To follow Monk's career after the Restoration in detail would here be out of place. It adds but little to our knowledge of the man and labours under the ban of anti-climax. To the student of history and government it is full of interest, yet so unobtrusive was his work that it is now hard to trace beneath the shifting strife of politicians. When men asked what after all this dull workday soldier had done that the country should idolise him as it did, Secretary Nicholas, who knew, was wont to say that even if he had not put Charles upon his throne, he would still have deserved all the bounties the King had bestowed upon him for his services after the Restoration.

It is a remark profoundly true. His finest work goes unrecorded. To suppose that the whole nation acquiesced at once in the Restoration is almost as great an error as to think that it was conquered by William at Hastings. As yet Monk had but stolen a march on the Irreconcilables. Numbers of ardent spirits belonging to the Anabaptists, the Fifth Monarchy men, and the fighting section of the Quakers, together with a large body of extreme Independents and Presbyterians, were only waiting for an opportunity to tear the arch-malignant from his throne again. They comprised all the fiery earnestness of the nation, they breathed the exaggerated spirit of all that has made us what we are; and when we see Mrs. Hutchinson at her heroic colonel's side as he lay rotting in a living grave; when we think of Harrison's wife buying his blood-stained clothes of the executioner, and, unable to believe that God had suffered her saint to die with his work unended, watching over them till he should come again,—the heart of Monk's profoundest admirer must bleed that they fell under such a hand as his.

And the kindly heart of the old general bled for them, too. Of all the libels that pursued him from the mouths of those who envied him the royal favour, or suffered from the success of his patriotic policy, none is greater than that which accused him of betraying his friends and persecuting his enemies. Neither one nor the other is true. From the moment his victory was assured he busied himself unflinchingly in saving the vanquished from the hands of those who mistook animosity for zeal. It was he who cried "Hold!" when the Convention tried to enlarge the list of exceptions to the amnesty; it was he who stayed the vengeance of the Cavalier Parliament by coming down to the House with the words of the King in his mouth. Privately he worked as nobly. Numbers of men were preserved upon some evidence the general had in their favour. Lambert, Fleetwood, Lenthal, Milton, and the Cromwells all found in him a friend at Court. Haslerig's fears he had laughed away with a promise to save him for twopence. His persistent opponent got off scot free, and the letter is still extant in which the twopence was sent.11 Most wanton of all are those who accuse him of indecency in sitting on the Regicide Commission, forgetting that the man who knew enough to hang half the kingdom could only escape from the witness-box by a seat on the bench. It were better to remember that he sat there with seven other adherents of the Revolution of every shade of opinion, and to credit the King with a desire to make the commission a representative one, and Monk with the intention of seeing fair play to the men who were down.

The darkest cloud upon his memory is his alleged conduct in reference to Argyle's trial. The charge against him is that, when the evidence proved inconclusive, Monk produced some private correspondence upon which the marquis was immediately convicted. The story has hitherto rested on the testimony of Burnet, a notorious libeller of the general's, and Baillie, who, like the rest of the Presbyterians, could never forgive him for foiling their attempt to force upon the country a covenanted King. No evidence could be more tainted, and it is not surprising that the story has always been doubted, seeing how inconsistent it is with the character of a man "who could not hate an enemy beyond the necessity of war." Injudicious advocates have even denied the fact altogether, but a bundle of Argyle's letters, including some to Monk and one to his secretary, was certainly produced at the last moment, and at once sealed the prisoner's fate. In consequence of Charles's resolution not to go behind the Scotch amnesty of 1651, the chief point in Argyle's indictment was that he had adhered to the King's enemies, or, in other words, that he had opposed the last Highland insurrection. The leaders of it were at once his judges and his prosecutors, and they were determined to have their revenge. The case closed and still there was no real evidence, when just as the Court was deliberating its judgment a messenger thundered at the door with the fatal packet from London. Regardless of all law the case was reopened, the letters read, and Argyle condemned.

