Edward II. (1307—1317.)

"The greatest of the Plantagenets," Edward I.—his greatest achievements were to kill, and, like a savage to mutilate the bodies of his two immortal contemporaries, Earl Simon de Montfort and Sir William Wallace—was succeeded by his son, Edward II., the smallest of the Plantagenets. After vigour imbecility, alter senility infancy, such are among the frequent sequences of hereditary rule.

It is doubtful if even elective presidents are necessary to the welfare of a state; but compare, for example, the remarkable series of statesmen from Washington to Arthur who have presided over the destinies of the great republic of the West with the contemporary sovereigns of England from mad and bad George III. to Queen Victoria, whom the late Earl of Beaconsfield, in a moment of after-dinner veracity, pronounced "physically and morally incapable of government," and what a contrast! A Washington, an Adams, a Jackson, a Lincoln, or a Garfield were worth the whole spawn of English kings and queens from the Conquest to the present day. Nor is the condemnation of royalty merely comparative. It is positive and essential. Edward I. was a strong king, and Edward II. a weak one, but the more hurtful to the realm was Edward père.

The disease of royalty is the lust of arbitrary power. In pursuit of this unhallowed object, Edward I. bequeathed to his son a damnosa hereditas—a legacy of wrong-doing—which the latter was, fortunately for mankind, unable to take up. On the ever-memorable field of Bannockburn it was not Bruce that conquered Edward the Second; it was the spirit page 34 of Wallace and the principle of free nationalities that triumphed over Edward I. and the outrage of conquest. What Scotland achieved in 1314, Ireland, under altered conditions, is attempting in 1884. Better late than never.

Never was there a more unlucky prince than Edward II. The terror which his warlike father had inspired was at an end after Bannockburn. He became an object of contempt to his subjects. He had favourites—favouritism is a prime vice of royalty—and his barons hanged them. Occasionally, but not often, he was able to hang a stray baron by way of set-off. At last his queen, Isabella, took a trip to Paris, where she openly cohabited with a malcontent nobleman, Mortimer. The virtuous couple eventually got together an armed force, invaded England, took the king prisoner, had him dethroned with every mark of indignity, and committed to a dungeon. Among other offences, he was charged with disregard of good advice!

His treatment by his custodians was shameful. They amused the rabble by placing a crown of straw on his head, and hailing him with a "Fare forth, sir king!" His end was terrible to relate. It was contrived by his wife, her paramour Mortimer, and the Bishop of Hereford. He was thrown on a bed, held down by a table, while a red-hot plumber's iron was thrust through a horn into his intestines, so as to leave no marks of external violence. But his agonized shrieks aroused the whole castle, and a participant in the crime subsequently told the dreadful story. "The divinity" which Shakespeare says "doth hedge a king" was clearly not on duty at Berkeley Castle that night. The pious Bishop of Hereford would doubtless have explained that the only effectual way to get rid of an obnoxious hereditary ruler is to murder him—another testimony to the superiority of the monarchical system of government.