necessary to a theologian, has already been remarked. The houses of the gentry were not more plentifully supplied. Few knights of the Shire had libraries so good as may now perpetually be found in a servants' hall, or in the back parlour of a small shopkeeper. A squire passed among his neighbours for great scholar, if Eudipras and Baker's Chronicle, Tartham's Jest, and the seven champions of Christendon lay in his hall window among the fishing-rods and fowling-pieces.

No circulating library, no book society then existed even in the capital. But in the capital those students who could not afford to purchase largely had a resource. The shops of the great booksellers near St. Paul's Churchyard were crowded every day and all day long with readers, and a known customer was often permitted to carry a volume home. In the country there was no such accommodation. And every man was under the necessity of buying whatever he wished to read. As to the lady of the manor and her daughters, their literary stores generally consisted of a prayer-book and a receipt-book, but in truth they lost little by living in rural seclusion. For even in the highest ranks, and in those situations which afforded the greatest facilities for mental improvement, The English women of that generation were decidedly worse educated than they have been at any other time since the revival of learning.

At an early period they had studied the masterpieces of ancient genius. In the present day they seldom bestow much attention on the dead languages. But they are familiar with the tongue of Pascal and Moliere, with the tongue of Dante and Tasso, with the tongue of Goethe and Schiller. Nor is there any purer or more graceful English than that which accomplished women now speak and write. But, during the latter part of the seventeenth century, the culture of the female mind seems to have been almost entirely neglected. If a damsel had the least smattering of literature, she was regarded as a prodigy. Ladies, highly-born, highly-bred, and naturally quick-witted, were unable to write a line in their mother tongue without solecisms and faults of spelling such as a charity girl would now be ashamed to commit.

The explanation may easily be found. Extravagant licentiousness, the natural effect of extravagant austerity, was now the mode, and licentiousness had produced its ordinary effect. The moral and intellectual degradation of women. To their personal beauty it was the fashion to pay rude and impudent homage, but the admiration and desire which they inspired were seldom mingled with respect, with affection, or with any chivalrous sentiment. The qualities which fit them to be companions, advisors, confidential friends, rather repelled than attracted the libertines of Whitehall. In that court, a maid of honor, Who dressed in such a manner as to do full justice to a white bosom, who ogled significantly, who danced voluptuously, who excelled in perte repartee, who was not ashamed to romp with lords of the bedchamber and captains of the guards, to sing sly verses with sly expression, or to put on a page's dress for a frolic, was more likely to be followed and admired, more likely to be honoured with royal attentions, more likely to win a rich and and noble husband than Jane Grey or Lucy Hutchinson would have been.

In such circumstances, the standard of female attainment was necessarily low, and it was more dangerous to be above that standard than to be beneath it. Extreme ignorance and frivolity were thought less unbecoming in a lady than the slightest tincture of pedantry. Of the two celebrated women whose faces we still admire on the walls of Hampton Court, few, indeed, were in the habit of reading anything more valuable than acrostics, lampoons, and translations of the Clelia and the Grand Cirrus. The literary acquirements, even of the accomplished gentlemen of that generation, seem to have been somewhat less solid and profound than at an earlier or later period. Greek learning, at least, did not flourish among us in the days of Charles, the second, as it had flourished before the Civil War, or as it again flourished long after the Revolution.

There were undoubtedly scholars to whom the whole Greek literature, from Homer to Photius, was familiar, but such scholars were to be found almost exclusively among the clergy resident at the universities, and even at the universities were few, and were not fully appreciated. At Cambridge it was not thought by any means necessary that a divine should be able to read the Gospels in the original. Nor was the standard at Oxford higher. When, in the reign of William III, Christchurch rose up as one man to defend the genuineness of the epistles of Phalaris, that great college, then considered as the first seat of philology in the kingdom, could not muster such a stock of Attic learning as is now possessed by several youths at every great public school.

It may easily be supposed that a dead language, neglected at the universities, was not much studied by men of the world. In a former age, the poetry and eloquence of Greece had been the delight of Raleigh and Falkland. In a later age, the poetry and eloquence of Greece were the delight of Pitt and Fox, of Wyndham and Grenville. But during the latter part of the seventeenth century, there was in England scarcely one eminent statesman who could read with enjoyment a page of Sophocles or Plato. Good Latin scholars were numerous. The language of Rome, indeed, had not altogether lost its imperial prerogatives. and was still in many parts of Europe almost indispensable to a traveller or a negotiator.

To speak it well was therefore a much more common accomplishment than in our time. And neither Oxford nor Cambridge wanted poets who, on a great occasion, could lay at the foot of the throne happy imitations of the verses in which Virgil and Ovid had celebrated the greatness of Augustus. Yet even the Latin, was giving way to a younger rival. France united at that time almost every species of ascendancy. Her military glory was at the height. She had vanquished mighty coalitions. She had dictated treaties. She had subjugated great cities and provinces. She had forced the Castilian pride to yield her the precedence. She had summoned Italian princes to prostrate themselves at her footstool. Her authority was supreme in all matters of good breeding, from a jewel to a minuet.

She determined how a gentleman's coat must be cut, how long his peruke must be, whether his heels must be high or low, and whether the lace on his hat must be broad or narrow. In literature, she gave law to the world. The fame of her great writers filled Europe. No other country could produce a tragic poet equal to Racine. A comic poet equal to Moliere, a trifler so agreeable as La Fontaine, a rhetorician so skilful as Bosway, the literary glory of Italy and of Spain had set. That of Germany had not yet dawned. The genius, therefore, of the eminent men who adorned Paris shone forth with a splendor which was set off to full advantage by contrast. France, indeed, had at that time an empire over mankind, such as even the Roman Republic never attained.

