When lord Rochester was restored again to the favour of King Charles II, he continued the same extravagant pursuits of pleasure, and would even use freedoms with that Prince, whom he had before so much offended; for his satire knew no bounds, his invention was lively, and his execution sharp.

He is supposed to have contrived with one of Charles's mistress's the 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.

'This morning of St. Bartholomew, the duke had received letters, in which he was advertised, that Rochelle had relieved itself; upon which he directed that his breakfast might be speedily made ready, and he would make haste to acquaint the King with the good news, the court being then at Southwick, about five miles from Portsmouth. The chamber in which he was dressing himself was full of company, and of officers in the fleet and army. There was Monsieur de Soubize, brother to the duke de Rohan, and other French gentlemen, who were very sollicitous for the embarkation of the army, and for the departure of the fleet for the relief of Rochelle; and they were at that time in much trouble and and perplexity, out of apprehension that the news the duke had received that morning might slacken the preparations of the voyage, which their impatience and interest, persuaded them was not advanced with expedition; and so they held much discourse with the duke of the impossibility that his intelligence could be true, and that it was contrived by the artifice and dexterity of their enemies, in order to abate the warmth and zeal that was used for their relief, the arrival of which relief, those enemies had much reason to apprehend; and a longer delay in sending it, would ease them of that terrible apprehension; their forts and works towards the sea, and in the harbour being almost finished.

'This discourse, according to the natural custom of that nation, and by the usual dialect of that language, was held with such passion and vehemence, that the standers-by who understood not French, did believe they were angry, and that they used the duke rudely. He being ready, and informed that his breakfast was ready, drew towards the door, where the hangings were held up; and in that very passage turning himself to speak with Sir Thomas Fryer, a colonel of the army, who was then speaking near his ear, he was on a sudden struck over his shoulder upon the breast with a knife; upon which, without using any other words, than that the villain has killed me, and in the same moment pulling out the knife himself, he fell down dead, the knife having pierced his heart. No man had ever seen the blow, or the man who gave it; but in the confusion they were in, every man made his own conjecture, and declared it as a thing known, most agreeing, that it was done by the French, from the angry discourse they thought they had heard from them, and it was a kind of miracle, that they were not all killed that instant: The sober sort that preserved them from it, having the same opinion of their guilt, and only reserving them for a more judicial examination, and proceeding.

'In the crowd near the door, there was found upon the ground a hat, in the inside whereof, there was sewed upon the crown a paper, in which were writ four or five lines of that declaration made by the House of Commons, in which they had stiled the duke an enemy to the kingdom; and under it a short ejaculation towards a prayer. It was easily enough concluded, that the hat belonged to the person who had committed the murder, but the difficulty remained still as great, who that person should be; for the writing discovered nothing of the name; and whosoever it was, it was very natural to believe, that he was gone far enough not to be found without a hat. In this hurry, one running one way, another another way, a man was seen walking before the door very composedly without a hat; whereupon one crying out, here's the fellow that killed the duke, upon which others run thither, every body asking which was he; to which the man without the hat very composedly answered, I am he. Thereupon some of those who were most furious suddenly run upon the man with their drawn swords to kill him; but others, who were at least equally concerned in the loss and in the sense of it, defended him; himself with open arms very calmly and chearfully exposing himself to the fury and swords of the most enraged, as being very willing to fall a sacrifice to their sudden anger, rather than be kept for deliberate justice, which he knew must be executed upon him.

'He was now enough known, and easily discovered to be that Felton, whom we mentioned before, who had been a lieutenant in the army; he was quickly carried into a private room by the persons of the best condition, some whereof were in authority, who first thought fit, so far to dissemble, as to mention the duke only grievously wounded, but not without hopes of recovery. Upon which Felton smiled, and said, he knew well enough he had given him a blow that had determined all their hopes. Being then asked at whose instigation he had performed that horrid, wretched act, he answered them with a wonderful assurance, That they should not trouble themselves in that enquiry; that no man living had credit or power enough with him to have engaged or disposed him, to such an action, that he had never entrusted his purpose or resolution to any man; that it proceeded from himself, and the impulse of his own conscience, and that the motives thereunto will appear if his hat were found. He spoke very frankly of what he had done, and bore the reproaches of them that spoke to him, with the temper of a man who thought he had not done amiss. But after he had been in prison some time, where he was treated without any rigour, and with humanity enough; and before and at his tryal, which was about four months after, at the King's Bench, he behaved himself with great modesty, and wonderful repentance; being as he said convinced in his conscience that he had done wickedly, and asked pardon of the King and Duchess, and all the Duke's servants, whom he acknowledged he had offended, and very earnestly besought the judges that he might have his hand struck off, with which he had performed that impious act before he should be put to death.'

This is the account lord Clarendon gives in the first volume of his history, of the fall of this great favourite, which serves to throw a melancholy veil over the splendor of his life, and demonstrates the extreme vanity of exterior pomp, and the danger those are exposed to who move on the precipice of power. It serve[s] to shew that of all kind of cruelty, that which is the child of enthusiasm is the word, as it is founded upon something that has the appearance of principles; and as it is more stedfast, so does it diffuse more mischief than that cruelty which flows from the agitations of passion: Felton blindly imagined he did God service by assassination, and the same unnatural zeal would perhaps have prompted him to the murder of a thousand more, who in his opinion were enemies to their country.

The above-mentioned historian remarks, that there were several prophecies and predictions scattered about, concerning the duke's death; and then proceeds to the relation of the most astonishing story we have ever met with.

