following stratagem to cure that monarch of the nocturnal rambles to
which he addicted himself. He agreed to go out one night with him to
visit a celebrated house of intrigue, where he told his Majesty the
finest women in England were to be found. The King made no scruple to
assume his usual disguise and accompany him, and while he was engaged
with one of the ladies of pleasure, being before instructed by
Rochester how to behave, she pick'd his pocket of all his money and
watch, which the king did not immediately miss. Neither the people of
the house, nor the girl herself was made acquainted with the quality
of their visitor, nor had the least suspicion who he was. When the
intrigue was ended, the King enquired for Rochester, but was told he
had quitted the house, without taking leave. But into what
embarassment was he thrown when upon searching his pockets, in order
to discharge the reckoning, he found his money gone; he was then
reduced to ask the favour of the Jezebel to give him credit till
tomorrow, as the gentleman who came in with him had not returned, who
was to have pay'd for both. The consequence of this request was, he
was abused, and laughed at; and the old woman told him, that she had
often been served such dirty tricks, and would not permit him to stir
till the reckoning was paid, and then called one of her bullies to
take care of him. In this ridiculous distress stood the British
monarch; the prisoner of a bawd, and the life upon whom the nation's
hopes were fixed, put in the power of a ruffian. After many
altercations the King at last proposed, that she should accept a ring
which he then took off his finger, in pledge for her money, which she
likewise refused, and told him, that as she was no judge of the value
of the ring, she did not chuse to accept such pledges. The King then
desired that a Jeweller might be called to give his opinion of the
value of it, but he was answered, that the expedient was
impracticable, as no jeweller could then be supposed to be out of bed.
After much entreaty his Majesty at last prevailed upon the fellow, to
knock up a jeweller and shew him the ring, which as soon as he had
inspected, he stood amazed, and enquired, with eyes fixed upon the
fellow, who he had got in his house? to which he answered, a
black-looking ugly son of a w----, who had no money in his pocket, and
was obliged to pawn his ring. The ring, says the jeweller, is so
immensely rich, that but one man in the nation could afford to wear
it; and that one is the King. The jeweller being astonished at this
accident, went out with the bully, in order to be fully satisfied of
so extraordinary an affair; and as soon as he entered the room, he
fell on his knees, and with the utmost respect presented the ring to
his Majesty. The old Jezebel and the bully finding the extraordinary
quality of their guest, were now confounded, and asked pardon most
submissively on their knees. The King in the best natured manner
forgave them, and laughing, asked them, whether the ring would not
bear another bottle.
Thus ended this adventure, in which the King learned how dangerous it
was to risk his person in night-frolics; and could not but severely
reprove Rochester for acting such a part towards him; however he
sincerely resolved never again to be guilty of the like indiscretion.
These are the most material of the adventures, and libertine courses
of the lord Rochester, which historians and biographers have
transmitted to posterity; we shall now consider him as an author.
He seems to have been too strongly tinctured with that vice which
belongs more to literary people, than to any other profession under
the fun, viz. envy. That lord Rochester was envious, and jealous of
the reputation of other men of eminence, appears abundantly clear from
his behaviour to Dryden, which could proceed from no other principle;
as his malice towards him had never discovered itself till the
tragedies of that great poet met with such general applause, and his
poems were universally esteemed. Such was the inveteracy he shewed to
Mr. Dryden, that he set up John Crown, an obscure man, in opposition
to him, and recommended him to the King to compose a masque for the
court, which was really the business of the poet laureat; but when
Crown's Conquest of Jerusalem met with as extravagant success as
Dryden's Almanzor's, his lordship then withdrew his favour from Crown,
as if he would be still in contradiction to the public. His malice to
Dryden is said to have still further discovered itself, in hiring
ruffians to cudgel him for a satire he was supposed to be the author
of, which was at once malicious, cowardly, and cruel: But of this we
shall give a fuller account in the life of Mr. Dryden.
Mr. Wolsely, in his preface to Valentinian, a tragedy, altered by lord
Rochester from Fletcher, has given a character of his lordship and his
writings, by no means consistent with that idea, which other writers,
and common tradition, dispose us to form of him.