For when Rome was politically dominant, she was in arts and letters the humble pupil of Greece. France had, over the surrounding countries, at once, the ascendancy which Rome had over Greece, and the ascendancy which Greece had over Rome. French was fast becoming the universal language. The language of fashionable society, the language of diplomacy. At several courts, princes and nobles spoke it more accurately and politely than their mother tongue. In our island, there was less of this civility than on the continent. Neither our good nor our bad qualities were those of imitators. Yet even here, homage was paid, awkwardly indeed and sullenly. to the literary supremacy of our neighbors. The melodious Tuscan, so familiar to the gallants and ladies of the court of Elizabeth, sank into contempt.

A gentleman who quoted Horace or Terence was considered in good company as a pompous pedant. But to garnish his conversation with scraps of French was the best proof which could give of his parts and attainments. New canons of criticism, new models of style, came into fashion. The quaint ingenuity which had deformed the verses of Don, and had been a blemish on those of Cowley, disappeared from our poetry. Our prose became less majestic, less artfully involved, less variously musical than that of an earlier age, but more lucid, more easy, and better fitted for controversy and narrative. In these changes, It is impossible not to recognize the influence of French precept and a French example. Great masters of our language, in their most dignified compositions, affected to use French words, when English words, quite as expressive and sonorous, were at hand.

And from France was imported the tragedy in rhyme, an exotic which in our soil drooped and speedily died. It would have been well if our writers had also copied the decorum which their great French contemporaries, with few exceptions, preserved, for the profligacy of the English plays, satires, songs, and novels of that age is a deep blot on our national fame. The evil may easily be traced to its source. The wits and the Puritans had never been on friendly terms. There was no sympathy between the two classes. They looked on the whole system of human life, from different points and in different lights. The earnest of each was the jest of the other. The pleasures of each were the torments of the other.

To the stern precision, even the innocent sport of the fancy, seemed a crime. To light and festive natures, the solemnity of the zealous brethren furnished copious matter of ridicule. From the Reformation to the Civil War, almost every writer, gifted with the fine sense of the ludicrous, had taken some opportunity of assailing the straight-haired, snuffling, whining saints, who christened their children out of the book of Nehemia, who groaned in spirit at the sight of Jack in the green, and who thought it impious to taste plum porridge on Christmas Day. At length a time came. When the laughers began to look grave in their turn, the rigid and gainly zealots, after having furnished much good sport during two generations, rose up in arms, conquered, ruled, and grimly smiling, trod down under their feet the whole crowd of mockers.

The wounds inflicted by gay and petulant malice were retaliated with the gloomy and implacable malice Peculiar to bigots, who mistake their own rancour for virtue. The theatres were closed. The players were flogged. The press was put under the guardianship of austere licences. The muses were banished from their own favourite haunts. Cambridge and Oxford, Cowley, Crasheau, and Cleveland were ejected from their fellowships. The young candidate for academical honors was no longer required to write Ovidian epistles or Vigilian pastorals, but was strictly interrogated by a synod of lowering supralapsarians, as to the day and hour when he experienced the new birth. Such a system was, of course, fruitful of hypocrites.

Under sober clothing, and under visages composed to the expression of austerity lay hid during several years the intense desire of license and of revenge. At length that desire was gratified. The restoration emancipated thousands of minds from a yoke which had become insupportable. The old fight recommenced, but with an animosity altogether new. It was now not a sportive combat, but a war to the death. The roundhead had no better quarter to expect from those whom he had persecuted than a cruel slave-driver can expect from insurgent slaves, still bearing the marks of his collars and his scourges.

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The History of England, from the accession of James, the second, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three. Part 13. The war between wit and Puritanism soon became a war between wit and morality. The hostility excited by a grotesque caricature of virtue did not spare virtue herself. Whatever the canting Roundhead had regarded with reverence was insulted. Whatever he had prescribed was favored. Because he had been scrupulous about trifles, all scruples were treated with derision. Because he had covered his failings with a mask of devotion, men were encouraged to obtrude with cynic impudence all their most scandalous vices on the public eye. Because he had punished illicit love with barbarous severity, virgin purity and conjugal fidelity were made a jest.

To that sanctimonious jargon which was his shibboleth was opposed another jargon not less absurd and much more odious. As he never opened his mouth except in scripture or phrase, the new breed of wits and fine gentlemen never opened their mouths without uttering rebelledry of which a porter would now be ashamed, and without calling on their maker to curse them, sink them, confound them, blast them, and damn them. It is not strange, therefore, that our polite literature, when it revived with the revival of the old civil and ecclesiastical polity, should have been profoundly immoral. A few eminent men, who belonged to an earlier and better age, were exempt from the general contagion. The verse of Waller still breathed the sentiments which had animated a more chivalrous generation.

Cowley, distinguished as a loyalist and as a man of letters, raised his voice courageously against the immorality which disgraced both letters and loyalty. A mightier poet, tried at once by pain, danger, poverty, obloquy, and blindness, meditates undisturbed by the obscene tumult which raged all around him, a song so sublime and so holy that it would not have misbecome the lips of those ethereal virtues whom he saw, with that inner eye which no calamity could darken, flinging down on the jasper pavement their crowns of amaryth and gold. The vigorous and fertile genius of Butler, if it did not altogether escape the Brevalian fiction, took the disease in a mild form. But these were men whose minds had been trained in a world which had passed away.

They gave place in no long time to a younger generation of wits, and of that generation From Dryden down to Durfee, the common characteristic was hard-hearted, shameless, swaggering licentiousness, at once inelegant and inhuman. The influence of these writers was doubtless noxious, yet less noxious than it would have been had they been less depraved. The poison which they administered was so strong that it was, in no long time, rejected with nausea. None of them understood the dangerous art of associating images of unlawful pleasure with all that is endearing and ennobling. None of them was aware that a certain decorum is essential, even to voluptuousness, that drapery may be more alluring than exposure, and that the imagination may be far more powerfully moved by delicate hints which impel it to exert itself, than by gross descriptions, which it takes in passively.

