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                           THE LIFE AND TIMES
                                   OF
                            GEORGE VILLIERS,
                          DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.


                  FROM ORIGINAL AND AUTHENTIC SOURCES.


                            BY MRS. THOMSON,


                               AUTHOR OF
              “MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF HENRY THE EIGHTH,”
                      “LIFE OF SIR WALTER RALEGH,”
              “MEMOIRS OF SARAH, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH,”
                                &c., &c.




                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                               VOL. III.

                                LONDON:
                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
                      SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

                                 1860.

                _The right of Translation is reserved._




                                LONDON:
                 PRINTED BY R. BORN, GLOUCESTER STREET,
                             REGENT’S PARK.




                         CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

                               ----------

                               CHAPTER I.

   Death of the Earl of Suffolk--His Address to the Heads of
     Houses--The Opportunity seized upon by the King to make
     Buckingham Chancellor--Indignation of the House of
     Commons--Injudicious Conduct of the King--Vehement
     Debates--Sir Dudley Digges and Elliot sent to
     Prison--Buckingham’s Motives for Engaging in a War with
     France--He endeavours to send away the Queen’s
     Servants--His Fear of losing his Influence--Arrival of
     Soubise and Rohan--The Duke goes to Dover--To
     Portsmouth--Letters from the Duchess--From his Mother--He
     sets sail for Rochelle--His First Operations
     Successful--Care taken by him of his Troops--1626-1627         1

                              CHAPTER II.

   The Delay in Sending Provisions--The Impossibility of
     reducing the Citadel by Famine--The Duke’s own means were
     embarked in the Cause--Sir John Burgh--His Death--Letter
     of Sir Edward Conway to his Father--Buckingham’s Sanguine
     Nature--Efforts of Sir Edward Nicholas                        41

                              CHAPTER III.

   Felton--His Character--Uncertainty of his
     Motives--Circumstances under which he was brought into
     Contact with Buckingham--Motives of his Crime
     discussed--The Remonstrance--The Fate of La
     Rochelle--Buckingham’s Unpopularity--Returns to
     Rhé--Misgivings of his Friends--Interview with Laud--with
     Charles I.--His Farewell--He enters
     Portsmouth--Felton--The Assassination--Original Letters
     from Sir D. Carlton and Sir Charles Morgan--The King’s
     Grief                                                         89

                              CHAPTER IV.

   Character of the Duke of Buckingham--His Patronage of
     Art--His Collection--The Spanish Court
     Described--Collection by Charles I.--Fate of these
     Pictures                                                     137

                               CHAPTER V.

   Patronage of the Drama by Charles and the Duke of
     Buckingham--Massinger--Ben Jonson--Their Connection with
     the Court, and with the Duke                                 183

                              CHAPTER VI.

   Beaumont and Fletcher--Their Origin--Their Joint
     Productions--Character of Bishop Fletcher--Anecdotes about
     the Use of Tobacco--Ford, the Dramatist--Howell--Sir Henry
     Wotton--The Character of the Duke of Buckingham Considered   267

   APPENDIX                                                       321




                               CHAPTER I.

DEATH OF THE EARL OF SUFFOLK--HIS ADDRESS TO THE HEADS OF HOUSES--THE
    OPPORTUNITY SEIZED UPON BY THE KING TO MAKE BUCKINGHAM
    CHANCELLOR--INDIGNATION OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS--INJUDICIOUS CONDUCT
    OF THE KING, VEHEMENT DEBATES--SIR DUDLEY DIGGES AND ELIOT SENT TO
    PRISON--BUCKINGHAM’S MOTIVES FOR ENGAGING IN A WAR WITH FRANCE--HE
    ENDEAVOURS TO SEND AWAY THE QUEEN’S SERVANTS--HIS FEAR OF LOSING HIS
    INFLUENCE--ARRIVAL OF SOUBISE AND ROHAN--THE DUKE GOES TO DOVER--TO
    PORTSMOUTH--LETTERS FROM THE DUCHESS--FROM HIS MOTHER--HE SETS SAIL
    FOR ROCHELLE--HIS FIRST OPERATIONS SUCCESSFUL--CARE TAKEN BY HIM OF
    HIS TROOPS--1626-1627.

                           LIFE AND TIMES OF

                            GEORGE VILLIERS.

                               ----------




                               CHAPTER I.


Whilst these matters were in agitation, the death of the Earl of
Suffolk, Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, afforded the King an
opportunity of evincing his unbounded favour to the Duke of Buckingham,
even whilst he lay under the very shadow of a parliamentary impeachment.

A few years previously, the unpopularity of the Duke at Cambridge had
been manifested by a play, in which his measures were satirized, and
which had been acted by the scholars of Ben’et College.

The ancient discipline of the University appears, indeed, to have so
greatly relaxed, that in 1625-6--in compliance with a letter from the
King--Lord Suffolk had found it expedient to address the Heads of
Houses, whom he styled “Gentlemen, and my loving friends,” exhorting
them to restore order and “consequent prosperity to their University.”

The last sentence had an ominous sound, for there were few cases in
which the King thought it necessary to interfere, in which Buckingham
did not prompt the royal mind to active measures.

Notwithstanding the unpopularity of his minister, disregarding the
public notion that, as the patron and personal friend of Laud,
Buckingham was the patron of Roman Catholics, and in direct defiance of
the impeachment, all the influence of the Crown was employed to procure
the Duke’s election to the office of Chancellor.

That dignity was considered then, as it now is, one of the highest
tributes to personal character, as well as to political eminence, that
the nation could offer. It happened that Doctor Mew, the Master of
Trinity College, was the King’s Chaplain. No fewer than forty-three
votes were obtained by his means; nevertheless, there was a powerful
opponent in Lord Thomas Howard, son of the late Chancellor; a hundred
and three votes against the Duke were secured by him, and with more
exertion, it is supposed, that he might have defeated the Duke’s
partisans.[1]

Footnote 1:

  Brodie, vol. ii., p. 117.

Buckingham therefore was elected: thus did Charles, to use the words of
Sir Henry Wotton, “add to the facings or fringings of the Duke’s
greatness the embroiderings or listing of one favour upon another.” But
the King, in point of fact, was doing his favourite the greatest injury,
by thus marking him out as an object for the justly-aroused indignation
of the public.

His doom was, however, at hand. Whatsoever he may have intended to do
for Cambridge was cut short by the hands of destiny. There remains,
however, a very characteristic memorial of Buckingham in that
University. The silver maces still in use, carried by the Esquire
Bedells, were a present from the ill-fated Duke,[2] whose presiding
office was of so short continuance.

Footnote 2:

  Masters, 137.--Nichols’ “Leicestershire,” iii., p. 200.

It was to be expected that the House of Commons would receive with great
anger this fresh proof of the King’s contempt for their body. Regarding
this election as a reflection upon them, a resolution was passed to send
to the University a remonstrance against their choice. Charles, however,
considering--and with some justice--that this remonstrance would be an
invasion of the privileges of the University, despatched a message to
the House, by Sir Richard Weston, desiring them not to interfere;
inditing, at the same time, a letter to the University, expressing his
approbation of their election of the Duke.[3]

Footnote 3:

  Brodie, from Rushworth.

The Duke’s answer to the impeachment was put in on the tenth of June: on
the fourteenth the Commons presented a petition, praying for liberty to
proceed in the discharge of their duty--and entreating that Buckingham
might, during the impeachment, be removed from the royal presence.

Had the King yielded to a prayer so reasonable and equitable, the fury
of the public might have been appeased. But he viewed the most important
question of this early period of his reign, as between man and man, not
as between a monarch and his subject. Buckingham’s great fault, he
considered, was being his favourite. No criminality could be proved in
any department of his conduct as minister.[4] Nor could Charles, who had
hung over the death-bed of his father, treat with anything but contempt
the accusation of poison. The King believed that all the other articles
of the impeachment were prompted by a resolution, after attacking his
minister, to assail his own prerogative. He had been reared in the
greatest jealousy on that one point, and with the strongest and most
conservative value for the sovereign authority. Charles, accomplished as
a man, was profoundly ignorant and prejudiced as a king: his views were
narrow, and his knowledge of the constitution of his country limited.
His notions had been warped by a residence at the courts of France and
Spain. The immediate effects of a despotic rule are to a superficial
observer imposing. It is only to those who look into the interior
circumstances of a people, and who well consider the tendencies of an
arbitrary government to blight honest ambition, to cramp and weaken the
national character, that its real misery and degradation are apparent.

Footnote 4:

  Hume.

In Spain, with Buckingham ever at his side; in a court full of
picturesque splendour; in youth, with hope and love before him, Charles
had probably forgotten the aching hearts in the prisons of the
Inquisition. In France, the irresistible fascinations of Richelieu had
not, it is reasonable to suppose, been wanting to bias the mind of one
likely to be so nearly allied to the royal family of France. Most of all
those influences that betrayed Charles to his ruin must, however, be
ascribed to the dogmatic fallacies of his father. James had educated
according to his own contracted opinions not only his son, but the
favourite who was hereafter, as it is expressed by Sir Henry Wotton, to
be “the chief concomitant” of the future sovereign of England.[5]

Footnote 5:

  Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, p. 212.

Of late years, before the quarrel with the Commons, the popularity of
Buckingham had increased. The whole scene of affairs had been changed
from Spain to France; the alteration was satisfactory to many, and was
ascribed to the Duke--and he had not only become suddenly a favourite
with the public, but had been extolled in Parliament.[6] This was,
indeed, says Wotton, “but a mere bubble or blast, and like an ephemeral
fit of applause, as eftsoon will appear in the sequel and train of his
life.” The contrast, therefore, between a success so recent and the
present odium into which he had fallen, was no doubt the cause of much
chagrin to the harassed favourite, who seems, like most men of sensitive
natures, to have valued popularity, and to have been fully aware that
his political life depended upon it. He knew that no man could long
resist the force of public opinion in this country. Even in those days,
suppressed as it was by a fettered press, and by the gaunt spectre of
injustice in Star-chambers, it had exploded into one burst of forcible
indignation in the House of Commons. Somewhere the dauntless spirit of
an Englishman must speak out, and it then began to make itself heard in
that great assembly which had hitherto been almost as subservient to
Court influence as the French Chamber of the present day.

Footnote 6:

  Ibid.

The answer of the Duke to the Impeachment was drawn out with much skill
by Sir Nicholas Hyde,[7] the uncle of Edward Hyde, afterwards Lord
Clarendon. Sir Nicholas was considered to be a sound lawyer, and a man
of honourable character. He was a “staunch stickler,” says Lord
Campbell, “for prerogative; but this was supposed to arise rather from
the sincere opinion he formed of what the English constitution was or
ought to be, than from a desire to recommend himself for promotion.”[8]
He succeeded Sir Randolf Crewe, who was suddenly removed from his seat
to make room for one who had no objection to the arbitrary acts by which
Charles endeavoured to support Buckingham, and who was ready to conduct
the war with France without the aid of parliament.

Footnote 7:

  He was the son of Lawrence Hyde, of Gussage St. Michael, in the county
  of Dorset, and of a west country branch of the ancient family of "Hyde
  of that Ilk."--_See Lord Campbell._

Footnote 8:

  Lives of the Chief Justices, vol. iv., p. 381.

The debates which were now carried on with vehemence seemed to produce
little impression on the counsels which incited Charles and Buckingham
to acts of insanity. The chief orators on the side of the parliament
were Selden, Noy, and Thomas Wentworth, member for Oxford, and, before
their commitment, Sir Dudley Digges, and Sir John Eliot. To this list
several others must be added; amongst the most notable were those of
Burton and Prynne. Burton had been one of the clerks of the closet to
King Charles when Prince of Wales, and had been offended by not
accompanying his royal master to Spain, but grew still more indignant at
the preferment of Laud; and by being himself regarded as an “underling.”
He was afterwards dismissed the court for various acts of insolence, and
became, as a matter of course, the bitterest enemy of his late
patron.[9]

Footnote 9:

  Heylyn, 149.

There were now, to use the language of Sir Edward Coke, “two leaks in
the ship,” or State. “Two leaks,” he declared, “would drown any
ship;”[10] yet Lord Campbell, as well as other historians, is of opinion
that had it not been for the attempt to force episcopacy on Scotland,
Charles, and even his descendants, might have continued to rule by
absolute power, until, in the course of centuries, the public voice
might have forced a revolution upon the country.

Footnote 10:

  Lord Campbell, vol. vi., 322, _passim_.

Whilst the levying of a loan, by which Charles hoped to supply the place
of a grant from Parliament, was going on, Buckingham was using every
effort to return to that country where, either as a lover or as a
conqueror, he hoped to see Anne of Austria once more. According to
Clarendon, he had sworn that he would see the Queen in spite of all the
power of France, and that determination had originated the war which was
now on the eve of commencing.

In order to challenge reprisals, since there was no pretence to warrant
a proclamation of war with France, Buckingham encouraged the capture of
French vessels by English ships and privateers, taking the vanquished
vessels as prizes. He began, also, to make his great influence available
by his efforts to lower the French nation in the eyes of the King,
fearing lest the young and beautiful queen should oppose the war. He
endeavoured, it is alleged, to alienate the affections of the King from
the bride of his choice, and to shew her personally every species of
insolence and rudeness. Once, when she did not call upon his mother, as
she had promised to do by appointment, Buckingham entered her Majesty’s
room in a rage; the Queen answered him harshly: upon which he told her
that there had been Queens in England who had lost their heads.[11]

Footnote 11:

  Brodie, after Clarendon.

Buckingham appears to have been in a fever of jealousy; hitherto he had
exercised a sole influence over his royal master. Henceforth, the less
public but more sure sway of an idolized wife would for ever interfere
with his counsels. Infuriated against the French, yet madly in love with
their Queen, Buckingham had only been deterred from returning to France
as a private individual by a dread of assassination on the part of
Richelieu, who had, it appears, entertained that design. Having
persuaded Charles to send back, contrary to treaties, the Queen’s French
attendants, he now drove the inexperienced and irritated Henrietta Maria
to despair; and finding herself in a foreign country, where all around
her were inimical to her religion, and to herself, she passionately
entreated to be allowed to return to France. Buckingham, rejoicing at
the success of his schemes, besought Charles to allow him to conduct the
Queen home. But that proposal, when transmitted to Paris, was
indignantly rejected by the French Court, and the Duke was confirmed in
his resolution to commence a war with a nation which had the courage to
decline his friendship.

His scheme for sending back the Queen’s French servants had been,
however, agreeable in the extreme to Charles--and it may even have been
suggested by the King, who, in answer to a letter from the Duke, writes
to him thus:--“Steenie, I have received your letters by Dic Graeme. This
is my answer: I command you to send all the French away to-morrow out of
town; if you can, by fair means, but stick not long in dispatching,
otherwise force them away like so many wyld beasts, until ye have
shipped them, and so the devil go with them. Let me hear no more answer,
but of the performance of my command; so trust your faithful and
constant friend, CHARLES R. Dated Oaking, 7 Aug. 1626.”[12]

Footnote 12:

  Brodie, vol. ii., note, from Ayscough’s MSS. Brit. Mus., 4161, vol.
  ii.

His former loan of ships to the French implies a more friendly footing
with that nation than these later passages of the Duke’s life may seem
to indicate.[13] It was in fact his dread of any influence stronger than
his own that caused Buckingham to induce Charles to break off the treaty
with Spain; and had instigated his animosity to France. Haunted by the
dread of being superseded in Charles’s favour, there were moments when
his overburdened mind was opened to some humble friends, and the
apprehensions of the King’s regard being alienated were imparted in
agony to a confidant.

Footnote 13:

  Ibid.

Buckingham was also aware of that intriguing and uncertain disposition
in Henrietta Maria, which, in spite of a certain heroism of character
which she possessed, shewed itself in mournful colours in later periods
of her chequered life. The patronage which she wished to divide among
her French followers was also a source of jealousy to the Duke, who had
hitherto disposed of all Court offices to people who would support him
in his state of power, or aid him if he fell. Henrietta was attended on
her arrival in this country by many younger sons of good families in
France, who looked to England as the field where golden honours were
plentifully to be reaped. “They devoured so much,” we are told, “that
all the thrift of Bishop Juxom, who had amassed much, was gulped down by
these insatiable sharks.”[14] Patronage and influence being withdrawn,
the Duke’s ruin must, he knew, be complete. He had nothing to expect
from his country, for he had never considered the interests of his
native land as identified with his own. There were in his mind some
motives of a higher class and a more general nature, although we must
not look for lofty principles of action in those days.

Footnote 14:

  Brodie, from Hacket’s Life of Williams, part ii., p. 96.

The intrigues of Richelieu, who was now Buckingham’s rival and foe,
worked in England through the Queen. The Duke had been overreached by
the Cardinal, and thirsted for open revenge. By denying the troops of
Count Mansfeldt a passage through France, the army of that celebrated
general had perished. There was no doubt of Richelieu’s determination to
extirpate the Protestants, and all promises of befriending them had long
since proved faithless; the Duke, therefore, saw that he had been
compromised, and he resented that superiority in trickery, which it is
difficult for a mind like his to bear. Whilst he had thus been deceived
by France, Buckingham was suffering by the popular cry against
recusants; and the Romish priests, adding to that cry, were enjoining on
Henrietta Maria, as a penance, that she should walk bare-footed to
Tyburn, as a tribute to the memory of the Jesuits, who had been executed
at that spot of sad remembrances. Thus, the cause of the suffering
Protestants in France had become the cause of the people, and Buckingham
hoped to regain his popularity by espousing it--whilst, at the same
time, by sending away the French attendants of the Queen, he should
banish the emissaries of Richelieu. Much of his conduct has been
attributed to the influence of a French Abbot, who was related to the
Duke of Orleans, who was also a violent enemy to the Cardinal.[15]

Footnote 15:

  Brodie, from Rushworth, vol. i., p. 424.

Fortunately for Buckingham’s endeavours to regain popularity, the Duc de
Soubise, who, together with the Duc de Rohan, his brother, were the
great leaders of the Protestant party in France, arrived during the
summer, after the dissolution of Parliament in England. The Abbot, it
seems, who had incited Buckingham against Richelieu, had at the same
time acquainted the Duc de Soubise with the state of affairs in England.
The alliance of these two great noblemen was eagerly accepted by
Buckingham. The Duc de Rohan engaged to supply 4000 foot and 200 horse,
to assist the English on landing in France; which was an enterprize
eagerly coveted by Buckingham.[16]

Footnote 16:

  Letter from Admiral Pennington to Buckingham, State Paper Office,
  inedited.

M. de Soubise had at his command a fleet of twenty-three sail, which was
to proceed at once to La Rochelle, then closely besieged by Richelieu,
and to throw provisions into the town. The English Government engaged to
fit these ships up, to victual them, and to store them with provisions
for La Rochelle. Private information disclosed, however, that these
“ships were miserable rotten things, of little or no force.” Their crews
amounted to 1,261 wretched French sailors, who had neither bread nor
drink till the Duke’s vice-admiral went down to Plymouth.[17] Soubise
had, afterwards, a supply of beef and pork allowed for two days a week;
of fish, for the other four; some small store of butter and cheese, and
some eighteen or twenty tons of cider. This seems to have been all the
provisions for all the ships; and Admiral Pennington, writing to the
Duke, said:--“I wish the Frenchmen had all the rest, for our people will
never eat it, only the best of it.” So like the English now were the
English then. A hundred tons of beer were to be supplied out of the
town.[18]

Footnote 17:

  Letter from Admiral Pennington to Buckingham.

Footnote 18:

  Ibid.

But other unforeseen difficulties occurred, and the greatest was the
want of men. The miserable provisions, or, perhaps, the lingering
presence of the plague, now produced sickness and death among the
seamen; “so that few of the captains,” writes Pennington, “have
sufficient men to bring their ships about.” He begs to have a _strict_
command for the “press” sent him;[19] but even that was of no avail, as
the strongest men fled up the country and hid themselves in the woods.

Footnote 19:

  A request which was quickly complied with, as we find in the State
  Paper Office: “Orders given to impress men for the fleet,” addressed
  to Admiral Pennington.

Then certain merchants, to whom the Lord-Admiral looked for a supply of
ships in war, were unwilling to lend their vessels. They even disabled
their vessels to prevent their being used; and it became necessary for
Pennington, as he stated, to send his carpenters to repair them--and
after all he was obliged to wait for a reinforcement from Ireland.[20]
The poor Vice-Admiral wrote anxious letters, praying that the useless
merchant-ships might be sent away; whilst the others, French and all,
might be well provisioned at once. He entreated that a ship-load of
cordage, cables, anchors, and sails for the furnishing of other ships,
might come forthwith. This was a miserable beginning of an aggressive
war, and Charles must now have seen his folly in having quarrelled with
Parliament. Eventually, Pennington informed the Duke that he was obliged
to discharge all the merchant ships, except a few from Ireland, which
were in good condition.[21]

Footnote 20:

  Ibid.

Footnote 21:

  Ibid.

The situation of the Duke seems, at this moment, to have been truly
pitiable. It has been already stated that he received and answered all
letters himself; and the applications made to him, in his capacity of
High Admiral, seem to have been of the most minute character. Sometimes
among his correspondence we find a letter from Admiral Burgh, wanting to
know what he was to do with some Newfoundland fish which had come into
his possession as Vice-Admiral.[22] Then follow numerous complaints of
the dilapidated state of the forts and castles which ought to have
guarded the coasts. In 1625, however, they were reported to be in a
perfect state for defence.

Footnote 22:

  Ibid.

Often was the Duke addressed as “the most noble Prince George;” whilst
in numerous epistles a tribute is paid to his justice and
circumspection, which would surprise those who take the ordinary view of
his character. His powers and his province were alike important. A Lord
High Admiral was, to use the words of an eminent writer, “one to whom is
committed the government of all things done upon or beyond the sea in
any part of the world--all things done upon the sea-coast in all ports
and harbours, and upon all rivers below the first bridge next towards
the sea.” So far for his powers; the following were among the list of
his privileges:--

“To the Lord High Admiral belong all penalties of all transgressions at
sea or on the shore, the goods of pirates and felons, all stray goods,
wrecks at sea and headlands, a share of all lawful prizes not granted to
lords of manors adjoining the sea; all great fishes, as sea-dogs, and
other great fishes, called royal fishes, except whales and
sturgeon.”[23]

Footnote 23:

  Chamberlayne’s State of Great Britain in the seventeenth century.

Questions arising out of these privileges, and disputes between Lord
Zouch and the captains of vessels, on the subject of wrecks, occur
incessantly among the documents in the State-paper Office, which almost
supply a history of the period.

In the beginning of the year 1626, Buckingham had commenced his naval
operations by sending to impress twenty of the best merchant-ships in
the Thames or elsewhere; “such,” were his instructions, “as shall be
most ready to go to sea, and most able to do his Majesty’s service in
his present employments.”[24]

Footnote 24:

  State Papers, edited, 1626.

The impressment of these vessels does not seem to have been successful
in this instance; and although the captains to command them were
appointed by Government, they found great difficulty, as has been before
stated, in manning their ships.

Great, meantime, were Buckingham’s endeavours to clear the seas of
pirates, as well as to recover that dominion over the narrow seas upon
which encroachments had been made. The Duke now began to be assisted by
Sir Edward Nicholas, whose name appears at this period as the writer of
the Duke’s answers to suitors, and who was evidently regarded with much
confidence by Buckingham.[25]

Footnote 25:

  State Papers, edited, 1626.

Although a fleet of twenty sail, of the king’s ships, and others had
been prepared so early as the 6th of January, 1625-6, for a service of
six months,[26] yet it was not until June that the Duke suddenly left
the court, and, with all the haste of his impetuous nature, went on
board the fleet at Dover so unexpectedly that his secretary Nicholas
could not join him before he set out, but was a few hours too late.
Neither had due preparations been made; shoes, shirts, and stockings
were wanting for three thousand men; the surgeons’ chests were not
supplied with medicines; many of the soldiers’ arms were wanting; the
colonels and captains begged to have new colours; the soldiers to have
hammocks; and it was represented to the Duke that their food ought not
to be so inferior as it then was to that of the sailors.[27]

Footnote 26:

  Brodie (vol. ii., p. 147) says that only ten sail of the hundred ships
  that formed Buckingham’s fleet were the king’s ships; but it seems
  from these letters that the number was much greater.

Footnote 27:

  State Papers, vol. lxvi., No. 19.

The Duke, according to Sir Henry Wotton’s statement, was personally
employed on either element; both “Admiral and General,” there seems to
have been a deficiency of discipline; several murders were committed by
the soldiery, and an enforcement of martial law was recommended.

His haste and secrecy had, perhaps, another object. It precluded those
farewells which are the most touching to those who encounter the chances
of war. In Buckingham’s case, the parting with his wife, whom he might
never see again, must have been mingled with self-reproach as well as
sorrow. He evaded it therefore by flight, notwithstanding a promise that
he should see her again, nay even by an assurance that he should not go
with the expedition to Rhé.[28] This conduct wounded the poor Duchess to
the heart, and it was perhaps these traits of conduct that alienated her
affections, and made her less reluctant to a second marriage than might
have been expected from one of her gentle nature. Buckingham’s apparent
neglect would have been inexplicable were it not remembered how
completely an unhallowed passion for another severs and rends all
domestic ties; and that, long before the links are broken, they are
loosened by the first deviation from duty, even in thought. The
following letters were probably found among the Duke’s papers at the
time of his death, and so conveyed to the State-Paper Office, where they
have remained buried--the words of reproach and sorrow, unheeded and
unknown. They are evidently strictly confidential; but they explain and
excuse, if anything can excuse, the after-conduct of the Duchess. Much
that followed the Duke’s decease is accounted for in this epistle:--

"MY LORD,--Now as I do to plainly se you have deceved me, and if I judge
you according to y^r one[29] words I must condemn you not only in this
hut in your accation[30] you so much forswore. I confese I deed ever
fere you wood be catched, for there was no other likelyhoode after all
that showe but you must needs go--for my part, but I have bine a very
miserable woman hitherto that never could have you keepe at home, but
now I will ever looke to be so till some blessed ocasion comes to draw
you quite from the Cort, for ther is non more miserable than I am, and
till you leve this life of a cortyer w^{ch} you have bine ever since I
knewe you, I shall ever thynke myself unhappye. I am the unfortunate of
all outher, that ever when I am w^{th} child I must have so much cause
of sorrow as to have you go from me, but I never had so great a cause of
greeve as now. I hope God of his mercie give me patience, and if I were
sure my soule wood be well I could wish myself to be out of this
miserable world, for till then I shall not be happye: now I will no more
right to hope you do not goe, but must betake myself to my prayers for
your safe and prosperous jorney w^{ch} I will not fayle to do, and for
your quicke returne: but never, whilst I live, will I trust you agane,
nor never will put you to your oathe for any thinge agane. I wonder why
you sent me word by _crowe_[31] that you wood se me shortly, to put me
in hopes: I pray God never woman may love a man as I have done you that
non may fele that w^{ch} I have done for you: sence ther is no remedy
but that you must go, I pray God to send you gon quickly, that you may
be quickly at home again, and whosoever that wisht you to this jorney by
side yourselfe, that they may be punished for it, because of a greete
dele of greeve to me; but that is no mater now ther is no remedy but
patience w^{ch} God send me. I pray God to send me wise, and not to hurt
myself w^{th} greeving now. I am very well, I thanke God, and so is Mall
and so I bid farewell.--Your poor greeved and obedient wife,

                                                     "K. BUCKINGHAM.

"I pray give order before you goe for the jewells w^{ch} I owe for ...
burn this: for God’s sake, go not to lande: and pity me, for I feel
(most miserable) at this time: be not angry with me for righting, for my
hart is so full I cannot chuse, because I deed not looke for it.

"I would to Jesus that there were in any way in the world to fetch you
out of the jorney with y^r honor, if any prayers or any suffering of
mine could do it I were a most happy woman, but you have send y^rself
and made me miserable: God for give you for it.

"You have forgoten poore Dicke Turpin for all y^r promis to me.[32]

        “26th June, 1627. To the Duke of Buckingham.”[33]

Footnote 28:

  Ibid., Domestic, vol. lxviii., No. 3; see also Preface to Calendar, by
  Mr. Bruce, p. 11.

Footnote 29:

  Own.

Footnote 30:

  Action.

Footnote 31:

  Sir Sackville Crowe, who had been keeper of the Duke’s privy purse,
  and was now treasurer of the Navy.

Footnote 32:

  The spelling of this original letter is preserved here: the
  punctuation alone is altered.

And again, on the sixteenth of June, was sent another epistle, full of
affection:--

"MY DERE LORD,--I was very much joy’d at the receiving y^r leter last
night, and I will assure you I do not only right cheerfully, but am so
in my hart, and outwardly every on may see it, and so they do, for they
tell me they ar glad to see me so cheerfull, and I hop sences. I will
assure you I will not fayle to keep my promis w^{th} you; I hope you
will not deseve me in breaking yours, for I protest if you should, it
woold half kill me: and I give you humble thanks for saying you will
likewise keepe your word with me in the outher mane bisnes,[34] as you
call it. I am very glad you cam so well to y^r jorneys end, but sorey it
was so latt, for Mr. Murey told me it was nine a clocke before you gott
thether. I pray lett me here as often from you as you can, and send me
word when I shall be so hapye as to se you, for I shall think it very
longe, my lord: I thanke God I am very well, so farwelle, my dere Lord,
your true loving, and obedient wife,

                                                 "K. BUCKINGHAM.[35]

"My Lord, for God sake lett some of that money w^{ch} you in tended to
have at Portsmouth to be left w^{th} Dick Oliver, if it be but five
hundred pound to pay Mr. Ward for a ringe and for a cross w^h you gave
to my Lady Exeter: for Jesus sake do this, for I am so hanted with them
for it, that I do not know what to do; if you will but send me 400_l._ I
will dispatch them myself, for I cannot ster for them.[36]

"I beseech you remember my cusin Turpine.

“To the Duke of Buckingham, my dere husband.”[37]

Footnote 33:

  State Papers, vol. lxv., No. 3.

Footnote 34:

  Main business.

Footnote 35:

  Vol. xvii. No. 28.

Footnote 36:

  For the Duke’s creditors.

Footnote 37:

  State Papers, 2, vol. lxvii., date uncertain, No. 60.

This epistle was soon followed by another letter, expressive of great
affection--the poor Duchess begging of the Duke not to deceive her, and
to love no one but herself. “It was impossible,” she writes, “for woman
to love a man more than she did him.” Again she writes:--“beginning to
fear” that some hints in which he had encouraged a hope of their meeting
again before he sailed were but deceptions, and that she should not see
him again, “she was grieved,” she added, “that he had not told her the
truth.”[38]

Footnote 38:

  No. 96, Ibid.

The Duke’s example and presence, however, after all these delays, had so
great an effect both on officers and men, that, on the second of June,
Sir Fulke Greville had to write word from Cowes Castle, that he could,
with a “perspective,” see a part of the fleet in Stokes Bay.[39] The
Duke, meantime, was harassed with difficulties; affairs were far from
being in a satisfactory condition; there was continual difficulty in
getting seamen, and supplies of money were wanting to leave the coast
guarded, to repair the navy, to furnish stores, and to pay the sailors
on their return from Rhé.[40]

Footnote 39:

  S. P., vol. lxvi., No. 14.

Footnote 40:

  State Papers, vol. lxvi., No. 33.

Meantime the town of Portsmouth was gladdened by the presence of the
King, who walked round the fortifications; and, judging for himself of
the ruinous state of the bulwarks, promised that they should be
repaired. It was Buckingham’s intention at this time to build a new dock
at Portsmouth, in order to supersede that at Chatham, and thus to
benefit the naval service incredibly.[41] Charles entered into this
admirable plan. Accompanied by Monsieur de Soubise, the Earls of Rutland
and Denbigh, Lord Carlisle and the Lord Chamberlain, he went aboard
several of the ships, and dined at last in the “Triumph.” At table his
conversation ran all day on the armament, and he asked Sir John Watts,
in his own language, whether “she” (the “Triumph”) “could yar or not?”
The repast went off with great hilarity: the Duke’s musicians playing
merrily, and Archie the fool, and Sir Robert Deale, adding to the
general jollity. Well might the Duchess, nevertheless, mourn at the
departure of her husband. The plague was raging in the fort of La
Rochelle with as much fury as in England.

Footnote 41:

  Ibid., No. 35 and 67.

At length, on the 27th of June, the Duke sailed from Portsmouth. If we
could accept as sincere the good wishes which attended his departure, no
man ever left England with greater assurances of devotion. “Secretary
Conway was ready,” he declared, “to carry his hand all the world cries
for the Duke’s service.” “The Duke’s good works,” he said, “came forth
with a better grace than he ever observed in the acts of any other man.
Besides his own duty, affection, and humble endeavour and thorough
hope,” he “joyed” to consign to the Duke the duty, thankfulness, faith,
and affection of his posterity.[42]

Footnote 42:

  State Papers, No. 71.

Secretary Cope sent a message of good wishes in these terms: “God direct
his ways and his ends, and make them acceptable to himself and all good
men.”[43] Even the Queen, between whom and the Duke there had been so
great a coolness, sent him a letter, with best wishes. Sir George
Goring, writing to his “ever and above all most honoured Lord,” the Duke
of Buckingham, engaged to “keep the Duke safe with the Queen.” The
Duchess could not, however, he said, reconcile herself to his departure,
without one word of farewell; and the Duke’s mother thought a “word or
two in” excuse would revive her much.[44]

Footnote 43:

  Ibid., No. 76.

Footnote 44:

  Vol. 68, No. 18.

It was not therefore, it seems, the departure alone of her husband, but
his neglect, that pained her. Fond, indeed, and true were the hearts
that mourned for his absence in peril. His sister, the Countess of
Denbigh, shed many a tear when she missed the Duke at chapel on the
morning of his departure with the King.

His mother’s blessing was given in these few, but very expressive
words:--

“MY DEARE AND MOST BELOVED SONNE,--Your departure lies grevous at my
hart, being oprest with many motherly feres, and were it not for the
great joy I beheld in your face that presages some good fortunes, I had
bene much worse, but since it must be as it is, I will omit all (with
you) to God’s pleasure, assuring my selfe he that hath done so much for
you, will make you a happy instrument of his further glory, and your
eternall comfort; to which end I will addres all my prayers to our sweet
Saviour Jesus,--being your ever most assured loving Mother,

                                                  M. BUCKINGHAM.[45]

“To the Duke of Buckingham.”

Footnote 45:

  Ibid., 105.

The first letter, written according to the Duke’s orders, by Sir James
Bagg, who accompanied him, to Secretary Nicholas, shewed how unabated
was the impetuous and arbitrary spirit of the favourite. “The Duke,”
Bagg wrote, “is very desirous to have the refusers of the loan sent for
to the council, which will make the western people sensible that Eliot
and Coryten do not only lie by the heels for my Lord’s sake.”[46]

Footnote 46:

  State Papers, vol. lxviii., No. 25.

He set out, however, in high spirits, excited by the change of scene,
and full of confidence in his projected movements. It is agreeable to
find a concern for the comfort and health of the troops, which amounted
in all to between six and seven thousand, under his command. On the
twelfth of July, the “Triumph,” with nineteen great ships of the fleet,
was seen near St. Martin’s, at Rochelle; King Charles’s colours, the
white flag, and the St. Andrew’s cross, in the main tops, being visible
to the dismayed French over in the port; and firing from our ships was
instantly commenced. Whilst these operations were going on, we find
Buckingham writing to Secretary Nicholas, desiring that victuals may be
sent after them with all possible speed; and, above all, to take care
that the fleet be furnished out of hand with London beer; “the beer from
Portsmouth,” adds the Lord-Admiral, “proves naught, and the soldier is
better satisfied with his beer, if it is good, than with his
victuals.”[47] At first the Duke’s expedition was attended with success;
a landing at St. Martin’s point, opposite to Rochelle roads, was
effected, and the French, who attacked the invaders, were driven back
with considerable slaughter. On the 14th of July the troops advanced
inland, and took the small fort of St. Marie, and the town of La Flotte;
on the eighteenth they gained possession of the town of St. Martin’s.
Great praises of the Duke’s valour were transmitted to England, by a
writer who penned his epistle on a drum’s head, near St. Martin’s. The
forces then beleaguered the fort, erecting a battery of twenty-one
pieces of “ordnance.” “The Lord-General,” wrote Sir Allen Apsley, “is
the most industrious, and in all business one of the first in person in
dangers. Last night the enemy’s ordnance played upon his lodging, and
one shot lighted upon his bed, but did him no harm.”[48] “Unluckily,”
adds the same writer, “there was no bread and beer thought of for the
soldiers--wheat instead of bread, and wine instead of beer.”

Footnote 47:

  State Papers, vol. lxxi., No. 43.

Footnote 48:

  Ibid., No. 36.

There appeared every prospect of a long siege, unless reinforcements
from England should arrive to strengthen the Duke’s efficiency. Whilst
the fort held out, the citizens of La Rochelle knew not which side to
take. The Duke, every writer from St. Martin’s agreed, behaved in the
most admirable manner, shewing qualities which no one suspected him of
possessing. “His care is infinite, his courage undauntable, his patience
and continual labours beyond what could have been expected.” Such was
the language of one of Secretary Conway’s correspondents. “Himself,”
continues this writer, “views the grounds, goes to the trenches, visits
the batteries, observes where the shell doth light, and what effects it
works.”[49] The greatest vigilance was indeed necessary, owing to the
carelessness of some of the officers; there was no one of any great
capacity except the Duke and Sir John Burgh--a brave but rough soldier,
whose plain speaking was often offensive to Buckingham. His chief
adviser in military affairs was Monsieur Dulbier, a man of great
experience, but devoid of any striking talents.[50]

Footnote 49:

  State Papers, vol. lxxii., No 18.

Footnote 50:

  Ibid.

Meantime the poverty of the Treasury at home impeded the speedy supplies
for which Buckingham incessantly wrote. It was his urgent necessity that
stimulated the unjust and extortionate collection of the loan--in
default of contributions to which imprisonment was the instant
punishment. Several Frenchmen, also, were about this time committed for
trying to allure Sir Sackville Crowe’s workmen into France to cast
ordnance.[51]

Footnote 51:

  State Papers, vol. lxxii., No. 28.

Disheartened by the delay of the supplies, Buckingham wrote word that he
was making trenches, but, owing to the stony nature of the ground, they
went on slowly, whilst the Fleet was dispersed round the Island of Rhé;
so that unless some speedy succour came, the expedition could scarcely
be benefited by anything that might be sent. The citadel, he considered,
would be impregnable, if once the fortifications were perfected; in its
present unfurnished state, the only way would be to take it by famine.
Already thirty musketeers who had been sent out to get water had been
captured. Toiras, the Governor, was likely “to make the place his
death-bed.” The enemy were strong, and the siege would doubtless be a
long one, but he was confident that the King would not let him want aid.
By the advice of the Duc de Soubise, he had issued a proclamation,
setting forth that the King’s intention was only to assist the
Protestants.[52]

Footnote 52:

  Ibid., No. 29.

But the Protestants in La Rochelle unhappily refused the aid[53] of the
ever-hated English. Louis XII. was ill; the court was divided into
factions: and favourable terms were even offered the Huguenots, provided
that they did not admit the English into the city.[54]

Footnote 53:

  This letter is dated July 28, which contradicts Hume’s assertion that
  the Duke had given the Governor five days respite.--See Hume, Life of
  Charles I., 1627.

Footnote 54:

  Brodie, vol. ii., p. 151.

The Duke, during all this time of deep anxiety, attended religious
service daily, and was, it is possible, the more inclined to have
recourse to the One Source of help and safety, an attempt to assassinate
him having been made whilst he was beleaguering Fort St. Martin. No
impression was made upon the enemy, who were three thousand strong in
garrison. Mines were resorted to; two water-pipes were cut off, and the
besieged were driven out of their outworks; but Buckingham wrote word
from the camp that his army, without a supply, would soon not only be
disabled from continuing the siege, but would lose what they had
gained.[55] His anxiety on this point was expressed in every letter, and
in the most earnest terms, and it was fully responded to by Charles I.,
but still a reinforcement of two thousand men which had been promised
did not arrive. Money could not be raised, and the King was obliged to
wait the issue of “three bargains” offered to him before he could send
out either provisions or men.

Footnote 55:

  State Papers, lxxii., No. 87 and 90.

Nothing could be more vexatious than the position of the Duke. He was
within a distance of what was then three or four days’ sail from
England--his credit, his honour, perhaps his life, were staked on the
relief of the Huguenot citizens of La Rochelle. Forty days,
nevertheless, elapsed without even a message by fisher-boat reaching the
famishing troops, “who were well supplied with wheat, but had neither
means to grind, or ovens to bake it.”[56]

Footnote 56:

  Letter from Sir Allen Apsley to Secretary Nicholas.

It was not until the twenty-seventh of August, two calendar months since
the expedition had sailed from Portsmouth,that arms, ammunition, and
victuals were sent off by Nicholas--“honest Nicholas,” as the Duke used
to call him; but no money came. Of that which was intended for the Duke,
some was raised by his own stewards, but was detained on account of
pressing claims in his own affairs. The want of money was almost
distracting. Nothing could be extracted from the Lord Treasurer
Middlesex; even at home the young Queen Henrietta Maria declared herself
to be terribly incommoded for want of it.

“Send us men,” was the burden of every letter from the camp; and a small
contribution from a quarter little suspected of patriotism was the
answer to this appeal--Lady Hatton furnishing six stalwart volunteers
from Purbeck, clothed and armed from head to foot.[57]

Footnote 57:

  State Papers, vol. lxxv., No. 20.

The Duke’s mother, too, after the manner of mothers, remitted him some
money, and, at the same time sent him, as mothers do on such occasions,
a reproving letter. But, unhappily, she who had implanted the lessons of
worldly wisdom, and those alone, and whose whole life had been a
commentary on those precepts, could not hope to influence her son for
good. She indeed reaped as she had sown. One cannot, however, avoid
pitying the alarm which was soon to be so fearfully realized by the
events which succeeded the fatal enterprize.

"MY DEERLY BELOVED SONNE--I am very sorrie you have entered into so
great busines, and so little care to supply your wants as you see by the
little hast that is mad to you. I hop your eys wil be oppened to se what
a greate goulfe of businesses you have put your selfe into, and so
little regarded at home, wher all is mery and well plesed, though the
shepes be not vitiled as yet, nor mariners to go with them: as for
monyis the kingdom will not supply your expences, and every man grones
under the burden of the tymes. At your departuer from me, you tould me
you went to make pece, but it was not from your hart: this is not the
way for you to imbroule the hole christian world in warrs, and then to
declare it for religion, and make God a partie to this wofull affare so
far from God as light and darknes; and the high way to make all
christian Princes to bend ther forces against us, that other ways in
policie would have taken our parts. You knew the worthy King your
master[58] never liked that way, and as far as I can perseve ther is non
that crise not out of it. You that acknowleg the infinite mercy and
providence of all mightie god in preserving your life amongest so many
that false doune ded on every side you, and spares you for more honor to
himself, if you would not be wilfully blind and overthro your selfe,
body and soule, for he hath not I hope made y^u so great and gevin you
so many exsellent parts as to suffer you to die in a dich,--let me that
is your mother intreat you to spend some of your ouers in prayers, and
meditating what is fitting and plesing in His sight that has done so
much for you, and that honor you so much strive for: bend it for his
honor and glorie, and you will sone find a chang so great that you would
not for all the kinddomes in world for goe, if you might have them at
your disposing: and do not think it out of fere and timberousnes of a
woman I perswad you to this;--no, no, it is that I scorne. I would have
you leve this bluddy way in which you are exept into, I am sure contray
to your natuer and disposition. God hath blessed you with a vartuis wife
and swet daughter, with an other sonne, I hope, if you do not distroy it
by this way you take: she can not beleve a word you speke, you have so
much deseved herselfe: she works carefully for you in sending monies
with the supply that is now in coming, though slowly: it would have bene
worse but for her. But now let me come to my selfe. If I had a world you
should command it, and whatsoever I have ore shall have it: it is all
yours by right, but, alas, I have layd out that mony I had, and mor by a
thousand ponds, by your consent in bying of Gouldsmise Grang which I am
very sory for now. I never dremed you should have neded any of my helpe,
for if I had ther should have wanted all and my selfe before you. I hop
this servant will bring us better newes of your resolutions then yett we
here of; which I pray hartily for and give almass for you that it will
pleas Allmighty God to deret your hart the best way to his honor and
glorie. I am ever

                           “your most loving affectionat sad Mother,
                                                   “M. BUCKINGHAM.

