declared that he was empowered to speak the sense of his
brethren, and that, in their opinion and in his own, the whole
civil and ecclesiastical constitution of the realm was in danger.

One of the most remarkable speeches of that day was made by a
young man, whose eccentric career was destined to amaze Europe.
This was Charles Mordaunt, Viscount Mordaunt, widely renowned,
many years later, as Earl of Peterborough. Already he had given
abundant proofs of his courage, of his capacity, and of that
strange unsoundness of mind which made his courage and capacity
almost useless to his country. Already he had distinguished
himself as a wit and a scholar, as a soldier and a sailor. He had
even set his heart on rivalling Bourdaloue and Bossuet. Though an
avowed freethinker, he had sate up all night at sea to compose
sermons, and had with great difficulty been prevented from
edifying the crew of a man of war with his pious oratory.31 He
now addressed the House of Peers, for the first time, with
characteristic eloquence, sprightliness, and audacity. He blamed
the Commons for not having taken a bolder line. "They have been
afraid," he said, "to speak out. They have talked of
apprehensions and jealousies. What have apprehension and jealousy
to do here? Apprehension and jealousy are the feelings with which
we regard future and uncertain evils. The evil which we are
considering is neither future nor uncertain. A standing army
exists. It is officered by Papists. We have no foreign enemy.
There is no rebellion in the land. For what, then, is this force
maintained, except for the purpose of subverting our laws and
establishing that arbitrary power which is so justly abhorred by
Englishmen?"32