The spirit of the anti-Puritan reaction pervades almost the whole polite literature of the reign of Charles II. But the very quintessence of that spirit will be found in the comic drama. The playhouses, shut by the meddling fanatic in the day of his power, were again crowded. To their old attractions, new and more powerful attractions had been added. scenery, dresses, and decorations, such as would now have been thought mean or absurd, but such as would have been esteemed incredibly magnificent by those who, early in the seventeenth century, sat on the filthy benches of the Hope, or under the thatched roof of the Rose, dazzled the eyes of the multitude. The fascination of sex was called in to aid the fascination of art, and the young spectator saw With emotions unknown to the contemporaries of Shakspeare and Johnson, tender and sprightly heroines personnated by lovely women.

From the day on which the theatres were reopened, they became seminaries of vice, and the evil propagated itself. The profligacy of the representations soon drove away sober people. The frivolous and dissolute who remained required every year stronger and stronger stimulants, Thus the artists corrupted the spectators, and the spectators the artists, till the turpitude of the drama became such as must astonish all who are not aware that extreme relaxation is the natural effect of extreme restraint, and that an age of hypocrisy is, in the regular course of things, followed by all age of impudence. Nothing is more characteristic of the times than the care with which the poets contrived to put all their loosest verses into the mouths of women.

The compositions in which the greatest license were taken were the epilogues. They were almost always recited by favorite actresses, and nothing charmed the depraved audience so much as to hear lines grossly indecent repeated by a beautiful girl who was supposed to have not yet lost her innocence. Our theater was indebted. In that age, for many plots and characters to Spain, to France, and to the old English masters. But whatever our dramatists touch, they tainted. In their imitations, the houses of Calderon's statelian and high-spirited Castilian gentlemen became styes of vice. Shakespeare's Viola, a procurus. Moliere's Misanthrop, a ravisher. Moliere's Agnes, an adulteress. Nothing could be so pure or so heroic but that it became foul and ignoble by transfusion through those foul and ignoble minds.

Such was the state of the drama, and the drama was the department of polite literature in which a poet had the best chance of obtaining a substance by his pen. The sale of books was so small that a man of the greatest name could hardly expect more than a pittance for the copyright of the best performance. There cannot be a stronger instance than the fate of Dryden's last production, The Fables. That volume was published when he was universally admitted to be the chief of living English poets. It contains about twelve thousand lines. The versification is admirable, the narratives and descriptions full of life. To this day Pelamon in Arcite, Simon in Iphigenia, Theodore and Honoria are the delight both of critics and of schoolboys.

The collection includes Alexander's Feast, the noblest ode in our language. For the copyright, Dryden received £250. Less than in our days has sometimes been paid for two articles and a review. Nor does the bargain seem to have been a hard one, for the book went off slowly. And the second edition was not required till the author had been ten years in his grave. By writing for the theatre, it was possible to earn a much larger sum with much less trouble. Southerne made seven hundred pounds by one play. Otway was raised from beggary to temporary affluence by the success of his Don Carlos. Shadwell cleared a hundred and thirty pounds by a single representation of the Squire of Alsatia. The consequence was that every man who had to live by his wit wrote plays, whether he had any internal vocation to wrote plays or not.

It was thus with Dryden. As a satirist, he has rivalled Juvenel. As a didactic poet, he perhaps might, with care and meditation, have rivalled Lucretius. Of lyric poets he is, if not the most sublime, the most brilliant and spirit-stirring. But nature, Profuse to him of many rare gifts had withheld from him the dramatic faculty. Nevertheless, all the energies of his best years were wasted on dramatic composition. He had too much judgment not to be aware that in the power of exhibiting character by means of dialogue he was deficient. That deficiency he did it best to conceal, sometimes by surprising and amusing incidents, sometimes by stately declamation, Sometimes by harmonious numbers, sometimes by rebeldry, but too well suited to the taste of a profane and licentious pit.

Yet he never obtained any theatrical success equal to that which rewarded the exertions of some men far inferior to him in general powers. He thought himself fortunate if he cleared a hundred guineas by a play, a scanty remuneration, yet apparently larger, than he could have earned in any other way by the same quantity of labour. The recompense which the wits of that age could obtain from the public was so small that they were under the necessity of eking out their incomes by levying contributions on the great. Every rich and good-natured lord was pestered by authors with a mendicancy so importune and a flattery subject as may in our time seem incredible. The patron to whom a work was inscribed was expected to reward the writer with a purse of gold.

The fee paid for the dedication of a book was often much larger than the sum which any publisher would give for the copyright. Books were therefore frequently printed merely that they might be dedicated. This traffic in praise produced the effect which might have been expected. Adulation pushed to the verge, sometimes of nonsense and sometimes of impiety, was not thought to disgrace a poet. Independence, veracity, self-respect were things not required by the world from him. In truth, he was in morals something between a panda and a beggar.

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From the Accession of James II by Thomas Babington Macaulay.

Book I. Chapter III. Part 14. To the other vicers which degraded the literary character was added towards the close of the reign of Charles, the most savage intemperance of party spirit. The wits as a class had been impelled by their old hatred of puritanism to take the side of the court, and had been found useful allies. Dryden, in particular, had done good service to the government, His absalom and architopal, the greatest satire of modern times, had amazed the town, had made its way with unprecedented rapidity even into rural districts, and had, whatever it appeared, bitterly annoyed the exclusionists and race the courage of the Tories. But we must not, in the admiration which we naturally feel for noble diction and versification, forget the great distinctions of good and evil.

The spirit by which Dryden and several of his compeers were at this time animated against the Vicks deserves to, he called Fiendish. The servile judges and sheriffs of those evil days could not shed blood as fast as the poets cried out for it. Calls for more victims, Hydear's dress unbanging, bitter taunts, and those who, having stood by the king in the hour of danger, now advised him to deal mercifully and generously by his vanquished enemies, who publicly resided on the stage, and that, nothing might, he wanting, to the quid and to the shame, were recited by women, who, having long been taught to discard all modesty, were not taught to discard all compassion. It is a remarkable fact that, while the lighter literature of England was thus becoming a nuisance and a national disgrace, the English genius was effecting in science a revolution which will, to the end of time, be reckoned among the highest achievements of the human intellect.

