There is no page in England's history so bright, nor of which Englishmen
have such reason to be proud, as that covering the period between 1640
and 1650. This glorious decade was ushered in by the election of the
"Long Parliament," and I challenge the annals of all nations, ancient or
modern, to show an assembly in which sat a greater number of statesmen
and patriots. Brave as pure, fearless in the discharge of their
difficult and dangerous duties, they faltered not in the performance of
them--shrank not from impeaching a traitor to his country, and bringing
his head to the block, even when it carried a crown. True to their
consciences, as to their constituencies, they left England a heritage of
honour that for long haloed her escutcheon, and even to this hour throws
its covering screen over many a deed of shame.
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"Be a King?"
"Am I not one?"
"In name--nothing more. Ah! were I a man and in your place?"
"What would you do?"
"Give your island churls a taste of kingship, as we know it in France.
My brother wouldn't let his subjects so beard him. Oh, it's
abominable!"
"Ah, _chere_; for subjects your brother has a very different sort of
people to deal with. In France they're not yet come to clamouring for
what they call their rights and liberties. Here in England they've got
Magna Charta into their heads--to a craze."
"I'd have it out of their heads, or have their heads off. _Ciel_! I'd
reign King as King should, or resign. No! not resign. Sooner than that
I'd waste the country with fire and sword--make it a wilderness."
It was Henrietta, wife of Charles the First, who thus expressed herself
to her husband. They were alone in the gardens of Whitehall Palace,
sauntering side by side on a terrace overlooking the Thames, the
afternoon being an unusually fine one. As they made a turn which
brought Westminster Hall before their eyes, the angry fire in those of
the Queen flashed up again, and she added--
"Anything but be dictated to by that _canaille_ of a Parliament!
Anything but let them go on as now?"
"How am I to hinder it, Henriette?" the King timidly interrogated.
"Dismiss--send them packing back to their constituencies, and let them
prate away there as much as they please. Dissolve and do without them,
as you've done before."
"That would be to do without the money we so much need. My subjects are
determined to resist every tax levied under Privy Seal or otherwise. I
can no longer raise loan or sell monopoly. Your own secretary, Sir John
Wintour, has just been telling me how the people of Dean Forest have
been harassing him about the grant we gave him of its timber and mines.
Impossible now to obtain the most insignificant supplies without their
being sanctioned by this _cabal_ called Parliament."
"Then make the _cabal_ sanction them."
"But how, _chere_?"
"Have a score or two of them arrested--lodged in the Tower; and let
Monsieur Tom Lunsford take care of them. He'll soon cure them of their
seditious inclinings."
"To do that were as much as my crown's worth."
"If't be worth no more, you may as well cease wearing it. Fling it into
the Thames, or melt it down and sell it to the Ludgate Street goldsmiths
for old metal. Shame of you, Charles! You talk of kingly rights, yet
fail to exercise them--fear it?"
"My subjects talk of rights, too."
"Yes, and you encourage them--by your timidity. Ever on your knees
begging this and begging that, when a true king would command.
Subjects, indeed! more like our masters. But I'd teach them obedience.
What would they be without a king? What were they born for but to
administer to our wants and our pleasures?"
Words worthy of a Medici; the sentiments of a queen two centuries and a
half ago. Yet not so very different from those entertained by most
Royal personages at the present day and hour. But few of them who would
not sit placidly upon their thrones, see subjects slain, and realms
reduced to desolation, rather than resign crown or yield up one iota of
what they are pleased to call their prerogative. How could it be
otherwise? Environed by sycophantic flatterers, heads bowing, knees
bending, tongues eternally bepraising; things in human shape giving them
adoration as to God Himself--ay, greater than to God--how could it be
otherwise? Not so strange that this proud, pampered woman, from her
cradle accustomed to such slavish obedience, should verily believe it
but her due.
"_Their_ rights?" she continued, with a satirical laugh. "An absurd
notion they've got into their Saxon skulls. Ah! _mon mari_, were I you
for a month--for a week--I'd have it out--stamp it out--I would."
And to give emphasis to her speech, she stamped her foot upon the
ground.
