I have already drawn a picture of Jewish history in our country; the
present is a companion-piece, exhibiting a Roman Catholic one.
The domestic history of our country awakens our feelings far more than
the public. In the one, we recognise ourselves as men; in the other, we
are nothing but politicians. The domestic history is, indeed, entirely
involved in the fate of the public; and our opinions are regulated
according to the different countries, and by the different ages we live
in; yet systems of politics, and modes of faith, are, for the
individual, but the chance occurrences of human life, usually found in
the cradle and laid in the grave: it is only the herd of mankind, or
their artful leaders, who fight and curse one another with so much
sincerity. Amidst these intestine struggles, or, perhaps, when they have
ceased, and our hearts are calm, we perceive the eternal force of nature
acting on humanity; then the heroic virtues and private sufferings of
persons engaged in an opposite cause, and acting on different principles
than our own, appeal to our sympathy, and even excite our admiration. A
philosopher, born a Roman Catholic, assuredly could commemorate many a
pathetic history of some heroic Huguenot; while we, with the same
feeling in our heart, discover a romantic and chivalrous band of
Catholics.
Chidiock Titchbourne is a name which appears in the conspiracy of
Anthony Babington against Elizabeth, and the history of this
accomplished young man may enter into the romance of real life. Having
discovered two interesting domestic documents relative to him, I am
desirous of preserving a name and a character which have such claims on
our sympathy.
There is an interesting historical novel, entitled "The Jesuit," whose
story is founded on this conspiracy; remarkable for being the production
of a lady, without, if I recollect rightly, a single adventure of love.
Of the fourteen characters implicated in this conspiracy, few were of
the stamp of men ordinarily engaged in dark assassinations. Hume has
told the story with his usual grace: the fuller narrative may be found
in Camden; but the tale may yet receive from the character of Chidiock
Titchbourne, a more interesting close.
Some youths, worthy of ranking with the heroes, rather than with the
traitors of England, had been practised on by the subtilty of Ballard, a
disguised Jesuit of great intrepidity and talents, whom Camden calls "a
silken priest in a soldier's habit:" for this versatile intriguer
changed into all shapes, and took up all names: yet, with all the arts
of a political Jesuit, he found himself entrapped in the nets of that
more crafty one, the subdolous Walsingham. Ballard had opened himself to
Babington, a Catholic; a youth of large fortune, the graces of whose
person were only inferior to those of his mind. In his travels, his
generous temper had been touched by some confidential friends of the
Scottish Mary; and the youth, susceptible of ambition, had been
recommended to that queen; and an intercourse of letters took place,
which seemed as deeply tinctured with love as with loyalty. The
intimates of Babington were youths of congenial tempers and studies;
and, in their exalted imaginations, they could only view in the
imprisoned Mary of Scotland a sovereign, a saint, and a woman. But
friendship the most tender, if not the most sublime ever recorded,
prevailed among this band of self-devoted victims; and the Damon and
Pythias of antiquity were here out-numbered.
But these conspirators were surely more adapted for lovers than for
politicians. The most romantic incidents are interwoven in this dark
conspiracy. Some of the letters to Mary were conveyed by a secret
messenger, really in the pay of Walsingham; others were lodged in a
concealed place, covered by a loosened stone, in the wall of the queen's
prison. All were transcribed by Walsingham before they reached Mary.
Even the spies of that singular statesman were the companions or the
servants of the arch-conspirator Ballard; for the minister seems only to
have humoured his taste in assisting him through this extravagant plot.
Yet, as if a plot of so loose a texture was not quite perilous enough,
the extraordinary incident of a picture, representing the secret
conspirators in person, was probably considered as the highest stroke of
political intrigue! The accomplished Babington had portrayed the
conspirators, himself standing in the midst of them, that the imprisoned
queen might thus have some kind of personal acquaintance with them.
There was at least as much of chivalry as of Machiavelism in this
conspiracy. This very picture, before it was delivered to Mary, the
subtile Walsingham had copied, to exhibit to Elizabeth the faces of her
secret enemies. Houbraken, in his portrait of Walsingham, has introduced
in the vignette the incident of this picture being shown to Elizabeth; a
circumstance happily characteristic of the genius of this crafty and
vigilant statesman. Camden tells us that Babington had first inscribed
beneath the picture this verse:--
Hi mihi sunt comites, quos ipsa pericula ducunt.
These are my companions, whom the same dangers lead.
But as this verse was considered by some of less heated fancies as much
too open and intelligible, they put one more ambiguous:--
Quorsum hæc alio properantibus?
What are these things to men hastening to another purpose?
This extraordinary collection of personages must have occasioned many
alarms to Elizabeth, at the approach of any stranger, till the
conspiracy was suffered to be sufficiently matured to be ended. Once she
perceived in her walks a conspirator; and on that occasion erected her
"lion port," reprimanding her captain of the guards, loud enough to meet
the conspirator's ear, that "he had not a man in his company who wore a
sword."--"Am not I fairly guarded?" exclaimed Elizabeth.