Bacon had sown the good seed in a sluggish soil and an ungenial season. He had not expected an early crop. and in his last testament had solemnly bequeathed his fame to the next age. During a whole generation his philosophy had, amidst tumultuous wars and proscriptions, been slowly ripening in a few well-constituted minds. While factions were struggling for dominion over each other, a small body of sages had turned away with benevolent disdain from the conflict. and had devoted themselves to the nobler work of extending the dominion of man over matter. As soon as tranquillity was restored, these teachers easily found attentive audience, for the discipline through which the nation had passed had brought the public mind to a temper well fitted for the reception of the Verulamian doctrine.

The civil troubles had stimulated the faculties of the educated classes, and had called forth a restless activity and an insatiable Curiosities such as had not before been known among us. Yet the effect of those troubles was that schemes of political and religious reform were generally regarded with suspicion and contempt. During twenty years, the chief employment of busy and ingenious men had been to frame constitutions with first magistrates, without first magistrates, with hereditary senates, with senates appointed by lot, with annual senates, with perpetual senates. In these plans nothing was omitted. All the detail, all the nomenclature, all the ceremonial of the imaginary government was fully set forth.

Polymarchs and phylarchs, tribes and Galaxics, the Lord Arcan and the Lord Strategist, which ballot-boxers were to be green and which red, which balls were to be of gold and which of silver, which magistrates were to wear hats, and which black velvet caps with beaks. How the mass was to be carried, and when the heralds were to uncover, these and a hundred more such treffles, were gravely considered and arranged by men of no common capacity and learning. But the time for these visions had gone by, And, if any steadfast Republican still continued to amuse himself with them, fear of public derision and of criminal information generally induced him to keep his fancies to himself. It was now unpopular and unsafe to matter a word against the fundamental laws of the monarchy.

But daring and ingenious men might indemnify themselves by treating with disdain what had lately been considered as the fundamental laws of nature. The torrent which had been damped up in one channel rushed violently into another. The revolutionary spirit, ceasing to operate in politics, began to exert itself with unprecedented vigor and hardihood in every department of physics. The year, 1660, the era of the restoration of the old Constitution, is also the era from which dates the ascendancy of the new philosophy. In that year, the Royal Society, destined to be a chief agent in a long series of glorious and salutary reforms, began to exist. In a few months, experimental science became all the more.

The transfusion of blood, the ponderation of air, the fixation of mercury succeeded to that place in the public mind which had been lately occupied with the controversies of the rota. Dreams of perfect forms of government made way for dreams of wings which men were to fly from the tower to the abbey, and of double-keeled ships which were never to founder in the fire-cast storm. All classes were hurried along by the prevailing sentiment. Qualier and roundhead, churchman and puritan were for once allied. Divines, jurists, statesmen, nobles, princes, Triumph of the Baconian philosophy, poet sang which emulous fervor the approach of the golden age. Cowley, in lines weighty with thought and resplendent with wit, urged the chosen seed to take possession of the promised land flowing with milk and honey, that land which their great deliverer and lawgiver had seen, as from the summit of Pisgah, but had not been permitted to enter.

Dryden, with more seal than knowledge, joined voice to the general acclamation to enter, and foretold things which neither he nor anybody else understood. The royal society, he predicted, would soon lead us to the extreme verge of the globe, and there delight us with a better view of the moon. Two able and aspiring prelates, Ward, Bishop of Salisbury and Vikings, Bishop of Chester, were conspicuous among the leaders of the movement. Its history was eloquently written by a young divine, who was rising to high distinction in his profession, Thomas Pratt, afterwards Bishop of Rochester. Both Chief Justice Hale and Lord Keeper Guildford stole some hours from the business of their courts to write on Hydrostatics.

Indeed, it was under the immediate direction of Guildford that the first barometers ever exposed to sale in London were constructed. Chemistry divided for a time with wine and love, with the stage and the gaming table, with the intrigues of a courtier and the intrigues of a demagogue. The attention of the fickle Buckingham. Rupert has the credit of having invented Mesotinto. From him is named that curious bubble of glass which has long amused children and puzzled philosophers. Charles himself had a laboratory at Whitehall, and was far more active and attentive there than at the council board. It was almost necessary to the character of a fine gentleman to have something to say about air-pumps and telescopes, and even fine ladies, now and then, Though it becoming to affect the stage for science, went in court as an excuse to visit the Gresham curiosities, and broke forth into cries of delight at finding that a magnet really attracted a needle, and that a microscope really made a fly loom as large as a sparrow.

In this, as in every great stir of the human mind, there was doubtless something which might well move a smile. It is the universal law that whatever pursuit, whatever doctrine, becomes fashionable, shall lose a portion of that dignity which it had possessed while it was confined to a small but earnest minority, and was loved for its own sake alone. It is true that the follies of some persons who, without any real aptitude for science, professed a passion for it, furnished matter of contemptuous Murk to a few malignant satirists who belonged to the preceding generation, and were not disposed to unlearn the law of their youth. But it is not less true that the great work of interpreting nature was performed by the English of that age as it had never before been performed in any age by any nation.

The spirit of Francis Bacon was abroad, a spirit admirably compounded of audacity and sobriety. There was a strong persuasion that the whole world was full of secrets of high movement to the happiness of man, and that man had, by his maker, been entrusted with the key which, rightly used, would give access to them. There was at the same time a conviction that in physics it was impossible to arrive at the knowledge of general laws except by the careful observation of particular facts. Deeply impressed with these great truths, the professors of the new philosophy applied themselves to their tasks, and, before a quarter of a century had expired, they had given ample earnest of what has since been achieved.

Already a reform of agriculture had been commenced. New vegetables were cultivated, new implements of husbandry were employed, new menus were applied to the soil. Evelyn had, under the formal sanction of the Royal Society, given instruction to his countrymen in planting. Temple, in his intervals of leisure, had tried many experiments in horticulture. and had proved that many delicate fruits, the natives of more favoured climates, might, with the help of art, be grown on English ground. Medicine, which in France was still in abject bondage, and afforded an inexhaustible subject of just ridicule to Mollier, had in England become an experimental and progressive science, and every day made some new advance in defiance of Hippocrates and Galen.

