Imatges de pàgina
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whatsoever he could get." Augustine Philips was one of Shakspere's company; and yet it is perfectly evident that it was not Shakspere's "Richard II.' nor Shakspere's "Henry IV.," that was acted on this occasion. In his "Henry IV.” there is no "killing of the king upon a stage." His "Richard II.," which was published in 1597, was certainly not an out-dated play in 1601. A second edition of it had appeared in 1598, and it was no doubt highly popular as an acting play. But if any object was to be gained by the conspirators in the stage representation of the "deposing King Richard II.,' Shakspere's play would not assist that object. The editions of 1597 and 1598 do not contain the deposition scene. That portion of this noble history which contains the scene of Richard's surrender of the crown was not printed till 1608; and the edition in which it appears bears in its title the following intimation of its novelty: "The Tragedie of King Richard the Second, with new additions of the Parliament Sceane, and the Deposing of King Richard. As it hath been lately acted by the Kinges servantes, at the Globe, by William Shake-speare." In Shakspere's Parliament scene our sympathies are wholly with King Richard. This, even if the scene were acted in 1601, would not have forwarded the views of Sir Gilly Merrick, if his purpose were really to hold up to the people an example of a monarch's dethronement. But, nevertheless, it may be doubted whether such a subject could be safely played at all by the Lord Chamberlain's players during this stormy period of the reign of Elizabeth. Her sensitiveness on this head was most remarkable. There is a very curious record existing of "that which passed from the Excellent Majestie of Queen Elizabeth, in her Privie Chamber at East Greenwich, 4° Augusti, 1601, 43° Reg. sui, towards William Lambarde,”* which recounts his presenting the queen his "Pandecta" of historical documents to be placed in the Tower, which the queen read over, making observations and receiving explanations. The following dialogue then takes place:

"W. L. He likewise expounded these all according to their original diversities, which she took in gracious and full satisfaction; so her Majesty fell upon the reign of king Richard II., saying 'I am Richard II., know ye not that?'

"W. L. Such a wicked imagination was determined and attempted by a most unkind gentleman, the most adorned creature that ever your Majest made.'

Her Majesty. 'He that will forget God will also forget his beefactors; this tragedy was played forty times in open streets and houses.'

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The "wicked imagination" that Elizabeth was Richard the Second, is fixed upon Essex by the reply of Lambarde, and the rejoinder of the queen makes it clear that the "wicked imagination" was attempted through the performance of the tragedy of the Deposition of "Richard the Second: ""This tragedy was played forty times in open streets and houses." The queen is speaking six months after the outbreak of Essex; and it is not improbable that the outdated play-that performance which in the previous February the players "should have lost in playing," had been rendered popular through the partisans of Essex after his fall, and had been got up in open streets and houses with a dangerous avidity. But there is a circumstance which renders it tolerably evident that, although Sir Gilly Merrick might have given forty shillings to Philips to perform that stale play, the company of Shakspere were not the performers. In the office-book of the Treasurer of the Chamber, † there is an entry on the 31st of March, 1601, of a payment to John Heminge and Richard Cowley, servants to the Lord Chamberlain, for three plays showed before her High

This was first printed from the original in Nicholl's "Progresses of Queen Elizabeth. Lamlarde died in a fortnight after this interview.

† Cunningham's "Revels at Court."

ness on St. Stephen's day at night (26th December, 1600), Twelfth day at night, (January 6th, 1601), and Shrove Tuesday at night, (Easter-day being on the 12th of April in 1601, Shrove Tuesday would be on the 3rd of March). Shakspere's company were thus performing before the queen within a week of the period when Essex was beheaded. They would not have been so performing had they exhibited the offensive tragedy.

In her conversation with Lambarde, Elizabeth uttered a great truth, which might not be unmingled with a retrospect of the fate of Essex. Speaking of the days of her ancestors, she said, "In those days force and arms did prevail, but now the wit of the fox is every where on foot, so as hardly a faithful or virtuous man may be found." When Raleigh was called upon the trial of Essex, and "his oath given him," Essex exclaimed, "What booteth it to swear the fox?" The fox had even then accomplished his purpose. He had driven his victim onwards to that fatal movement of Sunday, the 8th of February, which, begun without reasonable plan or fixed purpose, ended in casual bloodshed and death by the law. We may readily believe that the anxiety of Shakspere for his friends and benefactors would have led him to the scene of that wild commotion. He might have seen Essex and Southampton, with Danvers, Blount, Catesby, Owen Salisbury, and a crowd of followers, riding into Fleet-street, shouting, "For the queen! for the queen!" He might have heard the people crying on every side, "God save your honour God bless your honour!" An hour or two later he might have listened to the procla mation in Gracechurch-street and Cheapside, that the earl and all his company were traitors. By two o'clock of that fatal Sunday, Shakspere might have seen his friends fighting their way back through the crowds of armed men who suddenly assailed them, and taking boat at Queenhithe, reach Essex House in safety. But it was surrounded with soldiers and artillery; shots were fired at the windows; the cries of women within mingled with the shouts of fury without. At last came the surrender, at ten o'clock at night. The axe with the edge turned towards the prisoners followed as a matter of course.

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Essex. Why then, with energy beyond the pitch
Of brawling law, cry vengeance? when my fortune
Was pierced with every bolt from every hand,

Soon as the golden links were snapt asunder,

Which they who rule the earth held round that bird
Who bore their lightnings and struck down their foes.
Bacon. My gracious lord! were always their commands
Well waited for ?