“To the Duke of Buckingham.”[59]

Footnote 58:

  King James.

Footnote 59:

  Vol. lxxv., No. 22, State Paper Office, Conway Papers.

Very different was the style in which the affectionate-hearted Duchess
thus addressed him. The characters of these two women are singularly
contrasted in these letters:--

"MY DERE LORD--Already do I begine to thinke what a longe time I shall
live without seeing you: truly there can be no greater affliction to me
in the world than your absences, and I confese you have layd a very
harde comand upon me in biding me be merey now in y absences, but I will
assure yo nothing can be harde to me when I know I pleas you in the
doing of it, thoughe outherways it would be:--remember your promis to
me, but do not deseve me, for now I believe any thinge you saye, and
love me only still, for it is impossible for woman to love mane more
than I do you, and you have left me very well satisfied w^{th} you. _My_
Lord, I have sent you a letter which I beseech you give to the
Commissioner about my sister Wasington’s deat, because without that my
Lord Savage can do nothing, and the touther is a warrant to Oliver for
the allowances you give her, w^{ch} he refuses to paye w^{th} out
one:--good my Lord, dispatch Dicke Turpin, and I shall thinke myself
infinitely obliged to you for it. I am very well, I thanke God: you
shall be sure to heare often, and do not forget to right often to me and
remember your promis, thus wishing you all happynes, I rest, your trewe
loving and obedent wife,

                                                     "K. BUCKINGHAM.

"Pray remember my duty to my Father.

“To the Duke of Buckingham.”[60]

Footnote 60:

  Vol. lxvii., No. 60, Conway Papers.




                              CHAPTER II.

THE DELAY IN SENDING PROVISIONS--THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF REDUCING THE
    CITADEL BY FAMINE--THE DUKE’S OWN MEANS WERE EMBARKED IN THE
    CAUSE--SIR JOHN BURGH--HIS DEATH--LETTER OF SIR EDWARD CONWAY TO HIS
    FATHER--BUCKINGHAM’S SANGUINE NATURE--EFFORTS OF SIR EDWARD
    NICHOLAS.




                              CHAPTER II.


In spite of incessant appeals to the authorities at home, the end of
August arrived, and no provisions were received at the camp. The Duke
then addressed Sir William Becher, enclosing a letter to be shewn to the
King, stating that, if provisions did not arrive within twenty days, it
would be impossible to detain the mariners at Rhé. Provisions, the Duke
said, were getting low; and the cannon did little harm to the citadel,
which would only be subdued by famine.[61] All seemed of no avail.
“Everything,” as Sir William Becher complained to Nicholas, “seemed to
go backwards.” Even the Duke’s own money, which he had wished to advance
to the victuallers, was still kept back by his stewards; and six hundred
quarters of wheat belonging to him, which he had left at Portsmouth as a
supply, were still in that seaport. One cannot help echoing the
exclamation of Sir Edward Conway, in writing to his father, General
Conway--“If we lose this island it shall be your faults in England!”
Every letter, meantime, spoke of the carelessness of life shown by the
Duke, of the sanguine nature that encouraged others, and of his great
affection to the King, and to the cause he had undertaken.[62] The
difficulties which were encountered in getting provisions together are
almost inconceivable at the present day: the merchants refused to supply
anything that would not yield them fifteen per cent; but at last, Sir
Edward Nicholas prevailed with some Bristol speculators, his friends, to
send provisions, on condition that their men should not be pressed into
the service, and that the vessels should be laden with salt.[63] This
aid was, indeed, timely, for the troops were beginning to consider
themselves neglected and forgotten by their country.[64] And a great
loss contributed to the general dejection. Sir John Burgh, the brave
though uncourtly officer who had quarrelled with the Duke, was shot
through the body in the trenches, and killed. Sir Edward Conway, writing
to his father, thus simply, and as a true soldier, remarks, that “the
sorrow of the Duke, and the honours he doth in his burial, are
sufficient encouragements to dying.” “There was some difference” he
adds, “between Burgh and the Duke, through some inconsiderate words, on
the part of former, which were by the Duke so freely forgiven,” and
through these Conway thought “an honest man and the Duke could not be
enemies.” By Buckingham’s orders the old general’s remains were sent
home, to be interred in Westminster Abbey. “The army,” the same writer
relates, “grows daily weaker--purses are empty, ammunition consumes,
winter grows, their enemies increase in number and power, and they hear
nothing from England.”[65] At length, on the twenty-first of September a
letter[66] came from one of Buckingham’s friends, Sir Robert Pye, who,
whilst declaring that the reinforcements were in great forwardness,
begged of the Duke to “consider the end,” and to reflect on the
exhausted state of the revenue, which was forestalled, he states, for
three years; much land had been sold, all credit lost, and Government
was at the utmost shift with the commonwealth. “Would that I did not
know so much as I do,” added the courtier. Deputy-Lieutenants were
supine, and Justices of the Peace of the better sort willing to be put
out of the commission:--every man “doubting and providing for the
worst,” so that all were in a sort of panic. All these discomforts were
ascribed to the loan, and the loan was the consequence of the projected
war with France and Spain. Too late did Charles, who had hitherto left
everything to the Duke, “knit his soul unto business,” and endeavour to
provide for the fruitless contest.

Footnote 61:

  State Papers, vol. lxxv., No. 53 and 57.

Footnote 62:

  State Papers, 26.

Footnote 63:

  Ibid., 34.

Footnote 64:

  Ibid., lviiii., 65.

Footnote 65:

  State Papers, vol. lxxviii., No. 71.

Footnote 66:

  Edward Conway was the eldest son of the first Baron Conway of Rugby,
  in the County of Warwick, and succeeded his father, an eminent and
  popular Minister under James I. and Charles I.--_Burke’s Extinct
  Peerage._

The month of October proved even more disastrous to the English than
September. Hopes were entertained of a surrender. Two gentlemen from the
citadel came to treat of surrendering; and, after trying to make
conditions, asked leave till the next day to consider them. The night
was dark and stormy; notice was given of the approach of an enemy; the
Duke put out to sea himself, but the barques took a wrong direction, and
the enemy’s fleet of thirty-five barques broke through that of the
English, and the Admiral of the Fleet was taken prisoner. Fourteen or
fifteen of the enemy’s barques, however, furnished with a month’s
provisions, got through to the citadel, which was thus relieved. On
account of the sickness produced by the immoderate eating of grapes, and
also considering the uncertainty of supplies from England, there were
many of the Colonels who now recommended retiring from before Rhé; and
so discouraged was the Duke at this failure, that he was on the point of
going back to England, when an offer from the citizens of La Rochelle to
take a thousand sick into their town, and to send to the camp five
hundred men with provisions, encouraged him to wait for reinforcements.

On this incident the fortune of the whole siege seemed to hinge, and it
must have been extremely tantalizing, when the citadel was on the very
eve of surrendering, to find that relief had been poured into it by the
enemy. No one could imagine how it had been managed. There was a nightly
watch of six hundred boats; the Duke was generally among the men in
these boats, or in the trenches, till near midnight; even the common
sailors pitied his exertions, and felt for his anxieties. Then there was
a battery of seven cannon, that fired upon the very landing-place,
beneath the Fort, besides sunken collies that played on the same spot.
The wind was then fair for Rhé, and the merchant ships that had been
hired were making for the Island; but the others were detained, since no
supplies from England had arrived to enable them to act. In the midst of
all his uncertainties the following letter from the Duchess was
despatched to the Duke:--

"MY LORD--I ded the last night here very good nwse that you had taken
the ships w^{ch} cam to releve the fort, which I hope will so much
discurage them as now they will be out of all hope, and quickly yeelde
it upe, and then I hope you will remember your promise in making hast
home, for I will assure you both for the publicke, and our private good
here in cort, ther is great neede of you, for your great Lady,[67] that
you believe is so much your frend, uses your frends something worse then
when you were here, and your favour has made her so great as now shee
cares for nobody: and poore Gordon is the basist used that ever any
creature was, for now you ar not here to take his part they do flie most
fercly uppon him, but when you com I hope all things will be mended. I
pray say nothing of this, and be sure to burne this leter when you have
rede it. I thanke God I am very well. Mall is very well, I thanke God. I
thanke you for the orange water you sent me, but yett I dare not us it
coming from the Governor,[68] thus praying for your health, in hast, I
rest

                                “your trewe loving and obedent wife,
                                                   “K. BUCKINGHAM.

“10th Octr.”

1627(?)--(_on the back of the original letter in pencil._)

Footnote 67:

  Probably Lady Hatton.

Footnote 68:

  The Governor of La Rochelle, whom the Duchess seems to have
  mistrusted.

Whilst money was thus called for in vain, to carry on the war, the
defences at home were daily becoming more and more ruinous. The castles
in the Downs were in danger of being swallowed by the sea: and water got
into the moat of Deal Castle; the Lanthorn of that fort was wholly
destroyed, the loss of which, being a sea-mark, was a source of bitter
complaint; Walmer Castle was in ruins.[69] Friends there were who wrote
to Buckingham to urge strongly on his attention all that was threatening
the country, and to suggest his return; amongst these the Viscount
Wilmot[70] was one whose expressions were modified by great kindness,
and evident partiality for the Duke; whilst advice came less graciously
from Viscount Wimbledon, whose recent failure must have rendered his
comments on the affair far from palatable.

Footnote 69:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxv., No. 7.

Footnote 70:

  Viscount Wilmot of Athlone, here referred to, was the grandfather of
  John Wilmot, the dissolute, yet penitent, Earl of Rochester, whose
  death has been described by Bishop Burnet.

Before his letter of suggestion and advice could have arrived,
Buckingham had, however, consented to a retreat. The state of despair
into which his troops had been thrown by the reinforcement of the
citadel, and their discovery of the false representations of the amount
of provisions on which the besieged could count, induced him to take
this fatal step. Presently, however, better information was obtained;
and though the sick had been sent into La Rochelle, and the ordnance
embarked, the vacillating Duke again determined to “stay and bide it
out.”

In the midst of this perplexity, on the fifteenth of October, a valuable
auxiliary was sent in the person of Charles, Viscount Wilmot.[71] Lord
Holland also set sail, but the Duke now found it difficult to persuade
the men to await the long promised assistance. “Pity our misery!” was
their cry. The people were “looking themselves and their perspectives”
(as telescopes were then styled) “blind in watching for Lord Holland
from the tops of houses;” yet that nobleman lingered at Portsmouth,
pretending to believe that Buckingham, who, he said, he knew “would stay
till the last _bite_,” might be supplied with victuals from the west.
Then he feared also, as he stated, that the Duke might have sailed
towards home; that he was ill supplied with provisions; and that he
might be obliged to put back into France or Spain. The King, meantime,
was wondering and asking why Holland lingered first at Portsmouth and
then in the Downs? Charles’s impatience was expressed with a force
unusual to his gentle character. Until the eighteenth of October, no one
in England, it appears, knew of the great distress into which Buckingham
and the forces were plunged by the failure of the supplies.[72]

Footnote 71:

  Letter from Viscount Wilmot to Secretary Conway, State Papers, vol.
  lxxx. No. 55.

Footnote 72:

  State Papers, lxxxii., vol. 18.

Whilst the wind was against the Duke’s return, no one could suppose that
he would throw up the whole end of the expedition, and sail homewards;
yet reports of his preparing to do so continually got abroad, as may be
seen from the following letters from the Countess of Denbigh,
Buckingham’s only sister, by whom he was much beloved:--

“MOUST DEERE BROTHER--I hope these nue supplys will give you such
advantage to you, that your busines will be ended to your honer and
contentment. I pray be not be to hasty to ingage your selfe in any other
afares till you see howe you shall be supplyed. I would you could but
see our afares here: wee ar sometymes for Ware, some tymes a showe of
Peace: poor I must be patiend: I have much to speeke to lett you knowe
of all particulars, but I am a bad relater of thinges. I will promis you
to play my part in patience, and when you com you well not be lede away
with them that doth not love you, and be false to you and all yours. I
pray God to bles you: forgit not to rede of the booke I gave you, and if
you will take phisick this fall of the leafe you shall do very well, so
I take my leave.

                                                    “your loving sister,
 “20th Octr. 1627.                                    SU. DENBIGH.” [73]

“To the Duke of Buckingham.”

Footnote 73:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxii. 39.

“MOUST DEERE BROTHER--I hope you will be sure of supplyes before you
undertake to go to Rocchell, for ether ther hath beene some grate
mistake or neglicte: that you [should have beene] in any distrecs,
it doth grefe my very hart and sole. I heare you have beene in great
wantes, but I hope before this you are released. I pray be not to
venterus, and I hope you well not forgit the booke I gave you, to
looke over it often, at the leaste morning and evening, so with my
best love, I take my leave.

                                                   “your loveing sister,
 “26th Octr. 1627.                                         SU. DENBIGH.”

“To the Duke of Buckingham, my deere Brother.”[74]

Footnote 74:

  Vol. lxxxiii, No. 3.

It must have been peculiarly aggravating, amidst the anxieties of
the Duchess and Lady Denbigh, to find that all the Duke’s
perplexities, privations, and sufferings had not in the slightest
degree mitigated his unpopularity at home. It must have been still
more irritating to know that, whilst the troops before St. Martin’s
Fort were in a state of starvation, there was the greatest disorder
and carelessness in sending the supplies. “There is,” Lord Wilmot
wrote to Conway, “neither commissary of victuals, nor any one to
give account of arms. They find one thousand muskets, but no pikes
nor armour.” Meantime the Duke’s army were in want of clothes, and
mostly went barefoot.[75] Then Lord Holland, when at last on board
the fleet, complained that there was no one officer or creature who
could tell what there was aboard the provision ships, five of which
were Dutch, and might steal away at any moment. There seems to have
been neither patriotism at home, in regard to this expedition, nor
honour in allies, nor even common honesty in the commanders of hired
vessels.

Footnote 75:

  Letter from Lord Wilmot to Secretary Conway, State Papers, No. 45.

For several days the wind continued contrary to Lord Holland’s
departure from Plymouth. The twenty-sixth of October had arrived,
and the Duke, as it appeared from private letters, had "stayed it
out till the last bit of bread:"--such is the expression of John
Ashburnham, a devoted partisan of Buckingham’s: fears were even
entertained that the fleet and army were lost; then “such a rotten,
miserable fleet set out to sea as no man ever saw;” “our enemies,”
Ashburnham adds, “seeing it, may scoff at our nation.” Lord Holland,
who had been expected by the Duke on the fifteenth, was still
waiting for a fair wind at Plymouth on the twenty-seventh,[76]
employing himself there in trying to expedite recruits, and to send
out a Scottish regiment. “In his responsibility” (as he wrote to the
King) "he had provided two or three hundred live sheep, to go out
for the sick men, who die for want of fresh meat;"--“three thousand
pairs of stockings for the men in the trenches; physic also, and an
apothecary.” Despair, however, possessed all minds; and a report now
began to disquiet even the sanguine, stating that the French were
landing an army on the Island of Rhé. The report was true; one fatal
mistake had been made by Buckingham--he had left the fort of St. Pré
unmolested.

Footnote 76:

  State Papers, No. 3 and 8.

This castle, seated, as its name bespeaks, in a meadow, had appeared
too paltry a conquest to the sanguine and impetuous Buckingham, when
he had first landed at Rhé. He had passed it untouched, but it was
now well garrisoned with French troops from the mainland; still its
importance was not fully comprehended until the fatal moment came
for a retreat from before Fort St. Martin. It is evident that the
Duke had overlooked that which should have been a preliminary step
in his march; and that his attention had been distracted by an
undertaking too arduous for a man whose life had been passed in a
very different battle-field from that on which he now ventured his
fortunes. Hitherto, he had been a mere civilian, knowing nothing of
war, but in the Tourney--nothing of nautical matters, but in
gala-vessels, or some favourite ship; and little of the sea, but on
maps. Well might his mother caution him not to engage in too “great
business;” it was not, in his case, an idle warning, but desperation
had impelled him to make the fatal experiment of being at once
General and Admiral in a contest with warriors so perfect as the
French. Had he been reinforced in good time,--had the measures at
home been directed by energy, or even by good faith merely---the
events which so overclouded his later actions with a shade of shame
might not have happened. From the moment when the French occupied
the Fort St. Pré, the game was, however, virtually lost.

Meantime, Charles I., it is manifest from his letters to Lord
Holland, was beginning to be seriously displeased with the
negligence of the Commissariat Department. He was also desirous of
impressing Lord Holland, not only with the great importance of the
result of the expedition, but likewise of his anxiety for the safety
of the Duke, “to whom,” the King writes, “whosoever does the best
service is the most happy, be it for life or death.”[77]

Footnote 77:

  State Papers,--Letter of Secretary Conway to the Earl of Holland,
  vol. lxxxiii., No. 12.

So late as the latter end of October, Buckingham was resolved either
to stay in the island if supplies came,--or, if they did not arrive,
to put himself and the army into La Rochelle, and “run their
fortune.”[78] This was his last resolution. At one time he had fully
determined on leaving, for some of his soldiers were barefooted:
others were sick of the siege, and had neither bread, meat, nor
beer; but the Duc de Soubise had re-assured him, and, promising
eight hundred men from La Rochelle, had encouraged Buckingham to
decide on scaling the Fort St. Martin.[79] Meantime, Lord Holland
did not appear: he was still at Plymouth. Contrary to the advice of
the mariners, he had forced the whole fleet out of the Catwaters
into Plymouth Sound; but it was driven back by the “cruellest
storms” of twenty hours’ duration that had ever been known. Great
damage was done: it was now necessary to stay to repair the crazy
ships--the wind, as Lord Wilmot expressed it, “did so overblow.” The
violence of the elements, and the knavery or indifference of man,
seemed combined to keep back aid from the hungry soldiers in the
Island of Rhé, and to ruin their general.

Footnote 78:

  Ibid., No. 17.

Footnote 79:

  Ibid., No. 27.

Perhaps the best, or, as many persons think, the only excuse for
Buckingham in the step he eventually took, is contained in a
touching letter from Sir Allen Apsley to “Honest Nicholas.” Apsley,
described in one of the letters from the camp as “very sick and
melancholy,” dates his letter “from his sick and lately senseless
bed on board the Nonsuch.”[80] “No man,” he begins by saying, “has
he more cause more faithfully and more affectionately to love than
Nicholas.” “His soul melts with tears to think that a State should
send so many men, and no provision at all for them. But for
Nicholas’s provision, through merchants, they had been miserably
starved long since.” He then goes on to relate that “there were
about five thousand seamen and four thousand landsmen in great
distress for meat and drink. The army had already lost four thousand
men, and all their commanders.”

Footnote 80:

  State Papers. The letter is dated Nov. 1, 1627. Vol. lxxxiv., No.
  1.

A sort of responsive testimony to the Duke’s sufferings, and to the
cruel neglect of the authorities at home, is conveyed in a letter
from William, Earl of Exeter, to Buckingham. “What cannot be
obtained by your courage,” writes the descendant of the great
Burleigh, “must in the end be submitted to your patience.” If the
Duke “sowed onions, he would be sure of onions; if he sowed men,
they are in danger, for the most part, to come up ingrates.” “The
indolence,” he adds, “which his highness has cause to resent, is as
great infidelity as is that of commission.” Then he cites examples
of great generals, who, without loss of honour, abandoned
enterprizes which could not be accomplished; what the Duke had
already done was, he said, “miraculous.”[81]

Footnote 81:

  State Papers, Ibid., Nov. 16. Dated London, Nov. 3.

Neither did the Duke receive any encouragement to remain, even from
one of his best friends, Sir George Goring, the faithful adherent in
the great rebellion of Charles I.[82] Goring had, in a former
letter, represented to the Duke how futile would be any dependence
on supplies; for the “City,” he wrote, “whence all present money
must now be raised, is so infected by the malignant part of this
kingdom, that no man will lend any money upon any security, if they
think it will go the way of the Court, which is now made diverse
from the State--such is the present distemper.” The King, it was
said, might choose to break all his bonds, “and then, when should
they be paid?” Under these circumstances, Goring strongly advised
the Duke to return home, and “to curb the insolence of the French
some other way.”[83]

Footnote 82:

  He was afterwards successively Baron Goring and Earl of Norwich;
  his son, General Goring, whose character is so ably drawn by
  Clarendon, pre-deceased his father by two years; both titles
  became extinct in 1672.--_Burke’s Extinct Peerage._

Footnote 83:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxiv., No. 20.

On the very day on which this letter was written, a newsletter,
dated on board the Triumph, in the Road of Rhé, announced that the
embarkation of the troops had already taken place. La Rochelle had
by that time been completely blockaded by the French--too late it
had declared for the English. For the safety of that city it was
essential that Buckingham should remain; but, although he has been
almost universally condemned for retiring, it is evident that the
want of provisions, and the delay of reinforcements from England,
extenuate, if they do not wholly justify, that step. He had now been
expecting Lord Holland’s arrival for nearly a fortnight, and Lord
Holland was still at Teignmouth--having been again driven back by
contrary winds.[84]

Footnote 84:

  Nov. 6.

During all this time, no words could describe all the distress of
mind suffered by Buckingham better than those of his biographer and
attached adherent, Sir Henry Wotton. “In his countenance, which is
the part that all eyes interpret, no open alteration,” even after
his reverses, could be detected, but the suppressed feelings were
the more poignant for that disguise.

“For certain it is,” adds Sir Henry, “that to his often-mentioned
secretary, Dr. Mason, whom he had in pallet near him, for natural
ventilation of all his thoughts, he broke out into passionate
expressions of anguish, declaring, in the absence of all other ears
and eyes, ‘that never his dispatches to divers princes, nor the
great business of a fleet, of an army, of a siege, of a treaty, of
war, of peace, both on foot together, and all of them in his head at
a time, did not so much trouble his repose as a conceit that some at
home, under His Majesty, of whom he had well deserved, were now
content to forget him.’”[85]

Footnote 85:

  Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, p. 227.

Wotton partly ascribes the Duke’s failure to one cause--an
improvident confidence, brought with him from a Court where fortune
had never deceived him. Besides, he adds, “We must consider him yet
but rude in the profession of arms, though greatly of honour, and
zealous in the cause.”

By others he is considered to have committed an error in not having
first attacked the Isle of Oléron, which was not only weakly
garrisoned, but well supplied with wine and oil, and other
provisions. But his great mistakes arose from his impulsive
nature--a disposition often the concomitant of energy. Without
waiting for the advice of Soubise, he had invested St. Martin’s; in
marching to St. Martin’s, he had overlooked the Meadow Castle, as
St. Pré was called by his soldiers; and that fort was now the chief
impediment to his retreat.

Having been urged in vain by Soubise to remain, Buckingham aimed one
last blow. He attempted to storm Fort St. Martin. He was perhaps
incited to this rash and fruitless act by the taunting conduct of
the besieged, who, knowing that he intended to starve them into
submission, hung provisions on the walls. No breach was made, and
the assault had no other result than the loss of soldiers. A retreat
was then decided on. The forces could not now return by St. Pré, and
a new route was to be taken. A causeway amid deep salt-marches was
their only choice; and this causeway, or mound, was terminated by a
bridge that joined to Rhé the second island of Vié. Here no fort to
protect the bridge had been erected, and there was therefore no
passage over to Vié. The French had all this time been close in
pursuit. Buckingham was in the rear, and, as a contemporary
observed, “had like to have been snapped,”[86] if he had not ridden
through the troops on the narrow causeway, where more than eight or
ten could not ride abreast. It was not until the English had reached
the Island of Vié that the French chose to attack them; then the
delay of forming a bridge gave the pursuers time to make their onset
with an advantage they could not have had on the causeway, where a
handful of men might have set at defiance a host. The French drove
the English horse on Sir Charles Birch’s regiment of foot, and both
he and Sir John Radcliffe were killed. A hot skirmish ensued. “Our
men,” says a newsletter, “spoiled one another, and more were drowned
than slain. The Duke was the last man in the rear, and carried
himself beyond expression bravely.”[87] Ultimately the bridge was
made good, and on the following day the embarkation of the
crest-fallen English was safely effected. Buckingham was of course
blamed by one faction, and excused by the other, for this failure.
Denzil, afterwards Lord Holles, the great leader of the Presbyterian
party, a man who, during his whole life, never changed sides,
censured him in forcible terms, quoting the words of one whom he
styles “a prophet of their own sides,” in saying that the enterprize
was “ill begun, badly carried on, and the result accordingly most
lamentable.” “It was a thousand to one,” Holles adds, “that all our
ships had not been lost.” Ten days’ provision alone remained; when
that was exhausted the Duke must have submitted to the enemy.[88] No
one disputed Buckingham’s courage; he brought back, as Hume
expresses it, “the vulgar praise of courage and personal bravery.”
He was justly, nevertheless, condemned for the risk he ran in the
retreat; for, it was said, had the General been lost, what would
have become of the troops, who had retreated in disorder?

Footnote 86:

  Letter of Denzil Holles to Sir Thomas Wentworth. Strafford
  Letters, vol. i., p. 42.

Footnote 87:

  News Letter, State Papers, Ibid., No. 24.

Footnote 88:

  Strafford Letters.

The letters in the State-Paper Office, to which reference has been
made, though they do not refute the charge that the enterprize was
“ill begun,” exonerate Buckingham, nevertheless, from much blame: he
had every reason to expect reinforcements, for which he was
continually begging; no Commander-in-Chief was ever left in a
predicament more cruel; and he was justified in retiring by the
certainty that provisions must soon fail, and the uncertainty of any
fresh supply from the tardy and corrupt authorities at home.

The confusion in the retreat was stated to be such that “no man,”
Denzil Holles wrote, “can tell what was done, nor no account can be
given how any man was lost--not the lieutenant-colonel how his
colonel, nor lieutenant how his captain, which was a sign that
things were ill carried.” “This every man alone knows--that since
England was England, it received not so dishonourable a blow.”

The loss was indeed severe; thirty standards had been taken, but
more lost; four colonels killed, and about two thousand of our men
perished during the retreat.

On the tenth of November the fleet left Rhé, and on the twelfth it
was seen in Portsmouth Roads, Buckingham’s ship, the Triumph, being
distinguished. The Duke, however, who was returning home under such
painful circumstances, was not in that vessel. As the fleet neared
Plymouth, he quitted his ship, and, getting into a ketch, went into
the port, in order to gather some account why the succours so long
expected at St. Martin’s had never arrived. He had also another step
to take--that of sending off an immediate despatch to the King, in
order that His Majesty might be apprized by himself alone of the
great loss and failure incurred in the attempt on Rhé. The messenger
was sworn, on forfeiture of his head, to secrecy.[89]

Footnote 89:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxv., No. 56 and 57.

“Charles received the news,” Conway wrote, in reply, “with the
wisdom, courage, and constancy of a great king, and has declared so
much kingly justice and goodness, with affection, to the Duke, as
renders his grace, in the king’s judgment, and in the opinion of all
those who heard him, clear from all imputation, and honoured by his
actions: all guiltiness remaining upon this State for whatsoever
fault or misconduct is come to that army.” Considering the delay in
sending succour, the event was thought to have been better than
could have been expected.[90]

Footnote 90:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxv., No. 67.

A letter soon followed from Sir Edward Nicholas, informing the Duke
that, six weeks ago, the state of provisions at Rhé was mentioned to
the King and the Lords, “but was not credited.” He recommended his
patron to do nothing until after his arrival in London: all things
were at a stand, he says, until the Duke should give them “life and
direction.” Secretary Conway, in a letter to his son, even “joyed”
to find so few had been killed, and so little, “in point of honour,”
lost, taking the greatest loss to be in the quality of some half
dozen persons.[91]

Footnote 91:

  Ibid., No. 74.

Three days after the Duke had landed at Plymouth, the Duchess wrote
to him:--

"MY LORD--Sence I hurd the newse of thy landing I have bine still
every hower looking for you, that I cannot now till I see you sleepe
in the nights, for every minite, if I do here any noyes, I think it
is on from you, to tell me the happy newes what day I shall see you,
for I confese I longe for it w^{th} much imptience. I was in great
hope that the bisnes you had to do at Portsmouth wood a bine don in
a day, and then I should a seene you here to-morrow, but now I
cannot tell when to expect you. My Lord, there has bine such ill
reports made of the great lose you have had by the man that came
furst, as your frends desiers you wood com to clere all w^{th} all
speede: you may leve some of the Lords there to se what you give
order for don, and you need not stay yourself any longer:--this,
beseeching you to com hether on Sunday or Munday w^{th}out all
fayle. I rest yours,

                                     “true loving and obedent wife,
                                                     “K. BUCKINGHAM.

"Mr. Maule desires you to com to the King, though you stay but on
night, for they were never so busie as now.

“To the Duke of Buckingham.”[92]

Footnote 92:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxvi., No. 80.

Many were the welcomes offered to the Duke on his return. Henry,
Earl of Manchester, “hoped that God had preserved him to add to his
honour;” and begged him not to be discouraged, for no captain nor
general could play his part better; Sir James Bagge declared that
the Duke was “dearer to him than children, wife, or life;” and Mr.
Mohun and Sir Bernard Granville “will put down their lives and
fortunes,” they wrote, “at the Duke’s feet.”[93]

Footnote 93:

  State Papers, vol. lxxxvi., No. 93.

It seems, however,from the following letter--half reproachful, yet
ever affectionate--that some time passed before the Duke saw his
wife, and that even then he had thoughts of returning to Rhé:--

"MY DERE LORD--I was in great hope by on of your leters that I
should a hade the happynes to a sene you this weeke, but sences I
have not had it confirmed by any more, and in this I received by my
lady’s mane I was in hope wood a tould me sartanly when I should a
had the happnes to a sene you, but your leter not saying on worde
makes me begine now to fere that you have but deceived me all this
whill in giving me assurances that you deed not, and now I begine to
be much greeved that you wood not a tould me the truth; but yet I
cannot absolutly dispare, because I hope you will yett be as good as
your word, for I confese, if you should go, I should not have a
stout hart. My Lord, these too cusens of yours desires you to accept
of there servis, and lett them go w^{th} you, for thay had rather
venter ther lives w^{th} you than stay behind, but I hope you will
put them in some way for ther advancement, for thay deserve very
well, and I hope will till the last. I am very well, I thanke God,
and ever

                            “your trewe loving and obedent wife,
                                                 “K. BUCKINGHAM.[94]

“To the Duke of Buckingham.”

Footnote 94:

  State Papers, vol. lxvii., No. 96--Conway Papers.

It is a terrible state when esteem and affection are opposed; for,
in a woman’s heart the latter is sure to gain the ascendancy.
Allowance must, however, be made for the Duke’s almost overwhelming
occupations at this time, and for the harassed state of his mind,
which prevented him writing to his wife.

Upon arriving in Plymouth, Buckingham, however, experienced a
greater act of friendship than any mere welcome in words. The
warmest and most estimable of his friends was Sir George Goring, one
of those true-hearted Cavaliers of whom Englishmen of every party
may be truly proud. To Goring the Duke left, in some measure, the
care of his mother, when he sailed for La Rochelle. Goring’s
blessings had followed the Duke on his voyage. “My dearest Lord,”
are the terms in which Goring addressed him; and he showed that he
was, as he himself wrote, faithful in every point to him for whom he
professed friendship.

The incident which now occurred rests on the authority of Sir Henry
Wotton, the long-trusted servant of James I., and the devoted
adherent of Buckingham, by whose influence he had been made Provost
of Eton.

Scarcely had Buckingham set off from Plymouth, on his way to London,
than a messenger, sent in haste from Goring, warned him not to take
the usual road, for that his friend had authentic information that a
design upon his life would be attempted on his journey. The Duke
received the letter when on horseback, and, crushing it into his
pocket, without the slightest sign of apprehension, rode on. He was
attended by seven or eight gentlemen only; and they were merely
provided with the swords they usually wore, and had no other means
of defence. There was one among them, however, who was personally
bound to the Duke by ties of kindness and affection; this was his
nephew, the young Lord Fielding, the son of that sister who had wept
when she saw that the Duke was not at chapel with the King. The most
cordial union, indeed, existed between all the members of the
Villiers’ family; and they were bound by gratitude as well as by
affection to the Duke.

The party rode on, when, about three miles from the town, they were
stopped by an aged woman, who came out of a house on the road, and
asked “whether the Duke were in the company?” Buckingham was pointed
out to her; and she then, coming close up to his saddle, told him
that in the very next town through which he was to pass she had
heard some desperate men “vow his death;” she therefore advised him
to take another road, which she offered to show him.

This circumstance, added to the warning letter sent by Goring,
greatly impressed those around the Duke; and they entreated him to
take the old woman’s advice. But whether from his usual recklessness
of consequences, or from an idea that his showing fear would provoke
taunts from his enemies, does not appear; the Duke obstinately
refused to comply. And yet this “strange accident,” as Wotton calls
it, was the more remarkable, as it was a sort of prelude to his
fate, and in itself was of importance to a man whose unpopularity
before he left England was now, at his return, tenfold more general
than it had ever been during his career.

As they were disputing, the Duke still resolute, his young nephew,
Fielding, went up to him, and entreated him to honour him by giving
him his coat and the blue ribbon of the Garter, that he might wear
them through the town; and he urged his request by pleading that the
Duke’s life, in which the welfare of the whole family was concerned,
was the most “precious thing under Heaven.” He declared that he
could so muffle himself up in the Duke’s hood, in the way his uncle
was accustomed to do in cold weather, that no one could fail to be
deceived--so that, attention being withdrawn, the Duke would be able
to defend himself.

The Duke caught the noble-spirited youth in his arms, and kissed
him. “Yet,” he said, “he would not accept that offer from a nephew
whose life he valued as he did his own;” then rewarding the poor
woman for her good-will to him, he gave orders to his retinue how to
act in case of attack, and rode calmly onwards.

Scarcely had he entered the town, when a half-drunken soldier caught
hold of his bridle, as if he wanted to beg; instantly a gentleman of
the Duke’s train, though at some distance, rode up, and, with a
violent thrust, severed the man from the Duke, who, with the others,
galloped quickly through the streets. Either from his usual
indifference to danger, or fearing, as Sir Henry Wotton says, to
“resent discontentments too deep” to be allayed, no notice was taken
of this incident of Buckingham’s journey to London,[95] nor any
inquiries made as to the projected assassination.

Footnote 95:

  Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, p. 230.

On his return to Court, the king received him graciously; no change
appeared in the outward demeanour of those who met him; but his
horse regiment had been composed of the sons of the noblest families
in the land, and smothered regrets for the loss of “such gallant
gentlemen” were as prevalent amid the higher classes, as deep
resentment was in the indignant and vehement lower orders of
society.

“The effects of this overthrow,” Lord Clarendon observes, “did not
at first appear in whispers, murmurs, and invectives, as the retreat
from Cadiz had done; but produced such a general consternation over
the face of the whole nation, as if all the armies of France and
Spain were united together, and had covered the land.”[96]

Footnote 96:

  Clarendon, vol. i. p. 40-1.

Charles was, however, resolved to see no fault in his favourite, to
acknowledge no disgrace; with a confidence in the Duke that would
have done honour to a private friendship, he wrote to him, saying,
that with “whatever ill success he came, he should ever be
welcome--one of his greatest griefs being that he was not with him
in that time of trial, as they might have much eased each other’s
griefs.” Adding, that the Duke “had gained, in his mind, as much
reputation as if he had performed all his desires.”[97] The terms on
which they stood towards each other were those of one young man
towards another--his companion in pleasures and pursuits, his
fellow-traveller, his confidant--not those existing between a
sovereign and a trusted subject, amenable to public opinion.

Footnote 97:

  State Papers, vol lxxxv., No. 10 and 11.

The step which Buckingham took, on his arrival in London, was to ask
immediately for a public audience with the King and Lords in
Council. Then he plunged at once into the subject about which the
country was in a ferment. He “delivered a clear account of the
passages, descending even to the good and bold actions of private
soldiers.” He extolled the patience of the army, and “the fair
opportunity offered of turning their sufferings into glory, if their
virtue had been seconded with the power and succours designed for
it.” He named every officer in terms of great praise; and if both
officers and men were sensible of “the honours and obligations done
them by the Duke, they would,” Conway wrote, “live with their
swords, or die with them in their hand, to pay him that duty.” The
King, also, put the “right interpretation on the Duke’s actions.”
This open way of forestalling criticism, and, perhaps, impeachment,
was certainly as sagacious as it was fearless.

The Duke, before leaving the coast, had provided carefully for the
soldiers who were sick and wounded, and amongst whom a fearful
infectious disease prevailed, so that those in whose houses men were
billeted died of the same malady. A storm soon damaged fifteen or
sixteen of those fated ships which had returned from Rhé: and such
was the poverty of the State, that, so late as the fifth of January,
1620, we find the sailors, who had deserved so much from their
country, ill from want of clothes.[98] There was no money for their
pay, which was in arrears; there arose, of course, a mutinous spirit
among them. The sailors were so destitute of clothing, that they
would not do their duty in their ships, and many fell dead into the
harbours. Still money could not be raised, although every possible
expedient to obtain it was employed by the King. Among others who
supplied him was Sir Francis Crane, Garter King-at-Arms, to whom
Charles gave certain royal manors for security, to the extent of
seven thousand five hundred pounds.

Footnote 98:

  State Papers, vol. xc., No. 5.

The Court was now both dull and partially deserted; the beautiful
masques of Ben Jonson were no longer called into requisition: they
had been discontinued since 1626, and were not resumed until two
years after Buckingham had ceased to exist; and the only diversion
specified for the Christmas festivity of this, his last Christmas,
was “a running masque,” to be performed on a Sunday, hastily got up,
and of no particular note.[99]

Footnote 99:

  State Papers, vol. xc., No. 10.

Throughout the whole of the winter, the condition of the navy was
the incessant theme of Buckingham’s various official correspondents.
“Many of the men,” writes Sir Henry Mervyn, “for want of clothes,
are so exposed to the weather, that their toes and feet miserably
rot away piecemeal.” Yet a fresh expedition was, so early as the
twelfth of January, in contemplation; and, hearing this, the French
prisoners, to whom an allowance of eightpence a-day was given,
refused to go back, as they said there would soon be a fleet fitted
out for La Rochelle. Meanwhile news arrived of great naval
preparations in France, and the sailing from Bordeaux of ships which
were to be sunk in the Channel before La Rochelle.

During all these troubles, and whilst a storm hovered over him, an
heir was granted to the parents, who were anxious for the boon--and
George, the second Duke of Buckingham, of the house of Villiers, was
born. Owing to the death of his elder brother, Charles, when an
infant, his birth was a source of great delight to the Duke and
Duchess.[100] And great need was there for all that could solace the
days that were now numbered. All that had been brilliant in the
career of Buckingham had faded into gloom; the country was justly
irritated by the measures which he had recommended--the war, the
impressment of seamen, the scheme for granting to the King the
tonnage and poundage for the Customs during Charles’s life--were
subjects which kept all classes--some from anger, some from fear--in
continual agitation. The impressment of seamen had formerly been
applied only to the lower classes; but they had been taught by the
higher orders, who had felt the burden of oppression themselves, to
understand their condition and their rights, and a determined spirit
of resistance ensued; yet it must, in justice, before we draw our
conclusions, be remembered, that the Government was only indirectly
responsible for the present shattered condition of the navy, and for
the depth of misery into which the brave sailors had sunk.
Generally, the great business of setting out ships had been charged
on the port towns and neighbouring shires, but it was now too heavy
a burden on them to bear. The Privy Council, therefore, cast up the
whole charge of the fleet, which was prepared in February, 1628, and
divided it among all the counties.[101]

Footnote 100:

  This event took place on or before the 2nd of February, 1628 (when
  Sir John Hippisley wished “the Duke joy of his young son”), and
  not on the 30th of January, as is usually stated.

Footnote 101:

  See State Papers, vol. xcii., No 88. The county of Anglesea was to
  be charged 111_l._; the money, as the King’s letter intimated, was
  to be paid before the 1st of March.

Neither does it appear that there was in the expenses of the navy,
even during the time of war, any extravagance. The error was in the
original neglect of the maritime forces, and injustice to a noble
profession; the ruin incident to total indifference to its
maintenance during the reign of James I. Had not Buckingham, in a
few brief years, done much towards its renovation, the naval power
would have been almost extinct.

Whilst at Rochelle, he had placed the affairs of the navy in the
hands of commissioners. On the 28th of February (1681) the Council
called for these commissioners, and gave them “the King’s thanks
for past services, letting them know that it was his pleasure in
these stirring times to use again the ancient offices of the
Admiralty.”[102] The commissioners, on retiring, gave in their
certificates, signed by the Duke as Lord Admiral, of the expenses
of the navy, both ordinary and extraordinary, in harbours, and the
ordinary at sea, containing six ships and four pinnaces, for the
year 1628. It amounted to forty thousand, eight hundred, and
seventy-six pounds, fourteen shillings and fourpence[103]--the
rest of the fleet being supplied by merchants, and paid by local
contributions. But the country was little disposed to view any
point with leniency. Their grievances were, indeed, almost daily
increasing; and whilst the landholders were impoverished, the loss
of all commerce between England and France completely alienated
the mercantile community from the Court.

Footnote 102:

  State Papers, xciv., No. 57.

Footnote 103:

  Ibid., 108.

A Parliament was summoned. During the preceding year the Duchess of
Buckingham had apprehended great danger to the Duke in allowing the
commission of inquiry into the affairs of the navy to drop; and had
expressed her fears that the abuses brought to light, and
unremedied, might hereafter be laid on the Duke.[104] There had been
no time then, in the hurry of the ill-starred expedition to
Rochelle, to complete that inquiry; but the Duchess’s fears were
indeed realized, when, after the Petition of Right had been passed
by both Houses, the King went to the House of Lords, sent for the
Commons, and then, in his chair of state, and when the Petition had
been read to him, instead of giving his consent to the bill in the
concise form in which the monarch, in Norman French, declares that
“Le Roy le veult,” delivered an evasive answer, promising much, but
signifying nothing.

Footnote 104:

  State Papers, vol. lxii., No. 7. Dated May 7, 1627.

The indignation of the House of Commons first descended on the head
of Mainwaring, afterwards Bishop of St. Asaph, who had preached, by
the King’s order, a sermon containing doctrines subversive of
liberty. Mainwaring, although he had acted under royal authority,
had been fined a thousand pounds, imprisoned, and suspended during
three years.[105] After he had been sentenced, the House proceeded
to pass “strong condemnation on Buckingham,” whose name had hitherto
not been mentioned. It must have been a singular scene, when, on the
fifth of June, the House being assembled, a message was delivered to
them from the King, announcing that, as he meant to prorogue
Parliament in six days, he desired that no new business, which might
consume time, nor lay any aspersion on His Majesty’s ministers,
should be commenced. A deep dejection was observed on all faces; but
when Sir John Eliot, the most impassioned speaker of that period of
earnest and eloquent men, rose, and was about to denounce Buckingham
as the author of all the national misfortunes, he was stopped by Sir
John Finch, the speaker, who, rising from his chair, his eyes full
of tears, told the House that he had been commanded to interrupt
every member who laid aspersions on any minister of state. A
profound and melancholy silence succeeded; then, after several
members had broken it, by resuming the debate, it was strange again
to hear that voice which had never deceived his fellow-subjects, and
to behold Sir Edward Coke rise, and remind them of former
parliamentary impeachments, and tell them that it was their province
to regulate prerogative and correct abuses; and he added, “If they
flattered man, God would never prosper them.” Then the name fell
from his lips that none since the King’s message had dared to utter:
he denounced Buckingham; he called him the grievance of grievances;
and, setting at nought the royal mandate, declared, that till the
King were informed of that truth, the Commons could neither continue
together, “nor depart with honour.”

Footnote 105:

  At the end of the session, Charles not only pardoned Mainwaring,
  but gave him a valuable living.

Thus the fears of the poor Duchess of Buckingham were finally and
fully realized. One member imputed to the Duke the ruin of the
shipping, in the restoration of which he had so incessantly
laboured. The faults of others were thus laid on him. Another stated
that there were Papists in every branch of the public service. The
intolerant fierceness of Puritanical opinions, on this occasion,
blazed out. Selden proposed a declaration of grievances, and
suggested that, though a mantle had been thrown over the charge
against the Duke in the last Parliament, it ought to be resumed, and
judgment demanded. Whilst the question was being put, on this
motion, whether the Duke should be named as the primary cause of
grievances, the Speaker begged leave to retire for a few minutes,
and soon returned with a message from the King to adjourn.