The attention of speculative men had been, for the first time, directed to the important subject of sanitary police. The Great Plague of 1665 induced them to consider with care the defective architecture, draining, and ventilation of the capital. The Great Fire of 1666 afforded an opportunity for effecting extensive improvements. The whole matter was diligently examined by the royal society, and to the suggestions of that body must be partly attributed the changes which, though far short of what the public welfare required, yet made a wide difference between the new and the old London, and probably put a final close to the ravagers of pestilence in our country. At the same time, One of the founders of the society, Sir William Petty, created the sons of political arithmetic, the humble but indispensable handmaid of political philosophy.

No kingdom of nature was left unexplored. To that period belonged the chemical discoveries of Boyle, and the earliest botanical researchers of Sloan. It was then that Ray made a new classification of birds and fishers, and that the attention of woodward was first drawn towards fossils and shells. One after another, phantoms which had haunted the world through ages of darkness fled before the light. Astrology and alchemy became just. Soon there was scarcely a county in which some of the quorum did not smile contemptuously, when an old woman was brought before them for riding on broomsticks or giving cattle the moraine. But it was in those noblest and most arduous departments of knowledge in which induction and mathematical demonstration cooperate for the discovery of truth, that the English genius won in that age the most memorable triumphs.

John Ballis placed the whole system of statics on a new foundation. Edmund Halley investigated the properties of the atmosphere, the ebb and flow of the sea, the laws of magnetism and the course of the comets. No did he shrink from toil, peril, and exile in the cause of science. While he, on the rock of St. Helena, mapped the constellations of the southern hemisphere, Our national observatory was rising, and Greenwich and John Flamstead, the first astronomer royal, was commenced in that long series of observations, which is never mentioned without respect and gratitude in any part of the globe. But the glory of these men, eminent as they were, is cast into the shade by the transcendent lustre of one immortal name.

In Isaac Newton, two kinds of intellectual power—the which have little in common, and which are not often found together in a very high degree of vigor, but which nevertheless are equally necessary in the most sublime departments of physics, were united as they have never been united before or since. There may have been minds as happily constituted as his for the cultivation of pure mathematical science. There may have been minds as happily constituted for the cultivation of science purely experimental, but in no other mind have the demonstrative faculty and the inductive faculty coexisted in such supreme excellence and perfect harmony. Perhaps in the days of Scottis and Thomas even his intellect might have run to waste, as many intellects ran to waste which were inferior only to his.

Happily, the spirit of the age on which his lot was cast gave the right direction to his mind, and his mind reacted with tenfold force on the spirit of the age. In the year 1685, his fame, though splendid, was only dawning, but his genius was in the meridian. His great work, that work which effected a revolution in the most important provinces of natural philosophy, had been completed, but was not yet published, and was just about to be submitted to the consideration of the Royal Society.

The Excerpting of James by Thomas Babington Macaulay

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The History of England, from the Accession of James, the Second, by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Book One, Chapter Three. It is not very easy to explain why the nation which was so far before its neighbors in science should in art have been far behind them. Yet such was the fact. It is true that in architecture, an art which is half a science, an art in which none but a geometrician can excel, An art which has no standard of grace, but what is directly or indirectly dependent on utility. An art of which the creations derive a part, at least, of their majesty, from mere bulk. Our country could boast of one truly great man, Christopher Wren. And the fire which laid London in ruins had given him an opportunity unprecedented in modern history.

of displaying his powers.

The austere beauty of the Athenian portico, the gloomy sublimity of the Gothic arcade, he was, like almost all his contemporaries, incapable of emulating, and perhaps incapable of appreciating. But no man born on our side of the Alps has imitated with so much success the magnificence of the palace-like churches of Italy. Even the superb Lewis has left to posterity no work which can bear a comparison with St. Paul's. But at the close of the reign of Charles II there was not a single English painter or statuary whose name is now remembered. This sterility is somewhat mysterious. For painters and statuaries were by no means a despised or an ill-paid class. Their social position was at least as high as at present.

Their gains, when compared with the wealth of the nation, and with the remuneration of other descriptions of intellectual labor, were even larger than at present. Indeed, the munificent patronage which was extended to artists Drew them to our shores in multitudes. Lely, who has preserved to us the rich curls, the full lips, and the languishing eyes of the frail beauties celebrated by Hamilton, was a Westphalian. He had died in 1680, having long lived splendidly, having received the honour of knighthood, and having accumulated a good estate out of the fruits of his skill. His noble collection of drawings and pictures was, after his decease, exhibited by the royal permission in the banqueting-house at Whitehall, and was sold by auction for the almost incredible sum of twenty-six thousand pounds, a sum which bore a greater proportion to the fortunes of the rich men of that day than a hundred thousand pounds would bear to the fortunes of the rich men of our time.

Lely was succeeded by his countryman, Godfrey Neller, who was made first a knight and then a baronet, and who, after keeping up a sumptuous establishment, and after losing much money by unlucky speculations, was still able to bequeath a large fortune to his family. The two Vandervelders, natives of Holland, had been tempted by English liberality to settle here, And had produced for the king and his nobles some of the finest sea-pieces in the world. Another Dutchman, Simon Verelst, painted glorious sunflowers and tulips for prices such as had never before been known. Verio, a Neapolitan, covered ceilings and staircases with gorgons and muses, nymphs and satyrs. Virtues and vices, gods quaffing nectar, and laurelled princes riding in triumph.

The income which he derived from his performances enabled him to keep one of the most expensive tables in England. For his pieces at Windsor alone he received seven thousand pounds, a sum then sufficient to make a gentleman of moderate wishes perfectly easy for life. A sum greatly exceeding all that Dryden, during a literary life of forty years, obtained from the booksellers. Verio's assistant and successor, Louis Laguerre, came from France. The two most celebrated sculptors of that day were also foreigners. Cibber, whose pathetic emblems of fury and melancholy still adorn Bedlam, was a Dane. Gibbons, to whose graceful fancy and delicate touch many of our palaces, colleges, and churches owe their finest decorations, was a Dutchman.