A pretty foot it was, and still a handsome woman she, this daughter of
the Medicis, notwithstanding her being now somewhat _passe_. Ambitious
as Catherine herself--"that mother of a race of kings"--intriguing,
notoriously dissolute, not the less did Charles love her. Perhaps the
more, for the cuckoo's cry is a wonderful incentive to passion, as to
jealousy. He doted upon her with foolish fondness--would have done
anything she commanded, even murder. And to more than this was she now
instigating him; for it was to stifle, trample out the liberties of a
nation, no matter at what cost in life or blood.
Wicked as were her counsels, he would have followed them and willingly,
could he have seen his way clear to success. Men still talk of his
kindly nature--in face of the fact, proved by irresistible evidence,
that he rejoiced at the massacre of the Protestants in Ireland, to say
naught of many other instances of inhumanity brought home to this
so-called "Martyr King." He may not have been--was not--either a Nero
or a Theebaw; and with his favourites and familiars no doubt behaved
amicably enough; at the same time readily sacrificing them when danger
threatened himself. To his wife his fidelity and devotion were such as
to have earned for him the epithet "uxorious," a title which can be more
readily conceded. But in his affection for her--whether upheld by
respect or not--there was a spice of fear. He knew all about the
scandals relating to her mother, Marie of France, with Richelieu, and
his own and father's favourite, the assassinated Buckingham, now
sleeping in his grave. Charles more than suspected, as did all the
world besides, that this same Queen-mother had sent her husband--king as
himself--to an untimely tomb by a "cup of cold poison." And oft as the
dark Italian eyes of her daughter flashed upon him in anger, he felt
secret fear she might some day serve him as had her mother the ill-fated
monarch of France. She was of a race and a land whence such danger
might be reasonably expected and dreaded. Lucrezia Borgia and Tophana
were not the only great female poisoners Italy has produced.
"If you've no care for yourself, then," she went on with untiring
persistence, "think of our children. Think of him," and she nodded
towards a gaudily-dressed stripling of some ten or twelve, seen coming
towards them. It was he who, twenty years after, under the seemingly
innocent soubriquet of "Merry Monarch," made sadness in many a family
circle, smouching England's escutcheon all over with shame, scarce
equalled in the annals of France.
"_Pauvre enfant_!" she exclaimed, as he came up, passing her jewelled
fingers through the curls of his hair; "your father would leave you
bereft of your birthright; some day to be a king with a worthless
crown."
The "pauvre enfant," a sly young wretch, smiled in return for her
caresses, looking dark at his father. Young as he was, he knew what was
meant, and took sides with his mother. She had already well
indoctrinated him with the ideas of Divine Right, as understood by a
Medici.
"_Peste_!" exclaimed the King, looking vexed, possibly at the allusion
to a successor; "were I to follow your counsels, Madam, it might result
in my leaving him no crown at all."
"Then leave him none!" she said in quick return, and with an air of
jaunty indifference. "Perhaps better so. I, his mother, would rather
see him a peasant than prince, with such a future as you are laying out
for him."
"Sire, the Earl of Strafford craves audience of your Majesty."
This was said by a youth in the official costume of the Court, who had
approached from the Palace, and stood with head bent before the King.
A remarkably handsome young fellow he was, and the Queen, as she turned
her eyes on him, seemed to recover sweetness of temper.
"I suppose my company will be _de trop_ now," she said. Then facing
towards the youth, and bestowing upon him one of her syren smiles--slyly
though--she added, "Here, Eustace; bring this to my boudoir," and she
handed him a large book, a _portfeuille_ of pictures, she had been all
the while carrying.
Whether the King caught sight of that smile, and read something wrong in
it, or not, he certainly seemed irritated, hastily interposing--
"No, Henriette, I'd rather have you stay."
"_Con tout plaisir_." A slight cloud upon her brow told the contrary.
"Charles, too?"
"No; he can go. Yes, Trevor. Conduct the Lord Strafford hither."
Eustace Trevor, as the handsome youth was called, bowing, turned and
went off, the Prince with him. Then said the King--
"I wish you to hear what Strafford has to say on the subject we've been
talking of."
"Just what I wish myself," she rejoined, resuming her air of _braverie_.
"If you won't listen to me, a weak woman, perhaps you will to him, a
man--_one of courage_."
Charles writhed under her speech, the last words of it. Even without
the emphasis on them, they were more than an insinuation that he himself
lacked that quality men are so proud of, and women so much admire.