The consternation at the Court must have been extreme; for Charles
now retraced his former steps; again went to the House, and, giving
his consent to the Petition of Right, in the usual form since the
Norman Conquest, “_Soit droit fait comme il est desiré_,” was
received with loud acclamations. His popularity did not, however,
last very long. He took this opportunity to commit an act which was
both dangerous to himself and to his friend. When, by the
dissolution of a former parliament, the impeachment of the Duke had
been stopped, Charles, to save appearances, ordered an information
against him to be filed in the Star Chamber. He now ordered this
information to be taken off the file; thus insulting the Commons,
who had named Buckingham as the “grievance of grievances.”[106]

It may easily be imagined how deeply chagrined Buckingham must have
been during these proceedings. Among the common people his name was
held in still greater detestation than even by his parliamentary
opponents.

It was during this session that Sir Thomas Wentworth, recently
created Viscount Strafford, distinguished himself by his eloquence,
which he exerted in support of Buckingham, thus abandoning his
former show of patriotism, in the fervour of which he had denounced
the Council of State.

“They have taken from us,” he exclaimed--“what shall I say?--indeed,
what have they left us? They have taken from us all means of
supplying the King, and ingratiating ourselves with them, by tearing
up the roots of all property.”[107]

Footnote 106:

  Brodie, p. 202. Hume’s “Charles I.”

Footnote 107:

  Brodie, p. 170.

In the midst of this declaration the Presidentship of the County of
York was deemed likely to be vacated, owing to the illness of Lord
Scrope, who then held it; and Wentworth had not scrupled to solicit
the promise of it in the following terms of abject flattery to
Buckingham. The letter is addressed to Lord Conway:--

                             “Wentworth, this 20th of January, 1625.

“MY MUCH HONORED LORD,--The duties of the place I now hold not
admitting my absence out of these parts, I shall be bold to trouble
your lordship with a few lines, whereas otherwise I would have
attended you in person. There is a strong and general beleaf with us
here that my Lord Scrope purposeth to leave the Presidentshippe of
York; whereupon many of my friends have earnestly moved me to use
some means to procure it, and I have at last yielded to take it a
little into consideration, more to comply with them than out of any
violent inordinate desire thereunto in myself. Yett, as on the one
side I have never thought of it unless it might be effected, w^{th}
the good liking of my Lord Scrope, soe will I never move further in
it till I know also how this may please my Lord of Buckingham,
seeing, indeed, such a seale of his gracious good opinion would
comfort me much, make the place more acceptable; and that I am fully
resolved not to ascende one steppe in this kind except I may take
along with me by the way a special obligation to my Lord Duke, from
whose bountye and goodness I doe not only acknowledge much allready,
but, justified in the truth of my own hartte, doe still repose and
rest under the shadow and protection of his favour. I beseach y’r
Lorp., therefore, be pleased to take some good opportunity fully to
acquaint his Grace hearunto, and then to vouchsafe, with y’r
accustomed freedom and nobleness, to give me your counsel and
direction, wh. I am prepared strictly to observe, as one albeit
chearfully embracing better means to doe his Majesty humble and
faithful service in the parttes whear I live, yet can w^{th} as well
contented a mind, rest wher I am, if by reason of my manie
imperfections I shall not be judged capable of neuer appointment or
trust. There is nothing more to add for the present save that I must
rest much bounden unto y’r Lorp. for the light I shall borrow from
y’r judgement and affection hearin and soe borrow it too, as may
better enable me more effectually to express myself hereafter.--Y’r
Lorp. most humble and affec^{ate} kinsman to be commanded,

                                                       T. WENTWORTH.

To the Right Honble. my much honored Lord the Lorde Conway,
    Principall Secretary to his Majestie.”[108]

Footnote 108:

  State Papers, Domestic, 1625.

This favour being granted, and Sir Thomas having been created a
Viscount, he appeared in the upper house as an advocate for the
ministers whom he had, only a few months previously, denounced; but
the adherence of Strafford was of little benefit to Buckingham, as
his new ally was the most unpopular of men. One unhappy result,
however, this unprincipled alliance produced. The new partisan
ingratiated himself with Charles during his late and brief support
of Buckingham; and the seeds were laid of that influence which so
tended to undermine the future stability of the Crown, and pioneered
the way to Charles’s fall.

The most unjust aspersions were now circulated throughout all
society. It was Buckingham’s custom to cast away, as unworthy of
consideration, all reports that were brought to him. On one
occasion, hearing that two Colonels, when before St. Martin’s Fort,
had said to a third that they observed the Duke often go in his
barge to the fleet, and that they believed he would steal away to
England some day; and that if he did, they swore they would hand out
the white flag, and deliver up the town and island to Tonar, the
Governor; the Duke called a council of war, the accused being
absent, and charged these gentlemen with their words. They flatly
denied them on their swords. The Duke, without further inquiry,
believed them, and dismissed the court. Nor did he ever pay any
attention to things said about him, either in the Commons or in the
camp.

In the same way he appears to have treated James Howell, who,
presuming on having been in his service, and on the affabilities of
the Duke, and a facility of character which had its advantages as
well as disadvantages, wrote an impertinent letter, saying, that in
his “shallow apprehension” it might be well for the Duke to part
with some of his places, and so to avoid opprobrium. “Your Grace,”
he remarked, “might stand more firm without an anchor.” Then he next
threw out some suggestions as to the better regulation of the Duke’s
family and private affairs; and ended by saying that he knew the
Duke did not, nor need not, affect popularity. “The people’s love,”
he added, “is the strongest citadel of a sovereign prince, but wrath
often proved fatal to a subject, for he who pulleth off his hat to
the people giveth his head to the prince.” And he ends by referring
to “a late unfortunate Earl,” who, a little before Queen Elizabeth’s
death, had drawn the axe across his own neck; he had become so
unpopular, that he was considered dangerous to the State. This very
unpleasant reference was taken, at all events, amicably by
Buckingham. The fate of Essex was often supposed to shadow forth his
own; and the rapid rise, the more rapid fall, the generous, careless
nature, the very early doom of both, to have suggested that parallel
between the Earl of Essex and Buckingham, in which Lord Clarendon
has placed the characters of both before the reader in delicate
touches.

In one respect they were very different. Essex, when attacked, even
before going to Ireland, wrote an apology, which he dispersed with
his own hands. Buckingham left his fame to his contemporaries, and
to posterity, just as they choose to view it. On an offer once being
made to him to write a justification of his actions, he refused it,
says Lord Clarendon, “with a pretty kind of thankful scorn, saying
that he would trust to his own good intentions, which God knew, and
trust to Him for the pardon of his errors;” that he saw no “fruit of
apologies but the multiplying of discourse, which, surely,” even
Lord Clarendon observes, “was a well-settled matter.”[109]

Footnote 109:

  Parallel between Essex and Buckingham--“Reliquiæ Wottonianæ.”

But there were dangers lurking in his path which no defence could
avert. Personal danger did not appal him. Slander did not affect
him. Yet a forgotten, morbid, disappointed man was the instrument of
destiny; and even in this crisis Buckingham seems never to have
shrunk from the assassins, even in imagination: he knew that he had
already escaped great perils--and that consciousness gave him
security.




                              CHAPTER III.

FELTON--HIS CHARACTER--UNCERTAINTY OF HIS MOTIVES--CIRCUMSTANCES
    UNDER WHICH HE WAS BROUGHT INTO CONTACT WITH BUCKINGHAM--MOTIVES
    OF HIS CRIME DISCUSSED--THE REMONSTRANCE--THE FATE OF
    LA ROCHELLE--BUCKINGHAM’S UNPOPULARITY--RETURNS TO
    RHE--MISGIVINGS OF HIS FRIENDS--INTERVIEW WITH LAUD--WITH
    CHARLES I.--HIS FAREWELL--HE ENTERS PORTSMOUTH--FELTON--THE
    ASSASSINATION--ORIGINAL LETTERS FROM SIR D. CARLETON AND SIR
    CHARLES MORGAN--THE KING’S GRIEF.

                            CHAPTER III.


Whilst all these events were pending, dark designs were being formed
and cherished in the distempered mind of one far from the Court, and
probably wholly forgotten by him to whose destiny he gave the final
stroke.

Hitherto Buckingham had escaped all bodily harm. He had rallied
speedily from illness, and was in the full vigour of his life; he
had returned unhurt from the perilous service at Rhé; he had
repeatedly crossed the Channel, and tracked even the great ocean
when the science of navigation, as well as of ship-building, was
imperfect, and when a thousand dangers encompassed his course: he
had escaped the pestilence by which the army lost many of its best
men. And yet his days were numbered.

In the remote county of Suffolk the unhappy John Felton was born. He
was the youngest son of an ancient family, and in somewhat narrow
circumstances, and had been a lieutenant in a regiment of foot,
under the command of Sir John Ramsey, in the expedition against Rhé.
He was a man of great reserve, which, though he had long led a
soldier’s life, in the course of which he appears to have risen from
the ranks, was still silent and gloomy. In person he was diminutive,
with a meagre form, and a face rendered almost ghastly from the
expression of that deep, habitual, and apparently causeless
melancholy to which we give the term morbid; and thus singularly did
these outlines of his character correspond with the circumstances of
his daily life. So strange was it to discover in the young soldier
the characteristics attributable to a cloister rather than to a
camp, that one turns to the mournful plea of insanity for
explanation. But no defence of that nature, or on that ground, was
ever attempted for Felton; unhappily, so much has lunacy increased
in modern times, that it forms now one point in almost every case of
unaccountable crime. In the days of our ancestors it was different.
Such an excuse was rare, and only applied to imbecility, or to
mania, when too apparent to be disputed.

To this day, indeed, there has been found no adequate motive for the
deed, which Felton long contemplated in the depths of a soul that
never gave utterance to its joys or sorrows, and exchanged no
sympathies with others. Whatever “may have been the immediate or
greatest motive of that felonious conception,” Sir Henry Wotton
declares, “is even yet in the clouds.”[110] The origin of that dark
design has, nevertheless, been referred to a disappointment in
Felton’s military career. This he subsequently denied, by saying
that the Duke had always shown him respect. Whilst at Rhé, Felton’s
captain having died in England, he naturally applied to Buckingham
for promotion. The Duke, however, consulted the colonel of the
regiment, and, by his suggestion, gave the company to an officer
named Powell, who happened to be lieutenant of the colonel’s
company, and a man of great bravery; and Felton himself acknowledged
the justice and expediency of this preference of Powell to himself.
So that, to follow the same authority, the idea of any rancour being
harboured, owing to this arrangement, can have no foundation.[111]
But the notion has been taken up by historians adverse to
Buckingham--and such are in the majority--rather to heighten the
impression that he suffered for an act of injustice, for which his
death was, more or less, a retribution, than from any certain
conviction on the point.

Footnote 110:

  Wottonianæ Reliquiæ, p. 233.

Footnote 111:

  Ibid.

There was also another cause assigned for the crime which Felton
meditated. In his native county there was a certain knight whom the
Duke had latterly favoured; and between this individual and Felton
there “had been ancient quarrels not yet healed,” which might be
festering within his breast, and worked up by his own grievance into
frenzy. But this explanation is also rejected by Sir Henry Wotton,
whose evidence is the best that can be given, as proceeding from a
man of principle, and a contemporary and friend of Buckingham’s.

Three hours before his execution, however, Felton, either as a
palliation to others, or to excuse the deed to himself, alleged that
the book written by Dr. Egglisham, King James’s Scottish physician,
in which the Duke was portrayed as one of the foulest monsters upon
earth, unfit to live in a Christian court, or even within the pale
of humanity, had a great effect upon his mind, in inciting him to
what he deemed an act of heroic virtue. The fact, indeed, it is
plain, was, that his religious convictions had an all-powerful
influence upon his judgment, which was warped by the gloomy bigotry
which casts a shadow over the noblest and most encouraging hopes of
the Christian. The tenor of this unhappy man’s life had been marked
by seriousness and religious observances; but it was the religion
which condemned all who differed--the religion, not of love, but
self-righteousness and hatred.

During the leisure of peace--if peace that can be called in which
all the elements of civil war were being engendered--the Petition of
Right--that great measure, which even Clarendon allows, "was of no
prejudice to the Crown"--received the King’s assent. Not contented
with what they found might prove a bare declaration of the law, the
Commons drew up a Remonstrance, addressed to the King, in order that
the too great power of Buckingham might be diminished. The promotion
of Papists, the protection of Arminians, under the patronage of Neal
and Laud, were the chief subjects, and were calculated to arouse and
inflame the passions of a fanatic, like Felton, and to have
suggested the reasoning that was soon warped, by prejudice and
hatred, into the form and conception of guilt. There were other
subjects of complaint in that celebrated Remonstrance, which touched
him also--the standing commission of general continued to Buckingham
in time of peace, the dismissal of faithful officers from various
places of trust, the failures at Cadiz and at Rhé--these were but a
small part of that important document, but they were the portion
most likely to excite such a mind as that of Felton. He stated,
indeed, that the idea of assassination, which he had repelled by
stern efforts of conscience--for he was a man misled and mistaken,
but not devoid of certain principles, and he dared to make use of
that solemn and misguiding word, conscience--was revived, with
irresistible force, by the Remonstrance. Never, hitherto, had the
members most distinguished for oratory in parliament reasoned with
so much force, and so much research, and so great a depth of legal
argument, as on the Petition of Right, and its successor, the
Remonstrance. It was the era of good taste and profound argument in
that great assembly.[112] All tended to strengthen Felton in the
conviction that the Duke was a traitor and oppressor, whom any
patriot would do well to assassinate.

Footnote 112:

  Brodie.

Then he read works which maintained the lawfulness of ridding a
nation of an oppressor; and the voice of conscience was heard no
more--a false heroism was thenceforth the spectre that lured him
onwards. Never was there a more striking instance of the influence
of one mind over another than that which the books of the day had
over the mind of Felton; never was there a more prominent
exemplification of the responsibilities of a writer, even if his
words chance to have only an ephemeral reputation, than this man’s
crime.

The resolution was then formed--Buckingham’s life was to be
sacrificed for the public good. Sir Henry Wotton seems to think that
every plea adopted by Felton in explanation of this design was to be
distrusted. “Whatever were the true motives, which, I think, none
can determine but the Prince of Darkness itself, he did thus
prosecute the effort.”

He bought for tenpence, in a cutler’s shop on Tower Hill, a
knife--that instrument, the blow of which paralyzed England--and
sewed the sheath into the lining of his pocket, so that he could at
any time draw out the knife with one hand--his other being maimed
and powerless.

Being thus provided, he watched in gloom and privacy (for he was
very poor) the opportunity over which he brooded.

Meantime, Buckingham was mingling, in the full confidence of his
fearless nature, in the affairs of that world which he was so soon
to quit for ever. His unpopularity was at its acmé, and if he feared
not for himself, there were friends who trembled for his safety. Sir
Clement Throgmorton, a man of great consideration and judgment, one
day asked a private conference, and advised the Duke to wear a coat
of mail underneath his his outer garment. The Duke received the
suggestion very kindly, but gave this reply, “Against popular fury a
coat of mail would be but a weak defence, and with regard to an
attack from any single man, he conceived there was no danger.” "So
dark," says Wotton, “is destiny.”

This consciousness of being the object of universal hatred probably
increased the keen desire which now possessed the Duke’s mind of
retrieving the discredit into which his failure had plunged him.
During the whole of the spring, preparations for a fresh descent on
La Rochelle had been in contemplation. As good a squadron as that
which Admiral Pennington had previously commanded was ready at
Plymouth by the end of February, ten ships having been pressed into
the service. Several new vessels were built, notwithstanding that
the workmen of the navy at Chatham complained that they had not
received any pay for seven months. Buckingham was, at one time, on
the point of visiting Plymouth, but went to Newmarket instead.[113]
During the session of Parliament his brother-in-law, the Earl of
Denbigh, was dispatched with a fleet to the relief of La Rochelle,
which was blockaded by the French, but he returned without even
attempting to effect anything; and the unfortunate town was left to
its fate. Richelieu, besieging it by circumvallations, constructed a
mole across the mouth of the harbour, leaving room only for the ebb
and flow of the sea; and destruction seemed inevitable. It was,
therefore, a very probable means of recovering his credit at home,
for the Duke again to attempt the relief of those who, as
Protestants, represented a cause dear to English hearts.
Independently of this, it is not unlikely that old rivalship with
the sagacious Cardinal may have influenced Buckingham to undertake a
second expedition to La Rochelle.[114] It is, perhaps, not to be
wondered at that Buckingham’s name should be covered with so much
opprobrium after his death, when the fate of the heroes who defended
La Rochelle is remembered. In the October of the year in which the
Duke perished, La Rochelle, long refusing to yield, was forced to
submit. The inhabitants surrendered at discretion--even with an
English fleet, commanded by Lord Sidney, in sight. Of fifteen
thousand men who had been enclosed in the town, only four thousand
survived famine and fatigue, to lay down their arms before the
generals sent by Richelieu.

Footnote 113:

  Calendar, vol. xciv., No. 96.

Footnote 114:

  Brodie--Hume.

To make a last effort for these valiant sufferers was, therefore,
the wisest determination that Buckingham could form. The fleet which
Lord Denbigh had commanded was in good condition, and all at home
had learned experience through failure. He had taken that severe
lesson to his own heart. Had Buckingham been spared to relieve La
Rochelle, and to recover for England the honour of her sullied
reputation, his errors would doubtless have been forgiven.

Before leaving London, the Duke went to take leave of Laud, then
Bishop of London. Laud had now, both in civil and ecclesiastical
matters, a great influence over the King: of this Buckingham was
fully sensible.

Sir Henry Wotton, who had made some inquiries whether the Duke had
had any presentiment of his death, relates a touching scene between
the Duke and Laud.

“My Lord,” Buckingham said, “you have, I know, very free access to
the King, our sovereign; let me pray you to remind his Majesty to be
good to my poor wife and children.”

At these words, or perhaps rather on looking at the expression of
countenance with which they were uttered, the Bishop, with some
uneasiness, asked the Duke whether he had any forebodings in his
mind which he did not like to betray?

“No,” replied the Duke; “but I think some adventure may kill me as
much as any other man,”

The day before he was assassinated, the Duke being ill, Charles the
First visited him whilst he was in bed. After a long and serious
conversation in private, they separated, Buckingham embracing the
King “in a very unusual and passionate manner;” and he also showed
great emotion on taking leave of Lord Holland, “as if his soul had
divined he should see them no more.”

The twentieth of August was his birthday. He had completed his
thirty-sixth year--that period which has been marked by a great
writer as the departure of youth[115]--it might have been, perhaps,
in Buckingham’s case, the beginning of wisdom extracted from
experience.

Footnote 115:

  Student.

It was the age of omens and other superstitious weaknesses; and
supernatural warnings were not wanting to heighten the effect of the
tragedy that was soon to be acted. Neither did they who foreboded
evil to the Duke wait until after the event to bring forth their
ghostly revelations. One day, some little time before the Duke’s
death, he was playing at bowls with the King in Spring Gardens.
Buckingham, as he usually did,even in Charles’s presence, kept his
hat on, a piece of presumption which irritated a Scotsman named
Wilson, who, in his wrath, tossed off the Duke’s hat, and declared
he would punish impertinence wherever he met it in the same way. On
looking round for this man, he had vanished, and was nowhere to be
found. The courtiers marvelled at the incident, and regarded it as
ominous of the Duke’s fate; but he laughed at them for their folly,
and showed no fear.[116]

Footnote 116:

  Balfour’s Annals, MSS., Advocate’s Library, quoted from Brodie,
  vol. ii., p. 209.

His indifference was regarded as infatuation; in fact, it proves
that the Duke was, in some respects, superior to those whom he most
respected. There was no lone spinster in the country more given to
believe in dreams and omens than Laud; and his diary contains
perpetual references to his dreams. Every slight incident had its
peculiar meaning, foreshadowing some great event. Nor does Lord
Clarendon rise above the tone of the times, in his relation of that
famous ghost story which forms one of the most prominent incidents
of Buckingham’s latest days.

Old Sir George Villiers had now been dead eighteen years, and
perhaps few of his family, and certainly not his wife, who had been
twice married, ever wished to see him again. There was a certain Mr.
Nicholas Towse, however, living in Bishopsgate Without, London, to
whom the aged knight appeared in the spirit, during the year 1627,
making choice of that individual as the depositary of secrets beyond
the grave, because he had known him whilst he was a boy at school in
Leicestershire, near Brookesby. As a mark of friendship, therefore,
the apparition of Sir George favoured Mr. Towse with his
revelations, and stood one night at the foot of his bed, dressed in
the costume of the time of Elizabeth. There was a candle in the
room, and Mr. Towse was perfectly wakeful. On beholding Sir George,
he uttered, according to his own account, the natural inquiry, “What
he was, and whether he was a man?” To which the apparition answered,
“No.” Then Towse, in considerable emotion, asked, “Was he a devil?”
To which the apparition still answered, “No.” Then Mr. Towse, with
increasing agitation, said, “In the name of God, tell me what you
are?”

"I am," replied the spectre, in doublet and hose, “the spectre of
Sir George Villiers, the father of the Duke of Buckingham;” adding,
that because he believed Mr. Towse loved him, and was sensible of
the former kindness that he had shown him, he had selected him as
the bearer of a message to the Duke of Buckingham, warning him in
such a manner as to prevent much mischief and present ruin to the
Duke.

Whilst the apparition was speaking, Towse became more and more
convinced of his identity, and more fully conscious that the long
defunct master of a noble house stood before him; nevertheless, he
refused to do Sir George’s bidding, saying that it would bring
ridicule on him to carry to the Duke such a message. But the ghost
earnestly entreated him to comply, assuring him, after the manner of
ghosts, that there were certain passages in the Duke’s life known
only to himself and his son, and that the revelation of these would
plainly show the Duke it was no “distempered fancy, but a reality,
that he wished to disclose.”

That night was one of irresolution, if not of incredulity; but, on
the next, the unhappy Towse, thus picked out for so ghostly a
service, promised to go to the Duke. He went, indeed, and found out
Sir Thomas Freeman and Sir Ralph Bladden, the Duke’s chamberlains,
by whom he was presented to the Duke. Then followed some private and
agitated interviews between Buckingham and Towse, and the cautions
of the ghost were fully and forcibly communicated: they related
chiefly to Buckingham’s patronage of Laud, and suggested some
popular acts which the Duke was to perform in Parliament--and, in
short, contained advice that any reasonable man might have offered.
But nothing that was said by Mr. Towse made the slightest impression
on the Duke, except, when certain passages of his life were referred
to, with which the ghost had primed Mr. Towse, he owned he had
believed “that no living creature knew of them but himself, and that
it must be either God or the devil that had revealed them.” The Duke
then offered to get Mr. Towse knighted, and to have him made a
burgess in the forthcoming Parliament. But Mr. Towse, finding that
the obstinate favourite was deaf to his advice, left him,
prognosticating that the Duke’s death would happen at a certain
time--which prognostic was fulfilled.

Mr. Towse then returned to Bishopsgate Without; and, there is much
reason to believe, laboured under mental malady; for the visits of
the apparition were now so frequent that he grew familiar with
him, “as if it had been a friend or acquaintance that had come to
visit him.” And from this very unpleasant guest Towse learned to
see in perspective many events that had not then dawned on
England; more especially the troubles of Prynne, who was Towse’s
father-in-law--which was contrary to all rule, as a ghost should
keep to one subject. On the day of Buckingham’s death, also, Mr.
Towse and his wife being at Windsor Castle, where Towse had an
office, they were sitting in company, when he started up,
exclaiming, “The Duke of Buckingham is slain!” At the very moment
that these words were uttered the blow had been given. Towse dying
soon after, also foretold his own death.

This narrative, thought worthy of insertion by Clarendon, and
therefore not to be completely disregarded in any biography of
Buckingham, is taken, however, from a letter penned at Boulogne, by
one Edmund Wyndham, in 1672, twenty years after the event.[117][118]
According to Lord Clarendon, Buckingham, after hearing Towse’s
revelation, was observed ever afterwards to be very melancholy. That
he had misgivings as to his return, we have seen; but there are few
men so insensible, at such a moment, as to be quite free from
presentiment of evil--more especially one on whom the eyes of the
country were directed in resentment, and regarding whom the Commons
was then preparing a Remonstrance.[119]

Footnote 117:

  The letter from Edmund Wyndham, of Kattisford, county Somerset,
  was addressed to Dr. Robert Plot, who wished to have the story
  correctly stated, in order to correct the false representations of
  William Lilly.

Footnote 118:

  “Biographia Britannica,” Art. “Villiers,” _Note_.

Footnote 119:

  See Appendix A.

Felton, meantime, was intent on pursuing his scheme. The frank and
kindly manner of the Duke towards his officers and soldiers at
Rhé, his personal courage, and his participation in the hardships
all had undergone in that expedition, had failed to propitiate the
assassin, who was, in fact, stimulated by the fiercest of all
incentives--political hatred, justified by the plea of religion.
He set off, therefore, to Portsmouth, and, partly on horseback,
and partly on foot, accomplished that journey; and perhaps the
desperate state of his fortunes added to his gloomy views and
reckless designs, into which one thought of self-preservation
never entered. At a few miles from Portsmouth he was seen
sharpening the fatal knife on a stone; he arrived at that city
with the determination that, should his scheme of assassination
fail for want of opportunity, he would enlist as a volunteer, in
order to accomplish it eventually.

There was, of course, considerable bustle in the town; and on
entering it, when the ghastly murderer stood unobserved amongst the
crowd, there was too numerous a train about the Duke for Felton to
reach him. Fearful of observation, he kept himself indoors one
morning after his arrival; but, on the ensuing day, repaired to the
house where Buckingham was staying. The Duke was at that time at
breakfast, and little attention was paid by a number of suitors and
applicants who were waiting for him in the antechamber, to the
diminutive being who was watching, with his dark purpose, among the
unconscious crowd. As there were several military men, amongst whom
was the Duc de Soubise, with Buckingham, as well as Sir Thomas
Fryer, much animation pervaded the conversation, in consequence of a
report having reached Portsmouth that La Rochelle had been relieved.
Soubise and his followers believed that this report was set on foot
by some agents of the French, in order to induce the English to
relax in their preparations, until the mole, which it was
Richelieu’s plan to form at the mouth of the harbour, should be
completed. He and the other foreigners spoke with vehemence, and in
tones which the English, who were listening, deemed to be those of
anger. The Duke, it appeared, was inclined to believe the report,
and the eagerness of Soubise was not, therefore, to be matter of
surprise, since his interests, and those of his adherents, were
irrevocably engaged in the approaching expedition. At length,
however, the conference ended; Soubise took his leave, and
Buckingham rose to quit the chamber where he had breakfasted.

It was, probably, with a pre-occupied mind that he thus prepared to
go out; and it is very possible that he scarcely observed a small
figure, which he may not even have recognized, which was lifting up,
as he passed on, the hangings between the room and the antechamber.
This was Felton. Buckingham, on his way, stopped an instant to speak
to Sir Thomas Fryer, one of his Colonels, who was a short man--so
that, in order to hear his reply, the Duke bent down his head
somewhat. Fryer then drew back, and, at that moment, Felton,
striking across the Colonel’s arm, stabbed Buckingham a little above
the heart. The knife was left in the body; the Duke, with a sudden
effort, drew it out, and exclaiming, “The villain has killed me,”
pursued the assassin out of the parlour into the hall or
antechamber, where he sank down, and, falling under a table, drew a
deep breath, and expired.

Then the utmost confusion ensued. The English, misled by what had
passed at breakfast, accused Soubise and his followers of the
murder; and they would have been instantly sacrificed to the fury of
the populace, had not some persons of cooler feelings interposed in
their behalf. No one had seen the murderer; he had come in
unnoticed, and had withdrawn in like manner. At this moment, a hat,
into which a paper was sewn, was found near the door; it was eagerly
examined, and some writing on the paper read with avidity, and these
words were deciphered:--

“That man is cowardly, base, and deserves neither the name of a
gentleman nor soldier, who will not sacrifice his life for the
honour of God, and safety of his prince and country. Let no man
commend me for doing it, but rather discommend themselves; for if
God had not taken away our hearts for our sins, he could not have
gone so long unpunished.

                                                 ”JNO. FELTON."[120]

Footnote 120:

  The original letter was in possession of the late Mr. Upcott, by
  whom the author of this Memoir was presented with a fac-simile. It
  is, however, given in all the histories of this period.

Whilst the bystanders were reading these words, the body of the Duke
had been conveyed to the inner apartment, from which he had issued,
having been first laid on the table of the antechamber, or hall; and
in this inner chamber it was left, without a single person, even a
domestic, to watch over his remains, or to give him that tribute of
sorrowing respect which is due to the poorest. And this singular
neglect has been regarded as a proof of indifference in those who,
but a few minutes previously, were crowding round the powerful
Minister and General. But it was, in fact, one of those accidents
which often bear a very different construction, when they are
considered relatively to the circumstances of the hour, to that
placed on them. Sir Henry Wotton, to whom the fact was mentioned by
one of the Duke’s friends, speaks of it as “beyond all wonder;” but
accounts for it by the horror which the murder had excited, added to
the astonishment at the sudden disappearance of the murderer, who
had glided from the terrible scene like an actor who has done his
part, and makes his exit. For a time, however, whilst high words
were heard between the Frenchmen and their accusers, whilst murmurs
from the street below, of the eager and infuriated crowd, were
changed into yells of vengeance, that cold corpse lay unheeded;
“thus, upon the withdrawing of the sun, does the shadow depart from
the painted dial.”[121] All were, indeed, in the house, occupied in
asking again and again the question, Where could the owner of the
hat be?--for he, doubtless, was the assassin. Whilst they were thus
talking, a man without a hat was seen walking with perfect composure
up and down before the door. “Here,” cried one of the crowd, “is the
man who killed the Duke,” upon which Felton calmly said, “I am he,
let no person suffer that is innocent.” Then the populace rushed
upon him with drawn swords, to which Felton offered no defence,
preferring rather to die at once, than to abide the issue of
justice. He was, however, rescued by others less violent--a
circumstance which was thought very fortunate for the popular party,
on whom a stigma might have rested had the murderer been killed; and
Felton being secured, was conveyed to a small sentry-box; he was
instantly loaded with heavy irons, which prevented his either
standing upright or lying down in that narrow prison, where he
remained sometime, whilst the mob were raging without in the
streets.[122]

Footnote 121:

  Sir Philip Warwick’s Memoirs, p. 35.

Footnote 122:

  See Brodie--Wotton--Hume.

The Duchess of Buckingham was in an upper room of that house in
which the husband whom she had “loved,” to use her own words, “as
never woman loved man,” was murdered. She had not, when it happened,
risen from her bed.[123]

Footnote 123:

  Reliq. Wotton., p. 234.

The following very graphic account, written by a very devoted friend
of Buckingham, Sir Dudley Carleton, presents, in several details, a
somewhat different delineation of this scene of murder, to that
which has been related, collected from various sources, although, in
various instances, it is confirmatory of the statements usually
received.[124]

Footnote 124:

  It shows in what manner the Duchess was informed of her husband’s
  death.

"S^R--If y^e ill newes we have heard (doe not as their use is) out
flye these lres,[125] they will bring you y^e worst of y^e strangest
I think you ever received: sure I am, whatever passed my pen. Our
noble Duke in y^e midst of his army he had ready at Portsmouth as
well shipping as land forces, in y^e height of his favour with our
Gracious Master, who was herd by at this place and in the greatest
joy and alacrity I ever saw him in my life at y^e newes he had
received about of y^e clock in y^e morning on Saturday last of y^e
relief of Rochell, in that fort, that y^e place might well attend
his coming, wherewith he was hastening to y^e King, who that morning
had sent for him by me upon other occasions;--at his going out of a
lower parlour where he usually sat, and had then broken his fast in
presence of many standers by (Frenchmen with Monsieur de Soubise,
officers of his army and those of his own Trayns) was stabbed unto
y^e heart a little above y^e breast with a knife by one Felton, an
Englishman, being a Reformed Lieutenant, who hastening out of y^e
doore and y^e duke having pulled out y^e knife which was left in y^e
wound and following him out of y^e parlour into y^e hall, with his
hand putt to his sword, there fell down dead with much effusion of
bloud at his mouth and nostrils. The Lady Anglesea,[126] then
looking down into y^e hall out of an open Gallery, which crossed y^e
end of it, and being spectator of this tragical fight, went
immediately with a cry into y^e Duchesses Chamber, who was in bed,
and then fell down on y^e floor, so surprized y^e poor Duchesse with
this sad ... matin....[127] The murderer in y^e midst of y^e noise
and tumult, every man drawing his sword and no man knowing whom to
strike, nor from whom to defend himself, slipt out into y^e kitchen
and there stood with some others unespyed, when a voyce being
currant in the court to w^{ch} y^e window and doore of y^e kitchen
answered (a Frenchman, a Frenchman), and his guilty conscience
making him believe it was “Felton, Felton” (who being otherwise
unknown and undiscovered might well have escaped) he came out of y^e
kitchen with his sword drawn, and presenting himselfe, said, I am
the man: some offering to assayle him and one running at him with a
spit, he flung down his sword and rendered himselfe to y^e company,
who being ready to handle him as he deserved by tearing him in
pieces I took him from them, and having committed him to y^e custody
of some officers, when I had taken y^e best order I could for other
affairs in so great confusion, jointly with Secretary Cooke I
examined y^e man and found he had no particular offence against y^e
Duke, more than all others for want of some small entertayments were
owing him: but he grounded his practise upon y^e Parliament’s
Remonstrance as to make himselfe a Martyr for his Country, which he
confessed to have resolved to execute y^e Monday before, he being
then at London, and came from thence expressly by the Wednesday
morning, arriving at Portsmouth y^e very morning, not above half an
hour before he committed it. We could not then discover any
complices, neither did we take more than his free and willing
confession: but now His Majestie hath ordayned by Commission y^e
Lord Treassurer, Lord Steward, Earl of Dorset, Secretary Cooke and
myselfe to proceed with him as y^e nature of y^e fact requires, and
wee shall begin this afternoon: meane while I would not but give you
this relation to y^e end you may know y^e truth of this bloudy act,
which will flye about the world diversly reported to you, and you
should not find it strange such a blowe to be struck in y^e midst of
y^e Duke’s friends and followers: you must know y^e murderer took
his time and place at y^e presse near y^e issue of y^e room, and
many of us were stept out to our horses, as I my selfe was to go to
Court with the Duke. The murderer gloryed in his acte y^e first day;
but when I told him he was y^e first assassin of an Englishman, a
gentleman, a soldier, and a protestant, he shrunk at it, and is now
grown penitent. It seems this man and Ravillac were of no other
Religion (though he professeth other) than _assassanisme_; they have
the same maxims as you will see by two writings were found sowed in
his hat, wc^h goe herewith.

“From Lord Viscount Dorchester to” [not addressed.][128]

Footnote 125:

  Letters.

Footnote 126:

  Lady Anglesea, the sister-in-law of Buckingham’s mother, being the
  wife of his brother, Christopher, Earl of Anglesea.

Footnote 127:

  There is an hiatus here in the MS.

Footnote 128:

  Domestic State Papers, August 27, 1628. No. 21.

In another letter, addressed to the King of Bohemia by Sir Charles
Morgan, it was also shown in what sanguine spirits the Duke was, and
how he was forming good resolutions, when he received the fatal blow
which cut him off from all hope of retrieving the errors he so
candidly confessed, or of completing the work of reformation, in
various departments, which he hoped to accomplish. Although we may
feel assured that the blow was suffered to fall for some purpose of
mercy, yet never did any sudden death seem more untimely.

The King was only about six miles from Portsmouth, whence he
intended doubtless to witness the departure of a friend whom he
never ceased to lament. He was at prayers when Sir John Hippesley
came suddenly into the Presence Chamber, where service was that day
performed, and whispered the news into his Majesty’s ear. Charles
did not permit a single feature of his face to express either
astonishment or distress; and, when a deep pause ensued, the
appalled chaplain thinking to spare his Majesty the distress of
remaining during the service, he calmly ordered him to proceed with
the prayers--and, until those were concluded, preserved the same
undisturbed demeanour. Some there were who argued, from this perfect
mastery over his feelings, that the King did not regret the death of
one who had rendered him so unpopular, and from whom he could not
unloose the bonds which early habit and youthful friendship had
drawn so closely as to convert them into shackles. But the deep
sorrow which Charles felt was shown in his affectionate care of
those whom his favourite loved; nor was it, as some supposed,
without a stern effort that he controlled his emotions whilst he
remained amid those assembled in prayer. No sooner was the service
over, than he suddenly departed to his chamber, and, throwing
himself on his bed, gave full vent to a passion of grief, and,
weeping long and bitterly, paid to the poor Duke the tribute of his
anguish,--lamenting not only the loss of an excellent friend and
servant, but “the terrible manner of the Duke’s death.” And he
continued for many days in the deepest melancholy.[129]

Footnote 129:

  Clarendon.

Of course, in those days, this fearful event was said to have been
foretold, not only by a ghost, but in dreams, and by presentiments.
Sir James Bagg, one of the Duke’s most trusted servants, has left
the following proof of his belief in dreams:--

"RIGHT HONORABLE--Hand in hand came to my unfortunate hand yo
Expps.[130] and my noble friend Mr. Secretarie Cooke’s, and yo^r
Honors leynes could not be but welcome although they brought vnto
mee the sadd and heavy newes of that damnable act of that accursed
ffelton, wc^h hath so seated itself in my heart as it will hould
memorie there, of the untymilie losse of my deere and gracious Lord
to my unpacified sorrow untill my Death; for as I partook wt^h him
of his comforts living, I will have a share of his sorrowes after
him. Oh my Lord! his end was upon Satterdau morning. The daie of his
dissolving tould mee by a dreame, discribed in all. It wanted but
the damned name of Felton. But that fiende unworthy of it was
entituled by the name of Souldier. This Dreame tould my Wife and
dearest friends, did not a little trouble mee, but now the trueth
thereof torments me.

"Yo leynes my only comforte brought wt^h them his Mat[131] commands.
In all I doe obey them," &c., &c.

Footnote 130:

  Expresses.

Footnote 131:

  Majesty’s.

The letter is addressed thus from Sir James Bagg--“For his
Lordship,” and dated, “Augt. 28th, 1628.”[132]

Footnote 132:

  Domestic State Papers, Aug. 1628, No. 26.

Amongst the Duke’s relations the Countess of Denbigh was most
beloved by him, and his affection was warmly returned. On the very
day of his death he wrote to her. Whilst she was penning her answer,
her paper was moistened with her tears, in a passion of grief so
poignant and so despairing, that she could only account for it by
believing those transports of sorrow to have been prophetic. She
wrote to him these words:--

“I will pray for your happy return, which I look to with a great
cloud over my head, too heavy for my poor heart to bear without
torment. But I hope the great God of Heaven will bless you.”[133]

Footnote 133:

  Biog. Brit.

On the day after the Duke’s death, the Bishop of Ely, who was the
devoted friend of Lady Denbigh, being considered the fittest person
to break the intelligence to her, went to visit her, but hearing
that she was asleep, waited until she awoke, which she did in all
the perturbation produced by a terrible dream. Her brother, she
said, had seemed to pass with her through a field, when, hearing a
sudden shout from the people, she had asked what it meant, and was
told that it was for joy that the Duke of Buckingham was ill. She
was relating this dream to one of her gentlewomen when the Bishop
entered her chamber. The scene that followed may be easily
conceived. Whatever were the ill-starred Duke’s failings, he died
beloved by those most dear to him.

His sister’s apprehensions were, indeed, perfectly justifiable, and
they might well intrude into those hours of silence in which
thoughts of the absent or unhappy most frequently trouble our minds.
Had the Duke again been saved from the chances of war, what might
have been his fate at home in case of his return unsuccessful?
Already had he hardly escaped from the indignation of the people:
even then, in the remote county of Carmarthen, they were raising
reports that the King had been poisoned by the Duke--reports that
had been believed by the simple inhabitants of Wales. The fury of
party had much to answer for in the excitement of bad passions, the
end and mischief of which can never be foreseen.

The greatest obscurity hung over the motives which prompted the act,
unless it be explained by the practical aberration of a mind which,
still bearing the outward semblance of reason, has evil thoughts,
fostered by strong passions. The connections of Felton were not only
poor--his mother appears to have been illiterate. To them, probably,
his designs were never imparted, although they lived in the
metropolis; yet it is evident, from several circumstances, that they
knew of his animosity to the Duke, and were, to a certain
extent--without any complicity--prepared to hear of some fearful act
on the part of their unhappy relative.

Whilst the Duke’s family were overwhelmed with anguish, another
humble mourner almost sank under the blow. This was Elianore Felton,
the mother of the assassin. She was a native of Durham, of which
city her father had once been mayor, but she was then residing in
London. On the 24th of August, in the church in St. Dunstan’s, in
the Strand, an aged woman and her daughter attended afternoon
service. These poor women were Elianore Felton and Elizabeth Hone,
the mother and sister of Felton.

During the singing of the psalms, whilst the congregation were
standing up, some disturbance took place in the church. Elianore
Felton, turning to a gentleman near her, inquired what was the
cause? She was told that the Duke of Buckingham was killed; upon
which, although the name of the assassin was not then mentioned to
her, the unhappy woman fainted.

It is probable that, knowing her son’s sentiments towards the Duke,
and being aware of Felton’s fanatical opinions and moody temper, a
panic, causing that sudden fainting, seized her. Her daughter, also,
as the poor mother confessed in her subsequent examination, swooned
also. These facts are very remarkable, and seem to show that she and
her mother were aware of Felton’s intentions. No further information
was gathered from these gentlewomen by those around them, until, in
about half-an-hour, upon the church becoming fuller, there ran
another whisper through it, purporting that a certain Lieutenant
Felton, or Fenton, had killed the Duke. Then, as Elizabeth Hone
confessed, she did much weep and lament, supposing that it was her
brother that had done the deed. She had, however, the presence of
mind to conduct her mother home, before she told her that it was her
son who had committed murder, and plunged the nation into
consternation, and his family into ruin.

No proof whatsoever of any conspiracy was to be elucidated from the
unfortunate relations of the culprit. Debt and disappointment had,
according to their evidence, driven Felton to desperation. How many
of the evil accidents of life issue, as far as one can see, humanly
speaking, from pecuniary mismanagement. Felton, on the Wednesday
before the Duke was killed, had gone to his mother’s lodging, and
told her of his intention to get the money due to him for pay from
the Duke; adding, that “he was too deeply in debt to stay longer in
town.” Eighty pounds, it appeared, was then owing to him. This, and
the loss of his Captaincy, were all that he had alleged to his own
family against the Duke; he owned to no other grievance. The mother
and sister, and brothers, were, however, committed to prison,
although Edmund Felton, the brother of the delinquent, affirmed that
he had not seen him for ten weeks previously to the murder; that
John Felton had been estranged from him, and did not let him know
where he lodged. There was no attempt in the examination, which took
place before Thomas Richardson and Henry Finch, to screen the
culprit by a plea of insanity; all his brother said was, that his
disposition was “melancholie, sad, and heavy, and of few
words.”[134] Alone had he conceived, planned, and put into execution
the deed of guilt; yet such was the hard disposition of the times,
that it was proposed to extract a confession from John Felton by
torture; but Charles interposed, and forbade the application of that
horrible test,[135] and it was never again attempted in this
country.

Footnote 134:

  Domestic State Papers, August, 1628, No. 31.

Footnote 135:

  Brodie.

The nation was paralyzed by the death of the Minister, Admiral, and
General. “During Buckingham’s presence at Court,” as Mr. Bruce, in
the preface to the “Calendar of State Papers,” remarks, “he reigned
there as the King’s absolute and single Minister. Every act of the
Government passed by or through his will. The King was little seen
or heard of on State affairs. He seldom ever attended a sitting of
the Privy Council, except to carry out some object of his
favourite.” The void, the loss, may easily be conceived, after the
death of the Duke. Charles, however, not only entered warmly into
public affairs, but into the care and concerns of those children
whom his friend had solemnly bequeathed to his charge.

His first office, however, was to honour the remains of one so
suddenly cut off, whilst in the prime of life. The process of
embalming was then deemed indispensable; the Duke’s body, therefore,
was submitted to that, happily, now disused operation; his bowels
were interred at Portsmouth, where Lady Denbigh erected over them a
memorial. Thus the place of his death was marked.