The question of Monk's share in the infamous proceeding rests on the contents of those letters. They have now been found, and they acquit him for ever. Only two are to him, and they contain no evidence whatever beyond what had been already obtained in abundance. They are confined to little more than civilities. The one to Clarke, Monk's secretary, encloses a letter from Glencairn, and expresses Argyle's intention of keeping his own country neutral. The other three are to Lilburne, and they prove in the clearest manner that Argyle was not only giving the English general information of the Royalist movements, but was doing his best to prevent assistance going to the insurgents.12 These three letters are not endorsed as having been "admitted" by the prisoner, and could any doubt remain that it was these on which he was convicted, it would be removed by the subsequent petition of Archibald the tenth Earl. For in that document he recites that the fatal letters bore no "signature" that the marquis "had owned them." The letters to Monk and Clarke are all endorsed with Argyle's admission.13

Thus we may finally dismiss this wholly uncorroborated libel about deliberately producing confidential letters. The compromising documents are State Papers. That Monk knew enough to cost Argyle his life ten times over is certain. It is equally certain that he did not tell what he knew. The tardy production of the documents and the official nature of their contents point to the natural explanation of their appearance—a last despairing search in the archives of the Council of State by the men who were thirsting for the great Covenanter's blood, and hungering for his estates.

The libel has not even the excuse of provocation. Monk did not desert the Presbyterians. He never, indeed, belonged to their party. He professed their ecclesiastical opinions, but never embraced their political creed. Nor did he fail to stand by them in the hour of need. For not only did he give the leaders certificates of their services to the Restoration, but when it was found impossible to prevent the passing of the Bill of Uniformity, the "man that was all made of mercy" joined with his old political opponent Lord Manchester in urging the King not to enforce it in all its rigour. Nor did Charles finally make surrender to the persecuting spirit of the Anglican majority in Parliament till Monk was lying in state.

Still it is not to be wondered at that such stories pursued him. The very loftiness of his station was enough to breed them in men less fortunate. Besides his Garter, his Mastership of the Horse, and his exalted commission, he was raised to the peerage by the title of Duke of Albemarle, Earl of Torrington, and Baron Monk of Potheridge, Beauchamp, and Tees. For a while he was also Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He was made a gentleman of the Bedchamber, and as though that did not place him near enough to the person of the grateful King, by his patent as Captain-General he was granted the extraordinary privilege of entering the presence at any hour unannounced, and remaining there till he was told to go. The King never ceased to treat him as a father. Indeed Charles's unswerving devotion to his deliverer is enough to redeem his character from the sweeping charge of baseness that is sometimes made against it. As a member of the inner committee of the Privy Council, the parent of all cabinets, Monk must have constantly had to lecture and thwart his master, but never once did he give a sign that the old duke's favour was declining.

By the King he was regarded as a father, and by the country as no less. "The body of the people," said the Bishop of Exeter in his funeral sermon, "loved and honoured him, nay (God forgive them), they believed and trusted in him." There was never an awkward job to be done, or failure to be rectified, or panic to be allayed, but the Duke of Albemarle was sent for like an old family doctor. Was there a powerful minister to be dismissed, the Duke had to break the news to him; the Treasury accounts got into confusion, and the Duke was put on to the commission to set them straight; the plague drove Court and Parliament from the capital, and he was left behind sitting in Whitehall with his life in his hand, seeing every one who presented himself day after day at a time when brother would hardly speak to brother, or husband to wife, and through the whole of that terrible period he managed in his own person army, navy, treasury, and police. The Duke of York failed as an admiral, and "old George" was asked if he would mind taking command. The great fire destroyed half London, and threw the country into a panic, and the King, in terror of a new revolution, had to beg "the sole pillar of the state" to come up from the fleet and restore confidence. The people openly said it never would have happened if the general had been there; and when the Dutch sailed into the Thames men seemed to think he had only to go down to Chatham for the enemy to scatter like chaff.

As the country recovered from its fever of royalism, and began to look back first without disgust, then with regret to the days of Oliver, it saw in the Protector's old general the personification of all the glories of the Commonwealth. He stood out in startling contrast to the butterfly throng amongst whom he had his place, and the courtiers felt it. Every one laughed at the stupid old soldier for his homeliness, his mean establishment, his vulgar wife, and the dulness and lethargy which grew on him with his disease. But every one feared him also. Every request he pressed was granted as a matter of course. Even the King did not dare or care to give him a command, but always sounded him through Morice to ascertain whether he were willing to do what was wanted.

