My Lord of Essex, as Sir Henry Walton notes him, a gentleman of great
parts, and partly of his times and retinue, had his introduction by my
Lord of Leicester, who had married his mother; a tie of affinity which,
besides a more urgent obligation, might have invited his care to advance
him, his fortunes being then, through his father’s infelicity, grown low;
but that the son of a Lord Ferrers of Chartly, Viscount Hertford, and
Earl of Essex, who was of the ancient nobility, and formerly in the
Queen’s good grace, could not have room in her favour, without the
assistance of Leicester, was beyond the rule of her nature, which, as I
have elsewhere taken into observation, was ever inclinable to favour the
nobility: sure it is, that he no sooner appeared in court, but he took
with the Queen and the courtiers; and, I believe, they all could not
choose but look through the sacrifice of the father on his living son,
whose image, by the remembrance of former passages, was a fresh leek, the
bleeding of men murdered, represented to the court, and offered up as a
subject of compassion to all the kingdom.
There was in this young lord, together with a goodly person, a kind of
urbanity and innate courtesy, which both won the Queen, and too much took
up the people to gaze on the new-adopted son of her favour; and as I go
along, it will not be amiss to take into observation two notable
quotations; the first was a violent indulgence of the Queen (which is
incident to old age, where it encounters with a pleasing and suitable
object) towards this great lord, which argued a non-perpetuity; the
second was a fault in the object of her grace, my lord himself, who drew
in too fast, like a child sucking on an over uberous nurse; and had there
been a more decent decorum observed in both, or either of these, without
doubt, the unity of their affections had been more permanent, and not so
in and out, as they were, like an instrument well tuned, and lapsing to
discord.
The greater error of the two, though unwilling, I am constrained to
impose on my Lord of Essex, and rather on his youth, and none of the
least of the blame on those that stood sentinels about him, who might
have advised better, but that like men intoxicated with hopes, they
likewise had sucked in with the most of their lord’s receipts, and so,
like Cæsars, would have all or none; a rule quite contrary to nature, and
the most indulgent parents, who, though they may express more affection
to one in the abundance of bequeaths, yet cannot forget some legacies,
and distributives, and dividends to others of their begetting; and how
hurtful partiality is, and proves, every day’s experience tells us, out
of which common consideration they might have framed to their hands a
maxim of more discretion, for the conduct and management of their
new-graved lord and master.
But to omit that of infusion, and to do right to truth, my Lord of Essex,
even of those that truly loved and honoured him, was noted for too bold
an ingrosser, both of fame and favour; and of this, without offence to
the living, or treading on the sacred grave of the dead, I shall present
the truth of a passage yet in memory.
My Lord of Mountjoy, who was another child of her favour, being newly
come, and then but Sir Charles Blount (for my Lord William, his elder
brother, was then living) had the good fortune to run one day well at
tilt, and the Queen was therewith so well pleased, that she sent him, in
token of her favour, a Queen at chess in gold, richly enamelled, which
his servants had the next day fastened unto his arm with a crimson
ribband; which my Lord of Essex, as he passed through the Privy Chamber,
espying with his cloak cast under his arm, the better to command it to
the view, enquired what it was, and for what cause there fixed: Sir
Foulke Greville told him, it was the Queen’s favour, which the day
before, and next after the tilting, she had sent him; whereat my Lord of
Essex, in a kind of emulation, and as though he would have limited her
favour, said “Now I perceive every fool must have a favour.” This bitter
and public affront came to Sir Charles Blount’s ear, at which he sent him
a challenge; which was accepted by my lord, and they met near Marybone
Park, where my lord was hurt in the thigh, and disarmed. The Queen,
missing of the men, was very curious to learn the truth, but at last it
was whispered out; she sware by God’s death, it was fit that some one or
other should take him down and teach him better manners, otherwise there
would be no rule with him; and here I note the imminution of my lord’s
friendship with Mountjoy, which the Queen herself did then conjure.
Now for his fame we need not go far, for my Lord of Essex, having borne a
grudge to General Norris, who had unwittingly offered to undertake the
action of Brittany with fewer men than my lord had before demanded; on
his return with victory, and a glorious report of his valour, he was then
thought the only man for the Irish wars; wherein my Lord of Essex so
wrought, by despising the number and quality of the rebels, that Norris
was sent over with a scanty force, joined with the relics of the veteran
troops of Britain, of set purpose, and as it fell out, to ruin Norris;
and the Lord Burrows, by my lord’s procurement, sent at his heels, and to
command in chief, and to convey Norris only to his government at Munster;
which aggravated the great heart of the general to see himself
undervalued, and undermined, by my lord and Burrows, which was, as the
Proverb speaks, _juvenes docere senes_.
Now my Lord Burrows in the beginning of his prosecution died, whereupon
the Queen was fully bent to send over my Lord Mountjoy; which my Lord of
Essex utterly misliked, and opposed with many reasons, and by arguments
of contempt towards Mountjoy (his then professed friend and familiar) so
predominant was his desire to reap the whole honour of closing up that
war, and all others; now the way being paved and opened by his own
workmanship, and so handled, that none durst appear to stand in the
place; at last, and with much ado, he obtained his own ends, and
therewith his fatal destruction, leaving the Queen and the court, where
he stood impregnable and firm in her grace, to men that long had fought
and waited their times to give him a trip, and could never find any
opportunity, but this of his absence, and of his own creation; and those
are true observations of his appetite and inclinations, which were not of
any true proportion, but hurried and transported, with an over desire,
and thirstiness after fame, and that deceitful fame of popularity; and,
to help on his catastrophe, I observe likewise two sorts of people that
had a hand in his fall: the first was the soldiery, which all flock unto
him, as it were foretelling a mortality, and are commonly of blunt and
too rough counsels, and many times dissonant from the time of the court
and State; the other sort were of his family, his servants and his own
creatures, such as were bound by safety, and obligations of fidelity, to
have looked better to the steering of that boat, wherein they themselves
were carried, and not to have suffered it to fleet, and run on ground,
with those empty sails of tumour of popularity and applause; methinks one
honest man or other, who had but the brushing of his clothes, might have
whispered in his ear, “My lord, look to it, this multitude that follows
you will either devour you, or undo you; do not strive to overrule all,
of it will cost hot water, and it will procure envy, and if needs your
genius must have it so, let the court and the Queen’s presence by your
station, for your absence must undo you.” But, as I have said, they had
sucked too much of their lord’s milk, and instead of withdrawing they
drew {174} the coals of his ambition, and infused into him too much of
the spirit of glory, yea, and mixed the goodness of his nature with a
touch of revenge, which is evermore accompanied with a destiny of the
same fate. Of this number there were some of insufferable natures about
him, that towards his last gave desperate advice, such as his integrity
abhorred, and his fidelity forbade, amongst whom Sir Henry Walton notes,
without injury, his Secretary Cuffe, as a vile man and of a perverse
nature: I could also name others that, when he was in the right course of
recovery, settling to moderation, would not suffer a recess in him, but
stirred up the dregs of those rude humours, which, by times and his
affections out of his own judgment, he thought to repose and give them a
vomit. And thus I conclude this noble lord, as a mixture between
prosperity and adversity, once a child of his great mistress’s favour,
but a son of Bellona.