Almost a direct imputation, as if she had called him "coward!" But
there was no time for him to make retort, angry or otherwise, even had
he dared. The man seeking audience was already in the garden, and
within earshot. So, swallowing his chagrin as he best could, and
putting on the semblance of placidity, the King in silence awaited his
coming up.
With an air of confident familiarity, and as much nonchalance as though
they had been but ordinary people, Strafford approached the royal pair.
The Queen had bestowed smiles on him too; he knew he had her
friendship--moreover that she was the King's master. He had poured
flattery into her ears, as another Minister courtier of later time into
those of another queen--perhaps the only point of resemblance between
the two men, otherwise unlike as Hyperion to the Satyr. With all his
sins, Wentworth had redeeming qualities; he was at least a brave man and
somewhat of a gentleman.
"What do you say to this, my lord?" asked the Queen, as he came up.
"I've been giving the King some counsel; advising him to dissolve the
Parliament, or at least do something to stop them in their wicked
courses. Favour us with your opinion, my lord."
"My opinion," answered the Minister, making his bow, "corresponds with
that of your Majesty. _Certes_, half-hand measures will no longer avail
in dealing with these seditious gabblers. There's a dozen of them
deserve having their heads chopped off."
"Just what I've been saying!" triumphantly exclaimed the Queen. "You
hear that, _mon mari_?"
Charles but nodded assent, waiting for his Minister to speak further.
"At the pace they're going now, Sire," the latter continued, "they'll
soon strip you of all prerogative--leave you of Royalty but the rags."
"_Ciel_, yes!" interposed the Queen. "And our poor children! What's to
become of them?"
"I've just been over to the House," proceeded Strafford; "and to hear
them is enough to make one tear his hair. There's that Hampden, with
Heselrig, Vane, and Harry Martin--Sir Robert Harley too--talking as if
England had no longer a king, and they themselves were its rulers."
"Do you tell me that, Strafford?"
It was Charles himself who interrogated, now showing great excitement,
which the Queen's "I told you so" strengthened, as she intended it.
"With your Majesty's permission, I do," responded the Minister.
"By God's splendour!" exclaimed the indignant monarch, "I'll read them a
different lesson--show them that England _has_ a king--one who will
hereafter reign as king should--absolute--absolute!"
"Thank you, _mon ami_," said the Queen, in a side whisper to Strafford,
as she favoured him with one of her most witching smiles, "He'll surely
do something now."
The little bit of by-play was unobserved by Charles, the gentleman-usher
having again come up to announce another applicant for admission to the
presence: an historical character, too--historically infamous--for it
was Archbishop Laud.
Soon after the oily ecclesiastic was seen coming along in a gliding,
stealthy gait, as though he feared giving offence by approaching royalty
too brusquely. His air of servile obsequiousness was in striking
contrast with the bold bearing of the visitor who had preceded him. As
he drew near, his features, that bore the stamp of his low birth and
base nature, were relaxed to their meekest and mildest; a placid smile
playing on his lips, as though they had never told a lie, or himself
done murder!
_Au fait_ to all that concerned the other three--every secret of Court
and Crown--for he was as much the King's Minister as Strafford, he was
at once admitted to their council, and invited to take part in their
conspirings. Appealed to, as the other had been, he gave a similar
response. Strong measures should be taken. He knew the Queen wished it
so, for it was not his first conference with her on that same subject.
Strafford was not permitted time to impart to his _trio_ of listeners
the full particulars of the cruel scheme, which some say, and with much
probability, had its origin in Rome. For the guests of the gay Queen,
expected every afternoon at Whitehall, began to arrive, interrupting the
conference.
Soon the palace garden became lustrous with people in splendid apparel,
the _elite_ of the land still adhering to the King's cause--plumed
cavaliers, with dames old and young, though youth predominated, but not
all of high degree, either in the male or female element. As in modern
garden parties given by royalty, there was a mixture, both socially and
morally, strange even to grotesqueness. The Franco-Italian Queen, with
all her grand ideas of Divine Right and high Prerogative, was not loth
to lay them down and aside when they stood in the way of her pleasures.
She could be a very leveller where self-interest required it; and this
called for it now. The King's failing popularity needed support from
all sides, classes, and parties, bad or good, humble or gentle; and in
the assemblage she saw around her--there by her own invitation--such
high bloods as Harry Jermyn, Hertford, Digby, Coningsby, Scudamore, and
the like, touched sleeves with men of low birth and lower character--
very reprobates, as Lunsford, afterwards designated "the bloody," and
the notorious desperado, David Hide! The feminine element was equally
paralleled by what may be seen in many "society" gatherings of the
present day--virtuous ladies brushing skirts with stage courtesans, and
others who figure under the name of "professional beauties," many of
them bearing high titles of nobility, but now debasing them.