To detail his endless services is here impossible. His greatest work was undoubtedly the disbanding of the great revolutionary army. Some sixty thousand men had to be loosed upon a country seething with the fanatical opinions which the army had made its own, and of which, in spite of Monk's purging, it still was full. Statesmen knew it was the great danger the restored monarchy had to face. To Monk the task was committed; and he did it not only peaceably, but so well that the disbanded soldiers, instead of being so many germs of disaffection, earned themselves, through the facilities the general was careful to provide for their employment, the reputation of being the best citizens in the State.

Another debt which the nation owed to George Monk, whether for good or ill it is hard to say, was entirely due to the confidence his unblemished career had inspired. The Revolution had taken fire in the heat of a quarrel as to which estate of the realm was to control the army. That that dispute did not recur to mar the harmony of the Restoration, and even to render it impossible, was due to the simple fact that the nation trusted "honest George." As soon as it was known that he held the royal commission of Captain-General not a word was uttered on the question. In his hands the country knew that it was safe.

Thus it was that he became the Father of the British Army. It was he who, in the few regiments that were kept on foot to overawe the Sectaries, started its glorious traditions. It was he who gave it its unequalled note of duty and devotion. It was he who once and for ever pronounced that it must be a thing apart from politics, and taught it that a soldier's greatest glory is to obey. In every characteristic of which it is proudest, or for which we love it best, glitters the stamp of its first commander's personality. Whether we see its officers rising in the hour of peril above the personal jealousies which have ruined so many of our neighbours' enterprises, or admire its dogged obstinacy, its cheerful discipline, and its chivalrous impatience of party strife; or whether we glory in the strange contempt it has ever shown for its enemies, making a pastime of war,—we have but to turn to see each finest trait reflected as in a mirror in the life of the man who gave it breath. Strange, indeed, it is that a body in which esprit de corps has reached its noblest development should have forgotten as it has the hero who begot it, and guided its first halting steps along the splendid path it was to tread.

And yet the cause is plain enough. Like the rest of the great characters of the English Revolution, Monk has till recently been only visible through the literature of the Restoration. The navy was then the fashion, and Monk was only known to the historians of the time as an admiral. That aspect of him obscured every other. Society patronised the navy; it even divided itself into two cliques on the subject, the partisans of the general and the partisans of Lord Sandwich. Montague's party included nearly all the Court, and unfortunately his two talented placemen Pepys and Evelyn, whose testimony wherever their patron's rival is concerned is so tainted with gratitude as to be almost worthless. Yet from them he is chiefly judged, though they manifestly will never say a good word for him if they can help it; and the Clerk of the Check at least is never more happy than when he is pouring lively contempt upon his seamanship, his duchess, and his dinners. Monk, however, was secure in the favour of the King and the nation, and, as has been said, it was to him they turned in their trouble after the unsatisfactory naval campaign of 1665. The two admirals had come out of it far from well. Both the Duke of York and Lord Sandwich were accused of cowardice, and Monk had charged his rival with something very like embezzling prize-money. In recognition of their services the prince was told he could not be allowed to expose his life again, and the peer was sent out of the way as ambassador to Madrid. It was, in fact, resolved to supersede them by Prince Rupert and the lord-general. The only question was, would the great man condescend to accept the appointment? After sounding Morice the King with considerable trepidation determined to try. In the autumn Monk was suddenly summoned to Oxford from his post of danger at Whitehall, which with heroic devotion he had never left since the plague broke out. In three days he was back again, and with a throb of delight the country heard that the Duke of Albemarle was to command the fleet next year. Though longing for rest and enfeebled with disease, he had accepted the divided command without a murmur. The only condition he made was that his wife should not know of it till the last moment, for he was sure she would be furious with him for going to sea again. But the appointment was too popular to be kept a secret. The country was confident that nothing could withstand the Duke of Albemarle. The news spread like fire, and the fond old general had some bad half-hours before he sailed in the spring.

On June 1st, while separated from Rupert, he met the Dutch fleet under De Ruyter, outnumbering him nearly two to one. A council of war was called, but the old general's antipathy for cowardice had grown to be almost a monomania. He "hated a coward as ill as a toad," and every officer there knew that the barest suggestion that savoured of prudence would cost him his ship. Of course he attacked, and against such an enemy the issue was a foregone conclusion. After a three days' fight his fleet was cut to pieces. The wonder is that it was not annihilated. It was only by a brilliant display of all his old mastery of naval tactics that he got its shattered remains into the Thames.14