'He was a wonderful man, says he, whether we consider the constant
good sense, and agreeable mirth of his ordinary conversation, or the
vast reach and compass of his inventions, and the amazing depth of his
retired thoughts; the uncommon graces of his fashion, or the
inimitable turns of his wit, the becoming gentleness, the bewitching
softness of his civility, or the force and fitness of his satire; for
as he was both the delight, the love, and the dotage of the women, so
was he a continued curb to impertinence, and the public censure of
folly; never did man stay in his company unentertained, or leave it
uninstructed; never was his understanding biassed, or his pleasantness
forced; never did he laugh in the wrong place, or prostitute his sense
to serve his luxury; never did he stab into the wounds of fallen
virtue, with a base and a cowardly insult, or smooth the face of
prosperous villany, with the paint and washes of a mercenary wit;
never did he spare a sop for being rich, or flatter a knave for being
great. He had a wit that was accompanied with an unaffected greatness
of mind, and a natural love to justice and truth; a wit that was in
perpetual war with knavery, and ever attacking those kind of vices
most, whose malignity was like to be the most dissusive, such as
tended more immediately to the prejudice of public bodies; and were a
common nusance to the happiness of human kind. Never was his pen drawn
but on the side of good sense, and usually employed like the arms of
the ancient heroes, to stop the progress of arbitrary oppression, and
beat down the brutishness of headstrong will: to do his King and
country justice, upon such public state thieves as would beggar a
kingdom to enrich themselves: these were the vermin whom to his
eternal honour his pen was continually pricking and goading; a pen, if
not so happy in the success, yet as generous in the aim, as either the
sword of Theseus, or the club of Hercules; nor was it less sharp than
that, or less weighty than this. If he did not take so much care of
himself as he ought, he had the humanity however, to wish well to
others; and I think I may truly affirm he did the world as much good
by a right application of satire, as he hurt himself by a wrong
pursuit of pleasure.'
In this amiable light has Mr. Wolsely drawn our author, and nothing is
more certain, than that it is a portraiture of the imagination, warmed
with gratitude, or friendship, and bears but little or no resemblance
to that of Rochester; can he whose satire is always levelled at
particular persons, be said to be the terror of knaves, and the public
foe of vice, when he himself has acknowledged that he satirized only
to gratify his resentment; for it was his opinion, that writing
satires without being in a rage, was like killing in cold blood. Was
his conversation instructive whose mouth was full of obscenity; and
was he a friend to his country, who diffused a dangerous venom thro'
his works to corrupt its members? in which, it is to be feared he has
been but too successful. Did he never smooth the face of prosperous
villainy, as, Mr. Wolsely expresses it, the scope of whose life was to
promote and encourage the most licentious debauchery, and to unhinge
all the principles of honour?--Either Mr. Wolsely must be strangely
mistaken? or all other writers who have given us accounts of Rochester
must be so; and as his single assertions are not equal to the united
authorities of so many, we may reasonably reject his testimony as a
deviation from truth.
We have now seen these scenes of my lord Rochester's life, in which he
appears to little advantage; it is with infinite pleasure we can take
a view of the brighter side of his character; to do which, we must
attend him to his death-bed. Had he been the amiable man Mr. Wolsely
represents him, he needed not have suffered so many pangs of remorse,
nor felt the horrors of conscience, nor been driven almost to despair
by his reflexions on a mispent life.
Rochester lived a profligate, but he died a penitent. He lived in
defiance of all principles; but when he felt the cold hand of death
upon him, he reflected on his folly, and saw that the portion of
iniquity is, at last, sure to be only pain and anguish.
Dr. Burnet, the excellent bishop of Sarum (however he may be reviled
by a party) with many other obligations conferred upon the world, has
added some account of lord Rochester in his dying moments. No state
policy in this case, can well be supposed to have biased him, and when
there are no motives to falsehood, it is somewhat cruel to discredit
assertions. The Dr. could not be influenced by views of interest to
give this, or any other account of his lordship; and could certainly
have no other incentive, but that of serving his country, by shewing
the instability of vice, and, by drawing into light an illustrious
penitent, adding one wreath more to the banners of virtue.
Burnet begins with telling us, that an accident fell out in the early
part of the Earl's life, which in its consequences confirmed him in
the pursuit of vicious courses.