The corpse was then conveyed to York House, where all that could be
viewed of that once noble form was exhibited underneath a hearse.
Eventually it was entombed under a splendid monument in Westminster
Abbey, on the north side of Henry VII.’s Chapel; and his Duchess,
notwithstanding her second marriage, and his two sons, were buried
in the vault beneath the tomb with their father.

The Duchess of Buckingham was near her confinement when this tragedy
occurred. When Charles first visited the young widow, he promised
her that he would be a “husband to her, and a father to her
children.” One son alone was living at the time of the Duke’s
decease. This was George, the second Duke of Buckingham of the house
of Villiers. The character of this young nobleman, to whom Horace
Walpole imputed “the figure and genius of Alcibiades,” has been
“drawn by four masterly hands. Burnet has hewn it out with his rough
chisel. Count Hamilton touched it with slight delicacy, that
finishes while it seems to sketch. Dryden catched the living
likeness. Pope completed the historical resemblance.” Lastly, Sir
Walter Scott, in our time, has depicted this singular being with
admirable skill, if not with perfect fidelity. He was scarcely a
year and seven months old at his father’s death.

One daughter, Lady Mary Villiers, survived the Duke. In the third
year of the reign of Charles I., Buckingham having then no male
heir, caused a patent to be made, limiting to her the title of
Duchess of Buckingham, in default of male issue, his infant eldest
son, Charles, having died in 1626, and George not being then born.

Lady Mary’s life, so happy, seemingly, in her infancy, when, as
“little Moll,” she was King James’s plaything, was not, in one
respect, felicitous. Her first marriage, to Charles Lord Herbert,
son and heir of Philip, Earl of Pembroke, was hastened, and
performed privately in the chapel at Whitehall, because the young
bride had formed an attachment to Philip Herbert, a younger son, who
“did more apply himself to her,” as she stated, than the elder
suitor.

But her mother chided her out of this fancy, and the wedding took
place--the bridegroom dying of small-pox a few weeks afterwards.
Lady Mary married, secondly, James, Duke of Richmond and Lennox, by
whom she had a son, Esme Stuart, who died in infancy; and thirdly,
Thomas Howard, brother of the Earl of Carlisle. She left no
children, so that her father’s desire to perpetuate in her his title
was not realized. If we may believe the praise of an epitaph which
was undisguisedly paid for, we must suppose Lady Mary to have been
endowed with all the virtues.[136]

Footnote 136:

                  EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS.

            “The Lady Mary Villiers lies
            Under this stone: with weeping eyes
            The parents that first gave her breath
            And their sad friends laid her in earth.
            If any of them, reader, were
            Known unto thee, shed a tear;
            Or if thyself possess a gem,
            As dear to thee as this to them,
            Though a stranger to this place,
            Bewail in theirs thine own hard case:
            For thou perhaps at thy return
            May’st find thy darling in an urn.”

                         ANOTHER.

            “The purest soul that e’er was sent
            Into a clayey tenement
            Informed this dust; but the weak mould
            Could the great guest no longer hold:
            The substance was too pure--the flame
            Too glorious that thither came:
            Ten thousand Cupids brought along
            A grace on each wing that did throng
            For place there--till they all opprest
            The seat on which they sought to rest.
            So the fair model broke for want
            Of room to lodge th’ inhabitant.
            When in the brazen leaves of Fame
            The life, the death of Buckingham
            Shall be recorded, if truth’s hand
            Incise the story o’er our land,
            Posterity shall see a fair
            Structure by the studious care
            Of two kings raised, that no less
            Their wisdom than their power express;
            By blinded zeal (whose doubtful light
            Made murder’s scarlet robe seem white--
            Whose vain deluding phantoms charmed
            A clouded sullen soul, and arm’d
            A desperate hand, thirsty of blood)
            Torn from the fair earth where it stood!
            So the majestic fabric fell.
            His actions let our annals tell;
            We write no chronicle; this pile
            Wears only sorrow’s face and style;
            Which e’en the envy that did wait
            Upon his flourishing estate,
            Turned to soft pity of his death,
            Now pays his hearse; but that cheap breath
            Shall not blow here, nor th’ impure brine
            Puddle the streams that bathe this shrine.
            These are the pious obsequies
            Dropped from his chaste wife’s pregnant eyes,
            In frequent showers, and were alone
            By her congealing sighs made stone,
            On which the carver did bestow
            These forms and characters of woe:
            So he the fashion only lent,
            Whilst she wept all this monument.”

Some months after the Duke’s death, his widow gave birth to a son,
named Francis after his grandfather, who provided for him in a
fortune of 1,000_l._ a-year. When he grew up, however, Francis
shared with his brother the misfortune that overshadowed the family,
from the unexpected second marriage of their mother to Randolph
Macdonald, first Earl and afterwards Marquis of Antrim. It is
painful to find the widowed Duchess separated from her children,
having become a Roman Catholic; and having incurred in this, and on
account of the conduct of her husband in Ireland, under Sir Thomas
Wentworth, the King’s displeasure. Charles so greatly disapproved of
her marriage, that he refused, for several years, to see her, and,
when reconciled, took away her children lest they should be imbued
with her religious opinions. The young Duke and his brother Francis
were educated, unhappily for themselves, with the Princes, Charles
II. and his brothers; and Lady Mary was received in the house of the
Earl of Pembroke, her father-in-law. Such are the changes and
chances of life, that in 1639 we find Katharine, (still signing
herself “Katharine Buckingham”) interceding with Strafford for her
husband, Lord Antrim. “Any misfortune,” she writes, “to my lord must
be mine.”[137]

Footnote 137:

  "My Lord,--I was in hope, till very lately, that all your
  displeasure taken against my lord had been past; but, in letters
  sent me out of England, I was assuredly informed your lordship was
  much disgusted still with him, which news hath very much troubled
  me. I cannot be satisfied without sending these expressly to you.
  And I beseech you that, whatever you do conceive, you will deal
  clearly with me, and let me know it, and withal direct me how I
  may remove it. I must necessarily be included in your lordship’s
  anger to him, for any misfortune to my lord must be mine, and it
  will prove a great misfortune to me to live under your frowns. Out
  of your goodness you will not, I hope, make me a sufferer, who
  have never deserved from you but as

                                       “Your Lordship’s
                                              “KATHARINE BUCKINGHAM.

  “Dunbere, this 2nd of September, 1639.”[138]

Footnote 138:

  Strafford Letters, vol. ii., p. 386.

For him she had sacrificed indeed the favour of the King, and the
guardianship of her children.

In 1648, Lord Francis, who, with his brother, had taken the field
against the Parliament, was killed, at about two miles distance from
Kingston-on-Thames: standing with his back planted against an
oak-tree on the road-side; and, scorning to ask quarter, he met his
death gallantly, having nine wounds on his face and body. He is said
to have been a most beautiful youth, and was only nineteen when he
thus fell. His body was brought by water to York House, then sad and
desolate, and was taken thence to be deposited in his father’s
vault, with a Latin inscription on the coffin, preserved by Brian
Fairfax, a faithful adherent, who thought it a pity that the epitaph
should be buried with him; and who has therefore given it in his
life of George, the second Duke of Buckingham. The elder brother of
Lord Francis, after a life of extraordinary adventure, vicissitude,
study, and dissipation, died, in 1688, quietly in his bed--“the fate
of few of his predecessors of the title of Buckingham.” His body
also lies entombed near his father. “The life of pleasure and the
soul of whim,” as Pope describes him, his career furnishes a wide
field for reflection and investigation, to those who may dare to
dive into a biography so characterized by all the worst parts of the
age in which he existed, as that of this profligate man.

Mary, Countess of Buckingham, survived the Duke, her son, four
years--when, with her life, her dignity expired.

John Villiers, Lord Purbeck, died in 1657, when the titles which
he bore became extinct. He lived, however, to recover his powers
of mind, and to act as a friend and guardian to his nephews. Lady
Purbeck, his first wife, took the name of Wright, and her son, by
Lord Howard, bore that surname. The once flattered heiress, whose
follies and misconduct were forgiven, as we have seen, by her
father, died in 1645, in the King’s Garrison, at Oxford, and she
is buried in the Church of St. Mary’s, in that city.[139]
Notwithstanding the misery of his first union, Lord Purbeck
married again; but had no issue by his second wife, who was a
daughter of Sir William Thugsby, of Kippen, in Yorkshire.

Footnote 139:

  Burke’s Extinct Peerage.

Robert Wright, the illegitimate son of Lady Purbeck, took his wife’s
name of Danvers, in order to abandon that of Villiers, so
distasteful to the Commonwealth, with which he sided.

His descendants, nevertheless, laid claim to the honours of the
first Lord Purbeck--and, although their claim was refused by
Parliament, assumed them, until, in 1774, the death of the last
pretender to the title, George Villiers, died without issue.

Christopher Villiers, the youngest brother of the Duke, pre-deceased
him, dying in 1624. His title became extinct in 1659.

Sir William Villiers, the eldest half-brother of the Duke, had never
emerged from his original obscurity; but Sir Edward, his other
half-brother, whom Buckingham constituted President of Munster, was
highly esteemed for his justice and hospitality, and lamented by the
whole province.[140] From him, through his son, who had succeeded
his maternal uncle in the title of Viscount Grandison, was descended
the famous (or infamous) Barbara Villiers, afterwards Duchess of
Cleveland, the mistress of Charles II. Her beauty appears to have
been one of the few traits of the Villiers family that she
possessed.

Footnote 140:

  "In the Earl of Cork’s chapel at Youghal, where he was buried,
  there still remains the following hexastich to his memory:--

           “Munster may curse the time that Villiers came
           To make us worse, by leaving such a name
           Of noble parts as none can imitate,
           But those whose hearts are married to the State;
           But if they press to imitate his fame,
           Munster may bless the time that Villiers came.”
                      _Biographia Britannica_, vol. vi.

It is remarkable that not one of the titles conferred on the family
of Villiers by James I. remains to distinguish the descendants of
old Sir George of Brookesby. The Earldoms of Clarendon and of Jersey
are subsequent creations.[141]

Footnote 141:

  Burke’s Extinct Peerage.

The Duchess of Buckingham, as she still styled herself, appears to
have lived occasionally at Newhall, for after her daughter’s
marriage she was very desirous of having her with her--but the King
would not hear of it; and the soundness of his judgment was proved
by the conduct of the Duchess. Her life was henceforth occupied in
bringing over converts to the faith she professed; amongst others
she succeeded in making a proselyte of the Countess of Newburgh.
After the death of her father, in 1632, she inherited the title of
Baroness de Ros. It is remarkable that even in her person the
honours her first husband had procured for his family did not abide.
She, indeed, by courtesy, bore still his title, but was actually
Marchioness of Antrim and Baroness de Ros. So extraordinary an
acquisition of honours, and so rapid an extinction, are not known in
any other family of England, but are peculiar to the House of
Villiers.

Few things disappoint the reader more than the unaccountable change
in the character of Katharine, Duchess of Buckingham, after she
ceased, except by courtesy, to bear that name. She seems to have
hastened, not only to plunge into a second marriage, but to have at
last avowed, what she had during the whole of her life denied, the
tenets of the Church of Rome. Henceforth she was opposed to the
monarch by whom her husband, the Duke, had been overwhelmed with
benefits. This painful alteration in one so gentle, so forgiving, so
affectionate in her earlier life, is one of those anomalies in life
that one cannot cease to regret, without being able to explain.




                              CHAPTER IV.

CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM--HIS PATRONAGE OF ART--HIS
    COLLECTION--THE SPANISH COURT DESCRIBED--COLLECTION BY CHARLES
    I.--FATE OF THESE PICTURES.




                            CHAPTER IV.


Whatever may have been the failings of the Duke of Buckingham as a
husband, he marked his confidence in his wife by his will. That last
act of his life gave the Duchess power over all his personal
property, as well as a life possession of all his mansion-houses,
with a fourth of his lands in jointure. That his debts were
considerable, has been amply shewn during the course of the
preceding narrative. Previous to his expedition to Rhé, he had
wisely put his revenues into the hands of commissioners, and placed
it out of his own power to manage or mismanage his own affairs. His
occupations, as a courtier, as a minister, as an ambassador, and,
lastly, as a general, sufficiently excuse his want of leisure for
the control of his expenses, and the system of retrenchment
requisite to relieve him from harassing liabilities.

He left, however, an immense amount of capital locked up in
pictures; and that famous collection which places him, as Dr. Waagen
affirms, in the third rank as “a collector of paintings in this
country,” came into the possession of his son. It was chiefly
deposited in York House--that stately structure, so complete and so
princely, that in 1663, when it had become the residence of the
Russian embassy, Pepys was still amazed at its splendour, although
thirty-five eventful years had shaken many a grand fabric to its
fall. “That,” he says, “which did please me best, was the remains of
the noble soul of the late Duke of Buckingham appearing in his
house, in every place, in the door-cases, and the windows.”

It was in the Court of Madrid that Buckingham had learned to love
art, to favour artists, and to become a judge of their works. Philip
IV., of Spain, inert and inefficient as a monarch, and governed by
Olivares, was a man of considerable intellectual powers, and of
great taste. “The denizens of his palace breathed,” as a modern
writer expressed it, “an atmosphere of letters.”[142] At that time
the Castilian stage was in its perfection; the scenery was
inimitable, and the greatest expense was bestowed in representing
the pieces of Lope de Vega, and of Calderon; in the same manner as
the masques of Ben Jonson were aided in effect by the talents of
Inigo Jones. Nor was Philip IV. a mere patron of genius; he was
himself an actor and author, writing with purity and elegance: a
musician, a poet, or, as he delighted to style himself, _Ingenio de
esto corte_. He wrote a tragedy on the death of Essex, Elizabeth’s
favourite; and he often acted with other literary men of his Court,
delighting to vie with them in the display of fancy and humour in
the _Comedias de repente_, representations resembling those of
charades in the present day, in which a certain plot was worked out,
with extempore speeches.

Footnote 142:

  Dr. Waagen--Life of Velasquez, p. 48.

Several of this monarch’s drawings, both of figures and landscapes,
long remained as proofs of that skill which had distinguished both
his fathers and grandfathers. He was an incomparable judge of
painting; for at Valencia he delighted the citizens: on being shewn
the great silver altar of the cathedral, he remarked promptly, that
"the altar was of silver, but the doors were gold"--alluding to the
pictures painted by Aregio and Neapoli, which adorned the doors.

It may easily be imagined how the example of this young Prince, only
in his nineteenth year when Buckingham visited Spain, must have
awakened in him, as in Charles, a new sense; fresh conceptions of
the beautiful, cravings hitherto unfelt, an honourable emulation.
And the example of Philip had its effect on both: the reception
given to Rubens, who, as an artist, was treated with far greater
distinction than he would have been as a mere diplomatist, in which
capacity he came; the efforts of Philip to form an academy of fine
arts; the honours bestowed on Velasquez; and the enthusiasm which he
shewed in the collection of fine pictures for the galleries, which
he so wonderfully enriched, must have proved to Charles and
Buckingham how far behind was their own country in taste and
liberality. They saw that the gold of Mexico and Peru was freely
given for the treasures of art, whilst royalty at home was lavish
only on pageants, horse-racing, hunting, and feasting. They saw the
elevating effects of art and letters, and staid not in Spain long
enough to witness the results of that life-long mistake made by
Philip IV., in resigning the reins of government to the hands of a
minister who lost for his sovereign great possessions, far exceeding
those that many conquerors have acquired.

These refined tastes, which shone forth in Philip, were participated
by his young and beautiful queen, Isabella of Bourbon, his first
wife, and the sister of Henrietta Maria. She was the loveliest
subject of the pencil of Velasquez. At Broom-Hall, in Fifeshire,
there is a picture by him representing the exchange of this
Princess, when a girl, with Anne of Austria, the sister of Philip
IV.

Isabella was destined to be the bride of Philip, then Prince of the
Asturias--Anne to become the wife of Louis XIII. of France.

This production of Velasquez was only one of many portraits of this
lovely princess; for she was by all acknowledged to be the very star
of the Court. She shared the taste of her husband, whilst his young
brothers, both early instructed in drawing, warmly joined in the
King’s pursuits, not only in the arts, but in literature. The elder,
Don Carlos, beloved, as has been stated, by the Spaniards for his
dark complexion, was supposed to have excited the jealousy of
Olivares by his talents--he died in 1626: the second, the
Boy-Cardinal, who assumed the Roman purple and the mitre of an
archbishop, was the able pupil in painting of Vincencio Carducho,
and became the most intellectual of the Spanish Princes that had
appeared since Charles V. He set the fashion of those half-dramatic,
half-musical pieces, which were called in Spain, _Zarzuelas_.[143]
The boy--whom we have seen joining heart and soul, in his purple
robe, and beneath his mitre, in court revels, given in honour of
Charles I., was, at that very time, a student in philosophy and
mathematics; and when at the age of twenty-two he was sent to govern
Flanders, and henceforth to spend the brief span of life allotted to
him in camps and councils--was still, to the last, the patron of
Velasquez and Rubens.[144]

Footnote 143:

  From the name of his country-seat.

Footnote 144:

  The infant Cardinal, the conqueror of Nordlingen, died in 1641.

Olivares the Magnificent, as he was often called, cultivated the
fine arts as a means of diverting the young monarch from his own
abuse of power, and the consequent discontents which marked his
administration. He possessed the most magnificent library in Europe,
abounding in rare manuscripts, and, domesticated in this house as
chaplain, Lope de Vega passed his old age. Quevedo, Pachecho, and
many others, owed much to the patronage of Olivares--a protection
which they paid back in compliments, and, like Lord Halifax, he was
“fed with dedications.” Olivares was one of the first sitters to
Velasquez; he was the patron of Murillo, and, in the downfall of
this minister, these two painters did not desert their early friend,
but alone clung to him in his misfortunes.

The King, his Queen, the two royal brothers, and Olivares, had all a
passion for having portraits taken of themselves. Philip was born
for a sitter. His face, as Dr. Waagen remarks, “is better known than
his history.” His pale Flemish complexion, Austrian features, and
fair hair have been many times depicted by Rubens and Velasquez. He
was sometimes painted on his Andalusian courser, sometimes in black
velvet, as he was going to the council--even at his prayers. There
was an hereditary gift of silence and composure in his race: in
Philip the attribute was so signal, that he could witness a whole
comedy without stirring hand or foot, and conduct an audience
without a muscle moving, except those in his lips and tongue.[145]
Even after slaying the bull of Xarama, famed for strength and
fierceness, not for a moment did he change countenance. To this
incomparable staidness and dignity was added the advantage of a tall
figure, which Philip knew well how to set off by a perfect mastery
in combination of colours. Black he mixed almost uniformly with
white, and gold and silver. This stately monarch was never known to
smile more than three times in his life--that is, publicly, for in
private he was ever “full of merry discourses.”

Footnote 145:

  Waagen, p. 62. From "Voyage en Espagne"--Cologne, 1662.

Thus, taste, letters in every branch, the noblest works of
architecture and sculpture, were the themes of a court where those
who had left behind them the pedantry and vulgarity of King James
arrived in the vigour of youth and intellect. Velasquez was painting
a portrait of the King, and one also of the Infant, Don Fernando,
when Charles and Buckingham arrived at Madrid, and interrupted, by
their presence and the ceremonials of their reception, the
completion of these pictures. The astonished Prince and his
favourite found themselves transformed into a region hitherto
scarcely dreamed of, yet which they were, by natural refinement of
taste, well calculated to enter. They had left King James hunting in
a ruff and bombasted garments; that King hated novelties. “It was as
well,” Horace Walpole remarks, “that he had no disposition to the
arts, but let them take their own course, for he might have
introduced as bad a taste into them as he did into literature.”

Walpole attributes, likewise, the absence of pictures in the houses
of the English nobility at this period to the great size and height
of the rooms which they erected in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, when vastness seems to have constituted the idea of
grandeur. Pictures would have been lost in rooms of such height,
which were better calculated for tapestry; and he offers, as an
instance, Hardwicke--which was furnished for the reception and
imprisonment of Mary Queen of Scots--and Audley-End, as proofs of
the prodigious space covered by a modern gentleman’s house in the
days of James I., and observes how impossible it would have been to
place pictures in such structures.

One may readily conceive, therefore, the enchantment that was felt
in visiting the Escurial, the palace of Buen-retiro, and the noble
churches and famous convents of Madrid. Charles and Buckingham
beheld that capital in the height of its splendour, and witnessed
its most brilliant displays; they attended the grand, picturesque
services and processions; they became acquainted with the works of
Titian, of Velasquez, and Carducho. That Charles cherished the
remembrance of the scenes in which he had once played so romantic a
part, is evident from his employing a young painter, Miquel de la
Cruz, even when England was threatened with the great Rebellion, to
paint for him copies of a number of pictures from those in the
Alcazar of Madrid.[146] The painter was cut off by an early death,
and the project was never carried out.

Footnote 146:

  Waagen; Life of Velasquez, p. 82.

After visiting the halls of the Escurial and of the Pardo, Charles
resolved to form a gallery of art at Whitehall; and Buckingham, at
the same time, determined to decorate York House with Spanish
paintings. The nucleus of the gallery of art at Whitehall was bought
from the collection of the Conde de Villame. Charles, also,
endeavoured to purchase a small picture, on copper, of Correggio’s,
from Don Andres Velasquez, for a thousand crowns, but was
unsuccessful; he failed, also, in obtaining the valuable volumes of
Da Vinci’s drawings, which Don Juan de Espina refused to sell,
saying that he intended to bequeath these treasures of art to his
master, the King. The nobles in the Spanish Court were in the habit
of gratifying their young sovereign with presents of pictures and
statues; and a similar attention was paid both to the Duke of
Buckingham and to Charles. Philip gave the Prince the famous
“Antiope,” by Titian; as well as “Diana Bathing,” "Europa," and
“Danaë,” by the same master. Buckingham had several presents of
value given him; but though they were packed up, these paintings
were left behind, in the hurry of departure, and were never
forwarded to England.

A great portion of the large sums spent by Buckingham in Spain was
expended in forming that famous collection which fell, unhappily,
into the hands of his son. It would appear that James I. somewhat
curtailed Charles’s expenditure on this head; for we find, by an
entry in the State Paper Office, that Buckingham lent the Prince
twelve thousand pounds during their sojourn in Spain. Nevertheless,
no specimen of Spanish art was ever conveyed to England by
Charles.[147] A sketch was, indeed, begun of the Prince, by
Velasquez, but it is doubtful if it were ever completed. Pachecho,
the father-in-law of Velasquez, states that Charles was so delighted
with this portrait in its unfinished state, that he presented the
great painter with a hundred thousand crowns.[148] One may readily
account for its never being completed, because Velasquez, when
Charles and Buckingham left Madrid, could scarcely have finished the
portraits and other pictures on which he was engaged by Philip IV.

Footnote 147:

  State Papers: Calendar, by Mr. Bruce.

Footnote 148:

  Waagen.

In 1847, a picture belonging to Mr. Saare, of Reading, and supposed
to have been a relic of the gallery of Whitehall, was exhibited in
London as this lost portrait by Velasquez. It portrays Prince
Charles in a more robust form, and with a greater breadth of
countenance than any other known resemblance; and was stated to have
been painted in 1623, and to have been mentioned in a privately
printed catalogue of the gallery of the Earl of Fife, who died in
1809, in which it was stated that it had once belonged to the Duke
of Buckingham. Unfortunately, the surname of the Duke of Buckingham
was not specified; and since the title has been owned, so late as
1735, by the Sheffield family, the evidence was incomplete. A very
curious controversy ensued, but facts remain much in the same state
as before; and the authenticity of the portrait has been strongly
disputed, if not denied, by Dr. Waagen, and others. It is singular
that there was no work of Velasquez among the pictures left by
Buckingham.

Whilst the great enlargement of ideas and improvement in taste,
resulting from the journey into Spain, is acknowledged, it must be
remembered that Charles and his favourite went, prepared in
knowledge, and in an honourable emulation, to profit by all they
might behold and hear. In painting, Perichief tells us, Charles “had
so excellent a fancy, that he would supply the defect of art in the
workman, and suddenly draw those lines, give those airs and lights,
which experience and practice had taught the painters.” In every
point he met the accomplished Philip IV. on equal grounds; in some
he exceeded him. A good antiquary, a judge of medals, a capital
mechanist--cognizant of the art of printing--there existed not a
gentleman of the three kingdoms that could compete with him in
universality of knowledge.[149] He was as ready for war as for
peace; could put a watch together, yet comprehend a fortification;
understood guns, and the art of ship-building; but the dearest
occupation of his leisure was the collection of sculptures and
paintings.

Footnote 149:

  Perichief.

The Crown was already in possession of some good pictures, when
Charles commenced his undertaking. Prince Henry had begun the work,
and the nobility, perceiving the King’s love of art, imitated the
Spanish nobles, and sent him presents of great value. But the great
act of Charles’s life as a connoisseur, was the purchase of the
collection of the Duke of Mantua, which was considered to be the
richest in Europe.[150]

Footnote 150:

  Walpole, p. 183, vol. v.

Philip IV. constantly employed his ambassadors and viceroys to buy
up fine pictures for his gallery; and Charles and Buckingham
likewise, on their return, adopted a similar plan on a smaller
scale, by instructing Sir Henry Wotton and Balthazar Gerbier to
negociate for them in works of art. It is obvious how much the royal
collection at Whitehall must have been prized; since, upon its being
sold during the Protectorate, the principal purchaser was Don Alonzo
de Cardenas, the agent of the Spanish King, and his purchases
required eighteen mules to carry them from the coast to Madrid,
whence Lord Clarendon, ambassador of the exiled Charles II. was
dismissed, that he might not see the treasures of his unfortunate
master thus brought into a far and foreign country.[151]

Footnote 151:

  Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion.

The collection of the Duke of Mantua cost Charles eighty thousand
pounds--Buckingham being the agent, and probably the instigator of
this purchase. The family of Gonzaga had been, in 1627, a hundred
years in forming this noble gallery. Little inferior to the Medici
in their liberality to artists, they were the patrons of Andrew
Mantegna, of Guido Romano, of Raphael, of Correggio, and of Titian,
successively. The “Education of Cupid,” by Correggio, was among King
Charles’s purchases, as well as the “Entombment,” now in the
Louvre,and the “Twelve Cæsars” by Titian. Rubens purchased for him
the Cartoons of Raphael, which had been sent by Leo X. to Flanders,
to be worked in tapestry, and left there. Then Charles received
various presents; that especially commonly styled the “Venus del
Pardo,” or more properly “Jupiter and Antiope;” the figures being
set off by one of the grandest landscapes by Titian, known. This gem
was given by Charles to the Duke of Buckingham.[152] It is now in
the Louvre, as is also the “Baptist,” by Leonardo da Vinci, a
present originally from Louis XIII. to Charles.[153]

Footnote 152:

  Walpole’s Anecdotes of Painters; Art. “Charles I.”

Footnote 153:

  In the work styled “Art and Artists,” by Dr. Waagen, there is a
  full and most interesting account of all Charles’s collection.

It was during the residence of Buckingham in Paris that he became
acquainted with Rubens. Eventually he bought the whole of the
collection of statues, paintings, and other valuable works of art,
which that master had formed at a cost of about a thousand pounds,
and which he sold to the Duke for ten thousand. But it was not often
that Buckingham increased his stores so easily; so early as the year
1613, he had in his household Balthazar Gerbier d’Ouvilly, of
Antwerp, a sort of amanuensis, or, as Sanderson styles him, a
“common penman,” whose transcribing the decalogue for the Dutch
Church was one of his first steps to preferment. Gerbier became a
miniature painter, and in that ostensible capacity went into Spain
with the Duke; he painted, amongst other portraits of the family, a
fine oval miniature of his patron on horseback, which, in Walpole’s
time, belonged to the Duchess of Northumberland; the figure, dressed
in scarlet and gold, is finished with great care--and the horse,
dark grey, with a white mane, is very animated; underneath the horse
is a landscape with figures, and over the Duke’s head is suspended
his motto, “_Fidei curricula crux_.” It was in allusion to the
well-known talents of Gerbier that the Duchess of Buckingham wrote
to the Duke, when in Spain, begging him, “if he had leisure to sit
to Gerbier for his portrait, that she might have it well done in
little.”

Gerbier seems at that time to have been a special favourite with the
King and Queen, who supped once at his house--the entertainment, it
is said, costing the painter a thousand pounds.[154] Gerbier, like
Rubens, was employed in delicate diplomatic missions; he was also an
architect and an author, and the founder of an Academy for foreign
languages, and “for all noble sciences and exercises,” as he
expressed it. As a diplomatist, Gerbier negociated in Flanders a
private treaty with Spain:--as an architect, his fame rested, in the
reign of Charles, chiefly on a large room built near the Water Gate,
at York Stairs, in the Strand, which was commended by Charles I.
almost as much as the Banqueting House. Encouraged by this encomium,
Gerbier wrote a small work on magnificent buildings, proposing to
level Fleet Street and Cheapside, and to erect a fine gate at Temple
Bar; a plan of which was presented to Charles II., in whose reign
Gerbier died. He was the rival, or believed himself to be so, of
Inigo Jones. Hempstead-Marshal, the seat of Lord Craven, long since
burned down, was Gerbier’s last effort: he died before it was
completed, and was buried in the chancel of the church at that
place.

Footnote 154:

  Note in Walpole, p. 189, vol. iii.

His literary works seem to have been very singular compounds of
falsehood, invective, and flattery. Horace Walpole believes him to
have been the author of a tract printed by authority, in 1651, three
years after the execution of Charles I., entitled “The Nonsuch
Charles, his character,” and considers it one of the basest libels
ever published. “The style, the folly, the wretched reasoning, are,”
he observes, “consistent with Gerbier’s usual works; he must, at all
events,” he decides, “have furnished materials.” Nevertheless, two
years afterwards, Gerbier published a piece styled “Les Effets
Pernicieux,” written in French, and to this he affixed his name; it
was printed at the “Stag,” and composed apparently as a
precautionary palliative to the other work, in case of the
restoration of the Stuarts; and the notion seems to have succeeded,
since Gerbier returned to England with Charles II., and the
triumphal arches, erected on the Restoration, were designed by this
singularly versatile man.[155] He had, however, the merit, as we
have seen, of endeavouring to form an Academy, somewhat on the plan
of the Royal Institution in Albemarle Street. Sir Francis Keynaston
at that time resided in Covent Garden, and at his house the Academy
was held. None but gentlemen were admitted. Arts were taught by
professors, in lectures, Gerbier being one of the lecturers. The
academy was afterwards removed to Whitefriars; then to Bethnal
Green, whence he dedicated one of his lectures on Military
Architecture to General Skippon, whom he loaded with the most
fulsome, and from one who had, like himself, been overwhelmed by
kindnesses from Charles I.--the most treacherous flattery.

Footnote 155:

  Walpole, p. 192.

It is unsatisfactory to refer to any statement of Gerbier’s as
reliable; in a work on “Royal Favourites,” written in French, he
stated that Dr. Egglisham had applied to him, through Sir William
Chaloner, to procure his pardon, on condition of his confessing that
he had been instigated by others to publish his libel on Buckingham.
Gerbier stated that he had applied to the Secretary of State, but
received no answer. It is unfortunate that no one could believe
Gerbier, either when he calumniated or when he excused any
individual.

It was by this able, scurrilous sycophant that the catalogue of
Buckingham’s pictures was drawn up. In it were enumerated thirteen
pictures by Rubens, whom the Duke had seen when he was at Antwerp,
shortly before the Expedition to Rhé. When, in 1630, the great
painter came to England as a diplomatist, the Duke was dead, but the
sovereign who had so greatly encouraged his tastes, did not, as
Walpole remarks, “overlook in the ambassador the talents of the
painter.” Rubens painted, for three thousand pounds, the ceiling of
the Banqueting House built by Inigo Jones--and depicting the
“Apotheosis of King James;” a subject highly inconsistent for the
purpose for which it is now most strangely appropriated as a chapel.
Vandyck was to have adorned the sides with the history of the
Garter; so that three great masters would have combined to form that
noblest room in the world; but so grand a possession was not
destined to be the work of former times, or the pride of our own.

After Buckingham’s death, some of his pictures were bought by the
King, some by the Earl of Northumberland, and some by Abbot
Montague.[156] In the collection there were nineteen pictures by
Titian, seventeen by Tintoret, thirteen by Paul Veronese, twenty-one
by Bassano, two by Julio Romano, two by Georgione, eight by Palina,
three by Guido, thirteen by Rubens, three by Leonardo da Vinci, two
by Correggio, and three by Raphael, besides several by inferior
masters whose productions are scarce. The great prize of the
collection was the “Ecce Homo,” of Titian, eight feet in length and
twelve in breadth. For this magnificent work of art, in which
portraits of the Pope, the Emperors Charles V. and Solyman the
Magnificent are introduced, the Earl of Arundel had offered
Buckingham seven thousand pounds in land or money. The proposal was
refused, and the “Ecce Homo” shared the fate of many of the other
pictures in the year 1648.

Footnote 156:

  Dr. Waagen says they were sequestrated; but it appears only a
  portion of them were sold by the Parliament--the rest fell into
  the hands of the second Duke of Buckingham.

George, the second Duke of Buckingham, among whose few good
qualities was a loyal adherence to that family to whom his father
owed all, after being allowed by the Parliament a period of fifty
days to choose between desertion of the Stuarts and outlawry, chose
the latter. His estates were seized, but his father’s pictures, many
of which still hung on the now gloomy walls of York House, were sent
to him in his exile at Antwerp, by an old servant, John Traylinan,
who had been left to guard the property. These were now sold for
bread. Duart, of Antwerp, purchased some of them, but the greater
number became the possession of the Archduke Leopold, and were
removed to the Castle of Prague. Amongst them was the “Ecce Homo;”
which has been described as embodying the greatest merits of its
incomparable painter.[157]

Footnote 157:

  Biographia, Art. “George Villiers,” the second note.

Buckingham’s collection contained two hundred and thirty pictures.
One may conceive how grandly they must have adorned York House,
where in every chamber were emblazoned the arms of the two families,
lions and peacocks, the houses of Villiers and Manners, who were for
a few brief years united by one common bond under that roof.[158]
Neither pains nor money were ever spared by Charles, or by
Buckingham, to enrich their collections. Charles, with his own
hands, wrote a letter inviting Albano to England. Buckingham
endeavoured to attract Carlo Maratti, who had painted for him
portraits of a Prince and Princess of Brunswick, to the English
Court; but Maratti excused himself on the plea that he was not yet
perfect in his art.[159] Little could the King have foretold that
his treasures at Whitehall would have been sold, as Horace Walpole
expresses it, by “inch of candle;” or the Duke that his son and heir
should have parted with his father’s collection to save himself from
starvation in a foreign country. Such events seem to confirm Sydney
Smith’s counsel to a friend, not to look forward more than to a
futurity of two hours’ duration.

Footnote 158:

  See Biographia Britannica.

Footnote 159:

  Walpole.

Charles I., less happy than Buckingham, had the chagrin to hear that
his favourite’s beloved collection was partially sold, three years
before his own death. It seems, as Walpole expresses it, “to have
become part of the religion of the time to war on the arts, because
they had been countenanced at Court.” In 1645 the Parliament ordered
the two collections to be sold; but, lest the public exigencies
should not be thought to afford sufficient cause for this step, they
passed the following acts to colour their proceedings:--

“Ordered, (July 23, 1635,) that all such pictures and statues there
(at York House) as are without any superstition, shall be forthwith
sold.”[160]

Footnote 160:

  Dr. Waagen says that some of the Duke’s pictures were not genuine,
  and many of little worth; but this is not the opinion of Horace
  Walpole.

“Ordered, that all such pictures as shall have the representation of
the second person in the Trinity upon them shall be forthwith
burnt.”

"Ordered, that all such pictures there, as have the representation
of the Virgin Mary upon them, shall be forthwith burnt."[161]

Footnote 161:

  Walpole’s Anecdotes of Painting, vol. iii., p. 297--from the
  Journals of the House of Commons.

This, Walpole remarks, was a worthy contrast to Archbishop Laud, who
made a Star Chamber business of a man’s breaking some painted glass
in the cathedral at Salisbury. Times were changed; Laud, however,
looked on the offence as an indication of a spirit of destruction
and irreverence;--unhappily, he was right.

Such was the fate of Buckingham’s pictures: a brief notice of the
proceedings which dispersed the far more valuable collection of the
King must not be omitted. Immediately after Charles’s death, votes
were passed for the sale of his pictures, statues, jewels, and
“hangings.” It was then ordered that inventories should be made, and
commissioners be appointed to appraise, secure, and inventory the
said goods. Cromwell, to his honour, attempted to stop the
dispersion of these valuables; but he had matters of even greater
importance to engage his attention, and the sale, about the year
1650, appears, as far as the paintings were concerned, to have been
completed. From that time no further mention of them is to be found
in the Journals of the House of Commons.[162]

Footnote 162:

  Walpole’s Anecdotes of Painting, vol. iii., p. 200.

All the furniture from the ill-fated King’s different palaces was
brought up, and exposed for sale; and, as far as relates to the
jewels, plate, and furniture, the affair was not concluded until
1653. It must, indeed, have been a melancholy sight. Cromwell,
through his agent, was one of the principal purchasers. The price of
each article was fixed, but, if any one offered a higher sum,
preference was given. Cromwell, who resided alternately at Whitehall
and Hampton Court, bought the Cartoons for 300_l._ The order against
“superstitious” pieces was not, it seems, strictly observed; for a
painting of Vandyck’s, “Mary, our Lord, and Angels,” sold for
40_l._[163] The celebrated portrait of George, the second Duke of
Buckingham, and his mother, by Vandyck, one of the finest
productions of that master, was valued at 30_l._, and sold for
50_l._ Many of the finest pictures were bought by Mons. Jabach, a
native of Cologne, settled in Paris, who sold his collection
afterwards to Louis XIV. “The Entombment,” by Titian, which he
secured, and “Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus,” are in the
Louvre. Amongst the pictures in the Mantua collection, was the large
“Holy Trinity;” it was bought by De Cardenas, the Spanish
Ambassador; and on its arrival Philip IV. exclaimed, "That is my
pearl"--and the picture has, ever since, been known by that name.

Footnote 163:

  Ibid., p. 204.

There were, also, valuable allegorical sketches by Correggio, which
are among the valuable collection of drawings and designs in the
Louvre.

The Imperial Gallery of the Palace Belvedere, in Vienna, contains
several fine pictures from the Whitehall collection. They were
bought at the sale by the Archduke Leopold William, Governor of the
Netherlands, and afterwards Emperor of Austria. Reynst, an eminent
Dutch connoisseur, Christina, Queen of Sweden, and Cardinal Mazarin,
were amongst the purchasers--but bought still more largely of the
jewels, medals, tapestry, carpets, embroidery--many of which went to
adorn Mazarin’s palace in Paris. Bathazar Gerbier, and other
painters, also purchased pictures--and thus, by their aid, and that
of some few Englishmen, the wreck of this noble collection may still
be traced in this country, but the greater portion was lost to it
for ever. Some miniatures were restored;--the States-General, during
the reign of Charles II., bought back the pictures formerly sold to
Reynst, and presented them to Charles II.

By the exertions of that monarch, seventy of the best paintings that
his father had possessed again adorned his various Palaces. St.
James’s, Hampton Court, and Windsor were enriched with the works of
those masters in whose productions Charles I. had so greatly
delighted. But in Whitehall, the gallery of which was hung with the
works of Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Vandyck,
Holbein, Rubens, and many others, had been deposited the finest
specimens of their works. England seems fated never to contain a
collection suitable to her wealth, her intelligence, and her
wishes--for in 1697 that ancient palace, so often partially burnt,
was destroyed by fire; and within its old walls and many chambers
perished the various collections of Charles II., both of pictures,
medals, and sculpture.[164]

Footnote 164:

  Dr. Waagen.

Charles I., like all good judges of art, was extremely careful of
his pictures. Hitherto the Court revels had been held in that
famous gallery which Charles II. afterwards debased into a resort
for gamblers and infamous women of rank; and the Banqueting-house
was next appropriated to them. But during the Christmas of 1637,
when two masques were to be performed, the King being one of the
chief dancers, a building, the mere boarding of which cost two
thousand five hundred pounds, was erected in the main court at
Whitehall, because the King would not have “his pictures in the
Banqueting-house burnt with lights.”[165]

Footnote 165:

  Dr. Waagen.

The noble portrait by Vandyck, of Charles on horseback, was
reclaimed from Seemput, a painter, who had bought it at the sale;
and some few paintings which Catherine of Braganza had coolly
shipped off to Lisbon, were stopped by the Lord Chamberlain in their
embarkation.

When the convulsions under which the country groaned had ceased, and
on the arrival of the Restoration, the nobility, though not
encouraged by the reigning monarch, introduced the custom of
adorning their country seats with paintings. “But the pure and
elevated taste,” as Dr. Waagen expresses it, “of Charles I. had
degenerated; the names of famous masters were indeed to be found,
but not their works.”[166]

Footnote 166:

  Walpole, p. 188.

Architecture and sculpture were also arts which owe infinitely to
the judicious patronage of Charles, assisted by Buckingham. Among
the Mantua collection was a whole army “of old foreign emperors,
captains, and senators,” whom Charles I., as Walpole tells us,
“caused to land on his coasts, to come and do him homage, and attend
him in his palace of St. James’s and Somerset House.”[167] But the
King also discerned and rewarded native genius; and when he planned
the noblest palace in the world at Whitehall, sent for no foreign
architect, but summoned Inigo Jones to his service.

Footnote 167:

  Walpole, p. 203.

“England,” says Walpole, “adopted Holbein and Vandyck; she borrowed
Rubens; she produced Inigo Jones.” Originally a joiner, Jones was
brought out of obscurity, according to many accounts, by the patron
who first extended a hand to assist George Villiers in his struggles
in life. William Earl of Pembroke was the friend alike of the young
courtier and of the son of the clothworker--the immortal Inigo.
Either by the Earl of Arundel or by Pembroke--it is not certain
which--Inigo was sent to Italy to learn landscape-painting; but at
Rome he soon discovered the inclination and bent of his genius. It
is of no use to stop the pure and flowing stream, and thus to make
it turbid. Inigo “laid down his pencil, and conceived Whitehall.”
Nature had not, he felt, destined him to decorate cabinets; his
vocation was to build palaces. He was, however, still in danger of
living in remote splendour. Christian III. enticed him to
Copenhagen, whence James I. sent for him, and whence he was brought
to be the Queen’s architect in Scotland. Patronized by Prince Henry,
he was in despair at the death of that royal youth, and went again
to Italy. It was in the interval between his two journeys to Rome
that he perpetrated some buildings in bad taste; to which the
appellation of “King James’s Gothic” was affixed.

His first task, as Surveyor of the Works, to which office James
appointed him, was to build, for twenty pounds, a scaffolding, when
the Earl and Countess of Somerset were arraigned; his next, to
discover, by King James’s pedantic mandate, who were the founders of
Stonehenge. In 1619, he was entrusted with the direction of the
Banqueting-house at Whitehall, which was finished in two years, and
ordered to draw up a plan for the whole structure.

Horace Walpole, who was a true royalist whenever the arts were
concerned, if not slyly in every other respect, thus speaks of that
great but vain effort to build in London a palace worthy of the
country. “The whole fabric,” he says, referring to Jones’s designs
for Whitehall, “was so glorious an idea, that one forgets in a
moment, in the regret for its not being executed, the confirmation
of our liberties obtained by a melancholy scene that passed before
the windows of that very Banqueting-house.”[168] The misfortunes of
this eminent man now began. Inigo Jones was a Roman Catholic, and,
as such, was peculiarly obnoxious to the Parliament party. His very
name, too, was mingled with associations of those arts and that
magnificence, which, from being the cause of envy, were now the
objects of detestation to certain of the people. “Painting had now,”
says Walpole, “become idolatry; monuments were deemed carnal pride,
and a venerable cathedral seemed equally contradictory to Magna
Charta and the Bible.” Even the statue of Charles at Charing Cross
was regarded as of ill-omen, and taken away lest it should bring
back unpleasant recollections.

Footnote 168:

  Walpole, p. 270.

               “The Parliament did vote it down,
               And thought it very fitting,
               Lest it should fall and kill them all,
               In the house where they were sitting.”