On the evening of the third day Rupert joined him, and on the morrow he staggered out once more in the prince's company. Astonished as the Dutch had been at the reckless daring of Monk with his fleet of wrecks, they thought it impossible for him again to put to sea, and had gone back to Holland to refit. About eight o'clock they were sighted to windward, and at once fell into line and lay to to wait for the English. Monk was for attacking immediately. Up till now he had modestly given way to Rupert's greater nautical experience, but now the prince wanted to slacken sail to let the Blue division close up as it was far astern. Monk flew into a passion, but as even he could not call the daring prince a coward, he had reluctantly to admit that he was prudent. While the gay young Duke of Buckingham, who, not to be out of the fashion, had joined the fleet as a volunteer, was laughing to see Rupert for once in his life on the side of caution, the furious old general was caught quietly loading a little pocket-pistol. It was a curious weapon for a sea-fight, and Monk had been heard to say that whatever happened he did not mean to be taken. It could only be intended to blow up the ship as a last resource. "And therefore," says Buckingham, "Mr. Saville and I in a laughing way most mutinously resolved to throw him overboard in case we should ever find him going down to the powder-room."

The action which ensued was indecisive, but the advantage on the four days was certainly with the Dutch. Still the old general would never admit it. He always maintained he had inflicted greater loss on De Ruyter than he had suffered himself. He did not dream he was beaten. He accused the greater part of his officers, certainly with some reason, of cowardice, and even of treachery. Not above twenty of them, he used to say, had behaved like men; and in unshaken contempt of his brave enemy he set to work desperately to refit and begin again more furious and confident than ever.

The Dutch were out first, and lay in triumph in the mouth of the Thames with a hundred sail. By incredible exertions Monk and Rupert had a like number ready before the end of July, and dropped down the river to meet the enemy. The Dutch retired to their own coasts and the English gave chase. Early on the morning of the 25th the enemy were sighted to leeward. They at once took the crescent formation to await the attack. The English came on in grand order. Every ship took up its position in splendid style, and by ten o'clock the whole line was hotly engaged. Monk and Rupert on the Royal Charles, formerly the Naseby, singled out De Ruyter, but even the boldness with which the Dutch admiral accepted the engagement could not in the least reduce Monk's contempt. The old general stood unmoved on the quarter-deck chewing his tobacco as the Dutch flagship ranged alongside. "Now," said he, "will this fellow come and give me two broadsides, and then he shall run." Two broadsides were exchanged, but De Ruyter did not run, nor yet at the third or fourth. For two hours the kings of the fleets fought hand to hand in Homeric strife, till the Royal Charles was a perfect wreck aloft and had to fall astern. "Methinks, sir," said an officer to the Duke, "De Ruyter hath given us more than two broadsides." The old soldier only turned his quid to say, "Well, but you shall find him run by and by." And so he did at last. Jordan had taken the generals' place, and in half an hour they had bent new tackle enough to engage again. But before De Ruyter gave way he had once more reduced the Royal Charles to such a state that her boats had to tow her out of the line and the generals shifted their flags to the Royal James.

De Ruyter brought off his shattered fleet in such masterly style that little was reaped from the victory. An attempt was made on the following day to renew the action and complete the enemy's destruction. But the wind was gone. The light airs that prevailed were useless to the English ships, while they enabled the Dutch, which were of shallower draught, to reach the refuge of their own shoals and estuaries. However, the English kept the sea, and a few days later were able to land on the island of Schelling, sack the town of Brandaris, and burn a fleet of one hundred and fifty merchantmen that lay in the river. By this one exploit damage to the extent of over a million was done to the Dutch, and the Duke was applauded once more to the echo by his exulting country. All August he cruised in the Channel, making prizes, cutting out merchantmen, and preventing a junction between the French and the Dutch; nor did he return till just in time to receive the King's anxious suggestion that he should come to London to allay the panic which the great fire had created. He was left free to come or not as he liked, and much against his will he came to his master's side. The effect of his presence was immediate, and Lord Arlington considered that by his prompt return he had given the King his throne a second time.

Disgusted as Monk was with the whole war and its indecisive actions; with the weather that always interposed just as he was going to crush his despised foes; with his young gentleman captains who only played at fighting, and knew nothing of the sea but its slang; with the old Commonwealth officers that would not do their duty against the great Protestant Republic, there was yet worse in store for the old patriot.