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T.ANDOR.

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Essex. (smiling). Very true!-as men are dust and ashes. Bacon. Such thoughts become all mortals; most of all Those who have fallen under high displeasure,

Who have their God and prince to reconcile,

And are about to change this brief vile life—

Nay, nay, my lord! your life may rest unchanged
For years to come, if you, upon your knees,

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Bacon. My lord! my finger might have been uneasy Without such notice from that once high peer

Erewhile the Earl of Essex-until treason

Level'd him lower than burgess or than churl.

Essex. I will not say thou liest; for thy tongue

Lags far behind thy heart; thy strongest wit

May stretch and strain, but never make them yoke-mates.
Bacon. This cork appliance, this hard breathing, served
While there was water under for support,

But cut a dismal figure in the mud.

Essex. To servile souls how abject seem the fallen!
Benchers and message-bearers stride o'er Essex !
Bacon. Unmasted pinnace may row safely under
No high colossus, without pricking it.

But, sure, the valiant Earl is somewhat chafed-
Who could have thought it !-by a worm like me!
Essex. Begone! I have fairly weighed thee.
Bacon. (alone).
He weigh me!

No man is stout enough to trim the balance,
Much less to throw the weight in-

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I have thrown them back

Manfully to the beard that wagged with them.
My courage is now safe beyond suspicion-
Myself can hardly doubt it after this.
Yet that audacious criminal dared spit
Reproaches seldom are they bearable,

But, springing up from reason, sting like asps—
Not that the man has reason-he has none :
For, what had I to do with it? I spoke,
And when we are commanded, we must speak.
It was her Grace—and surely she knows best.
I may now wash my hands of him at last,
I have but done my duty: fall who may.

177.-THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TUDORS.

MACAULAY.

It has long been the fashion, a fashion introduced by Mr. Hume, to describe the English monarchy in the sixteenth century as an absolute monarchy. And such undoubtedly it appears to a superficial observer. Elizabeth, it is true, often spoke to her parliaments in language as haughty and imperious as that which the Great Turk would use to his divan. She punished with great severity members of the House of Commons who, in her opinion, carried the freedom of debate too far. She assumed the power of legislating by means of proclamations. She imprisoned her subjects without bringing them to a legal trial. Torture was often employed, in defiance of the laws of England, for the purpose of extorting confessions from those who were shut up in her dungeons. The authority of the Star Chamber and of the Ecclesiastical Commission was at its highest point. Severe restraints were imposed on political and religious discussion. The number of presscs was at one time

limited. No man could print without a license; and every work had to undergo the scrutiny of the Primate, or the bishop of London. Persons whose writings were displeasing to the court were cruelly mutilated, like Stubbs, or put to death, like Penry. Nonconformity was severely punished. The queen prescribed the exact rule of religious faith and discipline; and whoever departed from that rule either to the right or to the left, was in danger of severe penalties.

Such was this government. Yet we know that it was loved by the great body of those who lived under it. We know that, during the fierce contests of the sixteenth century, both the hostile parties spoke of the time of Elizabeth as of a golden age. That great queen has now been lying two hundred and thirty years in Henry the Seventh's chapel. Yet her memory is still dear to the hearts of a free people.

The truth seems to be that the government of the Tudors was, with a few occasional deviations, a popular government, under the forms of despotism. At first sight, it may seem that the prerogatives of Elizabeth were not less ample than those of Louis the Fourteenth, and her parliaments were as obsequious as his parliaments, that her warrant had as much authority as his lettre-de-cachet. The extravagance with which her courtiers eulogized her personal and mental charms went beyond the adulation of Boileau and Molière. Louis would have blushed to receive from those who composed the gorgeous circles of Marli and Versailles such outward marks of servitude as the haughty Britoness exacted of all who approached her. But the authority of Louis rested on the support of his army. The authority of Elizabeth rested solely on the support of her people. Those who say that her power was absolute do not sufficiently consider in what her power consisted. Her power consisted in the willing obedience of her subjects, in their attachment to her person and to her office, in their respect for the old line from which she sprang, in their sense of the general security which they enjoyed under her government. These were the means, and the only means, which she had at her command for carrying her decrees into execution, for resisting foreign enemies, and for crushing domestic treason. There was not a ward in the city, there was not a hundred in any shire in England, which could not have overpowered the handful of armed men who composed her household. If a hostile sovereign threatened invasion, if an ambitious noble raised the standard of revolt, she could have recourse only to the train-bands of her capital and the array of her counties, to the citizens and yeomen of England, commanded by the merchants and esquires of England.

Thus, when intelligence arrived of the vast preparations which Philip was making for the subjugation of the realm, the first person to whom the government thought of applying for assistance was the Lord Mayor of London. They sent to ask him what force the city would engage to furnish for the defence of the kingdom against the Spaniards. The Mayor and Common Council, in return, desired to know what force the queen's highness wished them to furnish. The answer was, fifteen ships, and five thousand men. The Londoners deliberated on the matter, and, two days after, "humbly intreated the council, in sign of their perfect love and loyalty to prince and country, to accept ten thousand men, and thirty ships amply furnished."

People who could give such signs as these of their loyalty were by no means to be misgoverned with impunity. The English in the sixteenth century were, beyond all doubt, a free people. They had not, indeed, the outward show of freedom; but they had the reality. They had not as good a constitution as we have, but they had that without which the best constitution is as useless as the king's proclamation against vice and immorality, that which, without any constitution, keeps rulers in

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