Henrietta, in her usual way, had a pleasant word and smile for all; more
for the men than the women, and sweeter for the younger ones than the
old ones. But even to the gilded youth they were not distributed
impartially. Handsome Harry Jermyn, hitherto reigning favourite, and
having the larger share of them, had reason to suspect that his star was
upon the wane, when he saw the Queen's eyes ever and anon turned towards
another courtier handsome as himself, with more of youth on his side--
Eustace Trevor. The latter, relieved from his duty as gentleman-usher,
had joined the party in the garden. Socially, he had all right to be
there. Son of a Welsh knight, he could boast of ancestry old as
Caractacus, some of his forbears having served under Harry of Monmouth,
and borne victorious banners at Agincourt. But boasting was not in
Eustace Trevor's line, nor conceit of any sort--least of all vanity
about his personal appearance. However handsome others thought him, he
himself was quite unconscious of it. Equally so of the Queen's
admiration; callous to the approaches she had commenced making, to the
chagrin of older favourites. Not that he was of a cold or passionless
nature; simply because Henriette de Medici, though a Queen, a beautiful
woman as well, was not the one destined to inspire his first passion.
For as yet he knew not love. But recently having become attached to the
Court in an official capacity, he thought only of how he might best
perform the duties that had been assigned him.
Though there might be many envies, jealousies, even bitter heartburnings
among the people who composed that glittering throng, they were on the
whole joyous and jubilant. A whisper had gone round of the King's
determination to return to his old ways, and once more boldly confront
what they called the aggressions of the Parliament. These concerned
them all, for they were all of the class and kind who preyed upon the
people. Groups gathered here and there were merry in mutual
congratulations on their fine prospects for the future; hoping that,
like the past, it would afford them free plunder of the nation's purse
and resources--ship tax, coal and conduit money once more, loans by
Privy Seal, and sale of monopolies--all jobberies and robberies
restored!
But just at that moment of general rejoicing, as a bombshell bursting in
the midst of a military camp or regiment of soldiers in close column,
came a thing that, first setting them in a flutter, soon seriously
alarmed them. A thing of human shape withal; a man in official robes,
the uniform of a Parliamentary usher from the Lords. He was announced
as waiting outside, rather claiming than craving an interview, which the
King dared not deny him.
Summoned into the Audience Chamber, where Charles had gone to receive
him, he presented the latter with a document, the reading of which
caused him to tremble and turn pale. For it was a Bill of Attainder
that had been agreed to by both Houses against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of
Strafford. The fluttering among the courtiers became fright, when the
King, returning to the garden, made known the usher's errand. To his
familiars at first, but it soon passed from lip to lip and ear to ear.
None seemed so little affected as Strafford himself. Sin-hardened, he
was also endowed with indomitable courage, and maintained a bold, high
bearing to the last of his life, even to the laying his head upon the
block--an episode which soon after succeeded,--the craven monarch
signing his death warrant as if it had been a receipt for one of his
loans by Privy Seal.
Far more frightened by the Parliamentary message was Archbishop Laud.
For him no more pleasure that day in the gardens of Whitehall. His
smiles and simpering all gone, with pallid cheek and clouded brow, the
wretched ecclesiastic wandered around among the courtiers, seeming
distraught. And so was he. For in that Bill of Attainder he read his
own doom--read it aright.
Grand, glorious Parliament, that knew not only how to impeach, but
punish the betrayers of the people! Knew also how to maintain its own
dignity and honour; as on a later occasion, when the King, once more
maddened by the stinging taunts of his wicked wife, entered the august
assembly with an escort of bullies and bravoes--Lunsford and Hide among
them--to arrest six of England's most illustrious patriots: an attempt
eminently unsuccessful--an intrusion handsomely resented. As the
disappointed monarch and his disreputable following turned to go out
again, it was with a wonderful come-down in their swagger. For along
the line of seats, on both sides of the House, they saw men with
scowling faces and hats on their heads; heard, too, in chorus clearly,
loudly repeated, the significant cry--"Privilege!"