An empty treasury suggested a change of front for the next year's campaign. The Dutch clearly meant to bleed the King to death with indecisive engagements. In order to rapidly and inexpensively bring the enemy to terms, it was moved in the Council to put the country in a state of defence, lay up the line-of-battle ships, and prey on the Dutch commerce with privateer cruisers. Charles was against the idea, and he was strongly supported by Monk and three others. Negotiations for peace were on foot, and the old general had no notion of treating except sword in hand. But the majority prevailed. The naval ports were directed to be fortified and the dismantled ships protected by booms. The idea was well enough, and had it only been carried out the Dutch might speedily have been brought to their knees; but although twice in the depth of winter the King went in person to inspect the progress of the works for the defence of the Thames and Medway, next to nothing was done. Disorder, insolvency, and corruption paralysed every effort, and after insulting the Scotch coasts, De Ruyter on Sunday June 9th, 1667, suddenly appeared off the Thames and threatened London itself.

A perfect panic prevailed. The banks stopped payment, the beacons were fired, and once more every eye was turned on the Duke of Albemarle. He was hard at work preparing to meet a descent on the threatened counties. Two days before, on the first alarm, Lord Oxford had been sent off to mobilise the militia in Essex, and Lord Middleton to do the same in Kent, while a bridge of boats was being got ready about Tilbury that the horse of either county might be rapidly moved to the support of the other. With the river he had nothing to do. It was under the Duke of York and the Admiralty, and Pett, one of the commissioners, was in special charge of Chatham and the Medway. At daybreak, however, on Monday morning the Dutch were seen at anchor at the Nore. A little later they began to move up the river, and at noon the King sent for Monk. In four hours he was on his way to Chatham with the Guards to save the fleet and dock-yard, and at his heels half the young bloods in London were trailing pikes. As a soldier the lord-general's name had never been so much as breathed upon, and in a burst of enthusiasm a rabble "of idle lords and gentlemen, with their pistols and fooleries," started to their feet to follow the pattern of soldiership, the old Captain-Lieutenant of "Vere's," their fathers' father-in-arms. By night he reached Gravesend. It was practically defenceless. The batteries were unarmed and unmanned, and he decided to halt the train of artillery that was following him at the weak point till further orders. There was time for little more. His rest was disturbed with the sound of a furious cannonade from the direction of Sheerness, and at daylight he hurried on to Chatham.

Here, thanks to Monk's perfect organisation and his officers' high capacity, Lord Middleton was able to report the mobilisation of Kent complete, and the Duke to write off a letter to the King full of cheery confidence as to the result of any attempt of the Dutch to land. But that was the end; the rest of the news was too desperate to tell. Sheerness had fallen, and practically nothing had been done for the defence of Chatham. There was no ammunition, not a gun was mounted, the dock-yard hands had not been paid for months, and in desperation nearly the whole of them had deserted. In the face of stringent orders, the finest ships in the navy were still lying out unprotected in the tideway; most of the officials were away busily transporting their effects in the boats that had been provided for the defence of the fleet, and Pett was panic-stricken. The only obstacle to the enemy's attack was a chain which had been stretched across the river below Upnor, but not a gun had been planted for its protection. There was not even a gun-boat ready to prevent the Dutch removing it.

Monk instantly sent back to Gravesend to order on the artillery, and then hurried to the chain to throw up flanking batteries. It was soon discovered that there were not enough tools for the working-parties. More were sent for, and answer came that they could not be delivered without proper requisitions. Stickler as Monk was for orderly routine, he was no man to see his country strangled with red tape. With a sufficient force he marched to the stores, broke them open, and seized everything he wanted.

His next care was to arm and man Upnor Castle opposite Chatham; and to gain time till the works were complete he ordered ships to be sunk in the channels below the chain. To Pett and the most skilful pilots the work was committed, and Monk went to superintend the progress of the batteries. Five ships were sunk, and then, that no precaution might be omitted, Admiral Sir Edward Spragg was ordered to sound the channels in person to make sure they were blocked. By this time the tide was making fast and the Dutch were advancing on the flow. At the last moment Spragg returned to say he had found a deep channel quite clear. It was too late to stop it. Not a gun was yet in its place. In the extremity of the danger the veteran's old Quixotic spirit was rekindled and set every heart on fire. By the chain lay two guardships which had been stationed there for its protection, together with the Monmouth, which had just been fitted out to join the northern cruising squadron. Unable to witness in inactivity the insult which his old despised enemies were about to put on his country, he determined to man them with his troops. In person he went on board the cruiser, resolved to die in defence of his old flagship the Royal Charles, which lay a little above helpless and dismantled, or at least determined not to survive his country's disgrace. And with him went down into the mouth of death fifty of the flower of England's dissolute Court, transformed for an hour to heroes by the magic of the one stout old heart which knew not how to flinch.