It had become a matter of wonder that society could ever have
tolerated those masques patronized by James, by Charles, and by
Buckingham, in which the masks, costumes, and scenes were designed
by Jones, and the poetry written by Jonson. These representations
had been indeed interrupted by the quarrel between Inigo Jones and
Ben Jonson; and in the civil war they ceased entirely. With the
royal family and their followers literature and the arts were
banished; they were restored with the monarchy, but good taste was
not revived. “The history of destruction” superseded that reign of
elegance and learning which had a brief duration under Charles, and
which, whilst Buckingham was at the head of affairs, was the
main-spring of every impulse. “Ruin was the harvest of the Puritans,
and they gleaned after the reformers.” Of course vengeance fell on
the unfortunate royal architect and stage manager, Inigo Jones. His
face had been seen at every gorgeous revel; his hand was traceable
in many a country seat, even in the picturesque college of St.
John’s at Oxford; he had designed the chapel of Henrietta Maria at
St. James’s; he had erected the arcade and church of Covent Garden:
every familiar scene was haunted with his presence.

The party that condemned him felt neither gratitude nor pity; two
years before the King’s death, he was fined 500_l._ for malignancy.
Afraid of a sequestration of all his revenues, he is stated to have
buried his money, as did Stone, the painter, in Scotland Yard; and
to have removed it, when fearful of discovery, to Lambeth Marsh. He
lived to see Cromwell occupy Whitehall, which he had hoped to
renovate; and to hear that Charles had suffered beneath the very
windows of that fine and perfect fragment of a palace which was
still, in spite of all the terrors of that execution, called the
Banqueting-house; he lived to be called “Iniquity Jones,” by the
successor of that Earl of Pembroke who had once been his generous
patron; he lived to learn that the wit, the poetry, the scenery that
had combined to render the masques at Burleigh a feast not only for
the senses, but for the intellect, were construed into heathenism.
All gallantry and romance were gone--and gone for ever; wit, indeed,
flourished after the Restoration, but it was wit without decency or
feeling. The old man must have felt that he had lived too long.
Somerset House had been with great difficulty saved from the
destruction of the Parliamentary decree; it gave poor Inigo, who
still appears to have nominally held his former office, a refuge
wherein he could lay down his head and die. He was buried in the
church of St. Bennet, at Paul’s Wharf; a monument erected there to
his memory was destroyed in the Fire of London, and the great
architect of the Banqueting-house remains without any memorial, save
the works of his genius.

Vandyck was not settled in England, under the patronage of Charles
I., until after the death of Buckingham. Mytens, whose position as
the King’s principal painter was, as he believed, encroached on by
the celebrity of Vandyck, was patronized by Buckingham, for whom he
painted a portrait of Sir Jeffrey Hudson.

This little wonder of the seventeenth century was nine years old
only at the Duke’s death. He had been domesticated at Burleigh on
account of his diminutive stature, which did not, at that time,
exceed seven or eight inches. Jeffrey was the plaything of the
Court: at the marriage-feast of Charles I., the Duchess of
Buckingham had him inserted in a cold pie, and served up at table to
the Queen, by way of presenting him to the royal bride, who took him
in her lap, and kept him. Until the age of thirty, this little
personage never grew. He then suddenly shot up three feet nine
inches, which he carried off with infinite dignity, and remained at
that height. He was still the butt of all the idlers at Whitehall,
and the theme of a poem, by Davenant, called “Jeffresdos,” the
subject being a battle between the dwarf and a turkey-cock.

Henceforth he became important--went over to France on a mission of
great confidence, to fetch an experienced _sage-femme_ for the
Queen--was taken by the Pirates off Dunkirk on his return--was
rescued, only to encounter the incessant raillery of the courtiers,
which, to a man of his present size and importance, became
exasperating. Faithful and trusty, he went with Henrietta Maria into
France, and there, being goaded on by renewed insults from a Mr.
Crofts, sent a challenge. Crofts came to fight him provided only
with a squirt; the duel was to be on horseback, and with pistols,
that Jeffrey, or, as he had now become, Sir Jeffrey, might be more
on a level with his antagonist. By the first shot, Crofts was struck
dead. The next event in this adventurous life was the capture of
Jeffrey by a Turkish rover, during one of his voyages; he was sold
as a slave, and taken into Barbary; he was, however, ransomed, or
set free, so as to resume his attendance on the Queen. After the
Restoration, he was suspected of being concerned in the Popish plot,
and confined in the Gate House at Westminster. Here, a life that had
been rendered worthy of record even by his very littleness was
closed, in 1682; his old enemy, a gigantic porter at Whitehall in
Charles’s time, with whom the little creature was in incessant
strife, having long since been displaced--and another giant, Oliver
Cromwell’s porter, established in his stead.

On Mytens the office of his Majesty’s “picture-drawer in ordinary,
with a fee of 20_l._ per annum, was conferred in 1625, procured by
the agency of Endymion Porter, who was the servant and relative of
Buckingham, from the Duke.”[169]

Footnote 169:

  Walpole, p. 151, 152.

Incited by the example of the Earl of Arundel, who employed a Mr.
Petty to collect antiquities in Greece, Buckingham despatched for
the same purpose Sir Thomas Roe, telling him, in explaining his
wishes, that “he was not so fond of antiquity as to court it in a
deformed or unshapen stone.”[170] Lord Arundel had begun to
“transplant old Greece into England.” His agent, Petty, was
indefatigable, “eating with Greeks on their work days, and lying
with fishermen with planks,” so that he might obtain his ends. This
valiant antiquary lost all his curiosities on returning from Samos,
and was imprisoned as a spy, but, regaining his liberty, set forth
again to his researches with the energy of a Layard.[171]

Footnote 170:

  Walpole, p. 206. Note. From Peacham’s “Complete Gentleman.”

Footnote 171:

  The fate of the Arundelian marbles is stated by Walpole to have
  been as follows:--They came into the elder branch of the family,
  the Dukes of Norfolk, and were sold by the Duchess, who was
  divorced in the time of George II., to the Earl of Pomfret for
  300_l._ The Countess of Pomfret, great-grandmother to the present
  Earl, gave them to the University

The principal medallist in the time of Charles I. was Andrew
Vanderdort, a Dutchman, also patronized by Prince Henry. Upon the
accession of Charles, Vanderdort was made keeper of the King’s
cabinet of medals, with a salary of 40_l._ This cabinet or museum
was contained in a room in Whitehall, running across from the Thames
towards the Banqueting-house, and fronting the gardens westward. By
Vanderdort the coins of the realm were designed; and to the
commission to perform that work was added an injunction that he
should superintend the engravers. To Vanderdort was once confided
the preparing of the catalogue of the Royal collection, written in
bad English, and preserved in the Ashmolean Museum, at Oxford. It is
related of him, that, being entrusted with a miniature by Gibson,
the “Parable of the Lost Sheep,” he laid it up so carefully, that,
when asked for it by the King, he could not find it, and hung
himself from grief.[172]

Footnote 172:

  Walpole.

It was owing to the suggestions of Buckingham that the great
portrait-painter, Gerard Honthorst, was invited by Charles I. to
England. Honthorst of Oxford. was a native of Utrecht, but had
completed his education at Rome. He had many pupils in painting of
high rank, and amongst them were Elizabeth of Bohemia and her
daughters, the Princess Sophia, mother of George I., and the
Princess Louisa, afterwards Abbess of Maubissen, being the most apt
scholars of that family. It was owing to the early culture of the
arts which both the sons of James I. had enjoyed, that it became an
easy task for Buckingham to incite Charles to the patronage of great
masters in afterlife. Solomon de Caus, a Gascon, was the instructor
of Prince Henry, and probably of Charles, who inherited the pictures
and statues which his brother had collected. Honthorst probably
improved by his lessons the taste that had been already so well
cultivated. At Hampton Court, a large picture on the staircase
sometimes rivets attention, without conferring pleasure--for the
taste for allegorical paintings has long since been extinct. It
delineates Charles and his Queen as Apollo and Diana in the clouds;
the Duke of Buckingham, as Mercury, is introducing them to the Arts
and Sciences, whilst genii are driving away Envy and Malice. This,
and other paintings, were completed by Honthorst in six months; the
King giving him three thousand florins, a service of silver plate
for twelve persons, and a horse. He also painted portraits of the
Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, sitting with their two children; and
it was likewise the Duke’s fancy to have a large picture by him,
representing a tooth-drawer, with many figures introduced around the
operation.

Horatio Gentileschi, a native of Pisá, was one of those who
contributed alike to the collection of Charles and to the glories of
York House, which, long before Buckingham’s death, had, we are told,
become the admiration of the world.

Gentileschi was treated with a degree of liberality that was quite
congenial to the feelings of Buckingham: he was invited to England,
and rooms were provided for his use, and a considerable salary
advanced to him. Some of the painted ceilings in Greenwich Palace
were his work; and he ornamented York House in a similar manner.
When it was dismantled, one of the ceilings was transplanted to
Buckingham House, in St. James’s Park, the seat of Sheffield, Duke
of Buckingham. He also painted the Villiers family, and, by the
Duke’s order, a Magdalen, lying in a grotto, contemplating a
skull--a strange subject for the worldly and high-spirited
Buckingham to select. But the delight of Charles and of his
favourite was Nicholas Lanière, meritorious as a painter, engraver,
and musician. It was Lanière who composed the music for some of Ben
Jonson’s masques, in recitative. Lanière, after the death of
Charles, set to music a funeral hymn written by Thomas Pierce. As a
composer, he was salaried by Charles with two hundred a-year. He
had, however, also painted pictures for King James; and it is stated
that Buckingham, not being able to induce that monarch to reward him
adequately, gave Lanière three hundred pounds at one time, and five
hundred at another, from his own means.[173] Lanière had been
instrumental in the negociation for the Mantua collection. After the
death of Charles he was one of those painters who viewed with deep
concern the dispersion of the Whitehall collection; and bought
several pictures at the sale of what he had contributed to enrich.

Footnote 173:

  Biograph. Brit., Art. “Villiers.” Note.

Whilst ceilings were painted, pictures distributed on richly-carved
panels, and in spacious galleries, there was even an attempt in
those days to decorate with frescoes the exterior of houses, as in
Bavaria, where even the dwellings of superior farmers are sometimes
adorned in that manner. Francis Cleyn, a Dane, was called to England
in the reign of James I., in order to improve also the manufacture
of tapestry at Mortlake, to which James had contributed two thousand
pounds. Hitherto, Sir Francis Crane, the proprietor, had worked only
on old patterns; Cleyn brought new and original designs to the aid
of the tapestry-workers. Five of the cartoons were sent by Charles
to be copied. Cleyn also painted the outside of Wimbledon House in
fresco; he designed one of the chimney-pieces in Holland House, and
gave the drawings for two chairs, carved and gilt, with shells for
backs, still there. In every possible department art was called into
play. Drawings for the great seals were made by Cleyn. He published
books for “carvers and goldsmiths.” Nothing was to be tasteless,
clumsy, or inappropriate; and, with this spirit abroad, it is not
surprising that the little that the Rebellion spared should be
models for our own conservative generation.

Whilst Villiers employed portrait-painters on himself and on his
family, he did not forget the old man at Brookesby, long since gone
to the grave. Cornelius Jansen, by his order, painted a portrait of
his father; probably from some family picture. It was in the
possession of Horace Walpole, “less handsome,” he says, “but
extremely like his son.”

The patronage extended by Charles I. to architects[174] was often
directed by Buckingham; for the King and the favourite had but one
soul between them. To exalt and improve the art of painting, they
summoned foreign architects as well as painters to England,
remunerated them liberally, and treated them with the courtesy due
to one of the noblest of professions. Charles delighted to dabble
with his brush on the canvas, his hand directed by the master, with
whom he sat for hours. Buckingham’s few leisure days were devoted to
his buildings and paintings. Amongst the English builders who worked
at the Banqueting-house, under Inigo Jones, was Nicholas Stone, who
was in 1619 appointed master-mason to the King, at the usual salary,
of twelve pence a-day; but the extra work he executed for Charles
was amply paid; and his salary during the two years he worked at
Whitehall amounted to four shillings and tenpence the day.[175]
Nicholas Stone designed four of the dials at St. James’s and
Whitehall.[176] He rebuilt the fountains at Theobald’s and Nonsuch;
his drawings are, it is to be feared, lost. He was the statuary
employed by the Countess of Dorset to set up at Westminster the
monument of Spenser the poet, for which he was paid forty pounds.
His great talent lay in tombs; amongst others, he erected one for
the Countess of Buckingham, the Duke’s mother, three years after her
son’s death, in 1631, in Westminster Abbey, for which he received
560_l._ Doubtless, therefore, he was continually employed by
Buckingham, and Stone’s various performances must have been just
what the Duke required. He was the modest architect, who did not
disdain to form and chisel the piers for gates--Inigo Jones
designing them,--at Holland House. He built the great gate of St.
Mary’s Church at Oxford, and the stone gates for the Physic Garden
in that city,--also designed by Inigo. The figure of the Nile at
Somerset House was by Stone; his skill, like that of Inigo, is
familiar to us, though we may almost have forgotten the hand that
had so much “cunning.” At York House, at Wanstead, New Hall and
Burleigh, his fine face, with his love-locks, his plain collar, and
tight doublet, were, we may be sure, often to be seen before ruin
and desertion darkened those once splendid homes of Villiers.

Footnote 174:

  Walpole, p. 149, _passim_.

Footnote 175:

  Walpole, p. 166.

Footnote 176:

  There were five dials at Whitehall; a Mr. Gunter drew the lines,
  and wrote a pamphlet on the use of them, in 1624. “One, too,” says
  Horace Walpole, “may still be extant.” Vertue saw them at
  Buckingham House, from whence they were sold.

Few men, it must be acknowledged, in so brief a space, have done
more for the arts in this country than George Villiers. By
Charles, his friend and sovereign, who survived him twenty years,
much more was effected. Without their unceasing efforts, without
even the almost pardonable extravagance that was directed to
purposes so refined, England would almost have been devoid of
paintings by the greatest masters, and, what would be almost
worse, destitute of the love and reverence for high art which has
come down to us from the time of Charles I., and which is now
cherished, though unconsciously, in the breast of the poor
artisan, as in that of the richest peer or commoner. The crowds
who not only throng, but enjoy, the galleries of Hampton
Court--and, still more, the humble visitors from the Faubourg St.
Antoine and the Marais to the Louvre, on Sundays, in Paris--prove
that a love of what is true and holy, and even sublime, in
pictures, exists intuitively in the uncultivated mind, as well as
in the highest intelligence of the soul. Those who called from its
latent recesses this love of art in the seventeenth century are
greatly entitled to the gratitude of that age to which the
luxuries of music and painting are become necessities.




                               CHAPTER V.

PATRONAGE OF THE DRAMA BY CHARLES AND THE DUKE OF
    BUCKINGHAM--MASSINGER--BEN JONSON--THEIR CONNECTION WITH THE
    COURT, AND WITH THE DUKE.




CHAPTER V.


After considering the benefits conferred by Charles I. and his
favourite on art, and detailing their patronage of eminent masters,
one turns, naturally, to the literature of the day, and more
especially--as subsidiary to music and painting--to the drama.

The accession of James I. opened fairer prospects to dramatists than
they had enjoyed in the days of Elizabeth, who paid as grudgingly
for her amusements as for the services of her statesmen. To her
“Master of the bears and dogs” she assigned a salary of a farthing a
day only.[177] Yet the office was sometimes held by a Knight; and,
during the “princely pleasures of Kenilworth,” of which bear-baiting
formed a prominent feature, by no less opulent a person than Edward
Alleyn, the actor, and founder of Dulwich College. Little but
honour, therefore, had accrued, in the time of Elizabeth, to poets
and play-writers; and the struggling authors were obliged to have
recourse to a more liberal patronage than that of the Court--until
James I., somewhat “of a poet, but more of a scholar,” promoted,
with an extravagant zeal, the diversions which his taste disposed
him to enjoy. Plays, which his predecessor had deemed likely to draw
her younger subjects from the manlier recreations of bear-baiting
and hunting, were patronized in high quarters, and were henceforth
the fashionable diversions notwithstanding the invectives of the
Puritans, both of the Court, and in the provincial castles of the
nobility at a distance from London.

Footnote 177:

  Note in Hartley Coleridge’s Introduction to Massinger’s Plays, p.
  32.

Independently of the delights of the masque, which comprised both
music, dancing, and poetry, there were pleasures to be found in the
drama which accorded with the tendencies and failings of that
period.

It was an age of personality, a disposition to which existed as
strongly in the unrefined court of James, and even among his
northern retainers, as in the brilliant galleries of Versailles,
encouraged by Louis XIV., and led by the dangerous and witty St.
Simon. “The great eye of the world,” says an able writer, “was not
then, any more than now, so intent on things and principles as not
to have a corner for the infirmities of individuals.”[178] Wilson,
Weldon, Winwood, Osborne, Peyton, Sanderson, circulated what were in
many instances fabrications about the higher classes; whilst the
crimes and absurdities of the lower orders were celebrated by the
ballad-mongers, or dramatized for the stage. Many of those ballads
transmitted to us, which were exempted from the fate of “damn’d
ditties,” were founded on authentic domestic tragedies, the actors
in which have long since passed into oblivion. The ballad, which
afforded the multitude a pleasing insight into the fact that their
superiors were no better than themselves, was the most popular
literature of the day. Sung to doleful tunes, with a nasal twang,
they called forth the satire of the dramatist, who aimed at a higher
species of personality, and who deprecated these, often scurrilous,
productions; which were, at length, checked in the time of Swift by
the imposition of a penny stamp on every loose sheet. The ballad was
a source of dread to the tavern bully, whose iniquities it exposed.

“If I have not ballads made of you all, and sung to filthy tunes,
may this cup of sack be my poison,” says Falstaff.

Footnote 178:

  Hartley Coleridge, p. 9.

        “Now shall have we damnable ballads out against us,
        Most wicked madrigals.”
                                   _Humorous Lieutenant._

Whilst the attention of society was not altogether fixed on exalted
members only, it was found difficult to restrain satire, and even
calumny, from introducing living characters on the stage, and from
depicting them with hateful qualities, and in invidious situations.

In vain did the Master of the Revels, who was under the peculiar
influence of the Court, endeavour to control the disposition to
personality which characterized even many of the plays acted before
James I. and his son. In these compositions the public acquired that
insight into conduct and peculiarities which is now derived from
periodical papers, or from diaries, letters, and autobiographies, in
which our age is especially fertile.

Amongst the dramatists of James and Charles’s reigns, we may take,
as the most remarkable, Philip Massinger, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and
Fletcher, and John Ford, the greater part of whose works were
produced during the life of King James and of Charles I. and II.

The biography of each of these celebrated men elucidates much of the
manners and temper of the times, and their history comprises that of
this species of literature during the commencement and middle of the
seventeenth century.

Philip Massinger was the son of Arthur Massinger, a retainer in the
household of the Earl of Pembroke. A retainer was often a gentleman
of good birth but small means, and this was probably the condition
of Arthur Massinger, who, from his carrying letters from his master,
the Earl, to Queen Elizabeth, could not have been a man of low
origin, else he would not have been admitted to the honour of
conveying any dispatch to one who placed so much importance on
lineage in those who entered her presence. That custom was still in
force, which surrounded a nobleman, not with menials, but with a
middle-class of bondmen, who thought service no degradation. It was
esteemed a turn of fortune when a youth of gentle birth could be
introduced into some noble house, to learn therein politeness,
chivalrous attention to ladies, and to imbibe, from example and
precept, that loyalty which was then considered a sort of virtue.
The education and training of a page is now confined to royal
courts; but there were, in England, in those days of the Tudors and
Stuarts, many minor courts, which exacted, in miniature, the duties
and service that existed in the palaces of the monarch. And of those
stately and wealthy patrons, none were more respected than the
Herberts, Earls of Pembroke, to whom Arthur Massinger wrote himself
“Bondman.”

That wholesome discipline which it is difficult in our own time for
a parent to preserve over his family was maintained to the advantage
of a page who rose from a lowly to a confidential situation.
Massinger’s lines in the “New Way to Pay Old Debts” refer to the
subjection under which the youth groaned, but to which the matured
actors on this world’s stage looked back with gratitude:--

        “Art thou scarce manumised from the porter’s lodge,
        And now sworn servant to the pantofle,
        And darest thou dream of marriage?”
                             _New Way to Pay Old Debts._

Yet in this servitude the father of Philip Massinger lived and died.
These grand establishments, in which the noble head saw around him
none but persons of gentle blood and breeding, would long since have
ceased to be congenial, even if they still existed, to the English
notions of independence, by which servitude is confounded with
slavery. But they had this advantage--the son of a retainer was
supposed to have a claim on the illustrious noble, who estimated his
father’s fidelity and offices; and that this was the case with
Philip Massinger, might seem probable from the advantages of
education which he was enabled to derive; and the value of which he
had learned to appreciate, in the proximity to the really noble and
intellectual family of Herbert. It appears from Philip Massinger’s
dedication of the “Bondman,” that he never had any personal
communication with Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery; but that
is no proof that he may not have been indebted for the advantage of
a university education to the far more intellectual and estimable
Henry, Earl of Pembroke, his father’s patron, as appears from the
following passage in the dedication of the “Bondman” to the Earl of
Montgomery:--

“However, I could never arrive at the happiness to be made known to
your lordship; yet a desire born with me, to make a tender of all
duties and service to the noble family of the Herberts, descended to
me as an inheritance from my dead father, Arthur Massinger. Many
years he happily spent in the service of your honourable house, and
died a servant in it, leaving his to be ever most glad and ready to
be at the command of all such as derive themselves from his most
honoured master, your lordship’s most honoured father.”[179]

Footnote 179:

  Massinger’s Works, edited by Hartley Coleridge, p. 74.

It would be agreeable to reflect that Massinger had passed his
childhood and youth, partly at all events, in the classical region
of Wilton Castle, which Sir Philip Sidney had almost sanctified to
the Muses by his presence, and whence he had issued forth on that
expedition in which he died a hero’s death. But those were not the
days in which the childhood and youth of celebrated men were
recorded, and of Massinger’s not a trace remained. We only guess at
the early influences which formed his imaginative, yet vigorous
mind. We only conjecture that his taste was directed to poetry by
the taste of those whom he must have learned first to respect. We
are not sure, yet we are glad to believe, that whilst his mind took
on afterwards the impressions of the age in which he lived, it was
in earliest youth incited by the author of the “Arcadia,” and by the
acquirements of her to whom that poem was dedicated, to culture and
exercise, until circumstances brought its powers into full activity.

The dedication of the “Bondman” was written in 1624; and whilst it
shews that the poet had never seen Philip, Earl of Montgomery, it
does not follow, as has been stated, that he was _not_ reared at
Wilton during the life-time of Henry, Earl of Pembroke, the “noble
father” of Philip, who, as a younger son, was created Earl of
Montgomery, and long known by that title only. Henry, who was
succeeded by his eldest son, the second Earl of Pembroke, died in
1600; and since Massinger was born in 1584, it is extremely probable
that he passed his childhood at Wilton, although, in compliance with
the custom of the age, he was probably sent out to nurse. Even the
name of his mother is unknown. Few authors of so much merit as
Massinger have been, as Hartley Coleridge observes, “so little
noticed by contemporaries;” and none so soon forgotten by succeeding
times.

There can, however, be but little doubt that Philip Massinger
imbibed at Wilton that value for letters which is so soon caught by
children from the society of the intellectual; and that a gentler
influence than that of Earl Henry stimulated the natural
inclinations of his mind. A learned education for women of rank was
in vogue for nearly a century after the Reformation: with
Protestantism came in the notion that the female understanding was
worthy of high cultivation; and our earliest and most superior
women, in those times, were prepared for their important part in
life by a sound and almost masculine training. Witness the learning
of Lady Jane Grey, of Queen Elizabeth, of Joanna, Lady Abergavenny,
whom Walpole believes to have been the “foundress of that noble
school of female learning, of which (with herself) there were,” he
says, “no less than four authoresses in the three descents.”[180]
Among the learned and the virtuous none was more esteemed in her
time than Mary, the sister of Sir Philip Sidney, and the third wife
of Henry, Earl of Pembroke, the son of Arthur Massinger’s patron.
She was one of those ornaments of her age who added lustre to her
station without forfeiting one feminine attribute. What was then
called a “polite education” comprised not only the acquisition of
light literature, but that also of classical learning. From her
mother, Lady Mary Dudley, this admirable woman inherited a noble and
congenial spirit; from her father, Sir Henry Sidney, surpassing
abilities, moral excellencies, enlarged views, generous motives.
That father, superior to the venal courtiers of his time, spent his
whole fortune in his endeavours to benefit Ireland and Wales, of the
affairs of which he held the administration. In her brother, Sir
Philip Sidney, the Countess of Pembroke found a companion in all her
pursuits, as well as in affection. Hence, as Spenser wrote, their
minds grew in unison:--

           “The gentlest shepherdess that liv’d that day,
           And most resembling, both in shape and spirit,
           Her brother dear.”

In conjunction with him, this gifted woman is said to have
translated the Psalms;[181] of which effort Daniel says:--

         “Those hymns which thou dost consecrate to Heaven,
         Which Israel’s singer to his God did frame,
         Unto thy voyage eternity hath given,
         And makes thee dear to Him from whence they came.”

Footnote 180:

  Joanna, Lady Abergavenny, Mary Arundel, Catherine Grey, Mary
  Duchess of Norfolk. See “Royal and Noble Authors.”

Several of these are extant; one of them was published in the
_Guardian_;[182] and it corresponds with a Psalm printed in the
“_Nugæ Antiquæ_” as the Countess of Pembroke’s.[183] It has been
regretted that these productions are not authorized to be sung in
churches; for the present version, Mr. Hartley Coleridge remarks,
“is a disgrace and a mischief to the establishment.” These
translations are preserved in the library at Wilton.

Footnote 181:

  Horace Walpole’s “Royal and Noble Authors,” vol. ii., p. 308.

Footnote 182:

  No. 7.

Footnote 183:

  Ibid.

The Countess was residing there when the “Discourse of Life and
Death,” by Mornay, which she translated from the French, was
printed. This was in 1590, when Philip Massinger was six years of
age. She survived until 1621; and, since she extended her patronage
both to arts and letters, it is probable that she not only
befriended Ben Jonson, but that she encouraged and assisted the
struggling dramatist, whose father had been so favoured or retained
in her husband’s house. Ben Jonson’s well-known lines on her tomb
have challenged various criticisms. Whilst by some they are deemed a
tribute “which have never been exceeded in the records of monumental
praise,”[184] by another critic they are considered “too
hyperbolical, too clever, and too conceited to be inscribed on a
Christian’s tomb.”[185]

Footnote 184:

  Note in Parke’s edition of “Royal and Noble Authors.”

Footnote 185:

  Hartley Coleridge.

                “Underneath this marble hearse
                Lies the subject of all verse--
                Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother;
                Death, ere thou canst find another,
                Learned, and fair, and good as she,
                Time shall throw a dart at thee.”

At all events, Massinger imbibed from his father’s connection with
the Herbert family, one taste--that for theatricals. Amongst the
retinue of the great peer, was a company of itinerant performers,
“the Earl of Pembroke’s players;” and though the childhood of
Massinger is indeed a blank, it maybe inferred that the attractions
of the theatre, or rather of the hall, in which that portion of the
Earl’s household must have been frequently occupied, were such as to
fascinate a boy of an imaginative turn of mind. He is stated to have
been shy, melancholy, retiring, and studious; that he received a
classical education, as a boy, is also stated; but when that
education was received, who directed that thoughtful and dreamy mind
to poetry, or how he, who was evidently designed for a scholastic
career, should have devoted himself to the profession of a
play-writer, does not appear to have been ascertained, even by the
indefatigable Gilford.

But it was an age of great mental energy, and there was sufficient
in the rich harvest won by Shakspeare, or in the rare delights
afforded by his works, to account for the direction of young
Massinger’s genius.

It has been conjectured, also, that he acted occasionally in those
plays the parts of which were then usually sustained by boys: of
this there remains not a single proof, and nothing is _certain_, in
so far as the events of his youth are concerned, except that he was
entered at St. Alban’s Hall, Oxford, in 1601-2.

It must not be supposed that this fact at all implied what in the
present day it might appear to indicate. It did not follow that
Massinger was to enter one of the learned professions, because he
became a commoner in that small, ancient society of St. Alban’s
Hall; nor was it a proof that the young man had parents who were in
affluent circumstances, as a University career now seems to imply.
Oxford was then a place for cheap education, and many of the “poor
scholars” at the various colleges underwent, as Strype shews us,
great hardships. On the other hand, it was not uncommon for the
profession of letters to be in those days a man’s only calling; and
an academical training was his best commencement in that arduous
course, since a certain display of erudition was undoubtedly one of
the characteristics of the period.

The exhibition to college was, according to Anthony Wood, given to
Massinger by the Earl of Pembroke; but others allege that Massinger
derived the means of subsistence at Oxford from his father.

In those schools, where a man for the first, and perhaps for the
only, time in his existence, frames his own success, independently
of the patronage of others--in those schools, famed for
strict impartiality, and where the battle is really to the
strong--Massinger, nevertheless, did not appear. He left Oxford
without taking his degree; for he had made the mistake, fatal to a
poor man, who has to rest upon the endowments of that grand old
university for his support, of not adopting the studies which the
university prescribes to the exclusion of others. It was, indeed, a
sin in the eyes of that zealous antiquary, whose tomb, in a corner
of the anti-chapel of Merton College, is so often overlooked, save
by those who honour his labours, and who view his merits, thus
enshrined, with regretful reverence--that he gave his mind, as
Anthony Wood tells us, “more to poetry or romance, for about four
years or more, than to logic and philosophy, which he ought to have
done, as he was patronized _to that end_.”

He adds, without further comment than this, “that, being
sufficiently famed for several specimens of wit, he betook himself
to writing plays.” Massinger left Oxford in 1606--he was then
twenty-two years of age.

For some time his history is again a blank, and his exertions and
struggles, whatever they may have been, fell upon a serious,
religious, thoughtful temperament, devoid of the elasticity with
which Shakespeare fought and conquered the trials of fate.
Play-writing was, at that time, almost the only means by which ready
money could be obtained, and had the patronage of the Court in full
activity, when Massinger cast himself into his future and only
career. James I., soon after his accession, licensed the company of
players who had hitherto been styled the “Lord Chamberlain’s,” but
who were henceforth to be called "the King’s servants"--amongst whom
were Shakspeare, Burbage, Heminge, and others. Queen Anne adopted
the “Earl of Worcester’s company,” and Prince Henry that of the Earl
of Nottingham, the hero of the “Armada.” The Court, and even
provincial nobles and gentry, although Protestantized, kept, with as
scrupulous attention as ever, the great feasts of the Church; and on
these, as in former times a mystery or morality was given, so now a
play was often performed. “The stage,” says Hartley Coleridge, “was
evoking and realizing the finest imaginations of the strongest
intellects.”

Whether Massinger ever acted or not, is as doubtful as every other
incident of his early life. It was not until 1614 that a glimmering
of his actual condition in life is seen through the darkness, and
the disclosure is melancholy and discouraging. There is something
touching, as well as dreary, in the gloom that one can only
diversify with scenes of penury and imprisonment for debt. At last
the light breaks out; and, in the words of the following appeal, the
history of some years of disappointment is disclosed:--[186]

"To our most loving friend, Mr. Philip Hinchlow, Esquire, these,--

“Mr. Hinchlow--You understand our unfortunate extremitye, and I doe
not thinke you so void of cristianitee but that you would throw so
much money into the Thames as wee request now of you, rather than
endanger so many innocent lives. You know there is X_l._ more at
least to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to lend us
V_l._ of that; which shall be allowed to you, without which we
cannot be bayled nor I play any more till this be dispatch’d. It
will lose you XX_l._ ere the end of the next weeke, besides the
hindrance of the next new play. Pray, sir, consider our cases with
humanity, and now give us cause to acknowledge you our true friend
in time of neede. Wee have entreated Mr. Davison to deliver this
note, as well as witness your love as our promises and always
acknowledgement to be ever your most thankful and loving
friends,[187]

                                                  ”PHILIP MASSINGER.
                                                  “R. DAVISON.
                                                  ”NAT. FIELD."

Footnote 186:

  This letter was discovered by Malone, in Dulwich College. There is
  no date on it, but Mr. Payne Collier dates it in 1614, eight years
  before the publication of the “Virgin Martyr.”

Footnote 187:

  Introduction to Massinger’s Works, p. xxxiii.

This letter is the only one with the signature of Philip Massinger
extant. It was addressed to a pawnbroker--such was Philip Hinchlow,
who, besides exercising that ancient profession, was also engaged in
theatrical speculations, his advances being chiefly made upon the
wearing apparel and properties, of which he acquired a large portion
in this way. “A comfortable sort of person,” remarks Hartley
Coleridge, “for three poets to be obliged to.” Especially when they,
as it were, pledged to him the labour of their brains; and that when
they were either already in prison, or afraid of that crisis in
their miserable destiny. Nathaniel Field, the writer of this letter,
was Massinger’s partner in the production of the “Fatal Dowry;” he
had a share in the Globe and Blackfriar’s Theatres, in conjunction
with Burbage, the original _Richard III._, _Hamlet_, and _Othello_;
and with Lowin, the original _Falstaff_. Field was also an actor,
and he performed in Ben Jonson’s masque, “Cynthia’s Revels,” in
1600, when he appeared as one of the children of the Queen’s chapel.
Robert Daborne was a man of good descent, a scholar and a clergyman,
although the author of several plays; nor was he the only clerical
dramatist in an age which was, indeed, "not an innocent one"--for
Cartwright, also a play-writer, was a divine, and, as Fuller states,
“a florid and seraphical preacher.”[188]

Footnote 188:

  Introduction to Massinger’s Works, p. xxxv.

It has been remarked that the “Fatal Dowry” was like the production
of a man in debt. Massinger might refer to his own case when he
wrote:--

                     “I will not take
         One single piece of this great heap. Why should I
         Borrow that I have no means to pay; nay, am
         A very bankrupt, even in flattering hope,
         Of ever raising any.”

In addition to his poverty, to hard work, and the degradation of
debt, Massinger was fully conscious that he had not, in giving up
the certainty of a profession, attained a position in society. The
dramatist’s occupation was scarcely, in those times, considered a
creditable employment.[189] By the Puritans it was deemed sinful--by
learned men, idle and trifling; and although lawyers and
academicians, courtiers and ladies, and even the Queen and Princes
of the blood, took the conspicuous parts, there was still a certain
disrepute attached to the very instruments by means of which the
stage was brought into what is justly called its “palmiest state.”

Footnote 189:

  Introduction to Massinger’s Works, p. xiv; from Dr. Farmer’s
  “Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare.”

There were perhaps various reasons for the slow success of Massinger
as a dramatist, and for that adverse fate the bitterness of which
breaks forth in all his works. The age was Puritan; and he was
supposed to have exchanged the Protestant principles with which he
had entered Oxford for Romanist opinions--or rather, what we should
now term Tractarian. That he may have been, as Mr. Gifford infers,
from his leaving Oxford without a degree, a Roman Catholic, is borne
out by no fact, although seemingly attested by the subjects of his
plays--the “Virgin Martyr,” the “Renegade,” and the “Maid of
Honour,” and from some passages in his other dramas. The bare
suspicion was enough to make an author unfashionable at the time
when the religion of the poet’s ancestors was the object of hatred
and terror, and the laws against recusants were in all their hateful
force. The plots of Massinger’s plays were, however, almost
invariably taken from French or Italian novels, or from old legends,
which embodied Romanism, and must, if Protestantized, have assumed
the form of satire. Another drawback to Massinger’s popularity was
the strong Whiggism which manifested itself in his plays, and which
was so greatly at variance with the tone of the Court and of the
higher classes during the early part of the reign of James I. He had
not the reverence for constituted authority which marked the
sentiments of Shakspeare, whilst his devotion to birth (not to
_rank_ alone) savoured of the son of the retainer in a great house,
where the servant generally is a far greater worshipper of the old
descent than the real possessor of the ancient pedigree.[190] Thus,
whilst this ill-fated man, full of genius, full of virtue, and of a
deep sense of religion, was always tempting the slings and arrows of
fortune, he was distrusted by the Puritans as a favourer of the
Romish faith; he was avoided by the loyal as an enemy to passive
obedience; and he must have been regarded with disgust by the rich
city merchants and traders, for his contempt for newly-acquired
wealth, and his merciless exposition of their assumption, in his
dramas.

Footnote 190:

  Introduction to Massinger’s Works, p. xxxvii.

Massinger, therefore, lived and died in poverty. The language of
complaint became habitual to him; he spoke of his despised state
with agony--yet his patrons were many and honourable; but he
addressed each successively in dedications which were masterpieces
of pure English, as his last hope--his dependence on whom “ate into
his very soul.” To Sir Robert Wiseman, of Thorrell’s Hall, in Essex,
he “freely, and with a zealous thankfulness, acknowledges that for
many years he had but _faintly subsisted_, had he not often tasted
of his great bounty.”[191] In his dedication of “The Picture” to the
noble Society of the Inner Temple, he thanks them, “his honoured and
selected friends,” for their “frequent bounties.” He lived upon
presents; and of the comforts of a certain income he had not,
probably, even one year’s experience. It is impossible to think of
such a career without pain--starving one day, repulsed with
condescension from the halls of the rich, another. He has depicted
feelingly, indeed, the gentleman reduced to penury, in the “New Way
to Pay Old Debts,” and the insults heaped on him by over-fed
sycophants.

Footnote 191:

  Massinger’s Works, p. 167; in his Dedication of “The Great Duke of
  Florence” to Sir Robert Wiseman.

      “_Overreach_ (to _Wellborn_)--
                                Avaunt, thou beggar!
                If ever thou presume to own me more,
                I’ll have thee caged and whipp’d.
      “_Amble_ (to _Wellborn_)--
          Cannot you stay, to be serv’d among your fellows
          From the basket, but you must press into the hall?”

The “basket” contained broken meat, which was placed in the porter’s
lodge of great houses, to be distributed to the poor.

So, in the “Fatal Dowry,” _Pontalier_ says to _Liladum_:--

                  “Go to the basket, and repent.”

It is with true feeling that Massinger put into the mouth of
_Wellborn_ these pleading lines:--

       “Scorn me not, good lady!
       But, as in form you are angelical,
       Imitate the heavenly natures, and vouchsafe
       At the least awhile to hear me. You will grant
       The blood that runs in this arm is as noble
       As that which fills your veins; those costly jewels
       And those rich clothes you wear, your men’s observance
       And women’s flattery, are in you no virtues;
       Nor these rags, with my poverty, in me vices.”

His life, however, was not without its solace. Happily for the
literary men of the age, Ralegh had comprehended what is most
essential both to mind and body, and in founding the meetings at the
Mermaid had provided for the dramatist, poet, and philosopher,
suitable relaxation. The place of meeting was at the Mermaid, in
Bread Street, Cheapside. Here Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont,
Fletcher, and many others, enjoyed the rare companionship of Ralegh,
during the brief intervals in which he was not either engaged at the
Court, or in distant expeditions. Here wit was the current coin of
the company; toil was cast aside; “away with melancholy,” was the
burden of the guests, who had probably many a care hidden in the
core of their hearts. To Shakspeare’s joyous nature, and to the
sanguine and then unbroken spirit of Ralegh, the sorrows of the
past, the terrors of the future, might easily be forgotten, or
suspended over a cup of rich Canary; or, as night drew on, after a
beaker of sack-posset. But one may picture to oneself the diffident,
yet proud Philip Massinger, in his black doublet and plain white
linen collar, with shabby tassels hanging from it, feasting,
perhaps, at another man’s expense--trying to shine in these
"wit-combats"--trying to forget “the basket,” and to seem
prosperous; but, with the remembrance of the five pounds borrowed
upon the security of his capital of brains, with a heavy sigh, as
the delightful bard of Avon talked of retiring, on his fortune of
two hundred a-year, to the quaint old town, his birth-place.

It must, however, have been a delicious opportunity of looking into
minds as various as they were original. Beaumont has described the
surface:--

                         “What things have we seen
       Done at the Mermaid!--heard words that have been
       So nimble and so full of subtle flame,
       As if that every one from whence they came
       Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
       And had resolved to live a fool the rest
       Of his dull life ...
                     ... and when that was gone,
       We left an air behind us, which alone
       Was able to make the two next companies
       (Right witty, though but downright fools) more wise.”

A modern writer has compared these meetings to the “_Noctes
Ambrosianæ_.” Happier far the wits of modern days, than the gifted
men who, in the time of the Stuarts, were fain to cringe to patrons
for their subsistence. None but unsuccessful authors will rail at
modern publishers, when they remember the infinite miseries, with
few signal exceptions, of those who were unhappy enough to depend on
individuals and not on the public, whose will and taste the
publisher alone studies.

Intemperance was, in those days, not only the sin of the
middle-classes, but that of the Court; and both James and his Queen
are said to have indulged in it. Massinger seems to have held what
were rare opinions in his time, and to have been an advocate for
total abstinence:--

                            "O take care of wine!
            Cold water is far better for your healths,
            Of which I am very tender."--_The Picture._

He wrote rapidly, and his pen was never idle; yet he lived in
miserable poverty. There is no record either that he was married--no
indication that, like every other poet, he had an unfortunate or
unrequited attachment. His pilgrimage had one solace, that of a
fervent religion; which had, probably, much of the superstitions
which were mingled, in those early days of Protestantism, with the
reformed faith. The Church of England was then “an untrimmed vessel,
lurching now towards Rome, and now towards Geneva;” it is therefore
no wonder if many of the young, the impassioned, the imaginative,
inclined to that form of faith and of worship which wore at least
the semblance of venerable seniority.[192]

Footnote 192:

  Hartley Coleridge’s “Introduction,” p. xxv.

There is not a line in Massinger’s works that can either convict him
of Romanism, or stamp him as a Protestant. Like many of his
contemporaries, his romantic fancy was captivated by the picturesque
ceremonial, the saintly observances, the _dramatic_ services of the
Romish Church; and to this was probably added a disgust to that
puritanic fervour by which not only the drama--to which there were,
in fact, many just exceptions to be made--but all that was
enchanting in life, poetry, secular music, revelry (not necessarily
corrupting), was condemned as sinful, and all intellectual luxury
prohibited and anathematized.

The Herbert family continued to be friends to Massinger--at all
events, to lend him the support of their name. He dedicated “The New
Way to Pay Old Debts,” the most celebrated of his plays, to Robert,
Earl of Carnarvon. “I was born,” he says, “a most devoted servant to
the thrice noble family of your incomparable lady, and am most
ambitious, though at a proper distance, to be known to your
lordship.” Robert, Earl of Carnarvon, who had married the Lady
Katherine Herbert, although a friend and favourer of the Muses, and
also Grand Falconer of England, is long since forgotten--whilst the
poet, who addressed him “at a proper distance,” is remembered with
pride and interest.

There was so close an intimacy at one time between the Earl of
Pembroke’s family and that of the Duke of Buckingham, that it seems
strange that no trace of Massinger’s having been patronized by him
are to be discovered. In fact, the annals of Massinger’s life
present little except the dates of his works. The eldest son of the
unworthy Philip, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, the poet’s chief
patron, was married in 1634 to Lady Mary Villiers, then a mere girl.
It is true that this alliance was formed six years after
Buckingham’s death; but it was probably concerted before that event,
after the fashion of the day, in which the infant in the cradle was
often affianced by ambitious parents, and the nuptials solemnized at
ten or twelve years of age. Charles, Lord Herbert set out on his
travels directly after he had married his young wife, and died of
small-pox at Florence in 1636. Massinger wrote a poem on his loss,
among others, to his little bride:--

                           “True sorrow fell
         With showers of tears--still bathe the widowed bed
         Of his dear spouse.”

The elegy, as it has been observed, had better not have been
written; and his “dear spouse” very likely at that time preferred
balls and revelries to her husband.

It was, however, not impossible that Villiers, to please the Herbert
family, may have been the means of introducing Massinger to Charles
I., who justly estimated his great merits, and proved a more
generous as well as a worthier patron than the Earl of Pembroke and
Montgomery.

The political tenets of Massinger brought him on one occasion into
considerable danger. They were, nevertheless, such as we should now
term moderate; but they were irrelevantly introduced into his
dramas, at a time when liberalism was almost regarded as next to
treason. In 1631, Sir Henry Herbert, the Master of the Revels,
refused to receive a play of Massinger’s because it contained what
that functionary called “dangerous matters,” as to the deposing of
Sebastian, King of Portugal, and “thereby reflected upon Spain.”
Even the name of that piece is unknown, although the Master of the
Revels took care that the fee of twenty shillings for reading it
over was paid to him. In 1638, when the question of the Ship-money
was dividing the nation from the Court, Massinger, unable to control
his indignation at the oppressive measures of Charles I., produced
another play, called “The King and the Subject,” founded on the
history of Don Pedro the Cruel. It contained, amongst other free and
bold passages, these lines:--

         “Monies? We’ll raise supplies which way we please,
         And force you to subscribe to blanks, in which
         We’ll mulct you as we shall think fit. The Cæsars
         In Rome were wise, acknowledging no laws
         But what their swords did ratify--the wives
         And daughters of the senators bowing to
         Their will as deities----”

It was evident to all who had occasion to peruse the play in
manuscript, that Don Pedro was intended for the King. It was
submitted, however, to Charles, who was at Newmarket; he read it,
and then, in his own hand, marked the objectionable passage, and
wrote underneath these words, “This is too insolent; note that the
poet make it the speech of a King, Don Pedro, to his subjects.” This
is one instance of the kind nature of the often mistaken King, who
avoided condemning the play to oblivion.[193] That he encouraged
Massinger--that he perceived, beneath the bitterness of a struggling
man, a noble independence of character, is evident from Massinger’s
plays being, in the commencement of that reign, the fashionable
representations at Court. A bespeak at Court was the most signal
proof of success, and was all that could be desired by an author;
and Charles took an opportunity of conferring this benefit on
Massinger, when the poet’s feelings had been grievously wounded by
the opposition made to “The Emperor of the East,” on its first
performance by bespeaking that play.

Footnote 193:

  The play was acted, but not printed, and has never been
  discovered.--See Coleridge, from Malone.

Massinger recorded his gratitude for the bespeak in a prologue, in
which he affirms his chief aim had been to please the King, and the
fair Henrietta Maria, in this production:--

         “What we now present,
         When first conceived in his vote and intent,
         Was sacred to your pleasure; in each part
         With his best of fancy, judgment, language, art,
         Fashioned and formed so as might well, and may,
         Deserve a welcome, and no vulgar way.
         He durst not, sir, at such a solemn feast,
         Lard his grave matter with one scurrilous jest,
         But laboured that no passage might appear
         But what the Queen, without a blush, might hear.”

In 1633, just after the appearance of Prynne’s “Histriomastix,”
Charles ordered the representation of Massinger’s “Guardian” at
Whitehall, on Sunday--an unwise act, in the eyes of all; a wrong one
in those of most persons, who, without undue prejudice, view the
Sabbath not only as a day of holy rest, but as one in which the
thoughts and actions should be eminently pure, serene, and devout.
We cannot but allow that the Puritans had much reason on their side
in condemning this profanation, which was, one can scarcely doubt,
instigated by Queen Henrietta, or intended to please her. The plays
of Massinger were peculiarly unsuited to the Sabbath, from their
grossness.

It is not easy to say what amount of indelicacy the ladies of that
period could listen to “without a blush.” Their confusion was,
indeed, hidden beneath a black velvet mask. Even eighty or ninety
years afterwards, the incomparable Queen Mary, the consort of
William III., and her maids of honour, listened, under that
protection, to the comedies of an age, perhaps, if possible, still
more licentious in its plays than that in which Massinger wrote. Nor
was it until the mask was abolished by law that the presence of
women was recognized as controlling impropriety. In the reign of
Anne, influenced by the correctness of the Court, as well as by the
presence of ladies, unexceptionable plays, of loftier tone, by
Steele and Addison, were placed on the stage. It is to be hoped that
Queen Henrietta scarcely comprehended what she heard in a language
of which she knew but little before her arrival in England; or
perhaps, with the French notions, that a married woman, however
young, may go everywhere and hear everything, even if only just
emancipated from a convent or the nursery, she may not have thought
herself and her attendants degraded by what they heard.

The Queen’s partiality for Massinger was soon known by another
demonstration on her part. On the site of the old Monastery of
Blackfriars, which had been signalized by the sitting of the
Black Parliament, in the reign of Henry VIII., by the trial of
Katharine of Arragon in its hall, and by the condemnation of
Wolsey, James Burbage, and his company, known as the Earl of
Leicester’s players, had erected a theatre. It was within the
precincts, but not the jurisdiction, of the City; and the Lord
Mayor, after ejecting Burbage from the City, tried in vain to
drive them out of Blackfriars. The Puritan inhabitants of the
precincts were also inimical to the playhouse, and petitioned
the Lords and Council against its continuance there.[194]
Nevertheless, Queen Henrietta bespoke “Cleander,” a lost play of
Massinger’s, and went to see it acted at Blackfriars. She was
justly censured for this imprudence--not, indeed, for her
inconsistent patronage of dramas unfit for women to hear or
read--a sin which that age perceived not--but for a public
attendance at a theatre, on the stage of which the young
gallants of the time chose to sit, perched on stools, with
tobacco pipes in their mouths--or congregated in twopenny
refreshment-rooms, where ale and tobacco were sold.

Footnote 194:

  Cunningham’s “London.”

It does not appear that the patronage of the Court gave permanent
independence to Massinger. After the production of his last drama,
“The Fair Anchoress of Pausilippo,” his career was over. He latterly
lived at the Bankside, a residence probably chosen by him from its
vicinity to various theatres--to Blackfriars, from its proximity to
Blackfriars Road; to the Globe Theatre, in which Shakespeare had a
share; to Paris Garden, to the Rose, to the Hope, and the Swan. The
Chirk, near the Church of St. Saviour’s, even in the time of Charles
I., was the seat of all manner of low dissipation--bear-baiting,
among the rest--and consequently of misery and vice. The district
was not sanctified even by the holy edifice of St. Saviour’s; that
noble church, the finest specimen of the early English style in
London, the crypt of which is one of the un-seen sights of the
metropolis, having, happily, escaped the restoring hand of some
reprehensible churchwardens, who have done their best to spoil the
nave, and to reduce it to the level of their own ideas. To his
obscure home, near St. Saviour’s, Philip Massinger retired on the
evening of the 16th of March, 1639-40, to rest, in his usual health.
He was found dead in the morning in his bed. No friendly hand closed
his eyes--no kind voice whispered into his ear words of hope and
peace in Heaven, of which he had known so little on earth: no record
of the mortal disease which thus struck him down--what would be
called, in our time, prematurely--has been found. His death was,
like his life, a blank. The parish register tells us all that can be
told: “March 16, 1639-40.--Buried Philip Massinger, _a stranger_.”
He was followed to the grave by actors, and buried in the churchyard
of St. Saviour’s, then called St. Mary Overie, from an old
suppressed priory. No stone marked his grave. His funeral was too
poor for his remains to be interred within the church, where
Lancelot Andrews and Henry Sacheverell preached, and where their
bones repose; and where the poet Gower founded a chantry, and
erected a tomb. Massinger was interred among the poor and the
humble; perhaps his old companions of the playhouse, in after-days,
slept, also, near his nameless grave.

His burial cost 2_l._--a sum large enough, in those days, to ensure
it, in Mr. Gifford’s eyes, a considerable amount of state and
ceremony; and the word “stranger,” which grates so painfully on the
feelings of those who reverence genius, is said by that authority to
be usually affixed to the name of any one not belonging to the
parish of St. Saviour. Yet, that his contemporaries put no epitaph
on his tomb, that there was nothing but the sod over the cold clay,
that no tradition even exists to show where he once lay, seems to
prove that the Puritans were in the ascendancy on that sad day when
the “stranger” was conveyed to his last home; and that they were
meet ancestors of those who have since “restored” the old church,
and have cleverly concealed the beauties of its interior.

Massinger had great qualities. He was religious, and of rare honesty
and independence; yet his religion did not purify his thoughts, nor
tend, consequently, to chasten his productions--and his
circumstances wore away his real independence, as his dedications
testify. His conceptions of what was noble, of what was virtuous,
are beautifully expressed in those plays, which are yet so full of
coarseness as to be unpresentable; and whilst he never loses any
opportunity of exalting virtue, he seizes every occasion of
depraving the taste, if not the mind. In this respect he is far more
culpable than Shakspeare; the age had deteriorated: James I. was
coarse, and liked coarseness in others; his Court and his amusements
all partook of that characteristic, which increased after the old
chivalric style had declined. The elegance and purity in the works
of Sir Philip Sidney and Spenser were succeeded by coarseness in
those of Massinger, Ford, and Ben Jonson. When Massinger ceased to
write freely--and, in so doing, to indulge every fancy, fair or
foul--he wrote feebly. Of this “The Roman Actor,” to play which he
“held to be the most perfect birth of his Minerva,” affords an
example. It is free from indelicacy, but presents few of Massinger’s
striking excellencies. The plot is bad; the scene in which the
character of _Paris_ might have been so powerfully developed, when
tempted by _Domitian_, is poor. The tortures of the senators on the
stage, and the appearance of their ghosts afterwards, savours of the
love which Massinger had for the horrible--with the delineation of
which he seems to have consoled himself for his forbearance in other
points. Nevertheless, whilst the secondary characters in “The Roman
Actor” are poor and indistinct--whilst those of the primary actors
are striking and truthful--the timid tyranny of _Domitian_, and the
ambition of _Donitia_, are admirably worked out.

The inordinate taste for revolting incidents on the stage was a
great feature of the times; the contemporaries of Somerset and his
wife were habituated to the excitement of fearful mysteries, of
crimes, and sins half-disclosed, yet awful in the dimness of partial
discovery. The frequent occurrence of murders, sometimes designedly,
“but more often in hasty broils,” in that day, presented subjects
which, to us, seem extravagant, but which were highly acceptable to
the bravadoes, who, smoking on the stage, brandished their rapiers,
and were ready to avenge a quarrel at the sword’s point. In nothing
is the difference of manners so marked between those days and these
as in the matter of _honour_. In those times, honour was perpetually
in every man’s mouth--personal courage was prominently brought
forward; and hence, every play had its braggart or its coward; and,
as we see in the works of Beaumont and Fletcher,[195] honour had its
code, its professional counsel, and its practical paid supporters.
But, with this code, this practice, moral courage had little to do;
the code of honour drew the main limit of caste, and the burgher and
the tradesman were beneath it. So important was it, however, to
observe the new code _aux ongles_, that a manual or grammar of its
rules was applied to satisfy the captious on nice points. Thus, when
_Adorio_, in Massinger’s “Maid of Honour,” laments that his honour
and reputation should suffer from having taken a blow in public from
_Caldoro_, accompanied with the infamous “mark of coward,” he is
referred by _Camillo_, to whom he pours forth his vexation, to
Caranza’s “Grammar” for directions, in much the same manner as a
lawyer would quote Lord St. Leonards on a point of law--or
travellers call on Murray as their authority.

Footnote 195:

  See “Maid’s Tragedy.”

When _Adorio_ talks of what he “would do” in the matter, _Camillo_
answers:--

          “Never think on’t,
           Till fitter time and place invite you to it.
           I have read Caranza, and find not in his Grammar
           Of quarrels that the injured man be bound
           To seek for reparation at an hour;
           But may, and without loss, till he hath settl’d
           More serious occasions that import him.
           For a day or two defer it.

         _Adorio._--You’ll subscribe
           Your hand to this?

         _Camillo._--And justify’t with my life.
           Presume upon’t.

         _Adorio._--On then; you shall o’errule me.”

Women were not let off so easily; happily for them, more was
expected from them than from men. Without referring to Caranza,
their honour consisted not only in chastity, but in constancy to
vows, and resistance to the temptations of wealth; and these
attributes were sufficiently rare to make the “Maid of Honour” an
exceptional character.[196] Massinger, however, assures us that
English women, even in those days, asserted a superiority in
intellect and character: it is true, they had no opportunity of
travelling, and stayed at home; but they learned from their lovers
and brothers the customs of those foreign countries which it was
then dangerous to traverse.

Footnote 196:

  “The Guardian.” See Massinger’s Works, p. 351.

Most men of rank or fortune, nevertheless, made the “grand tour”
before marrying; or left their young betrothed mistresses in their
native counties. In the “Guardian,” _Calipso_ says:--

               “Why, sir, do gallants travel?
         Answer that question; but at their return
         With wonder to the hearers to discourse of
         The garb and difference in foreign females--
         As the lusty girl of France, the sober German,
         The plump Dutch frow, the stately dame of Spain.”

It has been asked whether Massinger and Shakspeare ever
met?--whether, as Hartley Coleridge inquires, they ever “took a cup
of sack together at the Mitre or the Mermaid;” and whether Massinger
was ever umpire or bottle-holder in the “wit-combats” described by
Fuller? But upon this, as well as on many other points, there is no
light. We know not whom Massinger loved, nor whom he hated; we would
fain believe, with Coleridge, that his life was not passed without
some true affection--a link between passion and virtue; we would
willingly believe that, like Tasso, he loved one above him in
rank--or one below him--rather than that he had never loved at all.
But his works repel the surmise. True love is vehement--but it is
delicate; and it would have elevated his thoughts, and purified his
expressions. Massinger may have done justice to the intellect and
companionship of his countrywomen, but he had no reverence for the
most beautiful part of their nature; and in this, as in other
respects, is far below Shakspeare.

The obscurity which overshadowed all Massinger’s career has rendered
any communication, as we have seen, between him and Buckingham,
doubtful; but it was far otherwise in respect to Ben Jonson--whose
works are so replete with allusions to the Villiers family, and to
their attributes, amusements, and bounties, that no biography of
George Villiers can be complete without a more copious reference to
the works of this dramatist than can be conveyed in the passing
notices which have been given of his masques, in the course of the
preceding narrative.[197] Ben Jonson was ten years older than
Massinger; and was born in 1574. Whether from his surname, or his
Christian name, or from his after-life, it is not easy to say, but
one generally looks upon Ben Jonson as a man of low birth. But such
was not the fact. His grandfather, a man of some family and fortune,
was a gentleman in the service of Henry VIII.; his father was in
holy orders, “a grave minister of the Gospel.”[198]

Footnote 197:

  From the State Papers, a new volume of which has lately been
  published, it appears that Jonson was accused of writing certain
  lines on Buckingham’s assassination.--See Appendix.

Footnote 198:

  Gifford’s “Life of Ben Jonson,” p. 2; from Anthony Wood.

The family had originally settled at Annandale, in Scotland; but Ben
Jonson was born in Westminster. He had the misfortune to come into
the world a month after his father’s death. It was, perhaps, a less
adverse circumstance that his mother, two years afterwards, married
again. Her views were not exalted, and she took for her second
husband--tired, it might seem, of the genteel poverty of the
cloth--a master-bricklayer. Not even has Fuller, not even has
Gifford, been able to ascertain in what part of the suburb of
Westminster “Ben” was born. Fuller, however, consoles us; he could
not trace the poet in his _cradle_, but he could “fetch him,” as he
observes, in his “short coats.” About two years old, Ben was
_discovered_--that is to say, the haunts of his infancy were--“a
little child in Hartshorn Lane, near Charing Cross.”

This neighbourhood was as poor as that of Westminster Abbey; and the
parish of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, which then extended to
Whitehall on the south, to Marylebone on the north, to the Savoy on
the east, and to Chelsea and Kensington on the west, when first
rated to the poor in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, contained only two
hundred persons sufficiently wealthy to pay those rates.[199] It
afterwards became the greatest cure in England, until several of its
parishes were separated from the patron saint, St. Martin’s.

Footnote 199:

  Cunningham’s London.

Here, however, Ben Jonson was brought up--getting such education as
he might from a school in the church of St Martin’s. It is stated,
however, by Gifford, to have been a “private school.” He might
possibly have been one of the private pupils on a foundation school.
Some unknown benefactor, however, removed the future poet from St
Martin’s, and placed him at St. Peter’s College, Westminster, which
was founded by Queen Elizabeth, in 1660--“a public school for
grammar, rhetorick,--_poetry_ (which the maiden Queen was too wise
to despise) and for the Latin and Greek languages.”

This removal was the visible cause of all Ben Jonson’s eminence.
Camden, the historian, was then one of the masters of that school,
from whose ranks issued Cowley, George Herbert, Dryden, Churchill,
Cowper, Southey, and many others less celebrated. Ben Jonson always
retained an affectionate remembrance of Camden’s instructions:--

             “Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
             All that in wits I am, and all I know.”

He dedicated his best play, “Every Man in his Humour,” to Master
Camden, “Clarencieux,” ending his dedication thus:--

“Now, I pray you to accept this; such wherein neither the confession
of my manners shall make you blush--nor of my studies repent you to
have been the instructor; and for the profession of any
thankfulness, I am sure it will, with good men, find either praise
or excuse, from your true lover, Ben Jonson.”[200]

Footnote 200:

  Ben Johnson’s Works, p. i.

From Westminster, Jonson went to Cambridge, probably to St. John’s;
but even of this important fact no certainty exists, for the
university register is imperfect, and from 1600 to 1602 there is an
hiatus. It is merely conjectured, from there being several books
containing the name of Ben Jonson in the library of St. John’s, that
he entered that College. Here, however, he only stayed, according to
Fuller, some weeks; funds were wanting for his support--a
circumstance which seems to shew that he was not sent up to Trinity
College on the foundation, as otherwise he would have had an
exhibition at Westminster. His parents were unable to supply means;
and the young student, thirsting for distinction, was obliged to
return and follow his step-father’s calling. Never was there a
situation so pitiable, and the condition of this aspiring scholar
was compassionated by other scholars of happier fortunes than
himself. Camden generously relieved him; Thomas Sutton, who, having
bought the Charter House from Lord Suffolk, nobly devoted it to an
hospital and school, “the master-piece of Protestant charity,” as
Lord Bacon styled it,--also, according to some accounts, consoled,
and compassionated, and assisted Jonson. It has even been said that
“Ben” was engaged to attend the eldest son of Sir Walter Ralegh, as
a tutor; but of this no certainty exists. All that is absolutely
known is, that he was sick of the trowel and the hod, whilst his
mind was running on Horace and Virgil; and that to escape what he
deemed degradation, he enlisted, went off to the Low Countries, and
served a campaign in that scene of war, which was a sort of school
to the young English soldier.

His heart went, to a certain extent, along with this new profession.
“Let not those blush that have, but those that have not, a lawful
calling,” says Fuller,--and Jonson seems to have thought so
likewise. He returned, however, at nineteen, poor as ever, with the
same scholastic tastes; and the master-bricklayer being dead, he
repaired to his mother’s house.

He next tried the stage. It has been, in all times, the refuge of
the unthrifty. But Jonson’s appearance was unfavourable to that
attempt. His very ugliness, one would have thought, might have been
an advantage. Mr. Gifford repels with fury the imputation on Jonson,
that his hero was frightful; yet the description he gives himself of
Ben Jonson is by no means attractive. His complexion, which had been
clear and smooth in boyhood, was disfigured by a scorbutic humour,
and ultimately by scars, from what the Germans are pleased to call
the “Englische Krankheit.” His features are said not to have been
irregular or unpleasing, but appear in his portraits to be large and
coarse. One eye looked askance; his forehead was, however, noble;
his person was broad and corpulent--after forty it became unwieldy;
and his gait, he himself owned, “ungracious.” In early youth his
worst points were not, probably, prominent; he had a delightful
voice and emphasis. “I never,” said the Duchess of Newcastle, "heard
any man read well but my husband; and I have heard him say, 'he
never heard any man read well but Ben Jonson, and yet he hath heard
many in his time.’"[201]

Footnote 201:

  Gifford, from the Duchess of Newcastle’s Letters.

Nevertheless, “Ben” was not a good actor. Critics differ as to the
nature and duration of his theatrical employ. And Gifford, who takes
every question relative to his hero as a personal matter, is
indignant at the statement that he was a strolling player, or ambled
by the side of a waggon, and took _mad Jeronymo’s_ part; but, as
most companies were then itinerant, and, as even now, first-rate
actors and actresses make provincial tours, there seems little call
for the venom and wrath poured out by the indefatigable biographer,
who points, with satisfaction, to the bulky figure of Jonson, and
asks how he could possibly act “little _Jeronymo_,” that "inch of
Spain"?[202]

Footnote 202:

  From the First Part of “Jeronymo,” a popular play.

Whatever was his position--whether, as Anthony Wood says, “he did
recede to a nursery or obscure playhouse, called the _Green
Curtain_,” in Shoreditch; or whether, as Gifford declares, that
statement is a mere fable, and that his aims were higher--seemed now
of little moment, perhaps, to Jonson himself; for his efforts were
interrupted by a duel. His antagonist is supposed to have been a
brother-player, who brought to the field a sword ten inches longer
than poor Ben’s. They fought, and Ben killed the gentleman with the
long sword, but was himself severely wounded in the arm; he was sent
to prison, and brought, as he described it, “near to the gallows.”

Poor Ben was now, probably, fain to cry out with _Antonio_ in the
“Maid of Honour”:--

                      “But redeem me
  From this captivity, and I’ll vow
  Never to draw a sword, or cut my meat hereafter
  With a knife that has an edge or point; I’ll starve first.”[203]

Footnote 203:

  Massinger’s Works, p. 200.

This imprisonment had a signal effect on Jonson’s destiny; he fell
into melancholy, and was visited in his despondency by a Romanist
priest, who applied himself to his consolation first, and to his
conversion afterwards. Jonson had been religiously brought up, and
it was not from indifference that he renounced the faith of his
parents and entered the Romish Church. Such conversions were
frequent in the early days of the Reformation. Jonson was no
controversialist; wiser men than he fell into the same error, and,
like such, atoned for it. The great light of our Church, Jeremy
Taylor, became for some time a Romanist, but returned to the
Anglican faith; Chillingworth and others wandered also, and also
returned. The readiest converts are often those of deep and earnest
feelings, which act on excitable minds, only superficially informed
on the great doctrines of Scripture.[204] Jonson’s imprisonment was
aggravated in its misery by a system of espionage which the
necessities of the times induced. The plots against Elizabeth’s life
usually originated in the seminaries of the priests. Jonson was
warned by his gaoler that he was watched.

Footnote 204:

  Gifford, p. 7, note.

He was eventually released, but by what agency does not appear.

He quitted prison, and married a young woman of his new persuasion;
and there appears to have been no great reason to repent his choice.
His wife was shrewish, but respectable; and the poet’s prosperity
commenced with his marriage.

From this time until the period when the Court festivities brought
him into frequent collision with Villiers, Jonson’s productions were
successive occasions of triumph. Nevertheless, money did not flow
into his coffers; and he was continually obliged to pledge, as
Massinger did, the labour of his brain--two sums of four pounds, and
twenty shillings, being advanced to him by Henslowe, the
father-in-law of Alleyn, the player, upon the plots of two plays
being presented and approved. Still poor Jonson had his enemies and
traducers. The scene of “Every Man in his Humour” was originally
laid in Thrace; the names were Italian, but wishing still further to
ensure its success, Jonson changed them, and brought the scenes to
London. Nevertheless, he was still attacked about his Italian story.
There seems, then, to have been as great an objection to works of
imagination based on foreign plots as in the present day. In
“Volpone,” Jonson carefully avoided introducing any material not
purely English.

He was still a struggling author, with few friends except players
and playwrights, and with many enemies, owing to his vehemence of
temper and imprudence of speech. But of his animosity to Shakspeare,
and of the poet’s alienation from him, there seems no proof; and
indeed Shakspeare is reported to have stood godfather to one of his
children--although the improbable anecdote connected with that act
is discredited by Gifford.

Jonson’s acquaintance with Shakspeare is stated by Rowe to have
begun with “a remarkable piece of humanity and good-nature on the
part of the immortal bard.” Jonson, who was then, as Rowe observes,
“entirely unknown to the world,” had offered “Every Man in his
Humour” for representation; it was carelessly looked over, and
returned in a supercilious manner by the person who had read it,
with the uncourteous answer “that it would be of no use to the
company.” Happily, however, Shakspeare chanced to cast his eyes on
the manuscript, and found in the play something that powerfully
engaged his attention. Generous, as well as gifted, he recommended
both Jonson and his drama to the attention of the actors, and to
that of the public also.[205]

Footnote 205:

  Rowe’s “Life of Shakspeare,” p. xxxiii.

The old play, with the Italian names, the scene laid at Florence,
had been first brought out at the Rose Theatre; and it was,
apparently, the amended drama, which, from the numerous alterations,
had become again Jonson’s property, according to the custom of the
time, that attracted the notice of Shakspeare.[206] Be that as it
may, “Every Man in his Humour” was acted at Blackfriars in 1598, and
Shakspeare’s name appears at the head of it as one of the
performers. This was about sixteen years before the Bard of Avon
sought for repose on the banks of his beloved river, and in his
native town.

Footnote 206:

  Gifford, p. 2.

Henceforth the literary world was divided by the factions which
penetrate even into the studies of the lettered; and a sort of
rivalship was set up, in which, it appears, the partisans of the two
great dramatists were far more rife than the parties concerned.

The contending critics endeavoured to exalt the one at the expense
of the other. Pope observes, “It is ever the nature of parties to be
in extremes; and nothing is so probable as that, because Ben Jonson
had much the more learning, it was said on the one hand that
Shakspeare had none at all; and because Shakspeare had much the most
wit and fancy, it was retorted on the other that Jonson wanted both;
because Shakspeare borrowed nothing, it was said that Ben Jonson
borrowed everything; because Jonson did not write extempore, he was
reproached with being a year about every piece; and because
Shakspeare wrote with ease and facility, they cry’d he never once
made a blot.”[207]

Footnote 207:

  Pope’s “Essay on Shakespere,” prefixed to the Oxford edition, p.
  xix., 1745.

Yet, without attempting to enter into a controversy long since
passed away, and doubtful in origin and extent, it is satisfactory
to find Jonson’s vindication from unworthy motives in his famous
lines, “To the Memory of my Beloved, the Author, Mr. William
Shakespere, and what he hath left us:” in which he truly calls him
the “Soul of the Age.”

Jonson’s “Every Man in his Humour” was honoured, after it had been
played several times, by the presence of Queen Elizabeth, who was
one of Jonson’s earliest patrons. Nevertheless, in “Cynthia’s
Revels,” which was brought out during the following year, the poet
satirized the formal and affected manners of the Court.

Whitehall was never gay after the execution of Mary Queen of Scots;
the joyousness of Elizabeth’s nature, which she had inherited from
her father, was gone.

When mirth went out, pedantry came in. Euphüism was for a time in
vogue; the Queen, pensive one hour, fretful the next, looked
passively on the change; but to her courtiers--among whom Jonson now
began to mix--the satire in “Cynthia’s Revels” was, probably, highly
acceptable. Among the most reprehensible usages of the day was that
of bringing up children to perform on the public stage, as well as
in the Court. In 1609 authority was given to “William Shakespeare,
Robert Daborne, Nathaniel Field, and Robert Kirkham,” to provide and
instruct a certain number of children to perform in tragedies,
comedies, or masques, within the Blackfriars, or in “the realm of
England.” Shakspeare, who soon withdrew from the superintendence of
this juvenile company, has referred to them in “Hamlet,” thus
marking his disapprobation of the system.[208]

“But there is, sir, an aviary of children, little eyases that cry
out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapp’d for
it. These are now the fashion, and so besottle the common stages (so
they call them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of
goose-quills, and scarce dare come thither.”

These children were, in some respects, well cared for. They were
selected from the young choristers in the Royal Chapel, and, by an
order, so early as the reign of Edward IV., they were to be sent to
Oxford or Cambridge, on the King’s foundation, at the age of
eighteen, should their voices be changed, or the number of
choristers be over-full. “Many good people,” observes Hartley
Coleridge,[209] “who are scandalized at the Latin plays of
Westminster, will be surprised that in the pious days of England, in
the glorious morning of the Reformation, in ‘great Eliza’s golden
time,’ under Kings and Queens that were the nursing fathers and
nursing mothers, the public acting of plays should be, not the
permitted recreation, but the compulsory employment of children
devoted to sing the praises of God--of plays too, the best of which
children may now only read in a ‘family’ edition of some, whose very
titles a modern father would scruple to pronounce before a woman or
a child.”

Footnote 208:

  Introduction to Massinger’s Works, p. xxxiv.

Footnote 209:

  Page xxxvi.

These children were first impressed from the cathedrals by Richard
III.; and even Queen Elizabeth issued a warrant, under the
sign-manual, “authorizing Thomas Gyles,” the master of the children
of Paul’s, “to bring up any boys in cathedrals or collegiate
churches, in order to be instructed for the entertainment of the
Court.” The children of the Queen’s Chapel must, therefore,
henceforth form a principal feature in the representations of Ben
Jonson’s masques, as we picture them to our minds, either in
Whitehall--consumed by fire long since--or at Althorpe, or at
Burleigh-on-the-Hill, or in the stately Castle of Belvoir. Under
those vaulted roofs their young voices warbled the exquisite poetry
of Jonson to the music of Lawes, or--be it not recorded without
shame, nevertheless--were obliged to utter words of raillery,
bitterness, and indelicacy, which were usually, as Heywood in his
apology for actors confesses, allotted to the unconscious children
to deliver.

Greatly as Ben Jonson hailed the accession of James I., he had soon
reason to regret the wise though parsimonious Queen Elizabeth. In
conjunction with Chapman and Marston, he had written a play called
"Eastward Hoe." It was well received; but there was a passage in it
reflecting on the Scotch. The two authors were arrested; Jonson had
not any share in writing the piece, but, being accessory to its
production, he honourably and “voluntarily” accompanied his two
friends to prison, thus surrendering himself to justice. No very
severe punishment was ever contemplated, but a report prevailed that
the three delinquents were to have their ears and noses cut. Jonson
is said to have been released owing to the intercession of Camden
and Selden; and they are declared to have been present when, after
his liberation, he gave an entertainment. On that occasion his
mother “drank to him, and showed him a paper which she designed, if
the sentence had taken effect, to have been mixed with his drink,
and it was a strong and hasty poison.” To show “that she was no
churl,” Jonson, in relating this story, added, “she designed to have
first drank of it herself.”

He escaped from some other personal attack which, in common with
Chapman, he made on some individual, with only a second and also
temporary imprisonment;[210] and from this time was in such constant
requisition by the Court, that his imprudence went unnoticed. The
“Masque of Darkness” was composed by the express command of Anne of
Denmark, who appeared in it as a negress, surrounded with the dark
beauties of her supposed African Court. The Queen, and the
“Daughters of Night,” as the noble dames who acted in that pageant
were called, were placed in a concave shell, seated one above
another in tiers; from the top of the shell, which represented
mother-of-pearl, hung a cheveron of light, which cast a bright beam
on these ladies; the shell was moving up and down upon the sea, and
in the billows appeared varied forms of sea-monsters, twelve in
number, each bearing a torch on his back. The Queen was attired in
azure and silver, with a curious head-dress of feathers, fastened
with ropes of pearl, which showed well as the loops fell on the
blackened throats of the masquers, who also wore ropes of pearl on
their arms and wrists. Inigo Jones is conjectured to have written
the directions for the costume of this masque.[211] Jonson now
received periodical sums, not only from the Court, but from public
bodies and private patrons. A year seldom passed without a Royal
progress; and we have seen how essential the poet had become to the
often impromptu revelries in which James I. continually indulged.
Yet Jonson wrote his plays and masques slowly. The “Fox” took him a
year to complete. His notion was that “a good poet’s made as well as
born.”[212] He worked out his own success, and his labours were
incessant. He had a practice of committing to his commonplace book
remarkable passages that struck him. Lord Falkland, one of the most
accomplished of the cavaliers, expressed his astonishment at the
variety and extreme copiousness of Jonson’s knowledge. If a pedantic
display of learning be imputed to Jonson, it must be remembered that
it was, probably, in compliance with the taste of his royal patron,
James, who delighted in exhibiting his classical proficiency; and
who, even on his death-bed, as we have seen, answered the learned
Prelate near him in Latin. It was during the first years of King
James’s reign that Jonson justified these classic allusions in his
“Masque and Barriers,” at the nuptials of the Earl of Essex to the
faithless bride, also married afterwards to Somerset. “Some,” he
says, “may squeamishly cry out, that all endeavours of learning and
sharpness in these transitory devises, where it steps beyond their
little (or let me not wrong them) no brain at all, is superfluous. I
am contented these fastidious stomachs should leave my full tables,
and enjoy at home their clean empty trenchers, fitted for such airy
tastes, where perhaps a few Italian herbs, picked up, and made into
a sallad, may find sweeter acceptance than all the sound meat of the
world.”

Footnote 210:

  Gifford, p. 23. See note by Mr. Dyce, p. 23.

Footnote 211:

  Introduction to Massinger, p. xv.

Footnote 212:

  “Lines on Shakespere,” p. 552; Ben Jonson’s Works.

These beautiful masques had the great advantage of being set to
music by Henry Lawes, the composer who secured immortality to his
name by the music of “Comus,” composed by him. Lawes was beginning
his career of fame when Buckingham first entered the Court. The son
of a vicar choral in Salisbury Cathedral, he rose to be first a
gentleman of the Chapel Royal, and afterwards Clerk of the Chapel,
and conductor of the private music of Charles I. Henry Lawes
sometimes took a part in the masques which he composed; and acted
the attendant spirit in “Comus.” His “ayres” and dialogues have
disappointed posterity. Yet he appears to have been almost the
father of English vocal music; and, as Milton declares--

                 “Taught our English music how to space
             Word with just note and accent.”

Music, like all the other delights of peace, languished during the
troublous times of the Rebellion, or flourished only on the
battle-field. Lawes was obliged to teach singing during that period;
but he lived to compose the coronation anthem for Charles II., and
to have a place of interment assigned to him in Westminster Abbey.
His brother, less happy, though a skilful musician also, and often
employed in conjunction with Henry Lawes, took up arms for Charles
I., in whose service he also lived, and to whom he was devoted, and
fell, fighting for his sovereign, at the siege of Chester.

It was then the custom for certain great families to receive
musicians, as well as men of letters, in their houses, and to employ
them in their especial line--sometimes in hymeneal festivities,
sometimes in composing requiems. Thus the arts and sciences, poetry,
music, painting, and scenic decoration, were united, during the
life-time of George Villiers, in a degree never before or since
known in this country. Massinger, Ben Jonson, Lawes, Inigo Jones,
were at the service of the rich and noble, and awaited their
bidding. Shakspeare died just after George Villiers had received the
first public proof of Royal favour--the honour of knighthood;[213]
and the era of masques and revels began. Still, “a craving for
mental enjoyment,”[214] as well as that derived from the senses, was
diffused.

Footnote 213:

  In 1615. Shakspeare died in 1616.

Footnote 214:

  Hartley Coleridge’s “Life of Massinger.”

The religious changes and controversies in the preceding reigns had
improved the intellect of the higher orders in England, by making
some portion of learning necessary to those either engaged in
polemical disputes, or who, conscientious, though unassuming, wished
to form their own opinions. There was an earnestness in the awakened
minds of that period. “It was a time of much vice, much folly, much
trouble--but it was an age of much energy.”[215] When, after the
middle of Elizabeth’s reign, the thirst for controversy abated, the
desire for cultivation, the love of poetry, and the taste for art
remained, took another direction, and tended to the improvement and
enlightenment of social life. The higher classes did much to exalt
these dawning predilections, until the rebellion came; after that
fearful convulsion, the diversions of the great were henceforth
debased in character, and their minds in taste.

Footnote 215:

  Gifford’s “Life of Ben Jonson,” p. 59.

Mary Countess of Pembroke was one of the earliest and most admired
of Ben Jonson’s friends. To her son William, the early adviser of
the Duke of Buckingham, Ben Jonson dedicated his “Book of Epigrams.”
It is therefore almost certain that, before Jonson had appeared in
public, as the composer of masques for the express entertainment of
the great favourite at Burleigh, he had met Villiers at Wilton, in
the society of their common friend, Lord Pembroke--“a man,” Lord
Clarendon writes, “very well-bred, and of excellent parts, and a
graceful speaker upon any subject, having a good proportion of
learning, and a ready wit to apply and enlarge upon it.” When we add
to this that the Earl was no cold, haughty, and pompous host, but
facetious, affable, generous, magnificent, as disinterested and
independent with the rich and great as he was unaffected and
courteous to the humble; when we remember what Wilton even then
was--the pride of the nation; when we reflect what and who were the
men who were welcomed to its hospitality--men, as Clarendon
observes, “of the most pregnant parts and understanding;” when we
think of Ben Jonson there--probably received as a guest--whilst
Massinger was still only the son of a retainer; when we picture
Inigo Jones with his pencil--the sketches which he drew, praised by
Vandyck; or hear the voices of the two brothers Henry and William
Lawes, singing to soft airs the verses of Ben Jonson--we must
believe that George Villiers had in such scenes, before he lost the
friendship of Pembroke, many delights greater than the wearisome
partiality of James, or even a communion with the then unformed mind
of Charles.

A Platonic admiration for Christian, Countess of Devonshire, called
forth in verses the romantic gallantry of the Earl of Pembroke. One
cannot help rejoicing that Lawes set to music what Pembroke wrote:--

 "Wrong not, dear Empress of my heart,
 The merits of true passion,
 With thinking that he feels no smart
 Who sues for no compassion.
 .     .     .     .     .     .     Silence in love betrays more woe
 Than words, though ne’er so witty.
 The beggar that is dumb, you know,
 May challenge double pity."[216]

Footnote 216:

  “Royal and Noble Authors,” vol. ii., p. 268.

From the society of Wilton, Villiers went forth imbued with those
tastes which never yielded wholly to the grosser diversions in which
his Royal patron indulged. Whilst he retained the friendship of Lord
Pembroke, Villiers was, in all probability, learning to estimate the
conversation and works of Ben Jonson; and henceforth, the efforts of
the dramatist must, to a certain degree, be associated with the
influence and protection of the favourite.

London, in spite of the repeated proclamations of King James,
tending to restrain its extent, and to keep the provincial gentry in
their homes, was now generally crowded at certain seasons. A number
of small theatres were erected in various parts of the city, in
order to supply entertainments to those who would have turned with
disgust, since a finer taste had been introduced by the Reformation,
from the old moralities. Shakspeare, happily, formed an engagement
to produce his pieces at one theatre, but Jonson was obliged to
carry his productions to various minor houses, until the success of
his masques enabled him to form a higher estimate of the value of
his powers. His lighter pieces are marked by grace and sweetness;
but these characteristics he “laid aside,” says Mr. Gifford,
“whenever he approached the stage, and put on the censor with the
sock.”[217] The excellence of the masque in Ben Jonson’s time, the
great and gifted actors by whom it was performed, the fancy which
was suffered to expand itself in these pieces, the scenic effect to
which so vast an expense was devoted, incline us to think, with
Gifford, “that all our ‘most splendid shows are at best but beggarly
parodies,’ in comparison with those in which the Cliffords and
Arundels, the Stanleys, the Russells, the Veres, and the Wroths;
‘danced in the fairy rings, in the gay and gallant circles of those
enchanting devices.’”[218]

Footnote 217:

  “Life of Ben Jonson,” p. 63.

Footnote 218:

  Ibid., p. 67.

After the death of Shakspeare, Jonson received, by patent, a pension
of a hundred marks a-year from James. It is supposed that the honour
of the laureateship chiefly or solely belonged to him. Hitherto the
title seems to have been merely honorary, adopted at pleasure by any
poet who was appointed to write for the Court. It had been borne by
Daniel in the time of Elizabeth. It was on this occasion that Jonson
applied to Selden for information concerning the origin of the title
of laureate; and that Selden drew up expressly, and introduced into
the second part of his “Titles of Honours,” a long chapter on the
custom of giving crowns of laurel to poets; at the conclusion of
which he says, “Thus have I, by no unseasonable digression,
performed a promise to you, my beloved Ben Jonson--your curious
learning and judgment may correct where I have erred;” and adds,
“where my notes and memory have left me short.” A graceful and
enviable compliment from such a man.

The triumphs of Jonson’s genius were interrupted by his journey to
Edinburgh in 1618--a journey which he performed _on foot_. Here he
was the guest of Drummond, the poet of Hawthornden--under whose roof
he passed the April of 1619. This journey was regarded as the
greatest misfortune of Jonson’s life; not only because during his
stay in Scotland his wife died, but because Drummond, amongst other
injuries, gave the following character of Ben Jonson to the
world:--[219]

“For,” he says, “Ben Jonson was a great lover and praiser of
himself, a contemner and scorner of others, given rather to lose a
friend than a jest, jealous of every word and action of those about
him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which
he lived; a dissembler of the parts which reigned in him, a bragger
of some good that he wanted, thinketh nothing well done but what
either he himself or some of his friends have said or done. He is
passionately kind or angry, careless either to gain or keep;
vindictive, if he be well answered as himself; interprets best
sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was for any religion, as
being versed in both.”

Footnote 219:

  Gifford’s “Ben Jonson,” p. 37.

The conduct of Drummond, styled by Mr. Gifford, “a cankered
hypocrite,”[220] has been justified by others; his very hospitality
to Jonson is termed by the infuriated biographer, “decoying him into
his house.” Drummond acted, in a very slight degree, in the same
capacity to Jonson as that which Boswell, a century and a half
afterwards, undertook in regard to the more fortunate Samuel
Johnson, who found in _his_ listener an admirer, and not a foe. Both
these great men had the calamity of having every idle expression set
down for the curiosity of an after-age; and “old Ben,” as his
contemporaries called him in their jovial meetings at the Mermaid,
did not stand the test so well as “Old Samuel.” We cannot, however,
regard the visit to Scotland as the great misfortune of Ben Jonson’s
life, as the impassioned Gifford pronounces it.[221]

Footnote 220:

  In Laing’s Preface to notes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation.

Footnote 221:

  Note by Dyce; Gifford, p. 38.

Jonson, however, returned to London, unconscious of all that after
his death so agitated the literary world in the eighteenth century
on his account. He met, as he wrote to Drummond, with a “most
Catholic welcome from King James,” who was then, like Jonson, a not
disconsolate widower. The poet was writing a poem for the funeral of
Queen Anne, who had just died, but was unburied. He was very keenly
engaged in beginning the “Discovery,” which was to contain a
description of Scotland; and he signed himself Drummond’s “true
friend and lover.” He received, in return, two letters full of
kindness and compliment from Drummond, whom Gifford himself,
incapable of an act of insincerity, styles thereupon, “hypocrite to
the last.”

Ben Jonson was now invited by Bishop Corbet to Christ Church,
Oxford, where he was created Master of Arts. Thence he passed to
Burleigh-on-the-Hill and to Windsor, to see the performance of his
"Gypsies Metamorphosed"--and to introduce little compliments in each
piece, as the _dramatis personnæ_ were varied or augmented by the
accession of fresh actors and actresses. About this time he wrote
his poem on the “Ladies of England.” It was lost--a mischance which,
in the weakness of one’s nature, one is apt to regret more than the
destruction of a vast body of philological notes, the fruit of
twenty years’ labour, for which Mr. Gifford calls for especial
sympathy.

Jonson was now made “Master of the Revells,” and was nearly being
knighted. He passed his time in going from one country seat to
another; every Twelfth-day he was ordered to produce, or to repeat a
masque. Charles I. was now rising to maturity, and, like his
deceased brother, Henry, he loved the poetry of Jonson, and the
fancy of Inigo Jones. The match-making propensities of King James
were as yet undeveloped, and had neither troubled his repose nor
maddened the nation into a dread of his mistakes. Villiers was
young, gay, and unmarried; and the world was at peace. Those were
happy and busy days for Jonson--yet, amid all his labours, he found
time to collect an excellent library. He was not only a collector,
but a lender of his books--an unusual combination; a man must be
generous, indeed, to unite the two characters; nay, he gave them
also, liberally, to those qualified to value the rare editions which
he bought. “I am fully warranted in saying,” Mr. Gifford writes,
“that more valuable books given to individuals by Jonson are yet to
be met with than by any person of that age. Scores of them have
fallen under my own observation, and I have heard of abundance of
others.”[222] This is rare praise. Nevertheless, since brilliant
success always has its alloy, it was the lot of Jonson to suffer
from the ingratitude of his coadjutor, Inigo Jones; and the excuse,
perhaps, of Inigo was, that he was tried and tempted by the temper
and irony of Jonson. Their quarrel was inconvenient, and must have
caused some trouble in the representation of those masques and
revels over which Jonson presided.

Footnote 222:

  Life, p. 49.

“Whoever was the aggressor,” says Horace Walpole, “the turbulence
and brutality of Jonson was sure to place him most in the wrong.”
This is a hard judgment. Let it be remembered that the circumstances
of the two men were different. Jonson was poor, diseased, and in
that miserable plight when a generous temper is continually checked
by pecuniary difficulties. Inigo Jones had realized a handsome
fortune, and was then in the full enjoyment of wealth and
reputation. Unfortunately he was a poet; some of the masques printed
had their joint names as the composers. Jealousies arose, which
ought to have soon subsided, had either of these celebrated men
known how to curb his wrath. In Jonson’s case, his temper was his
worst enemy; but for this defect he had an excuse which might have
pleaded for him even with Inigo. In 1625, Jonson composed for King
James “Pan’s Anniversary,” the last piece that he presented to that
monarch; towards the end of that year he was attacked with palsy,
and a threatening of dropsy added to his accumulated trials. Poverty
and ill-health are pleas for indulgence. For the first evil,
Jonson’s improvidence, his hospitality, his utter want of prudence
in his affairs, may justly be blamed. The last was also partially
his own fault, for his habits were intemperate--and partly
ascribable to an hereditarily diseased constitution. Nature, which
had endowed him with that wonderful intellect, that indomitable
energy, had modified her gift by the infliction of a cruel malady,
which, being in the blood, was aggravated by the weakness of
approaching age. The suppers at the Mermaid were now finally
abandoned; and the club at the Devil Tavern, near Temple Bar, was no
longer enlivened by his wit. His intellect was affected to some
extent, but he recovered sufficiently to write the anti-masque of
“Jophiel” for the Court; after which, none of his productions were
commanded by the King during the space of three years. In his
necessities, unable to leave his room, or to move without
assistance, the poor invalid turned to the theatre as a source of
revenue, and produced “The New Inn.” It was hissed from the stage;
and, notwithstanding the dramatist’s plea in his epilogue that he
was “sick and sad,” he was persecuted with contemptuous verses, and
pursued with remorseless cruelty by the many enemies that his rough
manners had excited--among them, Inigo was the most inveterate.

There was, however, one kind heart that pitied him--that of Charles
I. The monarch was touched by the lines which the hard critics in
the theatre could hear without compassion:--

         “If you expect more than you had to-night,
         The Maker is sick and sad; he sent things fit
         In all the numbers both of verse and wit,
         If they have not miscarried: if they have,
         All that his faint and faltering tongue doth crave
         Is, that you not impute it to his brain--
         That’s yet unhurt, although set round with pain.
         It cannot long hold out: all strength must yield;
         Yet judgment would the last be in the field
         With the true poet.”

Charles sent him a hundred pounds: the poet, in the fulness of
gratitude, wrote "A petition from poor Ben to the best of monarchs,
masters, and men"--full of gaiety and good-humour, yet touching,
even in its sparkling wit. The petition prayed that His Majesty
would make his father’s “hundred marks a hundred pounds,” alluding
to the pension granted by King James. The petition was granted, and
in the patent by which the annuity was confirmed, it was said,
“especially to encourage Jonson to proceed in those services of his
wit and penn, which we have enjoined unto him.”

A tierce of Canary accompanied this act of bounty. It was Jonson’s
favourite wine, and the King, from his private bounty, sent it to
the sick poet. It was to be a yearly gift, not only to Jonson, but
to his successors; and the wine--Spanish Canary--was to be taken
from his Majesty’s cellars at Whitehall, out of the stores of wine
“remaining therein.” Charles little anticipated that even his love
of the drama should be made a cause of reproach to him at his trial.
“Had the King but studied Scripture half as much as he studied Ben
Jonson or Shakspeare!” was the cry of the Puritans.

Jonson might now have been tolerably happy, had not his former
coadjutor, Inigo, still borne him enmity for having, during the
preceding year, placed his own name before that of the royal
architect. The conduct of Jones in this respect has been placed in
its true light by a letter from a Mr. Perry to Sir Thomas
Pickering.[223] In that letter it is stated that Inigo used his
“predominant power” at Court to injure Jonson, then bed-ridden and
impoverished, as the poet was. Henceforth, Aurelian Townshend, a
poet scarcely known, was employed to invent the masques represented
at Court, in conjunction with Inigo Jones.

Footnote 223:

  This was communicated to Gifford by the late Mr. D’Israeli, to
  whom historical literature owes indeed much.

The same year that was marked by the death of Buckingham witnessed
poor Jonson’s “fatal stroke,” as he termed it, of palsy. He never
recovered this attack of 1628, and his days were overclouded by
successive mortifications. Hitherto the city of London had given him
a pension for his services. At the very time when it was most needed
by the forlorn dramatist, it was withdrawn, but restored three years
afterwards. The office for which he received this annuity was that
of City Chronologer. The plea made for its cessation was that there
had been “no fruits of his labours in that his place,” which place
was to commemorate signal events; other sources of emolument were
also withheld, on the plea that the fruits of that now exhausted
brain were no longer forthcoming.

But bright instances of compassion and generosity stood forth amid
all this gloom. Amongst the great patrons of the drama was William
Cavendish, the first Earl of Newcastle, declared by Cibber to be
“one of the most finished gentlemen and distinguished patriots of
his time.” He had been constituted governor to Prince Charles, for
whom he ever retained the most loyal affection. Of this nobleman it
was said that he understood horsemanship, music, and poetry; but
that he was a better horseman than a musician, a better musician
than a poet. His wife, the eccentric Margaret Lucas, wrote of him
that “his mind was above his fortune, his generosity above his
purse, his courage above danger, his justice above bribers, his
friendship above self-interest, his truth too firm for falsehood,
his temperance beyond temptation.”

It was by no means prejudicial to the popularity of this fine
specimen of an English nobleman that “he was fitter to break Pegasus
for a _manège_ than to mount him on the steps of Parnassus.” He
wrote a work entitled, “A new Method and Extraordinary Invention to
Dress Horses and Work them according to Nature, as also to Perfect
Nature by the Subtlety of Art.” The work, a folio, was succeeded by
various comedies, several of them written when Lord Newcastle was in
banishment, and acted, after his return to England, at Blackfriars.
He wrote, it is said, in the manner of Ben Jonson, to whom he was a
kind patron. The Earl was a singular compound of military skill and
ardour with literary tastes; by him Sir William Davenant,
poet-laureate after Jonson’s death, was made Lieutenant-General of
the Ordnance.[224]

Footnote 224:

  Grainger, Biog. Hist., vol. i., p. 194.

His wife, who at the time Ben Jonson knew her was Countess of
Newcastle, and afterwards Duchess, is one of the most voluminous of
writers among the (now) long catalogue of literary ladies in this
country. She was at once ridiculous and estimable--a combination of
qualities painful to friends, but never acknowledged by her
husband, who revered her talents, and tried to defend what was
incomprehensible to the learned--her philosophy. In private life she
was reserved, living almost entirely among her books, or in
contemplation, or writing indefatigably. Even during the night, one
of the Duke’s secretaries is said to have slept on a truckle bed in
a closet in her bedroom, in order to be ready to answer any sudden
bursts of inspiration that might occur; and the summonses to John,
“to get up and write down her Grace’s suggestions,” were frequent
and wearisome. Kind, pious, charitable, generous, and really gifted,
though romantic and visionary, this excellent lady’s peculiarities
might have furnished Molière with a model for his “Precieuses
Ridicules;” but, to Ben Jonson, they were lessened by the vast
amount of amiability that welcomed the poet to her stately abode,
or, better still, relieved him in his poverty and want.

When the Earl and Countess of Newcastle heard of the poet’s play
being condemned--when they learned that various copies of
complimentary verses had been addressed to him by admirers, pitying
his humiliation--the Earl, worthy of the name of Cavendish (so dear
to England), sent to request a transcript of them. The reply is very
touching:--[225]

"MY NOBLEST LORD, and my Patron by Excellence--I have here obeyed
your commands, and sent you a packet of my own praises, which I
should not have done if I had any stock of modesty in store; but
‘obedience is better than sacrifice,’ and you command it. I am now
like an old bankrupt in wit, that am driven to pay debts on my
friends’ credit; and, for want of satisfying letters, to subscribe
bills of exchange.

                                                “Your devoted
                                                        “BEN JONSON.

        "4th February, 1632.

“To the Right Hon. the Earl of Newcastle.”

Footnote 225:

  Gifford, p. 48.

Also note, same page:--

"MY NOBLEST LORD AND BEST PATRON--I send no borrowing epistle to
provoke your lordship, for I have neither fortune to repay, nor
security to engage, that will be taken; but I make a most humble
petition to your lordship’s bounty to succour my present necessities
this good time of Easter; and it shall conclude a begging request
hereafter on behalf of

                                 "Your truest bondsman and
                                          "Most thankful servant,
                                                             “B. J.”

One of these complimentary poems was written by Lucius Cary, Lord
Falkland--a patriot, a soldier, and a poet, the very model of that
refined spirit of chivalry which never recovered itself after the
Rebellion. There must have been consolation in such a strain, from
such a man; but poor “old Ben,” as he was now called, was almost
past consolation. He was engaged on another play, “The Majestic
Lady.” The world, who had then deemed the old man dead,[226]
received it as the injudicious effort of a mind enfeebled. Dryden,
even, who should have forborne from the poor triumph over him whom
he wrongly considered a “driveller and a show,” called these last
plays “Ben’s dotages;” but, though feebler than his former dramas,
they exhibit no traces of _dotage_--that invidious and almost cruel
expression.[227]

Footnote 226:

  Gifford, p. 49.

Footnote 227:

  With a gentler feeling, Charles Lamb made numerous extracts from
  “The New Inn,” to show that the mind that produced the “Fox” was
  still there.--Ibid.

Sustained by the Earl of Newcastle, praised by the noble Falkland,
pensioned by the King, one might have supposed that Jonson’s last
days would have been peaceful, though no longer cheerful. But he had
debts; and he was forced--bed-ridden, shaken in body and mind--to
write on to the very last. His latest effort was an interlude
welcome of King Charles to Welbeck, on his way to Scotland; for
which a tribute from Jonson’s muse was commanded by the
ever-friendly and munificent Newcastle.

The timely gratuity sent to the poet, when the interlude was
ordered, “fell,” he wrote, “like the dew of Heaven on his
necessities.” He wrote to his patron in terms of gratitude, warm and
expressive, and creditable to himself and that benefactor.

He continued at his desk; and a fragment of the “Last Shepherd,” one
of his last efforts which is preserved, proves that his fancy was
unclouded. Hitherto it has been painful to trace his decay--to
record his distress; but now light came to his death-bed, and came
from on high. Penitence, prayer, conviction of the true faith in our
Holy Apostolic Church, confession of sins, hope, and rest--these
were the Heavenly lights that broke over the gloom of his latter
hours.

Happily--and let the fact he impressively recorded--his parents had
carefully impressed on his infancy deep religious convictions.

As he lay, neglected by his former associates, and even believed by
the worldly to be dead--and dead, indeed, was he to them--the
impressions of his duty to his Maker grew more frequent and stronger
in his affection.[228]

Footnote 228:

  Gifford, p. 48.

To the Bishop of Winchester, who visited him during his long
illness, he expressed the deepest contrition for having profaned the
sacred name of his Creator in his plays. His “remorse was poignant;”
and doubtless this sense of the responsibility which is devolved on
great talents, which comes to many too late, was the foundation of
his heartfelt penitence and sorrow. He died on the 5th of April,
1637--and on the 9th his remains were entombed in Westminster Abbey,
on the north side, just opposite the escutcheon of Robertus de Ros.
A common pavement stone was placed over his grave; but Sir John
Young, of Great Milton, Oxfordshire, passing through the Abbey,
noticed that the stone was without any inscription to mark where the
great poet lay. Sir John, or, as Aubrey calls him, “Jack” Young,
gave one of the workmen eighteen-pence to cut an inscription; and
the words, “O rare Ben Jonson!” were carved as a temporary
distinction. Meantime, the admirers of the deceased poet were
collecting a subscription to defray the expense of a suitable[229]
monument to “poor Ben;” but the Rebellion breaking out, the project
was abandoned, and the money returned to the subscribers.

Footnote 229:

  Gifford.

No fewer than thirty-four elegies on Ben Jonson were collected by
Dr. Duppa, the Bishop of Winchester, and published under the title
of “Jonson’s Verbius;” and amongst the authors were Lord Falkland,
Ford, Waller, George Donne, Lord Buckhurst, and other illustrious
names. But perhaps there is no tribute more gratifying to the
admirers of Ben Jonson than that of Taylor, the water-poet, who had
met him at Leith. Jonson, be it remembered, had walked to Edinburgh,
yet he could not see the humble poet without giving him what he
could ill afford to bestow.

“At Leith,” says Taylor, “I found my long-approved and assured good
friend, Master Benjamin Jonson, at one Master John Stuart’s house. I
thank him for his great kindness; for at my taking leave of him, he
give me a piece of gold, of two-and-twenty shillings value, to drink
his health in England; and withall willed me to remember his kind
commendations to all his friends. So, with a friendly farewell, I
left him as well as I hope never to see him in a worse state; for he
is among noblemen and gentlemen that know his true worth, and their
own honours, where with much respective love he is entertained.”

The sum, as Gifford remarks, was not, in those days, an
inconsiderable one; and there was something graceful and touching in
the kindness of one placed so high, as Jonson was in literary fame,
to the humbler poet.

This sketch of Ben Jonson’s life and writings may serve to
illustrate the manners of those times, and the nature of that
society in which George Villiers lived. In every revel Buckingham
was the most distinguished courtier. In every masque, during King
James’s life, he played a part. He knew the poet at Wilton; there
can be little doubt that the friends of Villiers were the patrons of
poor Ben. The panegyrist of the Duke, Lord Clarendon, lived, as he
has himself declared, “many years on terms of the most friendly
intercourse with Jonson.” In that conversation, praised by this
historian “as very good, with men of most note,” Villiers must have
borne a part; whilst Camden and Selden mingled with poor Ben, with
the Sackvilles, the Sidneys, the Herberts, and the numerous family
of Villiers.




                              CHAPTER VI.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--THEIR ORIGIN--THEIR JOINT
    PRODUCTIONS--CHARACTER OF BISHOP FLETCHER--ANECDOTES ABOUT THE
    USE OF TOBACCO--FORD, THE DRAMATIST--HOWELL--SIR HENRY
    WOTTON--THE CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM CONSIDERED.




                            CHAPTER VI.


Among the young Templars who devoted themselves to the drama during
the times of George Villiers, was Francis Beaumont. Born in the same
county as that in which Buckingham’s family were settled, and
bearing the same name as the Duke’s mother, there is every
probability of there being some tie of consanguinity between the
poet and the peer.

Beaumont, like his colleague Fletcher, was one of ancient and
honourable family; and, as such, entitled to be called to the Bar.
It might be satisfactory to some of the lovers of literature to find
that its pursuit, in the days of the Stuart Kings, was most
frequently the choice of men of high connections, and by them
considered as equal in position to the calling of the Bar, and far
superior to that of the Church, or of medicine. The personal tastes
of James, the passionate love of the drama evinced by Charles, by
Henrietta Maria, and by Villiers, encouraged aspiring men to a
display of genius which might have long been hidden in a lawyer’s
wig, or extinguished for ever beneath the coif. Men were less
shackled then by conventionalities than in the present day.

The father of Francis Beaumont was one of the judges of the Court of
Common Pleas during the reign of Elizabeth, and the family seat was
Grace-Dieu, in Leicestershire. Two gifted sons emerged from this
ancient Manor-house to the universities--John Beaumont,[230] who
became a Gentleman Commoner at Broad-gate Hall, Oxford; and Francis,
who was educated at Cambridge. Both were entered at the Inns of
Court: Francis at the Inner Temple, the popular resort of Cambridge
men; John, however, retired to Grace-Dieu, married into the family
of Fortescue, and devoted his peaceful days to translations of the
classics, and to religious poems, which even Ben Jonson eulogized.
Amongst them is the “Crown of Thorns,” a poem in eight books.
Whether from Buckingham’s influence, or from his own merit, or from
both conjoined, is not known, but he was knighted by Charles in
1626. He survived that honour only two years, dying in the same year
in which Buckingham was killed.

Footnote 230:

  For some particulars of Sir John Beaumont, see Appendix.

His brother, Francis Beaumont, born in 1586, had a less peaceful
career. Endowed with no ordinary abilities, he became acquainted
with those whose example was not calculated to promote the due
attention to legal studies. Ben Jonson and John Fletcher were then
in favour with the public. Jonson in the decline of life, Fletcher
almost in the dawn of his celebrity.

The Fletchers, like the Beaumonts, were a family of talent; and the
famous friendship, or partnership, which produced so much, and to
which we owe some of the most beautiful passages of poetry, linked
to the most unreadable, was the result of that community of tastes
and studies which is promoted by the education at an English
university.

Fletcher, as well as Beaumont, had been at Cambridge; and his
father, Dr. Richard Fletcher, Bishop of London, having been a
benefactor to Benet College, that society was chosen for his
matriculation. He came to London, and meeting, at some one or other
of the clubs, with Francis Beaumont, they wrote plays in concert.
Fletcher, who was ten years younger than his partner, had the most
wit, the greatest luxuriance of fancy, the most extended conception,
and lavish prodigality of improprieties. Beaumont had the soundest
judgment, and employed it in cutting down young Fletcher’s daring
flights of fancy. Both assisted in forming the plots; since Beaumont
happened to be the elder of the two, his name appears first in the
literary firm, but it ought, in strict propriety, to be Fletcher and
Beaumont, instead of Beaumont and Fletcher.

They worked out the plots together; and one night, as they sat in a
tavern, concocting a play, Fletcher undertook “To kill the King.” He
was overheard by a waiter, who gave information of their traitorous
designs; instantly the two young men were apprehended, and all the
terrors of the law were before them--until they succeeded in
justifying themselves, when the affair ended in mirth.

Beaumont, meantime, was gaining the confidence even of the
formidable Ben Jonson, who submitted some of his works to his
criticism before publication. The young lawyer had that skill in
forming plots which seems like a natural gift, and which even good
writers are unable to acquire; and he is said to have concocted some
of those on which Jonson’s plays are founded.

Meantime, he wrote a little drama called “A Mask of Gray’s Inn
Gentleman,” and a poem entitled “The Inner Temple.” Jonson, grateful
for his aid, and admiring his talents, poured forth his delight in
these lines:--

          “How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,
          That unto me do’st such religion use
          How I do fear myself that am not worth
          The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth;
          At once thou mak’st me happy, and unmak’st;
          And giving largely to me more than tak’st.
          What fate is mine that so itself bereaves?
          What fate is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
          When, even there when most thou praisest me,
          For writing better I must envy thee.”

But, unhappily, Beaumont’s career was ended before he had attained
the age of thirty. He was buried in St. Benedict’s within St.
Peter’s, Westminster. No inscription on his tomb recalls the merits
so soon closed in death; but Bishop Corbet, the author of the “Grave
Poem,” and Sir John Beaumont, commemorated them in epitaphs which
are to be found in their works. Frances Beaumont, the poet’s only
daughter, survived him many years; but lost some of her father’s
manuscript poems as she went to Ireland by sea. Beaumont died in
1615, just at the crisis of Villiers’ early career, when he became
first the subject of King James’s notice. Notwithstanding his
premature death, his plays attained an almost unrivalled popularity.
Dryden tells us that they were the most popular entertainments of
the time--two of them being acted through the year for one of
Shakspeare’s or Jonson’s; there being, he adds, a certain gaiety in
the comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, and a pathos in their serious
plays, which accorded with the taste or humour of all men.
Posterity, however, does not admit of the comparison; but it is
impossible to say whether, if the lives of these two dramatists had
been spared, their powers might not have enabled them far to exceed
even the fanciful and poetical works which they found time to
accomplish.

Fletcher died of the plague, in 1625, at the age of forty-five, and
his remains were carried to the church of St. Mary Overie, where
those of Massinger were deposited--and it has been said that they
were both interred in the same tomb; but of this there is no
certainty.

It is, perhaps, the greatest compliment we can pay to the present
state of society to say that the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher can
never be listened to by an English audience, as long as Englishwomen
have one principle of delicacy, or Englishmen any respect for
virtue, remaining. Those, however, who desire to judge of the
poetical power of Fletcher will delight in his poem of the “Faithful
Shepherdess,” which Milton thought worthy of imitation in his mask
of “Comus.” Little is known of John Fletcher personally; but he
lived in times when every nerve was touched by stirring events, and
when many of the old memories which clung to men’s minds were
dramatic and tragical. His father, when Dean of Peterborough, had
attended Mary, Queen of Scots, to her execution. The good man,
looking, perhaps, for that preferment which followed, and forgetting
the peril, the misery of sudden conversions, had urged the heroic
Queen to change her religion, even at that solemn hour when the
heart clings the most closely to the impressions of youth. He
repeated his arguments; then she begged him three or four times to
desist. “I was born,” she said, “in this religion--I have lived in
this religion--and am resolved to die in this religion.”

In spite of his vehement Protestantism, the Bishop had some small
and great failings; he was an inveterate taker of tobacco, which was
then not only imported, but reared in Ireland and England. The
Bishop probably considered tobacco to be, as Burton, in his “Anatomy
of Melancholy,” describes it, “a vertuous herbe, if it be well
qualified, opportunely taken, and medecinally used;” but he did not
follow the advice of that admirable writer in the moderation with
which the snuff-box and the pipe should be indulged in. The prelate
fell into an excess in the use of tobacco, to which Camden, in his
History of England, imputed his death. The narcotic weed was indeed
one of those luxuries of the age, which was most abused in the time
of Buckingham. Burton anathematizes it--“as it is commonly used by
most men, who take it as tinkers do ale; ’tis a plague, a mischiefe,
a violent purger of goods, lands, healthe, hellish, devilish, damned
tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of bodye and soule.”[231]

Footnote 231:

  Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” vol i., p. 235.

But no considerations of this nature could either restrain Bishop
Fletcher, or convince the gallants of the day that they were ruining
either body or soul in their love of tobacco. It was very generally
employed in the form of snuff by both sexes in the seventeenth
century, and was allowed even in the royal presence.[232] “Before
the meat came smoking to the board,” says Dekker, “our gallant must
draw out his tobacco-box, and the ladle for the cold snuff into the
nostril, all which artillery may be of gold or silver, if he can
reach his several tricks in taking it, as the whiff, the ring, &c.,
for these are complements that gain gentlemen no mean respect.”[233]
It was the custom to raise the snuff with a spoon to the nose; the
snuff or pouncet-box having been long in vogue, charged, before the
discovery of Ralegh, with cephalic powder, known since the time of
Herodotus:--

            “He was perfumed like a milliner,
            And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held
            A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
            He gave his nose.”[234]

Footnote 232:

  Stowe’s “Annals.”

Footnote 233:

  Gull’s “Horn-book,” pp. 119, 120.

Footnote 234:

  Henry IV.

It was in vain that every power was combined to crush the practice
of smoking, of the inveteracy of which Bishop Fletcher affords a
memorable example. Monarchs united to oppose it, and it was even
condemned on religious grounds; but that plea made no impression on
Bishop Fletcher. Elizabeth had published an edict against it,
assigning as a reason that her subjects, by employing the same
luxuries as barbarians, would become barbarous. James I. published
his famous counterblast to tobacco, comparing it to the “horrible
Stygian smoake of the pit that is bottomless;” and imposed on it a
prohibitory duty of six shillings and eight-pence per pound on its
importation--an impost which Charles continued, making tobacco a
royal monopoly, as it still is in France and the Netherlands--the
duty having been only twopence a pound in the reign of Elizabeth.
Still smoking prevailed; Ralegh had introduced it after the return
of Sir Francis Drake from America, and all fashionable men practised
it. Villiers, more especially, was probably among the most
inveterate, after his residence in Spain; a pipe, a mug of ale, and
a nutmeg were the right style at the Mitre and the Mermaid; and
probably found toleration even in the hall of Burleigh, or at
New-hall.

It seems hard to challenge the self-indulgence of Bishop Fletcher,
or to grudge him a luxury which assisted Sir Isaac Newton in his
contemplative mood, and soothed Hooker when a shrewish wife nearly
drove him mad with vexation. Nevertheless, smoking, or taking snuff,
is said to have ended Dr. Fletcher’s days. He had also trials of
another kind to his health. He was the bishop who offended Elizabeth
by taking a second wife, and that wife a handsome widow, Lady Baker,
of Kent. The Queen, thinking that one wife was enough for a bishop,
forbade him her presence, and ordered Archbishop Whitgift to suspend
him, and whether from her Majesty’s displeasure, or from the effects
of tobacco, he died suddenly in his chair; “being well, sick, and
dead in one quarter of an hour.”

The family of Fletcher were largely imbued with poetic fervour.
Giles, the bishop’s brother, was a man of great learning; and his
two sons, John and Phineas, were conspicuous during the reign of
James I. for their learning and poetry. Phineas, whose name occurs
in the biography of Villiers, wrote “The Purple Island,” an
allegorical description of man--a much extended version of
“Spenser’s Allegory” in his second book. He also composed “Piscatory
Eclogues and Miscellanies;” and his time was divided between the
duties of his calling (for he was a clergyman) and the delight of
composition. His brother Giles was, says Anthony Wood, equally
“beloved of the muses and the graces.” The Fletchers were, indeed,
remarkable for their gifts. Benlowes, in his verses to Phineas, thus
expresses his sense of their family attributes:--

           “For ’twere a stain, Nature’s, not thy own;
           For thou art poet born; who know thee know it;
           Thy brother, sire--thy very name’s a poet.”

The fame of Giles Fletcher rests chiefly on his poem called
“Christ’s Victory,” which is printed with the “Purple Island” by his
brother Phineas.

Another of the young lawyers whose genius irradiated the drama in
the time of Villiers--was John Ford, a great genius, and a prudent
man, as far as we can judge by the close of his career. Like
Fletcher and Beaumont, Ford was well-born, and had a great advantage
in being descended, on his mother’s side, from the Chief Justice
Popham. He came to London and entered at Gray’s Inn, then, as Stowe
tells us, “a goodly house,” now the very _acmé_ of dismal and
decaying dinginess. It was illumined by the presence of Lord Bacon,
as it had recently been by that of Lord Burleigh; and when Ford took
chambers in the Inn, there were pleasant gardens for the gay young
students, in which they could walk and ruminate at their leisure;
whilst Gray’s Inn Lane, furnished with fair buildings and many
tenements, as Stowe also tells us, opened on the north with a view
of the fields leading to Highgate and Hampstead; and there, too,
dwelt Hampden and Pym, the vicinity of whom must have stirred up the
spirits of the young disputants, whose ardour for liberty was
excited during the days of the Remonstrance--the time of
Buckingham’s impeachment--and in those when the first tax for the
navy was levied.

Ford, however, cared little, it appears, for those stormy questions,
but much for the drama, and more for the law, to which he was
brought up, and in the practice of which he was wise enough to
continue. A young man of a dramatic turn had many temptations, in
those days, to sacrifice the hopes of a slow advancement for the
brilliant success of a poet’s career. Ford, however, had a staid
cousin at Gray’s Inn, at the time when he became a member of the
Middle Temple, in 1602. This relative, also a John Ford, persuaded
him “to stick to the law;” and Ford, in after-life, recorded the
obligation with gratitude.

Ford’s first production was not dramatic. When only seventeen years
of age, he wrote “Fame’s Memorial,” a tribute to one of the most
popular, and at the same time one of the most unfortunate, noblemen
of the day. The fate of the ill-starred Charles Blount, Lord
Mountjoy--afterwards Earl of Devonshire--impressed the young poet so
forcibly as to impel him, without any personal knowledge of this
hero, to write this _In Memoriam_. “The life of Lord Mountjoy,”
remarks Hartley Coleridge, “is the finest subject of biography
unoccupied.” He was the generous rival of Essex, with whom,
nevertheless, he had in early life fought a duel. Blount being “a
very comely man,” attracted the attention of Queen Elizabeth. He
distinguished himself at a tilt, and she sent him a chess-queen of
gold, enamelled, which he tied on his arm with a crimson ribbon.
Essex, on seeing this, laughed scornfully, and said, “Now I perceive
every fool must have a favour!” Blount challenged him, and they
fought at Marylebone, where the Earl was disarmed and wounded.
Nevertheless, the combatants became firm friends even in early life,
and, in their later days, generous rivals.

Unhappily, an attachment was formed between the handsome Charles
Blount and the Lady Penelope, the sister of Essex. She was, however,
under the guardianship of what was then called the Court of Wards.
She was, therefore, forced to marry Lord Rich. The result was
melancholy; and she became henceforth the mistress of the brave, but
unhappy, Blount, now Lord Mountjoy, and their connection was well
known. On the death of Rich, the guilty pair were married by Laud,
then Bishop of London. King James, on that occasion, said to
Mountjoy, “You have married a fair woman with a foul heart.” Perhaps
he was too severe in his judgment, yet the gallant Mountjoy felt the
opprobrium. His worldly prospects were marred by the union; so long
as the attachment with Lady Penelope had been merely understood, the
world had received her, and honoured him; but, when they were
married, the guilty pair were slighted and contemned. “However
bitter the cup of duty may be, duty commands us to drink it even to
the dregs.”[235] The sentiment is just, and Mountjoy felt it so. His
error was redeemed by suffering. He died, it is said, of a broken
heart, having long pined away under neglect and mortification.[236]

Footnote 235:

  Hartley Coleridge.

Footnote 236:

  Ibid--Note.

To the Lady Penelope, the survivor of this sad romance, Ford
addressed his “Fame’s Memorial.” Mountjoy’s great valour in
Ireland--of which he was the true conqueror--had won him undying
renown. His domestic life touched the young poet’s feelings; and
upon it he wrote his tragedy of the “Broken Heart.” _Penthea’s_
lamentation for her “enforced marriage” recalls, in that exquisite
play, poor Lady Penelope’s story:--

         "_Penthea._--How, Orgilus, by promise I was thine
         The heavens do witness!
         .     .     .     .     .   How I do love thee
         Yet, Orgilus, and yet, must best appear
         In tendering thy freedom.
         .     .     .     .     .     Live, live happy--
         Happy in thy next choice.
         And oh! when thou art married, think on me
         With mercy, not contempt! I hope thy wife,
         Hearing my story, will not scorn my fall.
         Now let us part."

For some time Ford merely assisted other dramatists in their
compositions; it was not until 1628 that he produced “The Lover’s
Melancholy,” which he dedicated to the “Noble Society of Gray’s
Inn.” This play was suggested by Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,”
from which Ford, as well as Sterne, freely borrowed. After
describing the rapidity, the impelling necessity with which the
works of Massinger and Jonson were produced, it is agreeable to
think of an author who was able “to write up to his own ideal.” Ford
not only disdained all pandering to the public taste, but even
regarded the emolument arising from his plays as a secondary
consideration, after he was once fairly established in his
profession. Nor was it then thought incompatible to unite the
character of a play-writer with that of a lawyer. The Templars, and
other learned societies, were the great patrons of the drama. Often
were the quaint halls of the Temple and of Gray’s Inn formed into
temporary theatres for some favourite piece; and the talk of the
young Templar was always of Blackfriars, the Curtain, or the
Rose--of Will Shakespeare, and Ben Jonson, and Ford.

Ford conceived that his powers lay in the delineation of dark and
horrible crimes; in the exhibition of a mysterious and hopeless
melancholy. The moral of his dramas, whatever aspect it may bear in
our days, was intended to be good; but the grossness of the times
marred that intention, and his works show how impossible it is to be
at once moral and indelicate. Even _Penthea_ in the “Broken Heart,”
exquisitely as her character is drawn, lessens our sympathy by
expressions which no woman of the present day would utter in the
presence of a lover, and that lover for ever severed from her by her
indissoluble bonds with another man.

But Ford wrote in the spirit and language of his time, with a high
purpose, and a coarse taste. “His genius,” it has been well
remarked, “is as a telescope, ill-adapted for neighbouring objects,
but powerful to bring within the sphere of vision what nature has
wisely placed at an unsociable distance.”[237]

Footnote 237:

  Hartley Coleridge.

He chose for the subject of his historical play the story of “Perkin
Warbeck.” With great skill he made this hero believe in his own
royalty; and he has left in this play, according to the opinion of
good judges, the best specimen of an historical tragedy after
Shakspeare.

Ford resembled Shakspeare in some particulars of his fate. Happier
in that than his associates, he was able to retire, at an early age,
to his native Devonshire, where, tradition says, he lived to old
age. It is stated that he married, and had children; but even of
this there is no certainty. One thing alone is clearly shown, even
in Ford’s dim history, that he regarded literature as the
relaxation, and not the labour of his life; that he steadily pursued
the profession in which untiring work, honourable conduct, and fair
talents generally find an ultimate reward; that he was independent
of patronage; that he could treat those to whom he addressed his
dedications as men whom he was complimenting, not benefactors whom
he was suing; and lastly, that he was able to leave the world of law
and letters before that world’s enjoyments had been exhausted, or
its disappointments had soured and wearied his spirit.

His last play was the “Lady’s Trial;” but his fame chiefly rests on
“Perkin Warbeck” and the “Broken Heart.” It is a proof of the great
esteem entertained for genius by the Earl of Newcastle, “poor Ben’s”
patron, that he was also friendly to Ford, who dedicated “Perkin
Warbeck” to that nobleman.

It was not only by necessitous men of obscure extraction that poetry
was cultivated in those times; on the contrary, some acquaintance
with the Muses, although not thought essential in those who would
fain rise to distinction as courtiers, was, at all events, deemed
ornamental and advantageous. The name of Thomas Carew was
distinguished in the reign of Charles I., as one of the most
intellectual of his young courtiers.

He was a man of an ancient Gloucestershire family; a branch of that
race settled in Devonshire, and his education was that usually
assigned to youths of good birth and expectations. He was entered at
Corpus Christi College, in Oxford, and his academical career was
succeeded, as was customary in those times, by travelling. From the
grand tour, Carew returned replete with wit, fancy, and with a high
reputation for accomplishments.

He was, therefore, almost instantly noticed by Charles I., and, it
is evident, enjoyed the favour of Buckingham, to whom he addressed
“Lines on the Lord Admiral’s recovery from sickness.” Charles made
him one of his gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and Sewer in
ordinary--appointments which brought the poet into an immediate
contact with the principal characters of the Court; and he became
the intimate associate of Lord Clarendon, the eulogist of
Villiers, and the friend of Ben Jonson. As a writer of love
sonnets, Carew has had few equals; and he may be termed, in that
respect, the Moore of his age. His charming qualities as a
companion, and the elegance of his verses, are praised by
Clarendon; whilst his contemporaries--even those less happy than
himself--saw in him, whom they declared to be one of a “mob of
gentlemen,” who aspired to be eminent in polite literature, one
whose career added lustre to the pursuits of literature. Strange
to say, Carew was beloved and extolled by his less fortunate
contemporaries; and even Ben Jonson gave him his meed of praise,
which Carew returned with sympathy and admiration.

After Jonson’s unlucky play, “The New Inn,” had been hissed off the
stage, and Jonson had vented his rage in an ode, Carew addressed the
angry poet in lines full of good sense, wit, and good feeling; and
yet, he hints, with a sincerity as rare as it is fearless, that his
powers were somewhat weakened since poor Ben had brought out the
“Alchemist.”

                         “And yet ’tis true
       Thy cousin muse from the exalted line,
       Touched by the alchemist, doth since decline
       From that her zenith, and foretells a red
       And blushing evening when she goes to bed;
       Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light
       With which all stars shall gild the following night.”

Again he adds:--

          “Let others glut on the extorted praise
          Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days:
          Thy laboured works shall live when Time devours
          The abortive offering of their hasty hours.
          Thou art not of their rank--the quarrel lies
          Within thine own verge; then let this suffice
          The wiser world doth greater thee confess
          Than all men else, than thyself only less.”

Carew, notwithstanding the highly virtuous tone of the Court in
which he lived, led an irregular life; and lived to mourn, in deep
repentance, for that more than wasted portion of his existence, in
which he gave way to the worst parts of his otherwise fine nature.
When Ben Jonson had ceased to write, Carew was selected as the poet
most calculated to supply the place of that great genius in
providing masques for the Court. Only one, however, produced by him,
remains. It is called “Cœlum Britannicum.”

Inigo Jones was again summoned to be one of the “Inventors,” to
place the masque on the stage, and Henry Lawes composed the airs,
and superintended the musical performance; but those to whose
splendour and genius the perfection of this species of entertainment
was owing, were no longer there. Villiers was gone; Ben Jonson had
virtually quitted “the detracting world,” which he had once defied
from his proud pre-eminence. The country was even then split up into
factions. Happily for himself, Carew escaped their outbreak. He died
in 1639, expressing heartfelt religious convictions and penitence.

Amongst the gentlemen writers, as they were styled, was Edmund
Waller, who, at the time of Buckingham’s death, was a young man of
twenty-three years of age. The lines addressed by him to Charles I.,
on the extraordinary composure which the King showed on hearing of
that event, are well known. Even then Waller had been a member of
Parliament, and had been elected to sit in that assembly whilst he
was in his seventeenth year. Waller’s circumstances, his destiny,
his views of life, his genius, his disposition, were as opposite to
those of Massinger and Ben Jonson as can possibly be conceived. He
seemed born a courtier; and every effort he made was to advance
himself at first in that career, and afterwards as a politician. His
first appearance as a poet, in his eighteenth year, was to
congratulate King James on the escape of Prince Charles at St.
Audera, when returning from Spain; and in this poem his polished
verses, perfected, he alleged, by the study of Fairfax’s “Tasso,”
were so turned as to excite the admiration of the literary world, by
whom he was deemed the model of English versifiers. But, in spite of
his alleged devotion to Charles, and notwithstanding his continuing
to sit in Parliament, Waller sheltered himself during the storm that
ensued, and went to study chemistry under the guidance of his
kinsman, Bishop Morley--emerging only from his retreat at
Beaconsfield to mingle in the delightful circle of wits and
incipient heroes of whom the noble Falkland was the centre.

He married early; having, with a fortune of nearly four thousand
a-year, espoused a city heiress, who died and left him a widower at
the age of twenty-five. Then this accomplished man of the world
looked out for rank, and paid his addresses, poetically at all
events, to the lovely Dorothy Sidney, the eldest daughter of the
Earl of Sidney. He apostrophized her as Saccharissa. She was, or he
made her out to be, a proud and scornful beauty, and he turned to
his "Amoret"--Lady Sophia Murray; but, though well-born, rich,
favoured by Charles, and nephew of John Hampden by his mother’s
side, so that he seemed secure of rising under any faction, Waller’s
loves did not prosper in the direction to which he at first guided
them; for he was wise in his generation, and could control his
fancies by views of interest.

He married, therefore, a second time, “loving, doubtless, wisely and
not too well;” but neither the name, condition, nor fortune of his
second wife is mentioned by his biographers.

From this time Edmund Waller’s career was despicable. In his heart a
Royalist, he absented himself from the House of Commons whenever
there was a chance of his being of service to the King, or of his
committing himself. Yet he sent Charles a thousand gold pieces when
the Royal standard at Nottingham was set up--and concocted, with a
conspirator named Tomkyns, a plot for delivering the City and the
Parliament into the hands of the Royalists. Nevertheless, he had
been seconding “my Uncle Hampden” in the House, in his censure of
Ship-money. When his plot--still called in history Waller’s plot,
for he had the chief blame--when this base conspiracy, unworthy of
any cause, was discovered, Waller confessed everything, and
criminated everybody. Confounded with fear, he had yet the
consummate hypocrisy to talk of his “remorse of conscience,” adding
one to the long list of crimes which that abused word is called to
sanction or excuse. It is a satisfaction to know that he was nearly
being hanged--that he was expelled the House--fined ten thousand
pounds--and then “contemptuously suffered to go into exile.” Never
was that party more fortunate than in getting rid of such a man.

He took refuge at Rouen, and lived there and in Paris until all his
wife’s jewels were sold--for on them he lived. He was, however, at
last allowed to return home, and again he sullied Beaconsfield with
his presence. He hastened to flatter Cromwell, and even to propose,
in his smooth and flattering verses, the substitution of a crown of
gold for bays:--

          “His conquering head has no more room for bays,
          Then let it be as the glad nation prays;
          Let the rich ore be melted down,
          And the State fix’d by making him a crown:
          With ermine clad and purple, let him hold
          A royal sceptre made of Spanish gold!”

Cromwell, however, was far too wise to take the bait. The sycophant
thought it expedient to write an ode on his death--for he was not
certain that the great man’s power might not be perpetuated by his
son. The instant, however, that the Restoration placed Charles II.
on the throne, Waller was ready with his congratulatory ode. He
dwelt on the guilt of the Rebellion; and, except that the flavour of
spicy flattery was so poor as to provoke a _bon mot_ from Charles
II. he might have succeeded. “Poets,” said the witty monarch,
“succeed better in fiction than in truth.” But with Waller it was
all fiction.

He was soon a favourite at that easy, merry court; his poetry caused
his unconquerable duplicity to be forgotten--or, if not forgotten,
looked on even complacently by courtiers who held all virtue to be
hypocrisy. He managed to please everybody; though a water-drinker,
he was the life of Bacchanalian parties. It is owing to Clarendon
that the renegade was not made Provost of Eton--a post for which he
had actually the audacity to ask. He thence became the friend and
ally of George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, to whose age
and time, rather than that of the subject of this memoir, one would
gladly consign the apostate poet.

One of his worst acts was to vote for the impeachment of Lord
Clarendon; and here one would gladly end the record of the misdeeds
of an able and accomplished man, distinguished almost as much for
his eloquence as for his poetic productions. But Waller lived on; he
was favoured by James II., who seems to have been cajoled by the
flatteries which his royal brother had detected. Waller again in
parliament, and now eighty years old, was permitted to speak
jocularly with the monarch. One day he called Queen Elizabeth, in
James’s presence, the “greatest woman in the world.” "I wonder,"
answered his Majesty, “you should think so; but it must be allowed
she had a wise council.”

"And when, sire," cried Waller, “did you ever hear of a fool
choosing a wise one?”

When it was known that the veteran courtier was going to marry his
daughter to Dr. Birch, a clergyman, James sent a French gentleman to
ask him how he could think of marrying his daughter to a falling
church.

“The King does me great honour,” was the reply, “to concern himself
about my affairs; but I have lived long enough to observe that this
falling church has got a trick of rising again.”

He foresaw the coming crisis, but lived not to have an opportunity
of writing odes to William III. and his Queen. He now composed
“Divine Poems,” and began to think, at the age of eighty-three, that
possibly this world, and the courts of the Charles’s and James’s,
were not everything that there was to value in life. When he found
himself sinking, he said, “Take me to Coleshill” (his native place);
“I should be glad to die, like the stag, where I was roused.”

He was, however, too near death to be removed; and he expired at
Beaconsfield, in October, 1678, and thus escaped being the witness
of another revolution.

Such were some of the eminent contemporaries of George Villiers, in
an age so rich in intellectual force as to constitute it, in that
respect alone, one of the most remarkable periods of English
history.

But there were, among the _literati_ of that day, two men whose
observations were peculiarly directed towards the career of
Villiers--these were James Howell, the letter-writer, and Sir Henry
Wotton.

Howell’s well-known name is mixed up repeatedly in the various
passages of the Duke of Buckingham’s foreign life. Howell was the
son of a clergyman, at Abernant, in Carmarthenshire; was accordingly
entered at Jesus College, Oxford, the great emporium of the Jones’s,
Williams’s, Morgans, and Howells.

He was, like many of his countrymen, “a true cosmopolite,” born,
says Anthony Wood, neither to “house, land, lease, or office.” He
had not the misfortune of having a position in life to lose, so he
went to London, and became, through the interest of Sir Robert
Mansel, steward to a glass-house in Bond Street, glass being a
monopoly; whilst his elder brother rose to be Bishop of Bristol.

Glass being by no means in its perfection, the proprietors of the
work sent James Howell abroad, in order to hire foreign workmen, and
to buy the best materials for a manufacture which they wished to
improve; and James Howell joyfully accepted the mission. He
travelled into France, Holland, Flanders, Spain, and Italy; and,
setting off in 1619, encountered George Villiers in his French tour,
came across him in Spain, and heard of him all the good and bad that
he has detailed in his letters to England.

He gave up his stewardship, and posted again into Spain, in 1623,
and was in that country when Charles I. and Buckingham were at
Madrid. Like persons in the pit of a great theatre, Howell, in his
half-commercial, half-diplomatic capacity, saw a great deal which
the actors in that brilliant scene overlooked.

His ostensible reason for going to Spain was to reclaim a rich
English ship which had been seized by the Viceroy of Sardinia; his
real occupation was that of watching the Royal “wooer,” and his
scarcely less conspicuous companion, Buckingham. Meantime, Howell
was made a Fellow of Jesus College; and, in accepting this honour,
he said he “should reserve his Fellowship, and lay it by as a warm
garment against rough weather, should any fall on him.” And
certainly he was destined to experience the changes and chances of
fortune in no ordinary degree. He returned to London, and was
appointed secretary to Lord Scrope, who was made Lord-President of
the North. Howell, therefore, was transplanted to York; and, whilst
there, was chosen member for Richmond, an honour for which he had
not canvassed. He sat, therefore, in the parliament which opened in
1627--a session so important to Buckingham, and so fraught with
consequences to the country.

Still, the apparently fortunate man was without any fixed
employment. He had, however, talents which were then rare in this
country; he spoke seven modern languages--and, without recording his
own remark, which borders on levity, on that score, it must be
admitted that few Englishmen either in that age or this can do the
same. His merits were, in this respect, estimated by Charles I., who
sent him in the quality of secretary to Robert, Earl of Leicester,
to Denmark, when it became necessary to condole with the King of
that State on the death of his consort, Charles’s Danish
grandmother. Next, Howell was despatched to France, and subsequently
to Ireland, where the Earl of Strafford appreciated his wonderful
industry, and welcomed him kindly; he was intrusted by that
ill-fated nobleman with business, first in Edinburgh and then in
London; but his hopes of rising were crushed by the ruin of
Strafford, and by the crash which ensued.

Charles, however, again despatched him to France, and made him, on
his return, Clerk of the Council.

Poor Howell now believed that he had secured a permanent post, a
fixed income, and a most agreeable residence, an apartment being
allotted to him in Whitehall. The greater part of the old Tudor
palace was then still standing; the noble gates built by Henry VIII.
remained; the Banqueting-house was partially finished; all but the
paintings by Vandyck, who was to have adorned the sides of that
room, now used as a chapel, with paintings of all the history and
procession of the Order of the Garter, were completed--that
symmetrical fragment stood then as it now stands. Charles I. could
as little have anticipated that George of Hanover would have made
the room he destined for Ben Jonson’s masques into a chapel, with
the apotheosis of James I. upon the ceiling, as he could have
foreseen that one day he should be led out from one of the windows
of the Banqueting-house to Whitehall-gate, where “cords to tie him
down to the block had been prepared, had he made any resistance to
that cruel and bloody stroke.”[238]

Footnote 238:

  See Cunningham’s “London,” Art. “Whitehall,” from Dugdale’s
  “Troubles in England.”

Equally unconscious of his royal patron’s doom as of his own fate,
Howell established himself in that palace, the only danger of which
seemed to be the frequent inundations of the Thames, by which
Whitehall was often half submerged. But shortly afterwards the King
left that palace to which he never returned but as a captive; and
Howell also departed. But, coming back to London on private
business, he was, in 1643, thrown into prison, his papers were
seized, and he was committed in close custody to the Fleet.

This ancient prison had been, until that time, a place of durance
for persons sentenced by the Council Table, then called the Court of
the Star Chamber--so that Howell had the additional vexation of
being apprehended by one of the warrants which he would himself have
issued had the troubles of the Rebellion never commenced;--had
things remained as they were when Lord Surrey suffered from its
pestilent atmosphere, and when the importunate Lady Dorset was
silenced in what was truly called by Surrey, “that noisome place.”

The Star Chamber was, however, it appears, abolished before the time
when James Howell, descending Whitehall stairs, was rowed up the
river Fleet, to a gate as portentous in its aspect and associations
as the Traitor’s-gate at the Tower; and thence conducted to what was
afterwards called the Common side of the prison.[239] When the
letter-writer entered its miserable courts, the Fleet had lost the
dignity of a state prison for minor political offences, and was a
place for debtors, and divided into two sides, the Master’s side and
the Common side. In the Common side, to complete the horrors, was a
strong-room, or vault, which has been described “to be like those in
which the dead are interred, and wherein the bodies of persons dying
are usually deposited till the coroner’s inquest has passed them.”

Footnote 239:

  See Cunningham, vol. i., p. 311. The Author cannot avoid
  expressing obligations to this excellent work.

Howell, as he entered the Common side, probably thought that he
might live to be one of the mute inhabitants of that ghastly
chamber--for he was not only suspected by the Parliament, but in
debt. Wood, indeed, ascribes his captivity wholly to the curse of
debt, brought on by his own extravagance; and since Howell, like
many public men of the day, had no “income but such as he scrambled
for,” and since it was an age of careless expenditure, Wood is,
perhaps, in this statement, as he generally is, correct.

The character of the man of desultory life rose under the trial.
During five years the once free and happy James Howell lay in that
den of misery--rendered more miserable by all that was going on in
the world, of which he heard enough in his durance, perhaps too
much. During that period Charles was beheaded; the gay precincts of
Whitehall were stained with the blood of one whom Howell had
reverenced as a royalist, but whose advisers, Buckingham, Laud, and
Strafford, he had censured, as a man of the world, of sense and
candour, could not fail to do. Whilst he lay in the place where
Falkland had been sent for sending a challenge--where Prynne had
paid the penalty for his “Histriomastix,” Howell’s thoughts no doubt
reverted to the pleasant days of Charles’s youth, in the fields near
Madrid, where plumed knights ran a course--or to the arena of the
bull-fight. He dreamed, perhaps, of the incomparable Infanta, or of
the stately Philip, and his gallant, flattered, sanguine English
guests.

But he did better. Howell is not the only writer who has tried to
bind up the wounds of a broken heart by authorship; or has succeeded
in dissipating the hours of a long imprisonment by communicating not
only with the world of letters, which was nearly extinct in general
literature during the first year of the Protectorate, but with those
among the free, the sympathetic, and the celebrated who remembered
the poor debtor in his cell. One of his most notable efforts was his
own epitaph, beginning--

               “Here lies entomb’d a walking thing,
               Whom Fortune with the Fates did fling
               Between these walls.”

He wrote now his “Familiar Letters, Domestic and Foreign,” wisely
putting no date on the epistles as to place. He composed also
"Casual Discourses and Interlocutions between Patricius and
Peregrin, touching the Distractions of the Times"--this work was the
result of the Battle of Edge Hill--“Parables reflecting on the
Times;” "England’s Tears for the Present War;" “Vindications of some
Passages reflecting upon himself in Mr. Prynne’s book called the
‘Popish Royal Favourite,’” a work which coupled his name with that
of Buckingham; and his “Epistolæ-Hoelianæ.” These works came out
year after year. It is said by Wood that most of Howell’s letters
were written in the Fleet, though some of them purported to have
been sent from Madrid and other places. The fact is, he wrote for
subsistence; and his works were popular and productive. His
statements may, indeed, have been made so long after the events they
relate occurred, as to render them doubtful; yet it is acknowledged
that they contain a good view of the actors in those stirring
times--whilst they are almost the only letters that still preserve
the memory of the writer among us.

Most of his other writings were political; one of his imaginative
flights recalls, in the idea that originated it, the title of the
pleasant brochure, “_Voyage autour de ma chambre_,” in our own
times. Howell’s composition is styled, “A Nocturnal Progress; or, a
perambulation of such Countries in Christendom performed in one
night by strength of imagination.” All the titles of his works are
striking: “Winter Dream,” "A Trance, or News from Hell, brought
first to town by Mercurius Acheronticus;"--this was published in
1649, after the King’s death. He still, Royalist as he was, bore his
misfortunes cheerfully; yet his loyalty sank at last beneath the
pressure of starvation, and he yielded to expediency. It was not,
however, until 1653 that his constancy broke down, and that he
addressed to Oliver Cromwell his “Sober’s Inspections made into the
carriage and consult of the late Long Parliament.” One may know the
views he took from the title; but when he compliments the Lord
Protector, compares him to Charles Martel, and descends to flattery,
Howell loses our respect. Neither does he regain it by his “Cordial
for the Cavaliers,” published in 1660, and answered by the “Caveat
for the Cavaliers” of Sir Roger L’Estrange.

Payne Fisher, who had been poet-laureate to Cromwell, edited
“Howell’s Works,” in which he calls the author the “prodigy of the
age for the variety of his writings.” These were forty in number,
and in “them all,” says Fisher, “there is something still new,
either in the matter, method, or fancy, and in an untrodden tract.”

For the change of politics in the famous letter-writer his friends
were prepared, when, after the King’s death, he wrote with what some
call prudence, others pusillanimity, these words:--“I will attend
with patience how England will thrive, now that she is let blood in
the Basilican vein, and cured, as they say, of the King’s evil.”
Nevertheless, Howell was made Historiographer-Royal in England by
Charles II., who was so lenient to his enemies, so ungrateful to his
friends. The place was even created for him; but death soon caused
him to vacate it. He ended his chequered life in 1660, and-was
buried in the Temple Church.

Among the few who remembered George Villiers with gratitude, or
who endeavoured to rescue his memory from opprobrium, Henry
Wotton, his biographer, appears in a conspicuous and favourable
light. Most of the eminent men of the time had been reared, and
even trained, to public service, during the reign of Elizabeth,
when strength of purpose, honesty, ability, and learning were
the grounds of promotion in all the minor, as well as in the
superior departments of the State. Henry Wotton, born in 1568,
at Bocton Hall,[240] in Kent, and descended from an ancient
family, was a thoroughly-educated English gentleman. After some
years’ instruction at Winchester School, he was entered at New
College, Oxford. Close to that grand old college was Hart Hall,
a sort of subsidiary establishment; and Wotton, perhaps from
being a freshman, had his rooms in Hart Hall Lane. Here his
chamber-fellow, as he was then called, was Richard Baker, the
historian, who was entered at the same time, and born the same
year, and whose predilections for letters resembled those of
young Henry Wotton. The inestimable advantage of a companionship
of such a nature cannot be too highly appreciated by those who
watch the dawning mind of youth, and who desire them to have
recourse to the only sure preventive of dissipation--employment.
Baker, well known for his Chronicle, was also a writer on
theological subjects, and a young man of sincere piety. His
friend Wotton was then less distinguished for historical studies
than for his wit and learning. For some reason, not explained,
he left New College, and established himself in the then
old-fashioned tenement of Queen’s College, in the High Street,
where he was soon complimented by being selected to write a play
for the inmates of that house to perform. He produced a tragedy
called “Tancredo,” which was declared to manifest, in a very
striking manner, his abilities for composition, his wit, and
knowledge. Thus, like the gay Templar, or the student of Gray’s
Inn, did the young Oxonian delight in the drama--which formed,
to borrow a French expression, a sort of _debût_ for wits; nor
did Baker, though serious and plodding, despise the drama; and
even when, in after life, he had been knighted at Theobald’s by
King James, and Baker’s reputation stood high, he vindicated the
stage against Prynne, in a work entitled “Theatrum Redivivum.”

Footnote 240:

  Otherwise Bougton Place (or Palace). See Izaak Walton’s “Life of
  Sir H. Wotton.”

Wotton, after proceeding Master of Arts in his twentieth year, left
Oxford, and passed a year in France; and then going on to Geneva,
formed there the friendship of Casaubon and of Beza. He remained
nine years in Germany and Italy, and returned to England an
accomplished and enlightened, as well as a learned man; being, says
his biographer, “a dear lover of painting, sculpture, chemistry, and
architecture.” He was soon appreciated by Robert Devereux, Earl of
Essex, then high in favour with Elizabeth; and became one of that
nobleman’s secretaries, and the most devoted of his friends. The
parallel which he has left the world between Essex and Buckingham,
and which Lord Clarendon answered, is written with an enthusiasm for
the character of Wotton’s first patron, which can only have sprung
from intimate acquaintance, and from that true affection which
generous, impulsive natures, such as that of Essex, are likely to
inspire.

With Essex, Wotton remained until his patron was apprehended and
attainted of treason; then he fled to France, and scarcely had he
landed there when he heard that the Earl had been beheaded. He took
refuge from solitude, and perhaps peril, in Florence, where the
Grand Duke[241] of Tuscany received him cordially. James I. was then
reigning over Scotland; a plot threatened his life, and the Grand
Duke having become aware of this, by some intercepted letters, sent
Wotton, in disguise, to warn James of his danger. Wotton spoke
Italian perfectly; he, therefore, assumed the name and dress of an
Italian, and, thus disguised, set off on his hazardous journey.
Having been so deeply concerned in the affairs of Essex, he did not
venture to pass into England. He travelled, therefore, into Norway,
and, by that route, reached Scotland. He found the King at Stirling,
and was introduced into his presence under the name of Octavio
Baldi. He soon found an opportunity of disclosing himself to the
King, and, after remaining three months in Scotland, he returned to
Florence.

Footnote 241:

  Ferdinand I., of the House of Medici, who, in 1589, succeeded his
  brother Francis.

Queen Elizabeth’s death brought him back to England, where his
favour with the new King was ensured. When James I. saw Sir Edward
Wotton, he inquired if “he knew not Henry Wotton?”

"I know him well," was the reply, “for he is my brother.”

The King then asked where he was, and ordered him to be sent for.
When Wotton first saw his Majesty, James took him into his arms, and
saluted him by the name of Octavio Baldi; then he knighted him, and
nominated him Ambassador to Venice. But it was not easy, in those
days, to avoid giving offence. The new Ambassador, passing through
Augsburg, met there, amongst other learned men, his old friend, one
Christopher Flecamore, who requested him to write something in his
Album, a book which even then Germans usually carried about with
them; Sir Henry, complying, wrote a definition of an Ambassador in
the Album. The sentence was given in Latin, as being a language
common to all that erudite company, but the definition was, in
English, this--“An Ambassador is an honest man sent to _lie_ abroad
for the good of his country.”

This sentence was imparted, eight years afterwards, to one of King
James’s literary opponents, a jealous Romanist priest, named
Scioppius, who printed it in a work directed against the royal
polemic, and which pretended to show upon what a degraded principle
a Protestant acted. The book reached King James, who had the
mortification of hearing that this definition of an ambassador,
which happened to be then the correct one, whatever may now be the
case, was exhibited in glass windows at Venice. For some time James
was displeased, but on receiving Sir Henry’s explanation, he forgave
him, saying that the delinquent “had commuted sufficiently for a
greater offence.”

The various embassies in which Sir Henry Wotton was engaged detained
him abroad until 1623, when he came home finally. A great piece of
preferment was then vacant; and, by the influence of the Duke of
Buckingham, it was bestowed on Wotton. This was the post of Provost
of Eton; but one great obstacle presented itself--Wotton had been
everything that was useful and important, but he was not in orders;
nevertheless, anything could be accomplished in those days--he was
made a deacon, and held the Provostship from 1623 to 1639, when he
died. The appointment did no discredit to him who procured it, for
Wotton was an able, honest man, singularly liberal in his religious
tenets for his time. He ordered that upon his grave, in the Chapel
of Eton College, there should be a sentence, in Latin, decrying the
itch for disputation as the real disease of the Church. He was a
great enemy to disputation. On being asked, “Do you believe that a
Papist can be saved?” he answered, “_You_ may be saved without
knowing that; look to yourself.” When he heard some one railing at
the Romanists with stupid rancour, he said:--“Pray, sir, forbear,
till you have studied these points better. There is an Italian
proverb which says, ‘he that understands amiss concludes worse;’
forbear of thinking that the farther you go from the Church of Rome
the nearer you are to God.”

Nevertheless, he was, like most lenient judges of the faith of
others, a staunch adherent to his own. “Where was your religion to
be found before Luther?” wrote a jocose Priest at Rome, seeing Sir
Henry in an obscure corner of a church, listening to the beautiful
service of the Vespers, and enjoying the exquisite music of a faith
which appeals so much to the senses. “Where yours is not to be
found--in the written Word of God,” was the answer, scribbled on a
piece of paper underneath the interrogation.

Another evening Sir Henry sent one of the choir boys to his priestly
friend with this question:--“Do you believe those many thousands of
poor Austrians damned who were excommunicated because the Pope and
the Duke of Venice could not agree about their temporalities?” To
which inquiry the priest wrote in French underneath--"_Excusez moi,
Monsieur._"

Such was the man whom Buckingham favoured; and who afterwards repaid
the obligation by a beautiful, somewhat florid, but authentic
biographical account of the Duke’s origin, his rise, his dangers,
his services, and his death. Quaint but expressive language, genuine
enthusiasm, and personal acquaintance, render this sketch one of the
most delightful compositions of Sir Henry’s pen. In comparing him,
in prosperity and in adversity, to Essex, the master whom he loved,
Wotton pays the Duke of Buckingham what he conceived to be the
highest compliment. He was commencing a life of Martin Luther, and
intending to interweave in it a history of the Reformation in
Germany, when Charles I. prevailed on him to lay it aside, and to
begin a history of England. That undertaking has something
unfortunate associated with it. Rapin and Hume never lived to
complete their works. Mackintosh died after leaving a noble fragment
to increase our sorrow for his loss. Macaulay has expired before
half his glorious task has been given to the world. Sir Henry Wotton
had sketched out some short characters as materials, when his
intentions and Charles’s commands were frustrated by death. His
“Reliquiæ Wottonianæ, or a collection of Lives, Letters, and Poems,
with characters of sundry personages, and other incomparable pieces
of Language and Art, by the ever-memorable Sir Henry Wotton,”[242]
is a small octavo volume; yet large enough to create regret that one
of such rare powers and opportunities had not written, with the
candour of his nature, a history of the times in which he
flourished. His “State of Christendom, or a most exact and curious
discovery of many secret passages and hidden mysteries of the
times,” supplies in some measure that deficiency.

Footnote 242:

  Collected and edited by Izaak Walton, in 1672.

Successful in life, Wotton was, in his death, fortunate in being the
subject of an elegy from the pen of Cowley, then a young man of
twenty-one, at Trinity College, Cambridge.[243]

Footnote 243:

  Cowley was born in 1618.

If we except the encouragement given by the Duke of Buckingham to
the masque, and the preference evinced by him for literature as one
of the essential ingredients of civilized society, the progress of
letters, it must be avowed, has owed little to his direct
intervention.

Clarendon, though at the time of the Duke’s death patronized by
Laud, was then a young lawyer, little more than twenty years of
age.[244] Being brought into contact with Archbishop Laud, during
the course of a cause in which he was even then retained by some
London merchants, Clarendon, at that time Edward Hyde, must not only
have heard much of Buckingham, but have known him personally; but
the public career of the future historian did not commence till
1640. As, however, Hyde then affected the fine gentleman and the man
of letters rather than the lawyer, he probably, in those characters,
had opportunities of seeing Buckingham on the same footing as that
on which he became acquainted with Falkland, Selden, Waller, Carew,
and others; but he owed nothing, as far as we can trace, to the
friendship of Villiers.

Footnote 244:

  He was born in 1608, and was only seventeen when he began the
  study of the law under his uncle, Sir Nicholas Hyde.

Ralegh and Bacon were above the patronage of the favourite; the one
was suffered to die in prison, the other was long alienated from his
early admirer and sometime pupil, the Duke. Nevertheless, there were
not a few persons, as it has been seen, eminent as writers, who were
indirectly assisted and protected by Buckingham, and who paid him
the tribute of their gratitude or admiration. Still the aid he gave
to art was far more liberal than any that he afforded to letters.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Such is the view taken of the redeeming services performed to
society by a man who had much in his public career to be forgiven.
With respect to the acts to which he prompted Charles, to screen
himself, no defence can be offered: but for the general bearing of
that King’s conduct towards his Parliament, he must be deemed
irresponsible, since his death neither changed his Sovereign’s line
of principle, nor moderated his actions. Buckingham was less a man
of evil intentions than of expediency; to get out of a difficulty,
he imperiled the freedom of the people, and the safety of the Crown,
when he might bravely have courted inquiry, and profited by counsel.
It was one of his great misfortunes that he never made a true and
worthy friendship with any man so nearly his equal as to be able
frankly to advise him against what Clarendon calls the “current, or
rather the torrent, of his passions.” He was surrounded by needy
brothers, and influenced by an ambitious, unscrupulous mother. One
faithful friend would not only have saved him from many perils, but
might have prompted him to do “as transcendant worthy actions” as
any man in his sphere. In spite of prosperity, he was of a
persuadable nature; he was naturally candid, just, and generous; no
record remains of the temptation of money leading him to do any
unkind action. “If,” says Lord Clarendon, “he had an immoderate
ambition, it doth not appear that it was in his nature, or that he
brought it to the Court, but rather found it there. He needed no
ambition, who was so seated in the hearts of two such masters.”

No man was more vilified in his private life than Buckingham. Like
all persons of weak principles and impulsive nature, he was at once
engaging and disappointing; warm-hearted one instant, selfish the
next; the idol of his family, whom he befriended unceasingly; the
object, during his life, of his young wife’s most devoted affection,
which he often forgot or betrayed. Nevertheless, whilst his moral
character was sullied by many blemishes, it was free from the
unblushing profligacy of some of his predecessors, and superior to
the hypocritical sensuality of his contemporary, Richelieu. Happily
for the age, the almost blameless early career of Charles enforced
that virtue should be respected, and that vice, where it existed,
should remain concealed. Buckingham probably owed to this necessity
much of what, at all events, may be endowed with the praise of
decorum.

The popular error of many historians, who depict him as an arrogant
favourite, a remorseless extortioner, a reckless invader of liberty,
the minion of his own King, and the instrument of foreign Courts,
yields before the more intimate view of Buckingham’s character which
has been unfolded in the collections now laid open to all readers of
history. That he was impetuous, but kind in nature--careless of
forms, but courteous in spirit--led widely astray by mad passions,
yet returning in love and penitence to his home--is now confessed.
No instances have been found to substantiate against him charges of
corruption, such as that which was commonly practised in those days;
he was loaded with presents of land, of money--he spent freely what
had been thus bestowed--and the affection borne to him by his
dependents is the best earnest of his many good qualities as a
master and a patron.

In his liberality to all around him, he is said by Wotton, who
thoroughly understood the noble nature which he compared to that of
Essex, to have been “cheerfully magnificent,” whilst he conferred
his favours with such a grace, that the manner was as gratifying as
the gift, “and men’s understandings were as much puzzled as their
wits.”

His disposition was full of tenderness and compassion. The man who
fell by the assassin’s hand had a horror of capital punishment,
“Those,” Lord Clarendon observes, “who think the laws dead if they
are not severely executed, censured him for being too merciful; and
he believed, doubtless, hanging the worst use a man could be put
to.” Consistent with this sweetness of character were his affability
and gentleness to men younger than himself, as well as his ready
forgiveness of injuries, an “easiness to reconcilement,” which
caused him even too soon to forget the circumstances of affronts and
evil deeds, and, therefore, exposed him to a repetition.

Of all the imputations which were fixed on Buckingham, that of a
desire to enrich himself, from motives of avarice, is the most
completely refuted by facts. During the four years that he enjoyed
the unbounded confidence of Charles I. he became every day poorer.
His affairs were investigated, and the result was proved. It is,
indeed, a question, and a very serious one,--how far any man is
justified in spending, even on noble purposes, and certainly not in
mere show, largely beyond his income, as Buckingham did; but his
conduct is, at all events, more pardonable than the mere desire to
collect a great fortune, from sources which he seems to have
considered should be expended either in doing honour to his
Sovereign abroad in his embassies--a notion paramount in those days,
though out of date in ours--or by the encouragement of arts and
sciences, and the duties of hospitality at home.

When we recapitulate the errors of this celebrated man--his
omissions, his sins, his want of good faith, his overlooking the
benefits he might have conferred on his country, until it was almost
too late for repentance, his sacrifice of his Sovereign’s best
interests to his own will--we must, at the same time, admit great
extenuation. No mercy was shown to his faults by the historians of
his time, nor of the age succeeding; they wrote under a sense of the
deep injuries from which the Rebellion received its first impulse.
We must not look for fairness in such a ferment. Even after the tomb
had long been closed over his remains, it was scarcely safe,
certainly scarcely prudent, to palliate the faults, or to place the
virtues of Buckingham in a fair light. We have now, however, the
satisfactory assurance that Buckingham was conscious of his faults;
contrite for his misdeeds; and earnest in his resolution to repair
them, had his life been spared.[245]

Footnote 245:

  State Papers, vol. cxiv., No. 17; August 27, 1627. Calendar,
  edited by Mr. Bruce.

Lord Clarendon closes his “Disparity” between the Earl of Essex and
the Duke of Buckingham in these words:--

“He that shall continue this argument further may haply begin his
parallel after their deaths, and not unfitly. He may say that they
were both as mighty in obligations as any subjects; and both their
memories and families as unrecompensed by such as they had raised.
He may tell you of the clients that buried the pictures of the one,
and defaced the arms of the other, lest they might be too long
suspected for their dependants, and find disadvantage by being
honest to their memories. He may tell you of some that drew
strangers to their houses, lest they might find the track of their
own footsteps, that might upbraid them with their former attendance.
He may say that both their memories shall have a reverend fervour
with all posterity, and all nations. He may tell you many more
particulars, which I dare not do.”




                             APPENDIX.

                               APPENDIX.


In the Calendar edited by Mr. Bruce (1859), there are the following
details, amongst other curious particulars, of the state of affairs
after the Duke of Buckingham’s unfortunate expedition to Rhé:--

"Lionel Sharp to Buckingham, reports his sermon preached (at St
Margaret’s, Westminster), in which he had alluded to the censure
thrown upon the Duke for his late failure at Rhé, and had declared
that he who had ventured all that was dearest in the world for a
foreign church, would, if he ‘had as many lives as hairs,’ venture
them all for his own, with other laudatory personal allusions to the
Duke. Is ready to ‘do the rest’ within two days, ‘if he may have the
place in Westminster, or on Sunday next.’"--_Vol. cii., Domestic,
No. 76, April, 1628._

This is a singular letter, not only as showing the alarm which led
the Duke to have recourse to the Elizabeth plan of “tuning the
pulpits,” but also as an instance of the almost impious mixture of
political and worldly affairs with sacred subjects.

                   SECOND ATTEMPT ON LA ROCHELLE.

_Sir Henry Palmer to Secretary Nicholas, from on board the
“Garland,” before La Rochelle, under the Earl of Denbigh_:--"In this
letter Sir Henry states that what was here given out to be feasible
they find directly impossible. On the approach of the English Fleet,
the French retreated under their ordnance. The palisadoes across the
river described. The Council of War determined that they should put
out to sea, and spend their victual abroad. Lord Denbigh cruising
between Ushant and Scilly. The writer between Portsmouth and Cape La
Hogue. No man but looked back upon the poor town but with eyes of
pity, though not able to help them."--_Vol. ciii., No. 50, May 8,
1628._

_Letter from the Earl of Denbigh to the same._--"Men have ever been
the censure of the world who are unsuccessful from public
employments. Misinformation has been the cause of this misfortune.
They found Rochelle so blocked up, that in eight days’ stay they
never heard from them. The palisado is so strengthened with two
floats of ships, both within and without, moored and fastened
together from their ports to half-mast high, that, lying in shoal
water, it is impossible to be forced."--_Vol. ciii., No. 57, dated
May 9, at sea._

Various letters seem to clear Lord Denbigh of cowardice in turning
back. See letters from Rowland Woodward to Francis Windebank. "The
report is, that Lord Denbigh was overruled by Ned Clarke, that would
not hazard the Fleet. The King was never seen to be so much moved,
saying, ‘if the ships had been lost, he had timber enough to build
more.’"--_Vol. civ., No. 47._

In a letter from Sir Henry Hungate to William, Earl of Denbigh, it
is stated, "the King’s pleasure is that not a single man should go
ashore."--_Vol. civ., No. 69._

                   RESPECTING THE “REMONSTRANCE.”

"Message on Wednesday from the King, that he would not yield to any
alteration in his answer, but would close the Session on the 11th
inst. The house proceeded with the Remonstrance, until another
message, which absolutely forbade them to do so. Scene which
ensued:--Most part of the house _fell a-weeping_. Sir Robert Philips
could not speak for weeping. Others blamed those that wept, and said
they had swords to cut the throats of the King’s enemies.

"That afternoon the King and the Lords were in council from two to
eight on the question whether the Parliament should be dissolved.
The negative was resolved on. On the following morning the Speaker
explained away his message, and the house proceeded with the
Remonstrance. The King agreed thereunto, and came that afternoon,
gave the customary royal assent, adding other observations which are
repeated. It is impossible to express with what joy this was heard,
nor what joy it causes in the city, where they are making bonfires
at every door, such as was never seen but upon his Majesty’s return
from Spain."--_Letter from Sir Francis Nethersole to the Queen of
Bohemia, vol. cvi., No. 55, dated June 5. The Strand._

"Sends a copy of the Remonstrance of the Commons. It was presented
to the King on Tuesday last. The Duke was present in the
Banqueting-house at the time, and on his Majesty rising from his
chair, kneeled down, with a purpose, it was conceived, to have
besought his Majesty to say something. But the King, saying only
‘No,’ took him up with his hand, which the Duke kissed, and so his
Majesty retired. This was all that passed at the time, and all that
is like to come of the Remonstrance. His Majesty’s favour to the
Duke is no way diminished, but the ill-will of the people is like to
be much increased."--_The same to the same, vol. cvii., No. 78, June
19. The Strand._

                        DEATH OF BUCKINGHAM.

Some further particulars of this event and its effects are related
in a letter from Sir Francis Nethersole to James Earl of Carlisle.

“The King took the Duke’s death very heavily, keeping his chamber
that day, as is well to be believed. But the base multitude in the
town drink healths to Felton, and these are infinitely more cheerful
than sad faces of better degrees.”

                              FELTON.

_Examination of Richard Harward_:--"George Willoughby taught him to
write. Saw Felton at Willoughby’s within a month; Felton complained
of the Duke as a cause why he lost a captain’s place, and the
obstacle why he could not get his pay, being four score and odd
pounds. Went together to the Windmill, where examinant read the
Remonstrance to him, and Felton took it and carried it away."--_Vol.
cxiv., No. 128._

"Sir Robert Savage committed to the Tower for saying that if Felton
had not killed the Duke he would have done it."--_Vol. cxvi., No.
95, Sept. 10, 1628._

Report by Dr. Brian Duppa of an interview held by himself and others
with John Felton in the Tower. (Dr. Duppa was afterwards tutor to
Charles II.):--

"On stating to him that though he had no mercy on the Duke, the King
had so much compassion on his soul as to give directions to send
divines to draw him to a feeling of the horror of his sin, he fell
on his knees with humble acknowledgment of so great grace to him.
Throughout he confessed his offence to be a fearful and crying sin;
attributed it, “upon his soul, to nothing but the Remonstrance.”
Being asked whether some dangerous propositions, found in his
handwriting, had not stimulated him, he denied, saying they were
gathered long ago out a book called the “Soldier’s Epistles.” He
denied that any creature knew of his resolution but himself, and
requested that he might do some public penance before his death, in
sackcloth, with ashes on his head, and ropes about his neck."--_Vol.
cxvi., No. 101, Sept. 2, 1628._

Felton, it appears, had two letters found in his bag, perhaps
duplicates. The knife was sewed into his dress. It appears that
Felton was, at one time, puffed up by the popular applause. The
state of rabid enmity to the Duke existing in the country, was
exhibited in inhuman verses on his death, such as these:--

    “Make haste, I pray thee; launch out your ships with speed;
    Our noble Duke had never greater need
    Of sudden succour, and these vessels must
    Be his main help, for there’s his only trust.”

Satire upon the Duke, beginning--

        “And art thou dead, who whilom thought’st thy state
        To be exempted from the power of Fate?
        Thou that but yesterday, illustrious, bright,
        And like the sun, did’st with thy pregnant light
        Illuminate other orbs?”

One of the poems of the day excited more than ordinary attention. It
was addressed by the writer to “his confined friend, Mr. John
Felton!” Suspicion fell on Ben Jonson; and even in the house of his
friend, Sir Robert Cotton, the belief that he had written the poem
found credence. Jonson was then paralytic, and his mind may have
been somewhat embittered, perhaps enfeebled, but he was guiltless of
this act of ingratitude to his deceased patron, and to his living
sovereign, King Charles. His examination upon this charge is, as Mr.
Bruce remarks in his preface, p. 8, ix., a new incident in Jonson’s
life. The original examination before the Attorney-General is to be
found in the Calendar before referred to, vol. cxix., No. 33. See
Preface by Mr. Bruce, p. 9.

"The examination of Benjamin Jonson, of Westminster, gentleman,
taken this 26th day of October, 1628, by me, Sir Robert Heath, his
Majesty’s Attorney-General:--

"The said examinant being asked whether he had ever seen
certain verses beginning thus--‘Enjoy thy bondage,‘ and ending
thus--‘England’s ransom here doth lie,’ and entitled thus--‘To
his confined friend,’ &c., and the papers of these verses
being showed unto him, he answereth that he hath seen the like
verses to these. And being asked where he saw them, he saith,
at Sir Robert Cotton’s house, as he often doth, the papers of
these verses lying there upon the table after dinner. This
examinant was asked concerning these verses as if himself had
been the author thereof; thereupon this examinant read them,
and condemned them, and with deep protestations affirmed that
they were not made by him, nor did he know who made them, or
had ever seen or heard them before. And the like protestations
he now maketh upon his Christianity and hope of salvation. He
saith he took no copy of them, nor ever had copy of them. He
saith he hath heard of them since, but ever with detestation.
He being further asked whether he doth know who made or hath
heard who made them, he answereth he doth not know, but he
hath heard by common fame that one Mr. Townley should make
them, but he confesseth truly that he cannot name any one
singular person who hath reported it. Being asked of what
quality that Mr. Townley is, he saith his name is Zouch
Townley; he is a scholar, and a divine by profession, and a
preacher, but where he liveth or abideth he knoweth not, but
he is a student of Christ Church in Oxford.

“Being further asked whether he gave a dagger to the said Mr.
Townley, and upon what occasion, and when, he answereth, that on a
Sunday after this examinant had heard the said Mr. Townley preach at
St. Margaret’s Church in Westminster, Mr. Townley, taking a liking
to a dagger with a white haft which this examinant ordinarily wore
at his girdle, and was given to this examinant, this examinant gave
it to him two nights after, being invited by Mr. Townley to supper,
but without any circumstance and without any relation to those or
any other verses; for this examinant is well assured this was so
done before he saw those verses, or had heard of them; and this
examinant doth not remember that since he hath seen Mr. Townley.

                                                       ”BEN JONSON."

Zouch Townley, to whom the verses were ascribed, was one of the
Townleys of Cheshire. He escaped a prosecution, with which he was
threatened in the Star-chamber, by taking refuge at the Hague. He
was evidently on terms of intimacy with Jonson, to whom he addressed
commendatory verses, beginning--

                                          “Ben,
            The world is much in debt, and though it may
            Some petty reckonings to small poets pay,
            Pardon if at thy glorious sum they stick,
            Being too large for their arithmetic.”

It is agreeable to find that Ben Jonson stands wholly acquitted of
the charge of being the writer of the offensive and discreditable
verses in question.

                               ----------

The following letter from Edmund Windham to Dr. Plot, author of the
history of Staffordshire, relative to the ghost story related by
Clarendon, is taken from the “Biographia Britannica”:--

"SIR--According to your desire and my promise, I have written downe
what I remember (divers things being slipt out of my memory) of the
relation made me by Mr. Nicholas Towse, concerning the apparition
which visited him about 1627.

"I and my wife, upon occasion being in London, lay at my brother’s,
Pym’s, house, without Bishopsgate, which was next house unto Mr.
Nicholas Towse’s, who was his kinsman and familiar acquaintance--in
consideration of whose society and friendship he took a house in
that place; the said Towse being a very fine musician and very good
company--for aught I ever saw or heard, a virtuous, religious, and
well-disposed gentleman. About that time, the said Mr Towse told me
that, one night being in bed and perfectly waking, and a candle
burning by him (as he usually had), there came into his chamber, and
stood by his bed-side, an old gentleman, in such a habit as was in
use in Queen Elizabeth’s time; at whose first appearance Mr. Towse
was very much troubled; but after a little while, recollecting
himself, he demanded of him in the name of God, _What he
was?--whether he were a man?_ And the Apparition replied, _Noe_.
Then he asked him _if he were a devil_? And the Apparition answered,
_Noe_. Then said Mr. Towse, _In the name of God, what art thou
then_? And, as I remember, Mr. Towse told me that the Apparition
answered him that _he was the ghost of Sir George Villiers, father
to the then Duke of Buckingham, whom he might very well remember,
since he went to schole at such a place in Leicestershire_--naming
the place, which I have forgotten. And Mr. Towse told me that the
Apparition had perfectly the resemblance of the said Sir George
Villiers in all respects, and in the same habit that he had often
seen him wear in his lifetime. The said Apparition also told him
that he could not but remember the much kindness that he, the said
Sir George Villiers, had expressed to him whilst he was a scholar in
Leicestershire, as aforesaid; and that, out of that consideration,
he believed that he loved him, and that therefore he made choice of
him, the said Mr. Towse, to deliver a message to his son, the Duke
of Buckingham, thereby to prevent such mischief as would otherwise
befall the said Duke, whereby he would be inevitably ruined. And
then, as I remember Mr. Towse told me, that the Apparition
instructed him what message he should deliver to the Duke; unto
which Mr. Towse replied that he should be very unwilling to go to
the Duke of Bucks upon such an errand, whereby he should gaine
nothing but reproach and contempt, and be esteemed a madman, and
therefore desired to be excused from the employment. But the
Apparition prest him with much earnestness to undertake it, telling
him that the circumstances and secret discoveries (which he should
be able to make to the Duke of such passages in the course of his
life which were known to none but himselfe) would make it appeare
that his message was not the fancy of a distempered braine, but a
reality. And so the Apparition tooke his leave of him for that
night, telling him that he would give him leave to consider until
the next night, and then he would come to receive his answer,
whether he would undertake his message to the Duke of Buckingham or
noe. Mr. Towse passed the next day with much trouble and perplexity,
debateing and reasoning with himselfe whether he should deliver this
message to the Duke of Buckingham or not; but in the conclusion he
resolved to doe it. And the next night, when the Apparition came, he
gave his answer accordingly, and then received full instructions.

"After which Mr. Towse went and found out Sir Thomas Bludder and Sir
Ralph Freeman, by whom he was brought to the Duke of Buckingham, and
had several private and long audiences of him. I myselfe, by the
favour of a friend, was once admitted to see him in private
conference with the Duke, where (although I heard not their
discourse) I observed much earnestness in their actions and
gestures. After which conference Mr. Towse told me that the Duke
would not follow the advice that was given him, which was (as I
remember) that he intimated the casting off and rejection of some
men who had great interest in him--and, as I take it, he named
Bishop Laud; and that he, the Duke, was to do some popular acts in
the ensueing parliament, of which the Duke would have had Mr. Towse
to have been a Burgess, but he refused it, alledging that, unless
the Duke had followed his directions, he must doe him hurt if he
were of the parliament. Mr. Towse also then told me that the Duke
confessed that he had told him those things that no creature knew
but himselfe, and that none but God or the Divell could reveale to
him. The Duke offered Mr. Towse to have the King knighte him, and to
have given him preferment (as he told me), but that he refused it,
saying that, unless he would follow his advice, he should receive
nothing from him. Mr. Towse, when he made this relation, told me the
Duke would inevitably be destroyed before such a time (which he then
named), and accordingly the Duke’s death happened before that time.
He likewise told me that he had written downe all the discourses he
had had with the Apparition; and that _at last his comeing to him
was so familiar, that he was as little troubled with it as if it had
been a friend or acquaintance that had come to visit him_. Mr. Towse
told me further, that the Archbishop (then Bishop of London) Dr.
Laud, should, by his counsels, be the author of a very great trouble
to the kingdome, by which it should be reduced to that extremity of
disorder and confusion that it should seem to be past all hope of
recovery without a miracle; but yet, when all people were in
despaire of happy days againe, the kingdome should suddenly be
reduced and resettled again in a most happy condition.

"At this time my father Pym was in trouble, and committed to the
Gatehouse by the Lords of the Councill, about a quarrel between him
and the Lord Pawlett, upon which one night I sayd unto my cousin
Towse, by way of jest, _I pray you ask your Apparition what shall
become of my father Pym’s business_?--which he promised to doe; and
the next day told me that my father Pym’s enemies were ashamed of
their malicious prosecution, and that he would be at liberty within
a weeke, or some few days, which happened accordingly.

"Mr. Towse’s wife (since his death) told me that her husband and
she, living in Windsor Castle, where he had an office, that summer
the Duke of Buckingham was killed, told her the very day that the
Duke was set upon by the mutinous mariners in Portsmouth, saying the
... would be his death, which accordingly fell out--and that at the
very instant the Duke was killed (as upon strict enquiry they found
afterwards) Mr. Towse, sitting amongst some company, suddenly
started up and said, _The Duke of Buckingham is slain_. Mr. Towse
lived not long after; which is as much as I can remember of this
Apparition, which, according to your desire, is written by,

                                             “Sir, yours, &c.,
                                                    “EDMUND WINDHAM.

“Boulogne, Aug. 5, 1652.”

                               ----------

The following letter has been adduced as a proof that Villiers owed
his favour with Charles to an incident in the Monarch’s early
life--his sole dereliction from propriety, as it is said.
Buckingham, it is said, was Charles’s confidant, and mediator
between him and King James:--

"Steenie, I have nothing now to wryte to you, but to give you
thankes bothe for the good counsell ye gave me, and for the event of
it. The King gave mee a good sharpe potion, but you took away the
working of it by the well-relished comfites ye sent after. I have
met with the partie that must not be named, once alreddie, and the
cullor of wryting this letter shall make mee meete with her on
Saturday, although it is written the day being Thursday. So assuring
you that this business goes safelie on, I rest

                               “Your constant loving friend,
                                                     “CHARLES."[246]

“I hope ye will not shew the King this letter, but put it in the
safe custodie of Mister Vulcan.”

Footnote 246:

  “Historia et vitae et regni Ricardi II.,” p. 104, by Mr. T.
  Hearne, who tells us the letter is said to have once belonged to
  Archbishop Sancroft, and observes it is the only intrigue he had
  ever heard this Prince was concerned in.

                              THE END.


        R. BORN, PRINTER, GLOUCESTER STREET, REGENT’S PARK.




------------------------------------------------------------------------

                         Transcriber’s Note

There are several anomolies in the footnoting. Footnotes were
numbered from 1 to 99, and then the sequence was repeated, starting
with ‘1’. There are also a number notes which are denoted only with
a traditional asterisk, etc. There is no apparent reason for the
dual system. There is one instance, on p. 130, where a numbered
footnote (138) is to be found referenced in a note (137) indicated
with an asterisk. For this text, all footnotes have been
re-sequenced numerically across the whole volume, to assure
uniqueness.

At the bottom of p. 25, the letter opening ‘MY DERE LORD’ is
prefixed by an apparent footnote anchor, for which there is no
matching note. This has been deemed a stray printer’s mark and
removed.

On p. 284, the paragraph ending ‘bonds with another man.’ was
printed with, in the original, a footnote anchor ‘1’, but there is
no matching footnote. The ‘1’ anchor is repeated on the following
page, with the expected note. The anomolous anchor has been removed.

Given the frequent quotations, it was inevitable that opening and
closing quotation marks would sometimes be lost or misplaced. A
sampling of these problematic passages reveals that the author has a
tendency to paraphrase and otherwise misquote. They are placed here
where the context or voice makes their position obvious, or where an
inspection of the original sources was possible and allowed for the
proper placement.

 29.18      to himself and all good men.[”]            Added.

 29.20      [“]Sir George Goring, writing              Removed.

 32.2       than with his victuals.[”]                 Added.

 45.5       which were by the Duke so freely           Added.
            forgiven,[”]

 59.2       [“]and then, when should they be paid?”    Added.

 60.17      were now content to forget him.[’]”        Added.

 80.13      on any minister of start[.]                Added.

 87.15      says Lord Clarend[e/o]n                    Replaced.

 87.18      for the pardon of his errors;[”]           Added.

 87.21      even Lord Clarend[e/o]n  observes          Replaced.

 92.13      apparently cau[ /s]eless melancholy        Restored.

 114.2      looking down into y[^e] hall               Added.

 118.25     his end was upon Satterdau morning[.]      Added.

 217.15     in which Shak[s/e]speare had a share       Replaced.

 238.8      “authorizing Thomas Gyles,[”]              Added.

 240.22     to have first drank of it herself[.]       Added.

 244.215.1  Jo[u/n]son,” p. 59.                        Replaced.

 259.20     sent [to ]request a transcript             Restored.

 326.21     Letter from Sir Francis Netherso[t/l]e     Replaced.