Even the designs for the coin were made by French artists. Indeed, it was not till the reign of George II that our country could glory in a great painter. And George III was on the throne, Before she had reason to be proud of any of her sculptors.

It is time that this description of the England which Charles II governed should draw to a close. Yet one subject of the highest moment still remains untouched. Nothing has yet been said of the great body of the people, of those who held the ploughs, who tended the oxen, who toiled at the looms of Norwich, and squared the Portland stone for St. Paul's. Nor can very much be said. The most numerous class is precisely the class respecting which we have the most meagre information. In those times philanthropists did not yet regard it as a sacred duty, nor had demagogues yet found it a lucrative trade, to talk and write about the distress of the labourer. History was too much occupied with courts and camps to spare a line for the hut of the peasant or the garret of the mechanic.

The press now often sends forth in a day a greater quantity of discussion and declamation about the condition of the working man Than was published during the twenty-eight years which elapsed between the Restoration and the Revolution, but it would be a great error to infer from the increase of complaint that there has been any increase of misery.

The great criterion of the state of the common people is the amount of their wages, and as four-fifths of the common people were In the seventeenth century employed in agriculture, it is especially important to ascertain what were then the wages of agricultural industry. On this subject we have the means of arriving at conclusions sufficiently exact for our purpose. Sir William Petty, whose mere assertion carries great weight, informs us that a labourer was by no means in the lowest state, who received for a day's work four pence with food, or eight pence without food. Four shillings a week, therefore, were, according to Petty's calculation, fair agricultural wages. That this calculation was not remote from the truth, we have abundant proof.

About the beginning of the year 1685, the Justices of Warwickshire, In the exercise of a power entrusted to them by an act of Elizabeth, fixed at their quarter sessions a scale of wages for the county, and notified that every employer who gave more than the authorized sum, and every working man who received more, would be liable to punishment. The wages of the common agricultural laborer, from March to September, were fixed at the precise amount mentioned by petty, namely four shillings a week without food. From September to March, the wages were to be only three and sixpence a week. But in that age, as in ours, the earnings of the peasant were very different in different parts of the kingdom.

The wages of Warwickshire were probably about the average, and those of the counties near the Scottish border Below it. But there were more favoured districts. In the same year, 1685, a gentleman of Devonshire, named Richard Dunning, published a small tract in which he described the condition of the poor of that county. That he understood his subject well, it is impossible to doubt, for a few months later his work was reprinted, and was, by the magistrates assembled in quarter sessions at Exeter, strongly recommended to the attention of all parochial officers. According to him, the wages of the Devonshire peasant were, without food, about five shillings a week. Still better was the condition of the labourer in the neighbourhood of Bury St Edmunds.

The magistrates of Suffolk met there in the spring of 1682 to fix a rate of wages, and resolved that, where the labourer was not boarded, he should have five shillings a week in winter, and six in summer. In 1661 the Justices at Chelmsford had fixed the wages of the Essex labourer, who was not boarded, at six shillings in winter, and seven in summer. This seems to have been the highest remuneration given in the kingdom for agricultural labour between the restoration and the revolution, and it is to be observed that, in the year in which this order was made, the necessaries of life were immoderately dear. Wheat was at seventy shillings the quarter, which would even now be considered as almost a famine price.

These facts are in perfect accordance with another fact which seems to deserve consideration. It is evident that, in a country where no man can be compelled to become a soldier, the ranks of an army cannot be filled if the government offers much less than the wages of common rustic labour. At present, the pay and beer-money of a private in a regiment of the line amount to seven shillings and sevenpence a week. This stipend, coupled with the hope of a pension, does not attract the English youth in sufficient numbers, and it is found necessary to supply the deficiency by enlisting, largely from among the poorer population of Munster and Connaught. The pay of the private foot-soldier, in 1685, was only four shillings and eightpence a week.

Yet it is certain that the government in that year found no difficulty in obtaining many thousands of English recruits at very short notice. The pay of the private foot soldier in the army of the Commonwealth had been seven shillings a week, that is to say, as much as a corporal received under Charles II, And seven shillings a week had been found sufficient to fill the ranks with men decidedly superior to the generality of the people. On the whole, therefore, it seems reasonable to conclude that, in the reign of Charles, the second, the ordinary wages of the peasant did not exceed four shillings a week, but that in some parts of the kingdom, five shillings, six shillings, and during the summer months even seven shillings were paid.

At present, a district where a laboring man earns only seven shillings a week is thought to be an estate shocking to humanity. The average is very much higher, and in prosperous counties the weekly wages of husbandmen amount to twelve, fourteen, and even sixteen shillings. The remuneration of workmen employed in manufactures has always been higher than that of the tillers of the soil. In the year 1680, a member of the House of Commons remarked that the high wages paid in this country made it impossible for our textures to maintain a competition with the produce of the Indian looms. An English mechanic, he said, Instead of slaving like a native of Bengal for a piece of copper, expected a shilling a day.

Other evidence is extant, which proves that a shilling a day was the pay to which the English manufacturer then thought himself entitled, but that he was often forced to work for less. The common people of that age were not in the habit of meeting for public discussion, of haranguing or of petitioning Parliament. No newspaper pleaded for their cause. It was in rude rhyme that their love and hatred, their exaltation and their distress, found utterance. A great part of their history is to be learned only from their ballads. One of the most remarkable of the popular lays chaunted about the streets of Norwich and Leeds in the time of Charles II may still be read on the original broadside. It is the vehement and bitter cry of labor against capital.

It describes the good old times when every artisan employed in the woollen manufacture lived as well as a farmer. But those times were past. Sixpence a day was now all that could be earned by hard labour at the loom. If the poor complained that they could not live on such a pittance, they were told that they were free to take it or leave it. For so miserable a recompense were the producers of wealth compelled to toil, rising early and lying down late, while the master clothier, eating, sleeping, and idling, became rich by their exertions. A shilling a day, the poet declares, is what the weaver would have if justice were done. We may therefore conclude that, in the generation which preceded the Revolution, a workman employed in the great staple manufacture of England thought himself fairly paid if he gained six shillings a week.