It would have been a worthy end could he and England's honour have fallen side by side. But it was not to be. The newly discovered channel had not been betrayed. The Dutch could not find it, and ere they had cleared a way through the sunken ships the tide was spent. A respite was won, but no rest. Sleepless and untiring the lord-general worked on. Two ships were placed in readiness to sink within the chain, and a large Dutch prize was ordered to block the fair-way between them. Pett was told to get the Royal Charles above the dock by the evening tide, and Monk devoted himself to the batteries.

On Wednesday at break of day he was still hard at work. The redoubts were well forward, but the Royal Charles had not been moved. The big Dutch prize was being worked to its place, but it was only to be clumsily stranded on a shoal, and in spite of all Monk's efforts there was still nothing but the chain to protect the hulks and the dock-yard as the tide turned.

At ten the Dutch, having cleared the channel in the night, came boldly on with tide and wind, and after a hard struggle seized the guardships that Monk had manned. It was a moment of fearful anxiety as they prepared to charge the boom. A fire-ship led the way. It stuck on the top of it. A larger one followed, and with a crash the chain gave way. Then through the very channel that the Dutch prize should have blocked the enemy came on. In a few minutes two more guardships were on fire, and the grand old Naseby which had been launched twelve years ago, "with Oliver on horseback in the prow trampling six nations under foot;" which with changed name had proudly borne the King from exile to a throne; which not a year ago had wrung from Europe a cry of admiration while Monk's own flag was floating in tatters at its masthead,—was a prize in the hands of the Dutch.

"This was all I observed of the enemies' action on Wednesday," wrote the broken-hearted general with pathetic brevity when he reported to Parliament. He turned away—but not to grieve. Resistance and revenge were still his only thoughts. The other three great first-rates he sunk at their moorings, and then the artillery arrived. On the ebb the Dutch fell back with their prize, and all that day and the next morning the work of defence went on. "Courage mounted with occasion." Monk's spirit was upon them, and the fine lords and gentlemen toiled like cattle. They strained at the drag-ropes, they staggered under burdens, and when the hour was come they took their stand with ladle and linstock to work the guns.

When on Thursday at noon the Dutch came on once more fifty guns, besides those which had arrived from Gravesend, were in position, and a furious fire was opened on them. The Dutch stood on in spite of it, and engaged Upnor Castle and the batteries with the coolest effrontery. Between the broadsides English deserters on board the enemy were heard jeering at the Government that had cheated them of their pay, and under cover of the intrepid attack the fire-ships passed on to where the three great ships were sunk. They were still an easy prey. Their upper works still towered above the water. Not a boat was to be found to stop the progress of the fire-ships. Helpless but defiant still, the old terror of the Dutch drew down to the shore, and taking his stand, cane in hand, with his Guards at his back, where the fire was hottest, watched the humbling of the flag which he and Blake and Oliver had raised so high. The fire-ships had soon done their work: the three finest ships that were left to England were a mass of flames; and no ball had come to end the bitterness of the old general's shame.

The Dutch retired with the ebb, and Monk, whom since the morning the anxious King had been summoning to his side to allay the panic in the capital, went up to town. He had saved the dock-yard and two-thirds of the fleet, but it did little to soothe his indignation, and he reached Whitehall at two o'clock next morning storming at those who had rejected his advice to fit out the fleet and treat sword in hand. On his arrival a report was circulated that he had been made Lord High Constable, and the immediate effect seems to have been a restoration of confidence. Something like order and definite purpose was infused into the work of blocking the Thames, and the Dutch thought fit to try and surprise other ports. But everywhere they found to their cost that they had no longer the Board of Admiralty to deal with. The hand of the lord-general was at every point, and wherever they attempted to land they were at once repulsed with loss. They returned to the Nore, but it was only to find that their old enemy had now set his mark there also. Thames and Medway bristled with guns and defensive works, and no further offensive operation was attempted till peace was signed.