It is in the progress of the trial that the history and the feelings of
these wondrous youths appear. In those times, when the government of the
country yet felt itself unsettled, and mercy did not sit in the
judgment-seat, even one of the judges could not refrain from being
affected at the presence of so gallant a band as the prisoners at the
bar: "Oh, Ballard, Ballard!" the judge exclaimed, "what hast thou done?
A sort (a company) of brave youths, otherwise endued with good gifts, by
thy inducement hast thou brought to their utter destruction and
confusion." The Jesuit himself commands our respect, although we refuse
him our esteem; for he felt some compunction at the tragical executions
which were to follow, and "wished all the blame might rest on him, could
the shedding of his blood be the saving of Babington's life!"
When this romantic band of friends were called on for their defence, the
most pathetic instances of domestic affection appeared. One had engaged
in this plot solely to try to save his friend, for he had no hopes of
it, nor any wish for its success; he had observed to his friend, that
the "haughty and ambitious mind of Anthony Babington would be the
destruction of himself and his friends;" nevertheless he was willing to
die with them! Another, to withdraw if possible one of those noble
youths from the conspiracy, although he had broken up housekeeping,
said, to employ his own language, "I called back my servants again
together, and began to keep house again more freshly than ever I did,
only because I was weary to see Tom Salusbury's straggling, and willing
to keep him about home." Having attempted to secrete his friend, this
gentleman observed, "I am condemned, because I suffered Salusbury to
escape, when I knew he was one of the conspirators. My case is hard and
lamentable; either to betray my friend, whom I love as myself, and to
discover Tom Salusbury, the best man in my country, of whom I only made
choice, or else to break my allegiance to my sovereign, and to undo
myself and my posterity for ever." Whatever the political casuist may
determine on this case, the social being carries his own manual in the
heart. The principle of the greatest of republics was to suffer nothing
to exist in competition with its own ambition; but the Roman history is
a history without fathers and brothers! Another of the conspirators
replied, "For flying away with my friend I fulfilled the part of a
friend." When the judge observed, that, to perform his friendship he had
broken his allegiance to his sovereign, he bowed his head and confessed,
"Therein I have offended." Another, asked why he had fled into the
woods, where he was discovered among some of the conspirators, proudly
(or tenderly) replied, "For company!"
When the sentence of condemnation had passed, then broke forth among
this noble band that spirit of honour, which surely had never been
witnessed at the bar among so many criminals. Their great minds seemed
to have reconciled them to the most barbarous of deaths; but as their
estates as traitors might be forfeited to the queen, their sole anxiety
was now for their families and their creditors. One in the most pathetic
terms recommends to her majesty's protection a beloved wife; another a
destitute sister; but not among the least urgent of their supplications,
was one that their creditors might not be injured by their untimely end.
The statement of their affairs is curious and simple. "If mercy be not
to be had," exclaimed one, "I beseech you, my good lords, this; I owe
some sums of money, but not very much, and I have more owing to me; I
beseech that my debts may be paid with that which is owing to me."
Another prayed for a pardon; the judge complimented him, that "he was
one who might have done good service to his country," but declares he
cannot obtain it.--"Then," said the prisoner, "I beseech that six
angels, which such an one hath of mine, may be delivered to my brother
to pay my debts."--"How much are thy debts?" demanded the judge. He
answered, "The same six angels will discharge it."
That nothing might be wanting to complete the catastrophe of their sad
story, our sympathy must accompany them to their tragical end, and to
their last words. These heroic yet affectionate youths had a trial
there, intolerable to their social feelings. The terrific process of
executing traitors was the remains of feudal barbarism, and has only
been abolished very recently. I must not refrain from painting this
scene of blood; the duty of an historian must be severer than his taste,
and I record in the note a scene of this nature.[78] The present one was
full of horrors. Ballard was first executed, and snatched alive from
the gallows to be embowelled: Babington looked on with an undaunted
countenance, steadily gazing on that variety of tortures which he
himself was in a moment to pass through; the others averted their faces,
fervently praying. When the executioner began his tremendous office on
Babington, the spirit of this haughty and heroic man cried out amidst
the agony, _Parce mihi, Domine Jesu!_ Spare me, Lord Jesus! There were
two days of execution; it was on the first that the noblest of these
youths suffered; and the pity which such criminals had excited among the
spectators evidently weakened the sense of their political crime; the
solemnity, not the barbarity, of the punishment affects the populace
with right feelings. Elizabeth, an enlightened politician, commanded
that on the second day the odious part of the sentence against traitors
should not commence till after their death.
One of these _generosi adolescentuli_, youths of generous blood, was
CHIDIOCK TITCHBOURNE, of Southampton, the more intimate friend of
Babington. He had refused to connect himself with the assassination of
Elizabeth, but his reluctant consent was inferred from his silence. His
address to the populace breathes all the carelessness of life, in one
who knew all its value. Proud of his ancient descent from a family which
had existed before the Conquest till now without a stain, he paints the
thoughtless happiness of his days with his beloved friend, when any
object rather than matters of state engaged their pursuits; the hours of
misery were only first known the day he entered into the conspiracy. How
feelingly he passes into the domestic scene, amidst his wife, his child,
and his sisters! and even his servants! Well might he cry, more in
tenderness than in reproach, "Friendship hath brought me to this!"
