o whom could they look for
a solution of this doubt? Parliament there would be none: for the
Parliament would expire with the prince who had convoked it. There
would be mere anarchy, anarchy which might end in the destruction of
the monarchy, or in the destruction of public liberty. For these weighty
reasons, Barnet, at William's suggestion, proposed it the House of Lords
that the crown should, failing heirs of His Majesty's body, be entailed
on an undoubted Protestant, Sophia, Duchess of Brunswick Lunenburg,
granddaughter of James the First, and daughter of Elizabeth, Queen of
Bohemia.

The Lords unanimously assented to this amendment: but the Commons
unanimously rejected it. The cause of the rejection no contemporary
writer has satisfactorily explained. One Whig historian talks of the
machinations of the republicans, another of the machinations of
the Jacobites. But it is quite certain that four fifths of the
representatives of the people were neither Jacobites nor republicans.
Yet not a single voice was raised in the Lower House in favour of the
clause which in the Upper House had been carried by acclamation, [405]
The most probable explanation seems to be that the gross injustice which
had been committed in the case of Oates had irritated the Commons to
such a degree that they were glad of an opportunity to quarrel with the
Peers. A conference was held. Neither assembly would give way. While
the dispute was hottest, an event took place which, it might have been
thought, would have restored harmony. Anne gave birth to a son. The
child was baptized at Hampton Court with great pomp, and with many
signs of public joy. William was one of the sponsors. The other was the
accomplished Dorset, whose roof had given shelter to the Princess in her
distress. The King bestowed his own name on his godson, and announced
to the splendid circle assembled around the font that the little William
was henceforth to be called Duke of Gloucester, [406] The birth of
this child had greatly diminished the risk against which the Lords had
thought it necessary to guard. They might therefore have retracted with
a good grace. But their pride had been wounded by the severity with
which their decision on Oates's writ of error had been censured in the
Painted Chamber. They had been plainly told across the table that they
were unjust judges; and the imputation was not the less irritating
because they were conscious that it was deserved. They refused