Whatever was the fact, the country believed that old George had saved it from invasion and the miseries to which it had been exposed by Charles's treacherous councillors. The Monmouth incident was sung in ballads, and the general was compared to his immortal kinsman the great Sir Richard Grenville. Parliament met in a rage. Ravenous for a scapegoat, they went into committee on the late miscarriages, and the first result was a vote of thanks to the lord-general.

It was but little consolation to the old man. The disgrace at Chatham had been a terrible blow to him, and his tremendous exertions had told upon his shattered constitution. In despair he saw Charles return to the lap of his mistresses, indolent and profligate and careless as ever; and he fell back into the lethargy from which he had roused himself at his country's call. For some time it had been growing on him as his terrible disease advanced with secret strides. The following year dropsy declared itself, but still he clung to his post and occupied himself incessantly with the duties of his office. In the autumn, however, it became so bad, and was so complicated by an affection of the heart and lungs, that he was compelled to retire to Newhall, his seat in Essex, for rest and change of air. The old rumour that he had been poisoned was revived, and caused great anger among the people;15 for in him shone the only ray of hope, the only spark of honesty amidst the night of treachery and corruption in which the country seemed lost.

During the winter he grew worse, but still neglected all precautions. His extraordinary constitution had bred in him a contempt for medicine and an insuperable impatience of the restraints which medical treatment entailed. At last, however, being almost unable to breathe, he was induced to try some pills invented by an old soldier of his who had set up as a doctor. Strangely enough he experienced immediate relief, and by the end of the summer he returned to Whitehall thinking himself entirely cured. Once more he threw himself into the business of State with something of his old ardour, till with winter came a relapse to warn men that his end was near.

Every one flocked to the Cockpit to pay his respects to the renowned invalid and to look once more upon the embodiment of the iron age that was past. Parliament was sitting, and the great strife between the Houses over Skinner's case was at its height. Lords and Commons called on their way from Westminster, and forgetful even then of all but his country's peace, the stout old general, as he sat up in his chair wearily gasping for breath, implored them to come to a good understanding. Sir John Grenville, now Earl of Bath, was assiduous in his attendance, and Gilbert Sheldon, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury, who all through the plague had stood unflinching by the general's side, prayed with him constantly. Even the laughter-loving King tore himself almost daily from the society of Lady Castlemaine to endure for a little while the distressing sight.

Though to the last Monk could not quite believe that his disease had mastered him, yet he viewed the prospect of his approaching death with the same quiet resolution with which he had looked it in the face a hundred times before. He thought he still might live to staunch the bleeding wounds of his country and see its King a man again. But if he might not raise it, he at least could leave it with little regret now it was sunk so low. For years his own life had been a pattern of temperance and chastity, and the unblushing sin with which his great achievement had deluged the country was the source of real and poignant grief to him.

But one desire really bound him to life, and that was to see his son married. Christopher was now a gallant of about eighteen years old, and ever since his father was first taken ill a marriage had been in course of arrangement between him and Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, granddaughter of the Duke of Newcastle. Now at the eleventh hour the business was completed, and on December 30th the young couple were brought to the general's chamber. There beside his chair, as he sat gasping for life, they were married, and the last faint effort of the arms that had lifted a king on to his throne was to take the silly girl he had chosen and place her feebly in the arms of the beloved son she was destined to ruin. It was a tragic wedding indeed, and with it the doom of the ancient house of Monk was sealed. No child blessed the ill-omened union, and the extravagance of the half-witted bride soon drove the young duke to those evil courses which dragged him to his untimely end. The last of his race, he brought his father's name and titles in dishonour to the ground. With the crown of the Stuarts fell the coronet of Albemarle. For by strange irony, as William of Orange was on the eve of sailing to dethrone the dynasty which the first duke had so triumphantly restored, the last duke was dying in Jamaica a broken gambler and a sot.

Happily ignorant of what he did, the dying father resigned himself to the end which was now inevitable. At four o'clock on New Year's morning, 1670, he insisted on being removed to his sitting-room. Just ten years ago in the fulness of his strength he had risen from his uneasy couch at Coldstream to order his vanguard to cross the Tweed on their eventful march. Now as then, it was freezing bitterly, and no fire was alight. Gumble hurried to his side. He saw death in the smile which greeted him, and hastened to read the service for the Visitation of the Sick. Later in the day the Sacrament was administered, and the world knew the great man was in extremity. All Sunday they flocked to take their leave of him in such numbers that it was impossible to keep the room clear for a minute. It was the anniversary of the great day of his life, the Second of January, when he himself at the head of his army had crossed the Rubicon of the English Revolution, and like Cromwell's, his victories seemed to cluster round his head even as Death laid his hand upon it.