"When he went to sea in the year 1665, there happened to be in the
same ship with him, Mr. Montague, and another gentleman of quality;
these two, the former especially, seemed persuaded that they mould
never return into England. Mr. Montague said, he was sure of it; the
other was not so positive. The earl of Rochester and the last of these
entered into a formal engagement, not without ceremonies of religion,
that if either of them died, he should appear and give the other
notice of the future state, if there was any. But Mr. Montague would
not enter into the bond. When the Day came that they thought to have
taken the Dutch fleet in the port of Bergen, Mr. Montague, tho' he had
such a strong presage in his mind of his approaching death, yet he
bravely stayed all the while in the place of the greatest danger. The
other gentleman signalized his courage in the most undaunted manner,
till near the end of the action; when he fell on a sudden into such a
trembling, that he could scarce stand: and Mr. Montague going to him
to hold him up, as they were in each other; arms, a cannon ball
carried away Mr. Montague's belly, so that he expired in an hour
after."
The earl of Rochester told Dr. Burnet, that these presages they had in
their minds, made some impression on him that there were separate
beings; and that the soul either by a natural sagacity, or some secret
notice communicated to it, had a sort of divination. But this
gentleman's never appearing was a snare to him during the rest of his
life: Though when he mentioned this, he could not but acknowledge, it
was an unreasonable thing for him to think that beings in another
state were not under such laws and limits that they could not command
their motion, but as the supreme power should order them; and that one
who had so corrupted the natural principles of truth as he had, had no
reason to expect that miracles should be wrought for his conviction.
He told Dr. Burnet another odd presage of approaching death, in lady
Ware, his mother-in-law's family. The chaplain had dreamed that such a
day he should die; but being by all the family laughed out of the
belief of it, he had almost forgot it, till the evening before at
supper; there being thirteen at table, according to an old conceit
that one of the family must soon die; one of the young ladies pointed
to him, that he was the person. Upon this the chaplain recalling to
mind his dream, fell into some disorder, and the lady Ware reproving
him for his superstition, he said, he was confident he was to die
before morning; but he being in perfect health, it was not much
minded. It was saturday night, and he was to preach next day. He went
to his chamber and set up late as it appeared by the burning of his
candle; and he had been preparing his notes for his sermon, but was
found dead in his bed next morning.
These things his lordship said, made him incline to believe that the
soul was of a substance distinct from matter; but that which convinced
him of it was, that in his last sickness, which brought him so near
his death, when his spirits were so spent he could not move or stir,
and did not hope to live an hour, he said his reason and judgment were
so clear and strong, that from thence he was fully persuaded, that
death was not the dissolution of the soul, but only the separation of
it from matter. He had in that sickness great remorse for his past
life; but he afterwards said, they were rather general and dark
horrors, than any conviction of transgression against his maker; he
was sorry he had lived so as to waste his strength so soon, or that he
had brought such an ill name upon himself; and had an agony in his
mind about it, which he knew not well how to express, but believed
that these impunctions of conscience rather proceeded from the horror
of his condition, than any true contrition for the errors of his life.
During the time Dr. Burnet was at lord Rochester's house, they entered
frequently into conversation upon the topics of natural and reveal'd
religion, which the Dr. endeavoured to enlarge upon and explain in a
manner suitable to the condition of a dying penitent; his lordship
expressed much contrition for his having so often violated the laws of
the one, against his better knowledge, and having spurned the
authority of the other in the pride of wanton sophistry. He declared
that he was satisfied of the truth of the christian religion, that he
thought it the institution of heaven, and afforded the most natural
idea of the supreme being, as well as the most forcible motives to
virtue of any faith professed amongst men.
'He was not only satisfied (says Dr. Burnet) of the truth of our holy
religion, merely as a matter of speculation, but was persuaded
likewise of the power of inward grace, of which he gave me this
strange account. He said Mr. Parsons, in order to his conviction, read
to him the 53d chapter of the prophesies of Isaiah, and compared that
with the history of our Saviour's passion, that he might there see a
prophesy concerning it, written many ages before it was done; which
the Jews that blasphemed Jesus Christ still kept in their hands as a
book divinely inspired. He said, as he heard it read, he felt an
inward force upon him, which did so enlighten his mind and convince
him, that he could resist it no longer, for the words had an authority
which did shoot like rays or beams in his mind, so that he was not
only convinced by the reasonings he had about it, which satisfied his
understanding, but by a power, which did so effectually constrain him
that he ever after firmly believed in his Saviour, as if he had seen
him in the clouds.'
We are not quite certain whether there is not a tincture of enthusiasm
in this account given by his lordship, as it is too natural to fly
from one extreme to another, from the excesses of debauchery to the
gloom of methodism; but even if we suppose this to have been the case,
he was certainly in the safest extreme; and there is more comfort in
hearing that a man whose life had been so remarkably profligate as
his, should die under such impressions, than quit the world without
one pang for past offences.
