m, and as strenuously
opposed by the other members of the interior council with Caermarthen
at their head. The Queen referred the matter to her husband. He highly
approved of the plan, and gave orders that it should be executed by
the General who had formed it. Caermarthen submitted, though with a
bad grace, and with some murmurs at the extraordinary partiality of His
Majesty for Marlborough, [738]

William meanwhile was advancing towards Limerick. In that city the army
which he had put to rout at the Boyne had taken refuge, discomfited,
indeed, and disgraced, but very little diminished. He would not have
had the trouble of besieging the place, if the advice of Lauzun and of
Lauzun's countrymen had been followed. They laughed at the thought of
defending such fortifications, and indeed would not admit that the
name of fortifications could properly be given to heaps of dirt, which
certainly bore little resemblance to the works of Valenciennes and
Philipsburg. "It is unnecessary," said Lauzun, with an oath, "for the
English to bring cannon against such a place as this. What you call your
ramparts might be battered down with roasted apples." He therefore gave
his voice for evacuating Limerick, and declared that, at all events, he
was determined not to throw away in a hopeless resistance the lives of
the brave men who had been entrusted to his care by his master, [739]
The truth is, that the judgment of the brilliant and adventurous
Frenchman was biassed by his inclinations. He and his companions were
sick of Ireland. They were ready to face death with courage, nay, with
gaiety, on a field of battle. But the dull, squalid, barbarous life,
which they had now been leading during several months, was more than
they could bear. They were as much out of the pale of the civilised
world as if they had been banished to Dahomey or Spitzbergen. The
climate affected their health and spirits. In that unhappy country,
wasted by years of predatory war, hospitality could offer little more
than a couch of straw, a trencher of meat half raw and half burned, and
a draught of sour milk. A crust of bread, a pint of wine, could hardly
be purchased for money. A year of such hardships seemed a century to
men who had always been accustomed to carry with them to the camp the
luxuries of Paris, soft bedding, rich tapestry, sideboards of plate,
hampers of Champagne, opera dancers, cooks and musicians. Better to be
a prisoner in the Bastille, better to