It may here be noticed that the practice of setting children prematurely to work, a practice which the State, the legitimate protector of those who cannot protect themselves, has in our time wisely and humanely interdicted, prevailed in the seventeenth century, to an extent which, when compared with the extent of the manufacturing system, seems almost incredible. At Norwich, the chief seat of the clothing trade, a little creature of six years old was thought fit for labor. Several writers of that time, and among them some who were considered as eminently benevolent, mention with exultation the fact that, in that single city, boys and girls of very tender age, Created wealth exceeding what was necessary for their own subsistence by twelve thousand pounds a year.

The more carefully we examine the history of the past, the more reason shall we find to dissent from those who imagine that our age has been fruitful of the social evils. The truth is that the evils are, with scarcely an exception, old. That which is new is the intelligence which discerns, and the humanity which remedies them.

When we pass from the weavers of cloth to a different class of artisans, our enquiries will still lead us to nearly the same conclusions. During several generations, the commissioners of Greenwich Hospital have kept a register of the wages paid to different classes of workmen who had been employed in the repairs of the building. From this valuable record, it appears that, in the course of a hundred and twenty years, the daily earnings of the bricklayer have risen from half a crown to four and tenpence, those of the mason from half a crown to five and threepence, Those of the carpenter, from half a crown to five and fivepence, and those of the plumber, from three shillings to five and sixpence.

It seems clear, therefore, that the wages of labor, estimated in money, were in 1685 not more than half of what they now are, and there were few articles important to the working man Of which the price was not, in 1685, more than half of what it now is. Beer was undoubtedly much cheaper in that age than at present. Meat was also cheaper, but was still so dear that hundreds of thousands of families scarcely knew the taste of it. In the cost of wheat there has been very little change. The average price of the quarter During the last twelve years of Charles II, was fifty shillings. Bread, therefore, such as is now given to the inmates of a workhouse, was then seldom seen, even on the trencher of a yeoman or of a shopkeeper.

The great majority of the nation lived almost entirely on rye, barley, and oats.

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The produce of tropical countries, the produce of the mines, the produce of machinery, was positively dearer than at present.

Among the commodities for which the labourer would have had to pay higher in 1685 than his posterity now pay, were sugar, salt, coals, candles, soap, shoes, stockings, and generally all articles of clothing and all articles of bedding. It may be added that the old coats and blankets would have been not only more costly, but less serviceable than the modern fabrics. It must be remembered that that those laborers who were able to maintain themselves and their families by means of wages were not the most necessitous members of the community. Beneath them lay a large class, which could not subsist without some aid from the parish.

There can hardly be a more important test of the condition of the common people than the ratio which this class bears to the whole society. At present, the men, women, and children who receive relief appear from the official returns to be, in bad years, one-tenth of the inhabitants of England, and, in good years, one-thirteenth. Gregory King estimated them in his time at about a fourth, and this estimate which, all our respect for his authority will scarcely prevent us from calling extravagant, was pronounced by Davenant eminently judicious. We are not quite without the means of forming an estimate for ourselves. The poor rate was undoubtedly the heaviest tax borne by our ancestors in those days.

It was computed, in the reign of Charles, the second, At near seven hundred thousand pounds a year. Much more than the produce, either of the excise or of the customs, and little less than half the entire revenue of the crown. The poor rate went on increasing rapidly, and appears to have risen in a short time to between eight and nine hundred thousand a year. That is to say, to one-sixth of what it is now. The population was then less than a third of what it now is. The minimum of wages, estimated in money, was half of what it now is. And we can therefore hardly suppose that the average allowance made to a pauper can have been more than half of what it now is. It seems to follow that the proportion of the English people which received parochial relief then, must have been larger than the proportion which receives relief now.

It is good to speak on such questions with diffidence. But it has certainly never yet been proved that pauperism was a less heavy burden, or a less serious social evil, during the last quarter of the seventeenth century, than it is in our own time. In one respect, it must be admitted that the progress of civilization has diminished the physical comforts of a portion of the poorest class. It has already been mentioned that, before the Revolution, many thousands of square miles, now enclosed and cultivated, were marsh, forest, and heath. Of this wild land much was, by law, And much of what was not common by law was worth so little that the proprietors suffered it to be common in fact. In such a tract, squatters and trespassers were tolerated to an extent now unknown.

The peasant who dwelt there could, at little or no charge, procure occasionally some palatable addition to his hard fare, and provide himself with fuel for the winter. He kept a flock of geese on what is now an orchard rich with apple-blossoms. He snared wild fowl on the fell, which has long since been drained and divided into corn-fields and turnip-fields. He cut turf among the firs bushes on the moor, which is now a meadow bright with clover and renowned for butter and cheese. The progress of agriculture and the increase of population necessarily deprived him of these privileges. But against this disadvantage, a long list of advantages is to be set off. Of the blessings which civilization and philosophy bring with them, a large proportion is common to all ranks, and would, if withdrawn, be missed as painfully by the laborer as by the peer.

The market-place which the rustic can now reach with his cart in an hour, was, a hundred and sixty years ago, a day's journey from him. The street which now affords to the artisan, during the whole night, a secure, a convenient, and a brilliantly lighted walk, was, a hundred and sixty years ago, so dark after sunset, that he would not have been able to see his hand. So ill-paved that he would have run constant risk of breaking his neck, and so ill-watched that he would have been in imminent danger of being knocked down and plundered of his small earnings. Every bricklayer who falls from a scaffold, every sweeper of a crossing who is run over by a carriage, may now have his wounds dressed and his limbs set with a skill such as— A hundred and sixty years ago, all the wealth of a great lord like Ormond, or of a merchant prince like Clayton, could not have purchased.

Some frightful diseases have been extirpated by science, and some have been banished by police. The term of human life has been lengthened over the whole kingdom, and especially in the towns.