The bishop gives an instance of the great alteration of his lordship's
temper and dispositions (from what they were formerly) in his
sickness. 'Whenever he happened to be out of order, either by pain or
sickness, his temper became quite ungovernable, and his passions so
fierce, that his servants were afraid to approach him. But in this
last sickness he was all humility, patience, and resignation. Once he
was a little offended with the delay of a servant, who he thought made
not haste enough, with somewhat he called for, and said in a little
heat, that damn'd fellow.' Soon after, says the Dr. I told him that I
was glad to find his stile so reformed, and that he had so entirely
overcome that ill habit of swearing, only that word of calling any
damned which had returned upon him was not decent; his answer was, 'O
that language of fiends, which was so familiar to me, hangs yet about
me, sure none has deserved more to be damned than I have done; and
after he had humbly asked God pardon for it, he desired me to call the
person to him that he might ask him forgiveness; but I told him that
was needless, for he had said it of one who did not hear it, and so
could not be offended by it. In this disposition of mind, continues
the bishop, all the while I was with him four days together; he was
then brought so low that all hope of recovery was gone. Much purulent
matter came from him with his urine, which he passed always with pain,
but one day with inexpressible torment; yet he bore it decently,
without breaking out into repinings, or impatient complaints. Nature
being at last quite exhausted, and all the floods of life gone, he
died without a groan on the 26th of July 1680, in the 33d year of his
age. A day or two before his death he lay much silent, and seemed
extremely devout in his contemplations; he was frequently observed to
raise his eyes to heaven, and send forth ejaculations to the searcher
of hearts, who saw his penitence, and who, he hoped, would forgive
him.'
Thus died lord Rochester, an amazing instance of the goodness of God,
who permitted him to enjoy time, and inclined his heart to penitence.
As by his life he was suffered to set an example of the most abandoned
dissoluteness to the world; so by his death, he was a lively
demonstration of the fruitlessness of vicious courses, and may be
proposed as an example to all those who are captivated with the charms
of guilty pleasure.
Let all his failings now sleep with him in the grave, and let us only
think of his closing moments, his penitence, and reformation. Had he
been permitted to have recovered his illness, it is reasonable to
presume he would have been as lively an example of virtue as he had
ever been of vice, and have born his testimony in favour of religion.
He left behind him a son named Charles, who dying on the 12th of
November, was buried by his father on the 7th of December following:
he also left behind him three daughters. The male line ceasing,
Charles II. conferred the title of earl of Rochester on Lawrence
viscount Killingworth, a younger son of Edward earl of Clarendon.
We might now enumerate his lordship's writings, of which we have
already given some character; but unhappily for the world they are too
generally diffused, and we think ourselves under no obligations to
particularize those works which have been so fruitful of mischief to
society, by promoting a general corruption of morals; and which he
himself in his last moments wished he could recal, or rather that he
never had composed.
Footnotes:
1. See the Life of Sheffield Duke of Buckingham.
2. The Duchess of Portsmouth.
* * * * *
GEORGE VILLIERS, Duke of BUCKINGHAM.
Son and heir of George, duke, marquis, and earl of Buckingham,
murdered by Felton in the year 1628. This nobleman was born at
Wallingford-House in the parish of St. Martin's in the Fields on the
30th of January 1627, and baptized there on the 14th of February
following, by Dr. Laud, then bishop of Bath and Wells, afterwards
archbishop of Canterbury.
Before we proceed to give any particulars of our noble author's life,
we must entreat the reader's indulgence to take a short view of the
life of his grace's father, in which, some circumstances extremely
curious will appear; and we are the more emboldened to venture upon
this freedom, as some who have written this life before us, have taken
the same liberty, by which the reader is no loser; for the first duke
of Buckingham was a man whose prosperity was so instantaneous, his
honours so great, his life so dissipated, and his death so remarkable,
that as no minister ever enjoyed so much power, so no man ever drew
the attention of the world more upon him. No sooner had he returned
from his travels, and made his first appearance at court, than he
became a favourite with King James, who, (says Clarendon) 'of all wise
men he ever knew, was most delighted and taken with handsome persons
and fine cloaths.'
He had begun to be weary of his favourite the earl of Somerset, who
was the only one who kept that post so long, without any public
reproach from the people, till at last he was convicted of the horrid
conspiracy against the life of Sir Thomas Overbury, and condemned as a
murderer. While these things were in agitation, Villiers appeared at
court; he was according to all accounts, the gayest and handsomest man
in his time, of an open generous temper, of an unreserved affability,
and the most engaging politeness.