"Countrymen, and my dear friends, you expect I should speak
something; I am a bad orator, and my text is worse: It were in
vain to enter into the discourse of the whole matter for which
I am brought hither, for that it hath been revealed heretofore;
let me be a warning to all young gentlemen, especially
_generosis adolescentulis_. I had a friend, a dear friend, of
whom I made no small account, _whose friendship hath brought me
to this_; he told me the whole matter, I cannot deny, as they
had laid it down to be done; but I always thought it impious,
and denied to be a dealer in it; but the regard of my friend
caused me to be a man in whom the old proverb was verified; I
was silent, and so consented. Before this thing chanced, we
lived together in most nourishing estate: Of whom went report
in the _Strand_, _Fleet-street_, and elsewhere about _London_,
but of _Babington and Titchbourne_? No threshold was of force
to brave our entry. Thus we lived, and wanted nothing we could
wish for; and God knows what less in my head than _matters of
state_. Now give me leave to declare the miseries I sustained
after I was acquainted with the action, wherein I may justly
compare my estate to that of Adam's, who could not abstain _one
thing forbidden_, to enjoy all other things the world could
afford; the terror of conscience awaited me. After I considered
the dangers whereinto I was fallen, I went to Sir John Peters
in Essex, and appointed my horses should meet me at London,
intending to go down into the country. I came to London, and
then heard that all was bewrayed; whereupon, like Adam, we fled
into the woods to hide ourselves. My dear countrymen, my
sorrows may be your joy, yet mix your smiles with tears, and
pity my case; _I am descended from a house, from two hundred
years before the Conquest, never stained till this my
misfortune. I have a wife and one child; my wife Agnes, my dear
wife, and there's my grief--and six sisters left in my hand--my
poor servants, I know, their master being taken, were
dispersed; for all which I do most heartily grieve_. I expected
some favour, though I deserved nothing less, that the remainder
of my years might in some sort have recompensed my former
guilt; which seeing I have missed, let me now meditate on the
joys I hope to enjoy."
Titchbourne had addressed a letter to his "dear wife Agnes," the night
before he suffered, which I discovered among the Harleian MSS.[79] It
overflows with the most natural feeling, and contains some touches of
expression, all sweetness and tenderness, which mark the Shakspearean
era. The same MS. has also preserved a more precious gem, in a small
poem, composed at the same time, which indicates his genius, fertile in
imagery, and fraught with the melancholy philosophy of a fine and
wounded spirit. The unhappy close of the life of such a noble youth,
with all the prodigality of his feelings, and the cultivation of his
intellect, may still excite that sympathy in the _generosis
adolescentulis_, which Chidiock Titchbourne would have felt for them!
"A letter written by CHEDIOCK TICHEBURNE the night before he
suffered death, vnto his wife, dated of anno 1586.
"To the most loving wife alive, I commend me vnto her, and
desire God to blesse her with all happiness, pray for her dead
husband, and be of good comforte, for I hope in Jesus Christ
this morning to see the face of my maker and redeemer in the
most joyful throne of his glorious kingdome. Commend me to all
my friends, and desire them to pray for me, and in all charitie
to pardon me, if I have offended them. Commend me to my six
sisters poore desolate soules, advise them to serue God, for
without him no goodness is to be expected: were it possible, my
little sister Babb: the darlinge of my race might be bred by
her, God would rewarde her; but I do her wrong I confesse, that
hath by my desolate negligence too little for herselfe, to add
a further charge vnto her. Deere wife forgive me, that have by
these means so much impoverished her fortunes; patience and
pardon good wife I craue--make of these our necessities a
vertue, and lay no further burthen on my neck than hath
alreadie been. There be certain debts that I owe, and because I
know not the order of the lawe, piteous it hath taken from me
all, forfeited by my course of offence to her majestie, I
cannot aduise thee to benefit me herein, but if there fall out
wherewithal, let them be discharged for God's sake. I will not
that you trouble yourselfe with the performance of these
matters, my own heart, but make it known to my uncles, and
desire them, for the honour of God and ease of their soule, to
take care of them as they may, and especially care of my
sisters bringing up the burthen is now laide on them. Now,
Sweet-cheek, what is left to bestow on thee, a small joynture,
a small recompense for thy deservinge, these legacies
followinge to be thine owne. God of his infinite goodness give
thee grace alwaies to remain his true and faithfull servant,
that through the merits of his bitter and blessed passion thou
maist become in good time of his kingdom with the blessed women
in heaven. May the Holy Ghost comfort thee with all necessaries
for the wealth of thy soul in the world to come, where, until
it shall please almighty God I meete thee, farewell lovinge
wife, farewell the dearest to me on all the earth, farewell!
"By the hand from the heart of thy most faithful louinge
husband,
"CHIDEOCK TICHEBURN."
"VERSES,
"Made by CHEDIOCK TICHBORNE of himselfe in the Tower, the night
before he suffered death, who was executed in Lincoln's Inn
Fields for treason. 1586.
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done!
My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is past, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought for death, and found it in the wombe,
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,
And now I dye, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done![80]