The year, 1685, was not accounted sickly, yet in the year 1685 more than one in twenty-three of the inhabitants of the capital died. At present, only one inhabitant of the capital in 40 dies annually. The difference in salubrity between the London of the 19th century and the London of the 17th century is very far greater. than the difference between London in an ordinary year and London in a year of cholera. Still more important is the benefit which all orders of society, and especially the lower orders, have derived from the mollifying influence of civilization on the national character. The groundwork of that character has indeed been the same through many generations. In the sense in which the groundwork of the character of an individual may be said to be the same when he is a rude and thoughtless schoolboy, and when he is a refined and accomplished man.

It is pleasing to reflect that the public mind of England has softened while it has ripened, and that we have, in the course of ages, become not only a wiser, but also a kinder people. There is scarcely a page of the history or lighter literature of the seventeenth century which does not contain some proof that our ancestors were less humane than their posterity. The discipline of workshops, of schools, of private families, though not more efficient than at present, was infinitely harsher. Masters well born and bred, were in the habit of beating their servants. Pedagogues knew no way of imparting knowledge but by beating their pupils. Husbands of decent station were not ashamed to beat their wives.

The implacability of hostile factions was such as we can scarcely conceive. Whigs were disposed to murmur because Stafford was suffered to die, Without seeing his balls burn before his face. Torey's reviled and insulted Russell as his coach passed from the tower to the scaffold in Lincoln's inn fields. As little mercy was shown by the populace to sufferers of a humbler rank. If an offender was put into the pillory, it was well if he escaped with life from the shower of brick-bats and paving-stones. If he was tied to the cart's tail, the crowd pressed round him, imploring the hangman to give it the fellow well and make him howl. Gentlemen arranged parties of pleasure to Bridewell on court days for the purpose of seeing the wretched women who beat hemp there whipped.

A man pressed to death for refusing to plead. A woman, burned for coining, excited less sympathy than is now felt for a galled horse or an overdriven ox. Fights compared with which a boxing match is a refined and humane spectacle were among the favorite diversions of a large part of the town. Multitudes assembled to see gladiators hack each other to pieces with deadly weapons, and shouted with delight when one of the combatants lost a finger or an eye. The prisons were hells on earth. Seminaries of every crime and of every disease. At the Assizes, the lean and yellow culprits brought with them from their cells to the dock an atmosphere of stench and pestilence, which sometimes avenged them signally on bench, bar, and jury.

But on all this misery, society looked with profound indifference. Nowhere could be found that sensitive, and restless compassion, which has, in our time, extended a powerful protection to the factory child, to the Hindu widow, to the negro slave, which pries into the stores and water casks of every emigrant ship, which winces at every lash laid on the back of a drunken soldier, which will not suffer the thief in the hulks to be ill-fed or overworked. and which has repeatedly endeavoured to save the life, even of the murderer. It is true that compassion ought, like all other feelings, to be under the government of reason, and has, for want of such government, produced some ridiculous and some deplorable effects.

But the more we study the annals of the past, The more shall we rejoice that we live in a merciful age, in an age in which cruelty is abhorred, and in which pain, even when deserved, is inflicted reluctantly and from a sense of duty. Every class, doubtless, has gained largely by this great moral change. But the class which has gained most is the poorest, the most dependent. And the most defenceless.

The general effect of the evidence which has been submitted to the reader seems hardly to admit of doubt. Yet, in spite of evidence, many will still image to themselves the England of the Stuarts as a more pleasant country than the England in which we live. It may at first sight seem strange that society, While constantly moving forward with eager speed, should be constantly looking backward with tender regret. But these two propensities, inconsistent as they may appear, can easily be resolved into the same principle. Both spring from our impatience of the state in which we actually are. That impatience, while it stimulates us to surpass preceding generations, disposes us to overrate their happiness.

It is, in some sense, unreasonable and ungrateful in us to be constantly discontented with a condition which is constantly improving. But, in truth, there is constant improvement precisely because there is constant discontent. If we were perfectly satisfied with the present, we should cease to contrive, to labor, and to save with a view to the future. And it is natural that, being dissatisfied with the present, we should form a too favorable estimate of the past. In truth, we are under a deception similar to that which misleads the traveler in the Arabian desert. Beneath the caravan, All is dry and bare, but far in advance, and far in the rear, is the semblance of refreshing waters. The pilgrims hasten forward and find nothing but sand where an hour before they had seen a lake.

They turn their eyes and see a lake where, an hour before, they were toiling through sand. A similar illusion seems to haunt nations through every stage of the long progress from poverty and barbarism to the highest degrees of opulence and civilization. But if we resolutely chase the mirage backward, we shall find it recede before us into the regions of fabulous antiquity.

It is now the fashion to place the golden age of England In times when noblemen were destitute of comforts, the want of which would be intolerable to a modern footman. When farmers and shopkeepers breakfasted on loaves, the very sight of which would raise a riot in a modern workhouse. When to have a clean shirt once a week was a privilege reserved for the higher class of gentry. When men died faster in the purest country air than they now die in the most Pestilential lanes of our towns. And when men died faster in the lanes of our towns than they now die on the coast of Guiana. We, too, shall, in our turn, be outstripped, and in our turn be envied. It may well be, in the twentieth century, that the peasant of Dorsetshire may think himself miserably paid with twenty shillings a week, that the carpenter of Greenwich May receive ten shillings a day.

That laboring men may be as little use to dine without meat as they now are to eat rye bread. That sanitary police and medical discoveries may have added several more years to the average length of human life. That numerous comforts and luxuries which are now unknown, or confined to a few, may be within the reach of every diligent and thrifty working man. And yet it may then be the mode to assert that the increase of wealth and the progress of science have benefited the few at the expense of the many. And to talk of the reign of Queen Victoria as the time when England was truly Merry England, when all classes were bound together by brotherly sympathy, When the rich did not grind the faces of the poor, and when the poor did not envy the splendor of the rich.

End of history of England. Volume 1. Chapter 3. By Thomas Babington Macaulay.

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