In a few days he was made cup-bearer to the King, by which he was of
course to be much in his presence, and so admitted to that
conversation with which that prince always abounded at his meals. He
had not acted five weeks on this stage, to use the noble historian's
expression, till he mounted higher, being knighted, and made gentleman
of the bed-chamber, and knight of the most noble order of the garter,
and in a short time a baron, a viscount, an earl, a marquis, and lord
high-admiral of England, lord warden of the cinque ports, master of
the horse, and entirely disposed all the favours of the King, acting
as absolutely in conferring honours and distinctions, as if he himself
had wore the diadem.
We find him soon after making war or peace, according to humour,
resentment, or favour. He carried the prince of Wales into Spain to
see the Infanta, who was proposed to him as a wife; and it plainly
enough appears, that he was privy to one intrigue of prince Charles,
and which was perhaps the only one, which that prince, whom all
historians, whether friends or enemies to his cause; have agreed to
celebrate for chastity, and the temperate virtues. There is an
original letter of prince Charles to the duke, which was published by
Mr. Thomas Hearne, and is said once to have belonged to archbishop
Sancroft. As it is a sort of curiosity we shall here insert it,
"STENNY,
"I have nothing now to write to you, but to give you thankes both for
the good councell ye gave me, and for the event of it. The King gave
mee a good sharpe potion, but you took away the working of it by the
well relished comfites ye sent after it. I have met with the partie,
that must not be named, once alreddie, and the culler of wryting this
letter shall make mee meet with her on saturday, although it is
written the day being thursday. So assuring you that the bus'ness goes
safely onn, I rest
"Your constant friend
"CHARLES.
"I hope you will not shew the King this letter, but put it in the safe
custody of mister Vulcan."
It was the good fortune of this nobleman to have an equal interest
with the son as with the father; and when prince Charles ascended the
throne, his power was equally extensive, and as before gave such
offence to the House of Commons and the people, that he was voted an
enemy to the realm, and his Majesty was frequently addressed to remove
him from his councils. Tho' Charles I. had certainly more virtues, and
was of a more military turn than his father, yet in the circumstance
of doating upon favourites, he was equally weak. His misfortune was,
that he never sufficiently trusted his own judgment, which was often
better than that of his servants; and from this diffidence he was
tenacious of a minister of whose abilities he had a high opinion, and
in whose fidelity he put confidence.
The duke at last became so obnoxious, that it entered into the head of
an enthusiast, tho' otherwise an honest man, one lieutenant Felton,
that to assassinate this court favourite, this enemy of the realm,
would be doing a grateful thing to his country by ridding it of one
whose measures in his opinion, were likely soon to destroy it.--
The fate of the duke was now approaching, and it is by far the most
interesting circumstance in his life.
We shall insert, in the words of the noble historian, the particular
account of it.
'John Felton, an obscure man in his own person, who had been bred a
soldier, and lately a lieutenant of foot, whose captain had been
killed on the retreat at the Isle of Ree, upon which he conceived that
the company of right ought to have been conferred upon him; and it
being refused him by the duke of Buckingham, general of the army, had
given up his commission and withdrawn himself from the army. He was of
a melancholic nature, and had little conversation with any body, yet
of a gentleman's family in Suffolk, of a good fortune, and reputation.
From the time that he had quitted the army he resided at London; when
the House of Commons, transported with passion and prejudice against
the duke, had accused him to the House of Peers for several
misdemeanors and miscarriages, and in some declarations had stiled him
the cause of all the evils the kingdom suffered, and an enemy to the
public.
'Some transcripts of such expressions, and some general invectives he
met with amongst the people, to whom this great man was not grateful,
wrought so far upon this melancholic gentleman, that he began to
believe he should do God good service if he killed the duke. He chose
no other instrument to do it than an ordinary knife, which he bought
of a common cutler for a shilling, and thus provided, he repaired to
Portsmouth, where he arrived the eve of St. Bartholomew. The duke was
then there, in order to prepare and make ready the fleet and the army,
with which he resolved in a few days to transport himself to the
relief of Rochelle, which was then besieged by cardinal Richelieu, and
for the relief whereof the duke was the more obliged, by reason that
at his being at the Isle of Ree, he had received great supplies of
victuals, and some companies of their garrison from the town, the want
of both which they were at this time very sensible of, and grieved at.