All night he lingered clinging to life. Erect in his chair, as the people loved to remember, he defied even Death to make him bend, and at the last received him sitting like a king. To the end he maintained that he would live if only the bitter frost would loose its grip, and till dawn he obstinately held his enemy at bay. Then as the sun rose warm and bright and the frost began to break, the faithful Coldstreamers, who were watching in the silent chamber, heard "a single small groan," and the brave spirit of their chief was free at last.

With his George and Garter they hurried to the King. He received the news with genuine feeling as one that had lost a father. All that he owed to the stout heart that was still seemed to rush upon him like a loud warning from Heaven, and for a moment to rouse the magnanimity in which Monk had always believed. As though he could never reward enough the ungrudging service of his most faithful subject, he immediately despatched his Garter to Christopher, and announced that he should personally arrange the funeral. It was conducted in almost royal magnificence. After lying in state for some weeks in his armour as Captain-General, with his golden truncheon in his hand, his body was escorted to Westminster by the King in person in the midst of a procession which for splendour had only been rivalled at his own coronation, and there in Henry the Seventh's chapel it was laid with the bones of kings. And that no touch might be omitted to mark the exalted pedestal the majestic figure should occupy, the humblest of the great ones who were permitted to grace his last parade was the man on whom his cloak was to fall, the greatest of English generals, Ensign John Churchill.16

But there it all ended. No monument rose to mark the spot where the hero lay. The King was too poor, the new duke too profligate, and the homely duchess died with broken heart while her lord still lay in state. Nor have any been found since save distant kinsmen even to show posterity where he lies. Neither the splendid regiment he founded, nor the army he inspired, nor the country to whom at so slight a cost he restored the priceless boon of monarchy, have thought him worthy of the tribute that has been lavished on so many not more deserving. So the memory of the man the King delighted to honour has fallen a victim to the execration of the visionaries he crushed, to the reproaches of the Puritans he restrained, to the rancour of the unjust stewards he exposed, to the abjectness of the servile historiographers with whom half his career was a subject tabooed, and to the jibes of the profligates with whom he would not sin.

For a biographer to sum up a character so lovable and so misunderstood is almost impossible without falling into exaggeration. It is better that his story should close with a tribute dropped unwittingly from the most unwilling hand that could have penned it. On October 24th, 1667, for the last time the House awarded the sturdy old patriot their thanks for his service; "Which is a strange act," wrote Pepys; "but, I know not how, the blockhead Albemarle hath strange luck to be loved, though he be (and every man must know it) the heaviest man in the world, but stout and honest to his country."

In the sermon that was delivered at his funeral in Westminster Abbey we have the opinion of a great dignitary of the Church who was fully alive to his faults. Careful as he was that he should pronounce no idle panegyric, he blessed him altogether, "He was the best father in the world," said the Bishop of Exeter. "He was certainly the best husband in the world, and he received the requital of faithfulness and love. They twain were loving in their lives and in death they were not divided.... He was the favourite of Parliament, the darling of the Houses. They confided in him. They loved and revered him." And of the King's affection he had as high a testimony to give.

Such abiding popularity as his is a thing not lightly won. It is not for long that a great nation will honour a man unworthy of its devotion. Through ten years of doubt and danger and shifting party-strife he was the idol of the people of England, and if it is asked why we should endorse the verdict of his contemporaries, the answer is plain; he wound up the English Revolution. At the high tide of profit he struck a balance and closed the account. Elsewhere, under stars less fortunate than our own, no liquidator has arisen to do the work which only a man of Monk's inflexible integrity and splendid self-control can accomplish, and there we have seen Revolution drag on a bankrupt existence with ever accumulating loss. From that Monk saved us. It was what Cromwell strove to do and failed, for the hour was not yet ripe. With an exactness which it is impossible to account for or ignore Monk marked the hour when it came, gripped it with confident decision, and the fate of the sovereign who tried to set at nought the English Revolution proves the dull soldier was right.

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh.