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CELEBRATED FRIENDSHIPS

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CELEBRATED HRIENDSHIPS

MES. THOMSON

AUTHOB OP MEiTOIES OF THE DUCHESS OF MAELBOEOUGH "
'life OF GEOEGE TILLIEES, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM" BTC. ETC.

IN T-WO VOLUMES
VOL. L

LONDON: JAMES HOGG AND SONS
MDCCCLXI

[The Uight of Translatiojl is reserved]

PREFACE.

The plan usually adopted in writing biographies has,
in this "work, been materially altered. Particular
aspects of character have been presented only; poli
tical events merely glanced at ; literary productions
mentioned, solely -when closely connected "with domes
tic life ; for the history of " Celebrated Friendships "
assumes no extended range, and pretends to comprise
httle more than the details of private affairs, and the
analyses of the inmost feelings. Unshaclded, therefore,
by the necessity of narrating the graver events of our
human condition, the -writer of this book has been
enabled to d"well minutely on the incidents "which are
generally considered to be beneath the " dignity of
history." The scope of such a plan presents many
advantages. It enables an author to place two charac
ters in such a position as to sho"w the influence of the
one on the other. It deals -with those small facts of
¦which life is made up. Those "who think that lives of
eminent persons should be -written "with the precision of
a biographical dictionary, "will find the portraitures here
A 4

VI . PREFACE.
given defective ; those ¦who like to look into the inner
life of men, -will have curiosity to a certain extent
gratified. But vrhilst the scope of this "work may be limited,
infinite care has been taken to render it accurate, and
to perfect the outlines of every-day life 'which it con
tains, by all possible materials. In describing those
characters belonging especially to the history of our
country, one deviation has been made from the main
design of the book : since their lives were public,
recourse to public sources alone could be available.
To the life of the Earl of Surrey, for instance, some
few but important details are added from letters lately
discovered m the Eecords in the Eolls. In one of these
we find that Henry VIII., thirsting for Surrey's blood,
absolutely corrected with his own hmid the interro
gations which formed the basis of Surrey's attainder.
There are, in this work, first printed some fragments of
Surrey's appeal to the Privy Council : and, broken as
they are by erasures, enough is left to give us some
notion of the fruitless efforts which he made in his
prison. Hitherto all has been utter darkness between
his last incarceration and his doom. A few curious
letters of Sir Philip Sidney's, and one from his father
Sir Henry, have been also obtained from the same un
explored source. Those introduced into the life of Sir
Kenelm Digby are less interesting, but serve to connect
the different periods of his Hfe. With regard to the
more modern characters introduced into this work the

PREFACE. Yll
facihties for collecting materials have been of late
much increased by the practice of pubhshing diaries
and correspondence under the auspices of sagacious
editors. Private channels are, therefore, in respect to
personages of more recent date, of less importance
than they were even fifty years ago.
We fear the time is past for tliat close and careful
correspondence which is of such inestimable value to
a biographer ; letters worth receiving (as descriptions
or narratives) went out of date when franks were
aboHshed, and Queen's heads introduced ; diaries
are gone by since railroads were brought into opera
tion ; we must, therefore, honour, as the last of their
race, the shades of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,
Mrs. Piozzi, and of Mrs. Delany, for we shall see the
like no more.
In offering this work to the pubhc, the writer feels
it incumbent on her to own that any merit it may be
allowed to have is not wholly hers. For the execu
tion, whether good or bad, she, and she alone, is
responsible ; the idea of the work was, however, sug
gested by a hterary friend.

CONTENTS

THE FIEST VOLUME.

JOHN EVELYN and EGBERT BOYLE.
Evelyn's Baptism and Education. — His Description of Wotton. — Evelyn's
Father. — A fine old English Gentleman. — Eventful Times. — Evelyn's
Sister dies. — His Mother. — Evelyn at Oxford. — Eobert Boyle. — His
Lineage. — His Father's second Marriage. — Life of Kichard, the great Earl
of Cork. — Early Nurture and Education of Eohert Boyle. — His " Seraphic
Love." — Friendship -with Evelyn. — Evelyn advocates Marriage. — Eohert
Boyle's supposed Preference. — Evelyn's Appeal. — Boyle's Appearance and
Habits. —Evelyn entered in the Middle Temple. —Bad Times  Death of
Evelyn's Father. ¦ — Strange Meteoric Appearances. — Evelyn's Taste for
Gardening — He becomes a good Linguist. — Is attacked by SmaU-pox. — His
domestic Life at Sayes Court. — The Plague at Deptford. — Sayes Court, -with
Pepys there. — Boyle's Aspirations. — His Peculiarities. — His IU-health.
— Evelyn's strong Constitution. — Boyle's Reverence for sacred Things. —
Scene at Sir Harry Vane's. — Boyle's Speech. — Sir Harry's Eeply. — Dreary
State of public Affairs. — Jeremy Taylor. — His Character. — Death of
Michael Evelyn. — The Invisible CoUege. — Boyle invents the Air-pump. —
Scene on the Pavement of Pall MaU. — Evelyn's Life and Pursuits. — Gaming
at Whitehall. — Evelyn appointed a public Inspector. — His daughter Mary.
— She dies of the SmaU-pox. — Death of Lady Eanelagh. — Death of Eobert
Boyle. — Boylean Lecture founded. — Evelyn, iu old Age, at Wotton. — Ho-w
the Czar comforts himself at Sayes Court. — Evelyn dies. — Jeremy Taylor's
Opinion of his Essay on Friendship .... Page 1

CONTENTS OF

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY,
AND
SIR THOMAS 'WYATT.
"he Christmas of 1595. — Feat of Arms. — The Challengers, and their
Names. — Wyatt's personal Beauty. — Old Customs: Placentia. — Wyatt's
Lineage. — Born at AUington. — The old Mote-house. — Sir Henry Wyatt :
his Portrait. — Lines on AUington. — Wyatt at St. Jolm's CoUege. —
Ho-w Marriages -were arranged in those Days. — Apology for Wyatt. —
Wyatt and Anne Boleyn. — He is enraptured even -with her Defects. —
His Paraphrase of the Thirty-third Psalm. — Surrey and his Friends.
— He is married to Lady Frances Vere. — Wyatt offends the King. —
Surrey an Astrologer. — Wyatt's Opinion of Anne Boleyn. — His Lines
in Prison. — Wyatt in a -wretched Prison. — Defends himself and is set free.
— His Verses on a Court. — His Difficulties. — His Letters to Secretary
Cromwell. — Wyatt's Sayings. — Wyatt in advanced Life. — His Friendship
with Surrey. — Geraldine and her Kindred. — Her extreme Youth when
she first knows Surrey. — Surrey's Lines on his Lady Love. — Notions of
the Day universal. — Surrey flies the Peril — Geraldine's Marriage. — She
attends the Coronation of Queen Mary. — Surrey becomes Ambitious. —
Wyatt dies of Fever. — Wyatt's Letter to his Son. — Eecommends the Fear
of God to him. — His own Consciousness of Error and Sin. — Ad-vises him
to agree with his Wife. — Surrey's Epitaph on Wyatt. — Leland: the Old
Mortality of the 16th Century. — Fate of Leland : his Epitaph on Wyatt. —
Injustice done to Wyatt's Memory. — Surrey's Kindness to Wyatt's Son. —
Poem to Clere : Anecdote of Clere. — Ceremony of cutting off the right
Hand. — Surrey in the Fleet. — Letter to the Pri-vy CouncU.  Surrey goes
to Boulogne. — Is Governor there. — The Clock of Christchurch, Nor-wieh. 
Unworthy Conduct of the English Government. — Victim of a Cabal. 
Surrey's touching Lines on Windsor. — Causes of Surrey's Euin  Letter
from Garter King-at-Arms. — Draft altered iu Henry's Hand-writing. 
Interrogations put to Surrey. — Surrey is summoned before the Privy Council.
— Letter to the Council of State. — Testimony of the Duchess of Richmond.
— He is indicted and condemned for Treason. — Anecdote of Surrey  He
is beheaded .... Page 63

THE FIEST VOLUME. XI

WH^LIAM COWPER and MARY UNWIN.
Co-wper's Family honourable. — His Mother. — Her Death. — Cowper's pecu
liar Temperament. — His School Days. — A startUng Incident affects him.
— Looks back to Westminster -with Pleasure. — Falls in Love. — Gratitude
for his Preservation. — Lady Hesketh. — The " Nonsense Club." — Colman
and Thornton his Friends. — Country Cousins. — He writes in the "Con
noisseur." — A Place in View. — Sad Effects of the Expectation. — Insanity.
— Its Consequences. — His o-wn Narrative. — His Eemorse. — Placed -with
Dr. Cotton. — Opens a Bible. — His Eecovery. — His Lines caUed "The
Happy Change." — Mary TJnwin. ¦ — Her Exterior and Deportment. — Hun
tingdon and its Castle HiU. — Cowper's Embarrassments. — His daily Pur
suits. — His Life too Ascetic. — Mr. Un-win's Death produces a Difficulty. —
Death of his Brother. — Cowper's Melancholy. — His Leverets. — Wishes to
leave Olney. — Simple Pleasures. — Subjects for Poems. — Appearance of
Lady Austen at Olney. — She settles there. — The Jealousy of Mrs. Un-win.
— A Quarrel. — Lady Austen disapproved of. — She teUs him the Story of
John Gilpin. — Lady Austen's Opinion of Mrs. Un-win. — Introduction to
Weston. — John GUpin recited by Henderson. — Letter from Lady Hesketh.
— Picture of himself. — Mr. Newton's Warning. — Worldly Contamination.
— Theodora's Devotion to Cowper. — Mrs. Un-win's unsel^sh Friendship. —
The Clerk of AU Saints, Northampton. — Co-wper's good Nature. — His
Mother's Picture. — Hayley. — The Muse of Seventy. — Verses to " Mary."
— Co-wper's struggles against Insanity. — Lady Hesketh's Kindness. —
Hannah, the Maid. — Mrs. Un-win's Death. — Death of Co-wper> — Visit of
Sir James Mackintosh and BasU Montagu . . . Page 119

MARIE ANTOLN[ETTE and the PRINCESSE DE LAMBALLE.
Marie Antoinette's Arrival at KehL — Her Eeception. — Her Lineage. —
Court of Vienna. — Description of the young Queen. — Description of
Madame de NoaiUes. — Her Situation at the French Court. — Anecdote
of Madame du Barri. — Enemies of Marie Antoinette. — Madame de
GenKs. — Her Attempts at an Introduction to the Queen. — Egalit(5, Duke
"of Orleans. — His Character and personal Appearance. — His Audacity. —

Xn CONTENTS OF
His Calumnies. — The Princesse de LambaUe. — Jean Jacques Bousseau.—
His meeting the Queen at the Trianon. —Their Conversation. —The Count
St Germain. — His Origin doubtful. — Doubts about his Age. —His Ser
vant, Eoger. — Death of Louis XV. — Marie Antoinette becomes Popular.—
Her Visits to the Little Trianon.— Simplicity of the Queen's Habits.— Birth
of Louis her eldest Son. — Eeflections by Madame Campan. — Friendship
between the Queen and Princesse LambaUe. — It becomes the Fashion to
have a Friend. — Louis XVI. at the TuUeries. — The Night before the
famous Tenth of August. — A last Effort to save the Royal Family. — The
Eoyal FamUy leave the Tuileries. — The Knights of the Poignard. — Before
the Assembly. — The Convent des FeuUlants. — They go to the Temple. —
History of the Temple. — Miserable Eooms. — Hardships. — Princesse de
LambaUe taken from the Temple. — The Employments of the royal Prisoners.
— The Fate of Madame de LambaUe. — Her Head paraded through Paris. —
Dreadful Scene before the Temple. — The Queen faints. — Her Son is sepa
rated from her. — Marie Antoinette parts from her ChUd. — Her Trial and
Condemnation. — Her last Letter. — Injunctions to her Son. — She is taken
to the Place of Execution. — Passes St. Eoch. — The Insults heaped on her.
— Louis XVII. — His Death and Burial. — Fate of the Temple . Page 177

JOSEPH ADDISON and RICHARD STEELE.
Account of Addison's Famfly. — His Father, Lancelot Addison, leaves
Oxford in Disgust. — Made Dean of Lichfleld. — Addison bom. — Gets
a Demy-ship at Magdalen CoUege. —His Friendship with Steele.—
Friendship between the Families. — The different Characters of Steele
and Addison.— Both at Oxford. — Addison dedicates a Poem to Dryden.
— Steele's "Christian Hero." — Writes a Play. — Sacheverel the early
Friend of Addison. — Steele's love suit to Mistress Scurlock.— His Letters.
— LUve those of Sir Charles Grandison. — Beautiful Letter to Mary
Scurlock. -Mrs. Scurlock's Letter to her Mother. -Steele's Circumstances.
— Letter to Mrs. Steele. — Her Verses. — Curious Life led by the Pair. -
Steele's Affairs. — Furnishes a House. — Borrows Money on it. — Squabbles
between Steele and Swift. — Steele resigns one of his Appointments.— Steele
attacked in the House of Commons.— A Vote against him.— He is'expeUed
the House. — Occupies himself in Authorship. — Speech of Lord Finch —
Steele's Difficulties, and Repentance. — Addison's Career is fortunate —

THE FIRST VOLUME. Xlll
Addison's Reserve. — Goes to Blois. — His Letter to Congreve. — Liveliness
of the French. — Forms Acquaintance of Edward Wortley Montagu. — Pro
ceeds on Journey -with Edward Wortley Montagu. — Godolphin Wishes
Addison to -write on the War. — Addison receives Henry Boyle in his Garret.
— Addison's Conversation. — He rose to Fame through the Pen. — Lends
Steele Money. — Excuse in getting it back again. — The Society seen and
described by Steele. — Superiority of the " Spectator." — Propriety of Queen
Anne. — The "Spectator." — A Picture of domestic Manners. — Charac
teristics of the Day. — Addison purified Literature. — Steele's Notion of
Love and Marriage. — Production of the Play of " Cato." — Steele packs an
Audience. — He is knighted. — Makes a great Display on the King's Birth
day. — Steele's Mode of getting Money. — Debt pursues him. — His Letters
to " Prue." — Anecdote of Steele. — Steele's Letters. — How preserved. —
Steele poor and unlucky. — His Sister. — Steele's natural Daughter. — Ad
dison's Troubles. — His Letter to Lord Halifax. — Purchases a House at
Bilston. — Addison attempts to improve young Lord War-wick. — He is
married to Lady Warwick. — HoUand House. — Quarrel -with Steele. — The
Friends part for ever. — Addison's Death-bed. — Steele's ChUdren. — Their
Fate .... Page 227

MAGDALEN HERBERT and De. DONNE.
Quotation from Lord Herbert of Cherbury. — The Newports and Herberts. —
Magdalen Herbert's Husband. — Montgomeryshire a flne School for a Swords
man. — Description of Lord Herbert of Cherbury. — Anecdote of him. —
His Character. — Sources of Pride to Magdalen Herbert in her Sons. —
George Herbert. — Magdalen, " The Autumnal Beauty." — Dr. Donne's
History. — Izaak Walton and Fly-fishing. — "What we owe to Walton. —
Bishop Andrews. — His personal Character. — Lines by George Herbert. —
Magdalen's second Marriage. — Donne caUed the "Pseudo-Martyr." — Made
Dean of St. Paul's. — Donne's Letter to Magdalen Herbert. — George Her
bert as a parish Priest. — Consoles his Mother. — Magdalen Herbert's Death.
— Dr. Donne's Monument . ... 295

XIV CONTENTS OF THE FIEST VOLUME.

SIR KENELM DIGBY and SIR ANTHONY VAN DYCK.
Digby brought up as a Protestant. — Description of Sir Kenelm. — Sir Ke-
nelm's Letter to James I. — He is knighted. — Venetia Stanley. — Her
Connections. — The early Passages of their Lives. — Sir Everard's Fate
described. — Lady Digby receives her Son home. — The course of true Love
not smooth. — Venetia Bridesmaid to Elizabeth of Bohemia. — Dancing in
Elizabeth's Time. — Venetia dancing. — Faustina's Intrigues. — Strange
Story of Abduction. — Venetia escapes. — Artesia's Plans. — Venetia has a
Rival. — Sir Kenelm goes to Italy. — Anthony Vandyck. — His Birth. —
Anecdote of Eiibens. — Van Dyck' s Receptions. — Venetia supposed to be
faithless. — Sir Kenelm in-vited to Spain. — His o-svn NaiTative of his Life.
— Sees Venetia in a Vision. — His Mind obscured by Superstition. — Digby
proceeds to Madrid. — Letter of Sir Kenelm Digby. — Sees Venetia iu
London. — Digby fights Mardontius. — Venetia's public Reputation. — The
Sympathetic Powder. — Its Effect in heaUng Wounds. — Cures effected by
SjTnpathy. — Sir Kenelm on Love. — Part taken by Su- Kenelm in PoUtics.
— Digby's Letter to the Earl of Bristol. — Charles's Favour to the Earl. —
Nicholas's Objections. — Sir Kenelm perseveres and succeeds. — Sir Kenelm
at the Court of Charles I. — Henrietta Maria. — Van Dyck at Blaclrfriars. —
Van Dyck's Receptions. — Van Dyck at Eltham. — A Letter of Van Dyck's.
— Sir Kenelm changes his Faith. — Sir Kenelm converted to Romanism. —
Charles interferes -with the University. — Ben Jonson's "Eupheme."  Ve
netia's Death. — Digby's Grief. — Ben Jonson's Grief for Venetia. — His
Verses. — Her Character beautifuUy dra-wn by him. — The Banqueting-
house at 'WhitehaU. — Death of Anthony Van Dyck. — His Tomb iu Old
St. Paul's. — Amount of Work done by him. — In what he exceUed.  His
" Throne " at Wilton. — Sir Kenelm imprisoned. — How he was released. 
How to lengthen One's Days. — Writes to Sir Henry Benet. — Literary
Society at his House. — His Death. — Digby's personal Demeanour.  His
Descendants, and his Memoirs . . _ Pa^e 319

JOHN EVELYN and ROBERT BOYLE.

JOHN E-VELTN S CHRISTENING. — HIS SPONSORS AJTD THEIR PRESENTS.
— HIS EARLY EDUCATION. — DESCRIPTION OF -WOTTON. — HE IS AFRAID
OF THE DISCIPLDra; OF ETON.  ROBERT BO-TLE.  HIS BIETH AND
LINEAGE.  ANECDOTE OF HIS FATHER'S SECOND MARRIAGE.  LIFE
OP RICHARD, GREAT EARL OF CORK ; AT FIRST A SCHOOLMASTER AT
MAIDSTONE.  IRELAND THE AUSTRALIA OF THOSE DATS.  EOBERT
BO-VLE's "SERAPHIC LO-VE."  E-VEL-Jn's AD-VICE TO HIM.  THEIR
FRIENDSHIP.  HENRT CARY, EAEL OF MONMOUTH.  HIS CHARACTER.
 BO-ILe's SUPPOSED ATTACHMENT TO HIS DAUGHTER. — EVELTn's
EENE-WED AD-VICE ; ALL IN TAIN.  BQ-YLE REMAINS A BACHELOE.
- — BQ-XLE's APPEAEANCE and habits.  BAD TIMES. — EVEL-Yn's
FATHER DIES.  E-VEL-TN TEAVELS ABROAD. — METEORIC APPEARANCE
IN THE SKY.  E-VEL-YN NO HERO.  DEVOTED TO GARDENING. 
HIS DOMESTIC LIFE.  SA-JES COURT.  THE CZAR PETER THERE. 
pepys' VISITS.  BO-JLe's PECULIAEITIES. — HIS EEVEEENCE FOR THE
NAME OF GOD. — SCENE AT SIR HARRY VANe's.  HIS SPEECH.
 JEREMY TA-TLOR.  SORRO-W VISITS SAYES COUET.  FOUNDATION
OP THE "INVISIBLE,'' OR PHILOSOPHIC COLLEGE.  AIR-PUMP Itf-
¦VENTED. — BOYLe's DEATH.  E-VEL-TN's OLD AGE AT WOTTON. 
HIS VAEIOUS BEEEA-VEMENTS. — HIS DEATH AND THAT OF HIS WIFE.

JOHN EVELYN and EOBERT BOYLE.

It -was in the year 1620, at that critical time when the
Spanish alliance, as it -was called, -was first talked of, that a
group of serious personages stood in the great dining-room
of Wotton, in Surrey. It is a christening. Parson Higham,
the incumbent of the parish, officiates. Eiehard Evelyn, the
father of the babe whose life of eighty-six years was afterwards,
to borrow the words of a modern author, " a course of in
quiry, study, curiosity, instruction, and benevolence," stands
by : he is a man of thirty ; his hair, though light, is already
tinged with grey, even at that age ; his complexion is san
guine and (his son said) "inclined to choler ; " his beard is
brown, a little miagled with grey about his cheeks, and
peaked below the chin ; his face is clear and fresh-coloured,
his eyes wondrously luminous and piercing : his ample fore
head completes what his famous son called "a very well
composed visage and manly aspect ; " he is, nevertheless, low
of stature, though strong.
Beside him appears, as we may conclude, Eleanor, his wife ;
" a proper personage," saith Sylva Evelyn ; bro-wn in com
plexion, with eyes and hair of a lovely black. Her face
wears an expression of deep reverence, not unmixed with
dejection and care; for she was, says her son, "inclined to
religious melancholy, or pious sadness," and doubtless that
disposition, contrastiag strongly with the sanguine tempera
ment of her husband, was betrayed, especially at that
moment, by her countenance. B 2

4 Evelyn's baptism and education.
Near the font stands a neighbour's -wife, "with the infant
who is about to be baptized in her arms. It was, even until
the middle of the last century, the custom for persons of condi
tion to put out their infants to nurse. Of a " good comely
brown complexion," the foster-mother smilingly holds in her
fat arms the future annalist of his times. The " susceptors,"
as they were styled, or sponsors, declare that to this babe the
homely name of John, from his maternal grandfather, is
assigned. A sister of Sir Thomas Evelyn, a branch of the
family living at Long Ditton, is one of the lady sponsors, and
a kinsman named Combe the other godfather.
Two very handsome pieces of curiously -wi'ought and gilt
plate are displayed, sponsorial gifts to the little scion of
the Evelyns ; and having been duly admired or duly pitied,
for it seems probable that he was a sickly infant, from
his baptism being in the house and not in the church,
forth-with he is conveyed to the home of his foster-
mother. It was in a retreat near the Surrey Hills, and flanked with
wood, and refreshed by delicious streams, that the infant, after
wards so distinguished, drew his first impressions of material
objects ; he ascribed to those around him then his love of soli
tude, and of nature, in after life. At four years of age we find
John Evelyn learning to read in the church porch of Wotton,
from a man named Frien. Promptly as his parents had parted
from him after his birth, they kept him near them for some years
after his return home. Meantime how delicious must have
been his infancy in that exquisite region of wood, hill, dale,
streamlet, meadow, flower garden, and park, which compose
the almost unchanged domains of Wotton. Situated twenty-
six miles only from London, yet as secluded as if it were
three hundred; three miles from Dorking, sis from Guild
ford, twelve from Kingston-on-Thames, Wotton is one of
the favoured spots in the south of England. Within the last
thirty years the deep seclusion of which its gifted owner

HIS desceiption of wotton. 5
speaks, lasted still. No sounds but such as the gentle
Cowper would have rejoiced to hear, broke on the loiterer's
day-dreams : " Not rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
DeUght mine ear."
The cooing of the ringdove, the first notes of the nightingale,
the strange voice of the corn-crake, mingled with the sough
or sighing of the winds in those dark woods, were all that
could disturb reflection at Wotton.
" StUlness, accompanied -with sounds so soft,
Charm more than sUence."
Then, as the rambler emerged from the delicious shade into
that kind of glen, intersected by a stream, which, behind the
mansion of Wotton, presents a scene such as Ariosto pic-
tuxes ; the soft hum of the roving bee, or the current of
the stream, or the occasional disturbance of the waters by
the sportive fishes, were long all that could recall, to those
who luxuriated in that spot, the infinity of life that teemed
around, above, below, beneath even their very feet, crushing
the busy ant at each foot-fall.
All is changed now : let us glance, therefore, at what we
must at present live in, the past. Let John Evelyn, babe no
longer, but in his mature reason, speak for himself about his
loved, and our loved Wotton.
"I -will say nothing," he writes*, "of the air, because the
pre-eminence is usually given to Surrey, the soil being dry
and sandy ; but I should speak much of the gardens, foun
tains, and groves that adorn it, were they not as generally
kno-wn to be amongst the most natural and (till this later and
universal luxury of 'the whole nation, since abounding in such
expenses) the most magnificent that England afforded, and
which indeed gave one of the first examples to that elegancy,
-* Evelyn's Diary, vol. i. p. 3.
B 3

6 Evelyn's father a fine old English gentleman.
since so much in vogue and followed for the managing of
their waters and other elegancies of that nature."
Then he adds that the contiguity of five or six manors,
the patronage of the livings about it, and, what Themistocles
considered not among the least advantages of a place, the
good neighbourhood, conspired to render Wotton " an ho
nourable and handsome royalty " for his " worthy brothers
and noble lady, whose constant liberality gave them title
both to the place, and to the affections of all who know
them." And Wotton then must have exactly resembled, in
some minor points of the description, Wotton in the present
day. Like most old houses, it stands low ; yet, from Leith Hill,
not far off, twelve or thirteen counties may, on a clear day, be
seen, as well as the sea washing the shores of Sussex. A
large and ancient house, ancient even in the days of Evelyn's
father, formed then the main feature of the rising grounds ;
and it still establishes the accuracy of his delineation, that
Wotton is " one of the most tempting and pleasant seats in
the nation, and most tempting for a great person and a
wanton purse to render it conspicuous."
Evelyn's father was a fine old English gentleman ; " wise,
acute, of solid discourse (no fool can come up to that charac
ter)," but affable, humble, " in nothing affected ; " neat in his
habits, thriving in his plans ; methodical : silent, careful ; yet
nobly libera], and a lover of hospitality; discreetly severe:
nevertheless his son never saw him in a passion : well did he
support the characters of patron, master, host, parent, husband,
at a time when to support those characters well was looked
upon as a part of a goDtleman's necessary bearing. Yet he
declined honours and titles, for he stood so well in his own
county that they could have added nothing to his condition
except burdens.
It is pleasant to read of such men, in these days of in
ordinate ostentation and unprecedented worldliness • and to
dwell in quiet admiration on their simplicity of manners. The

eventful times — Evelyn's sister dies. 7
son — not the heir, it is true, for there were two daughters and
a son older — sitting in the church porch to receive instruction
from some poor scholar.
Those were eventful times ; and John Evelyn's boyish
curiosity was piqued " by the stir and talk " about Gondemar
and the Spanish match — about the Comet, too, of 1618, the
effects of which he even believed were sho-wn in the fearful
revolutions in European affairs, especially those in Germany,
at that time : then he recollected to the end of his life the
muster for the Duke of Buckingham's expedition to Ehe ; and
he was awakened one morning out of his slumbers by the news
that Felton had stabbed the " Great Duke " to the heart ;
and, whilst these impressions sank into his memory, he was
picking up such knowledge as he could at the free school of
Southover near Lewes, where he remained until sent to college.
But this was not his father's wish, Evelyn, whilst attend
ing the free school, had lived -with his grandmother, who
had married again ; he dreaded the severity of Eton, declined
the advantage of going there proffered by his father, and all
his life repented that he had done so and had been indulged
in his wish ; yet his father had enough to do, even -with an
ample fortune of 4000L a year : he was sheriff for Surrey
and Sussex, before those counties were disjoined : one him-
dred and ten servants, all in green satin doublets, formed his
cortege ; which was augmented by the attendance of divers
friends and volunteers, who chose to assume the same livery,
and to act as his servants ; and gallant indeed must have been
the show as the cavalcade turned out of the road down to
Wotton, passed the mass of stables, and followed the high
sheriff to his assize.
That great display was followed by sadder processions.
Mistress Darcy — John Evelyn's elder sister — died in her
twentieth year, " in virtue advanced beyond her years, or the
merit of her husband," writes her brother, adding bitterly —
" the worst of men." This was in 1634. During the next
B 4

8 HIS mother  EVELYN AT OXFORD.
year, a malignant fever apparently carried off John Evelyn's
mother ; but her death was caused by grief. She had seen
her young daughter laid in the tomb, after childbirth ; the
infant followed its mother to the grave, and Mrs. Evelyn's
heart broke ; too late, she strove, indeed, to reconcile herself
to life ; but the fiat had gone forth. Calling her children
around her, she embraced and blessed them — giving to each
a ring as a last token of love. Her latest request was that
the money which she believed would be spent on her funeral
rites should be given to the poor. A famous powder — one of
the many specifics of those days of quackery — was tried in her
case in vain. She expired in all sanctity, and was buried near
the daughter whose death had cast a shadow over her last days.
Her son John, meantime, pursued the course usually
then assigned to most men of condition. He graduated at
Balliol College, Oxford, then remarked for its remissness of
discipline, notwithstanding that William Laud, Archbishop
of Canterbury, was Chancellor of the University, and very
strict in all formalities. Those were pleasant days for the
Church, and for everybody of the Laudian views. The Church
of England was in her greatest splendour ; all things were
"decent," says Evelyn, "a blessed halcyon time in England."
Stern, indeed, was the contrast of after days.
Whilst John Evelyn was beginning the actual career of life,
a mind wonderfully congenial to his own, though of a differ
ent turn, was advancing with rapid strides in intellect and
virtue. The very name of Eobert Boyle inspires reverence,
and calls up wonder at the various and great acquirements of
one man. Illustrious in birth, superior to titles, and perhaps
to praise, this great Christian philosopher was born at Lismore,
in Ireland, in 1626-7, and was, therefore, six years older than
Evelyn. Both these men, who do honour to their country,
sprang from ancient lineage. Evelyn truly says, referring to
his own descent, that " what the heralds say is often sorry
and mercenary enough ; " he was able, nevertheless, he de-

EOBERT BOYXE — HIS LINEAGE. 9
clared, to bring his own pedigree from one Evelyn, brother
to Ambrogius, — who brought Julius Caesar into Britain the
second time ? " Will you not," he adds, writing to William
Wotton, " smile at this ? " Most people would do so, un
doubtedly. The Hattons, the Onslows, and the Evelyns
came, he concluded, out of Shropshire into Surrey, about the
same time, and during the wars of the Barons.
Eobert Boyle, although born in the Emerald Isle, belongs,
rightfully, by descent to Wales. He was the seventh son and
the fourteenth child of Eiehard Boyle, the great Earl of Cork,
whose family are said to have been settled in Herefordshire
before the Conquest. Truth, however, compels the confession
that the name of Boyle is said to be of Spanish origin : and a
knight of Aragon, Sir Philip Boyle, having distinguished him
self in a tournament before Henry 'V., the ancestry of this
illustrious house has by some writers been derived from him.
"Sir Philip," however, says Budgell, who -wrote the me
moirs of the Boyle family, " was a kinsman, but no ancestor
of theirs." Long before he called forth the unwilling praise
usually given by the English to foreigners, the Boyles, then
bearing the name of Bluvill, since corrupted into Boyle, were
settled at Pixely Court, near Ledbury ; in Queen Elizabeth's
reign, however, Eoger Boyle, the great Earl's father, married
a Kentish maiden, Joan Naylor, and his son, the famous
Eiehard, was born in Kent. Evelyn, indeed, states that
Eiehard Boyle, first Earl of Cork, was a schoolmaster at
Maid.stone; he was, in fact, the penniless second son of a
younger son ; and it is very likely that after his education at
Cambridge he turned his abilities to account in any way
that was expedient at the moment.
An amusing anecdote is told by Evelyn of the great Earl's
second marriage : —
" Coming to advise with Sir Geoffrey Fenton, an eminent
Irish lawyer, and finding him engaged with another client,
and seeing a pretty child in the nurse's arms, entertained

10 HIS father's SECOND MARRIAGE.
Viimself with them, till Sir Geoffrey came to him, making his
excuse for keeping him so long. Mr. Boyle pleasantly told
him he had been courting a young lady for his -wife : and so
it fortuned, that sixteen years after it Mr. Boyle made Ms
addresses in good earnest to her and married the young lady,
from whom has sprung all this numerous family of lords and
earls branching now into the noblest families of England.'
Of these Eoger Boyle, whom his father sent young into
England to be educated under the care of his relation,
Evelyn's grandfather, at Deptford, was the eldest. There was
then a famous school in that town. Such was the origin of
the connection between the families of Evelyn and Boyle,
and of the kindness that always existed between them. The
Eoger Boyle referred to, having died in the house of Sir
Eiehard Browne at Sayes Court, was buried in the parish
church of Deptford.
From this marriage sprang Eobert Boyle. His name
occurs low down in the list of seven sons and eight daughters;
the sons, it may be certified, " with all their father's wit," the
daughters, it may be presumed, "with all their mother's
beauty ; " for they became all the wives of peers or peers' sons,
except Margaret, the youngest, — Ma^rgaret, Eobert Boyle's
only younger sister, — who died unmarried.
What Australia and New Zealand are to the present gene
ration, Ireland was in those days to the speculative and enter
prising. It was necessary to colonise that barbarous country
in order to prevent the natives from teai-ing each other to
pieces. The history of the Encumbered Estates Bill in our
time, and its vast revolution in Ireland, is only a revived
edition of the salutary but arbitrary acts of Elizabeth, of
James I., and of Charles I. What has been done in the
nineteenth century with consent of Parliament, was done in
the sixteenth century without that process, — there is the sole
difference. So Eiehard, the great Earl of Cork, marryino- for
his first -wife an Irish heiress with 5001. a year in land laid

LIFE OF RICHAED, THE GREAT EAEL OF CORK. 11
the foundation of an estate ; added to it by grants from the
crown, and more especially by purchasing the forfeited lands
of Sir Walter Ealegh, consisting of 12,000 acres in Cork and
Waterford. Let it not, however, be supposed that the lot of
an Irish landholder was in those days any more like a bed of
roses than in our own ; for it had cost Sir Walter Ealegh 2001.
a year to support his titles to the estate given him by the
English Government.
The whole life of Eiehard the great Earl was a succession
of prosperous events, until he came to the climax of his for
tune, and became Earl of Cork, and the sturdy opponent of
Strafford's oppressions. Singular indeed'must have been the
impression made at the trial of Strafford, the " Lord Deputy,"
when the Earl of Cork deposed, that on his prosecuting an
action at law in a suit, considering himself aggrieved, Straf
ford had said to him, with unbounded arrogance : " Call in
your writs, or if you will not, I will clap you up in your
Castle ; for, I tell you, I will not have my orders disputed by
law or lawyers."
The Earl of Cork was the great upholder of the Protestant
interest in Ireland. It was the former schoolmaster of Maid
stone, as Evelyn has it, who exposed the imposition called
St. Patrick's Purgatory, which he unmasked. His wise aim
was to induce Protestants to settle in Ireland ; and when the
famous rebellion broke out in that country, he reaped the full
benefit of his wisdom in the support given him by the English
at the siege of Lismore.
The wisdom of this great man was shown in the education
and rearing of his children. Like Evelyn, Eobert Boyle was
intrusted to the care of a countrywoman, whom the Earl
charged to bring up the infant in as hardy a manner as
possible. When he was three years old he lost his mother
(the heroine of Evelyn's little history), and throughout life
he regretted never having known her so as to remember her,
especially as she was beloved and lamented by those of his

12 EARLY NURTURE AND EDUCATION OF ROBERT BOYLE.
family who had that privilege. It was not until he was seven
years of age that his father sent for him home. He had then
caught from some of his nurse's children a habit of stuttering,
which he never entirely lost. At eight years old he was sent
to Eton, and from that seat of learning he wrote a letter to
his father, curious as showing the formal terms then existing
between parent and child, and beginning, " My most honoured
Lord Father ; " and this epistle, like most of those written by
this great philosopher in after days, is composed with a degree
of study, discretion, and stiffness, which plainly shows the
character of the -writer. For Boyle had not the facility, the
circumstantiality, and the warmth which render Evelyn's
letters so valuable both as memorials of himself and of his
times. Before Eobert Boyle had attained his fourteenth year, his
elder brother Francis was married to Elizabeth Killigrew.
The espousals taking place at this early age, the boy bride
groom was ordered to travel with his younger brothers ; and
they set out on that grande tour which was thought an
essential part of education. They stopped at Geneva ; then
proceeding to Florence, were at that city when Galileo died
in an adjacent village. Eeturning, however, homewards,
news of the rebellion of 1642 reached the young travellers at
Marseilles, and they were obliged to pa-wn some jewels in
order to bring them home. On arriving in England, Eobert
Boyle found his father dead, and every sort of property in
utter depression. Stalsbridge, a seat in Dorsetshire, was in
deed bequeathed to him by his father, as well as certain estates
in Ireland ; but no income, in the disturbed state of both
countries during the great Eebellion, was to be derived from
these properties. At length affairs, as far as Boyle was con
cerned, brightened, and in 1646 he took up his abode at
Stalbridge -with a mind prodigiously stored with knowledge
of every description, and with a vastness of comprehension
and a grasp of intellect rarely allotted to any human being.

HIS "SERAPHIC LOVE." 13
He was now a young man of twenty years of age ; yet, at
a time of life when most men are pursuing their pleasures,
he delighted in nothing so much as in doing good. And next
to that almost heavenly gratification -was his pleasure in seek
ing out eminent men, and in bringing them to his house.
His " Seraphic Love " was written before he had attained
his twentieth year, and was the first of his productions. That
he was ever in love, that the treatise had even any reference
to actual feelings, is disputed by hard-headed philosophical
¦writers, more especially by Boyle's biographer. Dr. Birch; Eve
lyn, however, himself a married man, was not so incredulous.
Although, among all his experiments, Boyle "never," as
Evelyn says, " made that of married life, yet I have been,"
he adds, " told he courted an ingenious and beautiful
daughter of Carey, Earl of Monmouth ; " and probably
Evelyn, upon an acquaintance of forty years, knew more of
Boyle's private affairs than any other man.
Gravely indeed does the editor of the " Biographia Bri
tannica " oppose this idea, and remarks on it thus : — " To say
the truth, he seems to have been persuaded that he was born
for nobler purposes than the ordinary lot of man ; at least, if
he was not so persuaded, his actions were such as may per
suade us."
Evelyn, however, does not appear to have held marriage
in so low a scale as the learned writer just quoted ; on the
contrary, he availed himself of an intimate friendship to state
his frank opinion on the subject of matrimony to Boyle.
The acquaintance between these two great men was begun
by Boyle, who, drawn by similarity of characters and tastes,
-visited Evelyn at Sayes Court, near Deptford. Their inti
macy grew, as Evelyn relates, " reciprocal and familiar ; " civil
letters, in the courteous and somewhat hyperbolical terms
common in those times, passing at first between them ; but
" these compliments,''- as Evelyn, who sur-vived his friend,
stated, " lasted no longer than till we had become perfectly

14 THEIE FRIENDSHIP.
acquainted, and had discovered our inclination of cultivating
the same studies and designs, especially in the search of
natural and useful things."
In their benevolence, their philosophy, their love of nature,
and their study of high art, Boyle and his friend resembled
each other. But here the analogy ended. Evelyn was a
busy, joyous, observant man of the world ; Boyle, a devoted
scholar, li-nng in abstraction from all earthly ties, though
not from earthly interests. In thanking him for his " Seraphic
Love," Evelyn half playfully, half enthusiastically, in refer
ring to his " incomparable " book which " is wi-itten (he says)
with a pen snatched from the wing of a Seraphim," declares
that Boyle has treated his subject and described it "to that
perfection as if in the company of some celestial harbingers
he had taken flight, and been ravished into the third heaven,
where you have heard words unutterable, and whence you
bring us such affections and such divine inclinations as are
only competent to angels and to yourself; for so powerful
is your eloquence, so metaphysical your discourse, and sub
lime your subject."
Then he goes on to say, "And though by all this, and
your rare example, you civilly declaim against the mistakes
we married persons usually make, yet I cannot but think it a
paralogism or insidious reasoning which you manage with so
much ingenuity, and pursue with so great judgment."
Nevertheless, Evelyn, happy in domestic life, puts in a
plea for love and marriage. " Though you have said nothing
of marriage, which is the result of love, yet you suppose it
would be hard to become a servant -without folly ; and that
there are ten thousand inquietudes espoused with a mistress ;
that the fruits of children are tears and weakness, whilst the
productions of the spirits put their parents neither to charge
nor trouble."
After admitting so much, he advocates eloquently that state
which the world then regarded as holy ; but which, if we are

EVELYN ADVOCATES MARRIAGE. 15
to judge by the shameless petitions for divorce, is now apt to
be regarded merely as a conventional tie.
"The Scriptures," Evelyn continues, "are full of worthy
examples, since it was from the effect of conjugal love that
the Saviour of the world, and that great object of seraphic
love, derived His incarnation, who was the son of David.
Take away this love, and the whole world is but a desert ;
and though there were nothing more worthy eulogies than
virginity, it is yet but the result of love, since those that
shall people paradise, and fill heaven with saints, are such as
have been subject to this passion, and were the products of it."
" By it the Church," added Evelyn, had " consecrated to God
both virgins and martyrs, and confessors, these five thousand
years." *
He -wrote to one who he perhaps knew was impelled as
much by disappointment as philosophy to the Seraphic state ;
and this, he seems to infer, was no disparagement to Boyle's
intellect, no blemish to the objects of his glorious ambition.
" Descartes," he observes, " was not so innocent."
Granting that the story of Eobert Boyle's early attach
ment is true, it may be here stated that he must have made
a judicious choice iu the single passion of his Ufe.
Amongst those of the nobility whom the death of Charles
the First drove into retirement, none was more assiduous
in gaining knowledge, none more modest in displaying
it, than was Henry Cary, second Earl of Monmouth. Con
temporary with the ill-fated Charles, and one of the Knights
of the Bath who received that order with his young sove
reign when Prince of Wales, Cary, best known as Lord
Lepington, was a good specimen of the highly accomplished
nobleman of the times. His fine thoughtful face and regular
features, his flowing love locks, his broad Vandyck collar
falling even over his shoulders, recall the costume which
* Vol. iii. p. 122.

16 ROBERT BOYLE's SUPPOSED PREFERENCE.
formed a party emblem, and which the Cavaliers never aban
doned. One would fain indulge the idea that Eobert Boyle
" loved and lost " the daughter of this nobleman rather than
that he " never loved at all." She is said to have been as
" ingenious " as her father, a man who filled seven folios,
two octavos, and a duodecimo, when Earl of Monmouth,
during his retirement, whilst many "others of the nobility,"
says Anthony a Wood, "were fain to truckle to their iu-
feriors for company's sake." His brother, too, was a poet,
and Sir John Suckling complimented the Earl of Monmouth
by saying :
" It is so rare a thing to see
Aught that belongs to young nobUity
In print but their owne clothes, that -we must praise
You as -we -would do those first she-we the -wayes
To arts or to new- -worlds."
Gladly, therefore, would the admirers of Eobert Boyle have
seen him linked to a daughter of the house of Cary; and
Evelyn did his utmost to show Coelebs the error of his
ways. "' But I cannot consent,'' he continues, " that such a person
as Mr. Boyle be so indifferent, decline a virtuous love, or
imagine that the best ideas are represented only in romances,
where love begins, proceeds, and expires in the pretty tale,
but leaves us no worthy impressions of its effects. We have
nobler examples, and the wives of philosophers, studious and
pious persons, shall furnish our instances. For such," he adds,
" was Pudentilla, who held the lamp to her husband's lucu
brations, and such a companion had the learned Budseus. In
fine," he continues, " they divert us when we are well, and tend
us when we are sick ; they grieve over us when we die ; and
some I have known that would not be comforted and survive."
Nothing, in fact, can be more natural, more earnest, or
more true than the whole of the letter, from which we quote
these various passages : —

Evelyn's appeal. 17
" But, dear Sir," he proceeds to say, " mistake me not all
this while, for I make not this recital as finding the least
period in your most excellent discourse prejudicial to the con
jugal state ; or that 1 have the vanity to imagine my forces
capable to make you a proselyte of Hymen's, who have
already made the worthiest choice. I have never," he con
tinues, " encountered anything extraordinary as dare lay
claim to any of the virtues I have celebrated ; but if I have
the conversation capable of exalting and improving our affec
tions, even to the highest of objects, and to contribute very
much to human felicity, I cannot pronounce the love of the
sex to be at all misapplied, or to the prejudice of the most
seraphical." In conclusion, Evelyn appeals to those affections which he
knew are latent in almost every breast, and which he fondly
hoped to arouse in the heart of the young philosopher.
"Dearest Sir, permit me to tell you that I extremely
loved you before, but my heart is infinitely knit to you now ;
for what are we not to expect from so timely a consecration
of your excellent abilities ? The primitice sanctified the
whole harvest, and you have at once, by this incomparable
piece, taken off the reproach which lay upon piety, and the
inquiries into nature ; that the one was too early for young
persons, and the other the ready way to atheism ; than which,
as nothing has been more impiously spoken, so not anything
has been more fully refuted." *
All was in vain, and Eobert Boyle's life presents no glim
mering of those interests which make up the sum and consti
tute the very essence of domestic affections. Even the tran
sient or unrequited attachment has left no visible trace,
although it may have had a lasting influence on the character
of the solitary and devoted philosopher.
Let him not, however, be regarded as a recluse, abjuring
* Corres. pp. 124, 225, to the end of the letter.
VOL. I. C

18 BOYLE'S appearance and HABITS.
society, and degenerating into pedantry. Eobert Boyle loved
his fellow-creatures ; " never," says Evelyn, " did his severest
studies sour his conversation. A generous and free philo
sopher, not a dogmatic one ; " " to draw a just character of
him," says his friend, " one must run through all the virtues,
as well as through all the sciences." In the following way
his life was usually passed.
In the morning 'the young student (still enjoying the
honorary pay of a company of horse, assigned to him by his
father the great Earl of Cork), after his devotions, passed into
his laboratory. His religion, be it remarked, was as replete
with liberality and humility as with earnestness. It was
without noise, dispute, or determining ; owning no master but
the Divine Author of it, no rule but Scripture, no law but
right reason." Glasses and chemical and mathematical instru
ments so crowded his bed-chamber that there was room only
for a few chairs. Like Descartes, he had a small library, learn
ing more from men and from experiments than from books.
In the midst of this confusion appeared a tall, slender, ema
ciated man, a valetudinarian, whose tenement of clay seemed
almost too o'er-informed to last out the usual span of man's
life. Pale, gentle, as one of a sensitive nature usually is, refined,
fragile, Evelyn, his friend, used nevertheless to compare him
to a " Venice glass, which, though wrought never so thin and
fine, being carefully set up, would outlast the hardier metals of
daily use." It was true : this delicate frame did endure almost
to threescore years, a good old age in those times ; but in pain
and weakness, such as to prove the holy resignation of that
great heart to its utijaost^ did that frame live on. Often did
Boyle's admiring friend find him struck down by palsy, so
that he could neither move nor carry his hand to his mouth ;
and yet the enfeebled body was restored, and he lasted, as
Evelyn relates, " though not to a great, yet to a competent
age," and would, his loving eulogist thought, have lived
longer, had it not been for a precious sister's death. The

EVELYN ENTEEED IN THE MIDDLE TEMPLE. 19
philosopher who had abjured the tender bonds of love, died
heart-stricken from a bereavement.
His friend (unknown to him at that time), John Evelyn, was
leading, meantime, the life of a young gentleman, whose means
were ample, during what he termed that " blessed halcyon time
in England." First we see him deriving benefit from the con
versation of a Mr. Thicknesse, then a fellow of Balliol College ;
in those days, when foreign travelling was difficult, it must have
been strange to see one Conopios out of Greece, sent from Cyril,
the patriarch of Constantinople, to visit England. Balliol was
then, owing to lax discipline, low in estimation. There, in
1637, did Evelyn first see coffee drunk, the great Oriental
scholar, Conopios, taking it, to the astonishment of the
dons, at Oxford. Nor was the use of coffee fully intro
duced into England until thirty years afterwards. Little did
Evelyn, at the early age of seventeen, think of study, but more
of being admitted to the vaulting and dancing schools, the
art of vaulting being then reduced to printed rules. Soon
we find all his enjoyment cut short by a quartan ague, and
still more by the beginning of rebellion amongst the Scotch,
" who madly began our confusion and their own destruction,"
as he writes in his Diary. Then he is anon entered into the
Middle Temple, his father purchasing chambers for him and
his brother, four pairs of stairs high, " which gave us," sa3's
the candid youth, " advantage of the fairer prospect, but did
not much contribute to that impolished study " to which his
father had destined him.
A stirring time must the young Templar have had of it, law
thriving but little in his attic abode. From it he beheld
Charles I., in all the peerless grace of his costume, sur
rounded by his court, coming from his northern expedtion,
and riding through the streets amid the accclamations of his
people, attended by a splendid cavalcade. It was a spectacle
long remembered, for it was almost the ill-fated king's last
appearance until he mounted the scaffold. He came to open
C 2

20 BAD TIMES — DEATH OF EVELYn's FATHER.
what loyal Evelyn styles " that long, ungrateful, foolish, and
fatal Parliament, the beginning of all our sorrows for twenty
years after, and the period of the most happy monarch of
the world."
A gloom was also gathering over the Manor House of
Wotton. In the worst of times,." Eiehard Evelyn was taken
from the evil to come." On the 2nd January 1640-1, his
children, in the dead of night, followed his mourning-hearse to
Wotton Church, where he was buried beside his wife. " Thus
were we," writes Evelyn*, " bereft of both our parents in a
period when we most of all stood in need of their counsel and
assistance, especially myself, of a raw, vain, uncertain, and
very unwary inclination ; but it so pleased God to make trial
of my conduct in a conjuncture of the greatest and most pro
digious hazard that the youth of England saw ; and if I did
not, amidst all this, impeach my liberty nor my virtue with
the rest who made shipwreck of both, it was more the infinite
goodness and mercy of God than the least providence or dis
cretion of mine o-wn."
Poor Evelyn ! He attended Strafford's trial, and his
opinions thereon would not be fashionable in the present day ;
for he considered that those who witnessed that most touching
scene, " were spectators and auditors of the gi'eatest malice
and the greatest innocency ever met before so illustrious an
assembly." He resolved, however, to leave his country ; and having
obtained permission to do so from Charles I., — a precaution
similar to that of getting a passport in our days, — Evelp
hastened to the Continent.
His travels are delightfully described; and nothing escaped
his observation, from the legs of a game cock to the School of
Anatomy at Leyden. At the Hague, he kissed the hand of
the Queen of Bohemia, who received him in a chamber himg
-with black velvet on account of her husband's death. He
* Life and Corres. vol i. p. 15.

strange METEORIC APPEARANCES. 21
saw the brave and handsome Prince Maurice and the young
Princesses. Then taking " waggon " for Dort, he attended
the reception of Marie de Medicis, whose daughter, Henrietta
of England, " tossed to and fro by the various fortunes of her
life," was also there. He visited the then sad court of
Brussels ; and, returning to England, was elected one of the
Comptrollers of the Middle Temple, and passed his time in
London, " studying a little, but dancing and fooling more."
Time passed on. Evelyn was now twenty-one years of age,
full of curiosity, high spirits, and genius ; an incipient man
of the world, his mind, nevertheless, deeply imbued with
superstition. "I must not forget," he writes on the 12th of December
1642-3, "what amazed us exceedingly in the night before,
viz. a shining cloud in the air, in shape resembling a sword,
the point receding to the north ; it was as bright as the moon,
the rest of the sky being very serene. It began about eleven
at night, and vanished out till above one, being seen by all
the south of England. I made many journeys to and from
England." Evelyn, however, though devoted to the Eoyal cause, was
no hero. He had been a volunteer in Goring's troop ; he
now retired, and kept that circumstance a secret ; and retreat
ing to Wotton, built, by the permission of his elder brother
who had inherited the estate, a study, made a fish-pond, " and
a garden, an island, and some other solitudes and retirements,
which gave," he relates, " the first occasion of improving them
to those water-works and gardens which afterwards succeeded
them, and became at that time the most famous in England."
His taste for gardens was hereditary, and his very name
was sylvan. Evelyn, written anciently Avelan or Evelin,
means a filbert, or hazel : his grandfather, George Evelyn,
who, in the reign of Elizabeth, had purchased the estate of
Wotton, had been a great planter and preserver of timber.
•Wotton, corrupted from Wood-town, was a name given to it on
c 3

22 Evelyn's taste for gardening.
account of the fine groves and plantations around it. The
Evelyn family were famous for planting, and it was a relation
of John Evelyn's that first planted Eichmond Park and then
sold it to Charles I. There was a mania, in those days, for
introducing new species of plants and trees. To Lord Bacon
we owe the plane-tree, which he first planted near Verulam.
The introduction of the China orange into Europe was an
event of the reign of Charles II. A certain Portuguese
nobleman, when Prime Minister, received in a case a collec
tion of plants of the China orange; only one had escaped
being killed in t'he transit ; from that one came all the China
oranges in Europe.
When Evelyn passed a second time into France, we find
that the gardens in or near Paris were his especial delight.
That of the Tuileries, still even now grand and noble, but cur
tailed in extent, attracted his praise. It was, he thought,
" rarely contrived for privacy, shade, or company ; " he .speaks
of a plantation of tall elms and mulberries ; of a labyrinth of
cypresses; of hedges of pomegranates; of fountains, fish-ponds,
and ah aviary, — delights which have long since been swept
away by time, or by fierce revolution ; above all, " of the arti
ficial echo, never without some fair nymph singing with grateful
returns ; — standing at one of the focuses, which is under a
tree or little cabinet of hedges, the voice seems to descend
from the clouds, — at another, as if it were underground."
Then there was an orangery which seemed a Paradise, and
from a terrace was seen the course, now the Champs Elysees,
a place of an English mile long, all planted with trees in
four rows, with a stately arch up the entrance. " Here the
gallants and fine ladies," says Evelyn, "take the air for
pleasure." But there was another feature of the Tuileries
Gardens : a building in which wild beasts were kept for the
King's diversion.
Next he passes on to Eueil — Cardinal Eichelieu's castel
lated villa — and doubted whether Italy had anything to

HE BECOMES A GOOD LINGUIST. 23
exceed it in rarity or pleasure ; but what most struck him,
for the Sylva was ever in his thoughts, was "the garden
nearest the pavilion, a parterre, having in the midst divers
noble brass statues, perpetually spouting water into an ample
basin, with other figures of the same metal ; but what is
most admirable, is the vast enclosure and variety of ground in
the large garden, containing vineyards, corn-fields, meadows,,
groves (whereof one is of perennial greens), and walks of
vast length, accurately kept and cultivated, that nothing can
be more agreeable."
The study of horticulture in all its branches was not, how
ever, sufficient for a grasp of mind such as that of Evelyn. In
the spring of 1644, therefore, he made the tour of Europe, re
solving to inquire carefully into the state of science wherever he
went ; he visited Eome in order to view not only the painting
and sculpture there in their perfection, but to comprehend
the state of the Eomish Church. He travelled through Italy
to perfect himself in a critical as well as practical knowledge
of painting. As a key to all researches, he became a good
linguist as far as French, Spanish, and Italian were concerned.
(Few persons in that day attempted to master German.) He
became almost an artist himself; but whilst he studied several
minor accomplishments, " the works of the Creator and the
minute labours of the creature were," says Horace Walpole,
" all objects of his pursuit. He unfolded the perfection of the
one, and assisted the imperfection of the other." The dig
nity of man, a subject on which Evelyn wrote a treatise, was
well comprehended by this great and good man : happy
indeed was his long and honoured life ; that calm and fa
voured destiny has been summed up in a few expressive
words. " He had one of the finest gardens in the kingaom,
and was one of the best and happiest men in it. He lived to
a good, but not to an useless old age, and long enjoyed the
shade of those flourishing trees which himself had planted."
Before Evelyn's return to England he had accomplished
C 4

24 IS ATTACKED E'Y SMALL-POX.
another object, — he had chosen a -wife. The marriage which
eventually proved so happy, was however prefaced by a
severe trial — an attack of small-pox. That fearful disease,
which Evelyn's friend, Eobert Boyle, escaped all his life, was
a scourge, the very thoughts of which cast a gloom over
families. An act of selfishness, rare in the kindly Evelyn,
was punished by the fearful visitation. Eeturning from his
travels, he slept at a S-wiss town. There was no vacant bed
in the inn : Evelyn therefore requested that one of the
hostess's daughters should be removed out of her bed, and
that room made ready for him ; heavy -with sleep and fatigue,
he would not stay to have the sheets changed, but got into
the fatal bed whilst it was still warm. There was a suspi
cious smell of frankincense in the room, and the hostess
admitted that her daughter had only recently recovered from
the ag-ue. The young traveller felt ill and heavy, but held
up whilst crossing the Lake of Geneva, where, in spite of the
conversation of Diodati, then resident at Geneva, who called
on him, he could no " longer hold up his head," but felt as if
" his eyes would have dropped out." A wearisome confine
ment of sixteen days, attended by a hideous Swiss matron
-with an immense goitre, was followed by recovery ; but conva
lescence had its perils. " By God's mercy, after five weeks
keeping my chamber," Evelyn wrote, " I went abroad."
In the autumn of the year 1647, he arrived in Paris.
Here he avows what many people might also do, — he passed
the only time in his life that he ever spent idly ; here and
there " refreshing his dancing and other long-neglected
exercises," and learning the lute. All this looks suspicious of
love passages. Sir Eiehard Bro-wne, then ambassador in France,
had a fair daughter, whose fine regular features, luxuriant
hair, and comely figure first attracted the youthful Evelyn ;
a marriage treaty was set on foot, and as Charles IL, then
Prince of Wales, was holding his court at St. Germains, his
chaplain. Dr. Earle, performed the ceremony.

HIS D.OMESTIC LIFE AT SAYES COUET. 25
Henceforth we must regard Evelyn's life as one of a
domestic character, in spite of the signal events which occurred
during the whole course of his existence.
Charles I. was then a prisoner at Hampton Court, and
Evelyn, on returning to England, hastened to kiss his Majesty's
hand ; " he being in the power of those execrable villains who
not long after murdered him ;" and, this duly done, the sturdy
but prudent royalist repaired to Sayes Court, Deptford, to
take possession, in right of his wife, of that old manor-house.
With disgust one naturally turns in the present day from
the very name of Deptford. Situated on the banks of the
Eavensbourne, and anciently Depeforde, from the deep ford
where the bridge now is, this large populous to-wn, when
Evelyn lived near it, had been until the reign of Henry VIII.
a mere fishing viUage ; under that monarch's rule the Eoyal
Dock was established there ; and it was still in the memory of
man that Henry, Prince of Wales, his brother Charles, and
the Duke of Buckingham had here often held council -with
Phineas Pett on maritime matters.
Long o-wned and inhabited by the Say family, the manor-
house of Deptford had obtained the name of Sayes Court ; it
was held in copyhold from the Cro-wn. Elizabeth, towards
the latter part of her reign, granted it, with sixty acres of
land, to Sir Eiehard Bro-wne, for a term of years ; and on
Evelyn's marriage, it was given as a residence to him on
account of his -wife. For years this old place, on the site of
which Deptford Workhouse now stands, was the abode of
John Evelyn. Charles II. in 1663 granted him a new lease
of it, at the nominal rent of twenty-two shillings and six
pence. Here Evelyn commenced his experiments, and worked
out those ideas on gardening which he afterwards perfected at
Wotton. From no place has a man's name so utterly
perished, as that of Evelyn from Deptford. Trade, dirt,
noise, and coarse language have long since superseded the
quiet refinement of Sayes Court, that resting-place and ga-

26 THE PLAGUE AT DEPTFORD.
thering-place for letters and philosophy. Even in Evelyn's
time there were local enemies to his peace. The frost of
1682 destroyed many of the trees of that garden, which the
Lord Keeper Guilford declared to be " most boscareque," and
an exemplification of its owner's work on forest trees. The
plague, in 1695-6, carried off hundreds of Evelyn's neigh
bours in Deptford ; but frost and plague were less injurious
than the vulgar, dirty, clever Czar Peter, called the gixat.
Evelyn, -with the liberality of a true Briton, lent Sayes Court
to Peter whilst he prosecuted his naval studies at Deptford
Dockyard. One can easily imagine the result : Peter neither
felt the delicacy of the compliment, nor respected the sylvan
beauties of the place. Amongst one of Evelyn's sources of
innocent pride was a holly hedge : he speaks of it in his Sylva.
Now a holly hedge was the darling chef-d'oeuvre of old-
fashioned gardeners, and the boast of many a land-owner.
That on which Evelyn prided himself was, as he says, " an
impregnable hedge of holly, 400 feet in length, nine feet high,
and five feet in diameter." Nothing, however, was impreg
nable to a low-minded barbarian who treated all men beneath
him as slaves, and consequently one of the Czar's favourite
diversions at Sayes Court was to drive through this hedge
wdth a wheelbarrow. The rest of the gardens he utterly
ruined ; and so much injury was done altogether to the house
and grounds, that Evelyn had 1501. a year allowed him in
compensation. In 1704, when Evelyn published a later edition of his
Sylva, he says, with melancholy triumph : —
" I can still show in my now ruined garden at Sayes Court
(thanks to the Czar of Muscovy), at any time of the year,
glittering with its armed and varnished leaves, the taller
standards, at orderly distances, blushing with their natural
coral. It mocks the rudest assaults of the weather, beasts, or
hedge-breakers.'' Alas for the pleasant days of Sayes Court ! days when the

SAYES COURT, WITH PEPYS THERE. 27
clear Thames that laved Deptford, glided down and flowed pure
and inodorous through the Eoyal Dock, bore on its pellucid
bosom gaily decked barges, full of gay dames and cavaliers, or
with a graver freight of philosophers, to visit Sylva Evelyn,
as he was called. Alas for the days when, amid great and
small, Samuel Pepys never " met with so merry a two hours
in all his life," as there, on one occasion, with Sir J. Minnes
and "Mr. Evelyn." "Among other humours Mr. Evelyn
repeating of some verses made up of nothing but the various
acceptations of may and can, and doing it so aptly " and so
fast that he " did make us all die of laughing." Those were
long, quiet, sunny afternoons when Evelyn used to show
Pepys his gardens, " which, for variety of evergreens and
hedge of holly," were the finest Pepys ever saw ; and " thence
in his coach to Greenwich, Evelyn all the way having fine
discourse of trees and the nature of vegetables," until Pepys,
leaving him, " renewed his promises of observing his vows as
he used to do, and not let his mind go a wool-gathering,"
and his business be neglected : so far for the impressions
made by good society and good example. Even whilst the
plague raged, and people were frightening Pepys to death,
by sending to him " for plaisters and fume," Evelyn's mind
soared above all sublunary troubles; and, in the midst of a
pestilence so near, his usual occupations cheered and inte
rested him : — who can tell it so well as Pepys ?
"By water to Deptford, and there made a visit to Mr.
Evelyn, who, among other things, showed me a most ex
cellent painting in little, in distemper, in Indian incke,
water colours, gravening, and, above all, the whole secret of
mezzo-tinto, and the manner of it, which is very pretty, and
good things done with it. He read to me also much of his
discourse he hath been many years, and now is, about
gardenage ; which will be a most noble and pleasant piece.
He read me part of a play or two of his making, very good,
but not as he conceits them to be."

28 boyle's aspirations.
At Sayes Court Evelyn lived as long and as serenely as the
times would permit. Happy in the society of a -^dfe of a
congenial spirit to his own, — an accomplished companion,
fond of etching and painting, yet neglecting none of the
duties of the head of a family: of a wife, and a mother, — his
felicity seems to have been as complete as any of which
human nature is capable. It was perfected by friendships
not founded on worldly motives, nor impaired by caprice,
but engrafted on minds as holy, as pure, as generous as ever
adorned what may, in one sense, be termed the " halcyon age
of England." The -vices that were so rife in the time of
Charles II. had been checked in that of his father.
Evelyn doubtless regretted that, with all his gifts of nature
and fortune, his friend Boyle could not enjoy the delights of
a requited affection and the comforts of matrimony. But
Boyle, in his works, exalted the power of reason far above the
potency of love — which, notwithstanding the hint thro-wn out
by Evelyn, he always declared he had never felt. It was not,
however, that he undervalued the sanctity, or was ignorant of
the blessings of marriage, which he considered to be a " legal
exchange of hearts," but he advocated, on this and every
point, the stern ascendency of reason over feeling. Thus
he advanced a position that is heresy to the impassioned —
namely, that " Eeason is born the sovereign of the passions "
— and possibly he found no difficulty in following out that
axiom, for a life passed in abstract science is not favourable
to sentiment. His books were his friends, his chemical ap
paratus his company, and the mind thus occupied had no
space for love. One gentle sentiment, however, accompanied
by a thousand traits of feeling and benevolence, softens this
hard creed : at one time a report having been raised that
Boyle was actually married, he wrote to his niece. Lady
Barrymore, disclaiming the charge, and declaring that the
supposed marriage had been celebrated by no priest but
Fame, and made unknown to the supposed bridegroom.

BOYLES peculiarities. 29
" I shall therefore," he adds, " only tell you that I and the
little gentleman are still at the old defiance." " But though
this untamed heart be thus insensible to the thing itself
called love, it is yet very sensible to things very near of kin
to that passion ; and esteem, friendship, respect, and even
admiration, are things that their proper objects fail not pro
portionately to exact of one."
It was Evelyn's love of nature, that produced the friendship
which had so much more of heavenly hope and Christian
fervour in it than what worldly men call friendship. For
that Boyle sought out Evelyn. They were in habits and
constitution dissimilar. Boyle, in spite ofhis father's early
attempts to fortify his temperament by the process of harden
ing, was always a fragile, sensitive valetudinarian ; with such
a feebleness of body, as Dr. Birch tell us, and such a " lowness
of spirits and strength, that it was wonderful how he could
read, experimentalise, and think as he did." Never did he
quit the house without trying on "divers kind of cloaks,"
and, judging by his thermometer which to put on, according
to the temperature of the weather. He never lost the habit
of hesitating rather than of stammering, until warmed with
conversation. Then he had a weakness in his eyes which
made him fearful of blindness : still worse, at a very early
age he became a martyr to a cruel disease, the sufferings
of which were such as even to weigh down a mind like
his, heroic in its Christian patience. This skeleton in the
closet, — more terrific because the alleviations now in prac
tice were not then even dreamed of ; this mortal agony of
agonies which prostrated even the stout-hearted Eobert Hall
to the very depths of despondency, — was the source of all
Boyle's extreme care of his health. " As to life itself," he
had, observes Dr. Birch, " that just indifference to it that
became so true a Christian." But it is the -will of our heavenly
Father that certain trials should be the lot of the wisest and
best of His creatures; and, generally, studious men of sedentary

30 HIS ill-health — Evelyn's strong constitution.
habits are the most frequent martyrs to that which haunted
Eobert Boyle's thoughts during his whole life. " He ima
gined also," says Dr. Birch, " that if sickness should confine
him to his bed, it might raise the pains of the stone to a
degree which might be above his strength to support it ; so
that he feared lest his last movients should prove too hard for
him." Poor Boyle ! that horrible dread vanished as his spirit
neared death ; and the shadow of death brought ease and
peace ; and the torment that he feared might rouse his
expiring soul to murmur, was averted.
Hence, however, his simple diet, so guarded that for thirty
years he never ate "nor drank to gratify the varieties of
appetite, but only to support nature," was begun ; nor did he
ever transgress that rule.
Evelyn, on the other hand, was so blest by fate, that during
forty years he never once kept his bed ; and when, at eighty-
six, he died, death seemed as a rest to exhausted nature.
In all the minor affairs of life, these two celebrated friends
differed also. Boyle, in clothes, in furniture, in his house
and equipage, was plain and unaffected ; and his mode of life
was consistent with his serious pursuits and grave character.
Evelyn, on the other hand, maintained state and show;
his house at Sayes Court, though the rooms were low, was
richly furnished; and Wotton was, as it still is, a stately
and noble seat, which he greatly embellished ; whilst Boyle
lived chiefly, either with his sister. Lady Eanelagh, in PaU
Mall, or in lodgings at Oxford, or in what he calls his poor
"Cottage at Stalsbridge,'' the domain of which was large,
but much encumbered, owing to the times, and the injury
done during the Eebellion to all property. In other points
they presented contrasts. Boyle was a man of the truest hu
mility and candour. Evelyn, if we are to believe Pepys,
was allowed to display a "little conceitedness." Boyle, in
spite of a "choleric constitution," which he mastered, was
never in his whole life kno-wn to have offended any one

BOYLES EEVEEENCE FOE SACEED THINGS. 31
by his deportment. His manner of differing showed that
he had the greatness to be open to conviction. In common
with Evelyn he had large sympathies, and "had all the
tenderness of good nature, as well as all the softness of
friendship." If he had not the unwearied good spirits of
Evelyn, he could break forth at times into a long vein of
wit, in the flow of which Cowley and Davenant considered
him unrivalled.
On one all-important point the hearts of these two men
were in perfect unison. Both were devoted members of the
Church of England: both stood aloof, therefore — for the
spirit of our Church is that of toleration — as well from bigotry
as from acquiescence in persecution, even if only of that sort
which infringes on the liberty of society. Both were deeply
reverent to Him whom we ought, as the Apostle says, " to
sanctify in our hearts." Speaking of Eobert Boyle, his
biographer says*: —
" He had so profound a veneration for the Deity, that the
very name of God was never mentioned by him without a
pause and a visible stop in his discourse, in which Sir Peter
Pett, who knew him for almost forty years, affirms that he
was so exact, that he does not remember to have observed
him once to fail in it. He was very constant and serious in
his secret addresses to God ; and it appears to those who con
versed with him most in his inquiries into nature, that his main
design in that, on which as he had his eye most constantly,
so he took care to put others often in mind of it, was to raise
in himself and others more elevated thoughts of the greatness
and glory, and of the wisdom and goodness, of the Deity."
But, although charitable to all sects, Boyle deemed it unadvi-
sable, ff not wrong, to frequent the meetings of the Separatists;
and on one occasion only did he swerve from that rule. He
had once the curiosity to go to Sir Harry Vane's, and there
* Birch's Life of Boyle, p. 291.

32 SCENE AT SIE HAERY VANE'S.
to hear that singular man preach a long sermon to show that
" many doctrines of religion that had long been dead and
buried in the world, should, before the end of it, be awakened
into life ; and that many false doctrines being then likewise
revived, should by the power of truth be doomed to shame
and everlasting contempt.''''
Boyle listened in deep disapproval ; the text from which
Vane had preached was taken from Daniel xii. 2 : " And
many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall
awake, some to everlasting life, some to shame and ever
lasting contempt.'' Boyle looked around him, and saw in
that assembly, chiefly, if not entirely, creatures whose very
existence depended on Sir Harry Vane, of whom Bishop
Burnet has said that " he had a head as darkened in its
notions of religion as his mind was clouded with fear."
Vane had set up a religion of his own ; it consisted chiefly
of an antipathy to all forms, and a hatred to the Angli
can Church. Searching always after truth, yet encumbered ¦
with the gloomiest superstitions. Vane's disciples were called
" Seekers.'" Often did Sir Harry, in the midst of these dismal
fanatics, preach and pray ; yet, says Bishop Burnet, " -with so
peculiar adroitness, that though I have sometimes taken
pains to see if I could find out his meaning in his words, yet
I never could reach it." Some mysterious meaning was a
key to the rest. With Origen, Vane leaned to the idea that
even the de-vils and the damned should be saved, and he
believed in the doctrine of pre-existence.
It must have startled the rapt, subservient " Seekers," when
a tall form, that seemed as if it lingered on the very thres
hold of the grave, stood up, and, stretching forth an ema
ciated hand, in hesitating, nervous tones, claimed attention.
The interruption was pardoned; for the wan, pensive, yet
kindly face of Eobert Boyle was turned on the congregation,
and even then the fame of his youthful piety, of his learning,
of his large charities and Christian forbearance, drew all
respect towards him.

BOYLES SPEECH. 33
Then he spoke. He who could attack Sir Harry Vane
was a bold champion for the faith ; for Vane was noted for
his pleasant -wit, his quick conception, his great understand
ing, and his profound dissimulation.
It was the philosopher, fresh from his study, assailing the
shrewd man of the world, covered with a shield of dissimu
lation ; yet Boyle spoke : " I thought myself," he said,
"bound to enter the lists -with him, that the Scriptures
should not be depraved." The argument that followed is
thus stated * : —
Mr. Boyle said, that being informed that in these private
meetings it was not unusual for any one of those present to
state objections to any matters there uttered, he " thought
himself obHged, for the honour of God's truth, to say that
this place in Daniel, being the clearest one in all the Old
Testament for the proof of the resurrection, we ought not to
suffer the meaning of it to evaporate into allegory ; and the
rather, since that inference is made by our Saviour in the
New Testament by way of asserting the resurrection from
that place of Daniel in the Old. And that if it should be
denied, that the plain and genuine meaning of those words in
the prophet is to assert the resurrection of dead bodies, he
was ready to prove it to be so, both out of the words of the
text and context in the original language, and from the best
expositors, both Christians and Jews. If, however," he added,
" Sir Henry's observations on the resurrection were only by
way of occasional meditation on these words of Daniel, and
not to weaken the general sense, then he had nothing more
to say."
On this Sir Henry rose and said, " His reflections were
only in the way of occasional meditation, and that he agreed
that the literal sense of the words was the resurrection of dead
bodies." It was manifest that Sir Henry Vane inspired those
* Birch's Life of Boyle, p. 296.
VOL. I. D

34 SIE haeey's eeply.
around him with awe, owing to his great authority in the
state. But ]\Ir. Boyle thought it his duty to enter the lists
with him, to prevent false interpretation.
Evelyn, meantime, was engaged in the more active cares
of life, a preference to which he had advocated in his
essay on Public Employment, in answer to Sir George Mac
kenzie's panegyric on Solitude. Still loyal to his sovereign,
Charles IL, he had, nevertheless, intimate friends among
those who adhered to Cromwell ; yet he -wrote in favour of
the royal party, and, after the Eestoration, appeared often
at court. It was in these serener times that he published
his " French Gardeners," to which was added the English
Vineyards Vindicated, by John Eose, gardener to Charles II.,
" with a tract of the making and ordering of French wine."
Then amidst Evelyn's innumerable efforts for the improve
ment of social science, was a new instrument for ploughing,
and sowing all sorts of grain, and harrowing at once, called
the "Spanish Sembrador;" the description being a transla
tion from the Spanish. Next came his " Pomona," or treatise
on fruits, and after that his famous " Sylva," on forest trees ;
the one, it is said, having produced numberless orchards ; —
the other raised whole forests.
Evelyn, during the Commonwealth, passed, nevertheless,
a dreary time. Christmas observances were forbidden under
penalties, any offices of the Church being contrary to law on
that day. Sometimes he was afflicted at seeing a preacher,
who had been at the same time chaplain and lieutenant to
Admiral Penn, — "using both swords," — stand up in the pul
pit whence the orthodox clergyman was driven. In private
Evelyn received the Communion from some sequestrated di
vine, until, by the greatest possible good fortune, he was able
to consider Jeremy Taylor henceforth as " his ghostly father."
In visits to various noblemen's houses, chiefly with a view to
the works of art contained in them ; in visits to his " own
sweet and native county ; " in visits to Cambridge and Oxford,

DEEAEY STATE OF PUBLIC AFFAIES. 35
and in his almost endless variety of pursuits, a melancholy
period, ended by perhaps one of disappointment, glided away.
One incident marked the year 1655.
"I went to London," Evelyn -writes, "where Dr. Wild
preached the funeral sermon of Preaching, this being the last
day ; after which Cromwell's proclamation was to take place,
that none of the Church of England should dare either to
preach or administer sacraments, teach school, &c., on pain of
imprisonment or exile. So this was the mournfullest day
that in my life I had ever seen, or the Church of England
herself, since the Eeformation, to the great rejoicing of
both Papists and Presbyters." * But there was good to come
out of these evil times. Dr. Wilkins, afterwards Bishop of
Chester, had married the sister of Cromwell. He took great
pains to protect the Universities from the sacrilegious hands
of CromweU's soldiers ; and he courted the society and
friendship of those two illustrious friends, whose virtues then
shone out so conspicuously.
Sayes Court became henceforth the centre of all that was
graceful, good, enlightened, and pious. There the beautiful
countenance of Jeremy Taylor might be seen, lighted up
with a religious fervour (which had once well nigh settled
into Eomanism), as in secret and sorrow he read the prayers
of the Church, or preached one of his incomparable sermons
in the silence of the night, -with closed doors and hushed
voices breaking out in murmurs of praise that dared not
express itself in hymns.
There Jeremy Taylor, — he who had the "good humour of
a gentleman, the eloquence of an orator, the fancy of a poet,
the acuteness of a schoolman, the profoundness of a philo
sopher, the -wisdom of a chancellor, the sagacity of a prophet,
the reason of an angel, the piety of a saint;" — there, in
those low but ornamented rooms, in that choice library, he
-» Diary, vol. i. p. 311
D 2

36 JEEEMY TAYLOE: HIS CHAEACTEE.
found a welcome and balm to a wounded spirit. For not
only had Taylor wept the doom of his royal master, Charles I.,
to whom he was chaplain, but he had witnessed the fall of
the Church, and had sorrowed over the grave of his children.
There he might find illustrations for his divine sermon, the
Marriage Eing, as he looked at Evelyn and his faithful, con
genial wife ; — he, planning and executing numberless works :
she, knowing the best way to a husband's heart, by joining
in his pursuits, — illustrating some of these works by her
etchings. There Eobert Boyle admires, with Dr. Wilkins,
Evelyn's rare burning glass ; there, too. Dr. Taylor " falls to
disputing in Latin with a young French proselyte to Pro
testantism, Le Fane," on Original Sin ; that young Sorbonnist
being afterwards ordained both deacon and priest by the
Bishop of Meath, to whom Evelyn paid the fees, his lordship ¦
being, like most of his persecuted brethren, " very poor and
in want."
How varied is the scene on a river's brink ! ¦ One day, an
infinite concourse of people is attracted to Sayes Court, to see
a whale taken close to Evelyn's land ; a creature fifty-eight
feet long and sixteen high, yet the throat so narrow that it
could not have admitted the least of fishes. Bishops, parsons,
philosophers, and the host of Sayes Court, probably enjoyed
the strange sight when the whale, after a long conflict, was
killed -with a harping iron.
But the sounds of sorrow are heard in that once peaceful
home : — Evelyn's little son Michael, a prodigy " for beauty of
body — a very angel," is the bereaved father's heart-stricken
expression—" of incredible and rare hopes," — he is taken. A
quartan ague — who can wonder, at Deptford ? — carries
him off after six fits of that scourge which ravaged England
before the word sanitary became practical. There was little
hope for the child ; for the peril of a too cultivated intellect
made the sickness mortal. Not only could he, before he was
five years old, exhibit a "strong passion for Greek," but once.

DEATH OF MICHAEL EVELYN 37
" seeing a Plautus in one's hand, he asked what book it was,
and being told it was comedy, and too difficult for him, wept
with sorrow." " He declaimed against the vanities of the
world before he had seen any," adds the sorrowing parent.
The following touching account is related by that father of
the last hours of his precocious child : —
" The day before he died, he called to me, and, in a more
serious manner than usual, told me that, for all I loved him
so dearly, I should give all my house, land, and all my fine
things to his brother Jack, he should have none of them ; and
next morning, when he found himself ill, and that I persuaded
him to keep his hands in bed, he demanded whether he might
pray to God -with his hands unjoined ; and a little after,
whilst in great agony, whether he should not offend God by
using His holy name so often calling for Him."
" Here," exclaims the sorrowing Evelyn, " ends the joy of
my life, and for which I go even mourning to the grave."
Yet he did recover the loss, and learned that there is
scarcely any calamity that cannot be recovered. The next
year we find him going to see the superb funeral of the Pro
tector " Oliver, lying in effigy in royal robes, and cro-wned
with a crown, sceptre, and globe like a king." In this style,
the usurper was carried on a velvet bed in state from Somerset
House to Westminster ; drawn by six horses in velvet trap
pings, and followed by his guards, soldiers, and innumerable
mourners. It was the " joyfuUest " funeral Evelyn ever saw ;
"for there were not that cried save the dogs, which the
soldiers hooted away with a barbarous noise, taking tobacco
and drinking, as they marched through the streets."
A change on " the face of the public " is now observable.
Eiehard the Protector is slighted ; parties and pretenders
strive for the government. " Lord have mercy on us ! " was
Evelyn's ejaculation. Fasts were kept in private by the
Orthodox Churchmen for the good of the nation ; and, during
all this confusion. Monk, marching -to Whitehall, " dissi-
» 3

38 THE INVISIBLE COLLEGE.
pates that nest of robbers," as he calls the pretenders to
power, and convenes a Parliament — the Eump Parliament
being dissolved. Whilst this crisis was at its height, the
design of the Eoyal Society was first started.
"I communicated," Evelyn writes * (September 1st, 1659),
" to Mr. Eobert, son to the Earl of Cork, my proposal for
erecting a philosophic and mathematical college."
In 1646-7 we find Eobert Boyle writing to Mr. Francis
Tallents, Fellow of Magdalen College, Cambridge, — from that
'•'labyrinth, London," as he (even then) calls it — about the
" Invisible " or Philosophic College. This society consisted of
" learned and curious gentlemen," who, as Dr Birch relates,
" after the breaking out of the civil wars, in order to divert
themselves from those melancholy scenes, applied themselves
to experimental inquiries."
The meetings were at first held in the house of Dr.
Goddard, a physician ; his abode being selected on account of
his keeping an operator in his house for grinding glasses for
telescopes and microscopes ; sometimes in Gresham College ;
sometimes in Cheapside. All matters of theology and state-
affairs were prohibited : a necessary precaution where Dr.
Wilkins, Cromwell's brother-in-law, was one of the " cor
ner stones." In the year 1648-9, some of the Invisibles
went to Oxford, some remained in London. Boyle was then
resident iu Oxford, and the Society often met at his house ;
and often, also, at an apothecary's house, in which Dr. Petty,
an eminent physician, then lodged, for the convenience " of
inspecting drugs and the like." Oxford was, indeed, the only
place where Boyle could prosecute his experiments in quiet,
and with success. Fortunately there was a liberal spirit in
Dr. Wilkins : there were several eminent professors and heads
of houses, who " were certain," as Dr. Birch affirms, " that
there was no certain way of arriving at any competent know-
* Evelyn's Di.-iry, vol. i. p. 325.

BOYLE INVENTS THE AlE-PUMP. 39
ledge, unless they should make a variety of experiments upon
natural bodies, in order to discover what phenomena they
would produce."
Amongst the comer-stones was Christopher Wren, then a
Fellow of All Souls.
It was during Boyle's residence at Oxford that he invented
the air-pump. This admirable engine was perfected for him
in 1658 or 1659 by Eobert Hooke, a physician, who lived
¦with Boyle. By the air-pump Boyle was able to form a just
theory of the air, and to leave materials for future ages to
build upon. Until the rise of the Eoyal Society, there had
been no communion of interests among scientific men in
Europe. What men had hitherto performed, they had
worked out alone, rather by abstract reasoning than by ex
periments. The philosophy of Des Cartes, how fallacious
soever it may be deemed, had infused a spirit of inquiry
into the scientific world; and a disposition to think freely con
cerning natural objects, had spread from the Continent into
England. It is impossible, in this account of the friendship of two
men eminently useful not only to their own generation but
to ours, to enter adequately into their various works and
discoveries. " The gentleman, the merchant, and the me
chanic," writes one of Boyle's biographers, "are all obliged
to him for several useful discoveries, which must render his
memory dear to posterity." Yet Boyle, -with the modesty
inherent to a great mind, declared " that he had only drawn
the outline of science, and charged posterity to consider all
his writings as so many imperfect sketches."
Boyle's incessant labours were varied only by his occa
sional residence with his sister. Lady Eanelagh, in Pall Mall.
It was on his return from his travels that he had first taken
up his residence in the house of this sister ; and to that cir
cumstance he used thankfully to refer much of his happi-
D 4

¦40 SCENE ON THE PAVEMENT OP PALL MALL.
ness in life, much of his safety in those unsettled and cor
rupting times.
A strange medley of characters inhabited the " Pavement,"
as one side of the street of Pall Mall was then called. What
had only been originally the place chosen in the time of
Charles I. for the game of Faille Maille, was in the reign of
his son the centre of fashion. Here dwelt two mistresses of
Charles IL, Madam Kingal, the singer, and Madam Elinor
G-wyn ; whose gardens behind, as well as those of the other
residents, contained a mount, from which Nell could look
into the King's garden, and hold converse with her royal
paramour. Nevertheless, Lady Eanelagh, remarkable for
her genius, her knowledge, and her piety, lived next door to
this merry, lost creature ; and Dr. Isaac Barrow, the divine,
not far from her. Sydenham, the celebrated physician, had
a house in the " Pavement : " he was the intimate friend and
associate of Boyle. Certainly the moral sense was broken
down in those days, even in the minds of the strictly vir
tuous, when Lady Eanelagh could endure to hear Charles II.
holding a "very familiar discourse," as Evelyn terms it,
with Nell Gwyn, before the very next door to her ladyship's
well-ordered house ; the virtuous Evelyn walking in the
mean time with the King, whilst Nell looked out of her gar
den from the terrace near the wall, the King standing on
the green walk beneath it. Evelyn a spectator of the whole,
and then, " though heartily sorry at the scene," witnessing
his Majesty's progress to the Duchess of Cleveland's, whom
he, however, justly and indignantly terms " another lady of
pleasure, and curse of our nation."
Boyle, meantime, was impervious to all attempts to with
draw him from his life of studious celibacy. In 1696, an
overture was made to him respecting the Lady Mary Hastings,
sister of the Earl of Huntingdon, a lady of admirable temper,
of great understanding, and endowed with every quality
desirable in a -wife ; but he refused the offer at once.

Evelyn's life and puesuits. 41
Evelyn, on the contrary, was passing his days in all that
the gay and dilettante world could offer of amusement as well
as instruction. Prince Eupert taught him mezzotint with
his own hands : after his lessons forth goes the author of the
Sylva "to take the air" in Hyde Park, where his Majesty
and innumerable " gallants and rich cavaliers " paraded the
ring. Then, one day. Mistress Evelyn presents to the King
her copy of Peter Oliver's painting after Eaphael of the
Madonna, which she had " wrought -with extraordinary pains
and judgment : " next day, off goes her helpmate, that lover
of plants, to see the famous Queen Pine, brought from Barba
does, a present to his Majesty ; remarking, at the same time,
" that the first pines ever seen in England were those sent
four years since to Cromwell."
Next, "to Mr. Palmer's in Gray's Inn," to hear tunes
played on extraordinary clocks, that required winding up
only once a quarter. Then Evelyn sails with his Majesty in
one of his yachts, vessels only lately known amongst them ;
the King sometimes showing himself, sometimes talking to
Evelyn about his book on the nuisance of smoke in London,
which Evelyn had dedicated to him ; his Majesty, the most
charming of agreeable men, breaking off to deplore how rare
the improvement of gardens was in England compared with
other countries, or asking particulars of the bloody encounter
at the Tower between the French and Spanish ambassadors in
a contest for precedency. Then, again, at Whitehall, the King
cannot let Evelyn go away one evening without calling him
back into the royal closet, and sho-wing him some ivory statues,
and things Evelyn had not seen before. All these pleasant
incidents were perpetually interspersed by inquiries from the
King how the Philosophic Society got on, and talking about
" the planet Saturn," &c., as he sat at supper " in the with-
drawing-room to his bed-chamber." On the 18th September,
1661, the cro\\Tiing point was put to the success of the here
tofore " Invisible Society ; " and a petition was read before the

42 GAMING AT WHITEHALL.
King praying him to authorise it to meet as a corporation.
What a melancholy contrast does the following scene present !
" This evening, according to custom," writes Evelyn, " his
Majesty went to London, and opened the revels of that night
by throwing the dice himself in the privy chambers, where was
a table set on purpose, and lost his lOOL (the year before he
won 1500L) The ladies also played very deep. I came away
when the Duke of Ormond had won about 1000?., and left
them still at passage, cards, &c."
Not all the solemn fasts that were held so frequently in
those days could wipe out or repair the injury done by such
an example. The Duke of York visits Sayes Court, however,
" my poor habitation and gardens," and looks over the great
and curious collection : then off he and his host go to an East
India vessel that lay at Blackwall ; whence Evelyn returns to
London with his Highness — but comes home " to be private
a little, not at all affecting the life and hurry of a court."
Little touches of sadness are interposed between the annals
of the busy, prosperous life of a flattered favourite of the
court and public.
" This night," Evelyn relates, " was buried in Westminster
Abbey the Queen of Bohemia, after all her sorrows and
afflictions being come to die in the arms of her nephew, the
King ; also this night and the next day fell such a storm of
hail, thunder, and lightning, as never was seen the like in
any man's memory." Amid all the demoralisation of 'White
hall, Evelyn appears never to have waived his higher duties for
the sake of mere sublunary considerations, — never to have
forgotten his responsibility as a Christian. It is diflicult to
imagine how he could reconcile the nicety of his principles
to the impurity of what he saw and heard ; but so it was.
We know that some men do live in the world, -without being
of the world ; and Evelyn may have felt that, to carry out
schemes for the public benefit, court favour must be main
tained. He seems, also, to have felt for the Stuarts that

EVELYN APPOINTED A PUBLIC INSPECTOR. 43
personal liking with which even the most reprehensible of
that famUy inspired their followers. The -visits to Whitehall
were not so frequent as to inten-upt the devotion which
Evelyn paid to art, his love for which filled up the hours of
his active existence. His first appointment to a public
office was in 1662, when he was made commissioner for re
forming "the buildings, ways, streets, and incumbrances,"
and regulating hackney coaches in London. No man could
have been better suited to the task. He sat also on a com
mission of inquiry concerning the Gresham charities; on
another, for regulating the' Mint : but that which most en
gaged his attention and interested his feelings, was a com
mission for the care of the sick and wounded in the Dutch war.
His son, John Evelyn, who at fifteen years of age was
honourably distinguished as the author of an elegant Greek
poem prefixed to the Sylva, had been placed under the tuition
of Edward Phillips, the nephew of Milton, who, though brought
up by the great poet, was not, as Evelyn relates, " at all in
fected by his principles." This son grew up, and was imbued
with all Evel3m's tastes and pursuits ; but died in his father's
lifetime. It was the son of this John Evelyn who built the
beautiful library at Wotton for the reception of the books
coUected by his father, his grandfather, and himself ; for the
spirit of Sylva Evelyn was not extinct with his life, and his
descendants were worthy of the name they bore. Evelyn
had another trial still more poignant than the death of this
son ; for when he was taken Evelyn was so near the end of
his pilgrimage as to render the separation less afflicting.
His eldest daughter, Mary, died many years before her brother
of the small-pox, at the age of nineteen. " The attack soon,"
writes her father, " left no hope of her recovery : a great
affliction to me, but God's will be done ! " This young
creature, endowed with many natural gifts — beautiful, grace
ful, intellectual — resigned herself to death with the fortitude
of a noble and purified spirit. Evelyn speaks with pride of her

44 HIS DAUGHTEE MAEY.
accomplishments, especially of her singing, which " charmed
a large assembly at Lord Arundel's, of Wardour : " — of her
knowledge of languages, even of her dancing ; in which she ex
celled, " dancing with the greatest grace he ever saw," — " and
so said Monsieur Isaac, her master," — of her talents for acting,
and repeating poetry. With a deeper sentiment he speaks of
her great piety, and solidity of mind : but there is one touch
of pathos which must come home to every parent who has
lost his child, the companion of his studious hours ; who sees
in fancy in the vacant chair the image that will never more
meet his eye ; who hears, in bitter remembrance, the voice or
the footstep of one gone to another home ; and who feels that
vacant spot, that void and silent room, can never more be
filled as it was wont; but that the void, the silence, will be not
only to the eye and ear, but to the desolate, bereaved heart
evermore. " Nothing was so delightful to her as to go into my study,
where she would willingly have spent whole days ; for, as I
said, she had read abundance of history, and all the best poets ;
even Terence, Plautus, Homer, Virgil, Horace, Ovid ; all the
best romances and modern poems. She could compose
happily. " *
" 0 dear, sweet, and desirable child," he thus breaks out,
" how shall I part with all this goodness and virtue without
the bitterness of sorrow and reluctancy of a tender parent?
Thy affection, duty, and love to me was that of a friend as
well as a child.'' f
Then, after the manner of parents, poor Evelyn goes into
the circumstances which seem to have contributed to bring
down on him this great sorrow.
Mary Evelyn had dreaded the small-pox, and that dread
had exposed her to the greater peril, whilst staying -with Lady
Falkland and in all the full career of the gaieties of the court
and capital. But in the midst of every earthly enjoyment
* Evelyn's Diary, vol. ii. p. 215. ¦)- Ibid.

SHE DIES or THE S3IAIX-P0X. 45
her heart was with God. Four gentlemen of quality, as her
proud father relate.?, were in treaty for her hand in marriage,
but she declined them, " Were I," she said to her parents,
" assured of your and my fether's life, never would I part from
you." WeU might Evelyn say, " Precious is the memorial
of the just." " Never can I say enough, oh dear, my dear
child, whose memory is so precious to me I " " Thus lived,
and died, and was buried, the joy of my life and ornament of
her sex, and of my poor family."
ilary Evelyn was buried at Deptford. Many great and
good mourners Ustened, with tears, to the funeral sermon by
Dr. Holden, in which her -virtues were enumerated : — her
parents not having the courage to be present. Her mother
added to this heart-stricken account the simple words, " How
to expre^ the sorrow for parting -with so dear a child is a dif
ficult task." " The seventh day of her Ulness she discoursed
to me in particular as calmly as in health ; desired to confess,
and to receive the Holy Sacrament, which she performed
¦with great devotion ; after which, though in her perfect senses
to the last, she never signified the least concern for the world,
prayed often, and resigned her soul. What shaU I say ? She
was too great a bles.sing for me, who never deserved anything,
stUl less such a jewel."
From such calamities Eobert Boyle seemed exempt ; but
sorrows are the conditions of our lives, and his came in an
other form, and ¦with a poignancy under which his strength
succumbed. It was ordained that Eobert Boyle, though several years
younger than Evelyn, should predecease him fourteen years.
Towards the year 1691 the great phUosopher and Christian
benefactor of his time found it essential to put forth a sort of
circular to his friends, warning them that his health no longer
enabled him to receive casual visitors, to whom he had hitherto
been accustomed to open his doors in the afternoons, even
allowing them to come into his laboratory. Forty-six years

46 DEATH OF LADY RANELAGH.
previously he had complained to his sister. Lady Eanelagh,
" of the busy idleness of recei-ying senseless visits,'' which, he
thought, " might justify the retiredness of a hermit ; " he now
alleged also another reason for his retreat from daily interrup
tion. Many of his papers, he stated, had been " corroded, here
and there, or otherwise maimed;" so that he must, to make
them intelligible, restore the lost passages. His age and sick
ness, he added, admonished him to put his -writings into order,
that they might not be quite useless ; whilst his friend and
physician. Sir Edward King, advised him not to talk daily with
so many persons, as inducing him to sit too much, and there
fore to add to his complaint in the kidneys. He therefore
desired to be excused from receiving visits two days in the
week, namely, on the forenoons of Tuesdays and Fridays, and
on the afternoons of Wednesdays and Saturdays, that he "may
have some time both to recruit his spirits, to range his papers,
and to take some care of his affairs in Ireland." His health,
however, continued to decline ; he therefore determined upon
making his last will, which he sealed and signed in July 1691.
He now suffered from a decay in his sight : when he looked
at distant objects a thin mist seemed to be before them;
" these apparitions," as he termed them, disturbed him
greatly. On the 23rd of December that year. Lady Eanelagh
died. She had lived longer on the public scene, and had
been more conspicuous during all the revolutions of our
country during the previous fifty years, than any woman of
her time. She had twice, during the convulsions in Irish
affairs, lost all she had ; but she rose nobly above her own
distresses, and was the general intercessor for all in want or
sorrow. Her time, her interest, her property, were employed
in doing good. No party considerations ever deterred her
from extending her beneficence to any object, of any creed, of
any politics. Her knowledge was vast, her affability, her
humility still greater. She had the deepest sense of religion,
and to God was her heart continually turned. " Such a sister

DEATH OF ROBERT BOYLE. 47
became such a brother," said Bishop Burnet, in his funeral
sermon on Eobert Boyle ; " and it was but suitable to both
their characters that they should have improved the relation
under which they were born, to the more exalted and en
dearing one of friend." Her brother survived her a week
only. They lived together forty years in the bonds of an
affection ennobled by a community of interests for the benefit
of the world. He expired on the 30th of December, 1691,
at three-quarters of an hour past twelve in the night ; the
brother and sister were buried in the same grave, and the chan
cel of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields holds their honoured dust.
Boyle was in the sixty-fifth year of his age at his death. It
was remarkable that Boyle was born the same year in which
Bacon died.
Boerhaave, after declaring Boyle to be the father of expe
rimental phUosophy, adds these words : " Which of his writings
shall I recommend? All of them. To him we owe the
secrets of fire, air, water, animals, vegetables, fossils ; so that
from his works may be deduced the whole system of natural
knowledge." Destined, as it seemed, to succeed to the labours and
inquiries of Lord Bacon, Boyle applied experimental philo
sophy to every branch of science. The world he regarded,
not as a " rude heap of dull inactive matter," but, as Dr.
Shaw tells us, " as a grand and noble machine, continu
ally actuated, informed, and governed by a most wise and
beneficent Being, who keeps all the parts thereof in motion,
and makes them act one upon another, according to certain
laws." " Too -wise to set bounds to nature," this great man
was never prone to say that everything strange must be
impossible ; he thought that all we have to do is " to keep
our eyes open, and expect what nature and art will, upon due
application, perform." * He possessed that noble faculty of
suspending his judgment on any point until he had dispas-
* Birch's Life of Eobert Boyle, p. 309.

48 BOYLEAN LECTURE FOUNDED.
sionately and fully considered any specified question, and
gained the fullest information respecting it.
Candid, generous, accessible, it was his endeavour to render
all things easy and familiar to others. " His soul," writes
Dr. Shaw, "was as great and noble as his genius was com^
prehensive, or his invention fruitful.''
Evelyn records Boyle's death as that of a pious, admirable
Christian, excellent philosopher, and "his worthy friend."
After repeating a few of the qualities upon which Bishop
Burnet touched in his funeral sermon, he adds, " And truly all
this was but his due, without any grain of flattery." Evelyn
was made one of Boyle's trustees for his charitable bequests,
which amounted to 8000L ; and upon consulting vdth the
other trustees, Dr. Bentley, the great scholar and critic, and
afterwards Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, was ap
pointed to preach the first Boylean Lecture at St. Mary-le-
Bow, against Atheists, Jews, Deists, and Socinians. The
discourse was pronounced by Evelyn to be one of the most
learned and convincing that he had ever heard.
Evelyn's life was prolonged until he had attained his
eighty-sixth year. In 1697, we find him at Wotton, where he
retired on the invitation of his brother, his circumstances ren
dering it, he says, desirable for him to accept that friendly
proposal. His eldest son John was now ill of the malady
under which he eventually succumbed ; but Evelyn's interests
seem to have been strongly attracted"^ towards his grandson,
for whom he was forming the library at Wotton. Sayes
Court having been recently newly furnished by the King for
Peter the Great, Wotton was made the deposit of many
valuables. "My grandson," he writes, "is so delighted in books,
that he professes a library is to him the greatest recreation,
and I give him free scope here, where I have near upon
22,000, with my brother's, and I would bring the rest had I
any room, which I have not to my great regret, ha-sdng here

EVELYN, IN OLD AGE, AT WOTTON. 49
so little conversation with the learned, unless it be when Mr.
Wotton (the learned gentleman before mentioned, the friend
of Dr. Bentley) comes now and then to visit me, he being
tutor to Mr. Finch's son at Albury."
His love for evergreens continued.
"For the rest," he adds, "I am planting an evergreen
grove here to an old house ready to drop, the economy and
hospitality of which my good old brother will not depart
from ; but — m,ore veterum — kept a Christmas, in which we
had not fewer than three hundred bumpkins every holy day."
Then he gives a cheerful picture of an intellectual and
domestic old age, in the following sentences : —
" We have here a very convenient apartment of five rooms
together, besides a pretty closet which we have furnished
with the spoils of Sayes Court, and is the raree-show of the
whole neighbourhood; and in truth we live easy as to all
domestic cares. Wednesday and Saturday nights we call
lecture nights, when my ¦wife and myself take our turns to
read the packets of all the news sent constantly from London,
which serves us for discourse till fresh news comes."
In all his bereavements, in the death of several children, the
marriage ofhis daughter Susanna proved a consolation. Ee-
sembling her mother in the direction of her hereditary talents,
Susanna was an accomplished painter in oil. She was "dis
creet, ingenious, religious," and, according to her partial father,
exquisitely shaped, and of an agreeable countenance. " This
marriage proved," Evelyn adds, " in all respects to my
daughter's and our hearts' desires." Her husband, Mr. Draper,
proved a most deserving person, and they were among the
happiest pairs in England ; and she and her husband lived
with her mother-in-law, " kept each their coach, and with as
suitable an equipage as any in town."
Happy as he was at Wotton — soon to be his — Evelyn must
have experienced some vexation when such accounts as these,
of his former home reached him in a letter from his servant: —
VOL. I. ^

50 now THE CZAR COMFORTS HIMSELF AT SAYES COURT.
" There is a house full of people, and right nasty. The
Czar lies next your library, and dines in the parlour next
your study. He dines at ten o'clock and six at night, is
very seldom at home a whole day, very often in the King's
Yard, or by water, dressed in several dresses. The King is
expected here to-day. The best parlour is pretty clean for
him to be entertained in. The King pays for all he has." *
On the 24th March 1699, Evelyn's only remaining son
died about the age of forty-four, leaving only to the be
reaved Evelyn family, to keep up the name and reputation
of Wotton, a son then at Oxford, afterwards created a
baronet, and long respected as Sir John Evelyn. In the
October of the same year, Evelyn's elder brother George died,
and Wotton became the property of the author of the " Sylva."
The funeral of George Evelyn was conducted upon a scale
of extraordinary magnificence, about two thousand persons
attending it. On the 31st of October 1703, John Evelyn
gratefully recorded his eighty-first birthday. "I find," he
writes, " by many infirmities this year (especially nephritic
pains), that I much decline, and yet, of God's infinite mercy,
retain my intellects and senses in great measure above most
of my age." f
He still went into the world, still delighted in gardens,
carvings, pictures, statues, and even in jewellery. In his
eighty-fourth year, he records how, visiting the Lord Treasurer
Godolphin, he met the Duke of Marlborough, who took him
by the hand with extraordinary "familiarity and civility,"
though Evelyn believed he might have forgotten him. " The
great general had on a most rich George as a sardonyx, set
¦with diamonds of very great value. For the rest, very
plain." On New Year's Day, 1705-6, we find the stout old man
paaking up his accounts for the past year ; though, on the
* Diary, vol ii. p. 349. ¦f ibi^. p. 376.

EVELYN DIES. 51
twenty-seventh of the same month, his weak and trembling
hand could still write one more record of his closing life :
" My indisposition increasing, I was exceeding ill all this
whole week."
Next day he died.
His epitaph, engraved on white marble, covering a tomb
shaped like a coffin in the dormitory at Wotton, truly
declares that his " fame was perpetuated by far more lasting
monuments than those of stone or brass."
Evelyn's name is perhaps dearer to England than that of
any other of our countrymen who have been engaged in civil
employments, if we except Shakspeare. He lived and died
among his people, sho^wing how erroneous is the idea that to
be religious, or studious, or philosophic, it is necessary to be a
recluse. By his social virtues he did as much good as, by
his works. He first introduced and ennobled the science
of making English homes elegant as well as happy. Whilst
Boyle soared into every branch of experimental philosophy,
Evelyn adapted and enlarged all that was practical. They
were well suited to live in the same age, the one to elevate and
enlarge, the other to fertilise and humanise. In their friend
ship they were congenial, although dissimilar in character.
Boyle, it is said, taught the young nobility to value science,
and to bring to its aid their influence and their fortunes.
Evelyn was the very type and model of the true English
country gentleman. To say thus much is but a fraction of
their praise. Who can estimate the good they did in their
lives? WTio can state the result of their united efforts?
Who can sufficiently reverence the piety that was so exalted
in an age of infidelity, the sincerity that ¦withstood so many
variations in others, the purity of life that no evil example
could ever shake, the simplicity of character that, in both
these illustrious friends, remained alike unsullied to him
whose hours were passed in the retreats of the university,
E 2

52 JEREMY TAYLOR'S OPINION OF HIS ESSAY ON FRIENDSHIP.
and to him who lived not only in the world, but in its busier
haunts? Well might Jeremy Taylor ¦write in one of his letters to
Evelyn, —
"I perceive there is a friendship beyond what I have
fancied, and a real, material worthiness beyond the heights of
the most perfect ideas ; and I know now where to make my
book " (his Essay on Friendship) " perfect, and by an
appendix to outdo the first essay ; for when anything shall
be observed to be wanting in my character, I can tell them
where to see the substance, much more beauteous than the
picture, and, by sending the readers of my book to be spec
tators of your life and worthiness, they shall see what I would
fain have taught them, by what you really are."
Mrs. Evelyn survived her husband nearly three years. In
her -will, she desired to be buried in a stone coffin near to her
" dear husband, whose love and friendship I was happy in
fifty-eight years and nine months."
" His care of her education," she further records, " was
such as might become a father, a lover, a friend, and hus
band, for instruction, for tenderness, affection, and fidelity to
the last moment of his life."
The expression, " care of my education," is a striking
one, but it is suggestive. A woman's education, as a respon
sible and immortal being, commences in its most extended
sense at her marriage ; and her career, for better or for worse,
may be said to rest mainly on the character and infiuence of
him who perfects the moral education of her soul.

HENRY HOWAO, EARL OF SURREY,

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

THE CHRISTMAS OF 1595. — FEAT OP AEMS. — -WYATT's NAME AMONG
THE CHALLENGEES. — HIS LINEAGE.  SIE HENEY -WYATT. — LDTES
ON ALLINGTON CASTLE.  -WYATT AT ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE.  HIS
EAELY ACQUAINTANCE -WITH ANNE BOLE-YN.  SUEEEY AND HIS
FEIENDS.  HE MAEEIES LADY FEANCES -VEEE.  ANECDOTE OF
-WYATT AND ANNE BOLE-YN.  VAEIOUS INCIDENTS : AEEANGED
MAEEIAGES.  DE. NOTt's OPINION OF -WYATT.  -WYATT THE
GEEATEST WIT OF HIS TIME.  HIS FRIENDSHIP -WITH SUEEEY. 
GEEALDINE.  SUEEEy's LINES ON HEE. — HIS PASSION. — DEATH OP
-WYATT.  -wyatt's LETTEE TO HIS SON.  SUEEEY's EPITAPH ON
-WYATT. — LELAND THE OLD MOETALITY OF HIS TIME. — ATTACKS ON
-WYATT.  SUEEEY's KINDNESS TO -WYATT's SON. — QUAEEEL AT
COUET  SUEEEY GOES TO BOULOGNE. — CABALS AGAINST HIM. — HIS
LETTEES. — HIS TEIAL, AND DEATH.

e3

HENEY HOWAED, EAEL OF SUEEEY,

AND

SIE THOMAS WYATT.

It was at the feast of the Christmas in 1595 that a splendid
feat of arms was performed before Henry VIII. and his
queen, by the gentlemen of his "Highnesses Bedchamber,"
for it was after that time that " Majesty " became the style.
The court was at the ancient palace of Greenwich, then
termed Placentia ; and the Queen, Katharine of Arragon, in
aU her well-merited popularity, gave audience betimes to a
herald from the King's servants, announcing the enterprise.
Windsor Herald, or Chateau Blanche, as he was christened
for the occasion, was dressed in a coat-of-arms of red silk,
having a "goodly castle and four turrets of beaten silver
worked thereon : in every turret sat a faire lady gorgeously
apparelled." So says the chronicler Hall. The Queen re
ceived the compliment in her " great chamber," her consort
Henry VIII. being present : then the sound of the trumpet
echoed through the vaulted, spacious room, and Chateau
Blanche delivered his message : " That, the King having given
to four maidens of his court the Castle of Loyalty to dispose of
at their pleasure, they had committed the custody thereof to a
captain and fifteen gentlemen with him, which captain and
gentlemen declared to the King and princes, and gentlemen
E4

1 1

56 the CHALLENGERS, AND THEIR NAMES.
of noble courage, that they would defend the castle against
all comers, provided they were gentlemen of name and
arms," reserving to themselves the pri-pilege of choosing the
weapons to be used, and of naming the ransom for all pri
soners taken in that castle ; which was, four yards of satin
for every private man and fourteen for every captain, to be
paid do-wn, — satin being an article of great price and in
constant demand. Then the names of the challengers were
proclaimed, and amidst the Greys, the Cobhams, the Dudleys
and Seymours, came the name of Wyatt ; and Thomas Wyatt,
commonly called the elder, appeared for the first time at
court on this signal occasion. And that name was heard
with pleasure ; for the family of Wyatt had been favourites
alike with the hard, sagacious Henry VII. and with his
capricious son. There was a tradition in the family that
Sir Henry Wyatt, the young courtier's father, who had been
imprisoned by Eiehard III. in the Tower on account of his
adherence to the House of Lancaster, had been saved from
starvation by a cat which had daily brought some pigeons
from a neighbouring dovecote to his chamber in that drear
building. Be that as it may, there wanted no hereditary
claim on the monarch's preference to establish Thomas
Wyatt's favour. The young man was then in the very
flower of his youth, and was distinguished by more than
ordinary gifts. He was tall and strong and elegant, not
moulded -with the robust clumsiness of a ploughboy, but -with
the refined, though vigorous figure of a gentleman. Men are
seldom enthusiastic in praise of the personal perfections even
of their best friends; but Henry, Earl of Surrey, whom
Leland calls " conscript enrolled heir," has thus described Sir
Thomas Wyatt's bodily perfections : —
"A valiant corpse, -where force and beauty met,
Happy, alas ! too happy, but for foes,
Lived, and ran the race that nature set.
Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did lose."

wyatt's personal beauty. 57
With the perfection of form was united the perfection of
feature, of contour of face, and of expression. Thus says
Lord Surrey : —
"A -visage stem and mild, -where both did grow
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice ;
Amid great storms, whom grace assured so.
To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice."
In these verses the moral qualities are commingled with
personal attractions; but Leland, even thoug-h less partial,
has told us that Wyatt's face was one of peculiar beauty.
His features might have served as a model for a sculptor.
His forehead was noble ; his eyes were wonderfully briUiant
and searching : there was something in his smile surpassingly
sweet and winning. Let Surrey speak, since he felt all the
influence of that beloved and beautiful countenance.
" An eye, -whose judgment no elFect* could bKnd,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile ;
"WTiose piercing look did represent a mind
¦With -virtue fraught, reposed, void of guUe.''
To this intellectual beauty were united immense activity
and strength, and address in arms ; so that in the encounter,
that feat which Chateau Blanche announced as to be shortly
performed, his dexterity was one of the great guarantees of
its signal success.
Christmas in the olden time was festive indeed. Scarcely
had the solemnities of the eve been ended, when large
candles were lighted in every house, and a "yule-log" or
" Christmas block " was brought into the hall, generally by
the house or village carpenter, who had appropriated the
root of some great tree to the purpose. As he deposited the
log, each of the family, servants inclusive — for in those days
servants were not kept at an inhuman distance — sat down
in turn on the log, drank a merry Christmas to each person
* Passion.

58 OLD customs : placentia.
present, and sang a song. This being over, the yule-log
was laid on the great andirons of the ample chimney, and
lighted -with the last year's brand ; fuel having been heaped
up, it soon blazed ; then the music struck up, and yule-dough
and yule-cakes, on which was impressed the figure of the
infant Saviour, were handed about vnth bowls of frumenty,
made of wheat cakes or creed wheat, boiled in milk -with
spices ; then tankards of spiced ale went round : and these
customs, we are told, continued so late in the north of Eng
land as the 1 7th century. " Come, bring in -with a noise,
My raerrie, mei-rie boyes.
The Christmas log to the firing ;
"While my good dame, she
Bids you all be free.
And drink to your hearts' desiring."
Placentia, no doubt, afforded the best specimen of Christ
mas festivities, and in its long since ruined tilt-yard sat
Katharine of Arragon that Christmas, to view the Castle of
Loyalty, of which the old chronicler Hall, delighting in such
details, gives the following description : — " For this enter
prise there was set up in the tilt-yard at Greenwich a castle,
square every way twenty foot, and fifty feet in height, very
strong, of great timber and well fastened with iron. When
the streng-th of this castle was well beholden, many made
dangerous to assault it, and some said it could not be won by
sport but by earnest."
The King, he adds, " minded to have it assaulted," and
even contrived engines for the attack: but the carpenters
" were so dull that they understood not his intent, but
-wrought all things contrary ; and so for that time the assault
was prolonged, and all other points of the challenge held."
And Henry, doubtless, was in a fierce temper at this obstacle
to a will and pleasure that were felt by most men in that

¦wyatt S LINEAGE. 59
day, to be imperative, and by none, in time, more keenly
than by Thomas Wyatt. But he was at that time in high
favour. " To have been in Wyatt's closet " was a proverbial
saying, indicating at once his influence, and the kindly dis
position which led him to make use of it for the benefit and
advancement of his brother courtiers.
We have seen Wyatt in one passage of his court life : let
us trace him from an earlier period, and observe how that
character, the nobleness of which has been undoubted, was
nurtured and formed. Thomas Wyatt, " the improver of the
English language, and restorer of modern English poetry,"*
was descended from an ancient family originally of Southange
in Yorkshire.! Happily for himself, his birth was only honour
able, not noble, so that he escaped the jealousy which soon
evinced itself in Henry VIII., as it had done to a fearful
extent in his father, of any persons who could claim kindred
¦with the old Plantagenet race, o( whom, in that era of inter
marriages, there were not a few in England. Surrey, who
was one of the victims of that infernal jealousy, in the
verses he addressed to his friend Wyatt, and headed " On
the Golden Mean, and the Dangers of a too abject or a too
elevated Station," thus refers to his friend's comparative
mediocrity of birth and position : —
" Of thy life, Thomas, this compass well mark :
Not aye -with full sails the high seas to beaj ;
Ne by coward intent, in shunning storms dark.
On shallow shores thy keel in peril frent.
" The lofty pine the great -wind often rives ;
¦With -violenter sway fall turrets steep ;
Lightnings assault the high mountains and cKves ;
A heart well stayed, in over thwartes deep.''
* Nott's Life of ^Wyatt, vol. i. p. I.
t The lineal descendant of Sir Thomas ^Wyatt — Thomas ^Wyatt, formerly of
Long Ditton, Surrey — is now a prosperous landholder in Canada, near Hamilton,
so that the illustrious name has been carried into that remote region.

60 BOEN at ALLINGTON.
Wyatt was born at AUington Castle, — a fortress on the
Medway, said to have been built by the great Earl Warrenne.
It was then inhabited occasionally by Sir Stephen de Pen-
chester, and reverted afterwards to the Cobham family, but
was given first to the Brentz, and from them aUenated to
Sir Henry Wyatt, the hero of the romance of the Cat and
Pigeons. AlUngton, in the time of Sir Stephen de Pen-
chester, who was constable of Dover Castle in the time of
Edward I., had been a place of consideration, having a fair
held there, and a weekly market. There is now little of its
former importance, except the ruin in which he whom old
Anthony a Wood calls the "delight of the Muses and of
mankind," first saw the light. That decaying structure,
still bearing the characteristics of a fortress, stands near the
Eiver Medway, hidden by trees : with a moat and the en
trance gateway built by the Cobhams; and the still more
ancient round tower, the ¦^^ork of Earl Warrenne. Henry
VIII. ¦visited the young poet during his time of precarious
favour ; but in the rebellion of the younger Wyatt, in the
reign of Mary, the castle became escheated to the cro^wn,
and was given to Queen Elizabeth's Master of the Eevels,
Sir Thomas Astley, from whom it passed here to Earl
Eomney, to whose family the property was bequeathed by his
relation, a lineal descendant of Sir Thomas Wyatt.*
Much of the poet's youth seems, however, to have been
passed at the "Mote," anciently the possession of the Ley-
bournes ; then, after owning various proprietors, — for estates
often changed hands before and during the wars of the
Eoses, — the Mote passed into the Widville or Wood^ville
family, and Eiehard de Widville, the father of Elizabeth,
the consort of Edward IV., became the lord of the castellated
old mansion, — " a venerable, rambling building," we are told,
standing, encompassed ¦with a moat, in the lower end of the
* Beauties of England and ^Wales, vol. -viii. p. 1237.

THE OLD MOTE-HOUSE. 61
park, only a mile south-eastward from Maidstone. Eiehard
Widville was massacred during a rising in Northamptonshire,
and, his seven sons dying -without issue, this domain became
the property of Thomas Wyatt's grandfather, but was for
feited after the attainder of his son, Sir Thomas Wyatt the
younger, in the reign of Mary. During her sombre rule, as if
to triumph more completely over the family who had been so
eminently Protestant, Cardinal Pole had a lease of the Mote.
It passed eventually into the hands of the honoured famUy
who have since, perhaps for valid reasons, taken down the old
Mote-house, having pre^sdously erected one, in every way a
contrast, on a finer site, ¦with more beautiful views, doubtless
better and larger apartments, but not the old Mote-house.
The haunts of Wyatt can never be built up again except in
fancy: so historic a fragment, so revered a monument of
poetry and of ¦virtue, it is not in the power of any proprietor
either to replace, or to restore.
We may nevertheless form some notion by analogy of the
interior Ufe of the young poet. From a manuscript in the
British Museum, quoted by Warton, we find that the follow
ing articles formed the furniture of a closet at Greenwich. A
closet, in old parlance, corresponds either to a modern lady's
boudoir, or to a young man's gun-room or smoking room.
That of Wyatt probably resembled that occupied by the
youths who hung about the court of Henry. — A clocke, a
glass of steel, a map, a gun upon a stock wheeled, five paxes
(or crucifixes) of glass and wood, a tablet of our Lady and
Saint Anne, two or three pairs of hawkes' gloves lined -with
velvet, two combe cases furnished, a night-cap of black
velvet embroidered, an ivory horn, a standing dial in a case
of copper, a horn glass, eight cases of benchers, a folding
table of images ; these, ¦with a hundred or more of common
hawkes' hoods, ¦with dogs' collars, riding rods for ladies,
chessmen in a black satin bag, a table-cloth embroidered
¦with a picture of St. George, some Araby birds stuffed,

62 SIR HENRY wyatt: HIS PORTRAIT.
two long cases of black leather ¦with pedigrees, a table with
words "of Jhesus," a target and bows, composed the lumber
of a young man's lounging room. Smoking, happily, was in
those days unknown.
It is consoling, also, to find that the Earls of Eomney,
-who were connected -with the Wyatts by the marriage of Sir
Thomas ^Marsham with Margaretta Wyatt, retain some traces
of that relationship. In the present and spurious Mote-house,
there is the picture of a grave and venera.ble man, with a gold
chain round his neck. This is Sir Henry Wyatt, the father
of the poet. We can fancy him just the man to perform a
terrible piece of ser-vice to Henry VII. in conducting to the
Tower the youthful Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk,
whom the King of Castile had given up to the jealousy and
cruelty of the English monarch. One can fancy him also
sitting in the Star Chamber, and in Chancery, — soldier as he
was, nevertheless, yet acting judicially ; anon we trace him
attending Henry VIII. to the plains of Ardres, to meet there
the gallant Francis I.; and next we find him, in 1527, re
ceiving Henry at AUington Castle, where the king awaited
Cardinal Wolsey's return from France.
We can also conceive easily enough that Sir Henry Wyatt —
looking at his portrait — should marry as he did, late in Ufe.
Not until he was forty -two years of age did the prudent courtier
espouse Anne Skinner, of Eeigate, in Surrey. By her he had
three children: Margaret, married to Sir Henry Lee, ancestor
to the Earls of Lichfield ; Henry, who lived in Kent, a re
tired country gentleman ; and Thomas, the elder son, and the
poet. It is natural to ask how, -with so sensible a father,
composed of stern matter-of-fact and worldly wisdom, the
youth's poetical genius and noble character of mind were
fostered. No doubt, localities and early associations had
thek influence. AUington, where much of Wyatt's chUdhood
was passed, though now a mass of ruins inhabited only by a

LINES ON ALLINGTON. 63
farmer and a few labourers, retains the inaUenable charms of
situation. It stands on an angle formed by the Medway, and
the verdant meadow on which the grim ruins are seated
is opposite to a wooded bank, rising abruptly. Behind the
castle the ground slopes, and groves and hop-grounds contrast
-with the dark grey and ruined edifice. In one of the towers,
the old woman, guide to AUington, had still, some years since,
the audacity to declare, was Sir Henry imprisoned : there the
cat — and she pointed to the very dovecote — used to take the
pigeons every day to the forgotten and starving captive.
Nay, even one of Sir Henry's descendants recorded the merits
of the cat in an inscription placed on his tomb at Boxley, in
Kent.* Surrounded by scenes so smiUng, yet familiarised never
theless, insensibly, -with traditions of the past, Thomas
Wyatt, as he grew up, displayed a luxuriant fancy, combined
with a deep and reverent sense of the great and beautiful: —
we caU that romance ; and romance, in a strong mind, is one
of the safeguards of the young : and it brought Wyatt back to
virtue even when drawn aside from her paths by the temp
tations of the court.
One word more about AUington ere we quit its precincts,
and picture to ourselves its young inhabitant pressing forth
to the business of life. AlUngton has not been forgotten by
the Muses, although now it bears those two mournful attri
butes, a ruin and a show-place. In the "Censura Litte-
raria " we find these lines : —
" Then let me fly to Medway's stream,
¦Where flowing "Wyatt used to dream
His moral fancies ! Ivied towers
'Neath which the silver naiad pours
Her murmuring waves thro' verdant meads
"Where the rich herd luxuriant feeds,
* Nott's Life of "Wyatt, p. II.

64 -WYATT AT ST. JOHn's COLLEGE.
How often in your still recesses
I've seen the muse with careless tresses
Scatter her flowers as ^Wyatt bade
In spring's enamelled colours clad."*
In regard to Wyatt's early education, in the accepted
sense of the word, all, as far as his childhood is concerned, is
obscure. At twelve years of age he went to Cambridge : was
entered at St. John's College, and took his Bachelor's degree
three years afterwards, in 1518, andhis Master's in 1520.
Anthony a Wood, eager on all occasions for the glory of
Oxford, declares that Wyatt, after lea^ving Cambridge, went to
Wolsey's College (Christ Church), which was founded in 1524,
there to complete his studies. But in 1 524 Wyatt was at court,
and in 1525 tilting, as we have seen, at the Castle of Loyalty,
thinking of something very different to the jargon of school
men in those days. From the same authority it has been
alleged that Wyatt was sent, on quitting Oxford, to travel on
the continent. But his silence on this point in his poems,
and that of his eulogist Leland, and of his friend Surrey,
disprove, in the opinion of Dr. Nott, this surmise. Wyatt
did not ¦visit Spain until a much later period ; and besides,
there was another circumstance that must have checked
travelling, and somewhat lessened romance : Wyatt was at
this time not only a married man, but the father of a son ;
Thomas Wyatt the younger having been born in 1523 or
1524, — indeed, according to some accounts, so early as 1521.
Of his ¦wife and the mother of his children, little is known,
except that she was the daughter of Brook, Lord Cobham,
and that her name was Elizabeth. She may have had every
attraction, all virtues, — but she was only second in the
heart of her accompUshed husband ; for all his soul was
centred in another object, — the beautiful, intellectual, ill-
fated Anne Boleyn.
* Beauties of England and "Wales, voL -viii. p. 1263. From " The 'Wizard."

HOW MARRIAGES WERE ARRANGED IN THOSE DAYS. 65
As his passion for her, as well as his friendship for Surrey,
forms one of the notable influences in Wyatt's life, let us take
a view of the circumstances, the state of society, the kno-wn
details, and the mournful issue of his blamable and ill-starred
affection. Platonic attachments were, to a certain extent,
authorised in those days, as far as the world was concerned,
by the usages of society ; and although they must always
have been attended with risk in public, and ¦with a conscious
ness of impropriety in private, they were allowed by moralists
as excusable, tending, it was said, to humanise society ; and
they were adopted by poets as convenient for the imagination
to rest upon some especial object of romantic interest and
attraction. The marriages of that period were like those, to the disgrace
of France, still obtaining in that country, — mere monetary
contracts in the first instance. A thousand motives, but the
ruling one, money, prompted the hard bargain, in which all
the skill of the lawyer, all the judgment of the parent, ¦were
called into requisition ; no intimacy was allowed between the
young couple even after the contract, which preceded the
espousals forty days. The unhappy pair were thus bound
together, and sent home to live for ever and a day, for richer
for poorer, for better for worse (but it was too often for worse),
as well as they could. The consequences were sometimes
fearful. An enforced tie begot a sense of injury in the mind
of a child, betrothed often at ten or eleven years of age and
married at fifteen, towards a parent ; and engendered hatred to
the object of a bond which, in the secret heart, was detested.
We blush at the revelations of the divorce courts ; but they
are pure as a sheet of white paper, compared with the
old Star-Chamber examinations. In Eoman Catholic times
it was difficult for the married to get loose (in our o^wn
among CatTiolics, it is impossible) : hence, in the middle ages,
murders, poisonings, infidelities, horrors almost inconceivable,
VOL. I. P

66 APOLOGY FOR WYATT.
and mysteries almost unfathomable, and incomparably more
dread and revolting than anything — and it is saying much
— that can occur in our times, were the foundation of the
causes celebres. Such was the case among the wicked and
desperate : among the refined, the ¦virtuously disposed, a Pla
tonic devotion was thought to be a safety-valve, and was the
resource even of loyal-hearted and pious men, and among
others, of Thomas Wyatt. It has been said that his passion
was a feigned one, and, like that of Cowley, assumed in order
that he might have an object for his verse. Dr. Nott (who,
though holding at one time a fellowship at All Souls, retained
still the romance that seems likely to be buried within those
walls) thus writes on this point, at once candidly and with
liberality : —
" But I should be insincere were I to offer such an apology.
There are many passages in Wyatt's verses which convince
me that he felt what he expressed. I rest his defence, where
alone I think it ought to rest, on -what has been said, in
Surrey's instance, on the habits and the opinions of his time." *
It was from the Italian poets, as Warton in his " History of
English Poetry" tells us, that Wyatt was taught to "torture
the passion of love by prolix and intricate comparisons, and
unnatural allusions." f In some of his sonnets he says that
"all nature sympathises with his passion, the woods resound
his elegies, the rivers stop their course to hear him complain,
and the grass weeps in dew."
Such images incline one to a belief in a fantastic and
poetic passion, rather than a real one ; but there are pas
sages in Wyatt's poems that show a deep and bitter con
viction that " the shadow of a shade " on which he had fixed
his hopes had been fatal to his peace. It was from a suffer
ing heart that such lines as these came, in his Epistle to
John Poines: — ¦
* Life of "Wyatt, p. Ixxix.
t Hist, of English Poetry, vol. i. p. 33.

WYATT AND ANNE BOLEYN. _ 67
" Make plaine thy harte that it be not knotted
"With hope or dread, and se thy -wUl be bare
From all affects whom -vice has never spotted.
Thyself content with that in thee assinde.
And use it well that is to thee allotted.
Then seke no more out of thyself to fynde
The thing that thou hast sought so long before.
For thou shalt feele it sticking in thy minde."
There exists no record of the earliest acquaintance between
these two remarkable individuals ; no clear annals of the
passion too fondly cherished by Wyatt, except his own poetry.
Anne Boleyn, being born in 1501, was two years older than
her lover. When she was eleven years of age she lost her
mother. Until that period of her Ufe, she had lived at
Blickling Hall, in Norfolk, where she was born ; but after her
mother's decease she resided at Hever Castle, in Kent, not
very far from Tunbridge Wells. Here, until she entered
her fourteenth year, Anne remained under the care of a
French governess named Simonette, and it is not improbable
that in the seclusion of Heven an intimacy with the Wyatt
famUy, generally, may have subsisted. It is supposed, in
deed, that Anne and Wyatt were playfellows, from the circum
stance of Sir Henry Wyatt being coadjutor with Sir Thomas
Boleyn in the government of Norwich Castle ; but of this
there is no proof, nor is it Ukely, from the precautions which
would naturally encompass a young girl of condition, that
Wyatt and Anne ever met intimately until they were both
in the court of Henry VIII. and Katherine of Aragon.
When appointed maid of honour to the Queen of England,
Anne had attained her twentieth year.
Wyatt has left his first impressions of her beauty in the
foUo-wing brief, but telling passage : —
" There was at that time presented to the eye of the court,
the rare and admirable beauty of the fresh and fair and
young Lady Anne Boleyn. In this noble imp, the graces of
nature, adorned by gracious education, seemed at the very
E 2

68 HE IS EVEN ENRAPTURED WITH HER DEFECTS.
first to have promised bliss unto her in after times. She
was taken at that time to have a beauty not so whitely as
clear and fresh above all we may esteem, passing sweet and
cheerful." He was even enraptured -with Anne's defects, one
of which was a double nail on the left hand, somewhat like
an additional finger ; " but that," he says, " which in others
might have been regarded as a defect, was to her an occasion
of additional grace, by the skilful maimer in which she con
cealed it from observation."
Anne, indeed, introduced the graceful hanging sleeves,
which were soon imitated by the ladies of the English court.
But it was less the beauty of Anne than her inteUigence, her
grace and -vivacity ; the smile that played on her lips, the
ready repartee to which her flexible and speaking face gave
force, the perfect elegance of her movements: — these were
the real attractions which not only riveted the fancy, but re
tained the heart once caught.
These two fascinating beings, Anne and Wyatt, met on
equal grounds in the various revels of their sovereign's court.
Wyatt was a gay, gallant, and even dissipated man, whose
youth, a brief period of levity and extravagance, was judged
by himself severely when the season of that intoxication
had passed away. He was, however, as we have seen,
deeply imbued -with the Platonism which permitted to the
truant heart a predilection, even when every tie of duty
bound the Platonist to another. Anne had been the belle of
the French court, and had encountered much detraction;
both were versed in those delicate arts of flirtation, which are
never intended to end in marriage.
Both were brought to a full sense of their imprudence by
the hand of destiny; Wyatt, even in the stormy period ofhis
passion, felt remorse. How beautifully he touches upon his
escape from worse sins than those of thought, is expressed ip
his paraphrase of the 33rd Psalm.

HIS PARAPHRASE OF THE THIRTY-THIRD PSALM. 69
" Oh ! happy they that have forgiveness got
Of their offence, not by their penitence
As by merit, which recompenseth not,
(Although that get pardon hath none offence
¦Without the same), but by the goodness
Of Him that hath perfect inteUigence
Of heart contrite ....
And happy they that have the -wilfulness
Of lust restrained afore it went at large,
¦Whereby they have not on their backs the charge
Of others' fault to suffer the dolores.
For that their fault was never execute
In open sight, esample of errour."
Meantime, whUst Wyatt, to adopt Dr. Nott's words, re
garded Anne Boleyn " with the lively tenderness of an inno
cent but dangerous friendship," there was opening before him
a nobler interest in his intimacy with Henry Lord Surrey, his
truest friend, the companion of his pursuits, the object of his
greatest admiration and respect.
The Howard family were devoted adherents of the House
of York, and John Howard, first Duke of Norfolk, fell on
the field of battle at Bosworth, fighting for Eiehard III. His
son, Thomas, Earl of Surrey, was taken prisoner at the same
time. When reproached by Henry VII. for fighting against
him, he made this poUtic and specious reply : " Sir, he was
my crowned king. Let the authority of parUament put the
crown on that stake, and I will fight for it ; so would I have
fought for you, had the same authority put the crown on
your head."
From henceforth the prosperity of the Howards was as
sured. Thomas, Earl of Surrey, becoming Duke of Norfolk,
married the Lady Anne, the youngest daughter of Edward IV.,
but Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, the poet, was not the
offspring of that marriage. The Lady Anne died young, and,
at the age of forty, the Duke of Norfolk made a second
union, Lady Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of the Duke of
F 3

70 SURREY AND HIS FEIENDS.
Buckingham, being his choice, and eventually the mother
of Lord Surrey.
In the absence of parish registers, which did not begin till
1546, the place even of Surrey's birth is unkno^wn. Con
jecture points to Kenninghall, in Norfolk; by the same in
definite means, it has been supposed that the young poet spent
much of his time at Windsor -with the Duke of Eichmond,
the natural son of Henry VIII. Both ideas are equally well
founded. One thing is certain, that the Howards were an
intellectual, ambitious race, and that Surrey's early training
was of the most careful description, it having long been a
custom in their family to send the sons into the house of
some learned prelate, in order there to be instructed in the
literature of the age. His kinsmen, his associates, also were
of cultivated minds. Among the most interesting and ill-
fated young noblemen of the day was George Boleyn, Lord
Eochford, the brother of Anne Boleyn, and the friend of
Surrey and of Wyatt. The Duke of Eichmond, Henry's
natural son, was also devoted to learning, and a youth of great
promise. These young noblemen began life at seventeen or
eighteen. In compliance -with the custom of the day, they
were sent to school at four years old, to be taught languages
and the first principles of manners; from ten to twelve,
dancing, and " to speak of gentleness ; " at fourteen they were
initiated into the sports of the field, and were thus prepared
for the exercise of arms (and in a good training for " mus
cular Christianity "); at sixteen, before which period of life,
if they went to college, their academic career was usually
ended, they learnt to joust, to fight at the barriers, to manage
the war-horse, to assail fortresses, and began to wear armour
and to contend in feats of arms : henceforth they were men,
not boys. They lived no longer than men of the nine
teenth century, but began life sooner ; before the freshness
and ardour of youth were over ; and the system had this good
effect, that it employed their energies at an age when men

HE IS MARRIED TO LADY FEANCES VERE. 71
are either, active and industrious, or dissolute. There seems
to be no medium : the wild animal must have scope, whether
for good or for bad.
At seventeen these juvenile statesmen or warriors began
their career.
Marriage was the next point, and at sixteen Lord Surrey
was affianced to Lady Frances Vere, the daughter of John,
Earl of Oxford; there were seventeen trustees to their
marriage settlement, which is among the MSS. at Norfolk
House. The Duke of Norfolk took charge of his son's clothes,
the Earl of Oxford of those ofhis daughter, — articles of
immense expense in that rank of life in those times ; but it
is supposed that the young couple did not, for some time,
live together, on account of their extreme youth. Nor was
it until the year 1535 that the nuptials were publicly solem
nised, when Surrey was about seventeen years of age. *
Previous to his appearance at court, the romance of Anne
Boleyn's mournful destiny had half passed away. Her youth
ful engagement to Lord Percy, the disappointment which
ensued, the intimacy with Wyatt, were incidents which
occurred before the year 1530; but the jealousy of Henry
had already been excited towards Wyatt by the following
incident. One day, while Anne Boleyn was busy at her embroidery
frame, and Wyatt was hovering near her, he snatched from
her a jewelled tablet which hung by a chain out of her pocket,
and thrusting it into his bosom swore that he would never
restore it to her.
Wyatt, it is thought, would have been Anne's choice, after
her disappointment with regard to Lord Percy, had he not
been a married man : he perhaps thought so too, for he
kept the stolen tablet, only now and then showing it to Anne,
and then hiding it again in his cassock. In the long hours
* See Hardinge'e Chronicle, quoted by Mr. EUis in his preface, 1812.
F4

72 ¦WYATT OFFENDS THE KING.
of waiting when they were both in attendance on the Queen,
the theft was the occasion of much raillery on the one hand,
and of compliment on the other : but Anne was either too
indifferent or too discreet to let the matter be made one of
importance; so the tablet was forgotten, except by one jealous,
watchful observer, — no less a person than the King. Anne,
in fact, avoided Wyatt, for her heart was set on higher game.
One day, however, Henry, charmed with her prudence in
regard to Wyatt, began to talk to her of marriage, and, in
the earnestness of his admiration, snatched from her finger
a ring. A few days afterwards the King was playing at bowls with
the Duke of Suffolk, Sir Francis Brian, and Sir Thomas Wyatt.
Henry, who was in high good-humour, boasted that he had in
a cast of the bowl surpassed Wyatt, who was his opponent.
" By his Highness's leave," said Sir Thomas, " it is not so."
The King, pointing to the bowl with the finger on which
he wore Anne Boleyn's ring, replied, —
"Wyatt, I tell thee it is so."
Wyatt paused a moment. He knew that ring well, but,
ever ready at an answer, he drew out of his bosom the tablet:
it was well known to Henry.
"If it may like your Majesty to give me leave to measure
the cast ¦with this, I have good hopes that it may yet be
mine." He forgot his usual caution ; a fro^wn passed over the face
of his sovereign.
" It may be so," he said, " but then I am deceived ;" and
he broke up the game hurriedly.*
Surrey was still a youthful bridegroom when Anne, whom,
to use the words of Andrewes, the historian, " none but the
most partial bigots have accused of more than childish levity,"
was tried, condemned, and beheaded.
* V?"yatt MS. See Miss Strickland's " Life of Anne Boleyn," vol. iv. p. 193,

SURREY AN ASTROLOGER. 73
Surrey was then a father, his eldest son Thomas being born
in March 1536. On this occasion he caused his chUd's
nativity to be cast : the aspect of the stars was adverse ;
and not only was misfortune augured to his son, but an
untimely death, so said the calculation, threatened to him
self. WhUst the heavens were thus clouded and portentous,
Surrey, believing as he did in astrology, must have viewed
life in sombre colours. On the 15th of May in that same
year, his young cousin, Anne Boleyn, was brought to trial :
his father was then Lord High Steward, and Surrey sat
under him as Earl Marshal, sentence on the unhappy mur
dered Queen being pronounced by the Duke of Norfolk.
It needed no astrologer to tell the world that an action
such as this would, and must bring down retribution upon
the remorseless uncle and his son ; and it soon followed.
Lord Thomas Howard, Surrey's uncle, ha-vlng married the
Lady Margaret Douglas -without the King's permission, was
committed to the Tower, where he died two years afterwards
of a broken heart. The marriage had been one of mutual
attachment. Lady Margaret, who became mother of the ill-
fated Darnley, was released after her husband's death, but
was forbidden to retain anything that had belonged to him,
or to cherish his memory.
Wyatt, meantime, was suffering not the prospective, but the
real trials of life. Thathe passionately loved AnneBoleynseems
to be admitted, even by the gravest and most sceptical histo
rians. That all suspicions which pointed to any guilty connec
tion between them were unjust, is also admitted on the same
authority. -Wyatt's was the sentiment of love, and Anne's parti
cipation in his pursuits, her love of poetry, her sweet, heroic,
thoughtless nature, bound him to her in links never broken.
Whilst in her prosperity she advanced his fortunes ; in her prison
his songs and sonnets were her mournful resource in the long
hours of hopeless gloom. Perhaps, in the desertion of others.

74 -wyatt's opinion of anne bole^yn.
Anne may have remembered the lines, " Of his love, called
Aima," which Wyatt had ¦written in happier days : —
" ¦What word is that, that changeth not,
Though it be tum'd, and made in twain?
It is mine Anna, God it wot,
. And eke the causer of my pain.
(¦Who) love rewardeth -with disdain ;
Yet is it loved : what would ye more ?
It is my health, and eke my sore."
It must have been a consolation to her to know that one
tried friend, who had seen her in her hours of confidence, and
who had been long devoted to her, believed her innocent.
" For the evidence," Wyatt said, " I never could hear of
any : small I believe it was. The accusers must have doubted
whether their proofs would not prove their reproofs, when
they durst not bring them to the light in an open place."
And he did the poor Queen the justice to add, "It was reported
without the doors that she had cleared herself in a most -wise
and noble speech."
He had the satisfaction, meantime, of knowing that a kins-
-woman of his own was near the beautiful captive. It was a
Wyatt who accompanied Anne from Greenwich, went VTith her
to the lodging she had had at her coronation, heard her
hysterical bursts of crying and laughter wildly mingled, and
listened with commiseration to her agonised and piteous ques
tion, " Wherefore am I here. Master Kingston ? " It was a
Wyatt — some say. Sir Thomas's sister, Margaret — who cou
rageously attended her to the scaffold, and received, at the
last farewell, a small book of devotions, bound in gold and
enamelled black, which she had carried in her hand from the
Tower. Anne's last words are said to have been a message
to Wyatt, uttered in a low and earnest voice to the weeping,
but undaunted Margaret.
Wyatt had not escaped imminent perU. The following
lines, entitled " Wyatt being in prison, to Bryan," show how

HIS LINES IN PRISON. 75
bitterly he felt the state of affairs, not only on his own
account. It is uncertain, however, whether they were written
at this time or later.
" Sighs are my food, my drink they are my tears,
Clinking of fetters such music would crave :
Stink and close air away my life wears :
Innocency is aU the hope I have.
Rain, wind or weather, I judge by mine ears.
Malice assaults that righteousness should have.
Sure I am, Bryan, this wound -will heal again,
But yet, alas ! the scar shall still remain. "*
And the " scar " did " remain." Wyatt became a humbled,
penitent, and holy being ; a man still mingling in the world,
yet chastened and hating its vanities. Witness his stanzas
on " The Courtier's Life : "—
" In court to serve, decked -with fresh array
Of sugred meats, feeling the swete repast.
The life in banquets and sundry kinds of play,
Amid the press of lordly looks to waste.
Hath -with it joined sometimes such bitter taste.
That whoso joys such kind of life to hold.
In prison joys, fettered with chains of gold."t
Greatly as Wyatt was to be pitied, one must even more
strongly commiserate Lord Surrey, who, at his very entrance
into pubUc life, had seen the fairest ornament of his family
perish on the scaffold, and had assisted at her trial. From
the moment of Anne Boleyn's death, Wyatt forswore love,
" and vowed that its baited hooks should tangle him no more."
Not so -with Surrey : his hour of temptation was still to come.
Let us, for a time, stUl consider him but as the friend of
Wyatt ; and let us trace the remaining years of the sorrow-
stricken lover of Anne Boleyn, before commencing a scarcely
less touching episode of history, the fanciful love of Surrey
for the fair Geraldine, and his sad doom. There is more
reality, more poetry, more tragic interest, in the story of
Thomas Wyatt's deeply repented attachment, than in the
* Wyatt's Poems. Nott's Life, p. 71. t Ibid. p. 74.

76 WYATT IN A WRETCHED PRISON.
unreal poetic flame of Surrey. Henceforth, thus Wyatt
thought, study should be his consolation. For a time his
" travail," as he called it, was carried on in the seclusion of
the Tower. Fresh causes of complaint and suspicion were
raised against him ; the year of his arrest is doubtful. He in
curred the fearful enmity of Bishop Bonner : his former incar
ceration on account of Anne Boleyn had been transient and
lenient ; he was now plunged into an unwholesome dungeon,
and so closely immured that he could only judge of the
weather by the pattering of the rain upon the window of his
prison, and the blowing of the -wind.
The foUo-wing minute from the Privy Council, dated March
15, 1541, announces his submission, and at the same time
proclaims in vainglorious terms, worthy of the adulators who
composed that body, the clemency of the King.
The document is indorsed: " Mynutetomy Lord Wilton
Howard" 26 Martij at night.
" His Highnes bathe nowe commanded us to make you
participant, what hath been sithens doon, aswel in that matier,
as touching Sir Thomas Wyat ; to thende you may take your
oportunyte to declare the same as of yourself, bothe to the
French King and to such of his Counsail as youe shal
thinke expedient," &c. &c.
" His Highnes ha-ying also most humble sutes and inter
cessions made unto him, both for him (Sir John Wallop) and
for Wyat, by the Queenes Highnes," &c. &c.
" Nowe to Wyat ; he confessed, uppon his examjmation, all
the thinges objected unto him, in a like lementable and
pitiful sorte as Wallop did : whiche surely were grevous ;
delyvering his submission in -writing, declaring thole history
of his offences, but with a like protestation, that the same
preceded from him in his rage and folishe vaynglorios
fantazie, -without spott of maUce ; yeUding himself only to
his Majesties marcy, -without the whiche he sawe he might

DEFENDS HIMSELF AND IS SET FREE. 77
and must nedes be justely condempned. At the contem
plation of whiche submission, and at the greate and conty-
nual sute of the Queues Majestie, His Highnes, being of
his oune most godly nature enclyned to pitie and mercy,
bathe g-iven him his pardon in as large and ample sorte as
His grace gave thother to Sir John Wallop ; whiche pardons
be delyvered, and they sent for to come hither to his
Highnes at Dover." (The King was in Dover on the 27th
of March untill the 31st.) "Nowe that your Lordship
knowethe this progresse. His grace wold you shuld utter it
as befor proscribed." *
Wyatt was permitted to defend himself before the Privy
CouncU, and was pardoned in the month of June 1541. The
King, who had always favoured him, received him more into
his confidence than ever, and gave him lands and places of
trust. Yet " the scar remained." Wyatt was weary of public
life ; he had seen the vanity of the world, he had kno-wn the
misery of strong excitements. To "deep himself" in study, as
he termed it, to obtain a mastery over his passions, to employ
his noble powers in a work of penitence and praise, became
his aim henceforth.
He went to AUington, and became now a country gentle
man, hunting and hawking, and shooting -with the bow,
yet still devoting much of his time to poetry. Witness the
satii-e, addressed to his friend Poines, in which he speaks of
his inability to flatter and deceive as a reason why he cannot
lead a courtier's life, and why he preferred the independence
of thought and action which could alone be met -with far
from the capital. His second satire, in fact, delineates as
noble a character of an intelligent English gentleman as can
possibly be conceived.
"My Pointz, I cannot frame my tongue to feign;
To cloke the truth for praise, -without desart
Of them that lust aU -vices to retain.
* From the State Papers (Domestic), No. 668, f. 544.

HIS VERSES ON A COURT  HIS DIFFICULTIES.
I cannot crouch or kneel to such a -wrong,
To worship them as God on earth alone.
That are Uke wolves these sely lambs among.
I cannot, I, no, no ! it wiU not be.
This is the cause that I could never yet
Hang on their sk-oves, that weigh, as thou may'st see."

Then he goes on to say :
" This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk.
And in foul weather at my book to sit.
In frost and snow ; then -n-ith my bow to stalk ;
No man doth mark wherere I ride or go.
In lusty leas at Uberty I walk.
And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe.
I am not now in France to judge the -wine,
AVith savoury sauce the deUcates to feel ; —
But here I am in Kent and Christendom,
Among the Muses, where I read and rhyme,
Where, if thou list, my Poynz, for to come,
Thou shalt be judge how I do pass my time."*
Full of these impressions, Wyatt looked back with com
passion on those who were still in the ways of error, yet who,
nevertheless, loved and admired -virtue.
"None other paine pray I for them to be
But when the rage doth leade them from the right.
That, lokinge backwarde, -virtue they may se,
Even as she is, so goodly faire and bright ! "f
His fortune had now considerably suffered in his public
employments, and the following letter, dated from Brussels,
and addressed "to Secretary Cromwell," shows his almost
despair on this point : —
" I must beseech your lordship to move unto the King's
Highness, for me, this one suit. Among my many other great
* Poems, Nott, vol ii. p. 88. -f- Ibid. p. 90.

HIS LETTERS TO SECRETARY CROMWELL. 79
debts, I owe his grace 500 marks for my livery, which I could
not get out till my last being in England ; and I must pay it
by 40L yearly. I owe him beside 250 marks of old debt,
which in all maketh 5001. If his grace -will so much oblige
my good lord as to let me take out all mine obligations and
bonds, and take good surety in recognizance for the said 5001.
after 501. a year, truly to be paid, I would trust so a little
and a little to creep out of debt, with the selling of little land
more. If not, on my faith, I see no remedy. I owe my
brother Lee as much, beside other infinite that make me
weary to think on them. I have written to Sir Thomas
Poynings to know your lordship's answer in this, and also
most humbly to thank you for your goodness toward me,
touching that he moved you for me of the lordship of Ditton,
that is John Lee's. But surely I am not able to buy it, unless
the King's great Uberality be shewed unto me in this case ; and
yet the thing is so necessary for me, as that that lieth in the
midst of my land, and -within a mile of my house. I remit
me wholly to your good lordship, in whom is my only trust
next to the King's majesty. But above any of all these
things I recommend unto your lordship the good remem
brance when time shall be of my revocation ; and I always
your bond bedesman, as our Lord knoweth, who send you good
Ufe and long. — At Brussels, this Shrove Tuesday, 1540."*
His occupations were various ; not only did Wyatt figure ,
as an ambassador, but as a military commander, and also
in the navy, which was not then considered a distinct pro
fession. Few men accomplished so much ; for in the intervals
of leisure he instructed young Henry Lee, his nephew, a
boy ten years of age, who lived -with him at AUington.
Meantime he exercised all the duties of a neighbour, and his
hospitality was at once free and graceful. People went to
dine -with him, first, for his generous entertainment ; secondly,
* Harleian MSS. No. 282 ; also given in Dr. Nott's Life of Wyatt.

80 wyatt's sayings.
for his free and knowing discourse of Spain and Germany;
thirdly, " for his quickness in observing, his civility in enter
taining, his dexterity in employing, and his readiness in
encouraging every man's peculiar grace and inclinations;
and lastly, the favour and notice ¦with which he was honoured
by the King."
Wyatt was considered the greatest ¦wit of his time, yet, in
an age of gross indelicacy, was never known to utter an
improper jest or word. He had a horror of joking on serious
subjects. "It does not," he observed, "become Christians
to do so. If the Athenians would not permit a comedian to
exhibit his farces on the scene where Euripides had acted Ms
grave and solemn tragedies, much less ought we to suffer the
levity of a joke to come, as it were, into the presence of
things holy and religious." *
As he advanced to middle life, as a man after thirty was
in those days considered to be, he respectfully decUned
entering into the amusements in which the court was neces
sarily engaged. On being urged by Henry to join in a mid
night mask, he refused : the King asked his reason. " Sir,"
he said, " he who would be thought a wise man in the day
time, must not play the fool at night."
Wyatt was so great an admirer of Julius Csesar that he
used always a beautiful antique gem with Caesar's head on it,
hoping that, thus keeping up the memory of so great a man,
he might himself be stimulated to generous actions, and do
something worthy of record.
It was one of his common sayings, " Let my friend bring
me into court, but let my merit and my service keep me
there." He was also wont to say that in our jest we ought
" never to play upon any man's unhappiness or deformity,
for that is inhuman ; nor on superiors, for that is saucy and
undutiful ; nor on holy matters, for that is irreligious."
* Wyatt's Life.

wyatt in advanced life. 81
As he advanced in life he became bald, and wore a beard
of remarkable length ; the dignity of his person, the intel
lectual beauty of his face, were never diminished ; his smiie
was sweet as ever: his habits were energetic, his frame
vigorous, his nature enterprising, so that, had it been his lot
to have been in the profession of arms exclusively, Wyatt
would have become a distinguished commander. Frank, un
suspecting, generous — careless of money, but not personally
profuse, — ready to forgive, fond of giving, he was the idol of
his servants, the leading star of the social circle in which he
moved. But whUst naturally gay, full of spirits, and fond of so
ciety, Wyatt had a holy, heavenly frame of mind, combined
¦with purity and elevation of thought. His paraphrase of
the Penitential Psalms was the work of expiation for real
or supposed sins. The character of David, the mental dis
quietudes, the poignant remorse, the hope, the faith of that
erring, great-minded man, were singularly in unison with
Wyatt's feelings. " Seeking to counterpese
His song with sighs, and touching of the strings.
With tender heart, lo! thus to Grod he sings !"
are lines as applicable to Wyatt as to David, to whom the
poet applied them.
Possessed of numerous friends, Wyatt enjoyed the hap
piness of having three in whose affection he peculiarly
confided. Poynings he liked for his generosity of character,
Blage for his -wit, and Mason for his learning.
Poyntz, to whom he addressed one of his satires, was also
among his intimate associates; he was a courtier of no
remarkable note. Sir Francis Brian, to whom Wyatt's third
satire was addressed, was one of the most accompUshed men
of his time, a busy, restless courtier. Wyatt addressed a
remonstrance to him on his perpetual activity.
VOL. I. G

82 HIS FRIENDSHIP WITH SUREEY.
" To thee, therefore, that trots stUl up and down
And never rests, but running day and night.
From realm to realm, from city, street, and town.
"Why dost thou wear thy body to the bones ?
And mightst at home sleep in thy bed of do-wn,
And drink good ale so hoppy, for the nones." *
And to these friends Wyatt was never dictatorial ; neither did
he presume upon his own superiority of learning, which even
Camden has praised as above that of most men. When
Wyatt differed, it was deferentially, with " Under favour, sir;"
and " It may be so," was his frequent answer to an argument
which he might, with his powers of reasoning, have crushed
at once.
The friendship between Surrey and Wyatt began, it is
supposed, during their attendance on Anne Boleyn. Wyatt
was considered the most elegant poet of the day; Surrey,
therefore, sought his friendship, and addressed to him the
first verses that he ever wrote. Their affection was based on
congeniality of taste and respect, and it was sincere and
lasting. The verses beginning " Thomas, of thy Ufe mark," were
Sui-rey's early tribute to his friend. On the other hand it is
believed that the foUo-wing monitory lines, so appropriate in
a man of maturer age to one young and inexperienced, were
addressed by Wyatt to Surrey. They are styled
" The Argument.
" Sometime the pride of my assured truth
Contemned aU help of God and eke of man ;
But when I saw how blindly man he goeth.
In deeming hearts which none but God here can.
And his dooms hid, whereby man's maUce groweth,
Mine Earl this doubt did tumble then.
For errour so might murder innocence.
Then sang I thus in God my confidence." f
* Nott's Life of Wyatt, p. Ixsiviu. f Ibid.

GERALDINE AND HER KINDEED. 83
In refinement of taste, in elevation of thought, Surrey
and Wyatt were peculiarly congenial ; but another record
proves that their domestic circumstances led, though at dif
ferent periods, to similar results. Surrey, though married and
apparently happily, loved, or affected to love. Lady EUzabeth
Fitzgerald, to whom he assigned the more romantic name
of " Geraldine." The example of Petrarch and the fashion
of the times incited, if they did not excuse Surrey, in his
passion for the far-famed Geraldine.
She was the daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald, ninth Earl of
KUdare, whose ancestors are said to have been the Geraldi
of Florence ; her mother was the daughter of Thomas,
Marquis of Dorset. Geraldine, as Surrey, discarding her pro
saic name of Elizabeth, styled her, was born in the Castle of
Maynooth in 1529, and was brought to England, whUe yet
an infant, under most adverse circumstances. Her infancy
and childhood were both marked by family misfortune. Lord
Kildare, in 1534, died in the Tower, of grief on account of the
rebellion of his son Thomas Fitzgerald. That restless Irish
insurgent was eventually executed at Tyburn in 1535, five
of his uncles suffering death at the same time and place.
Gerald, the eldest son of this Ul-starred family, became a
fugitive when only ten years of age, and wandered about in
perU and penury; and Lady Kdldare was obliged to apply
contiaually to Henry VIII. for assistance in her destitution.
She appealed to him as a kinswoman, her father having been
half-brother to Elizabeth of York, the King's mother ; nor did
she always appeal in vain. " Men are not aU e-vil ; ''
and though Henry was essentially cruel, he took compassion
on the wretched Lady Kildare, and placed her daughter
Geraldine in the household of his daughter Mary, to be sup
ported and educated. C 2

84 HER EXTREME YOUTH WHEN SHE FIRST KNOWS SUEEEY.
Poor Geraldine, when she attained her fourteenth year,
was made one of the ladies of the Princess Mary's chamber;
a sad sort of pro-vision, for Mary was cold, solemn, bigoted,
and unpopular. Geraldine was still a child, scarcely thir
teen, when Surrey, in the autumn of 1541 *, first saw her,
attending on Mary at Hunsdon. Either the constitution of
our nation, or our habits have produced a marvellous change
in the chronology of life. A girl of thirteen, in the six
teenth century, was on the verge of maturity. It is true that
Lord Surrey o-wned that Geraldine
" Wanted years to understand the grief that he did feel,"
when he first betrayed his passion to her ; but it seems extra
ordinary that one who was scarcely removed from childhood
should have inspired the romantic verse of Surrey. Yet so
it was. In the extreme youth of Geraldine there was a parallel
in that of Laura, Petrarch's mistress, who was only thirteen
years of age when the poet first conceived his famous passion
"which twenty years of suffering," as Dr. Nott remarks,
" could not diminish, and which continued unabated even
when death itself had extinguished hope." If this be true
certainly men must have been very different in those days
to the lovers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
Equally dissimilar must their fair mistresses have been ; since
they were considered to be fit objects for idolatry even at
twelve years of age. Chaucer, a great painter of manners,
dates the marriage of the Wife of Bath from her twelfth year :
"Lordings, since I twelve years was of age,
(Thanked be God that is eterne we Uve),
Husbands, at church door, have I had five."t
It appears, however, that Geraldine had attained the dis-
* See vol. i. p. 121, of Dr. Nott's Life of Surrey.
,t Canterbury Tales.

SURREYS LINES ON HIS LADY LOVE. 85
creet age of thirteen when Lord Surrey began really to
admire her, during one of the court revels at Hampton Court.
The lovely and simple girl must have contrasted ad
vantageously with the grave, gloomy Mary, her young
mistress, and with the plump Katharine Howard, at that
time Queen, -with her nez retrousse ; and Surrey made no
attempt to conceal his impressions of the surpassing beauty
of Geraldine. He soon proclaimed his passion in verses
beginning, —
" The Sim hath twice brought forth the tender green,
Twice clad the earth in Uvely lustiness ;
Once have the -winds the trees despoiled clean,
And once again begins their cruelness,
Siace I have hid under my breast the harm
That never shaU recover healthfulness.
The -winter's hurt recovers -with the warm,
The parched green restored is with shade :
¦What warmth, alas ! may serve for to disarm
The frozen heart that mine inflame hath made ?"*
Then, in another strain, he narrates her origin, in the fol
lowing well-known lines : —
" From Tuscany came my Lady's worthy race ;
Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat.
The western isle whose pleasant shore doth face
WUd Comber's cUffs, first gave her lively heat.
Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast.
Her sire an earl, her dame of princes' blood.
From tender years in Britain did she rest
With a King's child, who tasteth ghostly food.
Honsdon did first present her to mine eyen.
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight.
Hampton me taught to -wish her first for mine,
And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight.
Her beauty of kind ; her virtues from above :
Happy is he that can obtain her love ! "
* Surrey's Poems, vol. i. p. 3.
G 3

86 NOTIONS OF THE DAY UNIVERSAL.
Such were the notions of those times, that even after Geral
dine and her lover were both married, there' seems, from
Surrey's poems, to have been a decided understanding between
them, since he writes of
" Her strangeness when I sued her servant for to be ;
And what she said, and how she smiled, when that she pitied me."
So that what in the present day a woman from a married
man would construe as an insult, was, in this instance,
received as a mere matter of course. Surrey, in fact, seems
to have been watchful over the conduct and reputation of
his mistress, if we may take his own assurance for that fact,
when he says, —
" But mercy him thy friend that doth thee serve,
Who seeks alway thine honour to preserve."
Geraldine, indeed, appears to have repelled his ardour,
and whilst, perhaps, her young heart turned to the ac
complished poet, she prudently endeavoured to hide her
self from his observation. Surrey, in fact, addressed to her
some beautiful lines on her always wearing a veil in his
presence. "I never saw my lady lay apart
Her cornet black in cold nor yet in heat,
Sith first she knew my grief was gro-wu so great,
Which other fancies driveth from my heart,
That to myself I do the thought reserve
The which unawares did wound my woful breast ;
For on her face mine eyes might never rest.
Since that she knew I did her love and serve.
Her golden tress is always clad in black.
Her smiling looks do hide thus evermore.
And that restrain which I desire so sore."
His verses constitute the only history of the passion inspired
by Geraldine. How beautiful is the foUowing lament, written
in spring ! —

SURREY FLIES THE PERIL. 87
" The soot^ season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ;
The nightingale -with feathers new she sings.
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs :
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale.
The buck in brake his -winter coat he flings.
The fishes fleet -with new repaired scale ;
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.''
After many vicissitudes of feeling, and vain struggles with
his passion, Surrey resolved to fly the peril' that he could not
conquer. He had found Geraldine fickle, pleased with ad
miration, and forgetful of his undying devotion. At length, at
a ball, Geraldine pubUcly insulted him, and Surrey declared
in these terms that he was imdeceived : —
" Too dearly had I bought my green and youthful years,
If in my age I could not find when craft for love appears ;
And seldom though I come in court among the rest,
¦yet can I judge, in colours dim, as deep as can the best."
Jealousy, reproach, resentment, follow in the train of
wounded and unjustifiable feelings ; yet Surrey still loved
the cold, vain, rather than retiring being, to whom the most
passionate effusions of what can scarcely be termed Platonic
love were thus poured out : —
" The flre it cannot freeze.
For it is not its kind :
Nor true love cannot lese
The Constance of the mind."
Few are the annals of the love passages between him and
Geraldine, except in his burning verses ; they are closed by
his reflections on visiting a scene which had once witnessed
his happiness, a happiness the poet now believed transferred
to another. Like all disappointed men, Surrey now per
ceived that happiness is not to be found in the strong and
unhallowed excitements of passion ; he writes therefore : —
0 4

88 geraldine's MARRIAGE.
" But happy is that man
That scaped hath the grief,
That love weU teach him can.
By wanting his relief.
A scourge to quiet minds
It is, who taketh heed ;
A common plag-ue that binds,
A travafl without meed.
This gift it hath also :
¦Whoso enjoys it most,
A thousand troubles grow
To vex his wearied ghost.
And last it may not long
The truest thing of aU ;
And sure the greatest wrong,
That is -within this thraU."
Geraldine, it is evident, did not appreciate the poetic flame
which could never add to her welfare, nor enhance her success
in life. She soon consented to become the bride of Sir
Anthony Browne ; and Surrey retired to Boulogne, resolved
to conquer his passion, to which, except as in regret for past
pleasures, he makes no further reference in his poems.
It was, perhaps, a struggle in Surrey's mind, for Geraldine
was supremely lovely at this time ; and although, had it not
been for Surrey's attachment, her name might never have
reached posterity, there remain records of her charms, which
were possibly intellectual as well as personal. She was very
fair ; her eyes were light, and her hair golden and flowing in
rich tresses. Thus, in all the pride of almost girlish beauty,
was she led to the altar by Sir Anthony Browne, a man of
sixty. This marriage has been deemed a proof of a mercenary
spirit in Geraldine, but it was probably inevitable, for
Henry VIII. regulated all the matches that were made by
any one about the court, and the sacrifice of youth and beauty
was most Ukely performed at his command. Besides, the
family of her father was overwhelmed -with misfortune. Lord
Kildare, whom HoUnshed styles " a wise, deep, and far-search-

SHE ATTENDS THE CORONATION OF QUEEN MARY. 89
ing man, vaUant without rashness, and politic without
treachery," was loi>g immured in the Tower, where he died ;
and " after he deceased," adds the chronicler, his lady " did
ever not only live as a chaste and honourable widow, but
also nightly before she went to bed she would resort to his
picture, and there, with a solemn conge, she would bid her
lord ' good night.' " *
Under these circumstances, poor Geraldine must not be
too sternly condemned for obeying the mandate which con
signed her to Sir Anthony Browne. She remained in Mary's
court, and graced the coronation of that princess ; on that
occasion the lovely Geraldine was dressed in white satin, her
horse's trappings being of the same material. When Mary
expected her confinement. Lady Browne was made " Serjeant
of the Pantry." When the Queen died, she followed her
remains in the second mourning coach. Various presents
attested Mary's favour for the portionless bride. After the
death of Sir Anthony in 1549, Geraldine married Henry
Clinton, Earl of Lincoln, whom she survived. She was the
third -wife of this nobleman, and possibly he was much
older than herself.
Lord Lincoln left her most of his fortune, and Geraldine
remained still in the great and gay world. In Queen Eliza
beth's time, we are startled to hear her styled " old Lincoln."
Happily for all the illusions of romance, Surrey had then
long been in the tomb.
The poet Churchyard, speaking of the ladies attendant of
Queen Elizabeth, thus refers to the once peerless Geraldine : —
" Old Lincoln now, that stands on mighty mount,
"5fet low on earth the flrst foundation Ues,
He drew for that it was of great account.
And Ufted up in favour to the skies.

* Holinshed, p. 307.

90 SURREY BECOMES AMBITIOUS.
The best, we know, did love old Lincoln well :
In former age her beauty did exceU ;
In later times her credit was not smaU,
For some do say old Lincoln passed them aU."
Thus ended Lord Surrey's passion for Geraldine, which his
excellent biographer. Dr. Nott, admits to have been real. If
it was the one error of a life singularly virtuous, it was not
¦without illustrious precedents that the young poet yielded to
its influence, and thus followed the fashion of the day.
Bernardo Tasso, the father of the great Torquato Tasso,
had then written his famous sonnet on Ginevra, which was
in every one's mouth. Bernardo had been attached to a
beautiful and accompUshed woman, who had married a richer
suitor ; his devotion, and that of Petrarch to Laura, had broken
do-wn the line of distinction between the love tout en hon-
neur and that against which a struggle should be made, and
which is made by good men. Sir Philip Sydney, the very
paragon of virtue, subsequently gave language to his hopeless
love for Lady Eich. All we can say in excuse for Surrey's
love-story is, that it was far less degrading and disgraceful
than the low amours of many of his compeers.
He shook it off, however, and ambition took the place of
love. Dr. Nott, a Doctor of Divinity as well as a FeUow of
All Souls, believes that "a passion of this nature, however
repugnant to the plain dictates of that pure religion which
forbids the aberration even of thought," may not be "in
compatible ¦with virtue." * We scarcely dare affirm as much,
yet it is certain that purer verse, nobler thoughts, holier
reverence, never emanated from English poet than from
Surrey. His spirituality, his romance free from sickliness, his
earnest piety, and, above all, his almost passionate friendship,
resemble, to our minds, the heart and intellect of Tennyson.
The death of the young Duke of Eichmond, the natural son
* "Life of Surrey, by Dr. Nott, p. 112.

¦WYATT DIES OF FEVER. 91
of Henry VIII. by the Lady Elizabeth Talboys, was the first
blow to his heart that Surrey received from death. The
next was when Wyatt ceased to exist. It was in the autumn
of 1542 that Wyatt was despatched by royal command to
Falmouth, to meet an ambassador from Spain who had
arrived at that port. Henry, in thus deputing Wyatt, showed
the judgment which characterised the Tudors in the choice
of their ministers and envoys, and he was perhaps proud to
show the very model of an English gentleman, the accom
plished traveller, who spoke several foreign languages with
fluency. Wyatt had never been intrusted with any public
employment since his trial ; he therefore rode hard, anxiously
hoping to be in time to return, and to accompany the Im
perial ambassador to London. The weather was unfavour
able, and when Wyatt reached Sherborne he was stopped
by an attack of fever. Happily for the sufferer, a friend
named Horsey was Uving in the neighbourhood ; he hastened
to the bedside of the fever-stricken Wyatt, and, defying the
contagion, nursed him to the last. The disease, however, soon
manifested a malignant character, and Wyatt sank under the
malady. Horsey never left him, but, according to Leland,
closed his eyes, when, on the 11th of October, the admired,
beloved poet expired.
His remains were not conveyed to AUington, on account of
the infectious character of the fever, but were deposited in
the family vault of the Horseys, in the great church of
Sherborne.* Thus, in his thirty-iunth year, died one of whom it was
truly at that time said the world was not worthy. Eeligious
¦without superstition, the influence of Wyatt over Henry
might, had the poet been spared, have obviated many of the
miseries which ensued. Wyatt seemed, indeed, a man raised

* The Horseys Uved at that time at Clifton Manbank, about two nules from
Sherborne.

92 ' wyatt's letter xo his son.
up for high and holy purposes. The enthusiasm and poetry
of his nature, which made him the hopeless lover of Anne
Boleyn, directed to higher objects, rose into piety and
benevolence. To his example, to his writings, is due the
restoration of polite learning in this country. His writings
remain ; but his example, which might have humanised
society, was closed by his premature death.
Amongst the most beautiful of his works is the celebrated
letter to his son, written when Sir Thomas was in Spain, in
the year 1538. The youth, whom he addressed in terms
such as only a warm heart could dictate, was then fifteen
years of age. His subsequent career, as Sir Thomas Wyatt
the younger, in the reign of Queen Mary, is one of the moat
mournful episodes of history.
To the letter here quoted, and to its author, the celebrated
Ascham refers in his discourse on the affairs of Germany.
" A knight of England, of worthy memory for wit, learning,
and experience, old Sir Thomas Wiat, wrote to his son ' that
the greatest mischief among men, and lea.st punished, was
unkindness.' " * That observation occurs in this letter : —
" Inasmuch as now ye are come to some years of under
standing, and that you should gather within yourself some
frame of honesty, I thought that I should not lese my
labour wholly if I now did something advertise you to take
the sure foundations and established opinions that leadeth to
honesty. And here I call not honesty that men commonly
call honesty, as reputation for riches, for authority or some
like thing, but that honesty that I dare well say your grand
father (whose soul God pardon) had rather left to me than
all the lands he did leave me ; that was, wisdom, gentleness,
soberness, desire to do good, friendship to get the love of
many, and truth above all the rest. A great part to have all
these things, is to desire to have them ; and although glory
* See Ascham's Works, I76I, p. 7, quoted by Dr. Nott.

HECOMMENDS THE FEAR OF GOD TO HIM. 93
and honest name are not the very ends wherefore these things
are to be followed, yet surely they must needs follow them as
light foUoweth fire, though it were kindled for warmth. Out
of these things the chiefest and infallible ground is the dread
and reverence of God, whereupon shall ensue the eschewing
of the contraries of these said virtues ; that is to say, igno
rance, unkindness, rashness, desire of harm, unquiet enmity,
hatred, many and crafty falsehood, the very root of all sham
and dishonesty. I say the only dread and reverence of God
that seeth all things, is the defence of the creeping in of all
these mischiefs into you. And for my part, although I do
weU say there is no man that would his son better than
I, yet, on my faith, I had rather have you lifeless than sub
ject to these -vices.
" Think and imagine always that you are in the presence of
some honest man that you know, as Sir John Eussel, your
father-in-law, your uncle Parson, or some other such ; and ye
shall, if at any time you find a pleasure in naughty touches,
remember what shame it were afore these men to do
naughtily. And sure this imagination shall cause you to
remember that the pleasure of a naughty deed is soon past,
and the rebuke, shame, and the note thereof shall remain
for ever. Then, if these things ye take for vain imaginations,
yet remember that it is certain, and no imagination, that ye
are always in the presence and the sight of God ; and though
you see Him not, so much is the reverence the more to be
had for He that seeth and is not seen.
" Men punish -with shame as greatest punishment on earth,
yea, greater than death. But His punishment is, first the
¦withdrawing of His favour and grace, and in leaving His hand
to rule the stern, to let the ship run without guide to its own
destruction ; and suffereth so the man that He forsaketh to
run headlong as subject to all mishaps, and at last with
shamefuU end to everlasting shame and death.
" You may see continual examples both of the one sort and

94 HIS OWN CONSCIOUSNESS OF ERROR AND SIN.

»

of the other ; and the better if ye mark them well that
yourself are come of, and consider well your good grand
father, what things there were in him, and his end. And
they that knew him noted thus : first, and chiefly, to have
a great reverence of God and good opinion of godly
things ; next, that there was no man more pitiful, no man
more true of his word, no man faster to his friend, no man
diUgenter nor more circumspect, which thing both the kings
his master noted him in greatly. And if these things, and
specially the grace of God that the fear of God alway kept
with him, had not been, the chances of this troublesome world
that he was in had long ago overwhelmed him. This pre
served him in prison from the hands of the tyrant that could
find in heart to see him racked ; from two years and more
punishment in Scotland in irons and stocks ; from the danger
of sudden changes and commotion divers, till that, well-
beloved of many, hated of none, in his fair age and good
reputation, godly and christianly he went to Him that loved
him, for that he had always Him in reverence.
" And of myself, I may be a near example unto you of my
folly and unthriftiness, that hath, as I well deserved, brought
me into a thousand dangers and hazards, enmities, hatreds,
prisonments, despites, and indignations ; but that God hath
of His goodness chastised me, and not cast me clean out of His
favour : which thing I can impute to nothing but the good
ness of my father, that, I dare say, well purchased with con
tinual request of God His grace towards me more than I
regarded or considered myself; and a little to the small fear
that I had of God in the most of my rage, and the little
deUght that I had in mischief. You therefore, if ye be sure,
and have God in your sleeve to call you to His grace at last,
venture hardily by mine example upon naughty unthriftiness,
in trust of His goodness : and besides the shame, I dare lay
ten to one ye shall perish in the adventure ; for trust me,
that my ¦wish or desire of God for you shall not stand you in

ADVISES HIM TO AGREE WITH HIS WIFE. 95
as much effect as I think my father's did for me. We are
not all accepted of Him.
" Begin therefore betimes. Make God and goodness your
foundations. Make your examples of wise and honest men :
shoot at that mark ; be no mocker ; mocks follow them that
delight therein. He shall be sure of shame that feeleth no
grief in other men's shames. Have your friends in a reve
rence, and think unkindness to be the greatest offence, and
least punished amongst men : but so much the more to be
dread, for God is justiser upon that alone.
" Love well, and agree ¦with your ¦wife ; for where is noise
and debate in the house there is unquiet dwelling, and much
more where it is in one bed. Frame well yourself to love
and rule well and honestly your wife as your fellow, and she
shall love and reverence you as her head. Such as you are
unto her, such shall she be unto you. Obey and reverence
your father-in-law, as you would me ; and remember that
long Ufe foUoweth them that reverence their fathers and
elders ; and the blessing of God, for good agreement between
the wife and the husband, is the fruit of many children.
" Eead oft this my letter, and it shall be as though I had
often written to you, and think that I have herein printed
a fatherly affection to you. If I may see that I have not
lost my pain, mine shall be the contentation, and yours the
profit. And, upon condition that you follow my advertise
ments, I send you God's blessing and mine, and as well
come to honesty as to increase of years."
The death of Wyatt was viewed differently by the two
great parties of the day.
The Protestants mourned him sincerely, whilst the Eoman
Catholic party exulted that so able, so popular an advocate
of the Eeformation was taken away for ever. By Charles V.,
no ordinary judge, Wyatt, who had during his favour with
jthe king been sent on an embassy to that potentate, was
declared to be one of the "most accomplished gentlemen

96 surrey's epitaph on -wyatt.
of his times, and a man of as great penetration as any he
had ever conversed with." Wyatt, it is well kno-wn, had seen
through the dupUcity of the crafty emperor. Truly did
Lord Surrey declare that Wyatt was
" Sent for our health, but not received so ;"
and Surrey was the first to compose an epitaph to the memory
of his honoured and beloved friend. The lines are so beau
tiful, that, although one or two verses have been already
quoted, in reference to Wyatt's personal attributes, they are
here given at length.*
An- Epitaph ok Sm Thomas Wyatt the Elder.
" Wyatt rests here, that quick could never rest,
¦Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain.
And -virtue sank the deeper in his breast
Such profit he of envy could obtain.
A head where wisdom's mysteries did frame,
¦Whose hammers beat stUl in that Uvely brain
As on a stithy, where some work of fame
Was daUy -wrought, to turn to Britain's gaia.
A -visage stern and mild ; where both did grow
Vice to contemn, in -virtue to rejoice :
Amid great storms, whom grace assured so.
To Uve upright, and smile at fortune's choice.
A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme.
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit,
A mark, the which (unperfected for time)
Some may approach, but none may ever hit." *
Other eminent writers composed epitaphs, or rather short^
biographies, upon the mournful though fruitful subject of
Wyatt's virtues and death. Of his numerous admirers and
friends, John Leland, the first and last Antiquary-royal of Eng
land, was the most learned and the most sincere. Henry VIII.
* It is to be regretted that popular editions of Surrey's and Wyatt's poema
are stiU a desideratum.

LELAND : THE OLD MOETALITY OF THE 16TH CENTURY. 97
made this accomplished scholar his chaplain, appointed him
his library keeper, and added to the office that of Antiquary-
royal. ' In 1536 Leland set out on his travels : and, journeying
through England and Wales, spent six years in collecting
materials for the history of national antiquities. Born, as it
seemed, to be the Old Mortality, upon a large scale, of the
sixteenth century, this indefatigable man penetrated into
every remote country house, spied into charter-chests, and
made out inscriptions upon windows. He was seen haunting
old cathedrals, and monasteries : now in chapter-houses, then
diving into vaults, and crypts ; then deciphering old registers :
sometimes, on the sea-coast, where there was neither a bay,
creek, cape, haven, pier or river, that escaped his cognizance :
he was to-day on a river, or lake, — anon, ascending a moun
tain, or traversing a valley, — anon, half lost in a forest or
rough chace, — next by a fire-side in an hospitable old hall,
or farm-house, — at length, retreating to a college (perhaps
his own dear, conventual All Souls', at Oxford), resting awhile
to compress and arrange his materials in the comfortable
Ubrary of that ancient society. Such were his labours, — but
stop, we have not done yet. Wherever there were forts or steps
of Eoman, Saxon or Danish depredators, and conquerors, —
there Leland tracked them, often in great difficulty and even
hardship. Tumuli, coins, inscriptions, were his game ; and he
lived but to discover and to chronicle the remains of antiquity.
In the course of his investigations he became acquainted
with Wyatt ; their tastes, in some respects, may have differed ;
but there is always a certain congeniality between cultivated
minds, be the cherished pursuit what it may. We can con
ceive what their topics of conversation were : how, whilst
rejoicing at the dissolution of monasteries, they grieved at
the indifference of the English to the preservation of the
old -writings, and curious missals, and rare copies of the
Scriptures, which were regarded by Thomas Cromwell (whose
mind was as vulgar as that of the Protector in after times j,
VOL. I. H

98' FATE OF leland: his epitaph on WYATT.
as only so much waste paper. How Leland and Wyatt must
have deplored the loss of monuments of learning, more
especially when German students, hearing of the indifference
of our countrymen, came over to glean all that was valuable
from the churches and monasteries. Then, instigated, perhaps,
by Wyatt, who had great influence "with Lord Cromwell, Le
land wrote to the Secretary of State, as Cromwell then was,
begging his assistance to save many ancient authors buried
then in the dust, and asking permission to place them in the
king's library. And Henry rewarded Leland's zeal, to the
king's credit be it said, -with a rich li-dng, and a canonry.
Leland did not forget his friend Wyatt : he -wrote, what was
then called, an epitaph on his memory, which he addressed to
Lord Surrey, under the title of " Nseniae in Mortem ThomK
Viati incomparabiUs," Johannse Lelando, Antiquario, auctore.
Londini Anno, m.d.xiii.
Poor Leland ! his fate was melancholy. It is true he sur
vived Henry VIII., which is something to say in the days of
that tyrant, and, in 1545, presented to his majesty "a newe
yere's " gift, with a scheme of what he intended to do in fu
ture ; but the future never came to Leland, or, rather, it came
darkened by insanity. In 1550 he was consigned by letters
patent of Edward VI. to the custody of his elder brother;
and, two years afterwards, the mind that had been taxed too
hardly by his own energy, wore out the exhausted frame.
He died insane ; no return of consciousness being permitted
to the ardent and accomplished mind of John Leland. His
very tomb was destroyed with the Church of St. Michael-
le-Merne, in the great fire of London. Peace be to the
spirit that had no rest here ! Societies of learned men are
doing now what John Leland, alone, plodding, solitary,
passing through drear forests, or toiling over trackless hills,
did unaided, except by royal safeguards, and, perhaps, funds:
— great, therefore, was his merit, inestimable his services !
Such was Wyatt's panegyrist : and the praise of such a man

' INJUSTICJi DONE TO ^WYATT's MEMORY. 99
was no slight honour. In dedicating the epitaph to Surrey,
Leland expressly stated that he did so on account of the
affection that subsisted between the two great men.
Sir John Mason, Sir Anthony Saint Leger, Sir Thomas
Challoner, and Parkhurst Bishop of Nor^wich, also composed
elegies in his honour ; yet no memorial of Wyatt remains in
the great church of Sherborne, no stone marks his tomb,
not even a tradition points to the spot where his dust was
laid. It is. Dr. Nott declares, only from conjecture that we
are led to believe that his remains are deposited in the vault
of Horsey his friend.
It appears, however, that, either from party spirit or enYj,
the memory that Surrey venerated was attacked. Neither
was he satisfied ¦with the sorrow that he knew to be, in the
case of his own noble mind, so genuine. His lines, headed
" Of the feigned grief which some express at the death of Sir
Thomas Wyatt, compared ¦with Surrey's deep and reverent
sorrow," ¦will touch the heart of those who feel how cold, and
how often ungrateful, are the worshippers of the honoured
when alive, who, when in the darkness of the grave, can
help and protect them no longer.
" Divers thy death do diversely bemoan !
Some, that in presence of thy UveUhedd
Lurked, whose breasts en-vy -with hate has swoln
Yield Cesar's tears upon Pompeius' head.
Some that watched -with the murderer's knife
With eager thirst to drink thy guiltless blood,
¦Whose practice break by happy end of Ufe,
Weep envious tears to hear thy fame so good.
But I that knew what harboured in that head,
¦What virtues rare were tempered in that breast.
Honour the place that such a jewel bred.
And kiss the ground whereon thy corpse doth rest.
With vapoured eyes, from whence such stream avaUe,
As Pyramus did on Thisbe's breast bewail." *
* Surrey's Poems, p. 46.
H 2

100 surrey's KINDNESS TO 'WYATt'S SON.
Surrey's friendship to his lamented friend was shown in a
mode that attested his sincerity — by regard for his son. The
young man who bore the honoured name of Thomas Wyatt,
and who is generally called Thomas Wyatt the younger, was
twenty-one at the time of his father's death. He is believed,
even in his father's life-time, to have received the honour of
knighthood ; probably from the interest of the Norfolk family,
the duke. Lord Surrey's father, being Thomas Wyatt's god
father. This ill-fated man, ¦with whose career the glory of the
Wyatt family terminated, had little taste for letters, but
showed a thirst for miUtary distinction. Married, at sixteen
years of age, to Jane, the daughter and co-heiress of Sir
WilUam Hawte, of Bourne, in Kent, — his restless disposition
still pursued him to his ruin. Wyatt had trembled for the
well-being of this only son : he had not feared in vain. Still
Surrey clung to the younger Wyatt, stri-ving to engage him in
pursuits worthy of his name ; — in the narrative of Surrey's
life, Thomas Wyatt the younger figures conspicuously and
frequently. Surrey, at the time of Wyatt's death, stood high in the
favour of his sovereign. An invasion of the English territory
in France being apprehended, he had been sent, with Lord
Eussell and the Earl of Southampton, to see that everything
was arranged for the defence of the frontier ; on this occasion
Surrey completely satisfied the expectations, and gained the
approbation of Henry.
But the young impetuous earl was not fitted to pass
peaceably through the world. Society was then in a state
of bondage : and despotism had almost debased the EngUsh
character : Surrey hated injustice. Amongst the attendants
he most loved was Thomas Clere, a man of high birth, and
Surrey's favourite knight companion, and attendant in arms.
Witness the epitaph on Clere : —

POEM TO CLERE ; ANECDOTE OF CLERE. 101
" Norfolk sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead ;
Clere, of the county of De Cleremont hight.
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou'st bred.
And saw' st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chase (chose)
(Aye me, while Ufe did last that league was tender.
Tracing whose steps, thou sawest Kelsal blaze,
Landrecy burnt, and battered Boulogne render.
Ah ! Clere ! if love had booted, cares, or cost.
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost ! " *
It happened that Clere was struck by one Sir Edmund
Knevett -within the precincts of the court. This was a great
offence in times when all men of a certain rank wore
weapons : and was generaUy punished by branding, or the
loss of a Umb ; at the same time, the honour of the subject
was to be protected. Surrey, therefore, undismayed by the
connections and position of Knevett, who was also a kinsman
of his, brought the matter before the Privy Council, and
Knevett was sentenced to lose his right hand. The scene
must have been a singular one. Knevett and Clere had both
been committed to custody, and were now brought out for
judgment, and Knevett being found guilty, certain function
aries were called to put the sentence into execution. First
came the serjeant-surgeon, who, in the words of Holinshed,
appeared " with the instruments appertaining to his office ; "
then "the serjeant of the woodyard, with the mallet and the
block whereupon the hand should lie ; the master cook for
the king, with the knife ; the serjeant of the larder to set
the knife right on the joint ; the serjeant feuer, with the
searing irons to sear the veins ; the serjeant of the poultry
with a cock, which cock should have his head smitten off
upon the same block, with the same knife ; the yeoman of
the chandry, with sear cloths ; the yeoman of the scullery
¦with a pan of fire to heat the irons, a chaffle of water to cool
the ends of the irons, and two forms for all officers to set
their stuff on ; the serjeant of the cellar, ¦with wine, ale, and
* Surrey's Poems.
E 3

102 CEREMONY OF CUTTING OFF THE RIGHT HAND.
beer ; the yeoman of the eurie in the Serjeant's stead, who
was absent, with bason, ewer, and towels."
In what agony must Knevett have ¦witnessed these prepara
tions ; no more jousting, no more archery or shooting at the
popinjay, no more glory in the wars, no more dancing at court.
Who would dance vdth a maimed knight ? with whom could
he now shake hands in the brawle, or set to in the measure ?
Then the whole affair implied such utter ruin. His lands
were to be confiscated — such was a portion of his sentence ;
imprisonment also, during the king's pleasure, and how long
that king's pleasure might last no one could say. Enghsh
men were as likely to be immured for life as for a month.
Knevett must have shuddered as he saw the towels, and
the mallet, and the knife, and the block, and the sear
ing-irons, and the cock, his fellow-sufferer in ignominy,
whose head was doomed. But Knevett perhaps knew that
kind words had been said to the " King's Grace " by Surrey.
When all was ready, the poor delinquent had the presence of
mind to say that he hoped the King's " benign Grace " would
take his left hand instead of his right, for then might that
right hand do the " King some service." This being favour
ably reported, Henry was pleased to remit the whole sen
tence, in consideration of Sir Edmund's " gentle heart," — or,
more likely, of his noble and influential connections.
We next find Surrey himself in durance, and that in the
Fleet, where he was sent on account of his having challenged
John a Leigh, who had pretended to the favour of the fair
Geraldine. It appears from the following lines in Surrey's
Poems, that he was jealous of this man, in spite of the in
feriority of John a Leigh's condition to his own.
" I see her pleasant chere* in chiefest of thy suit ;
¦When thou art gone, I see him come that gathers up the fruit,
And eke in thy respect, I see the base degree
Of him to whom she gave the heart that promised was to thee."
* Countenance.

SURREY IN THE FLEET: LETTER TO THE PRIVY COUNCIL. 103
The punishment of the offence was severe, for the Fleet
was the most pestilent of regions ; and Surrey, humbled, soon
petitioned for mercy. The second letter which he addressed
to the Privy Council is preserved in the Harleian MSS. In
it he pleads " the fury of reckless youth," for mitigation ; he
declares that the penalty he is paying, which he terms a
" gentle warning," ¦s\dll teach him " to bridle his heady ¦wiU."
He begs of them to consider his previously " quiet Ufe ; " he
urges that their grave heads should weU consider that he was
not " the first young man that governed by fury hath enter-
prized such things as he hath afterwards repented." He was
released, and soon afterwards distinguished himself honour
ably in Scotland.
He was speedily, however, in prison again ; two charges
were alleged against him, and to both he pleaded guilty. One
was, — strange as it seems, when England professed itself to
be Eeformed — that he had eaten fiesh in Lent : the other,
that he had walked through the streets of London at night,
breaking ¦windows with a crossbow.
Surrey, in regard to the first offence, pleaded a licence ; to
the second he replied in the following characteristic manner :
" My motive was a religious one, though I confess that it
Ues open to misconstruction. It grieved me, my Lords, to
see the Ucentious maimers of the citizens of London. They
resembled the manners of Papal Eome in her corrupted
state, and not those of a Christian communion. Was I to
suffer these unhappy men to perish without warning ? That
common charity forbade. The remonstrances of their spiri
tual pastors had been urged, I knew, in vain. I therefore
went at midnight through the streets, and shot from my
crossbow at their windows, that the stone, passing noiseless
through the air, might remind them of the suddenness of that
punishment which the Scriptures tell us Divine justice will
inflict on impenitent sinners." *
* Life and Poems by Lord Surrey, p. 21. ¦ Edited by Dr. Nott.
a 4

104 SURREY GOES TO BOULOGNE : IS GOVERNOR THERE.
Little did the presiding nobles of that day comprehend
this attempt to abash and check the evils which have so
baffled ¦wise heads in ours. Surrey, Pickering, one of his
companions, and Wyatt the younger, were sent to the
Tower, where Surrey wrote his " Satire on the Citizens of
London." Happily for this ardent spirit there was then war with
France, and it was found convenient to let these three hot
headed young men free. They joined the forces under Sir
John Wallop, and fought, Wyatt and Surrey, like men in
firmness, like boys in rashness, at Landrecy. The campaign
was not a long one, and Surrey was appointed Governor of
Boulogne. Here he endeavoured to add renown to his country by
various skirmishes, and by personally engaging even in single
combat. He was badly supported, and ill supplied; and
being defeated in an unlucky engagement with the French,
was recalled. Lord Hertford was appointed Captain-General
over the EngUsh pale in France, and Lord Grey deputed to
supersede Surrey, and to take the command of the fortress
and city of Boulogne.
This was the commencement of that tragedy which ended
in Surrey's death.
He was then engaged in finishing a new palace at St.
Leonard's near Norwich — ^the site of a suppressed convent of
Benedictine Friars. He received into his family Hadrian
Junius, a celebrated scholar, whom he established in his
house at Kenninghall as a physician. Churchyard the poet,
was also domiciled in Surrey's service ; but the peaceful
intervals in this gifted man's life were of short duration.
Nay, it is melancholy to confess that beneath the seeming
prosperity of this noble-hearted being was the gna^wing anxiety
of debt. On October 19th, 1546, we find the following appU
cation to some member of the royal household. It is neither
indorsed nor addressed.

THE CLOCK OF CHRISTCHURCH, NORWICH. 105
The Earl of Surrey to 
Y* may like yow w*** my most harty comends to understand
y* I haue vewed the Cloche and Dorter off Chryst churche in
Norwiche, whiche is in all thynges as I enfourmyd [informed]
you unserviceable to ther churche saving for a memory off
the old superstycyon, and will extend to discharge me owt off
the mysery off debt, and iff it were his most excellent Ma:
pleasure to gyve it me, I ¦will faythfuUy promise never to
trouble his Ma: w*"" anny sute of profyght to my self hereafter,
and spende y* and the rest in his Ma: svice w* y" old zeale
y* I have svered w**" always, beseechyng yow to have my sute
soe recomended wherof I can hope but well, having suche
a harty main & the thyng beyng in y' nature y* his Ma:
shall forbeare nothyng nor the churche defacyd to suche
pourpose as it is now evected ; and thus wyshyng yow healthe
and me relief in this neceseyt ; I leve to trowble you from
Kenyngal the 19*'' off October 1546.
You" & assuryd lo^ving ffriend H. Surrey.*
He had, indeed, many claims on his means. After his re
turn from Boulogne, he ¦wrote the following letter : —
"It may like you with my hartie commendacions that
wheras yester nyght I perceyved by you that the King's
Ma*'*, thincking his liberaUtie sufficiently extended towards
the straungers that have served hym, I have with faire words
done my best so to satisfie them accordingly. Assuring you
on my faythe that their necessitie seemed to me suche, as it
cost me a hundred ducates of myn owne pourse, and sum-
what els ; so that now ther resteth nothing to be don, but
their paspourte and redy dispatch from you, wherein it may
yo to consider their great chardges here. And now yo shaU
* Eolls: Dom. S. Papers, vol. bcxxiv. No. 818, inedited.

106 unworthy CONDUCT OF THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT.

e>

geve me leve to come to myne own matters. Commyng
from BouUougne in such sort as you knowe, I left onely two
of my servts behynd me, John Eosington and Thomas
Copeland. To the saied John for his notable ser^vice I gave
th' advantage of the play * in BouUougne. To Thomas the
profecte of the passage. Whom my Lord Gray put imme
diately out of service after my departure, notwithstanding
the Lresf I obtayned from yo to hym in their favour, and upon
a better consideracion John occupieth his rovnme, and my
Lord to his o^wne use occupieth th' others, office of the pas
sage, sayeing that I and my predecessors there shuld use the
same to our gayne. Which I assure you upon myn honor is
untrue, and that it shuld be parcell of th' interteynment of
the Deputie, which in Callayes was never used and as me
semeth to nere for a deputie to grate ; unlesse it were for
some displeasure borne to me. Finally Mr. Secretary this is
th' onely sute I have made yo for anjdihing touchyng
BouUougne syth my depture. Wherfore it may please yo that
if my Lord Gray will needes be passinger and that the office
was no lesse wourth to the saied Thomas then Fyftie pounds
a yeare, being plased ther by a King's Lieutennt which me
thincketh a great disorder that a Capytayne of BouUougne
shuld displase for any pryvate ga3me ; yet at the lest it may
please yo to require my Lord Gray to recompense hym w*
a sum of money in recopense of that that he hath lost and
pourchased so derely w*'' so many daungiers of liefe ; which
my saied Lord of his liberalite cannot refuse to do. And for
aunswer that my saied Lord chargeth me to have returned
the same to my pryvat profecte, in his so saying he can have
non honour, for ther be in BouUougne so many wytnesses that
Henry of Surrey was never for singler profecte corrupted, nor
never yet bribes closed his hande, which lesson I lerned of
my father, and ¦wysshe to succeade hym therin, as in the rest.
* Viohnhlj plage, on shore. f Letters.

VICTIM OP A CABAL. 107
Further wheras the saied Copeland, was placed ther for his
demerites by Mr. Southwell and me of the garde, and that
my sayd Lord Gray deteyneth from hym his wages, it may
please yo at my most hartie request to graunt hym yo"^
L?res for th' obteynyng therof, and of the rest ; and to pdon
my franckness, for that you know it is my naturall to use it
w*"" . . . And thus ¦wysshing you . . . my friend
till I deserve of ... . trary, I pray to God send yo"
. . . . harte desyreth from .... 14th of July
1546. You'' assured loving ffrend H. Surrey.*
This letter proves how honourable was Surrey's character,
and shows the commencement of the cabal against him.
Let us hasten over the martial exploits of his youth at
Boulogne, for ¦with them our subject has little to do.
The victim of a conspiracy, he was removed from his
post as Marshal of the army by the intrigues of the Earl
of Hertford, Jane Seymour's brother ; we trace him again,
not in the annals of history but in those of poetry ; we find
him, after the famous campaign of Boulogne, discarded, in
disgrace, and a prisoner at Windsor; certain expressions
of anger against Hertford had been repeated to that now
powerful upstart, and Surrey's disgrace was certain ; his ulti
mate downfall probable.
He made, nevertheless, an effort to extenuate his imputed
offence ; and addressed a letter to some friend, whose name
is not given, but who was apparently in the confidence of
Henry ; it seems to have been written during his imprison
ment in the Tower.
Whilst these machinations against him were going on. Lord
Surrey remained at Windsor, — a place, to him, full of pain-
* Cottonian MSS. Titus B. II. fol. 68. This letter was -written only six
months previously to his death.

108 surrey's TOUCHING LINES ON 'WINDSOR.
ful remembrance. Here in the days of his boyhood had
Surrey been the companion of the amiable and gifted Duke
of Eichmond, afterwards his brother-in-law. Few lines on
friendship — the true, tender friendship of the very young,
before faith in goodness is shaken, and motives of interest
are given to acts of kindness — few descriptions of trusting
hearts and fond conversation are more touching than the
following lines by Surrey. Warton properly calls it more
an elegy than a sonnet.*
" So cruel prison, thou could betyde, alas
As proud Windsor ! where I in lust and joye
With a kynges sonne my childish yeres did passe
In greater feast than Priam's sonnes of Troye.
¦Where eche swete place returns a tastefuU lower.
The large grene courtes where we were wont to rove.
With eyes cast up into the mayden's tower.
And easie sighs, such as men draw in love.
The stately seates, the ladies bright of hewe.
The daunces shorte, long tales of great delight.
With words and looks, that tigers could but rewe.
Where ech of us did plead the other's right.
The graveU grounde -with sieves tied on the helme
On formying f horse, -with swordes and frendly hartes,
With chear as though one should another whelme
¦Where we have fought and chased oft -with dartes.
The secret groves, which oft we made resound
Of pleasaunt playnt, and of our ladies praise.
Recording ofte what grace ech one had found,
"What hope of spede, what drede of long delays."
Only a short time previous to his incarceration Surrey had
lost his friend Clere. He had been very liberal to this be
loved attendant, and he buried his remains in the chapel
belonging to the Howard family at Lambeth ; inscribing on
a tablet suspended on a wall near to the tomb, the beautifal
epitaph already quoted.
Surrey was soon released from his durance in Windsor Castle;
but the sunshine of his life was soon to close for ever. On the
» Warton's Hist. Poetry, vol. v. p. 12. f Foaming.

CAUSES OF SURREYS EUIN. 109
twelfth of December, 1546, he was committed to the Tower
— which he quitted only to attend his trial — and, finally, to
ascend the scaffold. Various causes have been assigned as
the sources of Surrey's disfavour with Henry VIII. : but the
old story of jealousy of the succession seems to account both
for his attainder, and for that of his father, the Duke of
Norfolk. Henry had settled the crown on his son Edward :
and was naturally anxious that the estabUshment both of the
Eeformation, and of the succession should not be disturbed.
Lord Surrey was accused of holding Eomanist opinions ; and
of ha-ving set up an altar in one of the churches at Boulogne
when he was governor of that city. It is, however, stated by
contemporary historians that the hatred of Hertford, and his
desire to be the young prince's guardian during his long-
minority, prompted his hatred to the Howard family.
Under such an influence the noble, admirable, high-spirited
Surrey perished.
It is sometimes a man's most venial error that works him the
direst mischief. Great family pride was the characteristic of
that day, when coats of arms could not be assumed unworthily
¦without condign punishment ; and meant, consequently, what
they represent. Our ancestors, we believe, were capital
genealogists: and Garter King-at-arms had often no very
easy office when obUged to uphold the dignity of rank. To
that lofty officer of state was application made, so soon as
Surrey's fate was decreed in Henry's secret councils, for proof
of the misconduct of the earl. The reply of Garter runs
thus : — *
To the Kings Most roy all Mat'" touching the Earl of Surrey'' s
bearing of St. Edw''' Armes.
" Garter saith that thearle of Surrey a little before he went
to BuUein -viz the [date omitted] day of the xxxvii*'' yeare of
the Kings Mat'*' most noble Eeigne, caused Eichmonde
* EoUs ; Dom. S. Papers, vol. Ixxxiv. No. 853, inedited.

110 LETTER FROM GARTER KING-AT-ARMS.
herauld to write a Letter to said Garter to cum w*'' all spede
to Lambeth to speake -with the s'^ Erie in a Morninge &
thither he came & tarried there the same morninge ere he
spake w*'^ the Erie afores'^. At lenght he sent for y Garter
to cum up to the Gallery in his bowse at Lambeth, and there
shewed him a Schowchien* wherin among other things, were
the Armes of Saint Edward and Anjow, and he said he would
bear them. And the said Garter asked him by what title.
And the said Earle said that Brotherton bare them. And
said Garter shewed him that it was not in his Pedigree. And
the Earle said that he found it in an house in Norfolke in
Stone graven soe, and he would bear it. And Garter told
him it was not his honour soe to doe. And so at y* last y°
Earle said he would bear it. And that he might lawfully doe
it. And after y' y* said Garter, seeing the Earle soe -wUfull,
spake to Master Warner in Powles to tell y" said Earle y' he
might not doe it. " Your most humble Sugett " Garter."
Such was Garter's reply. To avoid public indignation,
the Earl, it appears, was examined under a false name: the
homely one of Baker being substituted for that of Howard.
The following interrogatories were therefore addressed to
him: —
{Indorsed) In Guildhall.
Y" Interrogations of Mr. Baker.'\
First. Whether you, knowledge yo'^ selfe to be our sove-
raigne Lord the Kings true subject or not ?
/tern. Of what Estate and Degree you accept and take yo'
selfe to be of in this Eealme?
Item. What enheritaunce you pretend or thynke that of
Eight you owe to have w* in this said Eelme?
* Scutcheon. t RoUs : Dom. S. Papers, vol. kxxiv. No. 844.

draft altered in HENRYS HANDWRITING. Ill
Item. What pson [person] and of what estate you know
that pson to be off to whom do you suppose yo"" selfe to
be an Inheritor after the decease of yo"" father ?
Item. What pson and of what estate you suppose to be
the best of the blodde that you come off and be Inheritor
unto?* The examinations were drawn up in full by Lord Chancellor
Wriothesley, and Lord Surrey was tried before the commoners
in Guildhall. So anxious was Henry VIII. to convict the
Earl, that corrections in his own hand-writing appear in the
foUo-wing Ust of interrogatories taken from the Eolls, and
indorsed :
"Fair Copy of the Interrogations prepared for the E. of
Surrey drawn out & written by the Ld. Chancellor
Wriothesley, & corrected by the King (Henry VIII.), the
foundation of the charges brought against the Duke of
Norff and the E. of Surrey.
(The words in itaUcs are those inserted by the King. )
{Indorsed.') Interrogations ppared for y" E. of Surrey.
" If a man coming of the colaterall lyne to the heyre off y"
Cro-wn, who ought to bear tharmes of England but in the
second quarter with the difference of theyre anncestrie, doe
presume to chaunge his righte place, and beare them in the
first quarter, and leaving out y" true difference of thancestor
and in lieu therof use the very place only of the heire male
apparent ; how this man's intent is to be wayed and whither
this import any danger, perill, or slander to y"= Title of the
Prince or very heire apparent and howe it wayeth in our
Lawes. " If a man presum,e to take into his armes an old coate of
the Cro-wne which his ancestors never bare, no he off ryght
* This is an original draft, and altered in some places.

112 INTERROGATIONS PUT TO SURREY.
owght to beare, and use it w*out difference, whether it may
to the periU or slander of the very heir of y* cro-wne, or be
taken to tendre to his disturbance in the same, and in what
piU [peril] they be that consent that he shuld soe doe.
" If a man compassing hymselfe to governe the realme do
actually goe abought to rule the Kynge and should for that
purpose advise his daughter or sister to become his harlott
thynkynge therby to brynge it to passe and soe wolde rule
bothe fader and sonn as by the nexte artycle dothe more
appere whatt thiss imfiporteth.
" If a man saye these words (' If the King dye who shuld
have the rule of the prince but my father or I ') what it im-
porteth. " The depraving of the King's Counsail.
" If a man shall say these words of a nobleman or woman
of the Eealme: — ' if the King were dead I should shortly sett
him up : what it importeth.'
" If a man provoked and compeUed by his Dutie of Alle
giance, shall such matter as he heareth touching the King
and shall hereafter be contynually threetened by the ptie
[party] accused to be killed or hurt for it ; what it importeth.
" If a man take uppon him to use liberty in his Lordshipp's
or to keep plees to make hymself free warren in his groundes
-without licence : what it importeth.
"If a subject psume [presume] to give -without Ucence
armes to straungers what it importeth.*
To these were added another list indorsed, "Interrogations
touching Coate Armes. Intended or is likely to examine y*
Earl of Surrey uppon."
It is evident from the following letter that the storm was
not wholly unexpected by Surrey. His letter to his servant
was evidently intended to refer to something in the tablet
* EoUs : Dom. S. Papers, vol. Ixxxiv. p. 846, inedited.

SUEEEY IS SUMMONED BEFORE THE PRIVY COUNCIL. 113
in which the coat of arms, quartering those of Edward the
Confessor, might form an additional proof against the ac
cused. Therle of Surrey to hugh Elles.
" Hugh EUys ; it -will be iij, or iiij days or Catelyn Com who
shall bryng yow moneij, I pray delyver this ire [letter] w'
aU spede to Mrs. Ne-vingham whom yew shall fynde at Je
romes Sheltons bowse in London) — or els -will be ther w' in
iij days comawnd. the paynter to leve ow' the Tablet wher
tay Lord off Eichemond's picture shuld stand : For I -will have
nothyng ther now yet the tablet but all dowbet : from Kenyn-
gale this wedensday. "h. Surrey"
Then follows this fragment : —
" delyver this Iter to non but her o-wne hande.*
yt — aye please yo"" good lordshippez too exa — n m*' henjmg-
ham late — Marye shelton of the effects of thearle of Surrey
his lettre sent unto her (for y* ys thought that ye secretis
bathe passed betwen them before her maryage & sithens — "
(Addorsment) To my s'vant hugh EUis
at Lambeth at the ¦Whyghte Lyon
w' hast hast hast hast
There were many collateral causes which aided to produce
the ruin of Lord Surrey. An attempt was made to charge
him ¦with ha^^ng endeavoured to promote an unlawful passion
between the King and his sister, and the widow of Henry's
iUegitimate son, the Duke of Eichmond. This monstrous accu
sation was not, it seems, brought forward at the trial and
the doeument we have quoted is the only proof of its being
started. The abandoned sister, however, swore away her
brother's life ¦with as little remorse as if the infamous tale
were true. It was also murmured that Surrey had refused
the hand of the daughter of his enemy Hertford ; but since
he was at that time married, that rumour must have been
* Vol. Ixxxiv. No. 837 : Eecord Office.
VOL. I. I

114 SURREY IS SUMMONED BEFORE THE PRI-VY COUNCIL.
unfounded. The Duchess of Eichmond was solicited to marry
Sir Thomas Seymour, Hertford's brother, but as that union
might have saved both her brother and her father from their
trial and disgrace, she refused the proposal.
One of the proposed questions, referring to the Duchess of
Eichmond, namely, "whether he made his father pryvie to
the matter of my Lady of Eichmond or no," points plainly to
the allegation relative to the King.* Surrey's doom was, how
ever, determined ; and pardon for any offence was proffered
to those who could bring forth any charge against the ¦victim
of Henry's tyranny.
Surrey was at Kenning Hall, when he was called from the
quiet pursuits of his lettered retirement, to appear before
ChanceUor Wriothesley and the Earl of Hertford, who pre
sided at the Privy Council. Hertford's subsequent career
shows well his character. That of Wriothesley was dra'wn by
Blage, a friend both of Surrey's and of Wyatt's, in the follow
ing bitter lines : — BlA&B OF LOED WeIOTHBSLET.
" From vile estate, of base and low degree,
By false deceit, by craft, and subtle ways :
Of mischief mould, and key of cruelty.
Was crept fuU high, borne up by sundry stages,
Picture of pride : of papistry the plat :
In whom Treason, as in a throne did sit,
With ireful eye, aye glearing like a cat,
Killing by spight whom he thought good to hit."
It is gratifying to find that the friend of Wyatt was worthy
of the esteem of that heart, long since mouldering in the
tomb. The impetuous Surrey, denied the charges against
him, and chaUenged him who had framed them to single
combat. For himself, conscious of innocence, he declared
that he would throw aside his armour, and fight an op
ponent in his coat of mail, in his shirt. The scene must
have been striking and even solemn ; for life, human life,
'' EoUs : Dom. S. Papers, vol. Ixxxiv., No. 840, 841.

LETTER TO THE COUNCIL OF STATE. 115
hung on a thtead. Even the base Wriothesley may have
been touched -with admiration ; for to forego the protection
of armour, and to fight only in a linen dress, was, in those days
of expiring chivalry, the highest proof of valour. To have
fought in a tournament in no other dress than la chemise de
sa dame, gained a French knight the repute of being the
most gallant lover in Christendom.
It was during his imprisonment that Lord Surrey ad
dressed to the Council of State the following letter, which
has only been disinterred very recently from the State Paper
Office.* " Yt may leke yo"" honorable Lp yt sythe the begynning
off my durance the dyspleasure off my master (wyche losse
of blood w' other distemperances off nature) w* my sorrow to
see the long aprovyd trewghth of myn old father browght in
questyon by aily sturre betwenne Sowthwell & me (hath sore
feblyd me as is to be sene) wherfor lest sycknes myght folow by
meane wheroff my -wittz shuld not be so Freshe to unburden
my .... conscyence (conscience of) off suche matter as I
have resu-vyd in expectation off som off yo"' Lp, to have bene
sent from the Kynges Ma : (majesty) to have takyn my
examynacyon ; I have resolvyd most humbly to make thys
sute: That wher as Uij yeres past yow my Lo. Chawncell''
my L. Pri^vy seale my L. off Wynchester and S"" Antonij
Browne had the examynacion off matters towchyng alegeaunce
then layd to my charge, — (wherin God knowyth w* what
Dawnger heskapyd) notw* standyng my iiiocency: for the
whyche I most humbly confesse to have conceyvyd no small
Jelowzii in yo"^ favo'' and aske yo"" pardon therfor (my desyer
iz now uij and only yow may be sent to me for so it . .
Ma. servyce) to whom I entend to dyschar . . .in suche
matter off importaiic as depend . . . formali examyncyon
touchyng (or trustyng) in yo"" ho ... w' respect off
¦* "Whilst this work was in the Press. (No. 839, Vol. 84, Eecord Office.)
I 2

116 TESTIMONY OF THE DUCHESS OF RICHMOND.
my particular desertes towarde yow, ye will make reporte off
my tale to his Ma: (Majesty) (accordyng as yo shall here)
and iff it shall seme to his Ma : y* I overshote mij selfe to be
so bold to chose whom his Ma : shuld sende, I truste his Ma :
shall hold him contentyd the w* when I am hard and albeit
M"^ Baker* wer psent at the formali examynacyon w' yo' Lp.
it shall not stand w* his Ma : svyce (ser^vice) y' he be present
at thys : neverthelesse my matter is preindycyall (prejudicial)
to no creature onlesse to mij sUfe (present) and Th' AI-
myghty pserve yow : your Lp myserable humbly to coinawnde,
" Henry Suerey."
Addressed To the right honorable iny Lorde
and other off the Kynges Ma
jesty es most honorable CounceU.
Surrey had demanded a trial, and certain depositions were
taken down.
Mrs. Holland, his father's paramour, was the first de
ponent, for she was resolved to exculpate herself at all
events. The Duchess of Eichmond was the second.
Young, beautiful, impelled by what she termed true Pro
testant principles, audacious enough to assume reUgion as
her motive, this fiend, this accuser of her father and brother,
complained of the one for his irregular pajonent of her
marriage portion, and hated the other for his (imputed) in
clination to Eomanism. Her testimony did the work that
Hertford wanted ; her depositions rendered her the murderess
of her brother ; — for her father escaped royal vengeance.
Little, indeed, was there to be alleged, except idle, bitter
speeches about Hertford and the " new nobility," untU at
last, she stated that her brother Surrey wore on his arms not
a duke's coronet, but what seemed to her like a "close
crown " and a cypher, which she took to be the king's H. E.,
and, on these charges, she judged her brother to be guilty of
high treason. Next spoke Sir Edmund Knevett, who, but
* Himself, under that name.

SURREY IS INDICTED AND CONDEMNED FOR TREASON. 117
for Surrey, would have been a branded, ruined, outcast ; but
he admitted that he could charge the earl " -with no untruth."
No, Surrey's honour was unscathed, that was all. Sir
Thomas Pope also appeared in court, but no evidence of
guUt was eUcited.
The Earl was then indicted for high treason, and tried by
special commission on the 13th of January, before a jury of
Norfolk men. It was a critical day, for at that very instant
Henry VIII. lay in the last agonies of death.
The accused spoke well; — too well, according to the
chroiucler* HaU and HoUnshed, who thought that if he had
sho-wn less -wit " his praise had been the greater." Doubtless
he gave his accusers and judges many sharp hits, for a noble
imprudence, often the error of those high in station, was one
of the leading traits of his dauntless character. But inde
pendent men were not appreciated in that day. He reduced,
however, the whole burden of the accusations against him to
one point — namely, that he had borne the arms of Edward
the Confessor. Then a fearful scene ensued. Surrey stood
in court, battUng for his life on that small point ; his inte
grity, his intellect, his courage, were indeed notable. Mean
time — this was at GuildhaU — how was the King ? Such a
question must have been asked by many in a low voice ; if he
Uves, Surrey is doomed ; if he dies, Surrey is also doomed.
Hertford is Lord Protector, and Surrey has sworn, after the
death of Henry, to avenge himself on the "new man."
The fact of bearing the Confessor's arms seriously affected
men, who then regarded a coat of mail much as we now do a
title, with strange scruples. To bear arms gave, without
nobility, the same position as the " De " affixed to surnames
does in France. The jury looked upon this matter as a grave
offence. In vain did Surrey urge precedence ; in the midst
of the life-struggle a dastardly witness was permitted to depose
to " high words '' Surrey had used, and to his o-wn bravado
(poor, paid wretch I) in answering them.
I 3

118 ANECDOTE OF SURREY — HE IS BEHEADED.
Then the flower of chivalry, the friend of Wyatt, started
up, all the blood of all the Howards mantled in that long,
sharp-featured, most expressive face, as he spoke : — " I leave
it to yourselves, gentlemen," he said, " to judge whether it
vfere probable that this man should speak thus to the Earl
of Surrey, and he not strike him."
He was, condemned. The Chancellor, the " carrion corpse "
described by Blage, pronouncing sentence of death on the
noblest of his generation.
Surrey was remanded after his trial to the Tower. There
is something solemn in the mystery that hangs over his last
moments. We see him, in fancy, small of stature, but in
comparably proportioned, with dark, speaking eye, looking
back once more at that court ; — at the old hall ; the Lord
Mayor in his robes, the guilty Wriothesley, the craven
Knevett. He passes out, and we behold him no more.
The chroniclers, who thought him too witty and too fear
less, prudently abstained from details which must have -wrung
every manly heart had they appeared in their annals.
Henry's last act was to sign Surrey's death-warrant ; at all
events, if too ill to write, he was able to figure his large
initials, the fatal H. E. which had sent so many souls to judg
ment, on the document.
On the nineteenth, or some say the twenty-first of January
1 546, Surrey was beheaded on Tower Hill. His body was
buried in the church of Saint Hallows Barking, but removed
afterwards, it is said, to FramUngham, in Suffolk. He died
in his thirtieth year, having lived in that time double, in
one sense, to the lives of ordinary men.
Even Horace Walpole is roused to some natural feeling
when he relates that the father, the hateful Duke of Norfolk
was spared— spared by the death of the King; whUst Surrey,
the lofty, the noble, the pious, the fearless, he who has
reaUsed all one's notions of true nobility, sans peur, sans
reproche, perished on the scaffold.

WILLIAM COWPER and MARY UNWIN.

ErSTH AND PARENTAGE OP WILLIAM CQ-WPBE. — HIS MOTHER. — HEE
EARLY DEATH.  HIS LINES ON HEE PIOTWEE.  GOES TO SCHOOL.
— AFTEBWAHDS TO -WESTMINSTER.  THEN INTO A SOLIOITOE's
OFFICE. — HIS ATTACHMENT TO HIS COUSIN.  THE FATHER'S OBJEC
TION AND DECISION.  COWPER BECOMES INSANE.  INTRODUCED TO
MART UNWIN.  HER CHARACTER.  TAKES UP HIS ABODE -WITH
HEE. — HUNTINGDON DESCRIBED. — UNWm's DEATH.  OLNEY 
NE-WTON. — XADT AUSTEN. — -WESTON.  NEWTON DISAPPRQ-VES OF
cowper's VISITmO there.  RELIEF TO COWPEE TO REMQ-VE
THERE. — LADY HESKETh's IONDNBS^  DEATH OF MES. UNWIN.—
DEATH OF CO-WPEE. — VISIT OF MACKINTOSH AND OF BASIL MON
TAGU TO DURHAM.

I 4

WILLIAM COWPEE akd MAKY UNWIN.

The county of Hertfordshire has o-wned an undue proportion,
for its extent, of literary characters. Lord Bacon, at Gor-
hambury ; Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, at St. Alban's ;
Co-wper, at Berkhampstead ; not to enumerate many more
dead, and some li^^ing, celebrities, are sufficiently notable to
glorify a province.
William Co^wper, the most unhappy man of his time, was
born on the 15th of November, in 1731 (old style), at Berk-
hamsted, St. Peter's, in this favoured county. His father
was the rector of the parish. Berkhampstead — anciently
called Bergham stedt, from its being in the hills ; Berg,
being in Saxon a hill ; Ham, a to^wn ; and Stedt, a seat —
owned at one time a Saxon castle and fort, in which a king
of Mercia resided : until William the Conqueror, the Napo
leon of his time, came to see and to conquer ; and gave Berk-
hamsted, rated at thirteen hides, to his half-brother, the
Earl of Mortaigne.
Many remnants of ancient grandeur remained to attract
the early attention of one whose infancy seems to have com
prised almost the only happy period of his existence. William
Cowper, as he described himself, drawn by the gardener
Eobert day by day to school, could view the fine old church
in which his father preached, ¦with the reverence due to a
pile that had received among its worshippers stern Planta-

122 cowper's FAMILY HONOURABLE.
genet crusaders — who succeeded the despoiled Mercians as
rulers over the castle and township. Here Cicely, the last
of that race, lived and died. Her predecessors, Piere Ga
veston and Eobert de Vere, the one the favourite of Edward
IL, the other of Eiehard IL, having held a brief sway here ;
and the still stately ruin, the ancient church, the peculiarities
of the once favoured little to^wn, wanted but the adjunct of
a poet's birth to render the place complete in interest.
The lineage of Covrper was thoroughly English, highly
respectable, and ancient ; — and latterly noble. Yet he took a
pleasure in saying that his name was derived from that of a
Cooper, or Cow-keeper, or a general dealer (Kooper) Dutch;
and that a worthy Scottish bishop, from Fifeshire, had first
made the family, as it were, into a family; and there may have
been some truth in the notion, for James I. in creating a cer
tain William Cowper, in his reign, a baronet of Nova Scotia,
perhaps paid a compliment to some zealous, anti-puritanical
Scottish prelate. And James did well in promoting Sir WU
liam Co^wper, for that worthy man erected a monument to
the judicious Hooker, thirty years after that great divine's
death. Sir William's son, another Sir William (a confusion
of proper names, which there should be a law to prevent),
was father of the first Earl Cowper, Lord Chancellor, and of
Spencer Cowper, one of the Judges of the Court of Common
Pleas. John Cowper, D.D., the father of the poet, was the son of
Spencer Co^wper, and was presented to the Eectory of Great
Berkhampstead in due time.
The mother of the poet was Anne Donne ; she had the
honour of being of the same family as Dr. Donne, the friend
of Izaak Walton. She was one of the Donnes, of Ludham
Hall, in Norfolk ; and she appears to have been worthy of
the name of Donne.
Her portrait bears some resemblance to that of her son
William. She had the same slender form, the same refined

HIS MOTHER — HER DEATH. 123
features, the same light hair and white complexion ; and pro
bably from her was inherited the sweet, susceptible nature,
the gentle, poetic mind ; and — but we hope not — the cruel,
incurable malady of later years.
The poet's infancy was happy, for his mother was tenderly
affectionate ; and that he respected his father is obvious in
his famous and exquisite lines to my " Mother's Picture."
Who cannot enter into the feelings of the bereaved child
when, many years afterwards, he gazed on his mother's por
trait, which had been sent to him by a relation? How many
a son could echo those heart -stricken words :
" Life has past,
With me but roughly since I saw thee last."
Mrs. Cowper loved him fondly ; and the delicate, petted boy,
was bom to be beloved. He remembered in after life many
little tender cares :
" The fragrant waters on my head displayed
By thy o-wn hand."
Children indeed remember such small kindnesses longer than
we think.
We see him sitting by his fond mother's lap, pricking
shapes into paper with a pin : and
" Thou wert happier than myself the -while,
Woiddst fondly stroke my head — and with a smile."
Alas ! the loving child was soon severed from this doating
parent, who died at the early age of thirty-four, in child
birth. The beauty of her life, the heroism of her death, were
thus described in her epitaph by her niece, afterwards Lady
Walsingham : *
" Here Ues, in early youth bereft of life,
The best of mothers, and the kindest -wife ;

* Co-wper's Life, p. 5.

124 cowper's peculiar temperament.
¦Who neither knew nor practised any art.
Secure in all she -wish'd, her husband's heart:
Her love to him, still prevalent in death,
Pray'd Heaven to bless him with her latest breath.
¦Whoe'er thou art that dost this tomb draw near,
0, stay awhile, and shed a friendly tear ;
These lines, though weak, are as herself sincere."
The sensitive, precocious child was conscious of his loss :
" I heard the bell toU'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ;
And turning from my nursery window drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu."
His was a temperament that " peculiarly required," as
Southey expresses it, " the peacefulness and security of
home." Yet, at six years of age, he was sent to a school at
Market Street, in Hertfordshire ; where the fragile child was
intimidated by a barbarous lad of fifteen, who frightened the
unhappy Cowper so much that he had not courage to look his
persecutor in the face. Never did he, he relates, raise his
eyes higher than the knees of the tyrant : — "I knew him
better by his shoe-buckles than by any other part of
his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and may we meet in
glory!" It is difficult, however, for those who love the memory of
Co-wper to pardon this unknown tyrant, to whose account
not only merely infantine misery, but years of wretchedness,
may be laid. A child of either sex, predisposed to insanity,
should be encouragingly, though firmly treated; whUst no
morbid tendencies should, by over indulgence, be evoked,
terrors should, at the same time, be kept away. Pleasant
images, active exercises, a sense of being loved, all that
can cheer, yet not excite, may do much to avert the
hea-riest calamity with which our heavenly Father chastises
His people.
In his anguish, the affrighted WUliam Co-wper remembered

HIS SCHOOL DAYS. 125
that there was a God above — that God whom, in after life,
he so often feared had deserted him. Miss Edgeworth,
amongst many admirable hints for the young, says, " Never
first speak to a child of God as an object of fear." In this
poor child's case, whilst his little heart fluttered and throbbed
at the very sound of his tormentor's voice, his Maker came
into his mind as a refuge — a very present help in trouble.
" One day," he relates, " as I was sitting alone upon a
bench in the school-room, melancholy, and almost ready to
weep at the recollection of what I had already suffered, and
expecting at the same time my tormentor every moment, the
words of the Psalmist came into my mind : ' I will not fear
what flesh can do unto me.' I applied them to my own
case, -with a degree of trust and confidence in God that would
have been no disgrace to a much more experienced Christian.
I instantly perceived in myself a lightness of spirits, and a
cheerfulness I have never before experienced, and took several
paces up and do^wn the room with alacrity." But these reli
gious impressions were soon effaced : " I cannot recollect,"
Co^wper afterwards ¦wrote, " that until the thirty-second year
of my life, I had even any serious impressions of the religious
kind, or at all bethought myself of the things of my salva
tion, except in two or three instances."
Many persons, indeed, of Cowper's intended profession could,
at that time, o^wn to the same fact, for he was brought up to
the Bar.
During his boyhood, nevertheless, some transient impres
sions of his Christian responsibility were imparted. Whilst
at Westminster school, then the great place for the education
of the higher classes, he was confirmed. The head master
Dr. Nichols, undertook, of course, to prepare the boys for
confirmation. " The old man," Cowper relates, " acquitted
himself of this duty like one who had a deep sense of its
importance; and I believe most of us were struck by his
manner, and affected by his observations. Then, for the first

126 A STAETLING INCIDENT AFFECTS HIM.
time, I attempted to pray in secret ; but being little accus
tomed to that exercise of the heart, and having very childish
notions of religion, I foimd it a difficult and painful task,
and was even then frightened at my own insensibUity. I
relapsed into a total forgetfulness of God, ¦with all the disad
vantages of being the more hardened, for being softened to no
purpose." Then, before he had entered life, a warning in the
form of a severe attack of the small-pox came ; during his
illness he had no thought of God, nor of eternity — no contri
tion. Though he was at that age, he avows, an infernal liar,
being able to invent, at a moment's notice, a plausible
excuse : " These, I know," he said, " are called school-boy
tricks, but a total depravity of principle, and the work of the
father of lies are universally at the bottom of them." "What
ever seeds of religion I might have carried thither (to West
minster school), before my seven years apprenticeship to the
classics had expired, were all marred and corrupted. The
duty of the schoolboy swallowed up every other; and I
acquired Latin and Greek at the expense of a knowledge
important." Well might Dr. Arnold declare that public schools (as
constituted formerly) " were the nurseries of vice." *
An incident, which would have been received by many -with
indifference, made a great impression on the excitable, imagi
native Cowper.
He was crossing St. Margaret's churchyard one night,
when a grave-digger, who was at work by the light of a
lanthorn, suddenly threw up a skuU, which struck him on
the leg. This event "was an alarm," Cowper tells us, "to his
conscience, and may be numbered among the best religious
documents that I received at Westminster." He became
forgetful of mortaUty. So true is Southey's remark: "Death,
indeed, appears to us in boyhood almost as much like a
* Life of Arnold, by Dr, Stanley.

LOOKS BACK TO WESTMINSTER WITH PLEASURE. 127
dream — as life, to those who are far advanced in their mortal
pilgrimage." Notwithstanding all his self-reproach, and the too accusing
conscience which in after life, under the infiuence of zealous
friends, converted the thoughtlessness of boyhood into a
crime, Co^wper looked back to Westminster ¦with pleasure,
alluding to which, in his Table Talk, he says :
" The scene is touching*, and the heart is stone.
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none ;
The wall on which we tried our graving skfll,
The very name we carVd subsisting still :
The bench on which we sat while deep employed.
Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroyed ;
The little ones, unbuttoned, glo-wing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot.
As happy as we once to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle-down at taw ;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat.
Or drive it de-rious -with a dexterous pat ;
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollections of our o-wn delights,
That -viewing it we seem almost to obtain
Our innocent, sweet simple years again."
Whilst at Westminster, Cowper formed the acquaintance of
several who figured in after life — Eiehard Cumberland,
Impey, famous or infamous in India, and Warren Hastings,
were his class fellows. There was one, however, whom
he preferred to all : this was Sir William Eussell, whose
family had been, in former days, intimately connected with
that of Cromwell — one of their descendants was bed-chamber
woman to the Princess AmeUa, the daughter of George the
Second. " Ah ! Miss Eussell," cried Frederick, Prince of
Wales, in his sister's room, on the 30th of January, seeing
the young lady employed in adjusting some part of his sister's
dress ; " are you not at Church to try to avert the judgments
of heaven from faUing upon the nation for the sake of your
* Southey's Co-wper, p. 17.

128 FALLS IN LOVE.
ancestor, Oliver?" "Is it not," she answered, "sufficient
humiliation for a descendant of the great Oliver to be pin
ning up the tail of your Eoyal Highness's sister?"
Eussell alone retained the affection of Cowper. The lines
" Stfll, stai I mourn, -with each returning day.
Him snatched by fate in early youth away,"
referred to this friend of his boyhood. From Westminster
Co-wper was transferred into a solicitor's office, to learn the
practice of the bar. Here he remained three years, passing
his Sundays, however, in the agreeable society of his young
cousins in Southampton Eow, the daughters of his uncle,
Ashley Co-wper. In these visits he was accompanied by a
fellow-clerk, the great lawyer, who afterwards became Lord
Thurlow. Thurlow had been educated at Canterbury School, "a daring,
refractory boy," whose after career certainly carried out the
impressions given by his youth.
Southampton Eow, then open to the fields, was a pleasant
as well as an aristocratic locality ; and here the happiest years
of Co-wper's youth were spent. Instead of studying law ¦ — for
the pursuit of which he was totally imfitted — he devoted
himself to the two young ladies. " There was I," he wrote to
Lady Hesketh at a later period, " and the future Lord Chan
cellor constantly employed from morning to night in giggling
and making giggle, instead of studying the law. 0 fie, cousins,
how could you do so ! "
One of the culprits who thus allured Co-wper and Thurlow
from the office was a charming and accomplished girl, Theo
dora Jane, the ill-fated second daughter of Ashley Cowper.
She was intelligent, accomplished, and, as we learn from her
after life, of an affectionate, constant nature : an attachment
was the result of the long and idle hours of that careless period.
William Co-wper now became an altered being ; his shyness dis
appeared ; he dressed well, he talked well, and he soon avowed

THE PATHEE INEXORABLE. 129
his affection for his cousin to his uncle. " And what," asked
the young lady's father, addressing his daughter, " will you
do if you marry William Cowper ? " " Oh, Sir, wash all day,
and ride out on the great dog at night !"
Mr. Ashley Cowper, too late to save his daughter's happi
ness, which became evermore involved in the well-being of
her cousin, objected then and for ever to an union. Southey
considers the notion that first cousins ought not to marry, as
one of the superstitions that has survived the Eeformation.
He forgets the almost invariable delicacy of health, and decay
in the human frame, that is the result of marriages of this
kind. The Eomish Church, or, as he styles it, the " crafty
priesthood," who opposed such ties, were, perhaps, wiser in
their generation than we, in ours. In Co-wper's case, although
the result was most miserable, there were reasons more
cogent than ordinary considerations ; and the prudent father
probably dreaded the insanity which afterwards supervened.
He stated his resolution, and the cousins never met again.
They remained still fondly attached, especially Theodora,
who never married, nor wished to marry, after this blighting
incident of her youth. Her pride in his then developing
talents — her constancy to his memory endured to the last.
Often did the poet, in sorrow and sickness, receive anonymous
proofs that some one absent was thinking ofhis comforts, and
treasuring up the dim image of his first love. All intercourse
between the cousins ceased for years. When it had been
revived between Covrper and the elder sister, the charming
Lady Hesketh, he said : " I still look back to the memory of
your sister, and regret her ; but how strange it is, if we were
to meet we should not know each other."
He had transcribed his early poems for Theodora. She
treasured the manuscript for years, committing them at last
to an intimate friend, with instructions not to open them till
after her death. The once young and gay suitor had by that
time become a hopeless maniac. The sight of these relics of
VOL. I. K

130 HIS EARLY CAREER.
former days distressed her who had mourned over the utter
darkness of the once vigorous mind. The interesting and
constant Theodora survived until 1824.
An engagement to his cousin would, perhaps, have pre
vented two terrible results — one was a course of " sinful
indulgence," to use the poet's o-wn words, during the twelve
years that he remained in the Temple, whither he afterwards
removed ; the other was the state of mind described as dark
ening this period of Covrper's youth. He was only twenty-one
when thus left to himself in the centre of vicious London, his
father having bought a set of chambers for him for the sum of
two hundred and fifty pounds. The foUo-wing passage is taken
from his o-wn account of his early life : —
" This being a critical season of my life, and one upon which
much depended, it pleased my all-merciful Father in Jesus
Christ to give a check to my rash and ruinous wickedness at
the very onset. I was struck, not long after my settlement at
the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits as none but they
who have felt the same can have the least conception of Day
and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and
rising up in despair. I presently lost all relish for those
studies to which I had before been closely attached. The
classics had no longer any charms for me. I had need of
something more salutary than amusement, but I had no one
to direct me where to find it."
Then a volume of George Herbert's poems fell into his
hands, and he found in them a strain of piety he could not
but admire. Such was the commencement of that religious
melancholy which hung over the amiable and unhappy William
Cowper. Change of scene was recommended, and he went to
Southampton, where, sitting -with some friends on an eminence
at the end of an arm of the sea, between Southampton and
the New Forest, he felt as if the weight of his misery was
suddenly taken off his heart. " I could," he said, " have wept
with transport had I been alone."

GRATITUDE FOE HIS PEESERVATION. 131
" I think," he adds, " I remember something like a glow of
gratitude to the Father of mercies for this unexpected bless
ing, and that I ascribed it to His gracious acceptance of my
prayers. But Satan and my own wicked heart quickly per--
suaded me that I was indebted for my deliverance to nothing
but a change of scene and the amusing varieties of the place.
By this means he turned the blessing into a poison."
In this irrational state, Cowper was not proof against what
followed. He returned to London ; — associated with professed
infidels, and with Christians only in name ; obtained a mastery
over conscience, and even began to doubt whether the Gospel
were tme or not. This course was assuredly fostering the dis
ease which ensued. He still struggled against vice, and com
bated Deists, but was gro-wing every day more and more
wretched, until at last he was nigh lost for ever.
Meantime, he appears to have overcome his early disap
pointment. Certain pleasures, besides those of a reprehensible
kind, had solaced the heart not, perhaps, so deeply wounded
as that of Theodora.
"Sometimes," he writes to a friend and fellow-Templar,
AUworthy Eowley, " I go into the adjacent parts of the coun
try to visit a friend or a lady ; but it is a short journey, and
such as may easily be performed on foot or in a hired car
riage : for never, unless compelled to do it, do I mount a horse,
because I have a tender skin, which, with little exercise of that
kind, suffers severely. I lately passed three days at Green
wich — a blessed three days — and if they had been three
years I should not have en-vled the gods their immortality."
In after times, however, justice was done to the generous-
minded woman whose life was devoted to one remembrance.
It is not in the hey-day of youth and spirits that women must
look to their reward — if reward it is — in the deep regret for
their loss. It is when the world palls, when ties are broken,
or are disappointing ; when health is declining, and nothing
but what is true and good seems valuable, that late justice
K 2

132 LADY HESKETH  THE "NONSENSE CLUB."
is rendered to the few sincere and tender friends of our
youth. The following lines, addressed to Lady Hesketh, were -writ
ten in Cowper's middle Ufe ; they were enclosed in a letter to
Lady Hesketh. The letter was lost, but the verses remain.
They were not at first pubUshed with Co-wper's Poems *: —
" Doom'd as I am iu solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past ;
Deprived of every joy I valued most.
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost :
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien.
The dull effect of humours or of spleen :
Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day.
Him snatched by fate in early youth away ;
And her, — through tedious years of doubt and pain.
Fixed in her choice, and faithful — but in vain ;
0, prone to pity, generous and sincere,
¦Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear.
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows,
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes :
See me, ere yet my distant course half done.
Cast forth a wanderer on a -wild unknown."
We must linger a little longer over this perilous period of
Cowper's early life before we can show how dependent it made
him upon the gentle offices of friendship — how it broke down,
during the intervals of reason, his judgment ; — a life of excess,
falsely called a life of pleasure, being the likely precursor of
years of contrition, humiliation, and fanaticism.
Before he for ever left the Temple, Co-wper belonged to a club
of seven Westminster men, called the " Nonsense Club." Bon
nell Thornton, Colman, Lloyd, and Joseph Hill were members,
and the company must have been far more amusing than re
spectable. Bonnell Thornton was the son of an apothecary, and, as
well as Colman, was elected from Westminster to a student
ship in Christ Church, Oxford, whence he graduated, in 1754,
* Southey's Life of Co-wper, p. 33.

COLMAN AND THOENTON HIS FEIENDS. 133
as a Bachelor of Medicine. He was, however, more of a lite
rary character than a physician. In conjunction -^th Col
man, he -wrote " The Connoisseur," a periodical paper, in the
conclusion of which the portraits of the two authors were drawn
under the character of " The To-wn," in which that composite
individual was stated to be at once " a student of law and a
bachelor of physic ; to wear his own head and a periwig ; to be
above thirty years of age, yet not more than four and
twenty." Thornton, who was at once domestic and estimable, had the
good fortune to own Dr. Warton as his friend during life, and
as his panegyrist on his monument in Westminster Abbey after
his death.
The -wit of Colman and Thornton was set off by contrast
-with Lloyd, formerly one of the ushers of Westminster School.
Lloyd was content, it was said, " to scamper round the foot of
Parnassus on his little Welsh pony, which seems never to have
tired. He left the fury of the winged steed, and the daring
heights of the sacred mountain," to his friend Churchill. Poor
Lloyd ! his life was one of trial. Beginning it as an usher —
a word which speaks volumes of small miseries — he took, un
happily, to Uterature ; wrote an admired poem called " The
Actor," was suspected of being the author of " The Eosciad,"
got into debt, was cast into the Fleet, and owed his living in
that then wretched prison to the friendship of Churchill.
Gentle, engaging in manners, too humble and sensitive to
cope -with misfortune, Lloyd sank into despondency, and, a
month after Churchill's death, put an end to his own life.
In sober relief to the others, Joseph Hill, a plain-sailing law-
student, showed at these pleasant meetings his practical sense
and quiet humour. Cowper's child-like nature instinctively
cherished Hill. Bonnell Thornton, Colman, Lloyd, were his
boon companions at the Nonsense Club, but Hill, who plodded
upwards at the bar, was his friend '" for all weathers ;" one of
those steady-going, safe, certain, and serviceable adherents
E 3

134 COUNTEY COUSINS.
whom one counts upon as one does on an old coat, which
comes in when newer and better-looking garments are worn
out, and which cannot be spoiled.
Whilst Co-wper, delighting in the country, was spending
time and money in running about. Hill despised all recrea
tions. Southey gives this amusing anecdote of his imper
turbable, unchangeable nature.
Neither of the friends cared, it seemed, to "witness the
coronation of George III., but Hill had sisters who expressed
far more curiosity than himself, and they were eager to
obtain places for the show.
" When Hill's sisters," says Southey*, " obtained, by Ashley
Cooper's favour, a good situation for seeing that solemnity,
neither their brother nor Cowper could accompany them ;
and when they returned, full of delight and admiration,
' Well, ladies !' exclaimed Hill — and Cowper joined him in-
the exclamation — ' I am glad you were so well pleased,
though you have sat up all night for it.' At the illumination
for the King's recovery, in 1789, these old ladies came up
again to see the sight. ' Well, ladies,' said their brother, ' I
am very glad that you were so well pleased.' ' Why this is
just what you said to us, brother, fifty years ago ! ' they
cried." Coviq)er held the doctrine that any man might be rich if he
would. He despised the love of gain, and went, which was
but the logic of his years, into an opposite extreme. One
degree of poverty, that in which a man wears clean linen
and enjoys good company, he held to be no disgrace ; but "if
I never sink below this degree of it," he added, " I care not
if I never rise above it."
He was at this time in that state which the French describe
by the term " manger son bien." His capital was almost ex
hausted. He began, to be afraid of approaching want; his
* Co-wper's Life, p. 40.

HE WEITES IN THE " CONNOISSEUR." 135
father having, before his death, which had then taken place,
married again.
He had occasionally contributed to periodicals ; amongst
others he -wrote a paper in " The Connoisseur" upon keeping
secrets. The effort had so good an effect on his own mind,
that he was never again guilty of betraying a secret. But,
whilst he kept up his classical knowledge, as well as tried his
skill at verse, poverty began to stare him in the face. That
there is an ever-recurring retribution in the course of this
Ufe, in great as well as small things, every attentive observer of
worldly affairs must confess. Co-wper had neglected the study
ofhis profession : he had now no stick to lean upon on his road.
Despair began to seize upon this improvident, but gentle, suf
fering being. He applied to his relation, Major Co-wper, to
procure him a place as Clerk to the Journals of the House of
Lords, in case of a vacancy by the death of the clerk. The
business of that post, being performed in private, would, it was
thought, suit Co-wper.
"We both" (Co-wper thus relates the truth) "expressed
an earnest wish for his (the clerk's) death, that I might be
pro-fided for. Thus did I covet what God had commanded
me not to covet, and involved myself in still deeper guilt,,
by doing it in the spirit of a murderer."
His narrative of the transaction is most striking. We read
it with compassionate approbation of a man who suffered for
a too tender conscience.
" It pleased the Lord to give me my heart's desire, and
with it an immediate punishment for my crime. The poor
man died ; and, by his death, not only the Clerkship of the
Journals became vacant, but it became necessary to appoint
officers to two other places, jointly, as deputies to Mr.
Grey, who at this time resigned. These were the offices of
Beading Clerk, and the Clerkship of the Committees, of much
gi'eater value than that of the Journals. The patentee of
these two employments (whom I pray God to bless for hia
E 4

136 A PLACE IN VIEW — SAD EFFECTS OP THE EXPECTATION.
benevolent intentions to serve me) called on me at my
chambers, and, having invited me to take a turn -with him in
the garden, there made me an offer of the two most profitable
places, intending the other for his friend Mr. A."
The result was most disastrous. There was a strong oppo
sition to Cowper's being appointed : that was overruled : and
the difficulty now lay in the most vital quarter — his o-wn :
unhappy condition of mind. It was necessary for him to
appear at the bar of the House of Lords ; and, to acquit
himself properly, to prepare himself, by daily attendance,
for his duties. He felt that he could not accomplish his
public appearance ; and his resolution failed him. A public
exhibition was to him like mortal poison : no one, he declares,
could have a notion of the horrors of his situation.
" My continual misery," he tells us, " at length brought on
a nervous fever ; quiet forsook me by day, and peace by
night: a finger raised against me was more than I could
stand against. In this posture of mind I attended regularly
at the office ; where, instead of a soul on the rack, the most
active spirits were essentially necessary for my purpose. I
expected no assistance from anybody there, all the inferior
clerks being under the influence of my opponent; and,
accordingly, I received none ! I read without perception,
and was so distressed that, had every clerk in the office been
my friend, it would have availed me little."
After suffering agonies of mind, he consulted Dr. He-
berden ; and was as dUigent in the use of drugs as if they
could have healed a wounded spirit. In vain did he make
an effort to receive consolation in prayer. The mental strength
was inadequate ; he soon laid aside the sacred volume, and
with it "all thoughts of God."
"What follows is a fearful narrative of aberration of mind,
which might have been averted by the sympathies of home,
combined with the faith in God's mercy, by which we regard
Him as one who " considereth our trouble." The agonised

INSANITY — ITS CONSEQUENCES. 137
recital is most powerfully told in Cowper's own words. It
furnishes an instance of candour, rare indeed, and very
touching. Cowper, in relating this part of his life, years
afterwards, deemed it a duty to hold himself up as a beacon.
He was haunted, he confessed, henceforth by a thousand ter
rors. Madness, he began to fear, would be " his only chance."
He even looked forward to it, he declares, with impatient
expectation ; and was afraid " that his senses would not faU
him" time enough to excuse his appearance at the bar of the
House of Lords, which was the only purpose he wanted his
mental malady to answer. Unhappily, as far as he knew, his
senses were still able to perform their work.
Insanity, however, had, in fact, then commenced. No
man, however morbid, would, possessed of reason, have
dreaded an appearance in public, merely to read over a
formal document. Cowper's sense of right faltered : he began
to consider that his life was his own, and that he had a right
to take it away if he chose. He remembered, eleven years
previously, ba-nng read a paper on suicide aloud to his father,
and ha-ving argued against it ; but his father had given no
opinion on the subject. He resolved to take laudanum : but
his resolution failed him ; he only kept the bottle, which he
had purchased from an apothecary -with as " cheerful an air "
as possible, in his side pocket, as a resource. He then resolved
upon dro-wning, and drove in a coach to the Tower Wharf,
intending never to return to the vehicle ; but found the water
low, and saw a porter seated there on some goods, as if " on
purpose to prevent " him from taking that " way to the bot
tomless pit." He was still bent on self-destruction, and twenty
times a day did he put the fatal phial to his lips, when a voice
seemed to whisper to him : " Think what you are doing ; con
sider, and live ! "
The night previous to his appointed appearance in the
House of Lords arrived, and a friend called to congra
tulate him on a resolution which he heard that Co-wper

138 HIS OWN NARRATIVE.
had taken, to " stand the brunt " and keep the office. The
poor be-wildered Cowper did not contradict his friend;
but, when he left the room, said to himself, " I shall see thee
no more."
He went to bed to take what he thought his last sleep in
this world. He slept till three o'clock, then awoke : found
his pen-knife, and lay wdth it for some hours pointed against
his heart. Still resolution failed him ; or, rather, let us say,
still an angel of mercy watched over him, and guarded the
unhappy man from himself.
Day began to break : seven o'clock struck : there was now,
the poor maniac thought, no time to be lost. In four hours
his friend was to call and take him to Westminster. " This,"
he said to himself, " is the crisis : let there be no more
dallying with the love of life." His next attempt was to
hang himself with a garter, made of broad scarlet binding,
-with a sliding buckle. This be slipped over an iron pin
which fastened a wreath of carved woodwork to the old-
fashioned bed-post. He mounted a chair ; put the loop round
his neck, and pushed the chair away. As he hung there, he
fancied that he heard a voice say three times, "'Tis over!"
He hung so long that he lost all sense, all consciousness of
existence. But God, " whose never-failing Providence ordereth all
things both in heaven and earth," willed that the life thus
madly endangered should be preserved still for utility to
others, though not for happiness to its owner.
The attempt this time was nearly fatal : but the garter
broke : the miserable man was awakened to consciousness by
falling on the floor. He was able to get into bed, and to call
to his laundress, who was opening the shutters of the next
room, and beg her to send for a friend, who came directly to
him. Co-wper confessed the whole affair ; a relation was sent
for ; and it was decided that Cowper could not hold the ofiBce,
which was instantly resigned. Thus ended all his connection

HIS REMORSE. 139
•with the Parliament Houses. As an official, his career was at
an end : as a poet, it was almost begun.
He suffered the deepest remorse for his attempt on his
o-wn life ; and the fear of death now superseded his former
desire of it. " A sense of God's wrath, and a deep de.spair of
escaping it, instantly succeeded." He believed that he had
lost all interest in Christ ; all benefits of His passion ; all hope
in the promises of the great, merciful, eternal Father.
When he went into the streets, be fancied that every one
read these thoughts ; that people looked at, and laughed at
him ; that his friends avoided him. He bought a ballad that
was sung in the streets, because he thought it was made
on him.
At last, his brother found him in this condition, when
poor Cowper's first words to him were, " ' Oh, brother, I am
damned. Think of eternity, and then what it is to be damned ! '
I had, indeed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my mind,
which seemed almost to amount to a full comprehension
of it.
"My brother, pierced to the heart with the sight of my
misery, tried to comfort me ; but all to no purpose. I re
fused comfort ; and my mind appeared to me in such colours,
that to administer it to me was only to exasperate me, and
to mock my fears.
" At length, I remembered my friend Martin Madan, and
sent for him. I used to think him an enthusiast, but now
seemed convinced that if there was any balm in Gilead, he
would administer it to me. On former occasions, when my
spiritual concerns had occurred to me, I thought likewise on
the neces.sity of repentance. I knew that many persons had
spoken of shedding tears for sin ; but when I asked myself
whether the time would ever come when I might weep for
sin, it seemed to me that a stone would sooner do it."
Not perceiving that Christ's mission was to arouse repentance,
he despaired of ever attaining to it. Martin Madan sat by

140 PLACED WITH DE. COTTON.
his bedside, and began to declare to him the Gospel; — to speak
of original sin, and the corruption of every man born into
this world, whereby every one is a child of wrath ! One can
hardly imagine taking comfort from such a view, yet a- gleam
of hope dawned in Cowper's heart. He began to think him
self more on a level with mankind.
Well may Southey remark that this was madness in the
worst form that madness presents itself. Conviction of sin,
and expectation of judgment, never left the poor poet;
dreams brought back to him the commission of long-forgotten
offences ; refiection made him consider even indifferent ac
tions as criminal.
At length it was determined to place the unhappy man
with Dr. Cotton, of St. Albans' ; a physician with whom Cow
per had some slight acquaintance ; and who seems, in sweet
ness of temper and humanity, to have been a precursor of
the great benefactor of our own time. Dr. Conolly, to whose
introduction the maniac of the nineteenth century' owes,
under Providence, solace, relief — the chance of a recovery
rarely known to occur under the harsh measures of former
days. It is consolatory to think of the amiable WiUiam Co-wper
consigned to so gentle a care as that of Dr. Cotton. We
may fancy him sometimes, perhaps, able to enjoy the country
he ever so much preferred to the town, around the ancient
borough, graced only by its grand Abbey. He draws a veil,
indeed, as he says, over the secrets of his prison-house ; but
that his sufferings were severe may be inferred from these
words :
" Let it suffice to say, that the low state of body and mind,
to which I was reduced, was perfectly well calculated to
humble the natural vain glory and pride of my heart."
About three months after he bad been placed at St. Albans'
his brother came to -sdsit him. Their interview is most touch-
ingly described by Cowper.

OPENS A BIBLE. 141
Dr. Cotton ha-ying told his brother that he was greatly
amended, he was shocked to find poor William as silent as
ever. The fact was, the unhappy, demented Cowper looked
at his brother's calm face with envy. 'V\Tien alone ¦with
him, John Cowper asked him how he found himself.
" As much better as despair can make me," was the mournful
reply. They went together into the garden. "Here," says
Co'wper, "on expressing a settled assurance of sudden judg
ment, he protested to me that it was all a delusion, and
protested so strongly that I could not help giving some atten
tion to him. I burst into tears and cried out, 'If it be a
delusion, then am I the happiest of beings.' " Hope again
da'wned in his miserable heart. The brothers dined together.
Something seemed to whisper to WiUiam that there was still
mercy for him — still peace.
That evening the poor stricken one slept well. He
dreamed that the sweetest boy in the world came dancing up
to his bedside ; he seemed just out of leading-strings, but the
head was firm, the step steady. He awoke with a sensation
of happiness. After his arrival at St. Albans', Co^wper
had thrown away the Scriptures, as a book in which he had no
interest or portion. One day, however, finding a Bible on a
bench in the garden, he opened it at the eleventh chapter of
St. John, where Lazarus is raised from the dead, and saw " so
much benevolence, mercy, goodness, and sympathy ¦with
miserable man" in our Saviour's conduct, that he almost shed
tears. Still his heart was softened, but not enlightened ; he did
not apply that comprehensive mercy to his own broken and
contrite spirit, but closed the book without intending to open
it again. The "cloud of horror" which bad so long bung over him
was, however, every moment passing away. Once more the
poor melancholic man bad recourse to his Bible. Once more
hope was permitted to enter his soul. " I saw the sufficiency

142 HIS EECOVEEY.
of the atonement He (our Saviour) had made ; my pardon
sealed in His blood, and all the fullness and completeness of
His justification."
" Unless the Almighty had been with me," he adds, " I
think I should have died with gratitude and joy."
Dr. Cotton now trembled lest joy should prove too much
for the fragile invalid; — lest reason should be excited to frenzy.
But the amendment was real. For a year after his eventual
recovery, Cowper remained near his kind physician; enjoying
with that amiable and excellent old man a communion of
heart and sentiment rare indeed under such circumstances.
No longer, to quote from certain lines which Cowper Vfrote
during his madness, did he view such horrors as these :
" Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion.
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
¦Wait with impatient readiness to seize my soul in a moment."
He could, on the contrary, now say, " Blessed be the God of
salvation for every sigh I drew, for every tear I shed, that I
might not be judged hereafter."
It must have been touching to see the affectionate depen
dence of the 3'oung and afflicted Cowper on the aged and
skilful Cotton. Happily that eminent physician was also a
man of letters. His "Fireside" has ever been a popular
poem with his countrywomen, who can so well appreciate the
homely strain, and beloved theme. Many years before Cow
per knew him. Dr. Cotton had lost a wife to whom he was
devotedly attached. The bereavement had taught him to
feel, as well as to think. No system but that of Christianity,
the good physician declared, could sustain us in the trials and
distresses of life : " But the religion of Jesus, like its gracious
author, is an inexhaustible source of comfort in this world,
and gives us the hope of everlasting enjoyment in the
next." The value of sound principles in a medical man were never

HIS LINES CALLED "THE HAPPY CHANGE." 143
more fully exemplified in any case than in that of Cowper.
Dr. Cotton was as ¦willing to administer to the mind diseased
as to the physical ailment. He was the consoler, the spiritual
guide, the friend. The result of his gentle care was seen,
and at the same time rewarded, when Co-wper, rising from the
depths of despair to peace, composed the lines entitled " The
Happy Change I " beginning thus :
" How blest thy creature is, 0 God,
¦When -with a single eye
He -views the lustre of thy ^Word,
The day spring from on high.
" Through all the storms that veil the skies.
And fro-wn on earthly things ;
The Sun of Righteousness he eyes,
"With healing on his wings."
It was now requisite for Co-wper to choose a place of resi
dence, as he could no longer afford to remain with Dr.
Cotton, to whom he was then, as he states, " deeply in debt."
He had for some years held a Commissionership of Bank
ruptcy of the value of sixty pounds a year. He now resolved
to resign it, feeling that from his ignorance of the law he
could not take the accustomed oath. His income was greatly
reduced ; and he requested his brother, who resided at Cam
bridge, to look out for some cheap lodgings for him near that
University. London, " the scene of his former abominations,"
he was resolved to quit for ever. No efforts were made by
his relations to change that wise resolution. The poor eman
cipated lunatic was an object of hope no longer. They acted,
however, -wisely; and kindly subscribed among themselves
means to add to his own scanty income, so that he could
live respectably, though frugally.
A poem which he wrote at this time beautifully exemplifies
the feelings with which the "stricken deer" rushed into the
covert of a country life :

144 MARY UNWIN.
" Far from the world, 0 Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far ;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.
" The calm retreat, the silent shade,
¦With prayer and praise agree ;
And seem, by Thy sweet bounty, made
For those who follow Thee.
" There, if Thy spirit touch the soul.
And grace her mean abode ;
0 -with -what peace, and joy, and love.
She communes with her God.
" There, like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays.
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise."
The neighbourhood of Huntingdon was eventually fixed on
for Cowper's residence ; and by that decision the future colour
of his life was tinged.
Mary Unwin, Cowper's " Mary," and the being of all others
that may be termed " his destiny," was the daughter of a
draper at Ely, named Cawthorne. She was married early m
life to Morley Unwin, a clergyman, greatly her senior. Mrs.
Un-win belonged to that portion of the hitherto unthinking
world in the last century, who had even then begun to assume
to themselves the exclusive appellation, " Evangelical."
Morley Unwin, her husband, had been master of the Free
School at Huntingdon ; but having been preferred to the
living of Grimstone, in Norfolk, by his College, had married,
and taken his young wife there ; but Mary, how great soever
her piety, did not like the dullness of that retired spot. She
persuaded her husband to leave it, and to return to Hunting
don, where, taking a large house in the High-street, Mr.
Unwin received and prepared a few pupils for the Universi
ties. His only children were a son and a daughter. The
latter being just eighteen years of age, " genteel and hand
some," it may be supposed that Cowper would have been

HER EXTERIOR AND DEPORTMENT. 145
more taken with her than with her mother. But no ; although
Miss Unwin talked, during a long tete-a-tete which occurred
on Cowper's first call on the family, with " ease and
address," he found in Mrs. Unvnn " an uncommon under
standing;" " she had read much, and was more polite than a
duchess." " That woman," he declared in a letter to his
cousin. Lady Hesketh, " is a blessing to me, and I never see
her ¦without being the better for her company."
Cowper had owed his introduction to this charming family
to William Cawthorne Unwin, the son, who had at first been
dissuaded by his father from calling on the interesting and
•elegant stranger, who appeared to avoid society.
When introduced, however, into a circle at once pious, in
telligent, social, and lively, Co^wper began to wonder how he
had liked Huntingdon so much before seeing them. " They
are indeed a nice set of people," he ¦wrote to Lady Hesketh,
"and suit me exactly." It had been his earnest hope, before
he left St. Albans', that, wherever he was, he might meet with
such a person as Mrs. Unwin. Co^wper's was a clinging and
dependent nature ; fate had proscribed love, and friendship
was the balm of his wounded spirit. His petition to the Giver
of all good he believed to have been heard. He was now treated
more like a relation than a stranger ; driven by the old gentle
man in his chaise to Cambridge ; allowed to go in and out at
all times. " They see," he ¦wrote to his friend Hill, " but little
company, which suits me exactly. You remember Eousseau's
description of an English morning : such are the mornings I
spend with these good people ; and the evenings differ from
them in nothing, except that they are more snug and quieter."
A few sunshiny years were permitted to him whom Mac
kintosh called the " most amiable and unfortunate of men."
Huntingdon, though situated on gently rising ground, on the
northern side of the Ouse, has few scenes of striking beauty
near it. Yet, by Henry of Huntingdon, the town is declared
to have " surpassed all others in pleasantness of situation,
VOL. I. L

146 HUNTINGDON AND ITS CASTLE HILL.
beauty of buildings, nearness to the fens, and plenty of game
and fish."
Many of its fine old churches, — a priory of regular canons, a
house for Augustinian friars, with a castle, and hospital for
lepers, had fallen into ruin and oblivion. Camden describes
the prospect from the Castle Hill to have been " as glorious
an one as the sun ever saw." But Cowper, with the finest
instincts of poetry within him, found few charms in the bare
flat fields, devoid of trees in the summer, and overspread all
the winter ¦with a flood. In old times the foggy, unwholesome
fens, whence emanated all the fearful varieties of ague and
low fever, were not complained of, because in the then thinly
populated and half-cultured country the profits of fishing, the
abundance of wild-fowl, the facility of getting t^wigs for fuel in
that waste land, were thought to compensate for maladies to
which our ancestors were well accustomed. Cowper was no
angler, nor sportsman ; he detested every thing like amuse
ment at the expense of humanity. True it was that
wherever the Ouse fiowed, enamelled meadows showed the
effects of the irrigation ; still, there was but one beautiful
spot, called Hertford, a village at a short distance from the
town, where Co-wper used to walk and muse over the
epitaphs in the churchyard. The long main street of the
to^wn of Huntingdon, and its curious churches ; the simple,
homely character of its inhabitants ; the neatness of the streets;
the traffic on the river, much changed indeed since Co^wper's
days, but stiU na^vigable, stUl bearing on its waves craft from
Lynn — these were the traits which reconcUed him to the
sameness of the surrounding country. He soon decided that
no place in the world can be devoid of attractions in which
congenial minds exist. Mr. Unwin he found simple and ori
ginal as Parson Adams. His wife was full of energy and
animation. The "Mary,"— to whom in after life the poet
addressed lines full of pathos, alluding to the unhappiness
he had often innocently caused her — was at this time stUl a

cowper's embarrassments. 147
young woman, though considerably older than her friend
Cowper, who speaks of her hair as then " auburn bright ;"
she had the spirits that those alone have whose lives have not
been overshadowed by some heavy, irremediable calamity.
She had the ¦willing sympathies without which woman had
better enter a convent, for without them no active mission
of domestic life can be well performed.
Her son, at twenty-one, was the " most amiable and unre
served young man that Cowper had ever met with." Both
he and his sister were gifted with an attractive exterior.
It may be believed ¦with what delight Co^wper, after an ac
quaintance of some time, found himself received as an inmate
in this family. He had tried the experiment of managing his
osra domestic affairs : it had failed. He found it impossible to
continue his mode of life "¦without danger of bankruptcy."
He had managed, in fact, in three months, to spend the in
come which ought to last a year ; and that income was in
part made up by generous but not altogether confiding
relations. The rich always expect the poor to live for nothing. His
uncle Ashley wrote to him in the gentlest terms, giving him
to understand that " the famUy " were not a little indignant
at hearing that he kept a servant: a certain cousin (the
Colonel) was the mover of the storm, and threatened to
withdraw his contribution ; on which Sir Thomas Hesketh,
who had by this time married Cowper's cousin, stepped for
ward, and offered to supply the furious Colonel's place, and
make up the deficiency. Whilst this affair was in discussion,
one gentle, constant heart bled for the unhappy William
Co^wper, whose afflictions had rendered him thus dependent,
in the very prime of life, on relations. Theodora, for ever
severed from him, was his guardian angel still. In this
sharp trial, as in the gloomier periods of after days, her
spii'it was with bim; her tenderness, her delicacy of feel
ing, never rested on any object more dear to her than heriost
L 2

148 HIS DAILY pursuits.
cousin. He received an anonymous letter, of which he gives
the following account, and Southey ascribes the epistle either
to Lady Hesketh or to her sister Theodora: —
" While this troublesome matter was in agitation, and I ex
pected to be abandoned by the fa^mily, I received an anony
mous letter, in a hand entirely strange to me, by the post. It
was conceived in the kindest and most benevolent terms ima
ginable ; exhorting me not to distress myself with fears lest
the threatened event should take place ; for that, whatever
deduction my income might sustain, the defect should be
supplied by a person who loved me tenderly, and approved
my conduct."
Mrs. Unwin performed also a kind office. She generously
offered Cowper a home under her roof, and arranged to receive
him at half the sum previously stipulated.
It was henceforth his great happiness that he had entered a
family " of Christians." Unfortunately for the tender spirit
which so easily adapted itself to the views of those whom
he loved, the Unwins, like his friend Madan, whom Cowper
regarded "as a burning and a shining light," applied this
term only to those who, as Southey observes, "approached
the rising body of Methodists, in proportion as they departed
from the standard of the Church." The Un^wins made religion
not only the rule but the business of life.
" We breakfast commonly," says Co^wper, " between eight
and nine ; till eleven we read the Scriptures, or the sermons
of some faithful preacher of those holy mysteries ; at eleven
we attend the service, which is performed t^wice here every
day ; and from twelve to three we separate, and amuse our
selves as we please. During that interval I either read in my
o^wn apartment, or ride, or walk, or work in the garden. We
seldom sit an hour after dinner ; but, if the weather permits,
adjourn to the garden, where, -with Mrs. Unwin and her son,
I have generally the pleasure of religious conversation till
t-ea-time."

HIS LIFE TOO ASCETIC. 149
Could any saint of the Eomish Church, or ascetic, do more ?
What a mistake is it to wear holy subjects threadbare — to
exhaust religious feelings till they must have wavered between
despondency and fatigue. Hymns and the harpsichord went
on tUl tea-time ; then, in fine weather, the party prepared for
walldng, and generally " travelled four miles before they came
home again."
To Lady Hesketh he wrote : " Jly dear cousin, I am a living
man ! " Great and grievous afflictions had awakened him
out of the deep sleep of insensibility to a life of " union and
communion with God."
Lady Hesketh, although a woman' of practical piety, did
not respond to his fervour ; nor accord -with his certainty of
conversion and election. He ceased -writing to her about this
time, and dU-ected his epistolary attentions almost exclusively
to his cousin, Mrs. Co-wper, who was acquainted with the
circumstances of his sad story.
The first break in a life of peace was caused by the death
of old Mr. Unwin, who was killed by a fall from his horse
whilst riding to serve his church on a Sunday morning. At
nine o'clock on that day he had been in perfect health ; at
ten he was speechless and senseless, lying on a flock bed in a
poor cottage to which he was carried. Cowper received his
last sigh. " I heard his dying groans, the effect of great
agony, for he was a strong man, and much convulsed in his
last moments." The few short intervals of ease were spent in
earnest prayer and expressions of faith in his Saviour. Truly
does Co-wper add : " To that stronghold we must all resort at
last, if we would have hope in our death." " Happy is it for us
when, the false ground we have chosen for ourselves being
broken under us, we find ourselves obliged to have recourse
to the Eock that can never be shaken."
It now became a question where Cowper was to reside.
That Mrs. Unwin was to continue to receive him as her in
mate was at once decided ; and after much consideration it
L 3

150 MR. UNWIN'S DEATH PRODUCES A DIFFICULTY.
was resolved to remove to Olney, to be near the Eev. Mr.
Ne-wton, and to receive all the benefits of his ministry. New
ton was one of three clergymen to whom Mrs. Unwin and
Co-wper gave the distinction of wishing to be near them. He
had been the captain of a Liverpool slave ship, but, becoming
converted, had taken holy orders, and was then the curate
of Olney, in Buckinghamshire. Here, accordingly, Cowper
and his friend removed, being for some time Mr. Ne-wton's
guests, and afterwards settling in a house so near the vicarage
that a communication was made through the garden wall be
tween the two houses. Henceforth the small incomes possessed
by i\Ir.s. Un-win and Cowper were united ; henceforth they en
joyed what was called in the sectarian language of the day,
" frequent evangelical worship ; that is, not the simple, elo
quent service of our church, such as Covsq)er had enjoyed
every morning at Huntingdon, but meetings, addresses, and
prayers which sent him from them with an excited pulse, a
flushed cheek, a heated and a throbbing head." *
The friendship of Mrs. Unwdn gave to Cow¬per a stay, com
panionship, and domestic care ; but her religious convictions,
far more extreme than those of her husband, and the mode of
Ufe into which she deemed it her duty to urge Co^wper, were
the worst for a man recently emancipated from a state of
mental aberration that could be conceived. Prayer-meetings,
¦in which the earnest, excitable poet was enjoined to take an
active part,— attendance on the sick and dying — Calvinistic
views of faith — what was termed " religious intercourse," —
these were the order of each day. Excitement is not devotion.
To the wounded spirit there comes healing with the words of
holy promise. The faith they witness should be tempered by
good sense, which deepens and confirms their impression.
To Cowper the mode of faith and mode of life which he
now foUo-ived w^ere preparing the fire that was to consume
* Southey.

DEATH OF HIS BROTHER. 151
him; leaving him no chance of long enjoying the calm
reason that was perpetually disturbed by feverish imagin
ations. Exclusion from all who did not accord with certain views
was one feature of the "religious intercourse " between Cowper
and his friends. The poet's letters to Lady Hesketh wholly
ceased; he wrote seldom to Mrs. Co^wper; his tone to his
friend Hill was changed. The charming, easy, once gay
William Co^wper seemed alarmed lest he should relapse into
cheerfulness. Earely could he look forward to death with
comfort, for a sense of unpardoned sin lay heavy on his heart,
and the decease of his brother about this time (1769), was an
event which left him wholly to the influences of those who
wished him well, most sincerely, but who were, humanly
speaking, his worst enemies. Mr. Un^win, the son of Cowper's
friend, had " prayed his brother out of darkness into light ; "
both the poet and Mr. Unwin were satisfied that a sudden
conversion had regenerated a worthy man, whose life had been
one of benevolent piety. An account of his brother's death
was drawn up by Co^wper, and edited by Newton. From
that narrative it appears that, even when Co^wper first saw
him, John Co^wper was in a state of humble, devout, patient
submission to his approaching fate. His death struck a
fearful blow into the heart of William. Cut off from all
social intercourse, except that of Mrs. Un^win and Mr. New-
'ton, Co^wper had applied himself to poetry, more especially
to sacred verse, under the advice of Ne^wton, who saw the
despondency which afterwards overwhelmed him, approaching.
Melancholy indeed were the efforts of his mournful muse.
They speak at once the alarming depression of poor Co^wper's
mind: — " ¦Where is the blessedness I knew
"When first I saw the Lord?
¦Where is the soul-refreshing ¦view
Of Jesus and his word ?
L 4

152 cowper's MELANCHOLY.
" My former hopes are fled.
My terror now begins ;
I feel, alas, that I am dead
In trespasses and sins.
" Ah ! whither shall I fly ?
I hear the thunders roar ;
The law proclaims destruction nigh.
And vengeance at the door."
Eeasonable friends would have trembled, not rejoiced, at
the too tender conscience which was thus expressed; but
iAIrs. Un-win and Newton saw only in the affrighted lunatic,
signs of grace. Alas ! they were soon undeceived. In Ja
nuary, 1773, the deep melancholy proved to be a decided fit
of insanity. Dr. Cotton was consulted, but too late to avert
a terrible and long attack. During this trial Mrs. Unwin,
disregarding equally the censorious remarks of the ill-
natured, and all personal fatigue, watched him night and
day; but no care can assuage the inward wretchedness
which madness produces. Only during sleep, when, as Mr.
Newton expressed it, " the Lord seemed to visit him," was
his agony mitigated. He believed himself to be eternally
doomed; and, under that conviction, gave up attending
public prayer, or kneeling down in private devotion — both
he believed, were to a certainty, wholly unavailing.
In the commencement of his malady Cowper had deter
mined not to enter Ne-wton's house; he was, however,
persuaded to do so, and afterwards could not be persuaded to
leave it. He passed bis days in gardening, and pruning trees,
and feeding the chickens. One morning, whilst engaged in
the last-mentioned occupation, a smile passed over his coun
tenance ; it was the first smile that had been seen there for
more than sixteen months — it was the faint da-wn of con
valescence — and his sudden resolution to leave IMr. Ne-wton's
house and to return to his o-wn, shewed the amendment.
It had been a great trial to good Mr. Newton to have under

HIS LEVERETS — WISHES TO LEAVE OLNEY. 153
his roof SO afflicted and anxious a charge; but he "had borne
his cross well ; " and though his heart had sometimes been
impatient and rebellious, thought " he could not do too
much for such a friend."
The hapless invalid was now sufficiently recovered to in
terest himself with some leverets ; he examined into their
peculiarities of physique and character; found that they
never were infested by vermin ; nursed one of them in sick
ness, and experienced the greatest gratitude from his dumb
friend, whom he immortalised in poetry, both Latin and
English. He was thus on the road to convalescence ; but
nervous diseases, as he himself expressed it, are inveterate
foes : " other distempers only batter the walls, but they
creep silently into the citadel and put the garrison to the
sword." He continued to recover, however, and contributed some
beautiful effusions to the " Olney Hymns," before Mr. Newton
left Olney to ta,ke possession of a London living, presented
to him by Mr. Thornton. That event was thus alluded to
by Cowper in a letter to Mrs. Newton : —
" The vicarage-house became a melancholy object as soon
as Mr. Newton had left it ; when you left it, it became more
melancholy. Now it is occupied by another family. I cannot
look at it without being shocked. As I walked this evening
and saw the smoke issue from the shady chimney, and said
this used to be a sign that Mr. Ne-wton was there, but it
is so no longer."
He felt now a desire to leave Olney. He had " lived in
it once, he was buried in it now." He had no business, he
thought, with the world, the outside of his sepulchre ; and
a sepulchre ipdeed it was, and worse than a sepulchre, for in
the tomb there is, at least, peace.
Thus was the cheerful, large-hearted poet chained to a
sect peculiarly adapted to foster all his peculiarities, and still
more and more to unfit him to return to the society of early

154 simple pleasures.
friends. That he was not able to leave Olney, that he was
not free to visit cheerful relations, or friends more likely to
change his thoughts than the exclusive set whom he had
learned alone to call Christians, is deeply to be deplored.
Olney had little to render it a desirable place for the abode
of a delicate, desponding invalid. It is flat, and devoid of
any beauty save the winding river. Cowper was indeed
buried in it. The affection of Mrs. Un^win had become a
jealous, exacting tie; and Co^wper's best friends must have
¦wished him to be transplanted from a sphere so contracted
to one more congenial.
In the midst of such speculations, Cowper's old friend
Thurlow became Lord Chancellor ; but this event never bene
fited the forgotten recluse ; and even when Thurlow had an
opportunity of obtaining a pension for his former companion,
he took no trouble to assist him by so doing.
The simple, excellent recluse resigned himself to his
destiny, and tried, when relieved from the pressure of his
mortal dread, to make every little thing a pleasure. Garden
ing, the solace of so many sad hearts, was his daily resource
when in tolerable health.
" I am pleased," he ¦wrote to Mr. Ne^wton, " with a frame
of four lights, doubtful whether the few pines it contains
-will ever be worth a farthing ; amuse myself with a green
house which Lord Bute's gardener would take upon his back
and walk away -with ; and when I have paid it the accustomed
visit and watered it and given it air, I say to myself, this
is not mine : 'tis a plaything lent me for the present ; I must
leave it soon."
Then his neighbours, kno-wing him to have been a lawyer,
used to ask his opinion on their own concerns.
" I know less of the law," he wrote to Mr. Hill *, " than a
country attorney, yet sometimes I think I have almost as
much business. My former connection -with the profession
* Co-wper's Life, p. 279.

SUBJECTS FOR POEMS. 155
has got wind, and though I earnestly profess and protest, and
proclaim it abroad that I know nothing of the matter, they
cannot be persuaded that a head, once endowed with a legal
periwig, can be deficient in those qualifications which it is
supposed to cover."
Once or t-wice he had happened to be in the right, and the
"cheapness of gratuitous advice was agreeable." He had long
occupied himself in writing verses ; but, so long as Ne-wton
remained at Olney, his efforts were not allowed to extend
to any but religious poems. Mrs. Unwin first induced him
to try a subject of greater importance than any that he
had hitherto produced. She proposed to him the "Pro
gress of Error " as a theme. He himself confessed, in the
foUo-wing passage, the necessity for some mental occupa
tion: " At this season of the year, and in this gloomy, uncom
fortable climate, it is no easy matter for the owner of a mind
like mine to divert it from sad subjects, and fix it upon such
as may minister to its amusement. Poetry, above all things,
is useful to me in this respect." " I am pleased with com
mendations, and though not passionately desirous of indis
criminate praise, or what is generally called popularity, yet
when a judicious friend claps one on the back, I ovm I find
it an encouragement."
The work was published by Johnson, of St. Paul's Church
Yard ; and its progress was infinitely beneficial to Cowper :
it was something to expect every day a proof, and the arrival
of the post brought unwonted interest. Summer drew on,
and Cowper had arranged another source of pleasure, which
he thus describes in -writing to Mr. Newton : — "I might
date my letter from the green-bouse, which we have con
verted into a summer parlour. The walls hung -with garden
mats, and the floors covered with a carpet ; the sun, too, in a
great measure excluded by an awning of mats, which
forbids him to shine any where but on the carpety it affords

156 APPEARANCE OF LADY AUSTEN AT OLNEY.
US by far the pleasantest retreat in Olney. We eat, drink,
and sleep where we always did, but here we spend all the
rest of our time, and find that the sound of the wind in the
trees, and the singing of the birds, are more agreeable to our
ears than the incessant barking of dogs and screaming of
children." He was still immersed in his occupations, when one day
he happened to be much struck by the appearance of a lady
who was calling at a shop opposite Mrs. Unwin's house, in
company with a Mrs. Jones, the wife of a clergyman, living
at Clifton, near Olney. On asking the name of the stranger,
he learned that she was Lady Austen, the sister of Mrs.
Jones *, and the -widow of Sir Eobert Austen, a baronet,
with whom she had resided long in France, where Sir Eobert
died. Lady Austen was a delightful, intellectual woman of the
world : having belonged to the sort of society in which
Cowper's early days were passed, she had a ready sympathy
in his tastes and feelings. An invitation to tea was promptly
sent by Cowper, shy as he was ; it was accepted, and he was
almost overpowered by the acceptance. A charming evening
was the result — he walked back to Clifton with the ladies :
the intimacy went on, and Lady Austen was christened by
the poet, Sister Ann.
Cowper, in writing to Mr. Unwin, says, speaking of Lady
Austen, " she is a very agreeable woman, and has fallen in
love with your mother and me ; insomuch that I do not know
but she may settle at Olney. Yesterday night we all dined
together in the Spinnie, a most delightful retirement belong
ing to Mrs. Throckmorton, of Weston. A board, laid over
the top of a wheelbarrow, served for a table ; our dining-
room was a root-house, lined with moss and ivy." At six the
party took tea, and then they wandered about into the wUder-
* Her maiden name was Eichardson.

SHE SETTLES THERE. 157
ness, and returned home, having spent the whole day together
without the least weariness of each other's society.
Plans of settling at Olney, on Lady Austen's part, which,
as Co^wper remarked, " would add fresh plumes to the wings
of time," were agitated. "Lady Austen," the poet wrote,
" very desirous of retirement, especially of retirement near
her sister, an admirer of Mr. Scott as a preacher, and
of your two humble servants now in the green-house, as the
most agreeable creatures in the world, is at present deter
mined to settle here. The part of our great building which
is at present occupied by Dick Coleman, his ¦wife, child, and
a thousand rats, is the corner of the world she chooses above
all others, as the place of her future residence."
No wonder that Cowper regarded this arrival " as a pro
vidential interposition" — words which speak volumes of
previous dullness. " We did not want company," he indeed
says, " but when it came we found it agreeable." If their
life before was " peaceful, it was not the worse for being en
livened." In case of illness, too, his was rather a dreary
prospect ; but he chiefly rejoiced on account of Mrs. Unwin.
Alas ! it was Mrs. Unwin who proved the barrier to this scheme,
which promised so much happiness to Cowper. For a time,
however, all ¦vs'ent on smoothly ; Lady Austen loved " anything
that had a connection with Mrs. Unwdn." She had, accord
ing to Co^wper, so lively a sense of gratitude, that " discover
but a wish to please her, and she never forgets it : not
only thanks you, but the tears ¦will start into her eyes
at the recollection of the smallest service." With these
" fine feelings " she had the most " harmless vivacity in the
world." Truly might Cowper say : —
" Mysterious are His ways, whose power
Brings forth that unexpected hour.
When minds, that never met before,
ShaU meet, unite, and part no more :

158 THE JEALOUSY OF MRS. UNWIN.
His the allotment of the skies.
The hand of the supremely -wise.
That guides and governs our affections,
And plans and orders our connections ;
Directs us in our distant road.
And marks the bounds of our abode." *
In another part of the same poem he says : —
" Not that I deem or mean to call
Friendship a blessing, cheap or small ;
But merely to remark, that ours.
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers.
Rose from a seed of tiny size.
That seem'd to promise no such prize.''
Cowper was at this time fifty, and Mrs. Unwin fifty-seven
years of age. Jealousy and scandal are of no period, and
can agitate every age. It had at one time been conjectured
whether Cowper and Mrs. Unwin would not have married : but
no such idea seems ever to have entered Co-wper's mind ; and
in Mary Unwin's, the most disinterested friendship seems to
have existed. But there are jealousies in friendship as well
as in love ; and a few weeks after the " lines to Anna" were
penned, we find Cowper writing to his friend Mr. Unwin,
about Lady Austen, in the following terms. After enjoining
secrecy, he says : — " My letters have already apprised you
of that close and intimate connection that took place between
the lady you visited in Queen Anne Street, and us. At
her departure she proposed a correspondence, and because
-writing does not agree -with your mother, proposed a corre
spondence with me." The correspondence, however, was a
fatal arrangement ; Lady Austen had conceived a romantic
notion of her friends, and of their devotion to herself. In
one of them, perhaps, that devotion existed, but not in the
other. Cowper tried to show her her error : he advised her
not to embellish any creatures -with the colours of her fancy ;
-* Lines on Anna.

A QUARREL — LADY AUSTEN DISAPPECVED OF. 159
his letter gave mortal offence, though approved by Mrs.
Un-win. There seemed still a chance of reconciliation : Lady Austen
sent, in spite of coolness, some lace ruffles she had been
working, to the poet. Cowper in return, " laid his volume
at ber feet," Lady Austen was to spend the following sum
mer in the neighbourhood. " Eetirement," poor Cowper,
probably infiuenced by Mrs. Unwin, now said, "was their
passion and delight." It was to " still life " alone that
ne looked for happiness. Nevertheless, a reconciliation took
place, and the two parties were soon as happy as ever in each
other's society. " We are reconciled : " Cowper ¦wrote to Mr.
Un^win. "Lady Austen took the first opportunity to embrace
your mother ¦with tears of the tenderest affection." Arrange
ments were made for Lady Austen's residence at the Vicarage
in the autumn. Cowper, who, though he said " his thoughts
were clad in a sober livery," like " that of a bishop's
servants, yet turned on spiritual subjects," enjoyed thoroughly
the careless ¦wit, the blameless high spirits, and graceful ease
of Lady Austen. Not so his friend Mr. Un^win, who, on
seeing her in London, disapproved. His ideas were that
everything like cheerfulness lacked godliness — that one
could only escape perdition by a monotonous, exclusive,
lachrymose existence.
Co'wper, meantime, was far from being in a safe or satisfac
tory state of health and spirits. In hot Olney, where, in the
garden, he felt nothing but the reflection of the heat from the
walls, was he destined to spend the passing prime of his days.
His two sources of pleasure were writing and conversation.
With regard to the first, he says the composing effect was such
that he was often so absorbed in rhyming as to forget the past
and the future — "themes fruitful to him in regrets at any other
time." With regard to the latter, -with all Mrs. Un^win's ten
derness to his malady, ber concern for his comfort, her feeling
for his sufferings, one cannot but blame her for aUowing, as

160 SHE TELLS HIM THE STORY OF JOHN GILPIN.
Hayley hints she did, jealousies and prejudices to interfere
with the communion of mind poor Cowper had enjoyed ¦with
Lady Austen. Nevertheless, that evil hour, which came too
soon, was still distant. The vicarage door, which had been
opened by Xewton to Co^o'per, to pass in and out, was again
called in use. Lady Austen was again settled at Olney, and
Co^wper's letters were full not only of content, but of enjoy
ment. '\Miat mattered it, then, that Thurlow and Colman,
his two early friends, had received each a copy of his first
poem ¦without vouchsafing even a line of thanks ? He had
now society so captivating both to him and to ]\Irs. Un-
¦win, that the friends almost lived together, dining alter
nately in each other's houses. Co^wper was now in excel
lent health, "and leading the life he had always ¦wished
for." Lady Austen's conversation, indeed, acted on Cowper's mind
like David's harp on the troubled spirit of Saul. One after
noon, when he was much depressed, she told him the story of
John Gilpin, which had been related to her in her childhood.
The next day he said that he could not sleep at night for
thinking of John Gilpin, and that he had turned the story into
a ballad. This composition, which exhibits the very perfection
of quiet humour, was printed at first in the " Public Adver-
tizer." At Lady Austen's suggestion, also, he wrote the " Dirge
for the Eoyal George," which was composed for her to sing
to the harpsichord. One day she urged him to try bis powers
in blank verse. Co^wper promised to comply if she would
give him a subject. " 0," she answered, " you can never be in
want of a subject; ¦write on anything; write on the Sofa."
The result was that poem, which made Co^wper the most popu
lar poet of his day. His enjoyment of life was at this time
keen — for all his feelings were keen — but it was of short
duration; jealousy, that curse which seems to come direct
from the Evil Spirit, broke up the circle, which never formed
again.

LADY AUSTENS OPINION OF MRS. UNWIN. 161
Lady Austen, it was said, wished to marry Cowper, and a
tradition long existed at Olney that she had gone to church
with him with that view, but that Cowper, remembering his ties
to his earlier friend, repented, and broke off the rash engage
ment. To contradict this statement, Southey observes that
Mrs. Unwin was then three score ; and he observes that it
was very unlikely that Lady Austen should ¦wish to marry a
man afflicted with depression, and occasionally ¦with insanity.
Lady Austen has left a kindly, and probably faithful descrip
tion of her to whom Co^wper owed much solace, much care,
and some disquietude. Of Mary Unwin she says : —
" She is very far from grave. On the contrary, she is cheer
ful and gay, and laughs de ban cceur upon the slightest provo
cation. Amidst all the Puritanical words which fall from her
de temps en temps, she seems to have by nature a great fund
of gaiety. Great indeed must it have been not to have been
totally overcome by the close confinehaent in which she has
lived, and the anxiety she has undergone for one whom she
certainly loves as well as one human being can love another.
I ¦will not say she idolizes him, because she would think that
wrong ; but she certainly seems to possess the truest regard
and affection for this excellent creature, and as I before said,
has, in the most literal sense of the word, no wish or shadow
of inclination but what is bis.
"There is something," she adds, "truly affectionate and
sincere in her manner. No one can express more heartily than
she does her joy to have me at Olney; a.nd as this must be for
his sake, it is an additional proof of her esteem and regard for
him." It is painful — but, to those who know the world, not .sur
prising — to find Cowper writing to Mr. Unwin in the follow
ing strain, aUuding to the intimacy being again broken, and
to Lady Austen's final departure from Olney : —
" You are going to Bristol ; a lady not long since our near
neighbour is there : she was there very lately. If you should
VOL. I. M

162 INTRODUCTION TO WESTON.
chance to faU into her company, remember, if you please, that
we found the connection, on some accounts, an inconvenient
one ; that we do not ¦wish to renew it ; and conduct yourself
accordingly. A character ¦with which we spend all our time
should be made on purpose for us : too much or too Uttle of
any single ingi-edient spoils alL" "The dissimilitude," he
adds, "between themselves and Lady Austen was too
great.'' The loss of Lady Austen's society was a grievous one, but
it was compensated, in a great measure, by a new acquaint
ance. It was to ¦witness the ascent of a balloon that Cowper
and Mrs. L^nwin were first invited to Weston. BaUoons were
the wonders of the age, and aU the country were assembled to
see one ascend. 3Ir. and ]Mrs. Throckmorton, the o^wners of
Weston, were a young and most amiable couple, who fulfiUed
one of the offices incumbent on large proprietors, by making a
neighbourhood agreeable to persons of all grades. They re
ceived Co^wper and Mrs. L n^win most kindly. " We drank
chocolate, and ¦uere asked to dine," Cowper -wrote to Mr.
Un-win, " but were engaged."
At that era, to be a Eoman Catholic was to be tabooed firom
the great narrow world of an intolerant hierarchy. The
Throckmortons held that faith, and received, consequently,
many affronts ; but this caused Co-wper to treat them -with
the greater respect. Co-wper, indeed, instantly appreciated
the courtesy and refinement of his new friends. " I should
Uke exceedingly," he wrote, "to be on an easy footing there;
to give a morning caU now and then, and to receive one, but
nothing more. For though he (]Mr. Throckmorton) is one
of the most agTeeable men 1 ever saw, I could not -wish to
-visit him in any other way; neither our house, furniture,
servants, or income, being such as to qualify us to make
entertainments ; neither would I on any account be intro
duced to the neighbcuring gentry."

il .A

JOHN GILPIN RECITED BY HENDERSON. 163
He was soon instaUed as an intimate acquaintance, and Mr.
and Mrs. Throckmorton became " Mr. and Mrs. Frog," — a
sobriquet indicative of growing intimacy. Cowper was be
coming famous in a way he Uttle expected. " John Gilpin " was
recited by Henderson, the gentleman actor of the day, at Free
masons' Tavern. The room was crowded. There, amongst
listeners and admirers, might be seen the hard face of Con
versation Sharp, who had the merit of introducing Johnny
to Henderson's notice. There Mrs. Siddons, then in the zenith
of her beauty and fame, laughed outright, and, Ufting up
her beautiful hands, clapped heartily. Poor Cowper!
When told of the fame of the "horseman," he -wrote to his
friend Ne-wton : " I have produced many things under the
influence of despair which hope would not have permitted to
spring." " Despair made amusement necessary, and I found
poetry the most agreeable amusement."
The success of " The Task" had one signal effect. It brought
Cowper's relations again around him. During the last twenty
years he had had " Un-wins, or Unwinisons," he said, almost
entirely around him. Amongst the dearest of the ties thus
renewed was that with Lady Hesketh. Eemembered by many
as a brilliant beauty, attracting all eyes on her at Eanelagh,
Lady Hesketh was as delightful in mind and character as in
person. She regarded Co-wper as a brother : and now, a widow
of seven years' duration, returning to England, took an oppor
tunity of visiting the much-loved poet, after reading " John
GUpin." Co-wper, when on coming down to breakfast, found a letter,
franked by his uncle, and enclosing one from his cousin, said
to himself, " This is as it should be. We are all young again ;
and the days that I thought I should see no more are actually
returned." His affection for his cousin, he declared, was
unabated. " A thousand times " (no words can equal his)
" have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which our two selves
have made the whole of the drama, -with the greatest plea-
M 2

164 LETTER FROM LADY HESKETH — PICTURE OF HIMSELF.
sure ; at times, too, when I had no reason to suppose that I
should ever hear from her again." "I have laughed with
you," so he adds, "at the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainment;'
I have walked with you to Netley Abbey, and have scrambled
-with you over hedges in every possible direction." The hours
he spent with her and poor Sir Thomas were, he adds, among
the most agreeable.
He then refers touchingly to Mrs. Un-win's care of him for
twenty years. It was to that, under Pro-vidence, that he
owed his living at all. That care, he said, had injured Mrs.
Unwin's health : it would, had she not been wonderfully
supported, have brought her to her grave. During that
twenty years, he and his friend had had but one purse be
tween them. At ffi-st Mrs. Unwin's was double his own;
but latterly their humble means bad been the same ; and
much was self-denial requisite to both. He gracefully, and
gratefully, entered into these details for the information of
that " sweet cousin " who sought only to serve him.
Then he draws a humorous picture of himself — an ima
ginary one of Lady Hesketh,
"I cannot believe," he says, "but that I should know
you, notwithstanding all that time may have done. There
is not a feature of your face, could I meet it on the road by
itself, that I should not know." " I should say, that is my
cousin's nose, or those are her lips and chin, and no woman
upon earth can claim them except herself. As for me, I am
a very smart youth for my years. I am not, indeed, grown
grey so much as I am bald. No matter ; there was more
hair in the world than ever belonged to me."
" The happiest stage of Cowper's life commenced," says
Southey, "when the intercourse with this beloved cousin
was renewed."
It had one aUoy. The spirit of the Evangelical party suf
fered no interlopers in its society; dreaded all distraction;
repudiated all joy that emanated not from a religious excite-

ME. NEWTON'S warning — WORLDLY CONTAMINATION. 165
ment ; and Mr. Newton, dreading the effects of worldly con
tamination, vn-ote, it seems, to Co-wper to warn him of the
peril of such mundane communion. Cowper's answer was
sensible, moderate, respectful. " He knew not," he said, " a
single person among his friends and relations from whom he
was likely to catch contagion." " We correspond," says he,
" at present on the subject of what passed at Troy three
thousand years ago (alluding to his translation of Homer),
and they are matters that, if they can do no good, can at least
hurt nobody."
No father confessor of mediseval times ever held a peni
tent in firmer bonds than did the worthy Mr. Ne-wton the
amiable and gentle William Cowper.
Mrs. Unwin, happily, entertained no jealousy of the gene
rous, affectionate-hearted Lady Hesketh. " Tell Lady Hes
keth that I truly love and honour her," she said to Cowper.
Lady Hesketh was an angel of mercy. She obviated her
cousin's privations — she consoled — she cheered — she in.spi-
rited the delicate, musing invalid. To ber he imparted
every sorrow, and the remedies for sorrow : the hope, the
trust, the prayer, the poetry, the gardening, the carpentering,
the making bird-cages, the feeding hares, — all the daily details
which formed auxiliaries to the great effort to cast off depres
sion. One passage more, illustrative of the peaceful passages
of a life full of innocence, of gentleness, and yet of suffering,
and we must then hasten to the darker period of his existence.
Lady Hesketh said she would visit him at Olney. " You
have made us," writes Cowper, " both happy by giving us a
nearer prospect of your arrival. But Mrs. Unwin says you
must not fix too early a day for your departure, nor talk of
staying only two or three days ; because it will be a thorn
that she shall lean upon all the time you are here : and so
say I. It is a comfort to be informed when a visitor will go-
whom we wish to be rid of; but the reverse of a comfort, my
cousin, when you are in question." The good Lady Hesketh
u 3

166 Theodora's devotion to cowper.
was, however, detained in to-wn with her father, then in infirm
health and old age.
Theodora was living; still devoted to the one remem
brance, which Fate might in vain attempt to banish. An
anonymous hand, assuming to be that of a man, sent letters,
which Co-wper answered to Lady Hesketh ; and conferred an
annuity of fifty pounds, " wishing it had been five hundred."
A small parcel arrived containing a snuff-box and purse.
" Again, may God bless him," adds Cowper, to Lady Hes
keth. The snuff-box was of tortoiseshell, with a beautiful
landscape on the lid of it, glazed -with crystal, having the
figures of three hares in the foreground, and inscribed there
were these words : " Tiney, Puss, and Bess." The letters
were full of tenderness. " "'A'bo is there in the world," Cow
per asked, " that has, or thinks he has, reason to love me in
the same degree that he has?" It was evident that those
letters, those gifts, came from a woman's heart — that heart
dwelling on the past -with tenderness and regret.
One would fain linger on the few cheerful years which now
remained to Co-wper during, what he called, " the absence of
Mr. Blue-devil," on bis removal to Weston, where he could step
out into the grounds of the kind Throckmortons without soil
ing his slippers : on his escape from the fishy-smelling fumes
of the marsh miasma of Olney ; on his delight in his new
neighbours, in which Mrs. Unwin participated. Lady
Hesketh writes, "She does seem in real truth to have no
-will left on earth but for his good, and literally no -will but
his. How she has supported herself (as she has done), — the
constant attendance, day and night, which she has gone
through the last thirteen years, is to me, I confess, incre
dible ; and in justice to her I must say she does it all ¦with
an ease that relieves her from any idea of its being a state of
suffering." Consistent ¦with this devoted affection was Mrs. Unwin's
total abnegation of self. There she sat, on the hardest and

MRS. unwin's unselfish FRIENDSHIP. 167
smallest chair, leaving the best to Cowper, knitting with the
finest possible needles stockings of the nicest texture.
Cowper wore none others than of her knitting for years.
" She sits knitting on one side of the table, in her spectacles,
and he on the other reading to her (when he is not employed
in writing on his). In winter, his morning studies are always
carried on in a room by himself; but as his evenings are
generaUy spent in the winter in transcribing, he does them,
I find, vis-a-vis Mrs. Un^win."
One may suppose what an event the removal to Weston was.
Hitherto Cowper had been confined at Olney to a gravel
walk thirty yards long. A fever of the slow and spirit-
distressing kind seemed to have oppressed him and all inha
bitants of Olney for years. Nevertheless, bis departure from
that place, in which putrid fever was the order of the
day, seems to have been regarded by Ne^wton and the ultra-
saints as leaving a gospel life and going into forbidden paths ;
and Cowper's return to society as a departure from all hope
of enjoying Christian privileges. Well might Mr. Newton
say of himself that " his name was up in the country for
preaching people mad"* — many of his flock, "gracious
people," as he termed them, being " disordered in their
minds." These evils are justly ascribed by Southey to excited
meetings which " accord as little with the spirit as with the
Church of England." f
Mouldering walls and a tottering house warned them,*in
fact, to leave Olney ; yet Cowper felt a pang at leaving them,
after thirteen years' residence. The death of Mr. Un-win,
the son of Covrper's friend, happened soon after the re
moval to Weston. Mrs, Unwin had the inestimable com
fort of kno-wing that her son had lived the life and died the
death of a Christian, and she bore his loss with submission.
The rupture of that bond made her, however, more com-
» Southey's Life, vol. ii. p. 249. f P. 150.
M 4

168 TEE clerk or all saints, NORTHAMPTON.
pletely dependent for happiness on the affection and well-
being of Cowper. Sincerely did he mourn for his friend:
but " the dead who have died in the Lord," he observed, " I
en-vy always ; for they, I take it for granted, can be no more
forsaken." One more reference to happy days whilst the poet's health
was comparatively secure, before we sketch the gloomy pas
sage from reason to delusion — from delusion to insanity—
from insanity to the grave. He had begun to experience all
the inconvenience of being an eminent author ; of having
odes addressed to him ; letters -\mtten by a lady to the " best
of men;" verses from a Welsh attorney, who begs him to
revise them ; and asks, most obligingly —
" Say shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale? "
When one morning, a plain, devout, elderly figure made his
appearance at Weston, and spake as follows : " Sir, I am
clerk of the parish of AU Saints, in Northampton, brother of
IMr. Cox, the upholsterer. It is customary for a person of
my profession to annex to a bill of mortality, which he pub
lishes at Christmas, a copy of verses. You would do me a
great favour, Sir, if you would furnish me with one." To this
I replied (Cowper wrote) : " Mr. Cox, you have several men of
genius in your town — why have you not applied to some of
thfem ? There is a namesake of yours in particular. Cox, the
statuary, who, everybody knows, is a first-rate maker of verses.
He, surely, is the best man in the world for your purpose."
" Alas ! Sir, I have borrowed help from him ; but he is a
person of so much reading that the people of our town cannot
understand bim." Cowper, his vanity a little piqued, was
almost on the point of saying that perhaps, for the same
reason, they might not understand him ; but his good-nature
prevailed, and he sent by the waggon that afternoon, to North
ampton, his effusion. "A fig," he added, "for poets who

cowper's good NATURE — HIS MOTHER'S PICTUEE. 169
write epitaphs upon indi-viduals, I have -written one that
serves two hundred persons!" Seven successive years did
Cowper supply the clerk of All Saints in Northampton with
mortuary verses.
It was at Weston, in February, 1790, that Cowper received
his mother's picture from his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. He
" viewed it -with a trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat
akin to what he should have felt had the dear original pre
sented itself to his embrace." He kissed it, and placed the
treasure where he could see it the last thing at night and the
first thing in the morning. Cowper thought he had more of
the Donne in him than of the Cowpers. He had been thought
in childhood to resemble his mother ; in short, he proved
himself, by his love of poetry also, " a Donne at all points."
On this valued picture he wrote the most exquisite lines
that were ever written to one long lost, ever missed, in
cessantly deplored.
Mrs. Un-win, meantime, his second mother, made him
uneasy by her approaching infirmities. She once narrowly
escaped being burnt ; then she fell on the gravel walk, and
was lame a long time ; but she was now afflicted with head
aches, which proved the precursors of more serious maladies.
Not very long afterwards she was attacked one day with
giddiness; she would have fallen down had not Co^wper
supported her. She was then ill for some time, and unfor
tunately, Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton, now Sir John and
Lady Throckmorton, left Weston to reside in Berkshire.
All their little world, the angelic Lady Hesketh included,
were departing.
But fresh interests were at band. Co^wper's literary fame
led to his acquaintance with Hayley, who was invited to
¦visit Cowper at Weston. " I will endeavour," Cowper said
to Lady Hesketh, " to greet him with a countenance that
shall not stiffen him into freestone, but I cannot be answer
able for my success."

170 HAYLEY — THE MUSE OF SEVENTY.
William Hayley, the guest thus anticipated, had been
intended for the bar, but having a fair fortune and literary
tastes, had devoted himself to dramatic literature on his
outset in life. He was now forty-seven years of age, with a
fine, thoughtful, pensive face ; with eyes that, as Miss Seward
said, " used to sparkle, and melt, and glow, as ¦wit, com
passion, or imagination had the ascendance in his mind."
He quickly became a favourite with Co^wper, and with the
" Muse of Seventy," as Hayley termed her, Mrs. Unvdn.
One can readily suppose that Cowper, with his delicate ap
pearance, his gentle engaging manners, his natural courtesy,
and his cultivated mind, free from all pedantry, must have
been indeed a most delightful and interesting host.
Hayley's ¦visit was marked by a sad event. Mrs. Un^win bad
another paralytic stroke : her speech was now unintelligible ;
her power of locomotion was gone ; she could not keep her
eyes open, and the power of her right hand and arm was
gone. Electricity was then a fashionable remedy, and Hayley
sent for a machine ; recovery was hoped for, but it came
slowly ; change of scene was contemplated, but the axe was
laid to the root of the tree, and the sensible, calm mind
of Mrs. Un-win was shaken by her attack.
Cowper viewed her state -with a despair at which we cannot
wonder. He owed to her care even his life ; she had watched
him when dark delusions would have driven a less tender
friend from him, and had, it is alleged, cut him down when
he had a second time attempted suicide, and thus saved his
life. Her reason, which had sustained his, could now sustain
it no longer. She was for a time restored to " charming
spirits" bya visit to Hayley at Eartham, but the benefit
received was not permanent. Co-wper, too, found the scenery
around Eartham, after the first days of delight and surprise,
too gloomy for his nerves, and pined for the less romantic
features of that around Weston.
It is sad to find that in Mrs. Un-win's last days she lent

VERSES TO "MARY." 171
a superstitious credence to an ignorant schoolmaster, named
Teedon, who pretended to certain miraculous revelations,
and to whom Co-wper imparted his ovm experiences. These,
alas ! were the indications of an approaching attack of nervous
fever and incipient aberration, which bis patient, beloved
friend could now no longer alleviate. Her mind had sunk
into utter powerlessness, and she sat by his side, mute, nearly
blind, a living memento of what Mary Unwin had once been.
It was at this time that he addressed to her the lines " On
Mary." This was the last original piece that he composed at
Weston ; and, as Hayley observes, " it is doubtful whether
any language on earth can exhibit a specimen in verse more
exquisitely tender." TO MAEY.
" The twentieth year has -well nigh past.
Since first our sky was over-cast ;
Ah ! would that this might be our last. My Mary !
" Thy spirits have a fainter glow,
I see thee daily weaker grow ;
'Tis my distress that brought thee low. My Mary !
" Thy needles, once a shining store.
For my sake restless heretofore ;
Now rust, disused, and shine no more. My Mary !
"But though thou gladly would' st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy -will. My Mary !
" But well thou play'dst the house-wife's part.
And all thy threads -with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary !
" Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter' d in a dream ;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary !

172 cowper's struggles against insanity.
" Thy silver locks, once auburn bright.
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient Ught, My Mary !
" For could I -view nor them nor thee,
¦What sight worth seeing should I see ?
The sun -would rise in vain for me, My Mary !
" Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their Kttle force resign ;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary !
" Such feebleness of limb thou pro-v'st
That now, at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two — yet stUl thou lo-v'st, My Mary !
" And stUl to love, tho' prest with Ol,
In wintry age to feel no ehiU ;
¦With me is to be lovely still. My Mary !
" Yet ah ! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. My Mary !
" And should my future lot be cast,
¦With much resemblance of the past.
Thy worn-out heart -will break at last. My Mary ! "
It is especially worthy of remark, that no man struggled
against insanity so wdsely as Co-wper. During the intervals
of that malady, which made him at once so interesting and
so miserable, he displayed in many points marvellous good
sense. Previous to his last attack, he sought reUef in employ
ment. He improved his garden and orchard ; he called around
him those whom be loved ; he could sometimes, although the
conviction of being under sentence of condemnation never left
him, find comfort in prayer. Doubtless, the gloomy fanati
cism of Mr. Newton, the credulous Puritanical convictions of
Maxj Unwin, tended to increase his disorder ; but it is not owing

lady hesketh's kindness. 173
to those mistaken persons alone that his fine intellect was
thus overshadowed by a darkness more dreary than that of the
tomb. There must have been a strong hereditary tendency to
madness. There was evidently, in those days, a con-viction
that insanity was a mere mental disease, to be healed by moral
means chiefly. Eegarding it as a physiccd disorder, much,
combined -with moral treatment, might have been effected ;
but as Co-wper became older and more feeble, there appeared
less hope of recovery.
Mrs. Unwin's state also contributed to render Co-wper's last
attack permanent. The idea of losing her was ever present
to him. She was, in fact, lost to him for several years before
his death. Her state gradually sank into that of complete
imbecUity. Before that mournful relief came she bad fallen
into despondency. Unable to amuse herself, she looked for
wards -with dread to the beginning of each day, and longed for
the return of night.
Cowper, meantime, to use his o-wn expressive words, " was
plunged in deeps un-visited by any human soul but his." He
was " never cheerful, because he could never hope ; and if he
endeavoured to pray, was answered by a double portion of
misery." His petitions were, therefore, comprised in these
words : " God, have mercy."
And God had mercy. These two desolate beings were not
left alone to their helplessness. Lady Hesketh, herself in de-
cUning health, took up her abode with them. She found him
fixed to his seat, and refusing for six days to take any nourish
ment except a small piece of bread dipped in wane and water,
under a notion of penance for his sins. He was only aroused
by Mrs. Unwin's saying, prompted by Lady Hesketh, that
she should like a walk : Cowper instantly rose from his chair
and took her by the arm. Gratitude, tenderness, friendship,
were Uving to the last in his gentle, affiicted spirit.
Meantime, all his domestic affairs were going fast to ruin,
since Mrs. Unwin could no longer control them. Lady Hesketh

174 HANNAH, THE MAID — MRS. UN^WIN's DEATH.
complains in her letters of a certain damsel, adopted as a
servant by Mrs. Unwin, and named Hannah, whose extrava
gance was involving the unconscious couple in debt, whilst she
was herself " sweeping the village in muslin dresses of twelve
shilUngs a yard, and feathers a yard long." All this finery
was " only to dine in the kitchen, whilst Hannah must needs
put out her clothes to be mended as well as made," Mrs.
Unwin, poor woman, indulging her in every fancy; whilst
towards Co^wper, so greatly had disease changed her disposi
tion, " Mary " had become exacting and selfish. His health,
his time, his pursuits, were sacrificed to her ; and being no
longer responsible, she became his bane, almost his tyrant,
rather than his companion.
The friendship of Mary Unwin and William Co^wper may,
therefore, be said to have expired when the once placid and
strong mind of Mrs. Unwin became unhinged. They were
mercifully removed from Weston into Norfolk, where, in the
house of Dr. T. Johnson, Co^wper's cousin, Mrs. Un^win, on the
17tb of December, 1796, breathed her last. She died without
a struggle. Cowper had e^vidently expected that event ; and
when the servant opened his window on the morning of her
death, said, " Sally, is there Iffe above stairs ? " He went to
her bedside, as usual, and returned to the room below, where
Dr. Johnson began reading to him Miss Burney's " Camilla,"
— fiction being then the poet's favourite reading.
Whilst doing so, the kind relative was called out — all was
over. He returned into the breakfast-room, and, thinking it
a fair opportunity, told Cowper that his friend was no more.
The intelUgence was received not entirely ¦with apathy, yet
¦without any visible agitation, and Dr. Johnson continued read
ing. The composure was, however, fallacious. Co^wper took
it into his head that Mrs. Unwin was not dead, but that she
would come alive again in the grave ; he -wished to see her.
When he beheld her well-known features fixed in death he
flung himself to the other side of the room with a passionate

DEATH OF COWPER. 175
burst of feeling, the first that he had shown since his return
to Weston. Poor Mary ! The watching, the forbearance, the
devotion — in a word, the friendship of years, were then re
called ere reason, flickering Uke an expiring light, had for
ever sunk in darkness.
The event had a soothing influence ; for death is solemn,
majestic, and, even to the maniac, rebukes the futile sorrows of
the living. Co-wper became calm, asked for a glass of wine,
and from that moment was never more heard to mention
the name of Mary Un-win.
Cowper survived her four miserable years. Never did one
ray of hope or happiness visit that despairing heart, thus, for
some inscrutable purpose, afflicted even to despair. When
visited by Dr. Lubbock, of Nor-wich, and asked how he felt,
"Feel!" was his reply, " I feel unutterable despair."
He was released on the 25th of April, 1800. His cousin.
Dr. Johnson, who had watched him with the devotion of a son,
seeing his death draw near, spoke to him of hope, of mercy,
of the world to come. He was checked by an agonized
entreaty on the part of the dying man that he would desist from
any reference to those hopes to him ; " thus clearly proving,"
Southey remarks, " that though his soul was on the eve of
being invested with angelic light, the darkness of delusion
thus veiled his spirit."
When that suffering spirit had departed, the features of one
beloved by every human being that had ever approached him
assumed, we are told, an " expression of calmness and com
posure mingled -with holy surprise."
He died at Dereham, in Norfolk, and was buried in St.
Edmund's chapel ; and there Lady Hesketh erected a monu
ment displaying two tablets, one of them dedicated to Mary
Unwin. Hayley, unhappily, a warm friend but a wretched
poet, wrote the inscriptions.
During the ensuing year (in 1801) two barristers, going
their circuit, went out of their way to visit the house where

176 VISIT OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH AND BASIL MONTAGUE.
Cowper expired. These were James Mackintosh and Basil
Montagu, both then in the prime of life, of energy, and hope.
Dr. Johnson, the relative of the poet, showed them, in the hall
of bis house, a little spaniel in a glass-case. Beau, whom
Co-wper has celebrated in his verses, " The Dog and the Water-
lily":- " I saw him -with that lily cropped.
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The lUy at my feet."
The two friends saw the room where the poet died — the bed
which he last touched. Then they visited his grave, and that
of Mrs. Unwin, at some little distance. Montagu regretted
that they were not buried in the same tomb.
"Do not live in the -pisible, but in the invisible," said
Mackintosh. " His attainments, his tenderness, his affections,
his sufferings, and his hardships, -will live long after both
their graves are no more."
With these words we close this narrative of as true, as en-
daring a friendship as ever ennobled woman, and solaced
man.

MARIE ANTOINETTE
ASD THE
PRINCESSE DE LAMBALLE.

M^EIE ANTOINETTE S ARRIVAL AT KEHL.  HER EECEPTION. — COUET
OP -VEESAILLES.  MADAME DE GENLIS.  HEE INTEIGXJES.  CHA
EACTEE OF THE DUC DE CHARTRES, AFTER-WARDS (eGALITE) DUC
d'oRLEANS.  INStJLTS TO MARIE ANTOINETTE.  INTER-VIE-W -WITH
JEAN-JACQXJES ROUSSEAU.  THE COMTE ST. GERMAIN.  DEATH OF
LOUIS XT.  THE LITTLE TRIANON  -VISIT OF THE EMPEROR OF
AUSTRIA.  BIRTH OF THE DAUPHIN.  THE PRINCESSE DE LAM
BALLE.  THE queen's FEEENDSHIP FOE HEE. — THE EEVOLUTION. —
ANNIVEESAEY OF THE FEDERATION.  THE IOtH OF AUGUST. 
SCENE AT THE TUILEEIES.  THE ROYAL FAMILY EEMO-VED TO
THE TEMPLE.  THE PRINCESSE DE LAMBALLE REMOVED THENCE. 
HEE DEATH. — EXECUTION OF THE KING.  THE DAUPHIN SEPA
RATED FROM HIS MOTHER.  MARIE AKTOINEITE EEMQ-VED TO THE
CONCIEEGERIE. — HEE TEIAL AND CONDEMNATION.  HEE EXECU
TION.  DEATH OP LOUIS XTU.

VOL. I.

MARIE- ANTOINETTE

PRINCESSE DE LAMBALLE.

It was in the year 1770 that a superb cortege rode up to the
entrance of the Bridge of Kehl, at Strasbourg, and arranged
itself underneath a spacious tent erected in three compart
ments, — one for the French, another for the Austrians, a
third, the salon which occupied the centre, was considered to
be neutral ground, whereon the different members of the
two courts, that of the Empress Maria Theresa, on the one
hand, and of the King of France, Louis XV. on the other,
might assemble.
There stood the principal members of the household of
Marie-Antoinette, who, in her sixteenth year, was coming
to take up her abode in that country where she suffered on
the scaffold for the faults of others.
Great names were heard beneath the sumptuous tent.
Here was the Comtesse de NoaiUes, the chief personage in the
group; the Duchesse de Cosse, lady of the bed-chamber;
then came the four dames du palais, ladies who were to be
ready for any occasion of state or service, glittering wdtb
diamonds and radiant with expectation; these female cour
tiers were set off by contrast -with the Bishop of Chartres,
Almoner to the future Dauphiness ; whilst the chevalier d'hon-
neur, the officers of the body guard, and the principal
N 2

180 HER LINEAGE — COURT OF VIENNA.
equerry in the gorgeous costume of the day, completed the
scene. They all awaited with curiosity the arrival of the young
Archduchess of Austria, the ill-fated daughter of Maria
Theresa. The alliance was acceptable to the French nation
for many reasons. High sounding titles attested the illus
trious descent of the princess, who was destined to ex
perience the miseries of the most cruel imprisonment and of
an agonised death in the country to which she was trans
planted. Her mother. Queen of Bohemia and Hungary, Archduchess
of Austria, Duchess of Milan, Countess of Tyrol, Duchess of
Brabant, and of the Low Countries, and of Luxemburgh, and
daughter of the Emperor Charles VI., bore all these honours
in single dignity since the death of ber husband Francis I.
Duke of Lorraine and Grrand Duke of Tuscany in bis o-wn
right. The exalted birth of Marie- Antoinette, as daughter of
the sole descendant of Eodolph Hapsburg, was enhanced in the
eyes of the French by the reputed talents as well as attrac
tions of the princess. She spoke Latin and also Italian
perfectly ; and had studied French so attentively that before
leaving Vienna she had almost forgotten her native tongue.
She had been brought up -with a simplicity, yet a strictness,
which contrasted strongly with the customs of the French
Court, but which prepossessed all good subjects in her favour.
The Court of Vienna was alternately magnificent to excess
when etiquette required it, and simple, on private occasions, in
the extreme. Its daily habits resembled those of the most
unambitious of the bourgeoisie. In the promenade and en
virons of Vienna, it was no uncommon sight to behold the
Emperor and Empress quietly walking in the plainest dress,
or driving -with their children; no guards, no attendants
followed them; and their subjects were accustomed to see
them without the slightest demonstration or homage.
The young princesses, the daughters of Maria Theresa,

DESCRIPTION OF THE YOTTNG QUEEN. 181
were permitted to receive no male visitors with the excep
tion of their brothers. Their beautiful and intellectual
mother sat amidst them in the homely character of a modest
matron and head of a family who were to be the progenitors
of kings and queens.
There was something so naive in all this moderation that
the courtiers of Louis XV., who, in all his guUty pros
perity, still reigned over France, were prepared at once to
approve and to ridicule, to admire and despise.
At length the Austrians were seen in procession, conducting
the young victim to her doom. She came, and all eyes were
riveted on that statety though youthful form, all tongues
fain to utter loud praises of the loveliness which broke upon
the expectant band of courtiers. Accompanied by the Grande
Maitresse of her maternal home, Marie-Antoinette advanced
gracefully towards the French side of the " abounding
river." Her complexion was exquisitely fair, with the most
delicate tinge of carnation on her cheek. Her blue eyes had
an irresistible expression in their lustre. Her features were
aquUine and noble, and her mouth, haughty in repose, broke
at times into the sweetest smile possible. Even then, young
as she was, the future dignified queen and faultless -wife and
mother, for whom Burke exclaimed " a hundred swords
should have sprung from their scabbards," was pronounced
to be a worthy descendant of the Ceesars.
She came with her intuitive grace into the salon, hence
forth no longer neutral. A pensive expression varying now
and then the enchanting gaiety of her countenance, every
one would have felt for her, but that all eyes, all French
eyes, were intent on remarking the bad taste of her dress, —
that dress still being German, — and the French could pardon
anything except an error in costume ; nor was it until, as
etiquette required, she had changed her Viennese dress for a
Parisian toilette, that they could assent to all the encomiums
which had been handed to them on her grace.
N 3

182 DESCRIPTION OF MADAME DE NOAILLES.
It now became necessary to take leave of her own attend
ants, and to accept those of her new country.
Bursting into tears, Marie-Antoinette threw herself into
the arms of Madame de NoaiUes, a stiff, Ul-tempered old lady,
who lived but to worship the rules of etiquette, and who did
not consider this ebullition on the part of Marie-Antoinette
as at all according with ber ideas. For this stereotyped
specimen of a grande dame was the great authority on all
questions of form at Versailles. " Have you asked Madame
de NoaiUes ? " was the constant inquiry of Louis XV. when
any difficulty arose ; so the old lady was terribly scandalised
by this luckless beginning on the part of poor Marie-
Antoinette. Madame de NoaiUes, therefore, retreated in
great confusion. A leaf was torn out, as it were, of her book
of ceremony. She sank to the ground in deep curtseys, for
she was quite incapable of perceiving that it was kindness, and
encouragement, and not homage that the young princess
wanted. 'But Madame de Cosse, full of feeling, came to the
rescue. She spoke to the poor girl of the mother and sisters
whom she had for ever left, and the' tears that flowed re
lieved the head of the princess. In the midst of this never-
to-be-forgotten scene, however, a voice was heard : Madame
de NoaiUes spoke :
" Madam," she said, as if to remind poor Marie- Antoinette
of her duty, " your royal highness's household are waiting
to be presented to you."
" Fulfil all your appointed duties. Madam," was the gentle
and graceful reply ; " forgive these few tears which I have
shed for my country and my family ; henceforth I shall never
forget that I am a Frenchwoman."
After all this had passed, the cortege entered Strasbourg.
There, by mistake, a room which had been prepared was
draped with Gobelin tapestry, representing Medea kilUng her
children and the city of Corinth in flames. But during
supper the arras was taken down and another substituted.

HER SITUATION AT THE FRENCH COURT. 183
Another circumstance seemed to cast a shadow on coming
events. When, at Versailles, the fishwomen of the Hailes
came to congratulate Marie-Antoinette, she felt an instinct of
fear and disgust. She drew back before these loud-voiced
brazen women. Years afterwards, when they were amongst
the first to insult her, she called to mind this unaccountable
loathing and affright.
Her situation at the Court revived in the remembrance of
many the early career of Anne of Austria. That queen had
been the victim of the intrigues of Eichelieu, Marie-An
toinette was governed by the Abbe de Vermont. Louis XIII.
was long indifferent to his beautiful intellectual -wife : Louis
XVI. was quite incapable at first of comprehending his gay,
charming, unaffected bride, whose ease, and perfectly natural
character irritated rather than pleased him. Then Madame
du Barri, the iniquitous mistress of Louis XV., the grand
father of Louis XVI., endeavoured to allure the Dauphiness,
as Marie- Antoinette had now become, to her party; but hap-
pUy her husband discovered this intrigue, and, to his honour,
Louis XVI. forbade Marie- Antoinette to hold any communi
cation -with the favourite.
StUl the Court of Versailles was a mournful exchange for
that of Vienna. The early Ufe of the ill-fated Marie- Antoi
nette had been singularly peaceful. Every day all the
members of the unperial family had risen at the same hour ;
with prayers the daUy duties were begun ; a simple breakfast
of milk and fmit then followed; then work, reading, and
study occupied the morning ; at twelve, a frugal dinner was
served; then the young princesses walked out; recreation
and study divided the remainder of the tranquil day till
supper-time ; after that social meal the whole household
retired to rest. The chief recreation permitted to the young
archduchesses was to visit, on foot, -with their stately mother,
the poor, and to take them provisions and money. Sometimes
N 4

184 ANECDOTE OF MADAME DU BARRL
Maria Theresa taught her children a sterner lesson. She
took them down into the catacombs where lay the bodies of
their ancestors. There she pointed out to them the insta-
biUty of life, the vanity of earthly grandeur. In after Ufe,
when surrounded with all that could intoxicate her susceptible
heart, Marie- Antoinette used to recall these sepulchral excur
sions, these maternal admonitions. Alas ! she had indeed
reason to lay them to heart.
The Dauphiness lived in fact on the very brink of a vol
cano. Louis XV., the most infamous and profligate of the
Bourbons, was still able to throw a grace over his depravity,
and to injure virtue by the charm of his manners, conversa
tion, and person. Madame du Barri ruled supreme. The
Dauphiness, left in happy ignorance of vice by her mother,
asked the Comtesse de NoaiUes, on her first arrival at Ver
sailles, a singular question. " I know," she said, " from the
Abbe de Vermont, the names, the style, and rank of all
the different members of noble families who have been
presented to me; but the Abbe has told me nothing of
Madame du Barri. What office, pray, does she hold at the
Court ? "
" Her office is to amuse his majesty," was the cautious
reply. " Ah, Madam ! " cried Marie-Antoinette, " how I envy her !
I should be delighted to assist her in such an office."
The Comtesse smiled, but made no answer ; and for some
time the young Dauphiness, brought up in all innocence and
modesty, did not comprehend that the King was, in truth,
a " whitened sepulchre."
It was the aim of Madame du Barri to gain over this young
princess to her side if possible, and had it not been for the
Dauphin, Louis XVI., the artless girl might have fallen into
the snare.
Amongst a host of secret enemies one well-known personage
appears prominently on the scene, even at this early period.

ENEMIES OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE — MADAME DE GENLIS. 185
Madame d'Adhemar, the faithful attendant of Marie- Antoi
nette, describes thus her first interview -with this famous
woman of talent and intrigue.
"I was visiting Madame de la Eeyniere," says Madame
d'Adhemar, " one of my friends, when a young girl of high
family made her appearance. She was very poor, and used
to play the harp in order to make herself agreeable. The
lady of this house supplied her with her dress, her linen, &c.,
and she repaid the gifts by the ready coin of flattery."
This Parisian sample of the intrigante genus contrived
to marry the Comte de Genlis without the consent of his
parents. Nevertheless, by her address, she managed to get
into favour with all her husband's family.
A friend, hoping to serve her, introduced her to the Due
d'Orleans, whose son, then Due de Chartres, and afterwards
kno-wn as the infamous Egalite, had several young cMldren.
It was to these, amongst whom Louis-Philippe was the
brightest constellation, that Madame de Genlis became gou-
vernante. Her intrigue -with Egalite, the reputed father of
Pamela (Lady Edward Fitzgerald), was the scandal of a later
day. At the time when Marie-Antoinette was first at Versailles,
Madame de Genlis was comparatively an obscure individual,
creeping in where she could, her sole ambition being to
establish herself firmly in court favour. One day Madame
d'Adhemar was surprised at receiving a -visit from her. Po
liteness, however, induced the courtly lady to disguise her
astonishment. Madame de Genlis apologised for her intru
sion ; but said she felt so enthusiastic an admiration for the
young Dauphiness that she could not resist the desire she had
to come and speak to Madame d'Adhemar about it.
" And the same feeling. Madam," replied Madame d'Adhe
mar, " has, I presume, induced you to go so often as you do
lately to visit Madame du Barri ? "
Madame de Genlis looked confused, then declared that she

186 HER ATTEMPTS AT AN INTRODUCTION TO THE QUEEN.
should never have gone near Madame du Barri except to beg
that a poor gentleman, " whom she offered to introduce to
Madame d'Adhemar, should be released from prison."
She then broke forth into loud eulogiums on Marie-
Antoinette, and hinted that she should much like to have
a more particular introduction to her than those usually
presented. " I quite comprehend your -wishes. Madam," was the
coldly civil reply, " but Madame la Dauphine does not, I
know, -wish to extend her circle, and besides, the Comtesse
de NoaiUes is the only person who has a right to arrange
private presentations."
" But -will you not have the kindness to speak of me to
her royal highness ? "
Madame D'Adhemar smiled at this expression, royal high
ness, a style and title repudiated by Marie-Antoinette who,
as Grand-Duchess of Austria, thought herself above it. She,
however, the more firmly refused Madame de Genlis, and
henceforth that lady scarcely spoke or even bowed to her
when they met.
A few days afterwards Marie-Antoinette said to Madame
D'Adhemar, " Who is the Comtesse de Genlis who plays so
well on the harp, and who is of a high family. I have never
seen her."
Madame D'Adhemar, told her what she knew of her.
" She is perpetually -writing to me," said Marie-Antoinette,
" to propose a course of reading for me, and of education for
my future children."
" She omits nothing to serve her o-wn purposes," was the
sarcastic reply of the Dame du Falais.
"I suspect there is some intrigue at the bottom of all
this," cried Marie-Antoinette.
Then the faithful D'Adhemar told her how apparent it
was that the pretended devotion of Madame de Genlis was
assumed only to draw her into the toils of Madame du Barri ;

EGALIT^ DUKE OF ORLEANS. 187
it was agreed that she was not to be admitted ; and the
result was that Madame de Genlis became one of those secret
enemies by whom the web was woven into which Marie-
Antoinette was eventually ensnared. Songs and pamphlets
against the Dauphiness, when she became Queen, attested the
malice of her clever foe ; and when the revolution broke out
Madame de Genlis showed herself in her true colours. She
may truly be termed the e-vil genius of the wretched Egalite,
Due d'Orleans.
At this period the affection and respect which Louis XVI.
had learned to feel for his young -wife supported her, how
ever, against every cabal formed against her peace.
One vexation alone dimmed the happiness of the joyous,
pure spirit which was destined to be crushed in after years.
Marie-Antoinette had no son. Like Anne of Austria, her
felicity was incomplete, and her pre-eminence as a princess
precarious. Poor Marie-Antoinette ! she little thought that
the prince so earnestly longed for was to be the innocent
source of almost maddening grief.
From the earliest period of her married life Marie-An
toinette had been warned by her mother against the Due de
Chartres (afterwards Egalite Due d'Orleans), and the sus
picions of Maria Theresa were shared by Louis XVI. Egalite,
even at that epoch, was endeavouring to ingratiate himself
¦with the public and to injure the reigning family. But the
crafty Philippe d'Orleans paid, apparently, the most devoted
attentions to Marie-Antoinette, who boasted that she had
overcome the prejudice he had entertained towards her.
Madame d'Adhemar in vain drew a portraiture of his real
character for her benefit.
" The Due de Chartres," thus -wrote the faithful monitor,
" although his education has been so much praised, has been
badly brought up ; he makes, however, a good use of such
knowledge as he possesses ; having an excellent memory, he
is deficient neither in talent nor in sagacity ; what ruins him

188 HIS CHARACTER AND PERSONAL APPEARANCE.
is his mad desire to resemble his great grandfather, the
infamous Due d'Orleans, the Eegent, whom Louis XIV. used
to call, ' ce fanfaron de vice' BrilUant qualities, however,
lessened the odium which attached to the licentiousness of
the Eegent ; he had courage, a gift in which his descendant
is wanting, if I may judge by certain anecdotes I have
heard." Then she goes on to describe the personal appearance of
the -wretch who turned against his own kindred, and paid the
penalty of his crimes.
" The Duke had once been handsome, but every agreeable
attribute had been destroyed by intemperance. His com
plexion was so bloated that it made one sick to look at him ;
true, his elegance of deportment was incomparable, his
carriage perfect ; his manners always those of a grand
seigneur. Nothing could exceed the politeness, the respect,
the delicacy of his behaviour in the presence of modest
women. No one could have supposed that under that
courteous and proper demeanour the most depraved heart
in the world was concealed. In the midnight orgie, however,
he threw off that mask, and disclosed all the grossness of his
depraved, and impious mind. Penurious, -with an air of af
fected generosity ; he was dangerous, not because he had either
character or energy, but because he had a -vulgar ambition
which would attract to him unscrupulous partisans ; because
he was rich, and had money to spend on the -wretched
damaged set who formed his circle in the Palais Eoyal."
He now applied himself to win over the beautiful princess
who was so easily made the dupe of her feelings. Marie-
Antoinette was extremely fond of flowers. He sent her
every day bunches of the rarest Dresden, or Sevres china,
adorned with the most exqmsite paintings. One of these
porcelain vases was of an antique form, supported by the
Three Graces, "with figures also of Love and Hymen. One
of the faces represented the head of the Dauphiness, encircled

HIS AUDACITY — HIS CALUMNIES. 189
mth a garland of flowers, which, according to Oriental sym
bolism, were typical of all the virtues ; another of the faces
was the portrait of the Dauphin, also crowned with a sym
bolical garland ; his figure was sustained by an anchor, on
the points of which rested two doves, emblems of peace and
mercy. A copy of verses, composed by the -witty and brave but dis
solute Laclos, an artUlery officer who had written a romance
called by the truly French title "Les Liaisons danger euses^''
accompanied this exquisite present, which propitiated even
Louis XVI. For a time Egalite was received by the Dauphin
and Dauphiness, after this attempt to gain their regard, in a
perilous intimacy. But Marie-Antoinette was sound at heart.
Madame d'Adhemar remarked one day to ber that the visits
of the Due de Chartres had become less frequent.
" Yes," was the reply : " Monsieur le Due receives such
bad company at his house that I cannot admit him to
mine." A few days afterwards she confided still more to her Dame
du Falais. Egalite " had had the effrontery to speak of love
to the -wife of the eldest son of his king."
" Is it true ? " cried Madame d'Adhemar. It was indeed
true ; the whole was a political intrigue which the con
temptible prince hoped to found upon the infamy of the
Dauphiness. Three men dared to insult her with their addresses:
Egalite, as we have seen ; the Due de Lauzun, and the
Marquis de Tilly. This last individual was an infamous
wretch who was supported by actresses. He dared, however,
to give out that the Dauphiness secretly provided for him.
The calumnies of this terrible period fell harmless upon the
stately and excellent Marie-Antoinette during the life of
Louis XV. ; but they drove others less courageous from that
dissolute court.
Amongst those who experienced the slanderous malice of

190 THE PRINCESSE DE LAMBALLE — JEAN- JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
Egalite, was the lovely and blameless Princesse de LambaUe.
She was then a young widow, in all the brilliancy of a
beauty as modest as it was dazzling. Louis XV., pitying her
on account of the early death of her young husband, endea
voured by kindness, to console her for her loss. Any attentions
from such a man as Louis XV. were injurious to a young and
admired woman, but the Court, for once, understood them ; and
the Due de Chartres alone, put on royal condescension the con
struction of a bad mind. He aroused the cabal of the Du Barri
from their security ; he accused the youthful -widow of co
quetry ; he declared that she wished to rob Madame du Barri
of her lover. His envenomed shafts had the effect he desired :
Madame de LambaUe indignantly withdrew herself from
Court, and returned not till after the death of Louis XV. It
was then that Marie-Antoinette, deeply impressed by the
propriety of the princess's conduct, bestowed on her a regard
which would never have been witbdra-wn bad it not been for
the intrigues of others.
Among the wonders of that day, Jean-Jacques Eousseau,
the " disciple of truth and of nature," as he styled himself,
was the theme of a certain party. The persecutions he had
endured from the Encyclopjedists bad gained him notoriety.
It was after the death of Louis XV., when Marie Antoinette
had become Queen, that Eousseau's fame rose to its height.
She was anxious to see him, but an inter-^ew was impracti
cable, for Eousseau declined all court favours, and was re
solved not to present himself at the Tuileries.
One day, however, as the Queen, very simply dressed, was
walking in the gardens of the Petit Trianon, Madame
d'Adhemar who attended on her saw a man looking- in at the
iron gate, and recognised Jean-Jacques. She told the Queen,
and the enthusiastic Marie-Antoinette rushed instantly to
the gate, and calling the porter, ordered him to let in the
person who was walking there, but on no account to say that
she was at the Trianon.

HIS MEETING THE QUEEN AT THE TRLANON. 191
The porter was a Swiss, and knew Eousseau by sight, so he
was resolved to play his part welL " Notre ours," as Madame
d'Adhemar calls the unconscious lion of the day, entered the
grounds, looking uneasily around him: at this instant two
strangers arrived and inquired of the porter if they could see
the house ; they were answered in the affirmative ; and Eous
seau, reassured, asked the same question and was answered
by the porter, who offered to conduct him through the
grounds. They got into conversation, and as they approached
the Temple of Love they perceived two ladies seated on the
steps, the Queen and Madame d'Adhemar.
" Who are those ladies ? " Jean-Jacques inquired.
" Two German ladies, who are allowed to walk here whilst
her majesty is absent."
Eousseau approached the ladies ; the Queen then spoke to
him : her voice trembled, for genius bas an imperative
influence even over royalty.
They spoke of the difference between English and French
gardens. "I delight not in French gardens," Eousseau observed.
" Their regularity, their stateliness ; these alleys of which
one cannot see the termination, these immense parterres,
these marble basons containing water, all these points show
me that such gardens were not made for me — that I am
scarcely authorised to enjoy them. I scarcely dare to abandon
myself to pleasure, lest whilst I gaze a brilliant Court should
take me by surprise. In an English garden, on the contrary,
the free gro-wth of the trees, the flowers, the enamelled grass,
the shining rivulets, the thick, shady groves; the rocks, the
dark grottoes, inspire me with the idea that I am in the
country, and far from the rich and great." The Queen
listened to him with deep interest.
" And why," she asked, " do you avoid the great ? are they
not human beings like yourself? do they not deserve to
receive kindness from you ? "

192 THEIR CONVERSATION.
" I Uke nothing that inspires me with fear ; I am afraid of
the great and powerful."
" What you say. Sir, is sad — what ! are the great never to
be beloved ? "
" We give our respect to the Cro-wn — that is all that it
can receive."
The Queen was vexed. She wished, as most sovereigns do,
to possess the love of her subjects.
" You are a republican, Sir, I perceive," she said, " hence
your horror of kings.''
"Ah I Madam ! I hate no one ! on the contrary, in spite
of my injuries, I love my fellow-creatures."
" That is creditable to you. Sir. May I ask your name,''
replied the Queen.
"My name," Eousseau replied, somewhat vexed that so
great a man as himself was not known to a lady of rank,
" my name is Eousseau. I am Eousseau, of Geneva."
" Eousseau, the Eousseau of the world ! " the Queen, with
a sweet smile, replied.
"Madam, you are too kind. I am an obscure indi
vidual." "And somewhat prejudiced against monarchs." Some
thing flashed across the mind of Eousseau : be started up,
looked around him : there was a gloomy expression in his
eyes as he said ;
" I thought these gardens were open to every one : I heard
that the Queen was not here."
" The Queen does not wish to be here."
" Ah ! but that makes all the difference. Never shall I
forget this day ! Madam, you are right ; monarchs may be
loved, not loved alone, they may be adored."
" Monsieur Eousseau ! That is flattery ! "
" Ah," he cried, " do not prohibit my freedom of speech
and thought; what I have said has come from the bottom of
my heart. You are right. Madam; sincerity can never

THE COUNT ST. GERMAIN: HIS ORIGIN DOUBTFUL. 193
exist in the precincts of a Court, and kings as well as queens
are right in suspecting Eousseau."
He made a deep bow and retired.
" Ah ! " cried the Queen, after some moments of confusion,
"these philosophers are dreadful ; they prevent our subjects
from loving us, when we so much need their affection."
Eousseau died shortly afterwards ; l^ut Marie-Antoinette
henceforth distrusted and discouraged men of letters, who,
she thought, and perhaps at that sera, with justice, were
inimical to the throne.*
The Court of Versailles contained, nevertheless, amid its
most ardent votaries, one of the most accomplished men of
his time ; a man of rank, talent, and fortune, endowed with
rare perfections of person, yet a compound of charlatanism
and ability.
This singular being appeared to have the gift of perpetual
youth ; and he dealt largely in the mystic sciences which the
superstitious, though infidel character of the times adopted.
In 1743 news was spread about Versailles that a stranger of
enormous wealth — at least if one might judge by his
jewellery — had arrived there. Whence did he come ?
What was his origin ? These were questions that no one
could answer. His exterior was perfect ; a graceful form, tall
and supple, small hands, a mignon foot, an elegant leg, which
was perfection with its fine silk stocking; these were no
vulgar attributes; but his fine, lofty, sagacious, intelligent
face was peculiarly striking. Then his costume was so
tasteful ; his light doublet showed his exquisite figure ; his
dark hair also was so carefully arranged ; his teeth, which
the sweetest smile in the world showed to advantage, were
so white and regular, his eyes were so black and piercing ;
that even Madame D'Adhemar the prudent, the proper, ex
claims, " Oh ! quels yeux ; je n'ai vu nulle part leurs
pareils ! "
* See the Memoirs of Madame la Comtesse d'Adhemar, vol. i. p. 292.
VOL. I. 0

194 DOUBTS ABOUT HIS AGE — HIS SERVANT, ROGER.
He appeared in 1768 to be about forty or forty-five years
of age ; no one remembered him younger. The old evergreen
Comtesse de Georgy used to say : " Fifty years ago I was
ambassadress at Venice; I remember the Comte de St.
Germain there ; he looked the same age then as now, perhaps
he is now a little younger than then."
" At all events. Madam," was the Comte's reply, " I was
always enchanted to make myself agreeable to ladies."
" You were then styled the Marquis Balletti," resumed
Madame Georgy.
Like all pretenders to science of that, and the preceding
century, St. Germain turned silver into gold. Then his way
of living was singular. He had two valets de chambre, one of
whom, he said, had served him for the "last five hundred
years." He was never known to partake of food in any house
but his own ; and never to in-vite a single guest to his table.
In spite of all his peculiarities, St. Germain was made
Minister of War, 1775. He then formed a royal guard of
fifty gendarmes and fifty horse, as an escort to their ma
jesties ; these were not disbanded till 1787. Notwithstand
ing royal favour, the mysterious St. Germain was suspected of
being at the bottom of the fatal conspiracies which eventually
ruined France. He is reported to have died in 1784 at
Schlesvnc, in the dominions of the Elector of Hesse Cassel ;
nevertheless, the Comte de Chalons, a Venetian ambassador,
declared that he had met him on the Place Saint-Marc in 1788.
Many wonderful anecdotes of his second sight are preserved.
He cast the nativity, and foretold the death of Madame
de Pompadour ; and it happened as he had predicted. He
was generally the hero of his own histories, which be told in
such a manner — sometimes relating how he had even called
spirits from their dread abode — as to strike awe into his
listeners. Then this accomplished charlatan used to turn to
his valet Eoger.
" Am I right, or not, Eoger, in what I state ? "

DEATH OF LOUIS XV. 195
" Monsieur le Comte," was his confederate's answer, " you
forget that I have been in your service only five hundred
years ; therefore I cannot have been present at the event
you are describing; ce doit itre mon predecesseur." So
M. Eoger acquired the sobriquet of Monsieur " cinq cents
ans." Let us pause for a time on the brief and happy period of
Marie-Antoinette's life. There was something of mournful
presage in the commencement of her reign. When the
young couple heard that Louis XV. was dead, they threw
themselves on their knees : " 0 God ! guide us, protect us ;
we are too young to reign I "
During the period of mourning, the King and Queen were
seen walking out together, she leaning on his arm ; of course,
matrimonial happiness became the fashion ; and many couples
who had long been separated, were now beheld pacing along
the terrace at Choisy in the same fashion.
Louis and Marie- Antoinette received condolences from the
Court at La Muette. Little black bonnets with great wings,
shaking old heads, low curtsies, keeping motion with the handy
in fact, a general routing out of the venerable ladies of the
ancien rigime appeared. Marie-Antoinette -with difficulty
kept her countenance, but she managed to do so, and received
the crowds with infinite dig-nity, until, observing one elderly
dame, the Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre, seated on the
floor, concealed behind the hoops of the ladies, playing of
certain childish pranks, she was obUged to conceal a smile
behind her fan.
The next day, the following verse of a song was circulated
by the Anti-Austrian party.
" Little Queen, you must not be
So saucy -with your twenty years.
Your ill-used courtiers soon -will see
You pass once more the harriers !
Tal lal lal, fal la la."
o 2

196 MARIE-ANTOINETTE BECOMES POPULAR.
More than fifteen years afterwards, Madame Campan,
bed-chamber woman to the Queen, heard it said in Auvergne,
among the remote French circles there, that the Queen had
laughed in the faces of the duchesses, and sexagenarian
princesses. No opportunity was lost of blaming the young
Queen ; for instance, Louis XV. had died of small-pox. When
Louis XVL and his brothers resolved to be inoculated, the
Queen was blamed for advising them to submit to it. The
Queen wished to see the sun rise, and was accompanied by
her ladies ; but the infamous Egalite was also of the party,
and the coarsest abuse was the result.
Hitherto, Marie-Antoinette had been simple in her dress,
Louis XV. himself, the most perfect gentleman, as far as
manners went, in Europe, had been enchanted with her
girlish attire. When she wore a dress of gauze, or taffeta,
she was compared to the Venus de Medici. She was styled
the Atalanta of Marly. Painters linmed her lovely face ;
one of them placed it in the heart of a full blo-wn rose; and
Louis XV. rewarded him for the conceit : everything had
conspired to dazzle her.
No spot on earth has witnessed such various scenes as the
quaint old palace of the Tuileries. Soon after her entry into
Paris, Marie-Antoinette was called by the clamours of the
multitude into the balcony of that palace. On seeing the
vast crowd beneath : " Heavens," she cried, "what a con
course ! " " Madam," said the old Due de Brissac, Governor
of Paris, " I may tell you, -without offending the Dauphin,
they are so many lovers." Yet, even then, a certain faction
aimed at a divorce, and the indifference of Louis XVI. was
the theme of all tongues. StUl, until the death of Louis XV,
Marie-Antoinette had preserved a tolerable popularity in
France. The Little Trianon, which had been built for Louis XV.
was bestowed by his successor on Marie-Antoinette. Every
thing there, even to the faded beds in which Madame du

HER VISITS TO THE LITTLE TRIANON. 197
Baxri had slept, was in the same state as heretofore. The
queen, delighted in visiting this lovely spot — so great a con
trast to Versailles — attended only by a valet ; these traces
of her simple pleasures, her few transient enjoyments, sadden
even the visitors of the nineteenth century. There she
received her brother, Duke Maximilian, and was overwhelmed
by his blunders. ' When Du Buffon, for instance, presented him
-with his famous work, the Archduke refused it, saying he should
be sorry to deprive him of it ; but this error of an unformed
youth was nothing compared to that of the Emperor Joseph
II. who afterwards -visited Paris. When the Queen told him
that she had prepared apartments for him in the Chateau of
Versailles, he replied that he " always lodged at a public house
when he travelled." The Queen, nevertheless, insisted on his
being her g-uest, and assured him he should be at perfect
liberty. The emperor replied that he knew the Palace of
VersaUles was large enough for him, as well as for others,
and that he might as well be there as the numerous mauvais
sujets who were lodged in it; but his valet had already made
up his camp-bed in a ready-furnished house, and there he
should stay.
Poor Marie- Antoinette ! She had been talking continually
of her brother ; and had boasted of his intellect, his energy,
and simplicity of character. There were, however, times in
which Joseph II. appeared to advantage. He dined daily
-with the King and Queen, who, when alone -with their o-wn
family were attended, as Madame Campan relates, by women
only; the Emperor then spoke -with wit and fluency in
French, ridiculed the severe etiquette of the court, made
flattering observations on the sights of Paris, and reproached
his royal brother-in-law for being ignorant of them, and
advised him to see not only Paris, but France.
Then he taxed his sister for wearing rouge. One day, when
she was laying it on, he said, " a little more under the eyes,
Marie; lay on the rouge like a fury, as that lady does,"
o 3

198 SIMPLICITY OP THE QUEEN'S HABITS.
pointing to a court lady who was highly painted : then he
made the most injudicious observations. Even to the come
dian Clairval, he remarked : " Your young Queen is very giddy,
but you French people don't mind that." He abused the
French government to Monsieur Campan, at that time secre
tary librarian to the King ; told improper stories of the King
and Queen of Naples, and even of his o-wn court ; and showed,
indeed, all the want of tact that so strongly marks the German
character. The return of Voltaire in 1778 to Paris, after an absence of
twenty-seven years, seemed to many a prelude to all the spirit
of disaffection and revolution which soon followed that event.
Scandal, in truth, never ceased, whilst Marie-Antoinette
innocently enjoyed herself. When she gave a fete at Trianon,
and lighted up the gardens, it was said that she had had a
whole forest destroyed to make this illumination. When,
before the birth of her son, she eat on a bench placed on the
terrace of Versailles, listening to music, and enjoying the
evening breeze, or walked, arm in arm -with her sisters-in-law,
an imitative yet calumnious crowd, all the beau-monde being
there likewise, invented or perverted incidents.
Dressed like the other princesses, in cambric muslin go-wns,
and in large hats -with muslin veils, Marie-Antoinette was
sometimes mistaken for a bourgeoise ; and people, to her gTeat
amusement, used to come and sit do-wn by her. One night a
young clerk in the war office pretending to mistake her,
began talking to her of the beauty of the night, and the effect
of the music. The Queen, fancjdng she was not recognised,
replied encouragingly ; of course the young man boasted of
the interview until desired to hold his tongue. Another
time one of the body-guard of Monsieur had the effrontery
to speak of her in the same manner. In vain did Madame
Campan remonstrate with the Queen, and persuade her to give
up these evening amusements ; in vain did she tell her that
she saw, one night, two women deeply veiled, seated near her.

BIRTH OF LOUIS HER ELDEST SON. 199
in profound sUence ; that these women were Madame du
Barri and her sister-in-law ; in vain did she relate to the
Queen the infamous libels circulated respecting these innocent
diversions : her majesty was too much delighted -with them
to abandon them, too conscious of innocence to be prudent.
A few days before the birth of the first Dauphin, a bundle
of songs was thro-wn into that part of the Palace of Versailles,
called the Bull's-eye. It was taken up, and found to contain
the most disgusting slanders, and was put into the hands of
the King.
On the 11th of December, the heir apparent to the crown,
Louis, Dauphin of France, was born. Often had Marie-
Antoinette before the birth of her first born, a daughter,
shed tears that she was ^childless. She might, indeed, have
wept in extreme anguish could she have foreseen that the
infant welcomed so fondly was to die at an early age. The
Princesse de LambaUe was beside her when the exclamation,
" La Reine va s'accoucher ! " brought a rush of persons into
the royal chamber. No one could move about for the crowd.
Marie- Antoinette nearly sank under the announcement that
a son was born at last. " Give her air," cried the physician.
"Warm water! she must be bled at the foot." She had
fainted. The -windows were fastened up with strips of paper ;
the King, -with the force of affection opened them ; the lancet
was plunged into the foot ; the Queen opened her eyes ; but
the alarm was too great for the loving friend who afterwards
showed such heroism, and who met death for herself so calmly.
As the Queen, snatched from the jaws of death, asked, un
conscious of having been bled, why her foot was bandaged —
whilst the princes of the blood and minister stood by, the
Princesse de LambaUe was carried insensible from the
chamber. Madame Campan, meantime, was shedding tears of delight
at the safety of her beloved mistress, yet as she mournfully
observes : " "V^Tien recalling those bursts of happiness, those
o 4

200 REFLECTIONS BY MADAME CAMPAN.
transports of delight, that moment when Heaven gave us
back again a princess beloved by all about her ; how often
have I reflected upon that impenetrable and wholesome ob
scurity by which all knowledge of the future is concealed
from us. What should we not have felt, if in the midst of
our joyful delirium, a heavenly voice, unfolding the secret
decrees of fate, had called to us : Bless not that human art
which calls her back to life ; weep rather for her return to a»
world fatal and cruel to the object of your affections. Ah!
let her leave it, honoured, beloved, regretted ; you can now
weep over her grave — you can now cover it -with flowers."
The day will come when, " all the furies of the earth will
deliver her over, prematurely old, heartbroken, to the exe
cutioner." '
The Princesse de LambaUe had been for some time ap
pointed superintendent of the Queen's household when the
Dauphin was born. It was during one of the very severest
winters ever known in France that this ill-fated woman had
first become the intimate friend of Marie-Antoinette. The
sledge parties which the Queen had enjoyed in her youth, were
introduced into France that winter ; and it became the
fashion for all grands seigneurs to drive their sledges, their
horses caparisoned with white feathers, and bells ringing at
their heads. During six weeks the snow remained on the
ground, and the park of Versailles was the scene of the sledge
races, in which large sums were won and lost. Amid the
most admired was the Princesse de LambaUe, her sweet face
the emblem of spring — the spring of her short life, "peeping
beneath sable and ermine*," inspired the greater interest
from her story. She was at that time living with her father-
in-law, the Due de Penthievre, who treated her as his adopted
daughter, and the most devoted gratitude, the tenderest
respect was felt by her towards that venerable prince. The
Queen, however, full of kindness, perceived that the house of the
* See Campan.

FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THE QUEEN AND PRINCESSE LAMBALLE. 201
aged prince did not afford the amusements suitable to youth,
nor ensure such an estabUshment as the Princesse de LambaUe
ought to possess. She, therefore, re-vived for her sake, the
office of superintendent of the household, which had been
discontinued, and the young widow removed to Versailles.
Differences eventually arose respecting the official preroga
tives of the superintendent ; but everything was so amicably
arranged, that the friendship of the Queen and Princess was
never disturbed.
It was on the 27th of March, 1785, that another infant
prince was born; and in 1789, his elder brother, commonly
styled the First Dauphin, died at Meudon. The younger son,
whom Louis XVI. used to call his "little Norman," was,
after the execution of the King his father, entitled by Legiti
mists, Louis XVII.
A brief reference to the tragic events for which France
has suffered a retribution unkno-wn in the annals of modern
history, must bring us to that tragedy in which Friendship
like a guardian angel, pointed to a heaven of rest, and
sustained Marie-Antoinette and her friend in their hour of
doom. As yet their unequal intimacy was in all its serenity.
From her first entrance into France, the Queen had longed,
for that union of heart which she enjoyed -with the pure
and amiable Madame de LambaUe. There was a truth, a
gentleness in the character of the princess that made the
Queen earnestly desire to secure not merely her allegiance,
but her love and respect. Marie-Antoinette could not en
dure women of mere brilliant qualities ; she used to call them
"girandes defeu d' artifice," and she was right; it was those
who professed little, but who felt much ; it was the gentle, the
modest, the pious who adhered to her in the stern anguish of
the Hundred Days ; and followed her from prison to prison
with their prayers, whom she valued, and by whom she was
really beloved.

202 IT BECOMES THE FASHION TO HAVE A FRIEND.
It became the fashion in the Court for every lady to have a
friend, an inseparable, who went with her everywhere ; to
whom one note at least was -written in the morning, and who
spent the rest of the day with her chosen favourite. For a
long time, Marie-Antoinette had been the only lady at Ver
sailles who had not enjoyed that privilege ; at last it was an
nounced, -without scandal for once, that the Queen had selected
a friend, and that that friend was Madame de LambaUe.
There was something almost angelic in the feelings of
Marie-Antoinette for this lovely victim to her friendship for
the poor Queen : Marie-Antoinette loved her as an elder
sister would cherish a younger ; she admired, she respected
the unfortunate princess.
Let us forget the pleasant days of their first intimacy when
the Queen loved to drink tea unin-vited in the rooms appro
priated to the princess, lest the gloom of the closing scenes
should by contrast be too mournful, too dreadful to any heart
not devoid of human pity. Let us pass over the terrible
antecedents of the Eevolutionary Fever.
Farewell to Versailles ! The royal family then on the
throne of France have quitted it for ever. They are arrived
at the Tuileries: June has passed; July is drawing to its
close. It is the summer of the year 1792.
The revolutionary fever was at its height. "Majesty," says
Montaigne, " falls less easily from the summit to the middle,
than from the middle to the bottom."
The anniversary of the Federation had arrived. Petion was
the idol of the populace ; as the King and Queen drove from
the Champ de Mars to the Tuileries, the little prince Louis-
Charles dressed in the uniform of the national guard, said indig
nantly to his mother : " Is Monsieur Petion king to-day ? "
He was answered by a mournful gaze. " No, no," cried the
precocious child; "it is you who are king, for you are just
and mercfful, papa." Nevertheless, the shouts of "King
Petion " resounded through the air. The aim of this famous

LOUIS XVI. AT THE TUILERIES. 203
leader of the French Eevolution was in fact to place his son
on the throne as king, and to establish a council of regency
of which he was himself to be the president and ruler.
Expiring efforts were made on the part of Louis XVI. and
the Queen to -win over some of the leaders of the revolution
to their side. The Girondist Guadet had a secret interview
at night -with the Queen and her consort. "The Queen,"
Monsieur de Beauchesne relates, " brought to it * her noble
attributes and her disquiet heart ; Louis XVI. his confiding
goodness." It was less as king than as husband and father
that the unhappy prince depicted to the deputy for Bordeaux
the anguish of his position. Commencing coldly, the con
versation became pathetic; republican inflexibility became
less inflexible, royalty had shed tears. As Guadet was about
to withdraw, the Queen asked him if he would not like to see
the Dauphin ; and herself taking the candle she led him into
the contiguous chamber, which was that of the young prince.
" How tranquilly he sleeps," said the Girondist in a melan
choly tone, whilst the Queen leaning over the Dauphin's bed,
murmured, " Poor child ! he alone in the chateau sleeps
thus ! " Marie-Antoinette's accents touched the Girondist's
heart ; he took the child's hand, and without awakening him
kissed it with an air of emotion, then, turning to the Queen,
he said : " Madame, educate him for liberty. It is the
condition of his Ufe." It is a singular coincidence, that the
day on which the King was guillotined, was soon foUowed by
the execution of Guadet at Bordeaux.
Towards the end of July, a S-wiss officer in the service of
the King, wrote to a friend thus : " They have quietly con
trived to send all the armed force out of Paris. Here are
the five regiments of the line, and two-thirds of the Swiss
guards that they so feared, put out of the way of harming
the factions. We shall soon see the tragedy begin."
* See " Louis XVI., his Life, his Sufferings, and his Death," by Mons. A. de
Beauchesne, vol. L p. 148.

204 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE FAMOUS TENTH OF AUGUST.
The 10th of August was the day fixed upon. Two projects
for escape had been suggested to the King, but he rejected
them. The failure of his flight to Varennes was not forgot
ten by him ; besides, the Queen, with her hereditary courage,
observed : " We might as well die here, as suffer the fate
of James II." Alas ! she did not, she could not foresee, that
a fate worse than immediate death was contemplated by the
fiends who composed the majority of the National Assembly.
Three sections of that body now declared that they no
longer considered Louis XVI. king, and that it was time
that the people should rise in a mass, and govern themselves.
It was, therefore, decreed that if by twelve o'clock on the
night of the 9th of August, the deposition of the King had
not been declared, the whole body of the Federates should
proceed, armed, to the Chateau of the Tuileries, whilst the
tocsin was sounded and cannon were let off, to enforce the
edict. The royal family within the palace, bad retired after
supper to the council chamber ; the ministers and some
other persons had decided on passing the night there. The
ancient pile stood apparently in repose ; in the early part of
that summer's night the placid stars shone on its glistening
roofs, the night -winds blew over the now neglected flowers
and perishing shrubs of the young Dauphin's private garden,
where the poor child had for some time been precluded
entering. The waters of the Seine flowed peacefully along,
untinged tUl a later hour by the blood of -victims ; towards
eleven, however, force was opposed to force on the Place du
Carrousel and in the courts of the Tuileries, and in its now
smiling, then crowded, gardens. A brave ex-captain of the
French Guards, named Mandat, had made this last endea
vour for his sovereign. For ever honoured be his name ! He
was summoned before the Council of the Commune in the
Hotel de ViUe, where Danton and Tallien and others sat.
He was then accused of cutting off the colours of the people :

'a last effort to save the ROYAL FAMILY. 205
he became confused, and defended himself badly. He was
ordered off to the Abbaye. Scarcely, however, had he quitted
the Hall, than he was killed by a pistol shot, and his body
thro-wn into the Seine.
The troops, therefore, which he had summoned were waver
ing and disorganised ; and whilst this scene was going on
outside the Tuileries, one stUl more heart-rending was taking
place in the chambers of that palace which has witnessed
such various revolutions, such scenes of despair and peril.
Marie-Antoinette was going from one privy councUlor to
another endeavouring to inspire each with hope that she no
longer had herself. As the attendants were preparing to
take off her son to bed, she burst into tears. "Mamma,"
said the child, "why do you weep now when you bid me
good night ? I wish I might stay -with you this evening ; do
not send me to bed." She embraced him as she said : " Be
easy, my child, I shall be near you."
The poor child retired to bed. Fate was now to be counted
jiot by hours but by minutes. The midnight hour struck.
As the last stroke was heard, the tocsin was sounded from the
Cordeliers, the generale (call) was beaten in every quarter.
The sections rose, the revolutionists armed with pikes, glided
into the ranks of the royal troops left by Mandat. The ar
tiUery of the insurgents was planted near the Chateau. Day
broke upon that fearful host, the deeds of which France has
not yet expiated. Marie-Antoinette, dreading lest the swords of
the Federates should penetrate the hearts of her sleeping
children in their beds, had ordered that the Dauphin and his
sister should be roused and dressed, and brought unto her.
She and the King pressed them to their hearts. " Mamma,"
said the Dauphin, " why should they hurt my father ? he is
so good." Then the King visited every post of the Chateau,
he showed himself to the grenadiers, to the volunteers, the
tourgeoisie, and the gendarmes, who crowded every room and
staircase of the Tuileries.

206 THE ROYAL FAMILY LEAVE THE TUILERIES.
A mournful cortege accompanied bim. Marie-Antoinette,
her children with her, and her sister-in-law, the incomparable,
the ill-fated Princess Elizabeth, and the Princess de LambaUe
followed her closely. Thus they passed along ; Louis, heavy
in countenance, yet -with a certain majesty of demeanour,
was calm. An heroic dignity marked every movement of the
Queen's. In happier days she had been celebrated for the
grace -with which she used to walk down the galleries of
Versailles, and the address with which she bowed from side
to side as she passed on, forgetting no one, her sweet smile
playing on her fair young face. That night the grace, the
majesty, of her step were impressed on the memory of those
who saw her for the last time. The modest, lovely, "good
Madame Elizabeth," as she was styled, was composed, firm,
gently courageous. Then came the belle des belles — alas!
her name was -written already in the book of doom — " Marie-
Therese, Louise de Savoie de Bourbon LambaUe." She who
bore those high-sounding names, she whom Marie- Antoinette
most loved, could not be saved. The -victim was lovely,
innocent, adored, and a Bourbon. The more need that she
should perish, and perish in agony.
We have seen, of late, that grand old gallery, the floor of
which was, even on the accession of the present Emperor,
notched by swords, and stained with blood, we have seen
that gallery illuminated, resplendent, filled on either side
with all that the city of Paris can boast of wealth and
political distinction.
Still do the old legitimist nobility shun its gilded waUs,
and why? they cherish the memories of the dynasty that
then expired in misery. They gaze upon the lovely Empress,
pale as the delicate primrose in the shade, as she passes out, and
retire, and say : " Our forefathers knew one as fair, and more
majestic." Many of the remnants of the old loyal-hearted
class -will not even cross the Place Louis Quinze*, as they
* Place de la Concorde.

THE KNIGHTS OF THE POIGNARD. 207
still call it, desecrated by the blood of Louis XVI. New names,
not old ones, are heard resounding in that gallery now. Those
sentiments are indeed fast dying out ; it is well perhaps they
should. On the night of the 9th of August, 1792, they were
not all crushed by the demon revolution. The old chivalry-
glimmered then, sank in the socket like a light burnt out,
and has never been wholly rekindled. Tears filled the eyes
of those who watched the royal procession ; many blessed the
Queen, some did more ; a band of gentlemen, two hundred
in number, had hastened to the Tuileries on hearing of the
•King's danger. They wore no unfforms, and carried their
arms under their clothes ; thus were they called the " Knights
of the Poignard." As the Queen passed them, some of these
gallant gentlemen begged that she would touch their weapons
to make them victorious, others entreated that they might
kiss her fair hand, to make death sweeter to them. Then
shouts arose to the roofs of the gallery. " Long live the King
of our fathers ! " cried the young men, " Long live the King
of our children ! " cried the old ones, and the Dauphin was
lifted up to them, " a living standard for which they vowed to
die." The Queen, Madame de LambaUe, and the children had
returned to their own apartments when other sounds than
those of "Vive le Eoi," broke on their ear, — "Deposition or
death! Death!"
" Madame," said a chef de legion, entering the apartment
of the Queen, " the last hour is come ; the people are the
strongest, a fearful carnage must take place."
"Sir," cried Marie Antoinette, "save the King and my
chUdren." Then, ere the tears of anguish were wiped from her
streaming eyes, that fatal step was taken which placed the
royal famUy for ever in the power of the merciless Federates.
The erection of the Eue de Eivoli has effaced the slightest
trace of the spot where the Couvent des Feuillants and the

208 BEFORE THE ASSEMBLY.
temporary hall of the Assembly once stood. It was there
that Louis and his Queen, his sister, his children, and Madame
de LambaUe were conveyed.
Their transit was attended -with threats and execrations,
and in a narrow passage the royal family were separated for
some minutes. Marie- Antoinette trembled for her son ; a
grenadier, however, carried him and held him high above the
crowd. As the child was deposited in the hall of the Assembly
cheers rang through the room. They were succeeded by these
words : " Take him to the King, near the President, he
belongs to the nation ; the Austrian is unworthy of the
confidence of the people." The child wept and clung to his
mother. Then the Assembly began their discussion ; the King and
all his family, -with Madame de LambaUe, being removed
into a box where the reporters for the press sat, as the con
stitution, it was pretended, could not legally act in the pre*
sence of the sovereign. Behind Madame Elizabeth and the
Princess de LambaUe several of the Knights of the Poignard
stood, resolved to die if they could not defend the young and
beautiful objects of their pity. Meantime a general massacre
was filling the courts of the Tuileries -with blood. As the King
heard the first cannonade, he said, " I have given orders not
to fire." He was powerless. Murder reigned around the
riding-school, where the Assembly sat ; the shrieks of victims,
the sound of blows drowned the voices -within ; the hall and
galleries were crowded -with people coming and going ; the
heat was excessive, and the loge, where the royal family sat,
had become a furnace. Men covered with blood brought in
spoils from the TuUeries, and rouleaux of gold, portfolios, and
diamonds were laid on the table ; the savages greeted them as
trophies. The Dauphin sUently looked into his mother's face
for comfort, found it not, and wept. Marie- Antoinette sat in
proud dignity; her royal husband was calm; the Princess
Elizabeth bent her head in pious submission; the little

THE CONVENT DES FEUILLANTS — THEY GO TO THE TEMPLE. 209
Princess Marie-Therese was bathed in tears. Madame de
LambaUe was pale and beautiful in her distress. At length
an assassin, one of the artillery of the National Guard, entered ;
he bared his blood-stained arm ; " I offer," he said, " to take
the King's life if necessary." It was the signal for a doom
never reversed. The act for the provisional suspension of
royalty was hurriedly drawn up and read.
The massacre outside went on, and fires were lighted to
consume the dead bodies. The King and his family meantime
were lodged for the time in the old convent of the Feuil
lants. The Dauphin then remembered his favourite dog, and
fretted lest it should have been killed. "Dear child," cried
the saintly Elizabeth, " there are sorrows more cruel than the
loss of your dog. Pray to God to preserve you from them."
After three days and nights passed at the Feuillants the
unhappy prisoners were conveyed to the Temple. Their
journey thither lasted two hours, during which they were
subjected to every species of insult. It was seven o'clock in
jjhe evening before the royal family arrived at that monument
of misery and popular tji&niif.
Of this ancient edifice, Monsieur de Beauchesne, the able
biographer of Louis XVII., thus writes, in eloquent and
touching terms : —
"The ancient edifice of which we are about to speak
disappeared at the commencement of the present century.
Built in an age of faith, it was demolished in an age of im
piety. It held an important place among the historical
monuments of Paris. With its name, for the past six cen-
tmies, were associated, from age to age, recollections which
already deserved perpetuation, when the French Eevolution
came to give it a solemn consecration, by making it the wit
ness of a great and prolonged martyrdom. One might, be
fore that time, have set oneself down at the cradle of the
Temple, and interrogate its infancy as to the destinies of its
founders, the Knights, and the Temple would have recounted
VOL. I. P

210 HISTORY OF THE TEMPLE.
their bravery, their power, their wealth, the persecutions they
went through, their frightful death, and the end of that
illustrious order which had filled Christendom with its ser
vices and the world with its renown."
But these reflections, as the admirable author just quoted
observes, have given place to a still grander recollection ; its
walls have been indeed " disgraced by the darkest drama that
has ever disgraced human annals ; the burning of the grand
master is henceforth, in history, masked by the scaffold of the
King." These meditations have yielded to those of a darker
and still more impressive character ; the darkest deeds that
have ever sullied modern times supersede all previous asso
ciations in the memory of man.
It is conjectured to have been about the year 1128 that
the Templars, the first of all the military and religious orders
(founded at Jerusalem in 1118), came to Paris. They settled
themselves in the midst of marshes near Paris, and, by their
industry, transformed these pestilential environs of the city
into fertile gardens and meadows. A vast tract of land,
planted with bom-beams, was thus cultivated to the north
east of Paris ; it was called the Culture du Temple. Enclosed
by walls which were fortified at intervals with turrets, this
tract extended as far as the Montague de Bellevilles, where
some pleasure-houses, called Courtilles, were erected by the
Templars ; that name still marks the place where the French
resort on holidays, for recreation.
In the centre of the Culture du Temple there stood, until
the commencement of the present century, the chief residence
of the Order. It was a solid massive square tower, -with walls
nine feet thick, and it was flanked at each of its four angles
by a tower of smaller dimensions, surmounted each by a low
turret. A broad ditch encircled all this edifice, and separated
it from the garden. Such was the building which Hubert, a
powerful Knight Templar, the treasurer of his Order, erected ;
the large tower was the treasury of the Knights ; three of the

MISERABLE ROOMS  HARDSHIPS. 211
four smaller towers were their prisons, in case of infringe
ment of discipUne — the fourth contained the staircase. There
was also, of course, a church, which was built on the model
of the Church of St. John in Jerusalem. In this church the
proud, high-born, chivalric Templars were received and in
stalled as knights -with imposing rites and ceremonials.
In the year 1792 the old precincts of the Temple had been
greatly encroached upon, and the streets of Paris encompassed
it on all sides ; the Temple, however, still formed a small
to-wn by itself, and its gates were closed every evening. Hence
it was called La ViUe Neuve du Temple, Here were narrow
streets crowded with ouvriers, and debtors, and old clothesmen,
" an immense bazaar, ser-ving as a boudoir for the toilette of
poverty." *
In one of the angles of the enclosure of the Temple stood
the hotel which was called Le Palais du Grand Prieur,
though nothing but a low small house ; above this building
rose a lofty tower, of a square form, flanked with turrets. It
was here that the commune of Paris resolved to incarcerate
the royal family ; and, for the first time, regrets were expressed
that the people had destroyed the Bastille.
The Temple was, however, gloomy and miserable enough.
The rooms wherein the royal family were confined were
approached by a winding staircase. Madame de LambaUe
occupied a dark ante-chamber, to the left of which was an
apartment appropriated to the Queen and her daughter, over
looking a garden ; and here the royal family generally passed
the whole day.
They had arrived at the Temple destitute of the commonest
necessaries for comfort or cleanliness, and any external com
munication would have exposed them to suspicion.
Late in the evening of the 17th of August two municipal
officers presented themselves at the Temple, commissioned
"to bring away all persons who were not of the Capet family."
* De Beauchesne. P 2

212 PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE TAKEN FROM THE TEMPLE.
The edict was aimed at the Duchesse de LambeUe.
The blow was overwhelming. In vain did the poor Queen
entreat that her beloved friend might remain with her ; in
vain did she urge the plea that the princess was her relation,
— a Bourbon. Alas ! they knew it too well. " A special fate
awaited," Monsieur de Beauchesne tells us, " this unfortunate
princess. In the gaoler's book the words ' de Savoie and
de Bourbon-Lamballe ' were written in emphatically large
characters. An exceptional destiny was reserved for her."
A heart-rending farewell took place. As the Queen and
her friend were exchanging their last adieus, the chUdren,
awakened by their sobs, wept, and caressed those who were
about to quit them for ever. Madame de Tourzet, the
governess of the Dauphin, was also ordered to leave the
Temple for a still gloomier prison. The municipals could
only separate the weeping prisoners by assuring the Princess
and Madame de Tourzet that after their examination they
would be permitted to return. Monsieur Hue, and other
faithful servants of the King, and several other ladies, amongst
whom was the daughter of Madame de Tourzet, were then led
out by torchlight through the garden to the Temple gate,
whence they were taken in hackney-coaches, first to the bar
of the commune, and afterwards to the Hotel de la Force.
It was not until the 20th of August, that any news of their
friends reached the King and Queen. Hue returned that
day, and told them that the Princess de LambaUe and those
-with her of the royal household would return to the Temple
no more. Manuel, one of the Municipals, observed with
some astonishment, the Queen and Madame Elizabeth be
ginning to prepare linen for their beloved friends in La
Force. As they made up bundles of linen, he perceived that
what the King had said was true : " The race that has governed
others is able to assist and provide for its own wants."
They were again left to such repose as breaking hearts can
feel ; and the character of these august personages rose under
the pressure of suspense and terror.

THE EMPLOYMENTS OF THE ROYAL PRISONERS. 213
Deprived of power, they became, in that dreary prison,
private individuals, and they graced their now low and adverse
fortunes. The following brief account of the rising occupa
tions of the royal captives is interesting. Between six and
seven o'clock, Louis dressed himself, and passing into the
turret next his chamber, there prayed for strength for himself
and safety for others. The Queen rose even earlier, and heard
her son say his prayers. At ten o'clock Louis gave the
Dauphin lessons in Latin, French, Geography, Writing, and
History, whilst the Queen instructed her daughter. At one,
they all went into the garden, attended by the jailer, San-
terre. They dined at two. The afternoons were passed in
work, or reading ; but silence was rarely broken ; sometimes
the sound of a child's laugh dispelled the gloom ; sometimes
they played -with the poor doomed Prince at ball, or battledore
and shuttlecock, in Madame Elizabeth's room. Towards
evening, the Queen and her sister-in-law read aloud history
or fiction ; often pausing to compare what they read with
their own fate. Miss Burney's "Cecilia," a book full of
beautiful and noble sentiments, touched them deeply.
At eight, the mournful parents of the child, whose destiny
could not have presented anything but sorrow to their view,
sought to amuse the captive bird, gay in his cage as French
children can be everywhere. They even proposed charades
taken from the Mercure de France.
As he prayed one evening, the little Prince called to mind
the Princess de LambaUe, and his innocent petition was
proffered for her. It was affecting to hear him lower his
voice when the municipal guard, always in attendance, drew
near him.
Meantime the 3rd of September arrived. Madame de
Tourzet, her daughter, and the other women of the Queen's
household had been released. One captive alone remained
in the Hotel de la Force, the blameless, heroic Princesse de
LambaUe. p 3

214 THE FATE OF MADAME DE LAMBALLE.
It has been stated that she was interrogated before Orands
Juges du FeupAe, as the sanguinary tribunal of La Force
was entitled. Other accounts say that on -the 3rd of Sep
tember, she was conducted to the gate of the prison, and there
the ferocious vUlains who slaughtered the finest and
fairest of her sex awaited their prey. On being questioned
about the Queen, the Princess is reported to have said : " I
have nothing to say to you ; to die a little sooner or later
has become indifferent to me; I am prepared." She was
then, according to one account, dragged over dead bodies
through the courts, and there killed. Other reports stated
that, being brought before the bar of the commune, she
fainted ; she could not utter a word. Then a man in a tri-
coloured scarf, cried : " Let Madame go ! " Under these
words was couched the sentence of death.
It is further alleged that she was then hurried to the Eue
des Ballets, which in those days separated La Force from
St. Antoine ; dragged up a blind alley called the Cul-de-sac
des Pretres, and there struck by a sabre on the back of her
neck. At all events, peace came at last ! she died as a heroine,
scorning life, if it were to be purchased by betraying her
friend. She died like a Christian, amid a host of demons.
Fain would we be silent on what followed. Whilst her spirit
went to Him who gave it, her corpse, pierced -with pikes and
sabres, was the sport of the accursed infuriate crowd ; women
and chUdren in rags howled and blasphemed. — Let their cries
resound ; they cannot harm her more. Let her murderers cut
out that heart which so lately throbbed with piteous fear from
that poor frame ; let them separate that head from the loveliest
of forms. She knows it not. Not to her ! not to her ! 0 God
of this world, is the torture, or the wail, or the life-long
woe. She is -with Thee !
Amid the populace in their tricoloured rags, one female
figure stands transfixed; one grateful heart is well nigh

HER HEAD PARADED THROUGH PARIS. 215
broken by the shrieks and curses. It is Madame de Lebel,
the wife of a"celebrated painter. The Princesse de LambaUe
had been kind to her, and she was going to inquire after the
fate of one once raised so high above her, now fallen so low
in misery.
" What," she asks, " is happening ? "
She is answered : " The head of LambaUe is being paraded
through Paris."
Astounded, alarmed, Madame de Lebel rushed into the Place
de la Bastille and took refuge in the house of a hair dresser
whom she knew. She was scarcely there when the procession
stopped and one of the mob ordered- the coiffeur to dress the
hair of Madame de LambaUe. Madame Lebel was between
the shop and the partition behind ; she fainted, and the hair
dresser, thrusting her into his back room, concealed her from
¦view. He then took into his hands the head, streaming with
blood, and quickly, and with an address which none but a
Frenchman could show, disentangled the fair, admired tresses,
matted with blood, washed the delicate ringlets, then
powdered them a la mode. " Antoinette will know it now,"
said one of the pike-bearers ; and placing it again on the
pike's point, he resumed his progress.
The prisoners in the Temple had not been allowed to walk
that day in the garden. Before dinner time, a sound of
drum beating, and a booming noise in the distance, showed
that revolutionary fury was kindled. A crowd, a blood
stained crowd, -with reeking hands and torn garments, com
posed of drunken women, who sang, — wretched children,
hootings of ragged men shouting curses, arrived before the
Temple. Amid their shrieks, the words " La LambaUe !
La LambaUe ! " were heard distinctly above all other cries.
Like a mighty torrent, the procession rushed, as it were,
onwards, until it stopped before the Temple. Then arose to
the insulted Heavens a " deafening clamour, that acted as a
summons to all the furies of the district.''
P 4

216 DREADFUL SCENE BEFORE THE TEMPLE.
The dense crowd opened, and a headless body, dragged by
ropes, fiends disputing which should have the honour of that
horrible charge, was "visible.
It was now e-vident that the populace meditated forcing an
entrance into the Temple itself, in order to show the bleeding
body, covered only by a linen chemise, to the Queen. This
demoniacal intention was, however, frustrated by a barrier of
tricoloured ribands, which the Municipals on duty had
erected to impose respect on the mass ; but at the very
threshold of the great door, stood two men — watchmen —
called searchers ; wretches selected for the inquisitorial office
from the dregs of the people. One of them, a strong man,
-with a sabre placed in a tricoloured belt, and a scarlet cap on
his head, was on the point of admitting the crowd, when the
Municipals interfered. Amongst the populace stood a wretch
-with the bleeding heart of the Princess in his hand. Amongst
them was the headless body, which had been bathed in the
fountain of the Temple, — white as marble.
Let us pass over the horrors that ensued. No English
reader could tolerate such details as a too faithful historian
has transmitted to his countrymen. To them the narrative
of Monsieur de Beauchesne furnishes a lesson which, thanks
be to heaven and to the stable faith of Britain, we need
not. Amid the cries that were heard that day these words were
distinct : — " We want a pendant for la LambaUe ! Give us
the Austrian ! " The Austrian ! the Austrian ! resounded from
the lowest and most wretched of both sexes.
Meantime the royal family had risen from their dinner
and entered the Queen's room. Clery, the valet-de-chambre
of the king, had gone down to the room of Tison, the
guard. Suddenly the head of Madame de LambaUe was
Feen at the window ; Tison's wife uttered a scream ; it was
responded to -with hideous laughter from the crowd without ;
then a report was got up declaring that the King and Queen

THE QUEEN FAINTS. 217
were not in the tower ; a demand was made that they should
appear at the window ; the poor little Dauphin burst into
tears ; one of the municipal guards mercifully endeavoured
to keep the poor captives from appearing, but the cries
outside increased ; four men sent by the crowd entered to
inquire whether the Capet family were or were not there ;
and one of them insisted on them showing themselves at the
window. The cries redoubled ; the Queen's name was heard ;
the most humane of the guards, placing himself before the
King, said, " Do not look, do not go ; it is too horrible."
"They want," said the head of the deputation from the
crowd, "to hide from you the head of La LambaUe, which
we are bringing to show you how the people treat tyrants ;
I advise you to appear, if you do not wish the people to
come up."
The Queen fainted. Then her family, weeping, collected
around her, but consolation was impossible. The tender
friendship of their happiest years, a friendship as sincere if it
had existed between equals, had risen into heroism ; it was
thus rudely -wrenched, dissolved in anguish ; its last throb
announced with curses ; the anguish aggravated by peril.
The popular statement, that the Queen saw and recognised
the fair hair, is not borne out by the careful researches of
Monsieur de Beauchesne, the latest historian of that fearful
period. Yet, had she seen it, Marie-Antoinette might, it is
said, have known the sweet face that had once adorned the
gay galleries of Versailles, and enhanced the intimacy of the
Trianon ; that lovely countenance though pale, like sculptured
marble, was not dis%ured; — the fair tresses that hung on
the bloody pike, were still glossy, and flo-wing.
Not least agonising is it to know that the Due de Pen
thievre, the father-in-law of the murdered princess, was alive.
By his care, the body and the head were recovered, but they
had been the sport and derision of the Sans Culottes for
hours before rescued from the mob.

218 HER SON IS SEPARATED FROM HEE.
After the death of her best beloved friend, the deepest
gloom overspread the Queen and the captives of the Temple.
On the 29th of September, Louis XVI. was separated from
his famUy ; he was confined in the great tower of the Temple.
" Your master," said one of the Municipals to the faithful
Clery, " -wall not see his children again."
When the unfortunate King next saw his family, it was to
bid them fareweU on the morning of his execution.
On the 3rd of July 1793, an order arrived in the Temple
that the son of Capet be separated from his mother and
family. "VNTien the Queen heard these words, the forbearance,
the heroism, that had raised ber character to sublimity,
forsook her. " Take my child from me ! " she cried, pale as
death, " it is not possible. Gentlemen," she added, addressing
the officers, "the commune cannot think of separating me
from my son, he is so young, he so wants a mother's care ;
for Heaven's sake let not this terrible trial fall upon me."
The anguish, the thrilling tones, the deep abasement of
one once so elevated, touched not the hearts of those who
heard her. They began to use force. " Mamma," the poor
child shrieked, " mamma ! do not leave me." Then she
clung to him, catching hold of the bed-post, caressing, sooth
ing the poor doomed boy. "Let us not fight -with women,"
said the wretches. " Citizens, call in the guard."
Then the gentle Madame Elizabeth interposed ; the chUd
was soothed ; the mother was tranquilUsed. She dressed him
with ber own now wasted hands, and then, seating herself in
a chair, gathered up all the strength still left in her breaking
heart, and tearless, -without hea-ving a sigh, said to him :
" My child, we are about to part ; remember your duty when
I shall not be near you ; never forget God who tries your
faith, nor the mother who loves you." The words were
uttered -with the mournful and solemn tone of one who felt
that with the presence of that child hope, comfort, desire of
life, would depart. "Be good, patient, sincere, and your

MARIE-ANTOINETTE PARTS FROM HER CHILD. 219
father will bless you in heaven." She kissed him on the
forehead, and gave him to his jailers. Then the bitterness
of death had passed. For a time she resumed the dignity of
the daughter of Maria Theresa. When the door closed, and
she was left alone with her sister-in-law and her daughter,
the Queen threw herself on the vacant bed of her son and
gave vent to her anguish.
One scene more, for this is no chronicle of those horrors
which have been so often told, but a mere portraiture of
character, — of friend and friend, — and then let us close a
theme so full of torture, even though years and years have
passed away since those dreadful days electrified Europe.
On the 1st of August (1793) it was decreed that. Marie-
Antoinette was to be committed to the Conciergerie. As
she passed out she struck her hand against the gate of her
prison. When asked whether she was hurt : " Oh ! no ! "
was her answer, " nothing can hurt me now."
She passed the door of her son's former room ; she turned
upon it her last look. Let us now follow her, in retrospective
sadness. As she issues from the Temple to the grim Concier
gerie, we behold her as she passes. She is leaving the gentlest
and most sensitive of children in the hands of the fiend
Simon; but she gathers up her courage, and goes on. She
enters that prison still standing by the river's side, still
containing the room in which hours that had begun to
madden her, were spent. We see her there alone, unemployed.
One boon she asked, her knitting, that she might finish a
pair of socks she had begun for her son, — it was refused.
After two months of confinement in a damp dungeon, the
heroic captive is brought to trial. We behold her in ma
jestic silence, listening to a libel called by the revolutionary
prosecutors, her accusation. Then comes in Hebert, who had
coUected materials in the Temple — -wrung from a beaten, in
timidated boy, her son — to form the chief pretext of her
doom. She is still silent; then Hebert declares he has a

220 HER TRIAL AND CONDEMNATION.
document to prove his charges — the confession of the young
Louis XVII. She turns on him a look that flushed even his
cheek -with shame or remorse. No matter. Her answer
is demanded : " If I answer not," she said, " it is because
nature refuses to answer such an accusation ! I appeal to all
mothers present here ! "
What can be finer than her last words when asked if she
had anything to say in defence. " Nothing in my defence,"
were her words, " but much, for your remorse, to feel. I was
a queen, and you have dethroned me ; I was a wife, and you
have murdered my husband ; a mother, and you have torn
my children from me. I have nothing left but my blood ;
hasten to shed it, that you may satisfy your thirst with it."
They hoped either to weaken her courage by repeated ex
aminations, or, perhaps, — one would fain think so, — to find
some plea for her acquittal. The staircase whence she issued
for the last time from before the " Committee for Public
Safety " is still shown to the calm visitor to Paris, by his
commissionaire, after he has inspected that part of old Paris.
We can picture her — a dreamy, wild look on that superb
brow — her light hair tinged slightly with grey, her step,
nevertheless firm, and something there is not of this world
in those gUstening, blue, clear eyes, that see above her the
pure heavens, as she breathes for an instant the fresh air ;
then she enters the vehicle which bears her back to the
Conciergerie ; she is admitted into her cell, cold, perhaps, —
trembUng. She throws herself on her pallet, then wraps
herself in a blanket, and sleeps.
The handwriting in which she wrote her last letter to
Madame EUzabeth, is firm and clear.
" I have been condemned," such were her words, " not to
a shameful death — death is only shameful to criminals — but
to rejoin your brother, Uke him, innocent. I hope to manifest
the same firmness that he did in these last moments."
" I have to speak to you," she resumes in another part, " on

HER LAST LETTER  INJUNCTIONS TO HER SON. 221
a subject most painful to my feelings. I know the child
must have occasioned you much distress ; but forgive him,
sister ; think of his age, and how easy it is to make a child
say whatever one wishes, even what he does not himself un
derstand.'' Poor, poor Marie-Antoinette ! She trembled for her child ;
she dreaded lest he might have given pain to bis aunt; she
had the terrible and singular dread — terrible for a mother to
feel, lest the words of her affrighted child might be adduced
in calumny against herself. In the conclusion of her letter,
she bade adieu, a last adieu, to her brothers, her sisters, her
beloved sister-in-law, the Ul-fated Elizabeth; their sorrow
caused her infinite grief: these were her last -written words
except those addressed to her son. " Farewell, farewell !
My remaining moments I shall occupy solely with my reli
gious duties. As I am not free in my actions, they may,
perhaps, bring me a priest ; but I here protest that I -will not
say one word to him, and that I will treat him wholly and
entirely as a stranger." She kept her word.
Her son she enjoined not to avenge the enemies of his
parents. " She forgave," thus she wrote, " all the injuries
her enemies had done her." On the 16th of October the roll
call was sounded throughout the whole of Paris. All the
armed force was mustered. At eleven, Marie-Antoinette was
found by the officials talking to a priest of " constitutional "
principles. He had begun to say : " Your death is about
to expiate — " "Yes, Sir,^ — to expiate my faults, but not a
single crime." The priest then exhorted her to take courage.
" Ah, Sir ! " was the heroic reply, " I have served my
apprenticeship to it for several years. At the moment that
I am going to the scaffold it will not fail."
She was placed in a very dirty cart, with a plank for a seat,
with no hay or straw in it ; a white horse to draw it ; a man
with a stern repulsive face was the driver. Everyone turned
to the gate of the prison, awaiting her appearance. At last.

222 SHE IS TAKEN TO THE PLACE OF EXECUTION.
Grammont, an actor, who commanded the national guard,
gave the signal, and forth came the Queen, pale, but stately,
-with a slight flush on her temples ; her eyes bloodshot, her
eyelids stiff and motionless as if already those orbs had been
sealed in death. She had on a kind of night jacket over a
white skirt, and beneath the latter a black petticoat ; black
ribbon round her wrists, a neck kerchief of white muslin.
Her hair was white — cut close: it had changed colour in a
night ; on her head was placed a small cap with a black
ribbon ; her elbows were bound with a thick rope, the ends
of which were held by the executioner Sanson. As she
entered the cart, Sanson offered bis hand to help her up the
steps. The Queen made a sign in the negative, and turned
her head gently away. The constitutional priest — I borrow
the term of the day — accompanied her to the scaffold.
It is only to rend the heart to repeat the insults offered to
her progress. She spoke once to the priest to ask him to
read to her a bill stuck up in the Eue des Jacobins. " Manu
factures of Eepublican weapons for dethroning Tyrants." To
the last, friends concealed in the crowd were in hopes of
assisting any attempt that might be made at a rescue ; when
they saw that all was hopeless, they retired with averted faces
that they might not see the death of the heroic, unhappy
Queen. As the fatal cart moved along, Marie -Antoinette gazed
calmly on the crowd around her ; nothing could take away
from her the stately bearing which was natural to this
ill-fated being : the committee, seeking in every form to
debase her, had tried her as a citizen, and sent her in
a vile cart to the place of execution, and, whilst Louis XVI.
had been conducted to the guillotine in a carriage, she
was unprotected from the public gaze, and exposed to every
insult. She had twice to encounter the utmost insolence
from Grammont, the comedian. "There she is," he cried,
in the course of the fatal drive — " that infamous Antoinette !

PASSES ST. ROCH — THE INSULTS HEAPED ON HER. 223
she is done for ! " And again at Saint Eoch, the procession
stopped in order that the multitude collected on the steps of
the church might utter their profane insults. There a crowd
of abandoned women in red caps, whose office it was to
pursue the -victims of that period to their doom, called out
that they -wished to drink the Queen's blood, and addressed
her with the name of Messalina. They were paid by the
commune for their exertions.
As Marie-Antoinette heard them and gazed on them, an
expression of mournful compassion passed over her ever noble
features. " Alas ! " she said, " my sorrows -will soon be over,
but yours are only begun." Every house as she passed was
closed ; but in the Eue Saint Honore a little child held up
by his mother, kissed his hand and bowed his little head to
the insulted Queen. On seeing this tears started into the
eyes of Maide- Antoinette.
But her passage from anguish to rest was now nearly ac
complished. When she reached the spot where her husband
had suffered before her, her fortitude was shown in a firm
step, her piety in short, but fervent, prayer. She turned a
fixed and mournful gaze on the Tuileries; then her eyes
were raised to heaven. " Make haste ! " she said to the
executioner, and bent her head. The blow was given, and
the hapless sufferer was at rest.
Many persons, it appears, did not expect that this act of
iniquity would have been perpetrated. Even the wife of
Simon, the barbarous guardian-jailer of the miserable son
whom Marie-Antoinette left in the Temple, ignorant that the
rappel had sounded and the victim gone forth, said to her
husband that day : " La 'Veto," thus they styled the Queen,
" -will not go to the guillotine ! " "And why not ? " was the
reply. " Because she is still beautiful, and she can talk, and
wiU soften her judges."
"Justice is incorruptible," Simon rejoined; and it was not
untU night that they knew the truth.

224 LOUIS XVII : his de-Vth and burial.
On the 10th of June, 1795, two civic commissioners of the
Temple section ascended to the second story of the Temple
tower, wherein lay an emaciated form, on a wooden bed
-without a mattress. It was that of the only surviving son of
Marie-Antoinette, proclaimed, even during the Eeign of
Terror, Louis XVII. Yet, as his accomplished historian
says, he had borne " the title of King only beneath the
thatched roof of La Vendee, and -within the tents of our exiled
nobility." His nominal reign had lasted two years ; his life
ten years, two months, and twelve days. Yet in that space
what agony, what desecration, what solitude, affright, starva
tion, disease, had blighted his childhood. Serene, with
unclosed eyes, that had looked, whilst the soul neared eternity,
on some far off invisible object, that child had seemed almost
to taste of a new existence even before his departure to the
world of spirits.
" Do you not bear music ? " he had said to his compassion
ate attendant, Gouin ; " listen ! listen ! Amongst the voices I
distinguish that of my mother." Then his large eyes glistened
-with delight. " I have something to tell you," he said to
another of his attendants ; but no accents were heard from
his lips. The keeper took his hand, the child's head rested
on the man's shoulder, no struggle marked the release : —
without a sigh the son of Marie-Antoinette and of Louis
passed away — " Little Capet " was dead. It was an event
scarcely worth the mentioning. The commissioners per
formed the last duty — the emaciated corpse was put into a
coffin made of deal — and buried it in the cemetery of St. Mar
guerite, near the Eue Saint Bernard. As the keepers were
leaving the room, one of them said to the other, who was
walking behind : " You have no need to shut the iron door
noiv." No — the last captive of the Temple was free ; the bird
was uncaged: the soul was with its Creator, Sanctifier,
Eedeemer.

FATE OF THE TEMPLE. 225
The very scene of misery so unparalleled is changed. At
one time, indeed, so versatile are the French, the Temple
became a sort of sanctuary to which the public repaired —
some from reverence, more from curiosity. In the house, in
habited by the Princess Eoyal, Marie-Therese, were found
these words in pencil, written on the table —
" Oh ! mon pere, veillez sur moi du haut du ciel ! "
And a little below,
" Oh, mon Dieu ! pardonnez a ceux qui out fait mourir
mes parents !"
After a time it was resolved to sell the Temple. Napoleon,
however, prevented its becoming private property: yet he
determined to leave no memento of the sufferings of fallen
monarchy. The tower was therefore doomed ; first dis
mantled, then the materials were advertised for sale; in
October 1808 the auction took place, the men who assisted
in the demolition being the only persons allowed to enter
that which the Legitimists regarded almost as sacred to the
memory and sufferings of Louis XVL, and Marie-Antoinette.
But the remembrance of the beautiful and devoted friends
remains. That inequality of station precludes perfect friend
ship, the sad history of Marie-Antoinette and of Madame de
LambaUe refutes. " There may be love," says Bishop Hall,
" where there is the most inequality ; but friendship supposes
pairs." Yet a holier, a more disinterested, a more heroic
devotion than that which has been here described cannot be
imagined, nor bas ever been kno-wn to exist.

VOL. I

JOSEPH ADDISON and RICHARD STEELE.

ACCOUNT OF Addison's familt. — his father, Lancelot addison. —
EAELY FEIENDSHIP BET-WEEN STEELE AND ADDISON. — DIFFEEENCB
IN THEIR CHARACTEES.  STEELE'S " CHEISTIAN HEEO."  HIS COURT
SHIP OF MRS. SCURLOCK.  THEIE MAEEIED LIFE. — OUAEEELS -WITH
ADDISON.  STEELE IS MADE A MEMBEE OF PARLIAMENT.  EXPELLED
THE HOUSE. — HIS DEBTS.  ADDISOn's CAEEEE. — FELLQ-W OF MAG
DALEN.  GOES TO BLOIS. — PATRONISED DT GODOLPHIN.  EECETVES
ROGER BOYLE IN HIS GARRET.  THE " SPECTATOR."  PLAY OF
" CATO."  STEELE PACKS AN AUDIENCE. — ADDISON PROSPERS. —
MARRIES LADY -WAR-WICK.  HIS DEATH-BED.  STEELE'S DEATH. —
DAUGHTEES LEFT BEHIND HIM.  THE T-WO ELIZABETHS.

Q 2

JOSEPH ADDISON aotj EICHAED STEELE.

The father of one of our most valued -writers was a poor youth
on the foundation of Queen's College, Oxford. There Lancelot
Addison, to whose son Joseph we owe the never failing de
lights of the " Spectator," laid the basis of future eminence
for himself and his family.
Numerous, indeed, are the instances of good effected by
those ancient institutions, whose great founders are reverently
remembered each Sunday in the " bidding prayer " at St.
Mary's, Oxford, a prayer in which gratitude assumes the form
of adulation as it turns from dead benefactors to living chan
cellors, and -vice-chancellors.
Lancelot Addison, the son of an English clergyman, was a
sprightly youth, whose loyalty to Charles I. appeared pro
minently at an inconvenient moment both for himself and
others. In 1658 he was chosen, owing to his wit, to be one
of the Terrse Filu in the act then celebrated. Now a Terrae
Filius at the Oxford commemoration was a sort of privileged
jester, after the manner of Shakespeare's fools, an office
neither very complimentary nor safe, as it proved, and long
since abolished; the gibes and jests of tempestuous under
graduates in the theatre being the only remnant of the old
jollity that was let loose at the last day of discipline, the first
of safe impertinence.
Lancelot— honoured be his memory! — hated the Protector,
and lamented the dead King Charles I., who, of all monarchs
Q. 3

230 Addison's father lea-ves oiford in disgust.
was suited to the spirit and opinions of Oxonians. So when
the youth — for, though he had taken his Master's degree,
Lancelot was only twenty-five — satirised the worldliness,
hypocrisy, avarice, and ignorance of the Eoundheads, he was
sternly reproved, and, in imitation of obsolete discipUne,
made to ask pardon on his knees. He did as he was ordered,
but left the University in disgust, and so ended his hopes of
a college tutorship or benefice.
Lancelot was rewarded, after the Eestoration, by the chap
laincy of Dunkirk, where an English garrison was then
placed. But when that port was ceded by Charles II. to the
French, he went to Tangiers, and remained there eight years ;
but coming home, was superseded in his chaplaincy, but
presented to the li-ving of Milston, near Ambrosebury in
Wiltshire, and thereupon he married his -wife, and the mother
of Joseph, being Mistress Jane Gulstone, the daughter of a
doctor in divinity, and the sister of the then Bishop of Bristol.
Lancelot was now comparatively rich upon 120^. a year.
He was also appointed one of the chaplains to Charles IL,
and at Milston his life of innocence and homely neighbour
ship in the good old pastoral way was not only happy, but
useful. An octavo, called " West Barbary," brought him into
notice as a writer ; he was made a prebend of Salisbury, and
became a doctor of divinity in that very theatre in Oxford
where he had played the fool,'and asked pardon on his knees.
It was at Milston that Joseph Addison, his eldest son, was
born, on the 1st of May, 1672 ; and here the good Lancelot
maintained, upon his living, four children, who were born to
him during the lifetime of his first -wife ; and fulfilled, as well,
those duties of hospitality and charity of which a rectory house
ought to be the centre. Here he lived in friendship with the
most eminent' persons of the county, and here, it is not im
probable, his gifted son may have found materials for those
delightful pictures of country life which he has given us in
the papers on Sir Eoger de Coverley. One interruption to

MADE DEAN OP LICHFIELD — ADDISON BORN. 231
this peaceful and useful career had almost ruined the good
man ; there was a fire at Milston. However even this turned
to good account, for the Ecclesiastical Commissioners made
it a plea for compensation, and this faithful son of the Es
tablished Church was made dean of Lichfield in 1683.
Meantime he -wrote various works, which, one is almost
ashamed to say, are scarcely known to divines who are fa
miliar with the Ughtest papers in the " Spectator." Yet they
must have been interesting, from the zeal and learning of the
writer. How inviting are the titles, to -wit : " The Primitive
Institution, or a Seasonable Discourse of Catechising ; " then
again, "A Modest Plea for the Clergy," much wanted in
those days ; then, among eleven works, all theological, " An
Historical Account of the Heresy denying the Godhead of
Christ," and " An Account of the MUlennium."
Lancelot Addison was on the high road to a mitre when
the Eevolution broke out. He was too sincere to like its
church principles, and remained, therefore, dean of Lichfield
and rector of Milston till, in 1703, he died at the good old
age of seventy.
Joseph, meantime, seemed to be treading closely in his
father's steps, and to the conversation and -writings of the
dean we may ascribe many of those admirable " Saturday "
papers which forih a manual of reUgious instruction.
The Ufe that became so valuable flickered in its commence
ment. Hurriedly was the name of Joseph given to the infant
Spectator. He was christened on the day he was born, not
being expected to survive that birthday. Sent to school,
first to Ambrosebury, then to Salisbury, and lastly to the
Charter House, Joseph Addison was ready at fifteen years of
age to be entered at Queen's College, Oxford, where he sig
nalised himself for -writing good Latin almost before most
boys wrote good English. But he was not destined to end
his academical days at Queen's. His Latin verses were ap
preciated by Dr. Lancaster, the provost, who exerted himself
Q 4

232 GETS A DEMY-SHIP AT MAGDALEN COLLEGE.
to get the promising scholar made a demy of Magdalen
College; and, accordingly, in 1689 he was elected at what
was called the Golden Election, there having been none the
previous year, owing to the quarrel between the College and
James II. Sacheverel the red-hot churchman, was elected
at the same time as Addison.
It is pleasant to think of the author of the " Spectator "
walking through the delicious vistas of Magdalen gardens ;
the Cherwell sparkling beneath the trees, whilst now and then
a glimpse of the grand old building, grey and majestic, is
detected ; or the bells of Magdalen tower, full, loud, im
perious in their tones, call the loiterers to prayers in the
richly sculptured chapel. There exists not even in Oxford,
the prince of academic cities, a college with which one would
so gladly associate the name of Addison as the stately fabric
where Bonner preached. Still is the walk by the river side
pointed out as having been the favourite haunt of Addison,
and some of the trees are stated to have been planted by his
hand. Here he Ustened at spring time to the notes of birds,
in the varieties of which he delighted ; here he strolled to
dissipate the nervous tendencies which even then marked the
young undergraduate's manner ; here he read, and in yonder
ancient chambers made himself master of the art of criticism
and studied moral philosophy and theology. He had at this
time an intention of going into holy orders. Addressing a
poem to Sacheverel, he says : —
" I've done at length ; and now, dear friend, receive
The last poor present that my Muse can give ;
I leave the art of poetry and verse
To those that practise them with more success ;
Of greater truths I'U now prepare to teU,
And so, at once, dear friend and Muse, farewell."
Tickell, Addison's friend, referring to these lines, says, that
Addison's " remarkable seriousness and modesty " proved the
chief reasons for his not going into orders. The duties of

HIS FRIENDSHIP WITH STEELE. 233
the priesthood appeared too responsible for the sensitive,
conscientious Joseph Addison; he resigned them from a
distrust of himself. Whilst at Oxford he studied chiefly
after dinner (which was probably at that time at noon). His
Latin poetry was greatly admired, both at Oxford and
Cambridge. He was, however, twenty-two years of age
before he published anything in his own language.
Meantime, before he went to Oxford, Addison had formed
an early friendship with Eiehard Steele, an Irish youth of
good family ; strange to say, the date of Steele's birth is not
known. His father, a barrister, was private secretary to
the Duke of Ormond. The affection thus formed was life
long, and yet never were two characters more different.
The one cautious, gentle, retiring ; the other impulsive, ex
citable, even reckless, and often blamable. Steele, in after
life, described these contrarieties between himself and Ad
dison in the foUo-wing beautfful words : — " There never was a
more strict friendship than between these gentlemen ; nor
had they any difference but what proceeded from their
different way of pursuing the same thing. The one with
patience, foresight, and temperate address, always waited and
stemmed the torrent ; while the other often plunged himself
into it, and was as often taken out by the temper of him
who stood weeping on the bank for his safety, whom he
could not dissuade from leaping into it. These two men lived
for some years last past, shunning each other, but still pre
serving the most passionate concern for their mutual welfare.
But when they met they were as unreserved as boys,
and talked of the greatest affairs ; upon which they saw
where they differed, without pressing (what they knew im
possible) to convert each other."
What a candid, what a complete, what a sensible view of
friendship, and that friendship between two men of the world
of strongly marked opinions, both in politics and, in what
were then closely connected -with politics, on Church matters !

234 FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THE FAMILIES.
WhUst Addison was -writing Latin poems, Steele was lead
ing a gay, disreputable life in the guards ; nevertheless. Dean
Addison looked favourably on the friendship between his
son Joseph and Steele; and it appears from a letter of
Steele's to Congreve that all Addison's family shared the
partiality of the eldest son. " Were things of this nature,"
he -wrote to Congreve, " to be exposed to public view, I
could show, under the dean's o-wn hand, in the warmest
terms, his blessing on the friendship between his son and me;
nor had he a child who did not prefer me in the first place
of kindness and esteem, as their father loved me like one of
them." Gay, frank, generous, Steele must have been a delightful
accession to the limited society of a country rectory, or even
of a Lichfield deanery ; and Lancelot Addison appears,
like most men who know the world well, to have been very
indulgent to high spirits and youthful indiscretions ; besides
Steele, not unlike many men of strong passions and weak
judgment, had deep and fervent religious convictions and
aspirations. The family circle at Milston must indeed have been
delightful, to say nothing of the dean himself, one of the
most benevolent, as well as industrious and learned men of
his day. There were, besides Joseph, two sons, Gulstone and
Lancelot, and a daughter, Dorothy. Gulstone was only a year
younger than Joseph ; he became governor of Fort St. George
in the East Indies ; Lancelot, also eminent in his career,
was afterwards a fellow of Magdalen College Oxford, and
was highly esteemed in that university. Dorothy was a
-wit. Swift, speaking of her, says : " Addison's sister, Mrs.
Sartre, is a sort of wit, very like him : I am not fond of her."
She married first Dr. Sartre, formerly chaplain at Montpelier,
and afterwards Prebendary of Westminster ; and afterwards
Daniel Coombes, Esquire. Anne, another sister, died j^oung.
It may readily be conceived bow delightful the various

THE DIFFERENT CHARACTERS OE STEELE AND ADDISON. 235
characteristics of this family party must have been. Addi
son's chief quality was humour, not a bitter personal
satire like that of Swift, but a kindly cheerfulness that
never pained. Steele's wilder satires must have been ex
quisitely appreciated ; for he had to deal not with a stiff
pedagogue in the old dean, but -with a clergyman who had
been in a garrison, who had mixed with diplomatists and
officers at Tangiers, and who could pardon much that he
might -wish to alter in " Ensign " Steele. In person, as far
as we can judge from portraits, they were greatly contrasted,
Addison in his full-bottomed wig, his velvet coat, his long
cambric neck -tie edged -with delicate lace, with his regular,
handsome, placid features, and blond complexion, was per
sonable in the extreme. One rarely sees paintings of him
except in full dress ; the Secretary all over. Steele, in his
cap, turned up and bound, it is true, with gold lace, his
broad, short, somewhat vulgar face beneath, bare of all
moustache or whiskers, as indeed is Addison's, though re
deemed by the wig, — does not convey to the mind of him
who gazes on those small fierce eyes, and somewhat contemp
tuous mouth, any notion of the author, who, full of sentiment
and feeUng, could write the exquisite tale of Constantia and
Theodoras, or the charming play of the " Conscious Lovers."
But so it was ; Addison, correct to a fault, handsome, well-
bred, devout, and elegant, was inferior to the short-faced,
vulgar-looking Steele in elevation of taste and warmth of
feeling, in enthusiasm and animal spirits. Cut out for an
under Secretary of state, Joseph never committed himself
to an imprudence or impertinence; whereas Steele went
wrong all his life. He had that charming abandon, which
so often characterises his countrymen.
Both these then, young and gifted men, had sterling
qualities. Addison was eminently and almost unexcep-
tionably good. Of that fault, a weakness?, sometimes ex
cusable, — always pitiable, ofttimes in consequence of a broken

236 BOTH AT OXFORD — ADDISON DEDICATES A POEM TO DRYDEN.
heart, at all events of disappointed views, or betrayed affec
tions, — of that propensity to inebriation with which his me
mory has been charged, there was then no kno-wn indication ;
he was the life, the pride, the solace of his family. Steele,
wild as any Irishman in youth, had a fund of conscience in
his noble thoughtless head ; he was affectionate and faithful
both to man and woman ; and had the rare merit of being
in private, the patriot and Christian phUosopher, — in his
matured years, — that he avowed himself to be in public.
Then they had both many recollections in common to turn to
in those days of ease at Milston : — not only the Charter House,
but the gardens and meadows of Oxford had -^vitnessed their
early attachment. Addison, as we have seen, had entered
Queen's College in 1687; Steele, at the age of sixteen, had
matriculated at Christ Church, and became, in 1691 a post
master of Merton College ; this was whilst Addison was a
probationary FeUow of Magdalen. What days must they
not have seen together ! what proctors and bull-dogs must not
Steele have encountered ; what chapels escaped ; what Dons
bearded ; yet carried all off by his over-mastering talents,
his invariable good nature, and by a fund of sound morality
at the bottom of his wayward impetuous impulses.
They both entered into the career of literature, Addison
dedicating to Dryden • — then in the decUne of life — his
first poem ; and thus securing to himself the rare prestige of
being highly praised by " Glorious John." Steele, who at
first rode as a private in the guards, wrote a poem on the
funeral of Queen Mary, consort of William III., and called
his performance " The Procession." * It was very charac
teristic of Steele that, whilst an ensign in the guards, being
unable to restrain himself from the excesses of youth, he
-wrote a poem, chiefly in order to impress on his own erring
heart principles of religion and self-control. It was at first
* See Nichols's preface to Steele's Correspondence, vol. i. p. -vii.

Steele's "christian hero" — writes a play. 237
an anonymous work, and was called the " Christian Hero."
StUl the mad young En.sign did not improve ; so, in 1701, he
printed the work with his own name, hoping that such a
standing testimony against himself would make him ashamed
of judging and feeling so rightly, and of acting so ill. Alas !
even this failed. He had been reckoned a good boon com
panion; but now his comrades shunned the man who was
better than themselves ; some showed their notions by passing
off sorry jokes, which so moral a soldier was expected to bear
patiently ; others, when he fell, — and his life was one perpetual
fall, — compared Ensign Steele -with his o-wn "Christian Hero."
So he found himself unpopular, and to repair the mistake, he
wrote a play, called" " The Funeral, or Grief a la Mode." It
was acted in 1702. Nothing makes a man so popular as a
successful play, and Steele had the good fortune to attract the
favour of grim King William, who put down his name, as
amongst those to be provided for, in the last " Table Book "
he ever wrote in ; it was like Steele's luck that it was the
last. Not that King WUliam or Mary did anything for literature
or learning. It is only our native monarchy that encourage
letters ; and except, inasmuch as Mary -with her ladies, all
in masks, listened, blushing we hope, to Congreve's comedies,
— there is no record of much enjoyment, even of the highest
dramatic excellence, in that queen's dull life.
Addison was following out his course of life all this while,
in writing an Essay on Dryden's Translation of the Georgics
of Virgil, and in planning a translation of Herodotus him
self; but he was soon called into public life, and besides, like
Steele, he fell in love : and the object of his affections is
stated to have been the sister of his friend Henry Sacheverel.
This famous partisan divine, had been Addison's Chamber
Fellow at Magdalen College ; and had afterwards become a
Fellow and Tutor of that society. Sacheverel was a native
of Marlborough, where his father, the rector of St. Peter's

238 SACHEVEREL THE EARLY FRIEND OF ADDISON.
Church in that town, left at his death a numerous family in
indigent circumstances. Sacheverel set out in Ufe with the
character of a well-bred man : and had the charge, on that
account, of most of the young men of rank who entered at
Magdalen, where, until our o-wn time, all were gentlemen
commoners, or noblemen, except the demys. Nevertheless, he
lived to be called by Bishop Burnet, a " bold, insolent man,"
and by the Duchess of Marlborough, " an ignorant, impudent
incendiary : a man who was the scorn even of those who made
use of him as a tool." Of course, his being the friend of
Addison, the polished, the moderate Addison, is almost an
answer to these attacks on the character of Sacheverel.
In 1694, when Addison, intending to enter holy orders,
wrote his " Account of the • Greatest English Poet," he dedi
cated that work to Sacheverel, his dearest friend and col
league. Addison was then, it appears, attached to the sister
of that beloved companion whose opinions afterwards so
-widely differed from his own. The cause of the love passages
not ending in marriage, does not appear. Sacheverel, to
whom some credit is due for a sort of eloquence, which had,
at least, boldness to recommend it, professed the extreme of
High Church opinions : in 1709 he preached at Derby, and
at St. Paul's, in London, that famous sermon in which Lord
Godolphin, under the name of Volpone, was supposed to be
aimed at ; whereupon he was impeached before the House of
Commons, his trial lasting nearly a month, and suspended
from preaching for three years. Bishop Atterbury is said to
have written his defence. An estate at Callew, in Derbyshire,
was bequeathed to him afterwards by a relation, and Sache
verel died in good circumstances.
Of Steele's youthful engagement we know much more than
of Addison's ; for he has left some of the most amusing love
letters in the world.
He rushed early in life into matrimony ; and was united
to a lady of Barbadoes, of whom little is kno-wn, except that

STEELE S LOVE SUIT TO MISTRESS SCURLOCK. 239
she died a few months after she became Mrs. Steele ; of her
maiden name, her character, or the time of her death, not
even the accurate Nichols, who edited Steele's correspon
dence, could find any record. The lively Ensign became,
however, possessed of a large estate in Barbadoes, upon the
death of his first -wife's brother, who was taken by the French
during his voyage to England, and died in France.
The funeral of Mrs. Steele happened to be attended by a
beautifal and charming woman of about twenty-nine years of
age: she was the daughter of Jonathan Scurlock, Esq., of
Llandunno, Carmarthenshire ; and Steele testified the great
respect he bore her, in his dedication to the "Ladies'
Library." By his first marriage, Steele had no children : two
sons and two daughters were the offspring of the second.
His letters are addressed to Mrs. Mary Scurlock, all ladies
after the age of ten being styled Mistress, the term ' Miss '
being after that age, somewhat disrespectful and derogatory,
as indicating that a person so designated must be giddy or
light in conduct. In the Muses' Mercury for January 1706-7,
Steele -wrote the following song : —
"Me, Cupid made a -willing sla-i'e,
A merry -wretched man ;
I slight the nymphs I cannot have.
Nor doat on those I can ;
This constant maxim still I hold.
To bafle all despair,
The absent ugly are and old.
The present young and fair."
These lines were symptomatic. In August the same year,
the foUo-wing formal letter of proposal to Mrs. Mary Scurlock,
is extant. " Madam, " Your wit and beauty are suggestions which may
easUy lead you into the intention of my writing to you. You

240 HIS LETTERS.
may be sure that I cannot be cold to so many good qualities,
as all that see you must observe in you. You are a woman
of a very good understanding, and will not measure my
thoughts by any ardour in my expressions, which is the
ordinary language on these occasions.
" I have reasons for hiding from my nearest relations any
purpose I may have of waiting on you, if you permit it;
and I hope you have confidence from mine as well as your
o-wn character, that such a condescension should not be ill
used by Madam, Your most obedient servant, " Eich. Steele." *
In number thirty-five of the "Tatler" (Aug. 11, 1707),
Steele made use of his love effusions in his works, for an
epistle is introduced by these words : August nth, 1707.
" Madam, "I sent to you on Saturday by Mrs. 'Warren, and
gave you this trouble to urge the same request I made then,
which was, that I may be admitted to wait upon you."
Then he proceeds to say, that he shall not trouble her with
his sentiments till he knows how they will be received ; that
he knows no reason why difference of sex should make
" their language to each other differ from the ordinary rules
of reason." f "I shall affect plainness and sincerity in my
discourse to you, as much as other lovers do perplexity and
rapture. Instead of saying, ' I shall die for you ! ' I prefer
' I should be glad to lead my life with you.' " Mrs. Warren
is changed in the " Tatler " to Mrs. Lucy, as well as in the
manuscript of the foUo-wing address again, to Mrs. Mary
Scurlock. " You are as beautiful as -witty," he proceeds, " as prudent
and as good-humoured as any woman breathing, but I wiU
* Steele's Correspondence, vol. i. p. 92. f Ibid. p. 93.

LIKE THOSE OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. 241
confess to you, I regard all these excellencies as you will
please to direct them for my happiness or misery ; believe me.
Madam, the only lasting motive to love, is the hope of its
becoming mutual. I beg of you to let Mrs. Warren send
me word when I may attend you. I promise you I will
talk only of indifferent things, though, at the same time,
I know not how I shall approach you in the tender moment
of first seeing you, after this declaration has been made by
Madam, your most obedient, and most faithful, humble
servant, " EicHARD Steele."
The style of these letters reminds us of the epistolary
effusions of Sir Charles Grandison ; ladies were prompted in
those days by parents not to capitulate until proper conditions
had been made. Mistress Scurlock, it is true, had not any
fortune on her marriage ; yet she seems to have been fearful
of opposition from her mother. She kept her ardent lover,
therefore, at a respectful distance ; he went to her house, but
she refused then to see him. Nevertheless her answer must
have been favourable, since three days afterwards, it appears
that Steele had visited Mrs. Scurlock " to wait on her." He
was a true lover of the old school.
" I am now," he writes (Aug. 14) " under your own roof
while I write ; and that imaginary satisfaction of being so
near you, though not in your presence, has in it some
thing that touches me -with so tender ideas, that it is im
possible for me to describe their force. All great passion
makes us dumb : and the highest grief as well as highest
happiness, seizes us too violently to be expressed by our
words." "You are so good as to let me know I shall have the
honour of seeing you when I next come here. I will live
upon that expectation, and meditate on your perfections till
that happy hour. The vainest woman upon earth never
VOL. I. R

242 BEAUTIFUL LETTER TO MARY SCURLOCK.
saw in her glass half the attractions which I view in you.
Your air, your shape, your every glance, motion, and gesture,
have such peculiar graces, that you possess my whole soul,
and I know no life but in the hopes of your approbation.
I know not what to say, but that I love you with the
sincerest passion that ever entered the heart of man. I
will make it the business of my life to find out means of
convincing you that I prefer you to all that is pleasing on
earth." The attachment which he professed proved sincere, and
stood many irritations, and a certain amount of lectures from
his beloved Mary. When we condemn this letter as some
what fulsome, the fashion of the day must not be forgotten ;
nothing, however, can be more tender or more beautiful, than
Steele's letter to his Mary on the morning when she was to
receive the sacrament. He had abstained from seeing her on
the previous day. August, I6th, 1707.
" Madam,
" Before the light this morning da-wned upon the
earth, I awaked and lay in expectation of its return; not
that it could give any new^ sense of joy to me, but as I hoped
it would bless you -with its cheerful face, after a quiet which
I wished you last night. If my prayers are heard, the day
appeared with all the influence of a merciful Creator upon
your person and actions. Let others, my lovely charmer, talk
of a blind being that disposes their hearts ; I contemn their
low images of love ; I have not a thought which relates to
you that I cannot with confidence beseech the All-seeing
Power to bless me in. May He direct you in all your ways,
and reward your innocence, your sanctity of manners, your
prudent youth and becoming piety, with the continuance of
His grace and protection ! "
But mothers were to be consulted ; and we find Mistress
Mary Scurlock addressing hers in the foUo-wing terms : —

mrs. scurlocks letter to her mother. 243
" Dear Madam,

"¦5

" The matter in hand is this : your frequent declara
tions of your earnest wishes that I might happily please you
by obliging myself by my choice of a companion for Ufe, has
emboldened me, now Fate has put it in my power, to give so
far encouragement as to promise speedy marriage upon con
dition of your consent, which I do not question having when
I tell you I not only make use of the most weighing consi
deration I am mistress of, but also hope my inclination is in
the direction of Providence, whose guidance, in every par
ticular of this nice affair more particularly, I cease not to
implore continually."
Mary Scurlock's heart soon surrendered to one whom she
described as, "as agreeable and pleasing a man as any in
England." She was reluctant to confess how short the siege
had been — one month only.
" I cannot recommend the person to you," she continues,
" as ha-ving a great estate, a title, &c., which are generally a
parent's chief care ; but he has a competency in worldly
goods to make easy, with a mind so richly adorned, as to
exceed an equivalent to the greatest estate in the world,
in my opinion ; in short, his person is what I like ; his
temper is what I am sure will make you, as well as myself,
happy." This letter has no date, but it may be presumed from the
foUo-wing epistle of Steele's that it was in September 1707.
On the third of that month he -wrote from Whitehall, and
gave a flourishing account of his prospects. His friends, he
said, were then in great power, " so that it would be highly
necessary for bim and his future wife to be in the figure of
life they might think it convenient to appear in, as soon as
possible," in order to profit by favour whUst the wind was
* Vol. i. :p. 99.
B 2

244 Steele's circumstances.
with him, being assured that in a " court it would not long
blow one way." He had then the appointment of Gazetteer
to the State, -svith a salary of 300^. a year, paying a tax of
45 L He was gentleman waiter to His Eoyal Highness the
Prince of Wales, with a salary of lOOl a year. This made
his income, including the estate of Steele's first wife, who
had, he takes care to say, a great value for him, after certain
deductions, 10251. a year.
Mrs. Scurlock's estate, on the other hand, gave about 400/.
a year ; so that, -with such expectations, it is marvellous that
difficulties such as Steele was plunged into should ever
occur. In conclusion, he promised to himself, in his letter
to the mother of the dearest creature on earth, " the plea
sures of an industrious and virtuous life." In addressing his
betrothed he predicted such a " fulness of conjugal bliss,
that angels, so far from being their superiors, would become
their attendants." But felicity so perfect is not the lot of
man, more especially not of a man so impulsive as Eiehard
Steele. All was not yet smooth sailing. Mary Scurlock appears
to have wished her marriage to be kept private until her
mother's arrival, from Wales, in London. She insisted on
the letters Steele wrote to her being addressed, even after
the ceremony had taken place, t'O " Mrs. Warren," the name
she assumed. He was resolved to write to her by her
proper name, and directed to Mrs. Steele ; and this at Lord
Sunderland's office where every letter was franked by the
minister. In the following letter to his wife, to whom he had been
privately married on the seventh of September, there is
evidence of wounded feeling.

letter to MRS. STEELE — HER VERSES. 245
To Mrs. Steele. September 9th.
"Madam, "I hope your denying what I urged with so much
passion, and which I complained of in too vehement a
manner, has not been a grief to my tender companion, for,
upon reflection this morning, I extremely approve your
conduct, and take your behaviour to proceed from an incli
nation to come to my arms hallowed by a parent's blessing.
I comply with your measures in bringing that happiness
about, and shall behave myself as if only in the beginning of
a sacred love made at the altar."
In conclusion, " I beg of you to show my letters to no one
living, but let us be contented with one another's thoughts
upon our words and actions, without the intervention of
other people who cannot judge of so delicate a circumstance
as the commerce between man and wife. I am eternally
yours, "E. Steele."
Then some slight variance ensued ; Steele writing to his
wife begging her pardon for every act of rebeUion he had
ever committed against her, still styling her " dear Madam,"
and signing himself her " most obliged husband, and humble
servant ; " and she replying thus : —
" It is but an addition to our uneasiness to be at variance
with each other. I beg your pardon if I have offended you.
God forgive you for adding to the sorrow of a heavy heart,
that is above all sorrow but for your sake." Then she sends
him these lines, more affectionate than poetic :
" Ah ! Dick Steele, that I were sure.
Your love, like mine, would stiU endure;
That time, nor absence, which destroys
The cares of lovers and their joys.
May never rob me of that part
Which you have given me of your heart ;
B 3

246 CURIOUS LIFE led by the pair.
Others, unenvyed, may possess
Whatever they think happiness.
Grant, this, 0 God, my great request.
In his dear arms may I for ever rest ! "
Steele's next epistle was addressed to " the dearest being
upon earth ; " and now domestic life commenced. A house in
Bury Street, St. James's was taken, and furnished with
Mrs. Scurlock's goods, for the mother was to Uve with her
daughter and son-in-law. Nevertheless, Steele continued to
subscribe himself to his wife " her most obedient husband ; "
an expression strange to the ears of Englishmen.
Once settled, the happy pair led a life, desultory indeed,
yet seemingly full of confidence. " Dick," as Mrs. Steele
termed him, dated his letters somewhat too often, it must
be allowed, from coffee houses ; but then he -writes to " dear
Prue," his wife's name now, to join him in the coach, to bring
his best periwig in the coach-box and his new shoes, and tells
her they are to take " the fresh air in free conference ; " for
" it is a comfort to be well dressed in agreeable company."
" You are vital Ufe," he adds " to your obliged, affectionate,
husband and humble servant." She was the " beautifuUest
object that could present itself to his eyes." Nevertheless,
be sometimes begs ber to consult her cool thoughts, and
then she would know that it is a woman's glory to be her
" husband's friend and companion, and not his sovereign
director ; " and in a subsequent letter he returns her one of
her epistles in order that she may see how " disrespectfully "
she had treated him. She seems indeed to have tormented
him by her suspicions, and her over-control of his actions.
One specimen more of the almost weak fondness ex
pressed by the most candid and affectionate of men to a -wife
who seems to have had the most powerful influence over
him : —

Steele's affairs. 247

September I3th, 1708.
" Dear Prue,
" I write to you in obedience to what you ordered me,
but there are not words to express the tenderness I have for
you, love is too harsh a word for it ; but, if you knew how
my heart aches when" you speak an unkind word to me, and
springs with joy when you smile on me, I am sure you would
place your glory rather in preserving my happiness, like a
good -wife, than tormenting me like a peevish beauty. Good
Prue, write me word you shall be overjoyed at my return to
you." After this the picture is darkened. Sometimes he writes
to her " a little in drink," as he avows ; then he thinks it
necessary on another occasion to assure her "he is going
very soberly to bed." He is "busy about the main chance,"
which is e-vidently a losing affair in Steele's hands. He now
writes to Prue, " you cannot think what difficulties I am put
to." The death of Prince George of Denmark, which took
place in 1708, did not lessen his income ; Queen Anne con
tinuing his salary by way of amity. Steele had to sit up by
the royal corpse of that prince, who like himself was often, as
he owns " a little fuddled." About this time, Steele's diffi
culties came to a crisis and he was arrested. Addison on this
occasion refused to bail him; but money was obtained for
that end elsewhere.
His -vidfe meantime was miserable and anxious at her house
in Bury Street, where that " insufferable brute," as Steele
calls the landlady, passed some affront on her. And now,
difficulties produced their too frequent effect, dissension.
Steele writes to his -wife that she was "cruel to generous
nature," and that after " short starts of passion, not to be in-
cUned to reconciliation was against all Christianity and justice."
In another letter he begged of her to add to her other charms
a fearfulness to see a man that loved her in pain and un-
B 4

248 FURNISHES A HOUSE — BORROWS MONEY ON IT.
easiness. "Eising a little in the morning, and adding a
little cheerfulness, would not be amiss." However, he soon
writes to her in an altered strain — as thus : " Thou art such
a foolish tender thing, that there is no living with thee. I
have broke my rest last night, because I knew you would be
such a fool as not to sleep." Things began to brighten.
" She was to be cheerful and beautiful ; " he would have her
" go out and divert herself." He " doated on her so, that he
could not hide it." Prices were improving, Steele was made
governor of the Theatre Eoyal ; he had built, meantime, an
elegant house adjoining the palace at Hampton Court : he
called it the " Hovel at Hampton Wick : " and furnished it
-with his usual extravagant profusion.
He was soon obliged to borrow a thousand pounds on the
security of his house and furniture. Addison lent him the
money, and it was to be repaid at the end of a twelvemonth,
Steele giving a bond to that effect. But, at the end of the
time, no money was forthcoming, and Addison's attorney
proceeded to execution. The house and furniture were sold,
and the surplus remitted to Steele by Addison with a " very
genteel letter," according to the received account, " stating
the friendly reason of this extraordinary procedure to be to
awaken Steele, if possible, from a lethargy that must end in
his inevitable ruin." Steele received the letter with his
accustomed composure and gaiety — and met his friend as
usual. Nothing but a few bickerings between them betrayed
a soreness of feeling, which pride on Steele's part concealed,
and which prudence, on that of Addison forebore to elicit.
Addison it is well remarked, acted by Steele as he did mth
his favourite in Eoger de Coverley, whom he killed through fear
that somebody should murder him. It must, however, have
been grievous to Steele to leave Hampton Wick, in the neigh
bourhood of which his great patron Lord Halifax assembled
all the wits of the day. But Steele had had worse thing's to
encounter than the surrender of a house which he could not

SQUABBLES BETWEEN STEELE AND SWIFT. 249
afford to live in; and had recently been locked up at the
Bull's Head in Vere Street.
Hitherto Steele had fulfilled his office as Gazetteer " ac
cording to order, without ever erring," as he said, " against
the rule observed by all ministries, of making the paper very
innocent and very insipid ; " but in 1713 he lost his place for
writing in the Tatler against Harley (afterwards Earl of
Oxford), who had not only given him the post, but augmented
the salary from 601. to 100^. a year. By good authority Steele
has been acquitted of ingratitude to Harley ; and S-wift, whom
he attacked for bis -writings in the Examiner, and who dis
tinctly denied writing in that periodical, was an actual con
tributor to that paper even at that time. So little principle
of truth has there been from time immemorial, in public men,
for whom a new code of honour has been, it seems, expressly
invented ! Steele, according to Swift's allegation had called
the dean, " a clergyman," says Swift, " of some distinction,
an infidel: a clergyman who was your friend, who always
loved you, who had endeavoured at least to serve you, and
who, whenever he did write anything, made it sacred to him
self never to fling out the least hint against you."
Steele had taken it for granted that to Swift and Mrs.
Manley all the offensive papers in the Examiner were at
tributable. In allusion to this Swift says, " I have several
times assured Mr. Addison and fifty others that I had not
the least hand in vsrriting any of these papers, and that I had
never exchanged one syllable with the supposed author in
my Ufe, that I can remember, nor even seen him above twice,
and that in mixed company, in a place where he came to pay
his attendance."
The supposed author to whom Swift refers was Oldisworth.
The able editor of Steele's letters, Mr. Nichols, regards it
however certain that Swift was an " accomplice of the Exa
miner and a -writer in it long after the time usually supposed."
It is, as he observes, melancholy to reflect to what leng-ths

250 STEELE RESIGNS ONE OF HIS APPOINTMENTS.
party will bring two such men as Steele and Swift. " He is
the vilest of mankind, and you may tell him so," was Swift's
infuriated speech to Addison about Steele ; to which Steele
answers, " as to the vilest of mankind, it would be a glorious
world if I were ; and I would not conceal my thoughts
in favour of an injured man, though all the powers in the
earth gainsaid it, — to be the first man in the nation." This
was truly one of those occasions in which Addison might be
supposed " to stand weeping on the bank," unable to save his
friend from the torrent of his own imprudences. On the fourth
of June, 1713, Steele wrote to the Earl of Oxford resigning
his place as commissioner of the stamp revenue. " I should,"
he wrote, "have done this sooner, but that I heard the
commission was passing without my name in it and I would
not 1)0 guilty of the arrogance of resigning what I could not
bold." Lord Oxford had, he owns, treated him with great
liberality of heart : but Steele's convictions with regard to
the public welfare were stronger either than private friend
ship, or his own interest ; and he trembled, he avowed, to see
the country in " the hands of so daring a genius as his lord
ship." The cabals of that day of political intriguing are
now almost forgotten : and the struggles between Whig and
'Tory are almost puerile in our eyes. But we must remember
that during the last years of Queen Anne's reign, the greatest
dread existed of Jacobite ascendency. The cry that the
Protestant Church was in danger kept from the throne of
England the exiled Stuarts ; and no measures were deemed
unworthy by the two great rival factions, — Godolphin andthe
Duke and Duchess of Marlborough representing the Whigs ;
Harley Earl of Oxford, aided covertly by Atterbury and S-wift,
being at the head of the Tories.
Queen Anne's health was manifestly failing, when Steele
was attacked in the House of Commons. On resigning his
commissionership, he had been elected member for Stock-
bridge. In March, 1713-14, the storm burst over his head.

STEELE ATTACKED IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 251
On the tenth of that month, Mr. John Hungerford complained
to the House of divers scandalous papers, published by Mr.
Steele, and was seconded by Mr. Auditor Foley, cousin to
Lord Oxford, and by Mr. Auditor Harley, the earl's brother.
The names of the objectionable works were the " English
man," and the " Crisis," which had been corrected by
Dr. Hoadley, Bishop of Winchester, and by Addison, so that
Steele's dearest friend had not merely " stood weeping on
the bank " this time. At this juncture Lord Halifax stood
Steele's friend ; he told the House of Lords, that be believed
if they would recommend the " Crisis " to her Majesty's pe
rusal, she would think quite otherwise of the book than they
did. Steele had been for many months leading a reckless,
rambling, unsatisfactory life, which seems to have vexed his
poor -wife to the very heart. Sometimes he wrote to her
from Bow Street, a suspicious address, indicative of his having
been taken up to a police station when " fuddled ;" sometimes
from Buttons, where perhaps Addison, himself at this time
an unhappy man, sat with him ; he was often sending to the
goldsmiths to discount bills ; promising his -wife, however, to
come home early, and writing to her because he heard she
bad given herself up to lamentation. In vain did he beseech
her to repose confidence in him : it was of no use. Who could
have confidence in so rash a man, whose life was spent in
sinning and repenting, in recommending to others what was
right, and for ever failing himself to act well, or wisely ? It
has, indeed, been well said, that in speculation Steele was a
man of piety and honour ; in practice, he was much of the
rake and a little of the swindler."
His wife was sitting, full of fears, at home on the day when
the charge against her husband came before the House. He
endeavoured to reassure ber ; " there is nothing can arise to
me," he -wrote, "that can afflict you, therefore, pray be a
Eoman lady, and assume a courage equal to your goodness."
On the eighteenth of March he was heard in his defence.

252 A VOTE AGAINST HIM — HE IS EXPELLED THE HOUSE.
Being asked whether he acknowledged the writings that bore
his name, he answered that he did, frankly and ingenuously,
own those papers to be part of his writings, that he -wrote them
on behalf of the House of Hanover, and owned them with
the same unreservedness -with which he abjured the Pretender.
He afterwards spoke for three hours, assisted by Addison,
then member for Malmesbury, by whom he was prompted.
The debate lasted tUl eleven o'clock, and amongst others,
.Eobert, afterwards Sir Eobert Walpole spoke in his behalf.
The " Englishman " and the " Crisis " were, however, judged
to be scandalous and seditious libels ; it was, therefore, re
solved that Mr. Steele be expelled the House.
After making his defence, poor Steele was ordered to with
draw. Addison followed him out, begging bim not to be seen
till he heard the result of the debate. Steele w^ent to the
Temple, and wrote to his wffe, what he meant to be conso
lation : " Nothing can happen to my condition in private life,
and I have busied myself enough for the public." Then the
next day, " Pray let nothing disquiet you, for God vdll prosper
and protect your innocence and virtue : " in another note he
signs himself " your reprehended spouse, and humble servant."
What a model for husbands ! " Learn from jMr. Steele how to
write to your wife," was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's ad
monition to her husband ; " but it is only the erring who write
as Steele did to his ' Prue.' You and Betty, and Dick and
Eugene, and Molly, (his children,) shall be henceforth my
principal cares, next to keeping a good conscience," was his vain
assurance." In the hurry of a life not only strongly agitated
by party spirit, but we fear often "degraded by loose pleasures,"
Steele's attention to religious duties would be marvellous did
we not know the inconsistencies of man's nature, he writes :
" I am going this morning to a very solemn work, and invoke
Almighty God to bless you and your little ones, beseeching
Him to spare me a little life to acquit myself to you and them,
whom of all the world I have hitherto endeavoured lea$t

OCCUPIES HIMSELF IN AUTHORSHIP — SPEECH OP LORD FINCH. 253
to serve." " Dear Wife," be adds ; " I honour, I love, I doat on
you ; " yet he left her for the tavern and the gaming table.
Steele now occupied himself with " A Eoman Ecclesiastical
History," which he addressed to Daniel Finch, eldest son
of Daniel, Earl of Nottingham, and called by his political
opponents " Young Dismal." To the " Eoman Ecclesiastical
History," was prefixed an " Account of some collateral cir
cumstances and secret passages, joined to an account of the
ceremony of the last inauguration of saints by his Holiness
the Pope ; " and this preface was written by Bishop Hoadley,
a fact which gave Swift occasion to say afterwards, that
" Steele, who owned -what others -writ.
And flourished by imputed wit,
From perils of a hundred jails
Withdrew to starve and die iu Wales."
Steele's acquaintance with Lord Finch had the following
origin : Lady Charlotte Finch, the sister of his lordship, had
been attacked coarsely and rudely in the " Examiner " for
alleged misbehaviour in church ; and Steele had written a
spirited defence of her in the " Guardian." When the ques
tion of Steele's expulsion was mooted. Lord Finch stepped
forward, and attempted to speak in behalf of the accused, but
was overcome by modesty, and by deference to that assembly
in which he had not hitherto spoken a word. As he sat down
covered with confusion, he was heard to say, " It is a struggle ;
I can't speak for this man, though I could readily fight for
him." His words being whispered from one to another,
operated in an instant like electric fire ; and a sudden burst
from all parts of the House of " Hear him ! hear him ! " with
ineffable marks of encouragement. Lord Finch rose, and, with
astonishing recollection and the utmost propriety, spoke a
speech on the occasion, in which, as it was related to this
¦writer, in the language of the theatre, " there was not one
word which did not tell." The eyes of the whole company

254 Steele's difficulties, and repentance.
were upon him, and though he appeared to have utterly
forgot what he rose up to speak, yet the generous motives
which the whole company knew he acted upon, procured him
such an acclamation of voices and cheering, that he spoke with
clearness and magnanimity.
After Steele had ceased to be a member, he complained of
loss of liberty, and of all that makes life agreeable. He had
long discovered that since the death of his mother, he had
been "prone to melancholy;" it was in fact his affairs, and
the unprovided state of his family that produced that con
dition. " Prue " had brought him no fortune, and a little
"frowardness" on her part had contributed, with other cares,
to the troubles of life. Steele was now solicitous to know
bow affairs stood with his mother-in-law to a "farthing."
He wished evidently, to get some settlement made by Mrs.
Scurlock on his children ; " assignments for debts " the good
lady had paid, covering Prue's share of her paternal property.
Hot words seem to have passed, Steele, as usual, begging
pardon for being passionate. At last, in October after his
expulsion, he made up his mind to go to the club and ask for
a subscription for the " Crisis."
" It frets my proud heart to do this, but it must be done,"
he wrote to Mrs. Steele, Alas ! an extravagant man has
nothing to do with pride. Steele had still to encounter
reproaches, where, indeed, he probably fully deserved to meet
with them : still meantime, he signs himself, " your faithful
obsequious husband."
Addison had, in common with his friend, experienced the
stings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
" To Addison," says a modern writer, " we are bound by
a sentiment as much like affection, as any sentiment can
be which is inspired by one who has been sleeping a
hundred and twenty years in Westminster Abbey.* And,
' * This was -written in July, 18-13. See Edinburgh Ee-vie-w for that year.

Addison's career is fortunate. 255
it must be confessed, in spite of a weak leaning to Steele,
it is impossible to disallow the higher moral attributes of
Addison. His first entrance into a literary career was fortunate.
Having addressed a poem to the Lord Keeper Somers, on one
of King William's campaigns, Addison gained the good-will of
that able la-wyer, and by his mediation, a pension of three
hundred a year was procured from the crown, and the result
was that he was enabled to travel. It was at one time in
tended that he should have been appointed to attend on
Prince Eugene, who was in Italy; but the death of King
William broke up this scheme, and happily for us the young
author returned to his own country, and lived to adorn her
literature with that unspeakable boon to every English home,
the " Spectator."
Let us see him, however, in fancy, for a short time, at all
events in his travels, and participate in the excitements and
advantage which he fully prized.
A Fellow of a CoUege, — and Addison was still a Fellow of
Magdalen, — must have made a strange figure in the Court of
Louis XIV. Addison was fortunate enough to see that great
king and little man, in all the pomp and ultra-superstition
of his declining life. The English stranger was introduced
under very favourable circumstances at Versailles, The
English Government had interfered in his behalf with the
head of an Oxford College. When the pension was granted to
Addison, the Ministry were afraid lest the Fellowship should
be a matter of complaint ; the Chancellor of the Exchequer
wrote therefore to Hough, afterwards Bishop Hough, to say
that the State could not spare Addison to the Church. The
public service, be added, was to be recruited from men like
Addison, instead of filling every civil post with adventurers
utterly devoid of talent and knowledge.
Under the banner of Charles Montague, soon afterwards
Lord Halifax, and with the patronage of Somers, therefore,

256 Addison's reserve.
did Addison appear at the French Court. He was then, in
1699, just twenty -six years of age.
A more bashful man never landed on the flat, bare shore of
Calais. He studied much, talked very little, had long fits
of absence, and seemed protected either by shyness or some
previous entanglement of the heart, from all love affairs. A
more genuine fellow of a College in the placid, perfect com
posure of a reserved Englishman, never visited the most
charming capital in the world.
But underneath this calm wave which seemed to hide
beneath its clear waters nothing but frivolous pebbles, and
washy sand, there was ore of no ordinary value. The round
fair face, with its Saxon complexion, betrayed, indeed, no im
pression ; the sly humour which afterwards delighted a circle
at Button's, was bottled up, but effervesced in private. The
steady-going, unprejudiced observation which gave to his
mind so philosophic a range, was never dreamed of in that
courtly, formal, and sophisticated sphere to which he was
now presented.
His impressions were briefly conveyed in the following
letters to Charles Montague, Lord Halifax.

"Honour'd Sir,
" I am now in a place where nothing is more usual
than for mean people to press into ye presence and conversa
tion of great men, and where modestie is so very scarce, that
I think I have not seen a blush since my first landing at
Callice, which I hope may, in some measure, excuse me for
presuming to trouble you with a letter. However, if I may
not be allow'd to improve a little in ye confidence of ye
country, I am sure I receive in it such effects of your favom-
in ye civUities "My Ld. Ambassador has bin pleased
to show me, that I cant but think it my duty to make
you acquainted -with them; I am sorry my travels have

GOES TO BLOIS. 257
not yet furnisht me -with anything else worth your know
ledge. As for the state of learning, there is no book comes
out at present that has not something in it of an air of
devotion. "Dacier has bin forc'd to prove his Plato a very good
Christian before he ventures on the Translation, and has so
far comply'd with ye taste of ye age, that his whole book is
overrun "with texts of Scripture ; and ye notion of pre-exist
ence supposed to be stol'n from two verses of the prophets.
Nay, ye humour is gro-wn so universal, that it is got among
ye poets, who are every day publishing Lives of Saints and
Legends in rhime."
He soon perceived that to speak French indifferently is a
positive misfortune in Paris ; and he hastened to Blois, where
he understood that French was spoken in its greatest purity
(a distinction now allotted to Tours), and where there was
not then a single Englishman. Blois has still the reputation
of containing the best Legitimist society of any city in
France some years ago ; though now, the gratitude expressed
by the natives there to Napoleon III. would imply that the
old traditions were dying out. At Blois, Addison, who was
talking for improvement, probably talked more than he ever
did in his life, either before or afterwards ; yet he was thus
spoken of by a certain Abbe Philippeau, who gave the follow
ing account to Mr. Spence.
"Mr. Addison stayed above a year at Blois. He would
rise as early as between two and three in summer, and lie
abed till between eleven and twelve in the depth of winter.
He was untalkative while here, and often thoughtful ; some
times so lost in thought, that I have come into his room and
stayed five minutes there before he has known anything
about it. He had his masters generally at supper with him,
and kept very little company beside."
VOL. I. s

258 HIS LETTER TO CONGREVE  LIVELINESS OF THE FRENCH.
His enjoyment at Blois, consisted, as he told Congreve,
chiefly in recalling the interesting sights which he had beheld
before his seclusion — Versailles, and especially Fontainebleau,
which he preferred to all in remembering.
" The King," he says, " bas humoured the genius of the
place, and only made use of so much art as is necessary to
help and regulate Nature -without reforming her too much.
The cascades seem to break through the clefts of rocks that
are covered over with moss, and look as if they were piled
upon one another by accident. There is an artificial -wild-
ness in the meadows, walks, and canals, and ye garden,
instead of a wall, is fenc'd on the lower end by a natural
mound of rock-work that strikes the eye very agreeably."
He came to the conviction, during his residence at Blois,
that the French are the happiest people in the world. It
was not in the power of want and slavery to make them
miserable (nor is it now). " There is nothing to be met with
in the country but mirth and poverty. Ev'ry one sings,
laughs, and starves. Their conversation is generally agTee
able ; for if they have any wit or sense, they are sure to show
it. They never mend upon a second meeting, but use all
the freedom and familiarity at first sight that a long intimacy
or abundance of -wine can scarce draw from an Englishman.
Their women are perfect mistresses in this art of showing
themselves to the best advantage."
In another letter (to Bishop Newton) he remarks that he
never thought to have seen so much magnificence or so much
poverty as he met with together in France. The king's splen
dour caused half his subjects to go barefooted. Fogs, and
German counts, were the drawbacks to his enjoyment of
Blois ; the fogs were ascribable to the Loire, the Counts were
a kind of gentlemen just come -wild out of their own country,
" and more noisy and senseless than any he had yet had the
honour of being acquainted -with."
He now began to think of returning to Paris, having

FORMS ACQUAINTANCE OF EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU. 259
mastered the French tongue, which had, he confessed, been a
" rub in his way harder to get over than the Alps."
It was about this time that Addison formed the acquaint
ance of Edward Wortley ]\Iontagu, the husband of the cele
brated Lady Mary Wortley Montagu ; he was, indeed, a
companion worthy of Addison ; a zealous VTiig, a learned,
accomplished and earnest man. Edward Wortley IMontagu
travelled to greater advantage than most youths of family
who make the gi-and tour. He spoke French perfectly, a
rare accomplishment in England in those times, for when
George I. sat in council on bis accession, Wortley Montagu
is said to have been the only person who could con
verse with bis sovereign in French, and George I. spoke no
English. It is curious to find the character of the French so like
then, what we observe it now to be ; their national vanity,
that feature which is, in some few, elevated into patriotism,
was exalted now to an intense degree by the advancement
of Philip Duke of Anjou, the nephew of Louis XIV.,
to be king of Spain. " There is," Addison says, " scarce
a man that does not give himself greater airs upon it, and
look as well pleased as if he had received some consider
able advancement in his own fortunes." He turned gladly
to men of letters ; but to those he is not in his account very
favourable. "Their learning," he says, " for the most part
lies among old schoolmen. Their public disputes run upon
the controversy between the Thomists and Scotists, which
they manage with abundance of heat and false Latin." He
visited Malebranches, whom the Uterary society of the day
scarcely valued, looking on his deep researches with indiffer
ence, and regarding all new philosophy as visionary or irre
ligious. He' much praised Sir Isaac Newton, but deemed
Hobbes " un pauvre esprit."
Boileau, Addison found old and deaf, and so ignorant of
English literature, that he had scarcely ever heard the name
s 2

260 PROCEEDS ON JOURNEY WITH EDWARD WORTLEY MONTAGU.
of Dryden ; but the classical tastes of the aged savant, his
enthusiasm for Homer and Virgil, his hatred to all who did
not adequately value those poets, his critiques upon Fenelon
and CorneiUe interested Addison greatly.
Addison then proceeded on his journey -with Wortley
Montagu as his companion; his acquaintance with that
gentleman being, as he states, one of the most " fortunate
accidents of his travel." The great author of "The Spec
tator " appears to have had a much more keen sense of moral,
than of material beauty. The noble scenery of Geneva, which
he visited on his return, was thro-wn away on him ; and he
complains that in the Tyrol he had very little to amuse him,
excepA the " natural face of the country."
He returned to England confirmed, by what he had seen
in France and Italy, in his liberal opinions. Foreign travel
Ung, he always said, was the best cure for Jacobitism. In one
of bis papers in " The Freeholder," he makes a Tory fox-
hunter ask what travelling is good for, except " to teach a
man to jabber French, and to talk against passive obedience."
Addison was at Geneva when the news of King WilUam's
death crushed all his hopes ; his pension was stopped ; but he
had still his fellowship, to which he added by becoming tutor to
a young Englishman with whom he travelled in Switzerland
and Germany. He returned through Holland to England in
1703, having heard of his father's death on the way; and
that event was the forerunner of many privations and of much
anxiety. We now behold him, his pension stopped, in a garret up
three pairs of stairs, over a shop in the Haymarket. He
had pubUshed his travels and his work on " Medals ; " but no
signal fame ensued ; and the young author sat down dispirited,
poor, and, as it seemed, forgotten. But at this jimcture Lord
Halifax remembered him.
Lord Godolphin, then Lord Treasurer, was not a reading
man ; Ne-wmarket, the card table, and a lounge in the Friery

GODOLPHIN — WISHES ADDISON TO WRITE ON THE WAR. 261
where the far-famed Sarah of Marlborough then lived, filled
up his scanty leisure. But he was too sagacious not to appre
ciate poetry, and to comprehend the influence of literature,
and the advantages which had even then been derived by the
Whigs in their patronage of letters. Nothing could exceed
the bathos of most of the poems which the battle of Blen
heim, which took place in 1704, elucidated; witness the fol
lowing Unes, still extant in proof of the statement : —
" Think of two thousand gentlemen at least.
And each man mounted on his capering beast;
Into the Danube they were pushed by shoals."
Godolphin could negotiate war, he could lead the House
of Lords, he could equally well judge of race-horses and
game-cocks, cock-fighting being amongst his minor delights ;
but of poets he knew little. A poet, however, be thought
must be found to do justice to the battle of Blenheim, and
he consulted Halifax on the subject. "I do know," answered
Mouse Montagu, "a gentleman who could celebrate the
battle worthUy, but I will not name him." He had done his
best, he added, to encourage literature ; but his power to do so
no longer took the desired effect, — he declined giving ad-vice.
After some discussion, however, he was prevailed on to name
his pet poet, and he named Addison. But, he added, as the
matter to be propounded was task-work, the poet, paid as he
must be, should be propitiated with courtesy. Godolphin
sent off the Hon. Henry Boyle, then Chancellor of the
Exchequer, forthwith to that locality, the first notice of which
Cunningham says is in these lines of Suckling's ballad on a
wedding. " At Charing Cross, hard by the way.
Where we (thou knoVst) do sell our hay.
There is a house -with stairs ;
And there I did see coming do-wn,
Such folks as are not in our to-wn,
Forty, at least, in pairs."
S 3

262 ADDISON RECEIVES HENRY BOYLE IX HIS GARRET.
The Hay-market, since removed (in 1830), must have been
just before Addison's garret, on the east side of the street.
And here Boyle visited him. It was a curious sight : Addison
in his garret receiving the high-born Henry Boyle. The
re.sult was Addison's jioem " The Campaign," the great merit
of which, Dr. Johnson remarks, is the manly and rational
rejection of fiction. It was in this poem that the famous
similitude of Marlborough to an angel guiding the whirlwind
appeared. Allusion was also made to a terrific storm,
" Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd " —
the storm of November 1703. Whole fleets were cast away
in that tempest ; large mansions blown down ; a prelate buried
under the ruins of his palace; — London and Bristol half in
ruins ; trunks of huge trees and the shattered walls of houses
showing in many jjlaces the fearful deistruetion caused by the
blast : such was the reference to fact, and the success of the
" simile seems but," says a -writer in the Edinburgh Eeview,
" a remarkable instance of the advantage which the particular
bas over the general in rhetoric and poetry."
Never was jDoetry so forgotten, as Addison's " Campaign,"
so promptl}' rewarded. In 1705 he was made Under-secretary
of State, and accomi^anied Lord Halifax to Hanover, in order
to carry the decorations of the Garter to the Elector.
In 1708 Addison sat in the House of Commons as member
for Malnisbury. Athougb he was accounted even by the
fastidious Lady Mary Wortley Jlontagu to be "the best
company in the -n^orld," yet he was the most silent of silent
members. In his extreme reserve, that reserve which came
over him like a blight in the presence of strangers, Addison
must have resembled the late Lord Cockburn, the most
eloquent, the most charming, the most playful and humorous
of men among those whom be knew and understood, the
mo,st taciturn among strangers. Addison — Steele, who so
well appreciated him, said — "was above all men in that

Addison's conversation. 263
talent we call humour, and enjoyed it in such perfection,
that I have often reflected, after a night passed with him
apart from all the world, that I had had the pleasure of
conversing wdtb an intimate acquaintance of Terence and
Catullus, who had all their -wit and nature, heightened with
humour more exquisite and delightful than any other man
ever possessed." He alludes to "that smiling mirth, that
delicate satire and genteel raillery," which rendered so de
lightful — he wrote after his friend's death — "hours that
could return no more." " I say," Steele adds " when he is
as free from that remarkable bashfulness which is a cloak
that always hides and muffles merit."
Addison, in fact, thought that there was no real conversa
tion but between two persons. He called talking " thinking
aloud ; " of display he had no conception. To be the wit of a
diimer-table would have been gall and wormwood to one of
his sensitive and shrinking nature ; nevertheless, even Pope
could allow that Addison's conversation had something in it
more charming than that of any other man. " This," he adds,
"only with familiar friends; before even a single stranger he
preserved his dignity by a stiff silence." It bas been said that
he was never easy with his inferiors. Yet Young speaks of
his being full of vivacity in company, and going on in a " noble
stream of thought and language," so as to rivet the attention
of all hearers.
He had now, " without high birth, and -with very little pro
perty, risen to a position which," observes a writer of our own
day, " dukes, the heads of the great houses of Talbot, Eussell
and Bentinck have thought it an honour to fill." In 1709
the Marquis of Wharton, being appointed Lord-Lieutenant of
Ireland, constituted Addison his Secretary. He was also made
Keeper of the Eecords of that kingdom, in order to augment
his salary. So much bad literature done for him. Yet one
of his recent works had then been the unsuccessful opera of

264 HE ROSE TO FAME THROUGH THE PEN.
" Eosamond ; " it failed on the stage of the opera-house. He
published it, and dedicated it to the Duchess of jNIarlborougb,
" a woman," Dr. Johnson remarks, " without skill or preten
sions to skill, in literature or poetry." Addison's rise would
be unaccountable did we not consider that the pen was in those
days a more formidable engine than the tongue. It was the
only mode of communicating opinions to the country, when
the meagre reports of debates confined the most spirit-breath
ing eloquence almost wholly to the Houses of Parliament.
Hence, the chiefs of parties not only sought for able
auxiliaries in pamphleteering, but -wrote indefatigably them
selves. Walpole and Pulteney, the Pitt and Fox of an earlier
period, were laborious -vreiters in periodicals and pamphlets.
Pulteney edited the " Craftsman ; " Walpole wrote ten
pamphlets ; Addison, therefore, rose by those abilities which
were essential to the state, and which were then essential to
public men. Previously to the elevation of Addison, he had
assisted Steele in bis play of the " Tender Husband ; " and
had written a humorous prologue to that piece. Steele,
on the other hand, surprised him -with a dedication of
that play to him. In after life Steele honestly declared in
the concluding paper of the seventh volume of the " Spec
tator," that many of the " applauded strokes " in the " Tender
Husband " came from the pen of Addison ; " and that he
thought very meanly of himself that he had publicly avowed
it." It is pleasant to observe, at this time, the even flow of
friendly converse which was maintained between Addison
and Steele. So long as they were votaries chiefly of the
Muses, they were linked to each other in the firmest bonds ;
but politics in that era could sever the tenderest friends.
Addison had, however, a softness of address, a sweetness and
courtesy which gave his great coUoquial powers an infinite
charm. He was also Steele's truest, fondest, most anxious
and judicious friend. The old proverb, "short accounts
make long friends," was never> however, violated with im-

LENDS STEELE MONEY — EXCUSE IN GETTING IT BACK AGAIN. 265
punity. Addison lent Steele long sums ; and, as usual, was
severely censured when he wanted them back again. You are
an angel when you lend, a demon when you ask to be paid.
We have seen bow Addison reclaimed the thousand pounds
lent to Steele in 1708. For that apparently harsh measure
those who weakly rely on ex parte evidence, have blamed
the best friend that ever lent his hard earnings to another.
There can be but little doubt that Addison saw that the
most reckless waste, and endless dissipation, precluded all
hopes of his being repaid except by severe measures. From
tavern to tavern went Steele, when he could as well have
stayed at home ; and money which it had cost Addison days of
labour to accumulate, was, no doubt, lavished on unworthy
objects by a man of the best resolutions and the worst actions
possible. In the spring of 1709, the first idea of the " Tatler "
was formed by Steele. Periodical -writing was then chiefly
confined to politics, and was low in value: Steele's old
occupation as Gazetteer suggested to him something better
than the meagre papers of the day, productions long since for
gotten in our time. Steele, therefore, thought of something
on a new plan, — a paper which should contain not only the
foreign news, but dissertations on the sta.ge and the gossip of
the taverns and the clubs. Three times a week only did the
post leave London for the country, and on those three days,
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, was the " Tatler " to
leave also. "VVTiat a boon to the country squire by his fire
side ! What a hope for the solitary spinster in her lodging
in Bath or Tunbridge ! What an excitement for the very
clubs and taverns, which furnished so great a part of the
material of which Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., Astrologer, the sup
posed editor of these new papers, constructed his essays and
criticisms ! But then there was no one in that, or perhaps in
any other time, so fitted for the " Tatler " office as Steele.
He knew many phases of that which was, par excellence.

266 THE SOCIETY SEEN AND DESCRIBED BY STEELE.
called society in those days. He consorted with the learned'
at the table of Lord Somers ; Halifax supplied him with the
opportunity of meeting with the witty and the fashionable ;
the creme de la creme was to be enjoyed at Congreve's
jDarties : Lady Burlington, to whom he addressed the " Ladies'
Library," and Mrs. Katherine Bovey, supplied him -with
models of the cultivated English female; whilst with Lord
A^Taarton and at the Kit-Cat Club everything good and bad
was to be found. But not only in this highly inteUectual and
courtly society was Steele initiated fully, butin what was called
the " town " — for an acquaintance with which he had bartered
peace of mind and ease of circumstances. The "town"
comprised all that under-current of social life in which the
daily wants of the genteel poor comes commingled with their
scrambling pleasures, and hourly difficulties. The " town "
took in also " all pleasant vices," had little to do -with crimes,
much with absurdities and peculiarities. Tavern life, theatre
life — the pulpit also, as well as the stage, all came under the
denomination of the " town," which comprehended all classes^
from the jaunty milUner to the man in office.
Isaac Bickerstaff was a personage already partially known
to the public, Steele having assumed the name to head a
satirical attack on Partridge, the almanac maker.
The publication of the paper had not been imparted to
Addison, but, as soon as he knew of it, he resolved to give the
scheme his best help. Steele generously acknowledged the
immense advantage of this assistance. " I fared," he said,
" like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbour
to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary. When I had
once called him in, I could not subsist without dependence
on him. The paper was advanced indeed. It was raised to
a greater thing than I intended it." In so generous a spirit
did these devoted friends act, at this time, in concert ; their
freedom from rivalry, their courteous tributes to each other,
form a model of chivalric authorship, as one may term it, and

SUPERIORITY OF THE "SPECTATOR." 267
present a strong contrast with the spirit of our own time.
If Addison conferred a benefit on Steele, Steele did a service
to Addison; for he drew forth those powers so rich, so
various, so precious, even now, for Addison's works are
never obsolete, which shone dimly in the "Tatler," com
pared with the radiance of genius which breaks forth in
the "Spectator." In pure, easy, elegant English, Addison
was unrivalled. Still it is only to a limited degree to
language that he owes his eminence. On this point it
has been truly said that " had he clothed his thoughts
in the half French style of Horace Walpole, or in the half
Latin style of Dr. Johnson, or in the half German jargon
of the present day, his genius would have triumphed over all
faults of manner."
Dr. Johnson observes, " for instruction in common life,
nothing is so proper as frequent publication of short papers,
which are read not as a study, but amusement. If the
subject be slight, the treatise likewise is short. The busy
may find time and the idle may find patience." We be
lieve it is impossible to conceive the good done to society
by the " Tatler" and " Spectator," the latter more especially,
since it has less of the coarseness of the age ; it holds out
nobler motives, it contains a purer morality, it is, with infi
nitely more wit, far more earnest than its predecessor. The
learned Dr. Parr used to say to young men introduced to
him speciaUy for advice on literary subjects, or, with a view
to education, " Sir, read the ' Spectator,' you can never be
weary of doing so. It is incomparably the best book of the
language." It is true that -with the Augustan age, as it was called,
there appeared a greater restraint of wit, a greater decency
of manners, a higher standard of morals, than the world in
England had known since the days of Charles I. Anne was
eminently proper. Every woman ought to admire her, every
man will ; for men are stricter (when gentlemen) than women

268 .PROPRIETY OP QUEEN ANNE.
in such matters, in" that she would not consent to have her
image dispersed among her subjects -with the bare neck and
shoulders usually assigned to regal ladies. She ordered her
bust on the coin to be draped, and in like manner she abhorred
indecency, and countenanced the homely ways which tend to
virtue, if they do not constitute it. Her favourites among her
own sex were women of character. She was strict in her
requirements from men of a general respectability. So far,
part of the land was cleared for Addison and Steele when
they came, not with sermons, but with real and invented
characters to reform with playful satire the corrupted con
dition which had succeeded the Eestoration. The mirth of
Addison was ever innocent, fresh, and kindly. " The mirth
of Swift," it is remarked, " was that of Mephistopheles. The
mirth of Voltaire is the mirth of Puck ; " but that of Addi
son is " consistent with tender compassion for all that is
frail, and -with profound reverence for all that is sublime."
" Every morning," says a writer in the " British Journal," *
" were the readers of the ' Spectator ' instructed in some new
principle of duty ; " good nature and good sense became
habitual to them, through the medium of that single half
sheet, " which did more good than all the pulpit discourses
in a year put together." We quote from the opinions of a
contemporary. In order to prevent mistakes Addison's papers were always
marked by some letter in the word CLIO. The " Spec
tator " was regarded as an expansion of the " Tatler," and
among other stipulations made by Addison in undertaking it,
it was arranged that no ephemeral matters should appear
in it, and that all political allusions should be avoided,
whilst the general line should be liberal. The " Spectator "
himself was the conception of Addison ; an imaginary gentle
man, who, after studying at the University had travelled on
* For Sept. 1 3th, 1729.

THE " SPECTATOR." 269
classic ground, and become a classical antiquary. On re
turning to London he sees every variety of Ufe ; he has been
an habitue of Willis's, where -wits congregated ; he has smoked
-with the philosophers at the Grecian, and mixed with politi
cians and fine ladies. You see the " Spectator " in the Ex
change, you may watch him every evening in the pit of
Drury Lane ; but his shyness is invincible, and he never speaks
to you ; in fact, the bashful man is Joseph Addison himself.
He lives — so to speak — with a small circle of intimate
friends, whom Steele sketched, and whose portraits Addison
finished. Four of them fiU up the background ; to -wit, the
clergyman, the soldier, the Templar, and the merchant, and
the background is good enough for them; but two of the
friends are those inimitable characters. Sir Eoger de Coverley
and Will Honeycomb, whom, to our dying day we cannot
but recall -with pleasure.
Will Honeycomb, Esq., the old beau, with jaunty air,
easy motion, sudden laugh, management of snuff-box, and
white hands and teeth, gained the admiration of the fair, was
supposed to be Colonel Cleland, a friend both of Addison and
Steele ; and a letter prefixed to the eighth volume of the
" Spectator " is said to have been written by Eustace Budgell.
His character was taken in hand by Addison, through the
conception of Steele.
Sir Eoger de Coverley was Addison's favourite conception,
and he was especially annoyed when Steele, taking the old
knight into his own hands, vulgarised him by making him
commit an act of immorality ; on which Addison went to
Steele and made him promise that he would not meddle with
Sir Eoger again ; and as be expressed it to an intimate friend,
resolved to move Sir Eoger out of the way, — and that no one
else might murder him, he resolved to kill him himself.
Whilst every essay in the " Spectator " can be read -with
pleasure in its distinct form, the whole constitutes a consistent
narrative, and that whole delineates the manners of every-

270 A PICTURE OF DOMESTIC MANNERS.
day life in England at that time, with a perfection that is the
more astonishing when we consider the number and variety of
the papers. Hitherto the familiar novel -with which our own
day abounds, existed not. Eichardson was then a compositor,
not an author ; so that the masterly insight into English Ufe
which bis works afford was unknown to the envied readers
in the Augustan age. The events in the " Spectator '' are
such as happen to us every day. The most trifling incident
elicits stories or reflections ; the girl's face half seen over the
window blind; the parish clerk, who, being a gardener,
dresses up Covent Garden Church till he makes it a grove, and
till no one can flirt at church between the evergreens ; the
poultry yard at Sir Eoger de Coverley's, — are all touches of
famiUar Ufe which continually recur to remembrance in our
daily existence. The " Spectator " ever lives with us, is our
friend, our associate, our storyteller, one to whom, were he
living, we could give our confidence: — and betray— a gi'eat
proof of liking — our weaknesses.
Then what a master in manners he was. No one condemns
prudery so much as Addison : no one so deprecates levity, or
draws the Une between too great -vivacity and too great
reserve. It is curious to find him dreading the effects of
peace and the contamination of French morals in 1710-11,
and -wishing that there were an act of parliament to prevent
the importation of French fopperies. " What an inundation
of ribbons and brocades," he cries, " shall we be exposed to !
What peals of laughter and impertinence ? " It appeared
that very strong impressions, from what Addison caUs the
"ludicrous nation," had been received by English women
even in his day.
He remembered the time when weU-bred ladies employed
a valet de chambre instead of a waiting-maid, because, for
sooth, a man was more bandy about them than a woman ; and,
simultaneously -with this practice was the custom for ladies to
receive visitors in bed. " It was then looked upon as a piece

CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DAY. 271
of ill-breeding for a woman to refuse to see a man, because
she was not stirring ; " and a porter who refused to admit the
male visitor would have been deemed unfit for his place.
" As I love to see everything that is new," he writes, " I once
prevailed upon my friend Will Honeycomb to carry me along
-with him to one of these travelled ladies, desiring him, at the
same time, to present me as a foreigner who could not speak
English, that so I might not be obliged to bear a part in the
discourse. The lady, though willing to appear undressed,
had put on her best looks and painted herself for our recep
tion. Her hair appeared in a very nice disorder, as the
night-go-wn, which was thrown upon her shoulders, was ruffied
with great care."
' The fast young lady of the nineteenth century is only,
it seems, a descendant from one of the same species in the
eighteenth ; when to speak loud in public, and to let every
one hear you speak of things that ought only to be whispered,
were parts, says the " Spectator," of a refined education.
This also he deduces from the French. A blush was un
fashionable, and silence more ill-bred than anything that
could be spoken. Discretion and modesty were considered as
betraying narrowness of mind. Then his description of a lady
of quality at a theatre, exemplifies what he thus decries.
" Some years ago I was at the tragedy of ' Macbeth,' and
unfortunately placed myself under a woman of quality that is
since dead, who, as I found by the noise she made, was newly
come from France. A little before the rising of the curtain
she broke out into a loud soliloquy, ' 'When will the dear
witches enter ? ' And immediately, on their first appearance,
asked a lady that sat three boxes from her, on the right hand,
if those ' -witches were not charming creatures ? ' "
How true it is that Addison restored virtue to its dignity,
and taught innocence not to be alarmed.* The dregs of that
* Dr. Johnson.

272 ADDISON PURIFIED LITERATURE.
cup, which was pledged to gallantry and vice in the days of
Charles IL, were not cleansed away when the " Spectator "
came forward " to dissipate the prejudice that had long con
nected gaiety -with -vice, and easiness of manners -with laxity
of principles."
That such a mission was requisite as that of a social
reformer, was manifest; — that it was acceptable, is proved by
the unprecedented popularity of the " Spectator." To Steele,
like-wise, is due much of the credit of that gentle revolution,
or rather improvement in our view of common matters, and
also in our notions of the all-important subjects of love and
marriage, which the " Spectator " introduced. Before the
era we now describe, marriages among the higher classes
were conducted as in France, on a principle of convenance ;'
and to this antiquated system may be ascribed most of the
immorality which was only a part of a fine gentleman's cha
racter in the eighteenth century ; and much, I write it in
solemn sadness, of the married infelicity of the French. There
is something so affectionate in the French nature, as we see in
the parental and fiUal tie, — (stronger there than in England,)
— something so kindly, that when a Frenchman marries for
love, he makes the best husband in the world. As it is in
France now, so it was in England until after the Augustan
age commenced. Love, as portrayed by De Grammont and
other -writers of the bygone age, was sensual, inconstant, and
therefore selfish and remorseless. It was a scourge, not a
passion ; and the coarseness in which all allusions to marriage
are couched, and the debased views of that tie, continued
until holier and higher sentiments came into fashion. There
had been a time when such degraded ideas of marriage and
love were not universal. Surrey and Wyatt have taught us
that deUcacy of sentiment existed even under the Tudor
Harry ; but a long interregnum of very different convictions
had intervened between the age of those two chivalric and
noble-hearted men, and that of Queen Anne.

Steele's notion op love and marriage. 273
To Steele are owing some of the most refined notions of
love that have ever been expressed in the language.
" I ten thee, love is Nature's second sun.
Causing a spring of virtues -where he shines ;
And, as without the sun, the -world's great eye,
All colours, beauties both of art and nature.
Are given in vain to men ; so -without love
All beauties bred in women are vain ;
All -virtues bred in men lie buried ;
For love reforms them as the sun doth colours."*
Such were Steele's sentiments. How exquisite is his tale
of Theodosius and Constantia ; how grateful to the feelings
the respectful, pure attachment of his " Conscious Lovers."
We forgive Steele his touch of coarseness in the character
of Sir Eoger de Coverley, and are wUling to beUeve that -with
the kindest, tenderest heart that ever woman commanded, he
combined the most deUcate conceptions of love, and the most
earnest and holy views of marriage.
To the improvement in manners and morals the advance
of good taste and the restoration of true art to the stage may
have contributed. To this both Addison and Steele con
tributed. A hundred years had indeed passed away since Henslowe's
Diary (dated March 1598-9) had given an account, each item
stated with grave simplicity, of the properties used in the
Miracle Plays : rock, cage, tomb — hell-mouth especially was
one of the oldest properties in the miracle plays and morali
ties; in Addison's time the taste which delighted in the
" descending of a god, the rising of a ghost, or the vanishing
of a devil," was as general as ever. A ghost, especially if in a
blood-stained shirt, was an especial favourite with an English
audience. " A spectre has very often saved a play, though he
has done nothing more than stalked across the stage, or rose
through a cleft of it, or sunk again without speaking one
* From George Chapman's comedy of "All Fools.'' See Collier's History of
Dramatic Poetry, vol. iii. p. 257.
VOL. I. T

274 PRODUCTION OF THE PLAY OF " CATO."
word." So Addison tells us. The sounding of the clock in
" Venice Preserved " shook the hearts of the audience more
than words could do, whilst the ghost in " Hamlet " he holds
to be a master-piece.
Still he deprecated these appeals to the senses, both in
tragedy and in comedy. A lover running about the stage,
with his head peeping out of a barrel, was, he observes, thought
a very good joke in the reign of Charles IL, and invented by
one of the greatest -wits of that time.
The sale of the " Spectator " was great, yet Swift declares
that the " Spectator " had begun to weary his readers before
he retired : and ridiculed his endless mention of the " fair
sex." The year 1713, in which was produced the tragedy
of " Cato," is reported to have been the grand climacteric
of Addison's reputation. The notion of this celebrated play
was the characteristic scheme of Addison, in his University
days. One may easily conceive him meditating upon it in
what is still called Addison's Walk, in Magdalene Gardens :
the tall trees interlacing overhead : the noble towers of
Magdalene Chapel seen at intervals through the openings in
the avenue ; the placid stream beyond in the meadows — all
these were the calm accompaniments of Addison's projects
and aspirations.
Whilst on his travels he put his scheme into execution, and
brought back " Cato " in manuscript, to be read to a few chosen
friends, who persuaded Addison to bring it on the stage, as they
thought the notions of liberty seasonable. Colley Cibber was
then manager of Drury Lane, where it was brought out, and
a young actor, the celebrated Booth, made his fortune by his
appearance in the part of Cato. It had a run of a month,
and was then stopped only by the inability of one of the
actors to perform. The Queen, hearing of its great success,
sent to say she would like to have the play dedicated to her :
but Addison had already destined that compUment for the
Duchess of Marlborough, and therefore declined.

STEELE PACKS AN AUDIENCE — HE IS KNIGHTED. 275
" Cato " was brought on the stage at much expense : for
Addison made a present of the proceeds of the representa
tions to Cibber ; and Cibber felt himself bound to do it every
justice. It must have been very interesting to have seen
Addison, night after night, wander through the whole exhi
bition behind the scenes, -with restless and unappeasable soli
citude. " Cato," Pope wrote to Sir WUliam Trumbull, " was
not so much the wonder of Eome in his days as he is of
Britain in ours ; and though all the foolish industry possible
has been used to make it thought a party play, yet what the
author once most properly said of another may the most
properly in the world be applied to him on this occasion :
" ' En-vy itself is dumb, in wonder lost.
And factions strive who shall applaud him most.'
The numerous and loud claps of the Whig party on the
one side of the theatre were echoed back by the Tories
on the other ; while the author sweated behind the scenes
with concern to find their applause proceeding more from the
hand than the head."
Steele, as he himself relates, undertook to pack an audience,
a measure which had been for the first time tried for " The
Distressed Mother." The least attractive parts of the play
were the love scenes, which are said to have been added by
Pope, in compliance with the popular taste ; but Dr. Johnson
throws a doubt on that statement.
Meantime, Steele's fortunes were brightening. The death
of Queen Anne brought the Whigs again into the ascendant,
and George I., on his accession, appointed Steele Surveyor
of the Stables at Hampton Court, and governor of the Eoyal
Company of Comedians. In April 1715, Steele having been
put into the commission of the peace had to present an ad
dress to his Majesty; he was then knighted, and shortly
afterwards elected member for Boroughbridge, in the new
Parliament.

276 MAKES A GREAT DISPLAY ON THE KING's BIRTHDAY.
Steele had still every possible reason for being prudent.
Nevertheless, in compliment to the King, he made a grand
display on the birthday of the sovereign, and treated above a
hundred ladies and gentlemen at his house, the day on which
his royal master entered his fiftieth year.
Previously to Steele's festivities, Steele, introduced by the
Duke of Newcastle, had presented to George I. an address
framed in language which must have excited the liveliest
passion in the Jacobite ladies ; for that " faction," as Steele
styles it, was then haut ton of that period.
"Most Gracious Sovereign," it begins, "it is impossible
for us to express to your Majesty our just grief and indigna
tion at the unnatural efforts which have been made by wicked
men, to disturb your government, and prepare the way for
an outlaw, who disputes your right,"* — and ends thus:
" That your Majesty may always enjoy the glorious character
of being the father of your people, and the friend of mankind,
while all your faithful subjects contend to have it said of
them, that they lived and died freemen, is the hearty prayer
of your Majesty's most faithful subject,
" E. S."
The birthday entertainment consisted of all manner of
sweetmeats in pyramids, — of the most generous wines, such
as Burgundy and Champagne, and was ushered in with a
prologue, written by Addison's friend Tickell, and spoken by
Mrs. Younger ; and concluded with an epilogue written by
" Sir Eiehard " and spoken by Wilks the actor, who was very
merry and free -with his own character. Two hundred ladies
and gentlemen were assembled ; and after the " entertain
ment," which seems to have been partly musical, partly
dramatic, was ended, a large table that stood in the area of
the concert-house, was taken away, to make room for dancing,
which was performed " with great decency and regularity."
* Steele's Letters, vol ii. p. 385.

STEELE S MODE OF GETTING MONEY. 277
Minuets, doubtless, opened the ball ; it was probably ended
-with Sir Eoger de Coverley, a dance which, Addison says, was
named after the grandfather of his hero. An ode of Horace
was set to music for this occasion.
The means for these gay doings, were, it seems very pro
bable, found in the large sum of 500L given to Welsted, a
clerk in one of the offices of state, a protege of Steele's. In
the notes on the Dunciad, Welsted was censured for having
received 500?. for writing anonymously for the ministry.
The following letter clears the fame of Welsted ; and shows,
at the same time, how low political men in that day stood.
Steele's terms " outlaw " and " pretender," in the address, were
well paid for. "Speaker's Chambers, Aug. 14th, I7I5.*
"Dear Prue,
" I -write this before I go to Lord Marlborough's, to
let you know that there was no one at the Treasury but
Kelsey, with whom Welsted left the order, and he is to be at
the Treasury to-morrow between two and three, when, with
out doubt, the money will be paid."
" I have no hopes from that or an3rtbing else, but by dint
of riches, to get the government of your ladyship. — Yours,
" EicHARD Steele."
Eelating a story in the " Englishman," of a poor man -with
a torn neckcloth, who received the intimation of a 10,000L
prize in the lottery -with perfect sang-froid, he adds : — "I
would much rather have had his temper than his fortune, for
had it happened to me, I should have given it, like a slave as
I am, to a woman who despises me without it." Again, Sir
Eiehard sneers at his wife's love of money in the following-
postscript. "Your man Sam owes me threepence, which must be de-
* Steele's Cor. vol. ii. p. 383. t Itid. p. 384.
T 3

278 DEBT PURSUES HIM.
ducted in the account between you and me ; therefore, pray
take care to get it in, or stop it.'' It would be well if he had
imitated his wife's prudence. Debt pursued him through
life, and poisoned all the happiness he had in looking on
children whom he feared would be paupers ; and on a wife
who had his fondest affections. Like most public men he
met with ingratitude : he had, he owned, a quick sense of ill-
treatment, yet he strove to keep up his own spirits and good
humour. " Whenever I am a malcontent," -writes this most
amiable of thoughtless men, " I will take care not to be a
gloomy one, but hope to keep some stings of wit and humour
in my o-wn defence." He had, when he wrote that letter
(undated), " not twenty shillings from court favour." Poor
Steele ; never was he so happy as in the society of his chil
dren — himself a child. " Your son," he wrote to Lady Steele
from Hampton Court, " is mighty well employed in tumbling
on the floor of the room, and sweeping the sand with a feather.
He grows a most delightful child, and very full of play and
spirit." " We are very intimate friends and playfellows ; he
begins to be very ragged, and I hope I shall be pardoned if
I equip him with new cloaks and frocks, or what Mr. Evans
and I shall think for his service."
It was the old story ; devoted to his -wife, Steele had many
differences with her on money matters. What she called
thoughtless expenditure he termed suitable generosity ; doubt
less she was right. Steele had an immense love of display ;
he reproached his -wife that she was not fond enough of dress;
that she had no -wash to shine out, even at his expense.
" Condescend to be," he adds, " what nature made you, the
most beauteous and most agreeable of your sex." Then he
puts in a significant postscript: "A quarter of Mollys
schooling is paid." Though " he abhorred debt as much as
treason," he was for ever -writing to his dear, honoured,
lovely Prue, either that he would search Pall Mall for a
house, or about a new carriage and traffic in horses ; all of

HIS LETTERS TO " PRUE." 279
which news seems always to have given sincere vexation to
" Prue." Gout was coming on ; he owns to a little intem
perance and to much repentance ; he would work his brains
and fingers to procure plenty of means, and would ask nothing
of Lady Steele in return but " to take delight in agreeable
dresses, cheerful discourses, and gay sights, attended by him."
Then, about his children, one extract more from the letters of
this most good-natured man and fond parent : —
" Mrs. MoU grows a mighty beauty, and she shall be very
prettUy dressed, as like-wise shall be Betty and Eugene ; and
if I throw away a little money in adorning my brats I hope
you -will forgive me. They are, I thank God, all very well ;
and the charming figure of their mother has tempered the
Ukeness they bear to their rough sire."
The trial of the Earl of Oxford, the Bangorian controversy,
and the profits and business of his commissions, are the
subjects of many of Steele's letters at this time. An amusing
accoimt of Ins visit to the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough
at Blenheim diversifies the biography of this most agreeable
man. In the summer of 1718 Sir Eiehard Steele, in company
with Bishop Hoadly and Dr. Samuel Clarke, paid a visit to
Blenheim. The great duke had some months before been
attacked -with palsy, but was still well enough to take
much interest in the representation of " All for Love,"
which was got up by Lady Bateman, his granddaughter,
by Lady Sunderland, and several persons in the neigh
bourhood. Lady Bateman had asked Sir Eiehard Steele to write a
prologue for the occasion ; but he had not at that time com
plied. She expressed her disappointment ; upon which Bishop
Hoadly asked one evening for pen, ink, and paper, and the
next morning presented a prologue to the lady, who spoke it
in the evening, before the Duke and Duchess, the former
shedding tears as he listened to a compliment from the child
T 4

280 ANECDOTE OF STEELE.
of his favourite daughter to himself. When the Bishop and
Sir Eiehard were passing through the hall of Blenheim House
to take their departure, Steele whispered to Dr. Hoadly,
seeing an array of servants in rich liveries, " Does your lord
ship give money to all these fellows in laced coats and ruffies ? "
" No doubt,'' said the Bishop. " I have not enough," Steele
whispered ; then turning to the servants, he accosted them in
a speech, saying, as he had found that they were " men of
taste,'' he invited them all, as such, to Drury Lane, to see
whatever play they chose, " he having then a share in the
patent," which he owed to the friendship of the Duke of
Marlborough. All the contentions and doubts, the remonstrances on one
side, the promises and professions on the other, so long mark
ing the correspondence between Sir Eiehard and Lady Steele
came to a sudden termination. In December 1718 he thus
writes to Alexander Scurlock, the cousin of Lady Steele : —
Dec. 27th, 1718.
" Dear Cousin,
" This is to let you know that my dear and honoured
wife departed this life last night.
" I desire my Aunt Scurlock and Mrs. Bevan, and you
yourself, would immediately go into mourning, and place the
charge for such mourning of those two ladies and your o-wn to
the account of, Sir,
" Your most affectionate kinsman,
" And most humble servant,
"Eich. Steele."
The loved and tormented " Prue " was buried in West
minster Abbey, with this inscription merely on her grave
stone : — "Dame Mary Steele, wife of Sir Eiehard Steele,
Knight, daughter and sole heiress to Jonathan Scurlock, Esq.,
of the county of Carmarthen, died Dec. 26, 1718, aged 40

STEELE S LETTERS: HOW PRESERVED. 281
years, leaving issue one son and two daughters, Eugene,
EUzabeth, and Mary."
The letters to which so copious a reference has been made,
with the endeavour to present Steele's character in a domestic
point of view, were fondly treasured by Sir Eichard's eldest
daughter, Elizabeth, afterwards Lady Trevor. At her death
they came into the possession of her relative and executor,
the Eev. David Scurlock, of Lovehill Place, Langley, Bucks ;
who, in writing to Mr. NichoUs, the editor of Steele's
Letters, mentions the following fact : —
" Steele and Addison -wrote the ' Spectator ' chiefly in the
room where I now write ; they rented the house from my father.
Though I have lately built a new house, I have religiously
reserved the old part which is attached to it, and have made
it my sanctum sanctorum. Oh ! that it would inspire me
with the genius that once inhabited it.
"Yours, &c.
"David Scurlock."
In spite of this aspiration, Mr. Scurlock does not appear
to have been a literary character ; for he never found time to
collect and edit Steele's letters ; and at his death, the corre
spondence was found mixed up with some of his own letters,
and was sent to Mr. NichoUs by JMrs. Scurlock with permission
to pubUsh. Steele survived his wife eleven years. It was
during the year 1718, and most likely after the death of his
prudent Prue, that he obtained a patent for bringing fish to
market alive, and published an " account of his fish pond."
Yet, projector as he was, he wrote, in 1720, against the South
Sea scheme, two pieces, one caUed " The Crisis of Property,"
the other, " The Nation a Family."
He was always poor, and had the elements of poverty
within him. Speculative, generous, fond of show, somewhat
dissipated, at all events, very convivial, what hope was theut
of his being rich? He was also unlucky. In 1721, his

282 STEELE,
patent as Governor of the Eoyal Company of Comedians was
arbitrarily revoked by George I., and poor Steele lost 10,OOOL
He produced, however, in 1722, his play of the "Conscious
Lovers," and the King made him a present (that beautiful
comedy being dedicated to his unimaginative Majesty) of five
hundred pounds.
Few letters of Steele's, except some short and tender ones
to his children, now display those feelings which had been
frankly poured out to Prue. In 1721 he thus commenced a
diary for the perusal of his three children.
" April Ath, 1721 . — I have lately had a fit of sickness which
has awakened in me, amongst other things, a sense of the Uttle
care I have taken of my own family. And as it is natural
for men to be more affected with the actions and sufferings
and observations upon the rest of the world, set down by
their predecessors, than by what they receive from other men,
I have taken a resolution to write down in this book, as
in times of leisure I may have opportunity, things past, or
things that may occur hereafter, for the perusal and con
sideration of my son Eugene Steele and his sisters EUzabeth
Steele and Mary Steele, my beloved children.
" Easter Sunday, April 9th, 1721. — After repeated perusal
of Dr. Tillotson's ' Seventh Sermon,' and after having done
certain acts of benevolence and charity to some needy persons,
I went this day to the Holy Sacrament. In addition to the
proper prayers of the church, I framed for my private use on
this occasion the following prayer : —
" 0 Almighty God, I prostrate myself before Thy Divine
Majesty, in hopes of mercy for all my former transgressions,
through the merits of thy Son, Jesus Christ.
" Thou art my Maker, and knowest my infirmities, appetites
and passions, and the miserable habit of mind which I have
contracted through a guilty indulgence of them." Then, after
a beautiful prayer for grace, he concludes : " Lord, 0 Lord,
receive a broken and contrite heart."

HIS SISTER* 283
Another entry is very characteristic of poor Steele ; san
guine and imprudent in every stage of his life.
« April 29th, 1721.— I this day purchased fifteen assign
ments in the Fishpool, undertaking with a promissory note to
deliver to Mr. Eobert Wilke (who sold them to me), a bond
of five hundred pounds upon demand, the said bond to be
payable two years after this date."
To his daughters he recommended the example of their
mother : they were placed under the care of Mrs. Keck, an
excellent friend of Lady Steele's. He was most solicitous for
their welfare, even to their handwriting, warning his "Betty"
against flourishes — the fashion of the day, yet enforcing on
them the rare merit of exactness in writing. In these chil
dren certain trials awaited him. Elizabeth, indeed, grew up
beautiful and intelligent ; she became after her father's death
the -wife of John Lord Trevor, and was universally beloved
and respected.
Steele had one sister, Katherine, who was insane for some
time before her death ; to her he allowed thirty pounds a
year, and ten pounds a year for her companion. But the
chief object of his distress, in the latter part of his life, was
the diseased condition of his son Eugene, who suffered dread
fully from an internal disorder. In October 1723, Eiehard
-writes from Bath to his daughter that he had gone to that
place -with a very hea-vy heart ; in November, the news of
Eugene's death reached him. " Do you and your sister," he
-wrote to Elizabeth, " stay at home, and do not go to the
funeral. Lord grant me patience."
His letters were now chiefly dated from Hereford, where he
lodged in the house of a mercer who received his rents ; these
amounted to 6001. a year, and after the death of his wife
came to Steele. His debts, it appears, from a memoranda
on a slip of paper, in his handwriting, amounted to 608Z.
for the liquidation of which he set apart a portion of his
income. Besides his three children by Lady Steele, Sir

284 Steele's natural daughter — addison's troubles:
Eiehard had a claim on his parental offices, which few men
would have regarded in the light in which he viewed it.
This was a natural daughter, whose mother was a relation
of Tonson's the bookseller. Steele brought up this child
with his own daughters, so that Elizabeth Steele imbibed the
strongest affection for her ; he educated her carefully, and
gave her the same name (EUzabeth) as that of her legitimate
sister. At one time Steele had destined this Elizabeth to
become the wife of Eiehard Savage, and had intended to give
her a dot of a thousand pounds ; but the vicious, ungrateful
conduct of the reprobate poet disgusted him, and Elizabeth
became the -wife of Mr. Arguston.
Chequered as was Steele's private life, it was far less in
felicitous than that of his friend Addison. In middle age,
just before the beginning of that great work the " Spectator,"
Addison lost, as he wrote to Wortley Montagu, both his
place, an estate in the Indies, and bis mistress; his place was
worth 20001. a year ; who or what his mistress was, whether
Mistress SachevereU or some other lady, does not appear.
This, however, is certain, that Addison married for ambitious
motives, and was wretched. " Of the estate in the Indies,"
Miss Aikin remarks, "no other notice has been found; and
concerning the mistress he complains of having lost nothing
has been discovered."
The following letter from Addison to Charles Earl of
Halifax, is very characteristic of the prudent complaining
man, whose delicacy did not interfere to prevent his pressing
claims which a man of his station would in these days hesitate
at any rate to prefer : — " Nov. 30th, I7I4.
" My Lord,
" Finding that I have miscarried in my pretentions to
the Board of Trade, I shall not trouble your lordship with my
resentments of the unhandsome treatment I have met with

HIS LETTER TO LORD HALIFAX. 285
from some of our new great men, in every circumstance of
that affaire, but must beg leave to expresse my gratitude to
your Lordship for the great favour you have sho-wn me on
this occasion which I shall never forget. Young Cragges told
me about a week ago that His Ma*'% tho' he did not think
fit to gratifie me in this particular, designed to give me a
recompense for my ser-vice imder the Lord Justices, in which
case your Lordship will probably be consulted. Since I find
I am never to rise above the station in which I first entered
upon publick businesse (for I now begin to look upon myself
like an old sergeant or corporal), I would willingly turn my
secretaryships in which I have served five different masters,
to the best advantage I can, and as your Lordship is the only
patron I glory in and have a dependence on, I hope you will
honour me -with your countenance in this particular. If I am
offered lesse than a thousand pounds I shall beg leave not to
accept it, since it will look more like a clerk's wages than a
marke of His Majesty's favour. I verily believe that H. M.
may think I had fees and perquisites belonging to me under
the Lord Justices, but though I was offered a present by the
South Sea Company, I never took that nor anything else for
what I did, as knowing I h|?d no right to it. Were I of
another temper, my present place in Ireland might be as
profitable to me as some have represented it. I humbly beg
your Lordship's pardon for the trouble of such a letter, and
do assure your Lordship that one of the greatest pleasures
I shall receive in what ever I get from the government will
be its enabling me to promote your honour and interest
more effectually. I am informed Mr. Yard, besides a place
and an annual recompense for serving the Lord Justices
under King William, had considerable fees, and was never
at the charge of getting himself elected in to the House of
Commons. " I beg your Lordship will give me leave to adde y* I believe

286 PURCHASES A HOUSE AT BILSTON.
I am the first man that ever drew up a P. of Wales's pre
amble, without so much as a medal for my pains.
" My Lord,
" Your Lordship's most obedient, and most
humble servant, "J. Addison."*
Addison had acted, as many men of talent at either univer
sity often do, as a tutor in a noble family. It happened that
one of his pupils was Sir John Eushout, the second baronet
of that name, and ancestor of the Northwick family. The
original portrait of Addison by KneUer was painted for that
pupil, who died in 1705.
In spite of Addison's losses, nevertheless, he found means,
in 1711, to purchase the house and grounds of Bilston, near
Eugby, his brother Gulston assisting in the purchase money.
Addison had, for some time, fixed his abode at Kensington,
in order, it is said, to be near Holland House, and to attend
at once to the education of its young occupant, Eiehard Earl
of Warwick, and to engage the favour of his mother the
Countess. Be that as it may, his friend Wortley Montagu
seems to have been unable to i»duce him to leave the neigh
bourhood. That he was the young Earl's tutor is extremely
doubtful : there seem, indeed, to have been but two periods
in Addison's busy Ufe in which he could have regularly ful
filled such an office ; that of his residence in Oxford, and that
of his travelling in Italy ; now, whilst Addison was traveUing,
Lord Warwick was in his cradle. Even Dr. Drake, who could
have discovered anything, had there been anything to dis
cover, has been unable in his "Essays illustrative of the
' Tatler,' ' Spectator,' and ' Guardian,' " to bring any one fact
to bear upon the question.
* Additional MSS. 7121, pp. 15 and 16. From a volume of MS. letters to
Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax, from various people of the time.

ADDISON ATTEMPTS TO IMPROVE YOUNG LORD WARWICK. 287
Addison was, at all events, an admirable friend and guide
for the wild young nobleman ; and he was soUcitous to attract
his childish tastes to the best mental food for children —
natural history. He hunted out birds' nests for the boyish
peer, and sent a hen's nest with " fifteen eggs, covered over
with a broody duck," which might satisfy his lordship's cu
riosity a little. Then he in-vites him to a " concert of
music, found in a neighbouring wood ; " "a lark, that by
way of overture, sings and mounts till she is almost out of
hearing, and afterwards falling down leisurely, drops to the
ground as soon as she has ended her song." The whole
finished by a nightingale that had something of an Italian
manner in her diversions. But write as he did, and talk as he
might, and probably Addison was talkative with chUdren, he
could not elevate the character of the young scapegrace to
any high standard.
Woe was the day when Addison first liked the child, as it
appears he may have done, for the mother's sake ; for that
mother was wholly unworthy of being the companion of
this superior being. It was said by Johnson that Addison
long sought her ladyship's favour. " The inequality of their
respective stations made him timorous and her contumacious."
To our ideas no such great inequality in the conditions of this
infelicitous couple appears to justify her pride or his sub
mission. Title is an arbitrary distinction, separating the
classes in foreign nations, because there the higher orders of
professional men are educated merely to their profession, not
generally as gentlemen. In England it has always been
otherwise. The aristocratic professions, the church, the bar,
medicine in its higher branches, the army and na-vy, comprise
the bulk of our younger sons of peers, baronets, and esquires.
Addison, as the son of a clergyman, was a gentleman by birth.
As Addison he was much more. A member of parliament,
Under-secretary of State, may match with any -widowed peeress
in Great Britain, and feel her equal. We are speaking of

288 HE IS MARRIED TO LADY WARWICK.
mere conventional distinctions, of ranks as they then stood
and as now they stand. On the 2nd of August, 1716, he took
the step which is popularly believed to have been fatal to his
peace, and was united to Charlotte Countess-Dowager of
Warwick, daughter of Sir Thomas Middleton, of Chirk Castle,
Denbighshire, by a co-heiress of Sir Orlando Bridgman. He
had solicited her, according to Dr. Johnson, by a very " long
and anxious courtship," and she had returned it by " playing
with his passion." " His advances," adds the doctor, " at first
were certainly timorous, but grew bolder as his reputation
and influence increased, till at last the lady was persuaded to
marry him, on terms much like those on which a Turkish
princess is espoused, to whom the sultan is reported to pro
nounce, ' Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.' The
marriage," Dr. Johnson states, " neither found nor made them
equal." Miss Aikin disbelieves this statement ; but, in the absence
of evidence, we cannot but adopt the belief of those who were
almost contemporary -vdth Addison, and the result almost
establishes the fact. One daughter, it is true, blessed this
joyless marriage, survived Addison, and became the mis
tress of Bilston Grange. But neither her infantine attrac
tions, nor the society of his lady wife, could keep Addison at
home. Yet greater prosperity than ever was Addison's por
tion the year after his marriage; and in 1717 hewas made
Secretary of State, an office which he afterwards resigned
upon a pension of 1500?. a year. He now took up his
abode at Holland House, that fine old structure which once
belonged to the gallant Earl of Holland, the handsome lover
of Henrietta Maria. The vicinity was then resorted to for
the air ; even in the time of Sir Walter Scott it had a great
seclusion about it, giving it, the author of Waverley thought,
its greatest charm, in spite of what he calls " its tumble-down
look, its bastard Gothic, and its heavy front." Here formerly
stood a gateway, now separated and the piers only standing.

HOLLAND HOUSE — QUARREL WITH STEELE. 289
the work of Nicholas Stone, master-mason to James I. Ad
dison had long made Kensington his occasional abode ; be now
tempted the dangerous splendours of the countess's home.
He only tried them three years. His health must have been
declining even when he was married ; and asthma had rendered
his labours at the Treasury almost insupportable. Many things
are laid to the account of hard work which ought, with more
justice, to be set down to errors of diet or to intemperance.
In 1718 we fioid him -writing to Dean Swift that he had been
drinking the waters at Bristol. One of his latest traits was
-his kindness to Mrs. Clark, Milton's last survi-ving daughter.
On hearing that she was still aUve, he sent for her, requesting
that if she had any papers of her father's she would bring
them with her, as evidence of her being Milton's daughter.
On seeing her, however, he said, " Madam, you need no other
voucher than your face," aUuding to her resemblance to her
father's picture ; he then presented her with a purse of gold,
promising to provide for her in future, but his death frustrated
this design. Addison had blessed God for his ability to
retire from office, but peace was not to be his lot ; an odious
poUtical quarrel separated him from Steele, to whom he had
been accustomed to pour out his inmost soul. Among the
old friends with whom Addison, rushing from the thraldom
of his countess, used to drink a bottle of claret, or perhaps,
a bumper of brandy, the once light-hearted Steele no longer
appeared. He had joined the opposition to the Peerage Bill
and attacked it in a paper called " The Plebeian." Addison
was then still in the ministry, and called upon by Lord
Sunderland, retorted in a paper designated " The Old Whig."
Addison, on this occasion, rose superior to his opponent, in
courtesy as well as -wit. He was accused, however, but
unjustly, of ealUng Steele " Little Dicky." Steele, however,
retorted by some personalities, especially in reply to " The
Old Whig," that Addison was so old a Whig that he had
quite forgotten his principles. With these, and similar
VOL. I. u

290 THE FRIENDS PART FOR EVER.
animadversions, did the former schoolfeUows part, and part
for ever.
Addison was now sinking into his grave. Dropsy had
come on ; he bore up with fortitude ; perhaps the hardest
effort is in such a case to resign oneself to life. At length,
finding all chance of prolonged existence at an end, he sent
away his physicians, and prepared to meet death -with calm
ness. It was said, and a tradition has always existed, that
he was habitually intemperate. The room, we believe the
library, in Holland House, is still pointed out wherein he
wrote, a table being placed at either end, and a bottle of
brandy, and as the author of the immortal " Spectator "
walked to and fro, sometimes thinking, sometimes dictating
to others, he found a glass always convenient to his hand : it
may have been a medical precaution, for spasms sometimes
come on, which nothing but stimulants can relieve, in dropsy,
Yet the general impression is that Addison exceeded even
the least temperate of his time; and it was a time of
intemperance. His death-bed was, however, touching, and almost sublime.
Party feeling seemed to have yielded to the enlarged -views
of a Christian on the confines of a higher state. He sent for
Gay, a needy author then, and asked him his forgiveness.
Gay could not imagine what there had been in Addison's
conduct towards him to forgive. In Anne's time there had
been great political differences between them, but in Anne's
grave they seemed to be laid. Some -wrong there was, how
ever, to Gay, that lay in the very depths of Addison's con
science. He was in a condition of extreme debility, and
thus kindly, forgivingly, they parted. We wish he had sent
for Steele.
"With his hopes of life," Dr. Young, author of the "Night
Thoughts," relates, "he dismissed not his concern for the
living." After his interview with Gay, he sent for the young
Lord Warwick, "a youth," Young says, "finely accomplished,

Addison's death-bed. 291
but not above being the better for good impressions from a
dying friend." The youth came; life was glimmering in
the socket ; Addison was silent. " Dear Sir, you sent for me.
I believe and hope," cried the young man, " that you have
some commands for me : I shall hold them most sacred."
Life was ebbing fast ; Addison grasped the hand of the young
Earl. " See," he faintly said, -with a last effort, " in what peace
a Christian can die." He spoke feebly these last words, and
soon expired.
Thus died one to whom the English nation owes the
formation of mind and character in its youth of modern
times. A gentler monitor never -wrote for the delight of ages ;
a truer friend never existed; a more reUgious man — his
faith being as pure from Calvinism as it was from superstition,
— never combated with this world's sins and temptations than
Addison. We woidd willingly draw a veil over his reported
habits of intemperance ; but if that cannot be done, we may
plead that they were the effect rather of unhappiness than
of criminal self-indulgence. He died on the 17th of June
1719, having just entered his forty-eighth year.
In the dead of the night his remains were conveyed to West
minster Abbey, and by torchlight the procession, in front of
which walked Bishop Atterbury, moved round the shrine of
Edward the Confessor to the Chapel of Henry VII. Gladly
would we record the name of Steele among the mourners,
and, amid so much that was obscure, we may hope that his
form, wrapped in funereal garb, may have foUowed his earliest
friend to his resting-place, but there exists no statement of
the fact.
Steele survived Addison ten years. In one of his works
he refers, in a beautiful passage, already quoted, to the
friendship between himself and Addison, and speaks of their
alienation in mournful terms.
The death of Steele was comparatively obscure. He
became paralytic, and retired to his estate, left by his wife,
U 2

292 Steele's children.
at Llangunno, near Carmarthen, where he died on the 1st
of September 1729. He was buried, according to his o-wn
wish, privately. He was, said the prelate who preached
his funeral sermon, "a coquet to virtue; made continual
advances, and seemed just on the point of yielding himself
up to the comely dame who courted him, as she once did
Hercules, when, on a sudden, he would flounce off, flirt back,
and sink into the arms of pleasure."
" He would have been," the panegyrist adds, " what he was,
had Addison never been born, but Addison would have died
with narrow fame had he never had a friendship with Sir
Eiehard Steele, whose compositions have done, eminent ser-
-vice to mankind."
From that opinion many -will differ, but all who know
Steele's works well will allow that " he had an art to make
people hate their follies, and he showed gentlemen a way of
becoming virtuous -with a good grace."
His writings, in truth, still insure our love for his memory,
whilst his errors are long since forgotten.
Of the daughters who survived Steele, the two Elizabeths
alone Uved to any mature age. Mary, his youngest daughter,
died at the hot-wells at Bristol, soon after her father, of con
sumption. The right EUzabeth and the wrong lived on.
Elizabeth the legitimate, as Lady Trevor, occupied a high
position in society. She had her father's wit, his good-nature,
his extravagance, and some portion of his talents. Her only
child, Diana Maria, was remarkably beautiful, though, strange
to say, an idiot, who died at four years of age.
EUzabeth the illegitimate, Mrs. Ayreton, was of a poetic
turn ; she was very amiable as well as intellectual, and the
affection of Lady Trevor for her was marked not only by her
sisterly regard for her, but by her adoption of her two children
after her death, and receiving them into her family as her
own, a trait strongly symptomatic, in Lady Trevor, of the
Steele nature. Mrs. Thomas, the elder of these orphans, was

their fate. 293
Lady Trevor's companion till her death. To her son the
letters of Steele's which have been so largely quoted were
intrusted. Besides the wrong Elizabeth, Sir Eiehard Steele left a
natural son, named Dyer, who is said to have borne a very
strong resemblance (as such sons generally do, nature thus
marking out the shame and the exposure) to his gifted,
erring, repentant father.

u 3

MAGDALEN HERBERT and DR. DONNE.

aUOTATION FEOM LOED HEEBEET OF CHEEBUEY.  THE NE-WPOETS
AND HEEBEETS.  STATE OP MONTGOMEEYSHIEE. — LOED HEEBEET
OF OHEEBUKT. — ANECDOTES OF HIM.  HIS CHAEACTEE.  MAGDA
LEN HEEBEEt'S PEIDE IN HEE SONS.  SHE IS CALLED THE AU
TUMNAL BEAUTY.  GEOEGE HEEBEET.  DE. DONNE's HISTOEY. 
IZAAK -WALTON.  BISHOP ANDBE-WS. — MAGDALEn's SECOND MAE-
eiage.  donne called the pseudo-maetye ; made dean of st.
Paul's. — geoege heebeet in his parish. — death of magdalen
heebeet, and of hee son geoege. — death and monument op
DE. DONNE.

V 4

MAGDALEN HEEBEET and Dk. DONNE.

"My mother," proudly says Lord Herbert of Cherbury in
his autobiography, "was Magdalen Newport, daughter of
Sir Eiehard Ne-wport and Margaret his -wife, daughter and
heir of Sir Thomas Bromley, one of the pri-vy council and
executors of Henry VIII. By these ancestors I am descended
of Talbot, Devereux, Grey, Corbet, and many other noble
famiUes, as may be seen in their matches, extant in the
many fair coats the Ne-wports bear."
There spoke the most accomplished man of his time, —
a traveller, an ambassador : — according to his own ideas a
philosopher, yet an idoliser of old names, noble races, and
chivalric distinctions.
The world has some sympathy with such tastes in this our
day : half a century ago it had none, and, if you asked a
man who or what his grandfather was, he scarcely knew
and cared not one whit, content if he had, like Bishop
Watson, the power of simply saying that his "forefathers
were, not hewers of wood, nor carriers of water."
To acknowledge that the Newports could confer any dig
nity on the Herberts was an avowal of no small amount of
candour, more especially in a Welshman. To our notions,
however, Magdalen, as the mother of Lord Herbert himself,
and of George Herbert the poet, added far more to the
family lustre than -generations of Greys, Talbots, and the
like, though with reverence be it spoken. The exemplary

298 MAGDALEN HERBERT'S HUSBAND.
matron who was honoured by the friendship of Dr. Donne,
was the youngest daughter of Sir Eiehard Ne-wport, in
Shropshire ; her husband, Eiehard Herbert, was one of a
fearless, hot-tempered race, nearly related to the Earls of
Pembroke, but living in the -wilds of Monmouthshire, at
Colebrook. Eiehard himself, a " black-haired " and "black-
bearded " man, as his son describes him, was as hot and
valiant as any of his family ; stern and manly, of com
pact, handsome limbs, he was famed for having defended
himself, with the aid of one friend only, John ap Howell
Corbet, against a band of ruffians in the churchyard of
Lanvroil, and, though prostrated by a wound from behind
with a forest-bUl, for walking home to his o-wn house at
Llyssyn. Meantime his skull was " cut through to the pia
mater of his brain " (I quote his son. Lord Herbert) ; yet he
recovered — for Welshmen had then nine lives — and offered
single combat to the chief of the family by whom the at
tack had been instigated. The challenge was refused ; and
Eiehard, cooled down, espoused the fair, the pious, the learned
Magdalen Newport.
Two races which may really be termed noble in the best
acceptation of the word, were thus conjoined. The Herberts
had anciently held a grand position in Montgomeryshire;
the Castle of Montgomery had once been their seat. Various
accidents had reduced their possessions ; and Sir Eiehard,
the grandfather of Lord Herbert of Cherbury and of George
Herbert, had retired from the lofty castle to a lowlier seat,
named Blackball, so famous for its hospitality that it was a
common saying among the country people when they saw
any fowl rise, " Fly where thou -wilt, thou wilt Ught at Black-
hall;" for each day, at that lavish board, was the table
twice spread for every meal. Old Sir Eiehard had been a sol
dier, a poor one, it is true, at first, but so brave, so loyal, that
he was well paid for his services in the times of Edward VI.
and of Mary, and bought, with his gains, estates which

MONTGOMERYSHIRE A FINE SCHOOL FOR A SWORDSMAN. 299
descended to his grandson Lord Herbert. It was a fine school
for a swordsman, that same county of Montgomeryshire ;
day and night there was skirmishing with the outlaws and
thieves who infested the wUd mountain district ; Sir Eiehard
could scarce eat his dinner -without taking half a score of
prisoners ; and the knight's power became so great, and his
character stood so prominent for courage and honour, that
" divers ancestors," says Lord Herbert, " of the better
families now in Montgomeryshire were his servants, and
raised by him."
Magdalen, when received as a bride into this time-ho
noured family, brought, it appears, little portion ; for her
family, Izaak Walton relates, " had suffered much in their
estates, and seen the ruin of that excellent structure where
their ancestors have long lived and been memorable for
their hospitality."
It must have been somewhat a trial of faith to have
seven sons and three daughters born to burden the estate of
Edward Herbert -with the needful provision for sons, who,
being nobly descended, could not, as in our more practical
times, resort to commerce as a means of subsistence ; yet
Magdalen, meekly, and piously, remembering that seven sons
and three daughters were Job's number, was grateful for
her share of these blessings, and thankful that they were
defective neither in their shapes, nor in their reason. Often
indeed would she reprove her offspring for not sufficiently
praising God for this mercy.
To enumerate the names, and to describe the career of Mag
dalen's sons is almost her best panegyric; for, by an early
¦widowhood, the charge of their career chiefly devolved on her.
Edward, afterwards Lord Herbert, was, says Horace Wal
pole, " a man of a martial spirit and a profound under
standing, one of the greatest ornaments of the learned
peerage." In the ancient house at Charlecote, near Stafford-
on-Avon, the seat of the famous Lucys, there hangs a por-

300 DESCRIPTION OF LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY.
trait of this " noble author." A short, somewhat insig
nificant nose, a small mouth encompassed -with a black
beard, and dark eyes, more peering than pleasant, do not
carry out the grand description of Lord Herbert's personal
advantages given by Walpole. " Had he been ambitious,
the beauty of his person would have carried him as far as
any gentle knight can aspire to go." " His valour," to
quote the same authority, " made him a hero ; his sound
parts made him a philosopher." It was for his rare endows
ments, which James I. appreciated, that Herbert was made
Knight Banneret when Henry Prince of Wales was installed
Knight of the Garter. This was in 1603. After that early
"initiation into the forms of chivalry, the spirit of which he
drew from the purest founts of the ' Fairy Queen ' " (our
Horace again!), what an important, what an intellectual career
he led ! An ambassador in France, in order to advocate tole
ration to the Protestants, how good was his reply to the
Due de Luynes, who had the meanness to conceal behind a
curtain a gentleman of the reformed religion, who was to
hear and to judge how little would be done by James I. for
the French Protestants. When the haughty De Luynes ex
claimed, "We are not afraid of you," Herbert, smiling,
promptly replied, " If you had said you had not loved us, I
should have beUeved you, and given you another answer.
In the mean time, what I -will tell you is, that we know very
well what we have to do." '\\Tiereupon De Luynes, rising,
cried out, " By Heaven ! were you not Monsieur the am
bassador, I know very well how I would use you." " As I
am the ambassador from the King of Great Britain," Sir
Edward answered, " so am I also a gentleman ; and my
sword " — laying his hand on it — " shall give you satisfac
tion if you wish it. No ceremony ! no ceremony ! " he added,
seeing De Luynes prepare to accompany him to the door ;
" after such language, ceremony is needless."
After this Herbert went off to Cognac, where he was told

ANECDOTE OF HIM. 301
by the Marechal St. Geran that he was not in safety. " I
am safe," answered Herbert, " whenever I have my sword by
my side." He was afterwards recalled ; but, the gentleman
who stood behind the curtain, testifying that De Luynes had
given the first affront. Sir Edward's conduct was placed
before King James in its proper light, and he was again sent
as ambassador into France. He continued to enjoy royal
favour, and, in 1625, was created a baron of the kingdom
of Ireland by the title of Lord Herbert of the Castle Island.
He seems, by his loyalty during the civil wars, to have been
reduced to great poverty, and obliged to sue for a pension
from parliament, by way of compensation for losses, in 1644.
His castle at Montgomery was demoUshed, for which also he
claimed satisfaction. During all this Ufe of business, and
-vicissitude. Lord Herbert never neglected study. "As a
public minister," says Horace Walpole, "he supported the
dignity of his country even when its prince disgraced it ; and
that he was qualified to write its annals as well as to en
noble them, his ' History of Henry VIII. ' proves, and must
make us lament that he did not complete, or that we have
lost, the account he purposed to give of his embassy. These
busy scenes were mingled with and terminated by meditation
and philosophical inquiries. Strip each period of its excesses
and errors, and it will not be easy to trace out and dispose
the life of a man of quality into a succession of employments
which would better become him." *
Such was Lord Herbert: valour in youth; the business
of the state in middle age ; repose, and science, and letters in
later Ufe. Unhappily for himself, and perhaps for those who
were exposed to the influence of his great abilities, and at
tractive manners, during his life. Lord Herbert of Cherbury
was a deist. Leland calls him a most " conscieoitious deist."
In his work " De Veritate," Lord Herbert asserted the suffi
ciency, universality, and absolute perfection of natural re-
* Eoyal and Nohle Authors, vol. iii. p. 22.

302 HIS CHARACTER.
ligion, -with a view to discard all revelation as needless ; and
this book was his favourite production : it was the effort of his
eccentric mind on which he placed the greatest stress, — the
work, and the only one, which was recorded as his on his
tombstone. So justly was it said by Grainger, "that he was
at once wise, and capricious ; a man who redressed wrongs,
and quarrelled for punctilios ; bated bigotry in religion, and
was himself a bigot in philosophy ; exposed himself to such
dangers as other men of courage would carefully have de
clined, and called in question the fundamentals of a religion
which none had the hardiness to dispute except himself."
Of his superstition, the following account of his inducement
to publish the " De Veritate " is a sufficient proof.
" Being thus doubtful in my chamber, one fair day in the
summer, my casement being open to the south, the sun
shining clear and no wind stirring, I took my book ' De
Veritate ' in my hands, and, kneeling on my knees, devoutly
said these words : ' 0 Thou eternal God, author of the light
which now shines on me, and giver of all inward Ulumina-
tions, I do beseech Thee, of Thine infinite goodness, to pardon
a greater request than_ a sinner ought to make. I am not
satisfied enough whether I shall publish this book : if it be
for Thy glory, give me some sign from heaven ; if not, I shall
suppress it.' I had no sooner spoken these words but a loud,
though yet gentle noise, came forth from the heavens, for it
was like nothing on earth, which did so cheer and comfort
me that I wot my petition was granted."
His "History of the Life and Eeign of Henry VIIL,"
a book scarcely ever perused in our days of rapid reading,
was pubUshed in 1649, a year after his death; and, however
the accomplished Lord Herbert may have judged of his own
works, it is certainly that by which he is stiU best known.
With all his acquirements Lord Herbert must sorely
have grieved the believing and religious mother to whom he
owed the care of his youth and his great attainments. She

SOURCES OF PRIDE TO MAGDALEN HERBERT IN HER SONS. 303
superintended the education of her sons, and had them, until
they went to public schools, instructed by her chaplain. But
if Edward disappointed maternal hopes, in so far as the all-
important question of belief was concerned, there were many
sources of satisfaction, as well as of pride, in the others.
Eiehard, her second son, distinguished himself in the Low
Countries, and fell bravely at Bergen-op-Zoom. It is re
corded of this gallant young soldier that he had the scars of
four-and-twenty wounds on his body. William was also brave
as a lion, and was famed likewise for gallant exploits in
Flanders. Charles, the next of the seven, became a fellow
of New College, Oxford, where he died young. George, the
poet, deserves more especial notice when this list is com
pleted. Henry, the next brother to George, went to court,
was made Master of the Eevels, and a gentleman of the
King's Privy Chamber : he accumulated a good fortune.
Thomas, the youngest, was a naval officer of a very high
reputation ; but thinking himself neglected, after many emi
nent services, he retired in disgust and melancholy, the only
one whose life had been unprosperous, a circumstance fully
accounted for by the neglected state of the navy at that
period. George, the poet and divine, whose simple and beautiful
verses, for many a long year forgotten, have of late years
been the delight of reflective minds, was a king's scholar
at Westminster, and then elected to Trinity College, Cam
bridge, in 1608. He was chosen orator of the university,
and held that post eight years. Acquirements in modern
languages were then esteemed almost essential for an aspirant
youth ; and George, hoping to become secretary of state,
like Naunton or Nethersole, learned Spanish, — the fashion
able language in James's time, — as well as Italian, and
French. It seems strange that a fellow of a college should
leave his learned seclusion, as George Herbert often did,
to follow the court. Yet George Herbert was to be seen

304 GEORGE HERBERT— MAGDALEN, "THE AUTUMNAL BEAUTY."
in the gay resorts of Whitehall, at Theobalds, or Windsor:
Buckingham was then in all his splendour, Ben Jonson was
¦writing the Masques, and Henry Herbert at his post as
Master of the Eevels. Even the worldly and vitiated court
seems never to have sullied the holy, gentle spirit *of George
Herbert. After the death of the Duke of Eichmond and the
Marquis of Hamilton, his hopes of preferment were ended ;
he took orders, married, and became a prebend of Lincoln,
and rector of Bemerton, near SaUsbury.
It was now that his mother saw the good fruits of that
care which had guarded her sons from much evil. When
they went to college, and during her widowhood, she went to
reside first at Oxford, where she remained four years, in
order to watch over the youth that requires so much judg
ment, and more especially so much tenderness, to keep it
right, or to reclaim it when -wrong. She used to say, " As
our bodies take a nourishment suitable to the meat on which
we feed, so our souls do insensibly take in vice by the ex
ample of conversation with wicked company." Ignorance of
vice she wisely deemed " the best preservative of virtue ; "
and yet how madly we allow our sons to see, to know, even
to become familiarised with, all that is coarse, self-indulgent,
extravagant, and sometimes criminal, in public schools, and
elsewhere !
At Oxford, Magdalen, still handsome, was styled "the
autumnal beauty ; " that designation being given to her by
one in whose society she took infinite delight when at
the university, the famous Dr. Donne. At Oxford, Izaak
Walton tells us, " her great and harmless wit, her cheerful
gravity, and her obliging friendship, gained her an acquaint
ance and friendship with most men of any eminent worth, and
learning, that were at that time in or near the imiversity."
Donne, afterwards Dean of St. Paul's, became the firm
and attached friend of Magdalen Herbert. It was a friend
ship cemented by the delightful power of conferring favours

DR. donne's history. 305
¦with delicacy on her side, and by a grateful yet independent
spirit on his part. Burdened with a wife and seven children,
Donne yet refused to enter holy orders, merely because such
a step would have afforded him a living. When eventually
he became a clergyman, he devoted himself to his calling
-with the truest zeal and piety that man could ever evince.
On lea-ving Oxford he -wrote these lines descriptive of the
intelligent and high-minded Magdalen Herbert, in whose
society many of his happiest hours were passed : —
" Ko spring nor summer beauty has such grace
As I have seen on au autumnal face."
Then, in respect to her conversation, he adds:^
" In all her words, to every hearer fit,
¦you may at revels or in council sit."
Poor Donne was doomed to many privations ; and as far
as his own sufferings were concerned, he might have borne
them -with that patience which distinguishes the clergy of
this country. But his heart often bled to -witness, in the
early part of his career, the sufferings of his wife, and to
behold his children in want almost of the necessaries of
life. "It is now spring," he -writes, "and all the pleasures of it
displease me; every other tree blossoms, and I -wither. I
grow older and not better ; my strength diminishes, and my
load grows heavier; and yet I would fain do or be something,
but that I cannot tell what is no wonder in this time of my
sadness : for to choose is to do, but to be no part of anybody
is to be nothing ; and so I am, and shall so judge myself
unless I could be so incorporated into a part of the world as
by business to contribute some sustentation to the whole."
Donne was eccentric through life. A picture of him at
Lincoln's Inn is mentioned by Grainger: it is, says that
-writer, all enveloped -with a darkish shadow, his face and
features hardly discernible, ¦with this ejaculation and wish
VOL. I. ^

306 IZAAK WALTON AND FLY-FISHING.
thereon : " Domine illumina tenebras meas." This wish,
adds Grainger, " was afterwards accomplished when, at the
persuasion of King James, he entered into holy orders."
He became an admirable preacher, but was more known
as a poet than a divine ; yet of his poems it has been
said : — " 'Twas then plain Donne in honest vengeance rose.
His -wit harmonious, but his rhyme was prose."
Satire was Donne's forte ; but, as Dryden observed, his
" thoughts were debased by his versification."
Donne, on becoming Dean of St. Paul's, was also -vicar of
St. Dunstan-in-the-West. Amongst the congregation who
sat beneath him was a humble shopkeeper, who during the
week exercised his calling in the Eoyal Burse in Cornhill,
built by Sir Thomas Gresham. The shops over the Burse
were scarcely seven feet and a half long, and only five wide ;
yet here, day after day, toiled Izaak Walton, "the common
father of all anglers," and the most charming -writer of
biography in our language.
During the seven days of labour, Walton's delight was to
steal out on an afternoon, with two friends named Eoe, whom
be has celebrated, to the river Lea in HertfordshUe, rising
just above Ware, and falling into the Thames below Black-
wall. But on Sundays Walton steadily, and much to his
own benefit, attended Dr. Donne's sermons, and became,
what he terms it, his convert.
Fly-fishing was known to Walton only through a friend,
whose name would have long ago gone into oblivion had it
not been connected with that of Walton ; this friend was no
less a person than the chief cook of the Protector Cromwell,
Thomas Barker by name, a gossiping old man who lived
in an alms-house near the Gate House in Westminster,
and an enthusiast who had spent much money as well as
time in fly-fishing. He published a work called " Barker's
Delight, or the Art of Angling ; " and he had, like Walton,

WHAT WE O-WB TO WALTON. 307
a vein of humour in his work, that rendered what one can
not call a dry subject, highly amusing.
To Walton we owe the completion of a biography of Dr,
Donne, which had been commenced by Sir Henry Wotton.
On the death of the Doctor he wrote also some verses,
beginning, " Our Donne is dead." Walton was also the
biographer of George Herbert, although he had no personal
acquaintance -with the poet, but derived his information from
others ; yet the memoir is singularly complete and graphic.
Not^withstanding the ¦wit and knowledge of the human
mind displayed by Dr. Donne, he was, during the whole of
his life, an eccentric being. The following letter from him
to Lady Magdalen speaks at once of his obligations, and of
her kindness, whilst at the same time it attests the con
fidence he had in her judgment, and the opinion he enter
tained of her piety, in intrusting his hymns to her care.
These productions were unhappily lost.
"Madam,
" Your favours to me are everywhere. I use them
and have them. I enjoy them at London and leave them
there, and yet find them at Mitcham. Such riddles as these
become things inexpressible, and such is your goodness. I
was almost sorry to find your servant here to-day, because I
was loth to have any witness of my not coming home last
night, and indeed of my coming this morning. But my
not coming was excusable, because earnest business detained
me, and my coming this day is by the example of your St.
Mary Magdalen, who rose early on Sunday to seek that she
loved most, and so did I. And from her and myself I return
such thanks as are due to one to whom we owe all the good
opinion that they whom we need most have of us. By this
messenger and on this good day I commit the enclosed holy
hymns and sonnets (which for the matter, not the workman
ship, have escaped the fire) to your judgment and to your pro-
X 2

308 BISHOP ANDREWS — HIS PERSONAL CHARACTER.
tection too, if you think them worthy of it ; and I have ap
pointed this enclosed sonnet to usher them to your happy
hand." *
Amongst other learned men, Lancelot Andrews, Bishop of
Winchester in the reigns of James I. and Charles I., was a
staunch friend of the Herbert family. Andrews afforded a
proof that the acquirement of general knowledge and of
modern languages is not incompatible ¦with the most pro
found learning. Secretary Walsingham, knowing his supe
rior attainments, brought him to court, where, as one of the
royal chaplains, he preached to the fastidious, yet, in his
case, appro-ving Queen Elizabeth ; yet he was, nevertheless,
and especially by one of the learned compilers of the " Bio
graphia," accused of introducing bad taste in his sermons,
which were overloaded, according to that critic, ¦with pedantic
allusions. Posterity, however, thinks otherwise, and An
drews' sermons are deemed a model of orthodox composition,
and a treasury of thought.
The personal character of Lancelot Andrews made his
friendship a proud distinction. He was a bishop who real
ised one's most exalted ideas of the prelacy, ¦viewed in its
relation to society. During the last six years of his life, his
private alms, given in secresy, were found after his death to
amount to 1500L alone. One of his bequests was a sum of
200?., which was to be distributed immediately after his
death among maid-servants " of good report " who had lived
seven years in one service. His munificence to all public
institutions was on a splendid scale ; bis hospitality so
noted that it used to be said that Bishop Andrews kept
Christmas all the year round ; and his abundant table was
open to all, — to scholars and men of worth, of whatever
degree, as to noblemen and prelates ; and his ¦ courtesy, his
" gravely facetious " discourse, were the theme of all praise.
He dined at twelve o'clock, spending the interveiung time
* See Miss CosteUo's " Celebrated Englishwomen," voL i. p. 385.

LINES BY GEORGE HERBERT. 309
in study. Like all hard-working men, he hated morning "visits :
"Those are no scholars," he used to say, "who come to me
before noon." Several hours in the afternoon were, however,
always aUotted by him to conversation.
Such was Andrews, who, with Dr. Donne, formed the in
timate circle around Magdalen Herbert : so pure in morals
and in mind, that King James, rebuked by his loftiness of
character, refrained, in the presence of Andrews, from his
coarse and undignified jokes; so "wise that Lord Clarendon
thought that, had he succeeded Bancroft in the primacy,
the infection of schism would never have been known in
the Church ; so above all reproach, so entitled to all praise,
that Milton, differing from him in principle, ¦wrote a Latin
elegy on his death.
No wonder that, under these influences, George Herbert,
during the first years of his residence in Cambridge, declared
that his poor abiUties should ever be consecrated to the ser
vice of God. " I beg of you," he adds, " to receive this as
one testimony : —
" My God, where is that ancient heat towards Thee
¦Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did bum.
Besides their other flames ? Doth poetry
"Wear Venus' livery ? only serve her turn ?
Or, since Thy ways are deep, and stOl the same,
WiU not a verse run smooth that bears Thy name ?
¦Why doth that fire which, by Thy power and might.
Each breast doth feel, no braver fuel choose
Than that — which one day worms may chance refuse ?
Each cloud distils Thy praise, and doth forbid
Poets to turn it to another use ;
Eoses and Ulies speak of Thee : to make
A pair of cheeks of them is Thy abuse.''
One anxiety alone possessed the mind of Magdalen Her
bert in regard to her son George. She dreaded contamination
from the court life into which he was often led. She op-
X 3

310 MAGDALEN S SECOND MARRIAGE.
posed his desire to travel, and, submitting to her maternal
wishes, George Herbert gave up his ¦wish to visit foreign
lands. Probably the deistical tendencies of her eldest son
alarmed the mother, whose greatest solicitude was for the
immortal welfare of her children. In the lines called
" Affliction," George Herbert pointed to the disappointment
which duty had imposed on him.
" "Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
The way that takes the to-wn.
Thou didst betray me to a singing book.
And -wrap me in a gown.
I was entangled in a world of strife
Before I had the power to change my life.
Now I am here, what thou -wilt do -with me
None of my books -will sho-w.
I read, I sigh, and wish I were a tree :
To fruit or shade, at least some bird would trust
Her household -with me, and I would be just." *
A second marriage on the part of a mother is generally
followed by alienation, if not by a total rupture of the fiUal
bond. A woman, it has been said, may love the children of
her husband; a man seldom loves those of another man,
the first husband of his wife. To this saying the second
marriage of Magdalen Herbert forms a notable exception.
Young as she was when she became a widow, it was not until
her youngest son had attained his sixteenth year that she
married again. Her choice fell upon Sir John George Dan
vers, the brother of Henry, Earl of Danby in the time of
Charles I., by whose death in 1643 the title became extinct,
but the estates devolved upon Sir John, the second brother.
Danvers Street, in Chelsea, still recalls the family to whom
Magdalen Herbert now allied herself, Danvers House having
been situated near, or in Cheyne Walk.
There was a considerable difference of age between Mag
dalen Herbert and her friend Donne, whose qualities she prized

DONNE CALLED THE " PSEUDO-MARTYR." 311
SO highly ; her sympathies were engaged in his behalf by the
misfortunes of his early life. Donne was descended, by his
mother's side, originally from Sir Thomas More, and his
famUy were of the Eomish faith ; many endeavours had
been made by his mother to keep him in that belief, but
Donne, at nineteen, examined into controversial matters, and
the result was a sound and lasting Protestantism. Many
anecdotes are recorded of him which show how conscientious
was his mind. Amongst others, he refused, for some time,
to take orders, alleging previous irregularities of life which
might bring- dishonour on that sacred calling. His early life
had been marked by misfortune. Having married privately
the daughter of Sir George More, then Chancellor of the
Garter, Donne was not only dismissed from a place he then
held as secretary to Sir Thomas Egerton, Lord Keeper, but
committed to prison; at the same time Samuel Brooke,
who afterwards became Master of Trinity College, Cam
bridge, and who married the runaway couple, and his brother,
Christopher Brooke, were similarly treated — the three being
sent to separate prisons. Donne was released first, and made
every effort to get his friends Uberated. A long separation
from his wife, and a tedious lawsuit, in order to recover her,
ensued. The erring couple then suffered poverty and de
pendence, but were eventually forgiven, and a moderate pro
vision made for their support.
Donne soon became eminent, and his "Pseudo-Martyr,''
written to prove that Eomanists ought to take the oath,
of allegiance, — a work which Warburton calls " absurd and
blasphemous trash," — procured him the deanery of St. Paul's.
King James conferred the deanery upon him in his usual
singular manner. Sending for Dr. Donne, he began thus —
before eating, though dinner was served — " Dr. Donne, I
have invfted you to dinner, and though you sit not down with
me, yet I will carve to you of a dish that I know you love
well ; for knowing you love London, I do therefore make you
X 4

312 MADE DEAN OF ST. PAUl's.
Dean of St. Paul's, and when I have dined, then do you take
your beloved dish home to your study, say grace there to
yourself, and much good may it do you."
Dr. Donne died of consumption, which came on after a
fever, in his fifty-ninth year. His person was graceful and
comely, whUst there was so deUghtful a combination of gaiety
and sentiment, or what was then termed " melancholy," in
his conversation, that he must have been one of the most fas
cinating of men. " His aspect," we are told, was " cheerful,
and such as gave a silent testimony of a clear-kno-wing soul,
and of a conscience at peace ¦with itself." His melting eye
showed too a soft heart, " full of noble compassion ; of too
brave a soul to offer injuries." Yet, like many men, chas
tened by after life, he was of a nature highly passionate, yet
very humane, and of so tender a spirit that he never beheld
the miseries of mankind ¦without pity and relief.
His work on Self-Homicide was dedicated to Lord Her
bert of Cherbury ; it is called " Biathanus," and, later in
life, was bitterly regretted by its author, and he often was so
nearly suppressing it, that it " was only not burnt." " Know
the date of it," he wrote to Lord Antrim, " and that it is a
book written by Jack Donne, and not Dr. Donne. Eeserve
it for me if I live, and if I die I only forbid it the press
and the fire. Publish it not, yet burn it not, but between
those do what you like with it."
Thus did the chastened and purified man regard the
learned, but questionable production of his youth. One of
Dr. Donne's letters to Magdalen Herbert shows his devotion
to her matronly and beautiful character, and is also ve^y
characteristic of himself.
" To the ivorthiest lady Mrs. Magdalen Herbert.
" Sladam, " As we must die before we have full glory and hap
piness, so before I can have this degree of it as to see you

DONNE'S LETTER TO MAGDALEN HERBERT. 313
by a letter, I must also die ; that is, come to London — to
plague London, a place fiUl of danger, vanity, and ¦vice,
though the court be gone. And such it ¦will be till your
return to redeem it. Not that the greatest virtue in the
world, which is you, can be such a marshal as to defeat or
disperse aU the ¦vice of this place ; but as higher bodies re
move, or contract themselves, when better come, so at your
return we shall have one door open to innocence. Yet,
Madam, you are not such an Ireland as produceth neither ill
nor good, no spiders, no nightingales, which is a rare degree
of perfection. But you have found and practised that ex
periment, that even nature, out of her detesting of emptiness,
if we will make that our work to remove bad, ¦will fill us
¦with good things." *
With such friends and so gifted a family, Magdalen
Herbert might be supposed to have been pre-eminently
happy. But she had her cares : especially did she regret
that her son George should delay his ordination. The court
still bad its charms for him; and there were not wanting
friends who, in the then degraded state of the Church, did
not hesitate to represent to him that it was a profession
beneath the rank which his family held. To this, prompted
by his mother, he replied : —
" It hath formerly been judged that the domestic servants
of the King of Heaven should be of the noblest families on
earth ; and, though the iniquity of late times hath made
clergymen meanly valued, and the sacred name of priest
contemptible, yet I ¦will labour to make it honourable by
consecrating all my learning and my poor abilities to ad
vance the glory of that God which gave them, knowing that I
can never do too much for Him that hath done so much for
me as to make me a Christian ; but I will labour to be like
* Costello, vol. i. pp. 391-2.

314 GEORGE HERBERT AS A PARISH PRIEST.
my Saviour, by making humility lovely in the eyes of all
men, and by following the merciful and meek example of
the dear Jesus."
Stimulated by these high views, George Herbert became a
deacon, and in 1626 a prebend of Layton Ecclesia, in the
diocese of Lincoln.
He soon began the task of restoring the church, on which
his mother sent for him to Chelsea, and addressed him
thus : —
" George, I sent for you to persuade you to commit simony
by giving your patron as good a gift as he has given you ;
that you give him back his Prebend, for it is not for your
weak body and empty purse to build churches."
But George Herbert was resolute. He begged, indeed,
for time for reflection ; then, after asking her blessing, he
begged her to forgive his being, at the age of thirty-three,
for the first time an undutiful son to her, for he had made a
vow to God that he would rebuild that church."
The result was that he brought his mother to his way of
thinking. Subscriptions were then collected from friends.
William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, gave a hundred pounds,
and other friends contributed ; and thus, under the superin
tendence of Herbert, the most remarkable parish church
that the country then afforded was completed.
It was a costly mosaic, in the form of an exact cross ; and
Herbert, as Walton relates, lived to see it "wainscoted so as
to be exceeded by none.'' The reading-desk and pulpit he
placed at a little distance from each other, and he made
them of the same height; for neither, he said, should have
precedency one over the other ; " but that prayer and
preaching, being equally useful, might agree like brethren,
and have an equal share of estimation."
He had now to witness the decline of his admirable
mother's life, and to console her in her last days.
" Comfort yourself," he wrote to her, " in the God of all

CONSOLES HIS MOTHER. 315
comfort, who is not willing to behold any sorrow but for sin.
Madam, as the earth is but a point in respect of the heavens,
so are earthly troubles compared to heavenly joys. Therefore,
if either age or sickness lead you to those joys, consider what
advantage you have over youth and health, who are now so
near those true comforts."
The thread of life he observed to be like all other threads
or skeins of silk, " full of snarls or incumbrances.'' Sickness
he had always feared worse than death, because sickness
would have interfered with his functions; but she had
abundantly played ber part in life. Her children were
in the years of discretion and competent maintenance ; her
responsibilities for them were therefore ended. Did she
trouble herself with temporal cares ? For " those of estate,"
as he calls them, " of what poor regard ought they to be !
since, if we had riches, we are commanded to give them
away ; so that the best use of them is, having, not to have
them." Or did their rank enforce splendid living ? " But,
0 God ! how easUy is that answered, when we consider that
the blessing in the holy Scripture was never given to the
rich, but to the poor. I never find Blessed be the rich ! or
Blessed be the noble ! but Blessed be the meek, and blessed
be the poor, and blessed be the mourners, for they shall be
comforted." Yet even to this faithful and holy man it had been a
struggle to cast off his sword and fine clothes, yet he became
the pattern of a parish priest, and left in his works the
memorial of a saintly life.
Music, sacred music, was his delight. Who can ever visit
Salisbury Cathedral -without seeing, in imagination, his face
upturned to heaven as he listened to those sacred strains
that, he declared, so elevated his soul, that it was his heaven
upon earth ?
The Holy Apostolic Church was associated, in his mind,
with her who was at rest in heaven long before he was

316 MAGDALEN HERBERT'S DEATH.
summoned from earth, \\1ien asked by a clergyman, who
visited him about a month before his death, what prayers he
wished to have read to him, his answer was, " 0 Sir ! the
prayers of my mother, the Church of England; no other
prayers are equal to those."
He died in 1635. Some years previously Dr. Donne had
preached Magdalen Herbert's funeral sermon in Chelsea
Church. Tears had denoted the true feeling with which the
attached friend recorded the virtues of her who had indeed
been all that was generous and kindly. She died in 1627,
not ha-ving the happiness of witnessing ber son's marriage
with a cousin, one of the nine daughters of a Mr. Danvers,
after an acquaintance of three days only.
Dr. Donne survived his friend, Magdalen Herbert, four
years only. The last fourteen years of his life were saddened
by the death of his wife, which took place in 1617, after
the birth of ber twelfth cbUd. The calamity overwhelmed
Donne with grief; it happened, as such sorrows often do
happen, just after signal good fortune. Donne had then
recently been created a Doctor of Di-vinity at Cambridge,
on the special recommendation of King James I.
Such were these two friends, gifted, exemplary, sincere,
constant. Their friendship was of that old-fashioned sort
which modern times, improving us so greatly in many things,
have never seen equalled. Society now is on too vast a
scale ; interests are too diffused ; expediency is too much
cherished, for the same single-hearted, trustful, and un
varying friendships to be frequent; though we will hope
they are not unknown, even under the disadvantages of
counter influences.
Dr. Donne's monument in St. Paul's is still the most
striking of the tombs in that cathedral ; nor is it to be
wondered that it is so when we learn its history. Some time
before his death, when he was emaciated by consumption,
Donne caused a sheet to be wrapped round him, and gathered

DR. DONNE's MONUMENT. 317
over his head like a shroud. He then closed his eyes, and,
in that position, and covered in that manner, had his por
trait drawn. It was from that likeness that Stone modelled
the singular and startling monument. This tomb was taken
out of Old St. Paul's, and is now in the crypt of the present
cathedral.

SIR KENELM DIGBY
AND
SIR ANTHONY VAN DYCK.

CLAEENDON S EEMAEK ON StE KENELM DIGBT.  EEOUGHT TIP BY
LADT DIOBY AS A PEOTESTANT. — ¦ LAUD HIS PEECEPTOE.  SIE
kenelm' S PEESONAL AND MENTAL QUALITIES.  HIS ATTACHMENT
TO VENETIA STANLEY.  HEE PAEENTAGE.  OBSTACLES TO THEIR
UNION. — EECITAL OF SDJ EVEEAED DIGBY'S PATE.  MEMOIHS OF
sm K. DIGBY.  -VENETIA AS BEIDESMAID TO ELIZABETH OP BO
HEMIA. — DANCING IN THOSE DAYS. — MEMOIES CONTINDED.  STOEY
OF ABDUCTION AND ESCAPE. — DIGBY'S SYMPATHETIC PQ-WDEE. 
SEES venetia's IMAGE. — HIS ENTEEPEISE ABEOAD.  CHABLES's
FAVOUE TO HIM.  HIS INTEODUCTION TO VANDYCK.  VANHYCk's
MAEEIAGE.  SUCCESS, AND MODE OF LIVING.  -VENETIA's DEATH.
 SIE KENELm's GEIEF.  HE BECOMES A EOMANIST.  TEOUBLES OE
THE CIVIL WAE. — vandyck' S DEATH.  DEATH OF SIE KENELM
DIGBY.

SIE KEKELM DIGBY
AND
sm ANTHONY VAN DYCK.

" Sir Kenelm Digby," Lord Clarendon remarks, " was a per
son very eminent and notorious throughout the whole course
of his life, from his cradle to his grave." In this opinion Sir
Kenelm himself did not concur. Born of an ancient race,
although his father, Everard, was considered one of the most
respectable of the Gunpowder Plot traitors, he remembered
through Ufe that his family was under an attainder. "I
inherited," -with bitterness he used to say, " from my father,
only a foul stain in my blood." This was, however, more
mournful tban true : two of Sir Everard's manors being
entailed, the cro-wn was defeated in its efforts to confiscate
them ; and the infant Kenelm, only three years of age at his
father's death, was secure in the possession of an income of
3000Z. a year.
Gothurst, in Buckinghamshire, was Sir Kenelm's birthplace,
his mother, Mary Mulsho, being one of the coheiresses of
that property. With bis attainder Sir Kenelm inherited
another disadvantage, — his parents were Eoman Catholics.
It was a most unfashionable faith, and its professors were as
certain of every kind of persecution as if they had been
heathens. Eecusancy, in fact, was far more dangerous in the
seventeenth century than unbelief. With this cloud over
the family, attainder and Eomanism, the widowed Lady
VOL. I. Y

322 DIGBY BROUGHT UP AS A PROTESTANT.
Digby sacrificed her conscience to the safety of her son. She
brought him up as a Protestant, and he was placed with Laud,
afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, for education.
Laud was then Dean of Gloucester, but was rapidly rising
in the favour of James I. ; he had also been President of
St. John's, Oxford, and was well versed in all the peculiari-
¦ ties of youthful character ; and a valuable man must he
have been to form the intellect of a boy of ability. He was
merry, which boys like ; quick and hasty, which boys seldom
dislike ; sincere to an extent ; zealous to a fault ; and boys
soon see through insincerity : the candid and fearless always
carry the day with them ; and, with their excitable natures,
they sympathise with the zealous, and generally out-herod
Herod. But one scarcely knows whether, as an anxious
parent, one would have placed a son hereditarily disposed
to Eomanism, with Laud. He had then been fiercely attacked
on account of his supposed papistry; and when, in 1617, he
accompanied, as chaplain. King James to Scotland, had tried,
with more zeal than discretion, to bring the church of that
stiff-necked people into uniformity with that of England.
" But the Scots were Scots," as Heylyn in his life of Laud
expresses it, and chose to go their o^wn waj^ ; and the energetic
champion of what a vast number of Christians now deem
the true ApostoUc Church, was obliged to bide his time.
His tragic death, of noble martyrdom, was subsequently the
result of his early and late exertions.
Kenelm Digby must, however, have derived much of his
learning, his taste, and the laudable ambition, without which
a man of high birth is almost culpable, for noblesse oblige not
in the mere sense of making high marriages, of squaring
scutcheon to scutcheon, counting quartering against quarter
ing, as the Germans do, but in maintaining with honour the
name that destiny has given.
Laud was a man of vast designs ; an aspirant that never
quailed beneath an obstacle. Nothing is so infectious as

DESCRIPTION OF SIR KENELM. 323
half worldly, half holy aspirations ; at all events he gave the
young tyro an excellent education ; for Clarendon, his friend,
tells us. Sir Kenelm had every advantage ; and one result of a
well-considered training was apparent in " a great confidence
and presentness of mind ;" wisely specified by Clarendon, for
¦without those advantages the most brilliant abilities are apt
to be obscured. As he grew up, it became easy to prophesy
that Kenelm, in spite of his father's crime, would distinguish
himself in a court, wherein, except as working men, on whom
James relied for what he called statecraft, the talents of so
ciety were all-essential. We cannot find a better description
of this favourite of nature, than by adopting the words of
Digby's friend.
" He was a man," Clarendon tells us, " of a very extraor
dinary person and presence, which drew the eyes of all
men upon him, which were more fixed by a wonderful
graceful behaviour, a flo^wing courtesy and civility, and
such a volubility of language as surprised and delighted ;
and though in another man it might have appeared to have
somewhat of affectation, it was marvellous graceful in him,
and seemed natural to his size and mould of his person,
to the gravity of his motion, and the tune of his voice and
delivery." At fifteen Digby was sent to Oxford, and entered at Glou
cester Hall, well prepared for distinction. Thomas Allen, who
was his tutor, thought so highly of his acquirements as to com
pare him to the celebrated Picus de Mirandula. After staying
at Oxford two years, Kenelm proposed, according to custom,
to travel, and from the years 1621 to 1623 there has been an
hiatus in bis annals, which is, in some measure, supplied by
the following letter in the State Paper Office. By this, Digby,
it appears, was employed by James I. in some office relative to
the crown jewels ; possibly he was intended to be the bearer
of them to Spain, but afterwards deemed too young for so
great a trust. T 2

324 SIR kenelm's letter to JAMES I.
" Eight Ho"'= Cosen,
" The 10th of this month I receaved in a Ire of yo" com-
maundm'* from his Ma*"^ to solicit the choice and dispatch of
those Jewells, w* his will was to have sente him by M'' Tfer
(Mr. Treasurer). The next morninge earlie I wrote to un
derstande my Lords pleasure, and to morrow afternoone is y^
tyme appointed for the takinge them owt. In the other p?e
of yo'' Ire I received for my selfe, a Jewell of greater valew
pchance then my sourraigne conceaves ; I mean his care to
transporte thes Jewells sent for, by another; as paleinge*
that iorney, with my yeeres, and state of bodie, in a most
tender care, then I am, or can heereafter be worth to him.
But it hath ever byn the pleasure of greate and good hartes
to add more and more to their o-wne worckes ; w'^'' makes
my Soueraigne (who gave me this otium cum dignitate)
thus to confirme, and please me in y*. On the other side
S'': if there be any latitude lefte betweene pleadinge merit,
and showinge thankfuUnes ; it may please you to take
knowledge from me that I have failed noe meatinge since
the depture of that wistlie-lo-vinge Prince* in the first,
and in the second place, that ingenious dutifuU adventurerf ;
In w"'^ coorse however I (neither havinge ofiice, nor pticuler
direccon) may seeme to have sailed alonge by the cautious
and provident compass of my supio" : yet beleeve y' S'', I
ever kepte my harte, and one eye confident uppon that steddie
motion of our North starr J, the infallible prospitie of whose
wisdome grows (as I conceave) owt of the little variacon it
hath. " Lastlie S"" in accompt of pticulers, the comission of trade
w*"^ tbe uttermost of o'' diligences, and powers; yet are the
branches so many, and of so greate -waighte, as doe rather con-
curr w*'' a Kinge, then a merchante harvest ; the one expect-
inge not shorte but sounde retornes for his peoples good : the
* Charles I. f Buckingham. J James I.

HE IS KNIGHTED. 325
other returnes from hand to mouth, w"" an end accordinglie,
rather self, than the publique. The Commission of Fees con
tinues still in an obscure destinie, once past the Seale, and
recald; and now (for ought I know) either deade, or forgotten.
This audit I presume to make, in respecte it hath pleased his
Ma*'^to coihaunde my service inboth. Good S"' I humblie crave
leave to kiss his hands from me, and profess that the remnant
of my days, are dedicated to serve him, and give (besides
prayers) w*"^ Love, and the best discrecon I have, till it shall
please him to printe any of his own, more excellent characters
into the humble harte of " His faithfuU Vassall
" & your true friend
" F. Brooke.
"Brooke House, March 6, 1622." *
The young courtier, whose studied phrases, in tbe letter
thus quoted, recall the days of euphuism, appears, in spite
of his father's sad fate, to have enjoyed the favour of King
James. The earliest mention of the name of Digby occurs in
a letter of news, addressed by Chamberlain to Carleton, re
marking, that though Buckingham " hates the name of Digby,
the King had knighted Sir Kenelm." This was in December,
1623, and it was on the thirteenth of that month James
gave to the world the first proof of that signal favour which
he exhibited to the son of one of the conspirators against his
life. Possibly the King believed in the innocence of Sir
Everard Digby.
Previously, however, to his travels. Sir Kenelm had formed,
almost in his boyhood, the attachment which decided his fate
in life. Th e obj ect of his passion was Venetia, or, as she has been
caUed by some, Anastasia Stanley, who realised in all but her
* Indorsed "To the right honorable" his" verie lo-vinge cosen S' Edward
Conway, Knighte, principal Secretarie to his Mat'" at the Coort." — State
Paper Office, No. 44, vol. cxxxix. Jas. I. Domestic Papers.
Y 3

326 "VENETIA STANLEY — HER CONNECTIONS.
purity the notions that one forms of a true heroine of romance.
Her birth, not an indispensable but an advantageous cir
cumstance, was noble ; her father. Sir Edward Stanley, of
Tonge Castle in Shropshire, being the grandson of Edward,
third Earl of Derby: her mother, Lucy, was the daughter
and coheiress of Thomas Percy, seventh Earl of Northum
berland. Such a marriage would have gratified even the most
susceptible old lady in Germany, where requu'ements that
the blood on both sides should be pure, so as to accomplish
the great fact — eben-biirtig — are far more stringent than on
the point of amiability, or sense, or principle, and are almost
ludicrous in some localities where railroads and traffic are
unknown. The Stanley family were, at that time, not only some of
the most illustrious in birth and employments, but the
handsomest of the great aristocratic families : the family por
traits of the time displaying symmetry of face, and com
manding forms. Sir Kenelm Digby, in his memoirs, thus
describes Venetia's origin, designating as " Stelliana " the
lady of his love.
" Stelliana," he writes, " being born of parents that in the
antiquity and lustre of their houses, and in the goods of for
tune, were inferior to none in Peloponnesus; it pleased Heaven,
when she -R'as not many months old, to take her mother from
her, deeming, as I think, the earth, and too negligent a hus
band, not worthy of so divine a blessing : who dying, left
the goodness of her soul and the beauty of her body, in
both which she surpassed all others of her time, to her infant
daughter." Some of her ancestors, he also wrote, had exalted and
pulled down kings of England : and " their successors still
have right to wear a royal cro-wn upon their princely tem
ple," aUuding to the sovereignty of the Isle of Man, then
possessed by the Earls of Derby.
Sir Edward Stanley, to whom Sir Kenelm gives the nom

THE EARLY PASSAGES OF THEIR LIVES. 327
de plume of " Nearchus," had no sooner lost his wife, than
he learned to regret her, and to honour her memory. He
fell into a deep melancholy, in which, perhaps, remorse had
no small share ; and plunging into solitude, gave full scope
to his " melanchoUc fancies." His daughter, lovely and promis
ing as she was, became an incumbrance to his determined
sorrow ; it was necessary, he knew, for one of her high birth
to have persons around her who could educate her suitably ;
he therefore resolved to send the motherless child to a grave
and -virtuous lady, the wife of a kinsman of his, who pro
mised that no care should be wanting to cultivate the intellect
which already gave indications of superiority. The discreet
matron (whose husband Aubrey, in his detracting spirit,
calls a " tenant " of Sir Edward Stanley's) happened to be an
intimate friend of the widowed mother of Kenelm Digby.
There was something pecuUarly mournful in the fate of
Lady Digby, who lived on her own property, at Gothurst,
in great retirement. Sir Everard (knighted by James I.)
was considered by his contemporaries to be a "man of
fair fortune, pregnant abilities, and court-like behaviour;"
religious fanaticism was, however, the Familiar which haunted
his home and lured him to his destiny. Even for that
influence there existed this excuse, that Elizabeth and James
had held down the Catholics -with the iron hand of intole
rance. The one would not, though she hated Puritans,
ameliorate the condition of the Eomanist party : James,
more disposed, dared not make even an attempt to do so. Sir
Everard, mUd, prosperous, the happiest of fathers and of
husbands, was the last, his friends thought, to become a
desperate man. He always denied his participation in the
Popish plot, and nobly refused to implicate others. That he
gave 1500?. towards it, that he entertained Guy Fawkes at
his house, could not, however, be denied. When the plot
was defeated, he was taken in open rebellion with others of
his faith. His end was very touching. He pleaded not
Y 4

328 SIR everard's fate described.
entire innocence, but stated, in extenuation, his faith ; and
urged convictions, which, under happier circumstances, might
have assumed the colour of patriotism. That King James
had broken his compact with the Catholics, that fresh op
pressions of that persecuted sect would be imposed, could
not be in fact gainsaid. As a Eomanist, Everard deemed it
his duty to restore to supremacy, if possible, the Church to
which he adhered; and he believed that, for that end, all
consideration of national tranquilUty, life, fortune, even the
welfare of his family, should be set aside. With regard to
the open rebelUon 'with which he was charged, he frankly
avowed it. He requested, that as he had been alone in that
crime, on him alone might the punishment fall ; he prayed
that his debts might be paid, his family be spared the con
fiscation so mercilessly enforced by a plunder-loving mon
arch. But he spoke in vain. On sentence of death being
passed upon him, he was deeply affected ; he bowed to those
on the bench, and said : " If I could hear any of your lord
ships say you forgave me, I should go more cheerfully to the
gallows." The lords, with one accord, replied, " God forgive
you, and we do."
It was in undying remembrance of one whom she doubtless
considered as a martyr, that the -widowed Lady Digby lived
in deep seclusion at Gothurst. The sympathies of her
neighbours, even of those connected with the then Protestau
house of Stanley, must have gone along with her and her
sons. The country long rang with the current story of Si
Everard's death : alas ! he was hanged, drawn, and quartered,
— no barbarity being omitted to mark bim as a criminal of
a deep dye : tbe tragedy was played out at the west end
of St. Paul's Church, in London. On the gallows, the un
happy, mistaken man asked forgiveness of God, of the King,
the Queen, and all tbe parliament, and in deep penitence
submitted to his doom. Wood relates, that when the execu
tioner plucked out from the still heaving body the quivering

LADY DIGBY RECEIVES HER SON HOME. 329
heart, and, holding it up, said, "Here is the heart of a traitor,"
Sir Everard, still living, made answer, " Thou liest ;" and this
ghastly tale was long credited by the ignorant and credulous,
who, in that day, certainly predominated over the reasonable
portion of society. His wife remained to bear the brunt
of suspicion, and to suffer, as appears from some inedited
letters in the State Paper Office, from an incessant sur
veillance ; nothing, however, was proved against her.
When she received in her desolate home her eldest son,
Kenelm, she welcomed back not a docile boy, but a growing
youth, whose form, afterwards termed gigantic, was then al
most manly. On this son her affections were fondly riveted,
and, during the interval of his college life, she looked eagerly
for his return in the vacations. Her estate was only thirty
miles from Euston Park, where Venetia Stanley, a playful
child, was then domiciled: frequent meetings took place.
But we must let Sir Kenelm tell the tale in his own words,
premising that in his memoirs Lady Digby is called Arete, — .
himself Theogenes.
" The affection of the one to her son, which would not suffer
her to be long without him, and the respect of the others to
their charge, which made them glad to satisfy her though yet
childish desires, in anything they could, as in the fondness of
going abroad and the like, was the cause that they seldom
came together but that the two children had part in the
meeting ; who, the very first time that ever they had sight of
one another, grew so fond of each other's company, that all
that saw them, said assuredly that something above their
tender capacity breathed this sweet affection into their hearts.
Whereas other children of like age did delight in fond plays
and light toys, these two would spend the day in looking
upon each other's face, and in accompanying these looks with
gentle sighs, which seemed to portend that much sorrow was
laid up for their understanding years, — they demeaned them
selves so prettily and so affectionately, that one would have

330 THE COURSE OP TRUE LOVE NOT SMOOTH.
said. Love was grown a child again and took delight to play
-with them. And when the time of parting came, they would
take their leaves with such abundance of tears and sighs as
made it evident that so deep a sorrow could not be borne and
nursed in children's breasts without a nobler cause than the
usual fondness in others."
Troubles, however, came. These " first innocent " years
were clouded ; and scarcely, says Sir Kenelm, had they
arrived "to tbe maturity of judging why they loved, and
ready to love still only because they loved, when she (Fortune)
turned about her inconstant wheel in such sort that, if their
fates had not been written above in eternal characters, even
then their affections had been by a long -winter of absence
sapped and destroyed in their budding spring. For what is
not that able to do in so young hearts, that immediately
after have the aventures and pursuits of new and advan
tageous love ? Yet these kept their first fire alive."
Sir Edward Stanley, in the midst of all this childish
wooing, hearing of his lovely daughter's gro-wing attractions,
or perhaps alarmed at her intimacy -with the Eomanist
Digby s, sent for her home. Stelliana, as Kenelm still styled
her in his memoirs, was, even then, so " smaU, that she
could scarcely reach to gather the lowest fruit of the laden
boughs;" the love-making between her and Kenelm must,
therefore, have indeed begun betimes; and we cannot but
consider the father as perfectly right in separating her from
her juvenile admirer. Delighted with her surpassing beauty.
Sir Edward resolved to introduce her at the court of James I. ;
and no opportunity could be better. Elizabeth Stuart, the
darling of the nation, was at hat time on the eve of mar
riage with the Count Palatine of Bohemia ; and Whitehall
was in all the excessive commotion of court revels. The mag
nificence displayed on that occasion, notwithstanding that only
three months previously all had been mourning — " outward
show," at least — for Prince Henry, was extraordinary : " it

VENETIA BRIDESMAID TO ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA. 331
were of no use to write," says one chronicler, " of the curiosity
and excess of bravery of both men and women, with the ex
treme daubing on of cost and riches."
Dresses which cost fifty pounds a yard (but it may here be
observed, not many yards were used in those wise days of
tight dresses), — ablaze of jewels, such as Elizabeth's court had
never displayed ; embroidery of gold and silver enhanced the
enormous cost of dress. Yet a gloom hung over the court ;
and there was a sort of presage of evil times in many minds.
Amongst the twenty noble bridesmaids of the young
Princess, Venetia Stanley probably walked after the Princess
to tbe altar: — whether she were conspicuous or not in that
procession, at all events, her acquirements (which, Sir Kenelm
records, were so extraordinary for her age, as to induce "men
to doubt that the heavens meant not long to lend her to the
earth"), and her "beauty and discretion" (an old-fashioned
word, implying then what we now call tact, or savoir faire),
"did soon draw the eyes and thoughts of all men to ad
miration : so that in this the example of her was so singular,
that whereas the beauty of other fair ladies used to grace and
adorn public feasts and assemblies, hers did so far exceed all
others, as well in action as in excellence, that it drew to her
not only the affections but also the thoughts of all persons,
so that all things pro-vided with the greatest splendour and
curiosity passed by unregarded and neglected."
Venetia's heart, in fact, pined in secret for her first love,
who, like Paul, left by Virginia, fretted at the idea that
she was surrounded by admirers, whilst he was far from
her in seclusion. Nor were his fears chimerical. The
Masques and Banquets of James's court were so many
occasions of licence, either in gallantry, or intemperance ;
the latter being the favourite excess of James and his
queen. One evening a nobleman of the court, whom Digby
has styled Ursatius, addressed tbe beautiful Venetia in the
most flo-wing Euphuism of the day; she was spared the

332awkwardness of reply at that moment by another masque,
. who claimed her hand for a corrento. Ursatius, therefore,
was obUged " to resign all his spirits, rub his eyes," for the
corrento began, and it was impossible to -withdraw his regards
from Venetia as she mingled with the dancers.
One word about dancing in James's day, before we give
the beautiful description of Venetia's dancing, which Sir
Kenelm penned in all a lover's enthusiasm.
Dancing, in the reign of Elizabeth and her successor, was
an almost daily amusement at court. No slovenly steps, no
careless demeanour were permitted. Elizabeth rewarded
good dancers with her especial notice. Witness Sir Christo
pher Hatton's owing his promotion in a great measure to his
dancing. Gray, referring in his "Long Story" to Stoke Pogeis,
once the seat of the Hattons, brings in this fact thus : —
"Full oft within the spacious walls,
"When he had fifty winters o'er him.
My grave Lord Keeper led the brawls.
The seal and maces danced before him.
His bushy beard and shoe-strings green.
His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet,
Moved the stout heart of England's Queen;
The Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it."
The Brawl, the Pavin, and the Canary dance were all com
prised under one generic name, the Corrento. The French
Brawl was regarded by the very scrupulous as not altogether
proper ; there was a shaking of the foot in it that required,
however, great dexterity. But it was probably in the Pavin
(from pavo, a peacock) that the young Venetia made her
debut as a belle, and a dancer. The Pavin came from Spain,
and had much of the Spanish state and gravity in its slow
and majestic measure. Ladies never danced it except in
trains, — " the motion whereof resembled a peacock's tail."
Their partners — if princes, wore their robes ; if gentlemen,
their caps and swords ; if la-wyers — for la-wyers were the
greatest dancers in the court — their gowns. The Canary

VENETIA DANCING. 333
was a dance for two, with strange fantastic steps, very much,
says Mr. Douce, " in the savage style." It must, therefore,
have been in a Pavin that Venetia made the impression of
which Sir Kenelm tells us.
Ursatius, he relates, was constrained by the fascination of
her grace, "to contemplate her motions that were so com
posed of awful majesty and graceful agility, that all the
beholders, being ravished with delight, said, surely one of the
Graces was descended from heaven to honour these nuptials.
Which was the cause that when they had seen how skilfully
she kept time -with her feet to the music's sound, she was
suffered no more to return unto her former seat ; for every
one in their turn beseeched the like favours of her that she
had done to their companion, before he could lead her back
unto her first place; yet in this they deceived themselves;
for her excellency that would brook no partner, engrossed to
herself all the commendations, while they scarce had any
notice taken of them. But she was wearied -with her much
exercise, before the beholders could be satisfied with delight,
which made time glide away so swiftly and unperceivably,
that they heard from abroad the watchful cock warn men to
rise up to their daily labours, before they could persuade
themselves it was time to go to rest."
Venetia went home, and was attended, as was then the
custom, by an aged gentlewoman — a sort of half governess,
half lady's maid, half nurse : — above the French bonne, below
the English governess ; an excellent maternal friend, nurse,
counseUor in all domestic and even in matrimonial matters,
if good — a dangerous inmate if bad; and so poor Venetia's
gouvernante proved.
Sir Kenelm indignantly calls this attendant " Faustina ;" he
hates her with as ¦vigorous a hatred as Byron felt for her who —
" Born in a garret, in a kitchen bred,"
stood, he believed, between him and reconciliation with a

334 Faustina's intrigues.
wife whom he respected and regretted. Faustina was already
in the interests of Ursatius: and, when Venetia related to
her the events of the evening, praised the discretion, the
courtesy, tbe generosity of Ursatius ; and, of course, folio-wing
out her preconcerted line of conduct, imputed to Sir Kenelm
gross neglect and inconstancy. Venetia, however, stood firm
to her first flame ; she had neither seen him nor heard from
him during the last four years, yet she confided in his con
stancy ; she ascribed his silence to the wishes of their
parents. She saw it was ordained by Heaven that she should
remain faithful to him, since her attachment had not been
stifled either by absence, or persuasion.
Finding arguments unavailing, Faustina formed a dia
bolical plan of delivering ber young charge into the hands
of Ursatius. She appeared to acquiesce in Venetia's wishes,
and informed her that her lover. Sir Kenelm, or, as he styles
himself, Theogenes, was then in London, and wished to meet
her in the park, three rhiles from the city : and Venetia,
falling into the snare, consented to go forth by the back
door, where a hired carriage with four horses awaited her.
This carriage belonged, in fact, to Ursatius, whose coachman,
in a disguised livery, drove it. The rest of this singular in
cident, which is adopted as true, and not merely romantic,
by the biographers of Sir Kenelm Digby, is told in these
words : — " She was scarcely gone halfway to the appointed
place, when five or six horsemen, well mounted, overtook
the coach; who speaking to the coachman, that was instructed
what to do, he stayed his horses, and two of them alighting
came into the coach unto her, and, drawing their poignards,
threatened her with death if she cried out or made any
noise, assuring her -withal that from them she should receive
no violence if she would sit quietly, and therewithal drew
the curtains that none might see who was in the coach as
they passed by. In this agony of distracted thoughts, and
fearing the worst that might happen to an undefended

strange story of abduction. 335
maid that was fallen into rude hands, she travelled tilP
morning, when, the coach staying, she was taken out, and led
into a fair lodge that stood in the middle of a pleasant lawn
en-vironed with rich groves ; and there an ancient woman,
entertaining her with comfortable speeches, brought her into
a richly adorned chamber, advising her to repose after so
tedious and troublesome a night. After she had helped her
to bed it was some time before sleep could take possession of
her fair lids, but at length her heart yielded to the weight of so
hea-vy a burden, and Death, himself grown tender in seeing her
affliction, sent his brother Sleep to charm her eyes, that else
would have turned into a flood of tears." Towards evening
she heard one come into the chamber, rose halfway up
in her bed, and then, by the glimmering of the light that
stole in between the chinks of the drawn curtains, she per
ceived, as he came near her, that it was Ursatius. Ursatius
then knelt down, " and pleaded his love as an excuse for
the terrible and almost fatal dilemma in which he had placed
her." After blaming Faustina for the whole conspiracy,
Ursatius retired.
The good angels, therefore, and more especially that guar
dian spirit who, according to the belief of the times, was sup
posed to attend each individual man or woman on the face of
this earth, from the moment of birth to that of death —
nay, even to the gates of heaven, — seem to have watched
that night over Venetia. Scripture does not, theologians de
clare, warrant tbe doctrine in which Shakspeare believed ; the
general ministry, only, of angels is recognised by our Church.
The good angel who under different forms, sometimes in
sleep, sometimes in special revelations, or by in-visible angelic
agency ; and the bad angel or demon who followed the
doomed or marked man in this world, were nevertheless, in
the days of Kenelm Digby, as strongly believed in as any
other point of religious doctrine. " There is a good angel.

336 VENETIA ESCAPES.
but the devil outbids him too," * — " You follow the young
prince up and down like his ill angel," f were popular
quotations. Venetia, thus innocent and believing, and, Uke
others of her generation, only just shaking off the old super
stitions of Eomanism, probably believed that
"MiUions of spiritual creatures -walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep."
She acted as if she did, with a courage that is rarely sup
ported without a conviction of God's prescience and mercy.
The instant Ursatius disappeared, she resolved to escape.
Tying her sheets together, she let herself out of the window
and escaped through the garden, over the wall, into the then
uncultured tracks and " horrid woods," somewhat like an
American prairie, and also full of wolves. Attacked by one
of them, her shrieks brought to her aid Mardontius, a young
nobleman to whom that nom cle plume was assigned, and
who afterwards made a conspicuous figure in her history.
Mardontius falls in love with her, of course, and Venetia is
safely harboured in the house of a respectable matchmaker,
named, in the memoirs, Artesia, — a lady who designs to
bring Sir Kenelm and a favourite granddaughter of her
own together. Nothing so surely rivets love's charms as the
appearance of a rival, and Venetia's feelings became rather
more engaged in the affair than heretofore. Besides, Artesia,
unconscious that she was fanning a forbidden flame, spoke to
her, first of Lady Digby, and afterwards of Sir Kenelm and
his brother John, in the following terms. — " She spoke,"
Sir Kenelm tells us in his memoirs, " much in commenda
tion of that lady, extolling with what admirable -wit and
understanding she was endowed, and how, being left a widow
in the fiower of her youth, accompanied with a flourishing
beauty and a plentiful estate, yet she was so wedded to
* Scot's Discourse on ¦Witchcraft, f Henry IV.

artesia's plans — VENETIA HAS A RIVAL. 337
her dear husband's love that she neglected all the advan
tageous offers of earnest and great suitors, that she might
with more liberty perform the part of a careful mother.
'For by him,' said Artesia, 'she had two children. The eldest
Theogenes, although the great strength of his body make
him apt for any corporal exercises, yet he pleaseth himself
most in the entertainments of the mind; so that having
applied himself to philosophy and other deepest sciences,
he is already grown so eminent that I have heard them say
who have insight that way, that if a lazy desire of ease or
ambition for public employment do not interrupt him in this
course he is like to attain to great perfection. Their mother
was ever dear to me,' continued she, 'and if I can effect what
I have affectionately endeavoured and solicited, we shall be
able to leave to our posterity the inheritance of our affec
tions as well as. of our estates; for I have laboured long,
and Arete hath not been wanting on her part to join in
marriage her eldest son and my grandchild, that you see here.' "
These words, addressed to Venetia, we may readily believe
" shot her heart through ; " but she was quickly consoled :
Theogenes was to "visit Artesia in a few days ; so the con
clusion of Artesia's speech was to her " like a gale of wind
that, in a burning day, creepeth over sweet and flowery
meads, and breathes upon the languishing face of the faint
traveller that is almost dead with heat."
According to Aubrey, the obstacles that Lady Digby had
originally offered to the marriage of her son with Venetia
Stanley, were owing to the bad repute in which Venetia's moral
character stood ; but Sir Kenelm imputed her objections to
a paternal and maternal quarrel between Sir Edward Stanley
and his mother. A middle course was pursued ; no contract
was allowed : Sir Kenelm was aUowed to travel for three years,
in the hope of returning, when older, to offer his hand to
Venetia. A farewell interview in London closes the novel
for a period at this point, and Digby sets out for Paris.
VOL. I. z

338 SIR KENELM GOES TO ITALY.
Sir Kenelm was obliged to fly from Paris, on account of
the plague. He retired to Angers. Here Marie de' Medici
had retreated after the battle of tbe Pont de Ce, in 1620.
Whilst waiting here for her troops to arrive, she amused
herself with balls and Masques, when one night she met Sir
Kenelm, or, as he calls himself in his memoUs, Theogenes.
He thus records the incident * : —
" Theogenes coming one Masque night to the court, with
the company that importuned him to go along -with them,
was, by one of the ladies that had known him at Athens,
taken out to dance, in which he behaved himself in such sort
that, whether it were the gracefulness of his gesture, wherein
the commendations of art was the least thing he aimed at, or
that tbe heavens had ordained he should be the punisher of
the Queen's affections, she felt at the fiirst sight of him a
secret love, which soon grew so violent that it made her
forget her own greatness, and compelled Theogenes, in order
to preserve his constancy for Stelliana, to quit the court ;
and he caused it to be reported that he was murdered in the
tumult which arose in consequence of the queen having
disbanded her forces, upon her reconciliation with the king,
her son, after the battle of Marathon."
From France Digby proceeded to Italy.
Whatever may have been the defects of the education
given him by Laud, one good result remained; Digby had
imbibed that love for the arts which pervaded all refined
minds more or less in the reigns of James I. and Charles I.
until crushed by civil commotion. To Laud, Oxford owes
that beautiful inner quadrangle of St. John's College, with the
exception of the south side, — which was the old library. By
Laud, who determined to adorn the University with fine
buildings, tbe Convocation House, with Selden's library above,
were erected. Sir Kenelm went therefore into Italy, with a
* Private Memoirs of Sir K. Digby, p. 87.

ANTHONY VANDYCK  HIS BIRTH. 339
certain foundation of enthusiasm, without which all the
treasures of art are but the objects of the vulgarest sight
seeing. There was, at this time, in Venice a young painter studying
his art with all the energies of genius, andtrjdng to catch the
almost matchless and imperishable tints of Titian. Hand
some, generous, naturally courtly, endowed -with strong pas
sions, yet far more skilful in conveying to his canvas all
the minuteness of still Ufe than the turbulence of excited
emotion, this youthful artist was patiently working his way
up to the highest position among the great masters of a great
time : this was Anthony Vandyck ; a name so honoured and
so familiar in England, that it seems to recall a countryman,
not a foreigner, to our minds.
Born at Antwerp in 1598, he could only have been twenty-
five years of age, when Sir Kenelm Digby, still under
twenty, had passed from Genoa, his first resting-place in
Italy, to Venice. Although a Fleming, Van Dyck did not,
as most Flemings are said to do, see Italy -with only Flemish
eyes. His impressions of Italian art had been received early,
for, as a boy, he had been sent by bis father, an Antwerp
merchant, to learn drawing from Van Balen, a countryman who
had studied in Eome. The fame of Eubens drew, as Horace
Walpole relates, " the young congenial artist to a nobler
school." Eubens soon perceived his genius. One night that
great master went out, leaving a picture unfinished : his pupils
took the opportunity of sporting about the room ; one of them,
striking at his companion with a maul-stick, threw down the
picture, on the canvas of which the colours were still wet.
It fell on the floor, and was nearly spoiled. Van Dyck, who
was at work in the next chamber, was prevaUed upon to repair
the injury done. The next morning Eubens, on coming to
continue his work, looking on his picture at some distance,
exclaimed "that he liked it better than he did the night
Z 2

340 ANECDOTE OP RUBENS.
before." This unconscious compliment to Van Dyck was
the foundation of all his after success.
Eubens then advised him, not only to go to Italy, but also
to confine his attention chiefiy to portraits. The ad-vice is
said to have originated in jealousy; but we agree -with Wal
pole, that the generous nature of Eubens was incapable of
such a motive. He took, there can be no doubt, the just
view of Van Dyck's especial gifts ; some men's minds and
hands are destined to work on a large scale ; some minds take
broad views. Michael Angelo and Eubens may be compared
in art to Milton, and Dryden, in poetry. Van Dyck's strength
lay more in detail ; perhaps his mother's talent, displayed in her
painting flowers " in small," and her wonderful embroidery in
silk, descended, in that especial observance of minutias, to him.
He made a portrait of tbe wife of Eubens, a masterpiece of
colouring, and then went to lay himself at the feet of Titian,
and of Paul Veronese. He soon equalled the carnations of
Titian, and became famous for satins ; still, we are told, he
"had not much idea of tbe saints, or their expression." Walpole
thinks he had no due conception of female loveliness, and that
his jMadonnas were homely. " He has left us to wonder that
the famous Countess of Carlisle could be thought so charming ;
and had not Waller been a better painter, Sacharissa would
make little impression now."
In spite of these strictures. Sir Kenelm found in Van Dyck,
not only a rising painter but a congenial spirit in other points.
Their familiar intercourse must have been very interesting to
lookers-on. Beside the almost gigantic figure of Digby,
stood the small form of Anthony Van Dyck ; but that form
was admirably proportioned; the face of the painter was
full of animation ; his manners were kind to a degree ; he
knew not a mean or harsh sentiment. Eichly dressed, his
carriage and equipage magnificent, his retinue numerous and
well appointed, his table splendid, and always attended by
persons of high rank. Van Dyck kept state like an ambas-

VAN dyck's receptions. 341
sador rather tban a painter; and, in fact, his assemblies resem
bled a court. For painters, in those days, ranked with diplo
matists, associated with princes, and were often employed in
state affairs. Their noble art was thought to raise them to the
higher orders of society ; and Van Dyck, as we shall see, was
considered not an unsuitable match even for the daughter of
an Earl. Venice, as well as Paris, was the source of fashion
on dress at that time ; the French hood, such as we see in all
pictures, was Parisian ; it consisted of a long strip of muslin,
reaching from the back of the head down over the forehead,
and leaving the hair exposed ; but the caul, or net of gold
thread, was probably Venetian. The high shoe, almost a
stilt, and sometimes a foot high, was an imitation of the
Venetian chopine. We may imagine the " bravery " in which
Van Dyck delighted, and how greatly Sir Kenelm added, by
his nobleness of deportment, his prestige, and his costly attire,
to the splendour of tbe painter's receptions. It was probably
at Venice that Van Dyck's first unsuccessful visit to England
was planned, but tbe painter had still much to do in Italy.
He went to Eome, and, avoiding what he deemed the low
conversation of his countrymen, lived in such state that he
was called " il Pittore Cavalieresco." At Eome he painted
his famous portrait of Cardinal Bentivoglio ; that prelate had
been nuncio in Flanders, and was partial to Flemish artists.
From Eome Van Dyck went to Palermo, where he completed
portraits not only of Philibert of Savoy, viceroy, but of a
female artist, Sophonisba Anguisciola, then ninety-one years
of age. The plague, however, drove him back, and he
returned to Antwerp.
His altar-pieces now gave him a new reputation ; in them
he introduced the heads of brother painters. The patronage
of the arts extended by Charles I. eventually drew him to
England ; but this was at a later epoch in our narrative.
Sir Kenelm Digby meantime, though happy in the society of
Van Dyck, was tasting of some of the miseries of an attach-
Z 3

342 venetia supposed to be faithless.
ment to which friends object; his letters to Venetia were
intercepted, and, whilst uneasy at this inexplicable silence,
news of her approaching marriage with the young nobleman
whom he calls Mardontius, were brought to him at Florence.
Nor was this intelligence the most painful that was imparted.
The good name of his mistress had been tampered with ; " that
monster, which was begot of some foul fiend in hell," Digby
relates, spread abroad a scandalous rumour of a too great
familiarity between her and Mardontius. Much prejudice to
her honour was therefore coupled with the detaUs which an
English friend from London imparted. Digby thus describes
his own state of perturbation on the occasion : —
" Theogenes then quite forgot the noble temper of his mind,
which being by nature composed of an exceUent mixture,
and, besides, richly cultivated -with continual study and phi
losophical precepts, did formerly stand in defiance of fortune ;
but now he was so overborne -with passion that he might
serve for a clear example to all who may promise most of
themselves, that none may be so completely perfect in this
life, nor armed against the assaults of passion, but that some
way or other there is an entrance left unguarded, whereby he
may be humbled and put in mind, at his own cost, of the
frailty of human nature. For his soul was so overburdened
with grief, that his reason and all that he knew availed him
nothing in his own behalf ; but sinking under that insupport
able weight, he, as soon as his shrunk heart began to dilate
itself, broke into a torrent of fury, cursing aU womankind for
Stelliana's sake ; and was so possessed with anger and disdain,
that, if nature had been in his power, he woiUd have turned
the world again into a dark chaos. ' Injurious stars, why gave
you so fair an outside to so foul and deformed a mind ? And
what secret sin have I committed so great that I must be
made the idolater of such a dire portent ? ' "
Miserable and indignant. Sir Kenelm tore from his arm
a bracelet of Venetia's fair hair — a love-token which she
had sent him — and threw it into the fire.

SIR KENELM INVITED TO SPAIN. 343
At this period of his history, Digby's " actions became
mingled -with those of great princes." Prince Charles and
the Duke of Buckingham were then on their journey to
Spain : the Prince, as the " wooer " of the fair Infanta
Maria, the sister of Philip IV. ; Buckingham, as his friend
and adviser. John Digby, first Earl of Bristol, a distant
relation of Sir Kenelm, was at this time ambassador in
Madrid, and, hearing of his young relative's accompUshments,
invited him to visit him, with a view to introducing him to a
court noted for taste, for splendour, for a love of the arts,
and, as far as the Queen IsabeUa and the Infanta were con
cerned, for feminine virtue, as well as for beauty. Sir
Kenelm gladly obeyed the summons, and although he pro
fessed that all places were indifferent to him now since the
tidings had reached him of Venetia's alleged inconstancy, he
resolved to " employ for the advantage of others' profit, those
talents which God and better nature had bestowed on him."
This visit to Madrid involved Sir Kenelm in all the famous
intrigues and quarrels which afterwards agitated both the
Spanish and the EngUsh courts, and from which his own
dexterity and prudence alone extricated him.
His relation. Lord Bristol, was well aware, it appears, not
only of the favour which Sir Kenelm enjoyed at the court of
King James, but also of his abUity, and of the wonderful and
seemingly intuitive knowledge of the world, which were likely
to prove so useful in the mazes of diplomacy.
That Bristol regarded Sir Kenelm as a mediator between
him and Buckingham will be sho-wn hereafter. Meantime we
return to Sir Kenelm's personal narrative, a narrative which
has far more the features of romance, than those of real life.
It was whilst he was on his journey to Madrid that an
adventure, which he relates very fully, took place : he fell in
%vith a Brahmin, how or where exactly he does not specify,
" which man," he however relates, " as his name giveth him
out to be, was one of those that the Indians held in great
z 4

344 his own narrative of his life.
veneration for their professed sanctity and deep knowledge
of the most hidden mysteries of theology and of nature," to
enlarge which he had passed from the East into the West,
" to partake of what sciences flourished there."
The mystical opinions of the Brahmin, and his profound
metaphysical meditations, were far from being devoid of inte
rest to Sir Kenelm ; and from this era of his life we may
date his own singular and fanciful notions. The perfect
courtesy of the Brahmins is proverbial ; and the most inti
mate confidence was soon established between the young
Englishman, in all the vigour of life, and the aged sage, one
of whose tenets enforced a state of frequent abstraction and
of silent contemplation of things above the ken of man.
The Brahmin, however, had human sympathies; he re
marked the sadness of Sir Kenelm ; he inquired its source,
and received the confessions of a deceived and disappointed
man. The Brahmin took his own method of offering consolation.
" No events," he told the pensive Sir Kenelm, " could be so
adverse in his life but that the infiuence of the celestial
bodies had power to turn them into good." Upon this fol
lowed a long argument upon free will and necessity ; upon
the agency of spirits, both angelic and diabolic, and on the
power of man to avail himself of their instrumentality.
In this discussion. Sir Kenelm was reasonable and incredu
lous, the Brahmin mystical and incomprehensible ; never
theless, according to Digby's account, after asking the young
man what spirit he would like to see, he '"promised to show
to him her whose misconduct had so deeply affected Sir
Kenelm's happiness.
Sir Kenelm then relates that, as they travelled through a
dense wood, they had not gone far when he, of " a sudden
stopped, and held the priest that was going forwards, and
pointed to him with his hand to that object which stayed his
steps. It was a body sitting upon a broken trunk of a dead

SEES VENETIA IN A VISION. 345
and rotten tree, in a pensive posture, so that but part of her
face was discovered to them. Her radiant hair hung: dis-
bevelled upon her white shoulders, and, together with them,
was covered -with a thin veil that from the cro-wn of ber head
reached to the ground, through which they shined as the
sun doth through a pale cloud, and sometimes, without that
eclipsing shade, did send out direct and unbroken beams, and
so doubled the day of beauty; which was caused by a gentle
air, that, as being jealous of that senseless veil, did blow it
ever and anon away, and played with those bright hairs,
adding new curled waves to those that nature made there.
In her fair face one might discern lilies and roses admirably
mixed; but in her lips the rose alone did sit enthroned in
sweet majesty; her eyes, as being niggardly of casting away
their heart-piercing beams, were hid by her modest lids."
When they approached this beautiful vision, the figure
arose ; a deep melancholy overspread that lovely counte
nance ; Sir Kenelm stooped down to take her snowy hand ;
he tried to hold it ; his hand grasped nothing but air ; thrice
did he endeavour to catch the hem of her garment, "as many
times did he find himself deceived." Then the magician told
him that this was the effect only of magic ; his art had called
forth the semblance or spirit of Venetia; his agency had
shown him, instead of being gay and faithless, that she mourned
his absence. Then Sir Kenelm declared that he w^as con
vinced that spirits, even infernal ones, could take upon them
selves the appearance of angels of light.*
Henceforth bis mind, constituted for greater things, was
obscured by superstitions, even exceeding those cherished in
an age of strong intellects, and yet of great credulity.
A compact with the devil, entered into by witches, was a
matter of popular belief in that day. The magician, however,
in this instance, differed from his class. Witches, according
* Private Memoirs of Kenelm Digby, p. 147.

346 HIS MIND OBSCURED BY SUPERSTITION.
to Eeginald Scot, being generally old women, "blear-eyed,
pale, foul, full of wrinkles ; poor, sullen, superstitious, and
papists ;" they " were doting scolds, mad, devilish, not unlike
those possessed with spirits." Witches, it was believed, "could
pull down the moon and stars, and, with -wishing, send needles
into the livers of their enemies ; they could raise spirits, di-y
up springs, turn the course of running waters, and stay both
day and night, changing the one into the other " (to quote
Eeginald Scot again). Then the learned King, James I., who
-wrote a work on witchcraft*, gravely assures his readers that
one sign of -witches was their movements on the water : " For,"
he writes, * " as in a secret murtbur, if the dead carkasse bee
at any time handled by the murtherer, it will gush out of blood,
as if the blood were crying to heaven for revenge of the mur
therer : God ha-ving appointed that secret supernatural signe,
for triall of that secret unatural crime, so it appears that God
hath appointed (for a supernaturall signe of the monstrous
impietie of witches) that the water shall refuse to receive them
in her bosome that have shaken off the waters of baptisme,
and wilfully refused the benefite thereof. No, not so much as
their eyes are able to shed teares (threaten and torture them
as you please) while first they repent (God not permiting
them to dissemble their obstinacie in so horrible a crime),
albeit the womankind especially be able other wayes to shed
teares at every light occasion when they will, yea, although it
were dissembling like the crocodiles."
" Such," Dr. Nathan Drake informs us, " was the creed
of the country from the throne to the cottage. Men of
learning arranged themselves on the side of King James and
his Demonologie," t with few exceptions. Among the oppo
nents of the system was Bacon, who, in the "Tenth Century
of his Natural History," attributes the achievements and con
fessions of witches to the effects of a morbid imagination.
* The Demonologie, vol. ii. pp. 485, 486. f Drake's Shakspeare.

DIGBY PROCEEDS TO MADRID. 347
Shakspeare availed himself of this popular superstition to give
mystery and solemnity to his dramas ; but Sir Kenelm Digby
seems really to have believed that " the earth hath bubbles as
the water has."
Digby, however, proceeded to Madrid, where he attached
himself to the service of Prince Charles. Whilst in that
capital, he was piqued by a remark of Lord Kensington
on his indifference to the charms of Spanish ladies, and,
though now convinced of the constancy of Venetia, he
devoted himself to a certain beauty of the Spanish court, of
whom Lord Kensington was really enamoured. Young,
handsome, and, as the world thought, free, Digby's suit might
have ended in marriage ; but the remembrance of Venetia
was still dearer to him than any new object. He rejected
the advice of friends, and even, he avows, the solicitations of
the fair Spaniard herself, and resolved to remain constant to
Venetia. Thus the spirit whom the Brahmin had summoned
had acted for once a friendly part.
Digby returned to England with Charles, landing at Ports
mouth on the 5th of October, 1623.
Tbe joy with which the young Prince was welcomed home,
the festivities that followed, the almost immediate improve
ment in manners and in costume; the taste for the arts
which Charles and the accomplished Buckingham intro
duced, must have rendered the first few months after the
return of the travellers one of deep interest ; but dissensions
were the canker that secretly ate into all the enjoyments of
the court, and the following letter shows that Sir Kenelm
was regarded as an arbitrator between the two discordant
factions. " Good Cosen,
"I giue you thankes for yourpaynes in my businesse,
in w"'' whatsoever the successe shall bee my obligation to you
shall bee the same.
" I was in hope by your letter that ther had bene expected

348 LETTER OF SIR KENELM DIGBY.
from mee an answer only to those points w* were brought
mee by you from my Lo. Duke, but it seemes, by a letter I
have receaued from his Gr: as likewise by a message sent mee
since from him by Mr. Gresley, that nothing will serue the
turne but that I make y"" accknowledgment that is required
by subscribing the paper that was sent mee ; and so likewise
the libertye w"^ I besought of his Ma''"', to follow freely myne
owne affayres (for that was my request and not to come to
London) w* I understoode had bene graunted mee by his
Ma*'^. My Lord Duke now sendeth me word that if I come
to London I must understand myselfe to bee a Eestrained
man, untill I have made such an accknowledgment as is re
quired. My present request I hope shall bee but modest
w'^*' is only that I may know cleerly what his Ma*'^^ pleasure
is to the end I may not fall into errour, and I shall most
willingly and readily obey it, whatsoeuer it shall bee, no way
doubting but his Ma''^ in his owne dew tyme will afford mee
a gratious and an equall hearing. In tbe interim I haue sent
you my answer to the propositions, w* I intreate you to
present -vnto his Ma'^"* and to his Grace ; if they may bee
accepted, as I can no way doubt but they will, for I conceaue
it will seeme so hard and so vnjust a course under his Ma''^'
gratious Gouerment to haue it injoyned to a gentleman to
accknowledg' faults hee is no way guiltye of.
" I shall intreate you further as you haue already taken
much paynes ' in this businesse, that you will deliuer this
message from mee to the Duke, That as I have since applyed
my selfe to bee reconciled vnto his Graces fauour, I omitted
nothing that might expresse my respect vnto him, so I doe
really still poursue the desire of rega3ming his good opinion
and friendshipp, and if I shall bee soe happy as to obtayn it
I will honestly endeauour by my best seruices to deserue the
continenance of it, and therefore I entreat his Gr: not to
insist or presse mee to those thinges w"'' would make mee for
the future uncapable of his Ma*^^^ fauour and unworthy of

SEES "VENETIA IN LONDON. 349
his friendshipp, but that if hee intend in any kinde to fauom-
mee that hee would doe it in a noble manner, whereby I may
bee obliged trewly and hartely to loue and serue him. For
otherwise I shall in respect of myne honor and defence of
myne innocencye vndervalue any earthly regards whatsoever,
and trust to God's protection, his Ma*"^ Justice and the
goodnesse of my cause and so desiring to heare from you
with all conuenient speede, I recomend you to God and rest
" Yr. affectionate Cosen,
" to doe y" seruice, " Bristol.
"Sherborne, I6th of March, 1624."*
The justice of King James was, however, only a broken
reed when his likings and prejudices intervened; and al
though the disgraceful story of Carr was not enacted again,
and though there was a certain nobleness in Buckingham's
nature that preserved him from servility, James refused to
see matters in a fair light; and the hopes of Bristol, and the
mediation of Sir Kenelm, proved alike fruitless.
The romantic events of Sir Kenelm's existence were con
tinually recurring. Amongst those which had the greatest
influence on his future Ufe, was his meeting, on his return to
London, with Venetia. She was seated in her carriage when
he beheld her, radiant in her youth and loveliness.
" Yes, she sat," so he tells us, " pensively on one side of
the coach by herself, as Apollo might have taken her coun
terfeit to express Venus sorrowing for her beloved Adonis."
A report of Digby's death had reached the court, and
been partly credited by Venetia ; her joy, therefore, in his
appearance was rapturous : a reconciliation was soon effected,
explanations were given, but still, there were obstacles to
their union. The confidence of Digby had been shaken by
* State Paper Of&ce, No. 59, vol. clxxxv., Jas. I. Domestic Papers.

350 DIGBY FIGHTS MARDONTIUS.
the reports affecting Venetia's character, and he somewhat
basely resolved not to commit himself to wedlock, but to make
the fair girl his mistress if he could. She resented the in
sult, then pardoned it, and Digby was again restored to favour,
and their attachment placed upon the footing of a platonic
regard. Notwithstanding his unworthy and incomprehensible
conduct, Venetia, with all a woman's generosity, when her
lover was afterwards selected to accompany the Duke of Buck
ingham to the French court, pawned her plate and jewels, and
sent him a large sum, entreating him to make use of it without
encumbering his estate by borrowing. This act sank deeply
into a heart which was, in spite of all its inconsistencies,
warmly devoted to Venetia. Her character was, it is true,
by that time, almost blasted in the estimation of the virtuous.
In spite, however, of the world's " dread laugh,
¦Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn,"
or of the .still more painful fact of his mother's opposition,
Digby resolved to make Venetia his wife. To this, however,
Venetia at first objected. She had been induced by a report
of Digby's death, and by a suppression of his letters, to give
Mardontius a promise of marriage, and her portrait. A
marriage contract, or what we call an engagement, is often
wantonly broken in the present day, and, if with little feeling,
with little remorse. But the notions of those times were far
more strict, and Venetia refused to marry Digby while her
portrait remained in the possession of Mardontius. Digby
was, therefore, obliged to challenge Mardontius, in order to
get the portrait back. They met ; Mardontius, without draw
ing his sword, placed the portrait in Digby's hand, and -with
it a -written declaration, that if ever he had uttered a word
derogatory to Venetia's honour, it was false.
The slanders, however, have lived : they are extant in the
pages of Aubrey. Venetia, he states, " had one, if not more

venetia's PUBLIC REPUTATION. 351
children by the Earl of Dorset, who settled on her an annuity
of £500 per annum, which, after Sir Kenelm Digby married,
was impaid by the Earl. Sir Kenelm sued the Earl after
marriage, and recovered it. Sir Edmund Wylde had her
picture, and was very famiUar wdtb her. After her marriage
she redeemed her honour by her strict living ; she and her
husband were invited once a year by the Earl of Dorset,
when -with much desire and passion he beheld her, and only
kissed her hand. Sir Kenelm being still by."
This statement cannot be reconciled with the delicately
scrupulous conduct imputed by Digby to Venetia ; neverthe
less, public rumour, as well as tbe plain-spoken Aubrey, had
laid grave charges at the door of the beautiful, intellectual
Venetia; neither does Digby stand up for her honour as
valiantly as one would expect. Many parts of Aubrey's ac
count, however, have been proved to be perfectly false ; for
example, there is no notice of any trial against Lord Dorset's
heirs and executors, for the annuity he is stated to have
allowed Venetia: again, the story of Venetia and Digby
dining -with bis lordship once a year, and of his kissing her
hand, must have been an invention, since Dorset died before
Venetia's marriage to Sir Kenelm. The age of James I. was
notoriously scandalous ; the manners were gross ; the notions
of the time latitudinarian on moral points ; but what has been
alleged against Venetia fell to the ground upon her marriage
-with Digby. No one, in fact, so greatly contributed to injure
her fame as her husband. Instead of resting manfully on her
innocence, and defending her from slander, he throws out hints
that " indiscreet, unstayed youth, or rather childhood," may
have caused innocent error in her actions, "and whoso marry eth
her, that, being past her years of innocent ignorance," must
' ' expect, he conceives, many faults. It must be remembered, he
adds, " that the clearest brooks that are have some mud, but
which will not at all defile the pureness of the stream if it be
not indiscreetly stirred, and then too it hath so shallow a hot-

352 THE SYMPATHETIC POWDER.
tom, that it quickly slideth away." Since Sir Kenelm took this
view of tbe subject, no one can be surprised at his marrying
Venetia, blighted as was her reputation.
They were married privately, in January 1625, and the
union, although a suspicion of it added to previous reports,
was kept rigidly secret. Sir Kenelm, meantime, was busily
engaged in proclaiming to the world his application of the
celebrated Sympathetic Powder, the knowledge of which he
acquired, as he stated, from a friar to whom he had done some
essential service. Many diseases were deemed incurable in those
days, but were manageable by miraculous agencies. A dead
man's hand drawn over a tumour dispelled the swelling ; the
royal touch cured the evil, and bad cured it since the days of
Edward the Confessor, until Dr. Johnson, a sickly child, re
ceived its supposed benefit from the hand of Queen Anne, in
her black hood and diamonds.
" Such sanctity had Heaven given her hand."
" To each succeeding royalty " was left the healing benedic
tion, until the heavy, incredulous Hanoverians came to the
crown. Touching and praying were the medicine for a
malady most prevalent when insufficient animal food, want of
drainage, and constant intermarriages fostered the cruel dis
order in this country. A split tree, into which a child was
placed for a few minutes, and drawn thrice through the fis
sure, naked, cured rickets ; the tree was bandaged up, and,
as it united and grew again, so grew the child. Sympathetic
indications are perpetually insisted on by the writers of the
seventeenth century. That a murdered corpse bled at the touch
of the murderer, or even at his approach, Shakspeare and
Dryden imply : the first in his Henry VI., when Eiehard III.
approaches the royal corpse, the latter, in his forty-sixth Idea.
" In making trial of a murther -wrought,
If the -vile actors of the heinous deed
Near the dead body happily be brought.
Oft 'thath proved the breathless corps -will bleed."

ITS EFFECT IN HEALING WOUNDS. 353
God, it was thought, had appointed that secret supernatural
sign for the discovery of crime. It is not then surprising
that when Sir Kenelm Digby imparted to James I. his secret
of the famous Sympathetic Powder, the idea was quickly
taken up. James Howel, generally called the Letter-writer,
was wounded in the hand in endeavouring to part two
friends in a duel. James sent to the busy court gossip,
Howel, his own surgeon, but a gangrene was expected, and
Howel sent to Digby for his powder. Digby instantly paid
him a visit.
" I asked him," Digby relates, " for anything that had the
blood upon it ; so he presently sent for his garter, wherewith
his hand was first bound; and as I called for a bason of water,
as if I would wash my hands, I took a handful of powder of
vitriol, which I had in my study, and presently dissolved it.
As soon as the bloody garter was brought me, I put it -within
the bason, observing in the interim what Mr. Howel did,
who stood talking with a gentleman in a corner of my
chamber, not regarding at all what I was doing; but he
started suddenly as if he had found some strange alteration
in himself. I asked him what he aUed ? ' I know not what
ails me,' he said, ' but I find that I feel no more pain. Me-
thinks that a pleasing kinde of freshnesse, as it were a wet
cold napkin, did spread over my hand, which hath taken
away the inflammation that tormented me before.' I reply'd,
' Since then you feel already so good effect of my medicament,
I advise you to cast away all your playsters ; only keep the
wound clean, and in a moderate temper betwixt heat and
cold.' " This was presently reported to the Duke of Bucking
ham, and a little after to the King, who were both very
curious to know the "circumstance of the businesse, which was
that after dinner I took the garter out of the water, and put
it to dry before a greate fire. It was scarce dry, before Mr.
Howel's servant came running, that his master felt as much
VOL. I. A A

354 CURES EFFECTED BY SYMPATHY.
burning as ever he had done, if not more ; for the heat was
such as if his hand were 'twixt coals of fire. I answered, that
although that had happened at present, yet he should find
ease in a short time ; for I knew tbe cause of this new acci
dent, and would provide accordingly, for his master should
be free from that inflammation, it may be, before he possibly
could return to him ; but in case he found no ease, I wished
him to come presently back again ; if not, he might forbear
coming. Thereupon he went, and at the instant I did put
again the garter into the water, whereupon he found his
master without any pain at all. To be brief, there was no
sense of pain afterwards, but within five or six dayes the
wounds were cicatrized and entirely healed."
The doctrine of sympathetic cures and indications was very
common in the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. ; otherwise
one can hardly imagine a man of sense, still less, of a philo
sophic mind, relating, so gravely, an incident which not only
borders on the marvellous, but on the impossible.
This, one might suppose, was wonderful enough. Dr.
Drake, with good sense, ascribes tbe cure to the plasters being
taken off the wounds. A sympathetic power was supposed
also to subsist between the wounds and the instrument that
inflicted them. If the weapon that had dealt the blow, was
anointed with a salve, or stroked in a particular manner, great
relief was felt by the wounded person.
" They can remedie," says Eeginald Scot, " anie stranger,
and him that is absent, with that verie sword wherewith
they are wounded. Yea, and that which is beyond all admi
ration, if they stroke the sword upwards with their fingers,
the partie shall feel no paine ; whereas if they draw their
finger downwards, thereupon the partie wounded shall feele
intolerable paine."
The superstition of the sympathy relating to the mandrake,
a vegetable, the root of which is supposed to be endued with
animal life, is referred to by Shakspeare :

SIR KENELEM ON LOVE. 355
"  what -with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth.
That li-ving mortals, hearing them, run mad ;
Oh! if I wake, shall I not be distraught?"
Sir Kenelm's reputation for science, and its application to
practical purpose, was considerable. Still, however, he com
mitted the injustice of keeping his marriage secret, al
though, to judge by his language, he fondly appreciated the
felicity of possessing as his wife the lovely Venetia. Of love
he thus writes (let his enthusiasm produce a smile in the
faces of lovers of modern days, when the impassive style has
become fashionable) : " And this joy and content of lovers, be
sides that it is the highest and noblest that we can possess,
is also the securest, and placed, as it were, in sanctuary, out
of the hands of fortune and change, for the ground of it is
in ourselves, and we need the help of no exterior thing to
make it complete ; it dependeth upon our wills which we
govern as we please : therefore, this is the true happiness,
which a wise man ought to aim at, since that himself is
master of it, and he can give it to himself when he list."
" The love of a virtuous soul in a fair and perfect body "
he believed to be " the noblest and worthiest action that a
man is master of ;" yet he imperilled the life of Venetia from
fear of the world.
Whilst Sir Kenelm was in London, Venetia remained in
seclusion at the house of her father in the country. In due
time her first confinement was drawing near : still, the mar
riage was kept a profound secret, being confided to one female
servant only — a young and inexperienced person. One
day, however, Digby was summoned to his wife ; she had been
riding out one evening and had been thrown from her horse.
She was brought speechless to her chamber ; the pains of
childbirth came on, yet still Venetia kept her secret. No
cry nor expression betrayed the cause of her suffering, and in
peril, in secresy, a son was born. A A 2

356 PART TAKEN BY SIR KENELM IN POLITICS.
The part which Sir Kenelm took in political affairs appears
to have been at once kind and honourable. But he had, in
consequence of his father's religion and treason, many diffi
culties to overcome.
Chamberlain writes to Carleton : " The Papists of Cheshire
and Lancashire, who, by mediation of the Spanish ambassa
dor, had obtained respite till Lady-day from payments for
recusancy, are sent for to answer then doings. A secret society,
first formed in Lord Vaux's regiment in the Low Countries,
has spread to England ; they weare blue and yellow rebbons
in their hats, have a prince called Ottoman, and nicknames as
Tityse, &c."*
Notwithstanding various speeches in parliament, in which
the members declared that the Spanish treaty of marriage be
tween Prince Charles and the Infanta of Spain should take
place in " spite of all the devils in hell, and all tbe Puritans
in England," that negotiation bad failed. On the return of his
son from Spain, James knighted Kenelm Digby — "son," as
Chamberlain calls bim, " to him that was a prime man in the
Powder Plot." The distinction thus conferred was followed
by many proofs of confidence on the part not only of James I.
but of his successor. The following extracts from a letter
written by Sir Kenelm to his cousin, the Earl of Bristol, show
how disposed Charles was to excuse that ill-used nobleman,
whose failure in the Spanish marriage he imputed rather, as it
appears, to an error of judgment than to want of zeal in the
cause. Charles was grieved to hear of the illness and depression of
tbe disgraced ambassador.
" Truely, my Lord," Sir Kenelm -wrote, "he did receaue
the newes of yo'' ill state w* much tenderness, and asked me
many pticulars how you weare ; and bad me hasten to let yo""
LoP knowe he was verye sorrye for yo' sicknes and protested
* Domestic Papers for 1627 : State Paper Office.

digby's LETTER TO THE EARL OF BRISTOL. 357
in the deepest manner that might be, that he had no personal
displeasure or grudge (these were his words) against yo' LoP:
but that he held you to be an honest and sufficient man and
one that loved him and had endeavoured his service really,
and should be glad of any good that arrived vnto you. And
in the other point concerneninge yo' busines, he would not
have yo' Lop. conceaue that he thinketh you to be a delin
quent and to have offended in any matter of honestye or not
pformance of what was coinaunded you, for if that had bin
then this course that hath bin should not have bin used w*
yo" but you should have beene coihitted to the Tower, and
brought to a publick trial, but the true cause why yo' Lof: is
thus in suspence and remoued from the Court is because yo'
LoP' in the treatye of the Spanish Match (he thinketh) was
soe desirous of it and soe passionate for it (as he confesseth
himselfe was alsoe after hee had scene the Ladye), that you
trusted more to the Spanish ministers and their promises then
was fittinge in discretion. . , . His Ma*''^ alsoe told me that
though yo" much desired the match, yet he thinkes you did not
labo' so effectually as yo" might haue done to effect what he
soe extreamely desired, w"'' was to haue the Infanta then alonge
w"' him; and whilst the Duke and the Conde 0. Oliuares
were good friends, and that you were fallen outw*'' tbe Conde
(w* he saide was indeed e for beinge an honest man to bim)
you weare verye cold in SolUcitinge that particular ; but that
as soone as the conde and the Duke were fallen out, w* was
not psonall betweene them, but caused by the busines and
for His Ma*'*' seruise, yo' Lo?. was instantly freindes w*'' the
Conde w*'^out recapitulateinge any busines of the quarrell or
receaueinge satisfaction for the -wrongs he had done you;
wherin His Mat'* saith he discouered much ill will in you to
the Duke, and an apt-es in you to be euer confident in the
Spaniardes when their promises concurred with yo' desires.
The summe and conclusion of his Ma*'^' discourse was, that
psonally he hath a very good affection to yo' Lop and the
A A 3

358 Charles's favour to the earl.
error w* he conceaves to be committed by yo" is such that
the least acknowledgment shall expiate it, and then yo" shall
haue his fauo' againe as before. I hope this relation will
bringe much content vnto yo' Lop. especially I tellinge y"
that the Kinge seemed to me to speake it verye affectionately
and lamentinge yo' sicknes, -w"'' pray God soone to free you
of, that you may in due time take notice to his Ma*'* of what
I write to yo' Lop as yo" shall thinke fitt. And goe w**"
remembraunce of my humble seruice to yo' Lop.
" I rest, " yo' Lops most faithfuU servant,
"London, 27 May, 1625."* " KeNELME DiGBYE.
This gracious reception on the part of the King seemed to
augur for Sir Kenelm a future career of great success, whether
as a courtier and soldier, or in maritime affairs ; yet it is evi
dent from some of the letters lately brought to light in the
State Paper Office, that the jealousy of Buckingham, and con
sequently of his secretary Nicholas, impeded one of the most
ardent desires of Sir Kenelm, that of nautical distinction.
Sir Kenelm himself asserts, that it was his wish to prove to
the world that his love for Venetia had not lessened his courage
and ambition, which induced him to entreat King Charles to
send him on a voyage.
The objections made to a request seemingly so advantageous
to the country as well as honourable to himself, appear, indeed,
singular to our modern ideas.
The first obstacle is stated to be inferiority of rank. Ni
cholas, secretary to the Duke of Buckingham, thus states
that point : —
" First, that it is graunted to a private gent, whereas such
coni^ (commission) haue not bene used to be graunted to | . .
under the degree of a Baron unlesse it were for y" Kinges
ser-vice. * State-Paper Office. — Domestic Papers, Chas. I., vol. ii. No. IOO.
t A word erased.

Nicholas's objections. 359
" Secondly," he proceeds to say, "that it doth not only licence
S' Kenelme, but all such as he will answere for, w'='' is more
then was graunted to y* D. of Cumberland. (That this coni'' *
graunted to that knt: and his deputies and officers, whereas
y* s* D''* had it only to him selfe and his officers) He hath
power to himselfe and his deputies to execute marshall Lawes
w"'' none eu' had before (but j" E. of Warwick that went not
in an imediate service for his Mat'*) He doth anticipate power
to take the thingges and goods of anie that shall not be in
amity w*'' his Mat'* w"'' large irregularity and Latitude was
unheard of, tUl my lo: of Warwick's Coin" whereof I . . .
. . . and my lo; was pmised it should be amended, fst his
passe, and that he take duty or valew, he is not I thinke to
pay damages, for when he is att sea he cannot tell whether the
King be fallen out w'** the States or noe.
" This Com" Thoughe there be noe mencon in it for y*
King's svice, doth require all officers by sea and Land (in w"''
my lo: Ad'' is comphended), to ayde assist & further him &
his officers in anie thinge he or his officers shall require and
stande in neede of for the furtheraunce of his svice, w*'' is S'.
Kenelme & bis adventurers only.
" I should be satisfied from you on the behalf of my Lo:
Ad" (Admiral) what you thinke of these points & of y* Coiri"
in genall (General.) And whether you cann remember that
the like at anie time hath bene graunted to any private man
of his ranke that hath not bene imployed for his Ma*'*' s-vice.
My lo. thought much that tbe E. of Warwicke had such a
coin" as was graunted to him, and will take it for a greate re
missness in those he trusteth here in adm'^ businesses when
he shall heare of this graunt to S' Kenelme of this Coiri" hath
no relacon to their Lop' f att all I pray
left."
" I knowe," he adds in another letter, "my lo: -will thinke
-* Commission. t 'Words erased.
A A 4

360 SIR KENELM PERSE-VERES AND SUCCEEDS.
his officers wondrous negligent, when he shall heare that such
a Com" is graunted : My lo: of Warwicks canne be noe psi-
dent (precedent) to warrant this, and I am confident my lo :
would never haue Given way to that to passe had but he had
leasure to consider the consequence hereof, or had it not bene
in the puzle of the greate pparacons as where then in hand.
" I bono' Sir Kenelme Digby, and thinke him worthy of
encourag™*, Soe as it be not at my lords cost, and to y* disho-
no' or diminucon of the r*. priviledges of his graces place ;
w*'' I hope shall be pvented by yo' care and industry w* I
shall not fayle to make knowne to my Lo : as being truly, &c.
"25»F^ris,I627."* « E. NICHOLAS.
The commission, with very full powers, was, however,
granted ; Charles styling Sir Kenelm in that document our
" trustie and weU-beloved friend."
Thus we see, that whilst all were bred up to arms, a pre
vious nautical education was not thought essential to the naval
service ; and a military man, and even a civilian of influence,
often took the command of a squadron. The object of Sir
Kenelm's expedition was to intercept the trade in silks of the
French in Spain and Portugal, and by tihis means to insure
that trade to the English.
Before leaving England he imparted his marriage to Digby,
Earl of Bristol, who promised to befriend the suspected and
injured Venetia.
Sir Kenelm's expedition was triumphant, and his favour
at court was now permanently insured. Sir Kenelm, in
spite of his absence, not only retained his post as gentleman
of the bed-chamber, but was also appointed a Commissioner
of the Eoyal Navy, and Governor of Trinity House. About
this time, also, a reconciliation was opened for the return
of Van Dyck to England, but the painter, as it appears from
'* Domestic Papers, State Paper Office. Nicholas's Letter Book, 1627, p. 64.

SIR KENELM AT THE COURT OP CHARLES I. 361
the following letter, translated from the Italian, in which
he seems sometimes to have written, — at first drew back
from the overtures made to him, conceiving that Sir Bal
thazar Gerbier, the English agent in the affair, had not pro
moted his interests at the English court.
To Sir Balthazar Gerbier.
" To tbe Agent of England.
" Your excellency will do me the favour to hold in sus
pense the treaty with the Queen Mother of France, as well as
her Highness, respecting my voyage to England, until such
time as I may speak with your excellency in my own person
and not through another. I kiss your hand and remain, &c.,
" Anto. Van Dyck."
(Translation) Postscript to a letter (in French) from Sir B.
Gerbier to the King (Charles I.)
" Van Dyck is here, and says he is resolved to go over
into England : he pretends to be very ill pleased with me,
because that babbler Geldorp has written that I had orders to
speak to the said Van Dyck on the part of your Majestie, and
that I concealed it from him.
"Your Majesty so commanded me, consequently I was
not called upon to give an explanation to any one, neither do
I intend. " Dated from Brussels, March 13, 1632." *
Let US view Digby now, for a brief space, the ornament of
that staid court, into which Charles I. introduced his own
refined tastes, and where none were patronised who did not,
in some measure, contribute to the pleasures of intellect and
to the love of art.
Henrietta Maria was then in all the bloom of her almost
» State Paper Office, No. 2.

362 HENRIETTA MARIA.
infantine loveUness, gay as a bird, fond of pleasure as a
Frenchwoman was likely to be, easily prejudiced, easily won
by talents which took her fancy. Sir Kenelm spoke French
well ; he was suspected to be inclined to Eomanism, which he
afterwards avowed; he was voluble, and had savoir faire, and
a careless elegance of manners, so that it seemed as if he had
been brought up in a court. Henrietta Maria delighted in
his society; Charles respected his abilities ; their tastes were
in unison, and Digby employed his influence in one way cal
culated to insure the gratitude of posterity ; he brought Van
Dyck to England.* It was from Sir Kenelm that Charles I.
learned what a treasure had been sent away when Van Dyck,
chagrined and scarcely noticed, had, after his first -visit, left
England in disgust. But the slight was repaired. The great
painter was received with distinction, and lodged among the
King's painters in Blackfriars, or, as the Frenchman Felbien,
wdtb what Horace Walpole calls " the dignity of ignorance,"
terms it, L'Hotel de Blaifore. Striking scenes had been
enacted in this same " Hotel de Blaifore " before Van Dyck
took up his abode there. A church, precinct, a:id sanctuary
had once composed tbe monastery of tbe Black or Preaching
Friars, founded by Hubert de Burgh in 1221. Various great
personages had largely endowed this monastery, the hall of
which, before its suppression in 1538, was used for various
occasions. Blackfriars had been honoured in the reign of
Henry VIII. by being appropriated to the reception of the
Emperor Charles V. In the hall of Black Friars poor
Katharine of Arragon made that passionate and fruitless
appeal, which after the lapse of centuries is never read,
even in the obsolete language of the chroniclers of the day,
without emotion ; the Friary, as it was called, contained
¦*- An entry occurs in the State Paper Office, dated March 20, 1630-31,
by which it appears seventy-eight pounds was paid to " Monseur Vandyck of
Antwerp, for a picture of Reyualdo and Armida." The money went through
the hands of Endymion Porter.

VAN DYCK AT BLACKFRLARS. 363
many separate dwellings -within the " site, circle, or compass
of Blackfriars ; " the convent was dissolved and the church
pulled down, but the sanctuary still remained, and existed
until merged into the ward of " Farringdon Within." It was
probably in part of the old convent, granted by Edward VI.
to Sir Thomas Cawarden, Master of the Eevels, that Van
Dyck lived from 1632 to 1641. The rent of his house was
stated, in 1638, to be twenty pounds a year, the title, one
pound, six shillings, and eightpence. It appears from several
entries and warrants that fifteen shillings a day was allowed
for the painter's board and lodging. Here Charles I. came
frequently, not only sitting to the painter for his own picture,
but often working himself at the easel. What an assemblage
must have been seen from time to time in that antique
edifice : — Charles himself, his coronation robes, or bis suit of
white satin, hanging over a chair-back readj^ for the painter
when he employed himself on them ; or the King's young
wards, " dear Steenie's " children, George, second Duke of
Buckingham, and his brother Lord Francis Villiers, handsome
boys, who sat to Van Dyck by the King's wish ; or graver
company sometimes, to wit. Archbishop Laud, upon whose
beaming face the clouds of care had not then lowered: —
Inigo Jones, all the Wharton family, and last, not least, the
stately Sir Kenelm and his beautiful, his doomed Venetia.
One would like to have peeped in at that old lattice, and
taken a survey of that chamber : the artist, with his eye full
of fire and genius, his fine features, in a dress too rich for
work, but setting off his figure to the best advantage,
working at his satins, on the excellence of which, — he is said
to have painted one white satin dress fourteen times over
before he could satisfy himself, — he used to pride himself.
Here Venetia in all her bloom was depicted ; she is repre
sented as treading on envy and malice, unhurt by a serpent
that twines round her arm, a delicate compliment to her
impUed justification. It was no sUght undertaking to sit to

364 VAN dyck's RECEPTIONS.
Van Dyck for a portrait, he was so slow and fastidious;
Laniere the painter sat to him seven whole days and evenings.
Nothing would induce the painter to let his sitters see their
portraits when in progress. Often the 'great and the learned
stayed to dinner, which was then at noon, so that, after
studying their faces, he could retouch the likeness in the
afternoon : — and how delightful must have been those im
promptu dinners ; the talk, not all of painting, but of tbe
sister art of music. For Van Dyck loved music, he was
generous to musicians. His receptions were splendid, and
at last, though he died at forty-one, both his fortune and
his constitution were injured by this princely style of li-ving.
He began to take less pains with his portraits, and, being
asked the reason, answered, " I have worked a long time for
reputation, and I now work for my kitchen."
Van Dyck, says Walpole, sought to repair his fortune, not
by the laboratory of his painting-room, as Eubens had done,
but by that " real folly, the pursuit of the philosopher's stone,
in which, perhaps, he was encouraged by the example of his
friend Sir Kenelm Digby." It is stated that Van Dyck sym
pathised in Digby's tastes, beUeved in the sympathetic
powder, and appreciated his friend as one of tbe greatest
philosophers of his time, whilst Sir Kenelm proved the most
valuable patron that any painter could desire.
It was not only by the luxuries of his table and style that
Van Dyck became poor ; he had other expensive pleasures.
Tbe highly-finished portrait of his mistress, Mrs. Lemon,
still attracts, by its beauty of outline and colouring, many a
connoisseur's eye. This person lived openly with Van Dyck,
yet she also received the attentions of Endymion Porter,
gentleman of the bed-chamber to Charles I., and a protege
of the first George Villiers. Towards the end of Van Dyck's
short life, he married, by tbe King's desire, the Lady Maria
Euthven, one of the beauties of the court. She was the
daughter of the Earl of Gowrie, a house famous for its

VANDYCK AT ELTHAM. 365
treasonable attack upon James I. Beauty and rank were
her only portion, and Charles, it is thought by some, sought
to lower the Euthven family by thus marrying its brightest
ornament to a painter. But this surmise, springing from
the small mind of Horace Walpole, a liberal in profession,
an aristocrat in his inmost heart, is unworthy of the more
generous -views of Charles I., who, probably, with juster
-views of the relations of society, thought a man of eminence
in a noble profession equal to match with the daughter of
an ancient house.
Sometimes Van Dyck retired at Eltham, near the old
palace of the Tudors, over the ruins of which Evelyn la
mented when he beheld the devastations made by Eich
during the rebellion. But the usual tenor of Sir Anthony's
life was passed at Blackfriars, whither Charles rowed in a
royal barge, delighted to see his portraits of the ill-starred
royal family.
The King had granted him an annuity of 2001. a year, and
the sums paid for Van Dyck's paintings, though they may
seem small in our days, were considerable in that state of
the value of money. Charles, it appears, from several entries
discovered in the State Paper Office, did not disclaim the
foreign custom, to which the English have so strong an
objection, of offering less prices than those asked ; for there
is a list of pictures delivered about the year 1628, in Van
Dyck's handwriting, with the diminution of prices marked
by the King.
It makes one's heart ache to think how dispersed these
treasures of art were, in after days, when the decree of
Parliament caused them to be sold, as Horace Walpole terms
it, by " inch of candle." After the execution of Charles, a
twelfth Eoman Emperor, painted by Van Dyck to complete
the set by Titian, was purchased by the Spanish Ambassador.
A portrait of Charles in armour, — in which Van Dyck ex
celled, — and riding on a dun horse, found its way, somehow.

366 A LETTER OF VAN DYCK'S.
to Munich, where the great Marlborough bought it, and
placed it in Blenheim House. For his portraits Van Dyck
received according to their size, for a half length 401., a
whole length 601. ; a family portrait, including several figures,
cost 100?. ! Among his sitters. Sir Kenelm, — to whom Van
Dyck owed his establishment in England, — with Venetia and
her children, were more frequently seen at Blackfriars than
any other friends.
In the following letter addressed by Van Dyck to Mr.
Francis Junius, reference is made to the famous print of
Sir Kenelm Digby, engraved by Van Voorst from a portrait
by Van Dyck. The original letter (of which that here given
is a translation) was in Dutch.*
" To Mr. Francis Junius f, London.
" Sir, " The Baron Canuwe J has returned to me, by sea,
the copy of your book ' De Pictura Veterum,' which he
values very highly, and considers it a most learned composi
tion ; I am confident it will be as acceptable to the public as
any hitherto published, and that the arts will be much
elucidated by so remarkable a work, which must materially
promote their regeneration, and insure a great reputation
and satisfaction to its author. Lately I communicated the
same to a very learned gentleman, who came to visit me, and
I can hardly describe in what favourable terms be spoke of
your book, which he considered to be as curious and learned
as any he had ever met with.
" The before-named Baron Canuwe -wishes to receive a
copy of it as soon as the printing shall be finished, persuaded
* Harl. MSS. No. 4936, and numbered 26 in the volume.
t Francis Junius was librarian to the Earl of Arundel (the first English
patron of Vandyck) and tutor to his children.
J Edward, 2nd Viscount Con-n-ay.

SIR KENELM CHANGES HIS FAITH. 367
that everybody wUl take a particular interest in the same,
and be anxious to see it.
" As I have caused the portrait of the Chevalier Digby to
be engraved, -with a view to publication, I humbly request
you to favour me with a little motto by way of inscription at
the bottom of the plate*, by which you will render me a
ser-vice, and do me great honour ; the present tending chiefly
to offer you my humble service.
" Believe me always to remain. Sir,
" Your unworthy servant,
"This I4th August, 1636." "AnT. Van DyCK.
Sympathetic powder, and the philosopher's stone, were not
the only themes that were discussed in the Friary — or worn
threadbare as the friends paced the then delicious neighbour
hood of Eltham. Sir Kenelm was now in a state of tran
sition from the Anglican to the Eomish Church. Early
predilections had, perhaps, never been wholly effaced from
a mind full of romance, and devoted to old-world literature.
Before 1636, he had begun to have religious scruples : in that
year, he reconciled himself to the Church of Eome.
He "Wrote an apology for his conversion to his old tutor
Laud : the archbishop returned him an answer full of ten
derness and good advice, but <expressing little hope of retain-
* There is a plate, engraved by Van Voorst from a portrait by Van Dyck, of
Sir Ken. Digby, inserted in the " Centum Scones," in the background of which
is a broken armfllary sphere, beneath it the words " Impavidum ferient," sup
posed to be an allusion to a naval -victory gained over the French and the
Venetians in the Bay of Seanderoon, by a squadron under the command of
Digby. This was probably the de-vice and motto furnished by Junius. In the
early impressions of this plate Sir Kenelm Digby is singularly enough styled
"Astrologus Caroli Eegis Magnse BritanniEe." This action is recorded in a
poem of Ben Jonson's, entitled " An Epigram to my Muse the Lady Digby,
on her husband. Sir Kenelm Digby," wherein he -writes -this couplet, —
" Witness thy action done at Seanderoon
Upon thy birth-day, the eleventh of June."

368 SIR KENELM CONVERTED TO ROMANISM.
ing him in the Protestant Church. Laud well knew that
when once a conversion of that nature takes place, the
mind refuses to see the light : implicit acceptance is ac
corded even to points of faith which have not the remotest
foundation in Scripture, and all free discussion is for ever
relinquished. Sir Kenelm replied to the archbishop, and endeavoured
to con-vince him that the change bad not been made without
great consideration. He afterwards published at Paris his
" Conference -with a Lady about the Choice of a Eeligion."
The studies of Van Dyck must have been a succession of
tableaux of the great characters of the day. Mistress Lemon,
with her soft fair face and voluptuous beauty, had vanished
from the scene, and the high-born wife had succeeded her :
and now, when Van Dyck had become respectable, Charles
would permit his lovely queen and her ladies, in their tendril
like curls and satin dresses, to pass their judgments upon the
portraits. Here stands the dark-browed Wentworth, Earl of
Strafford, haughty, unpopular, yet of a grand presence and
striking mien. Strafford was inimitably depicted by Van Dyck.
It is a face so full of strong determination, so little capable,
one would fancy, of changing that expression, that one can
hardly imagine the doomed earl melting into tears during his
trial when he spoke of his children. Strafford, with the shadow
on his brow, was Van Dyck's masterpiece. "I can forgive bim,"
says Horace Walpole, " any insipid portraits of perhaps in
sipid people, when he showed himself capable of conceiving
and transmitting the idea of the greatest man of the age."
One would hardly have expected that sentence from Horace
Walpole. Sometimes in that studio the burly figure and diseased
visage of Ben Jonson might be seen, and we may imagine
him uttering some^entences of Dutch, of which he had picked
up a smattering when he was a soldier in Flanders. Gerard
Honthorst has left us a living likeness of " poor Ben " —

CHARLES INTERFERES WITH THE UNIVERSITY. 369
what a head it is ; so broad a forehead ; such hard and
massive features ; one eye askance : — the form so bulky that
it must have almost filled up the small old-fashioned chamber.
What a contrast his rough attire and very ugly face to the
handsome Van Dyck, point devise even in his studio, and
petit maitre whilst at his easel ! But Ben had the patronage
of Sir Kenelm, and celebrated the virtues of Venetia in his
Eupheme, a long poem which he published in her praise
after her death.
It was about this time, and before the death of Venetia,
that a letter in the State Paper Office indicates at once the
unwarrantable interference of King Charles in university
matters, and the resistance of the college authorities. Either
Charles was ignorant of Digby's actually being married, or,
he considered his sovereign powers sufficient to set aside the
statutes, when he made known his pleasure that Sir Kenelm
should be chosen a fellow of St. John's College, whether
at Cambridge or Oxford is uncertain : it appears from the
following letter that Sir Kenelm had been prosecuting certain
studies at Cambridge (since Christ's College is here spoken
of), and that he was desirous of having a permanent post in
that University; yet he had been originally at St. John's,
Oxford. Both Oxford and Cambridge were, in those days,
the residence frequently of the learned, long after their term
of pupilage was over. But an interference Uke this on the
part of Charles seems without precedent ; though accepted
as for tbe good of their society, by the Master and Fellows
of St. John's.
" Eight Hon'''* our most noble Chancellor,
" At our late Election of Fellowes his Ma*'* was pleased
by diverse letters (out of his Princely care for the good of
our CoUedge) to recomend diverse persons to our Choyce, and
in two of them a faculty was expressed of full liberty to
execute his gracious Coinands. The third on the bebalfe of
VOL. I. B B

370 BEN jonson's EUPHEME.
one S' Digby of Christs CoUedge, did the more pplex (perplex)
us for that it was no way in our power to giue to all satis
faction therunto. However ptye (partly he) forgatte himselfe
so farr as neyther to attend the three public dayes of Ex
amination ; wherin tryall was to be taken of the sufficiency
and capabillitye of all suitors ; nor after, to shewe himselfe
to any one of the Senio", nor yett to haue his name given
up to the Electo" all the tyme previousely appoynted by
Statute under payne of Ineligibility to the end his partes
and qualityes might be Inquired after ; yet his sacred Maf*'
request would haue ben tye ynough uppon us, his most
dutyfuU and obedient servants, to haue indeavored the ac
complishment of his Eoyall desyre, had wee bene inabled
thereunto, by a dispensation w*'' those opposite Statutes,
vnto w* otherwise wee stand obliged by oathe : — Pardon us
therfore most Hon'''* S' that wee presume thus to molest yo'
public affayres w*'' the relation of our poore Collegiate oc
casions : and we hope you will give us leave in all humility
to implore yo' mediation, by a Candid and fayre presente-
ment of our loyall affections to his most gracious Ma*'* and
with all of our just excuse, for omitting that w* was not in
our possibility to pforme. We know our o-wne thoughts
best ; and should much reioyce yf that yo' Lo^^ would
vouchsafe to vnderstand them from our selves, w*'' -will be
a new obligation binding us ever to pray for the Increase
of yo' Lopps health and happines.
" Yo' Lopps suppliant Orrato'^ and Servants,
"The M' & Senio" &c."*
It is evident, by one part of his " Eupheme," that Ben
Jonson had seen the lovely Venetia in the act of sitting
for her picture ; hence the following lines, entitled by him
* Domestic State Papers, 29th 3Iarch, 1633, No. 238. Indorsed, " Copy of
a 1'= (letter) of St Johns CoU. to the Er' of HoUand, excu,sing their not chosing
S"- Digby according to his Ma"" brea. uS by Dr. Beale."

venetia's death — digby's orief. 371
" The Picture of her Body," seem to be suggested by such an
occasion : " THE PICTUEE OF HEE BODY."
" Sitting, and ready to be drawn.
What make these velvets, silks, and lawn,
Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace.
Where every limb takes lilce a face ?
" Send these suspected helps to aid
Some form defective, or decayed ;
This beauty, without falsehood fair.
Needs nought to clothe it but the air.
" Yet something to the painter's -view
Here fitly interposed ; so new;
He shaU, if he can understand.
Work by my fancy, -with his hand.
" Draw first a cloud, aU save her neck.
And out of that make day to break ;
TiU Uke her face it do appear.
And men may think aU Ught rose there."
Before Sir Kenelm had changed his mode of faith, she
who was ever his idol — his Venetia — was no more. On the
first of May, 1633, this beautiful, gifted woman, whom Ben
Jonson called " his Muse," was found dead in her bed. As
she was only thirty-three years of age, and did not appear
previously to be ill, the darkest hints were thrown out, and
Digby was accused of having poisoned her out of jealousy.
Her head was opened, and the portion of brain -within it
found to be very small — a fact which Sir Kenelm ascribed to
her drinking viper's -wine ; but Aubrey observes, that " spite
ful women would say it was a viper's husband who was
jealous of her." One explanation was, perhaps, as rational
as another.
Digby, however, acted the bereaved -widower to perfection :
he retired to Gresham College; assumed a long mourning
cloak, a high-cornered hat, and let his beard grow ; lived
like a hermit, and conversed chiefiy -with the professor there,
devoting his days to chemistry. It is not unlikely that
Venetia's death, his seclusion, his passion of grief, and some
B B 2

372 BEN jonson's grief for venetia.
remorse — for he had not been the most faithful of husbands
— led him to think more deeply on religious subjects than
a man of the world has time to do. The early impressions
of infancy recur in that season when the spirit is bowed
down by anguish. He turned, perhaps, with a certain feel
ing of relief, to the Eomish faith, which allows to those who
die in error the process of a purgatory to refine the dross of
their carnal natures. It is the very weak, or the very
unhappy, or the very sinful that are most easily led to adopt
the tenets that promise so much, and exact so little of what
it is much more difficult to give than offerings and masses.
He proved, however, his love for Venetia, who thus, in
her thirty-third year was taken from him, by employing Ben
Jonson to write his " Eupheme." Efforts of that kind were
usually well paid in those days. No " In Memoriam " was
written for mere friendship. Ben Jonson, however, wrote
from his heart; we cannot believe it otherwise when such
verses as these are penned.
" THE PICTURE OF HEE MIND.*
" A mind so pure, so perfect fine.
As, 'tis not radiant, but di-vine ;
And so disdaining any crier,
'Tis got, where it can try her flre.
" There, all exalted in the sphere,
As it another nature were.
It moveth all, and makes a flight.
As circular as infinite.
"Whose notions when it -wiU express
In speech, it is -with that excess
Of grace, and music to the ear.
As what it spoke, it planted there.
" The voice so sweet, the words so fair.
As some soft chime had parted there.
And though the sound were parted thence.
Had left au echo on the sense.
* Jonson's Works, 722.

his verses. 373
" But that a mind so rapt, so high.
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
Itself to us, and come so nigh
Earth's grossness ; there's the how and why.
» » * *
" Thrice happy house that hath receipt
For this so lofty form, so streight,
So poUshed, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from heaven.
* » * ¦*
" In action, -winged as the -wind ; .
In rest, Uke spirits left behind
Upon a bank, or field of fiowers.
Begotten by the wind or showers."
Lady Digby was buried in Christ's Church, Newgate, in
a brick vault, over which were three steps of black marble,
-with four inscriptions in copper gilt affixed to it ; over this
was her bust of copper gilt. The material seemed intended for
durability, but in the great fire of London all was destroyed,
except the vault, and the bust, which was stolen about
1675-6:" "I saw," Aubrey writes, "as I was walking
through Newgate Street, Dame Venetia's bust, standing at
a stall at the Golden Cross, a glazier's shop. I presently
remembered it, but the fire had got off the gilding; but
taking notice of it to one that was with me, I could never
afterwards see it exposed to the street. They melted it
down." Ben Jonson owed, he declares in undying verse, his best
inspirations to the accomplished and courteous Venetia.
Lowly born as he was, he honoured her ancient lineage ;
coarse — he appreciated her refinement ; thus he speaks that
sorrow which, in him, found words so full of pathos :
" 'Twere time I dy'd too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and Ufe of aU I said.
The spirit that I -wrote -with and conceiv'd;
A11 that was good, or great with me, she weav'd.
And set it forth:—" B B 3

374 HER character BEAUTIFULLY DRAVTO BY HIM.
The rest of his ideas he compares to " fine cobwebs," of no
value nor permanence. " I murmm- against God for having taken
Her blessed soul hence, forth this valley vain
Of tears ! and dungeon of calamity !
I en-vy it the angels' amity.
The joy of saints, the cro-wn for -which it Uves,
The glory and gain of rest, which the place gives !
*»¦»«¦
Was she then so dear when she departed ?
You -ndU meet her there.
Much more desired and dearer than before.
There, aU the happy souls that ever were.
Shall meet together, in one theatre.
And each shaU know there one another's face.
By beatific -virtue of the place ;
There shaU the brother -with the sister walk,
And sons and daughters with their parents talk.
But aU of God."
The character of Venetia drawn by this poetical pen, would
lead us wholly to discredit the rumour that early in life she
had been frail. After describing her as having all nobUity
except pride, as possessing a mind as calm as she was fair, —
" Not tost or troubled with Ught-lady air.
But kept an even gait, as some straight tree
Moved by the air, so comely moved she," —
he speaks of the influence Venetia exercised in her house
hold: He says —
" She was in one, a many parts of life,
A tender mother, a discreeter -wife,
A solemn mistress, and so good a friend.
So charitable to religious end
In aU her petite actions, so devote,
As her whole Ufe was now become one note
Of piety and private holiness."
Ben, crippled by debts, humbled by perpetual adversity,

THE BANQUETING-HOUSE AT WHITEHALL. 375
felt the beauty of that evenness of character so rare in les
grandes dames, — Venetia was not uncertain in manner, not
one day overflowing with emotions, tbe next, tired of a pro
tege, imprudent enough to be always in trouble: the fine-lady
impulse dying into coldness, or excited to impatience.
Venetia's character is so graphically, so affectionately
pictured by Jonson, that we cannot but believe he wrote
from an intimate knowledge of its gentle nobleness. His
" Eupheme " is ended with these lines, alluding to that early
death for which he believes she was prepared :
" In this sweet extasy she was rapt hence.
Who reads -wiU pardon my intelligence.
That thus have ventured, these true stands upon,
To pubUsh her a saint. My Muse is gone."
Little is known of Digby's movements for some time,
except that on his friend Van Dyck's return from Paris,
whither he had gone soon after his marriage to Lady Maria
Euthven, Sir Kenelm was the medium of proposing to .King
Charles that Van Dyck should make designs for the embellish
ment of the banqueting house at Whitehall. The ceiling of
that room, which is now used as a chapel, had already been
adorned by Eubens with the history and procession of the
Order of the Garter. With that beautiful fragment, known
still as the Banqueting House at Whitehall, the name of Van
Dyck is so connected that a short account of it may not here
be unwelcome.
Whitehall was, in the reign of the Tudors, a building of the
style of architecture which bears the name of those monarchs,
with a succession of galleries and courts, a hall, chapel, cock
pit, tennis court, orchard, and banqueting house. James I.
resolved to build a new Whitehall, and Inigo Jones
designed one worthy indeed of its purpose and architect.
Nothing, however, was finished except the banqueting
house. Charles I. also intended to complete Whitehall, but
B B 4

376 DEATH OF ANTHONY VAN DYCK.
an empty treasury impeded that project. Before the civil wars
began, Charles, however, stimulated by Sir Kenelm Digby,
asked Van Dyck what sum he would require to carry out
the embellishments. " I would not," Horace Walpole -writes,
" specify the sum, it is so improbable, if I did not find it in
Fenton's notes on Waller. It was fourscore thousand
pounds." A sketch in chiaro oscuro, by Van Dyck, of the
Procession of the Order was actually prepared, and approved
of by the King ; it included several portraits. That it was
never worked up into a painting is greatly to be lamented :
it was, however, preserved, and in Walpole's time was in
the possession of Lord Chancellor Henley, at the Grange, in
Hampshire. There is, one is glad to find, some doubt
whether the extortionate demand of Van Dyck was ever
made ; subsequent events sufficiently accounted for the issue
without ascribing it to the avarice of one who was apt rather
to spend, than to accumulate. The sum specified was utterly
out of keeping with Van Dyck's ordinary prices.
In 1641 Sir Anthony died. He was happily spared -wit
nessing all the miseries and ravages of the civil war. He
was also spared seeing the sale of all the royal collection
during the Commonwealth.
Van Dyck was buried in Old St. Paul's : — a place of honour
was allotted to his remains, which were interred near the tomb
of John of Gaunt. By Lady Maria Euthven he left one
daughter, who married Mr. Stepney, a young cavalier, who
rode in the Horse Guards when they were first established by
Charles II. Lady Van Dyck married again; her second
husband being Eiehard, son of Sir John Pryse, a Montgo
meryshire Baronet.
To his illegitimate daughter, Maria Teresa, Van Dyck be
queathed the sum of four thousand pounds, making his sister
Susannah, who had become a nun at Antwerp, trustee for that
daughter. He provided also for his other two sisters ; but
to his wife Lady Maria, and to his infant daughter Justi-

HIS TOMB IN OLD ST. PAUL's. 377
niana Anna, he left his goods and effects, and all the money
due to him from Charles I., from the English nobility, or
from any other person. And these sums were to be equally
divided between his wife and daughtei-. Lady Van Dyck was
one of his executors ; but the care of his child was given to
another person, Katherine Cowley, with the sum of ten
pounds yearly for her maintenance, till she should have
attained her eighteenth year. He also left three pounds to
the poor of St. Paul's, and the same sum to the poor of St.
Anne's, Blackfriars.
These bequests, however, were void ; for not until the year
1663 could the will be proved. The great rebellion had
then swept away the possessions of many who owed Van Dyck
money : the debts could not be collected, nor the accounts
settled. It must have been a sad assemblage, when, twenty-two
years after be had passed away, a remnant of his friends met,
to search, as it were, for the wrecks after a storm, and to
see what they could pick up, separate, and assign to right
ful o-wners, now that the whirlwind had passed, and calm
weather had supervened.
One word about Van Dyck's tomb. Old St. Paul's, dating
from 1083, was in a state of great dilapidation when Van
Dyck lived in Blackfriars. It must have been originally a
very fine structure, with its lady-chapel at the east end, its
chapel in the north, dedicated to St. George ; its chapel on
the south, dedicated to St. Dunstan: then in the crypt
below was tbe parish church of St. Faith, and at the south
gate corner, towards the Thames, the parish church of St.
Gregory. "St. Paul's," old FuUer says, "is indeed the
Mother Church, ha-ving one babe (St. Faith) in ber body, and
another (St. Gregory) in her arms." But St. Paul's, when
the bearers carried the coffin of Anthony Van Dyck to its
honoured resting-place, was virtually roofless : the tower had
been taken down, and it was roughly boarded over with

378 AMOUNT OF WORK DONE BY HIM.
wood and lead ; Inigo Jones had begun the repairs, which Uke
everything else were stopped by civil war. Meantime, a
noble classic portico had been tacked on to this old edifice by
"Iniquity" Jones.
On the north side of the choir John of Gaunt was buried ; his
" proper helmet and spear " hung over his stately monument,
also his target covered with horn : here was the appointed
place of sepulture for Anthony Van Dyck, a man born to
immortalise bis contemporaries. Here was to have been
his monument ; but his grave remains without any device
or effigy to honour one, so honoured in his life. Anon, ere
yet his monument could be erected, the old church was full of
soldiers and their horses ; the noble nave was made into a
manege for CromweU's troops ; and sanctimonious profanity
-from those iron-hearted men might be heard echoing through
the aisles near where Van Dyck's mouldering remains were
deposited. What Sir Kenelm Digby's feelings were upon the death of
Van Dyck must be imagined, for no trace of them exists ; but
a man who had so warmly aided his friend in life, had not
the sting of self-reproach to add to his sorrow for a bright
and genial spirit gone from amongst those who prized it well.
The more gifted of those friends did not fail to celebrate his
praises. Sir Kenelm eulogised him in his discourses ; Waller
addressed a poem to him, and Cowley -wrote an elegy on his
death. The amount of work done by Van Dyck was prodigious,
when we consider how carefully it was done ; although he died
at the age of forty-two, he had painted as many pictures as
Eubens. Nor was he, as we have seen, one of those masters who,
as Charles I. said of David Beck, could " paint riding post."
He took infinite pains -with every detail ; he was a fastidious
conscientious painter, emulating, and with success, the perfec
tions of Titian ; he was as scrupulous in every detail, as his good
mother had once been in painting her small flowers, or work-

IN WHAT HE EXCELLED. 379
ing in fine silk. Yet there were subjects in treating which he
rose to the subUme ; witness the noble figure of our Lord on
the cross in the Antwerp GaUery ; that single object, alone,
abandoned, — the Sonof God dying in agony, — a drear, sombre,
yet not opaque background, showing forcibly that divine
form, over which the shadow of the valley of death was pass
ing ; — the noble brow, the attitude, the limbs, the awful
solitude — for solitude in suffering strikes the deepest awe, —
all prove how grand were sometimes the thoughts of one
whose works were limited too exclusively to portraits.
In those, indeed. Van Dyck was inimitable. He had the
great advantage of living amongst those youths, statesmen,
and fair ladies, whom he painted. We see him always in
some festive scene or another : — he was the first painter,
so says tbe historian Sanderson, "who ever put ladies' dress
into a careless romance." He deUghted — thus proving his
good taste in minor matters — in blue and white satins : he
gave to women dignity, delicacy. You could tell their rank
by their portraits, even though no jewels, save his favourite
string of large pearls, — no ornaments, except the tuft of flowers
and feathers, or the pendant pearl hanging on the ivory fore
head of Henrietta Maria, were depicted. Accused of not flatter
ing the sex, he honoured them by assigning to them intellect
and modesty. The coarse embonpoint of Eubens' female
figures ; the voluptuousness of those limned by Titian ; tbe
vulgar, staring, handsome women of Kneller; the insipid
loveliness of Sir Peter Lely's beauties, — are far less calcu
lated to charm a refined mind, than the thoughtful, easy, staid,
high-born matron portrayed by Van Dyck's pencil. Shat
tered by a Iffe of excitement, racked with the gout, dying at
an age when most men have only begun to be eminent.
Van Dyck's works prove that it is not length of days, — it is
earnestness, it is work, — that effect great things. Men, it is
true, in those times, began the .pursuits of a profession early ;
now, perhaps, we begin them, as far as the arts are concerned.

380 HIS " THRONE " AT WILTON.
too late. The enthusiasm of youth bas almost passed away be
fore the man has had opportunity to show himself. Success
only comes when the hair is grey, and w^hen the energy is
damped. Young men at our universities, also, went forth
earlier into the world ; they were not so crammed, so worn
out before they actually began the battle of life as now. See
Van Dyck on what Horace Walpole calls " his throne," at the
Earl of Pembroke's at Wilton, where a great saloon is filled
with his pictures ; see the invaluable collection of his sketches
in the Louvre, and at Chatsworth, and say whether in any but
in the freshness of life's spring, such marvels could have
been wrought.
To his friend Sir Kenelm, years of vicissitude remained.
The pleasant days at Blackfriars, the delicious retirement of
Eltham, the refined enjoyments of Whitehall, were over.
Hitherto, with the exception of bis wife's death, nothing but
prosperity had marked his career. " His changing and re-
ehanging his religion," to borrow the words of Lord Clarendon,
" and some personal vices and licences in his life, which would
have suppressed and sunk any other man, had never clouded
or eclipsed him, from appearing in the best places, and the
best company, and with the best estimation and satisfaction."
For some time previous to the year 1641, Sir Kenelm was
in France, where his fame had preceded him. It was at an
earlier period of his career that he wrote his " Discourse " on
the sympathetic powders ; professing it to comprise a cure
consisting of the use of a certain mixture applied to anything
which had received the blood of a wounded person, who, even
if far away from the person who applied it, would receive
relief. Observations on its use were registered by Lord
Bacon, on this account, and on others : Sir Kenelm was the
object of great attention to the savants of Paris, as well as
to those of his o-wn country.
Upon King Charles's preparing to make war upon the
Scots, he called on his Protestant subjects to give him their

SIR KENELM IMPRISONED — HOW HE WAS RELEASED. 381
assistance and contributions ; whilst the Queen induced Sir
Kenelm Digby and Mr. Walter Montague, to address a cir
cular letter for the same purpose to the Catholics. A con
siderable sum was obtained, but Sir Kenelm was summoned
before the bar of the House of Commons, and an address was
presented to the King, praying him to remove all Eoman
Catholics from about his person, and specifying Sir Kenelm
Digby and Mr. Walter Montague.
He was, therefore, obliged to leave England, and returned,
in 1643, only to suffer imprisonment, being kept in close
durance in Winchester House, until Marie de' Medici, who
had been enamoured of him twenty years before, obtained
his release.
And now comes the part of Digby's life to which even the
partial Clarendon alludes with regret. One condition of his
release was that he would promise, on tbe faith of a Christian
and the word of a gentleman, not " to engage in any practice
or design prejudicial to the Parliament." He took that oath,
and thus, we agree with Mr. Lodge, proved himself to be
more "prudent than honest;" but he was not one who could
rather die as a martyr, than live as a saint. His retirement in
prison had been spent in literary occupations ; his return to
the great world of Paris, where he now repaired, did not
prevent the appearance of his greatest work, namely, " A
Treatise of the Nature of Bodies, and a Treatise declaring the
operations and natm-e of man's soul, out of which the immor
tality of reasonable souls is evinced."
Such faith as could sustain him with the hopes of a better
world was essential, for he at this time lost his eldest son at
the battle of St. Neot's. His estates were nearly involved in
the general ruin, but were compounded for, and his sove
reign, the beloved Charles I. of his youth, his master, com
panion, and friend, had perished on the scaffold.
Digby's inconsistencies must have given at once pain and
amusement to his contemporaries. He visited Descartes,

382 HOW TO LENGTHEN ONE S DAYS.
then in Holland, — incognito ; but conversing on philosophical
subjects betrayed himself.
" Ah ! " said Descartes, " I doubt not but that you are the
famous Sir Kenelm Digby."
" And if you, sir," answered Sir Kenelm, " were not the
celebrated M. Descartes, I should not have come here on
purpose to see you."
Their conversation consisted, according to the author of
the "Life of St. Evremond," of a discussion on the possibility of
lengthening out life to the ages of the patriarchs. Descartes
assured Sir Kenelm that he had long been projecting a
scheme for that purpose ; many conferences on the same
scheme took place between the two savants in Paris, but
whUst Descartes was concocting plans for length of days, his
own were ended, just before his speculations were ready for
dessemination. In 1648, efforts were made by an agent of Parliament in
favour of Sir Kenelm; and from a document, headed "A
true copie of a letter written by an Independent Agent for
the Army from Paris in France, to an Independ* Member of
the House of Coiiions, a great creature and Patriott of the
Army," it appears that interest was made to procure him
permission to return. The writer, " among other things," says,
"he (Sir Kenelm) complains of the want of bosom friends, but
has fallen into the acquaintance of 3 or 4 catholiques of very
great ingenuity, and, in their way, of very much religion," &c.,
&c. " It seems," he adds, " my Lo* Say hath undertaken to
procure a passe from the House for Sir Ken Digby to come over
to England ; he is not according to yo' rule a Denlinquent,
but it seemes came over into France by the H. of Comons
licence, acquitted from any crime ; let me desire you when it
comes to be moved in yo' House, give it the best promotion
you can : one would thinke a busines soe reasonable should
finde noe opposition (but to such a constitution as you are of,
noe man can tell what is reasonable): — he never was in Armes

WRITES TO SIR HENRY BENET. 383
and I beleeve can easilj^ answer any thing that can be
objected (save his Eeligion) why he should be under seques
tration. Lett me entreate you to speake to as many of your
acquaintance as you can, that when it comes to be moved, it
cannot be refused," &c.*
After various wanderings, in his post as Chancellor to Queen
Hem-ietta Maria, the vanity and inconsistency of Sir Kenelm
broke out. He visited Eome, and treated Innocent X.
-with such haughtiness and freedom, that one day he gave the
Pontiff the lie. The Pope returned the compliment by
saying that Sir Kenelm was mad. Digby has been accused,
too, of having made too free with the money subscribed by the
Catholics. He reconciled himself to Cromwell, and, in 1655,
was well received by the Protector in England; nevertheless,
' on the accession of Charles IL, that monarch, who forgot
all wrongs, and left all benefits unrewarded, welcomed Sir
Kenelm to the court, and the following letter addressed by
Digby to Sir Henry Benet, Principal Secretary of War, shows
that he now joined heart and soul against those whom he
termed the " fanatickes."
"Sir, " You -will receive this by Mr. Erington, who is the
man that discovered the last fanatickes that were taken and
executed. His doing that service hath occasioned him much
persecution from severall of that party, both in assaulting
and wounding him w*'' danger of his life, and in stirring y*
vexatious suits in law against him. His request to you is
that you would be pleased to recoiriend him to my Lord Chief
Justice (when there shall be one) to take notice of him, and
do him right in a compendious way, that he may attend to
follow his trade without such dayly interruptions and moles
tations as they give him. He had a pension from the Chest
* State Paper Office, Domestic, Chas. I. 1648, 2Sth Nov.

384 LITERARY SOCIETY AT HIS HOUSE.
at Chatham, for the service he  d the wounds
he received in the Warr  Hollanders w*""
Cromwell tooke a*  heard he was very affec
tionate to the King. Others, in the same ranke w*'' him, haue
their pensions continued to them by the King's order. Now
if he might haue his reuiued, the King might by this means
gratify a poore man that hath deserued well of him, wdthout
being at any charge himselfe. " I am, sir,
" Y' most humble and most obedient servant,
" I9th Oetob. 1663." " KeNELME DigBY. f
After the Eestoration, we find Sir Kenelm living in his
house at Covent Garden, — " The last fair house " westward,
according to Aubrey : — surrounded by the great and the emi
nent in letters and science, and having in his own dwelling a
laboratory for the prosecution of his experiments. Although
the ministry were aware of the unworthy court paid by Sir
Kenelm to Cromwell, the King appointed, him in the settle
ment of the Eoyal Society, to be one of the Council, by the
title of " Sir Kenelm Digby, Knight, Chancellor to our dear
mother Queen Mary."
That was an era when scientific pursuits were popular, and
Charles II. himself was a dilettante in chemistry. Sir
Kenelm, racked as he was with a cruel disease, attended the
meetings of the society, and assisted at the discoveries then
taking place. He assembled all the learned in his own house,
and, after tbe manner of the French, had a sort of academy or
literary assembly there. But disease brought him low ; he
was projecting a journey to France for medical advice, when
death closed all the projects of his active life. He expired
on his birthday, June 11th, 1665.
* The parts dotted are in a piece torn away from the letter at the bottom.
t Endorsed or directed, "For Sir Henry Benet, Principal Secretary of
Ware," State Paper Office. Not calandered: but communicated by Mrs.
Everet Green.

digby's personal demeanour. 385
Wood, perhaps more wittily than iustly, has said, that " such
were Digby's natural and acquired advantages, so noble was
his address, so graceful his elocution, that, had he dropped
from the clouds on any part of the world, he would have
made himself respected." " Yes," the Jesuits would say,
" but then he ought not to stay there longer than six weeks."
The inquiring mind of Digby little suited the bigoted reli
gionists with whom he had allied himself. As a philosopher,
an orator, a soldier, a courtier, his talents were wonderfully
conspicuous; neither could tbe extent of his knowledge of
theological subjects be disputed. Of no branch of human
science was he ignorant; his profound intellect illustrated
every subject to which he devoted his attention. His writ
ings are full of eloquence : and whilst at the Eoyal Society,
and in the meetings of the Philosophic Society, at MontpeUier,
his lucid method of proposing and refuting matters to the
members was the theme of all praise.
In his personal demeanour, Sir Kenelm presented a model
of the true English gentleman ; a character which bis ill-
fated and erring father had borne before him. His noble
form, stately, and always in splendid attire; his gracious
manners, his facility ih speaking six languages, would have
rendered him an object of great attraction abroad, and done
credit to his country, had not his vanity and versatility, his
captiousness — which led him to fight several duels — and his
eccentricity, induced many to call him mad. But it was the
madness of a noble mind.
His personal character, his loves, his friendship, have
chiefly been dUated on here ; but in referring to bis literary
remains we cannot avoid mentioning the noble MS. -which
he collected, at tbe expense of a thousand pounds, from pubUc
histories, and from letters and records in the Tower, relating
to the Digby famUy in all its branches. He knew the im
portance of family history, in which we are so lamentably
deficient in this country. He had collected a very valuable
c c

386 HIS DESCENDANTS, AND HIS MEMOIRS.
library which, at the commencement of the civil war, was
removed into France, and when he died, as he was no sub
ject of the French king, it became, according to the Droit
d'Aubaine, the property of his Gallic Majesty; but was
purchased by the Earl of Bristol.
By Sir Kenelm the memory of Venetia was revered till his
death. In his will, which was made about six months before
his death, he ordered his body to be laid by her side in Christ
Church, desiring that no inscription should be placed on the
tomb. Sir Kenelm's estates were left to executors, to be
sold in order to pay his debts.
John Digby, his second son, married the daughter of
Sir John Conway, of Bodry, in Flintshire; and from her
daughter Honora, who married Sir John Glynne, Sir Stephen
Glynne is descended. He is, therefore, the representativio of
Sir Kenelm Digby, and, through the fair Venetia, of the
great houses also of Stanley and Percy.
Sir Kenelm, although he desired not that his " follies
should remain after him on record," left private memoirs of
his own life, more especially of the passages relating to
Venetia. This production, which was first published from
the original manuscript in 1827, ends in a declaration that
the narrative, written as it is in feigned names, was composed
in order that he might look back upon his " past and sweet
errors." The remembrance of Venetia pervades the whole.
" For the present," he thus concludes, " I will say no more,
but -will continue my prayers to God for a fair wind to bring
me once again to see that person whose memory begot this
discourse." END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

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