As this anecdote is countenanced by so great a name, I need make no apology for inserting it, it has all the evidence the nature of the thing can admit of, and is curious in itself.

'There was an officer in the King's wardrobe in Windsor-Castle of a good reputation for honesty and discretion, and then about the age of fifty years, or more. This man had been bred in his youth in a school in the parish where Sir George Villiers the father of the Duke lived, and had been much cherished and obliged in that season of his age, by the said Sir George, whom afterwards he never saw. About six months before the miserable end of the duke of Buckingham, about midnight, this man, being in his bed at Windsor, where his office was, and in very good health, there appeared to him, on the side of his bed, a man of very venerable aspect, who fixing his eyes upon him, asked him, if he knew him; the poor man half dead with fear, and apprehension, being asked the second time, whether he remembered him, and having in that time called to his memory, the presence of Sir George Villiers, and the very cloaths he used to wear, in which at that time he used to be habited; he answered him, That he thought him to be that person; he replied, that he was in the right, that he was the same, and that he expected a service from him; which was, that he should go from him to his son the duke of Buckingham, and tell him, if he did not somewhat to ingratiate himself to the people, or at least, to abate the extreme malice they had against him, he would be suffered to live but a short time, and after this discourse he disappeared, and the poor man, if he had been at all waking, slept very well till the morning, when he believed all this to be a dream, and considered it no otherwise.

'Next night, or shortly after, the same person appeared to him again in the same place, and about the same time of the night, with an aspect a little more severe than before; and asking him whether he had done as he required him? and perceiving he had not, he gave him very severe reprehensions, and told him, he expected more compliance from him; and that if he did not perform his commands, he should enjoy no peace of mind, but should be always pursued by him: Upon which he promised to obey him.

'But the next morning waking exceedingly perplexed with the lively representation of all that had passed, he considered that he was a person at such a distance from the duke, that he knew not how to find any admittance into his presence, much less any hope to be believed in what he should say, so with great trouble and unquietness he spent some time in thinking what he should do. The poor man had by this time recovered the courage to tell him, That in truth he had deferred the execution of his commands, upon considering how difficult a thing it would be for him to get access to the duke, having acquaintance with no person about him; and if he could obtain admission to him, he would never be able to persuade him that he was sent in such a manner, but he should at best be thought to be mad, or to be set on and employed by his own or the malice of other men to abuse the duke, and so he should be sure to be undone. The person replied, as he had done before, that he should never find rest, till he should perform what he required, and therefore he were better to dispatch it; that the access to his son was known to be very easy; and that few men waited long for him, and for the gaining him credit, he would tell him two or three particulars, which he charged him never to mention to any person living, but to the duke himself; and he should no sooner hear them, but he would believe all the rest he should say; and so repeating his threats he left him.

'In the morning the poor man more confirmed by the last appearance, made his journey to London, where the court then was. He was very well known to Sir Ralph Freeman, one of the masters of the requests, who had married a lady that was nearly allied to the duke, and was himself well received by him. To him this man went; and tho' he did not acquaint him with all the particulars, he said enough to him to let him see there was somewhat extraordinary in it, and the knowledge he had of the sobriety and discretion of the man, made the more impression on him. He desired that by his means he might be brought to the duke, to such a place, and in such a manner as should be thought fit; affirming, that he had much to say to him; and of such a nature as would require much privacy, and some time and patience in the hearing. Sir Ralph promised he would speak first to the duke of him, and then he should understand his pleasure, and accordingly on the first opportunity he did inform him of the reputation and honesty of the man, and then what he desired, and all he knew of the matter. The duke according to his usual openness and condescension told him, that he was the next day, early, to hunt with the King; that his horses should attend him to Lambeth Bridge, where he would land by five o'Clock in the morning, and if the man attended him there at that hour, he would walk and speak with him as long as should be necessary. Sir Ralph carried the man with him next morning, and presented him to the duke at his landing, who received him courteously, and walked aside in conference near an hour, none but his own servants being at that hour near the place, and they and Sir Ralph at such a distance, that they could not hear a word, though the duke sometimes spoke, and with great commotion, which Sir Ralph the more easily perceived, because he kept his eyes always fixed upon the duke; having procured the conference, upon somewhat he knew, there was of extraordinary; and the man told him in his return over the water, that when he mentioned those particulars, which were to gain him credit, the substance whereof he said he durst not impart to him, the duke's colour changed, and he swore he could come by that knowledge only by the devil, for that those particulars were known only to himself, and to one person more, who, he was sure, would never speak of it.

'The duke pursued his purpose of hunting, but was observed to ride all the morning with great pensiveness, and in deep thoughts, without any delight in the exercise he was upon, and before the morning was spent, left the field, and alighted at his mother's lodgings at Whitehall, with whom he was shut up for the space of two or three hours, the noise of their discourse frequently reaching the ears of those who attended in the next rooms and when the duke left her, his countenance appeared full of trouble, with a mixture of anger: a countenance that was never before observed in him in any conversation with her, towards whom he had a profound reverence, and the countess herself was, at the duke's leaving her, found overwhelmed in tears, and in the highest agony imaginable; whatever there was of all this, it is a notorious truth, that when the news of the duke's murder (which happened within a few months) was brought to his mother, she seemed not in the least degree surprized, but received it as if she had foreseen it, nor did afterwards express such a degree of sorrow, as was expected from such a mother, for the loss of such a son.'

This is the representation which lord Clarendon gives of this extraordinary circumstance, upon which I shall not presume to make any comment; but if ever departed spirits were permitted to interest themselves with human affairs, and as Shakespear expresses it, revisit the glimpses of the moon, it seems to have been upon this occasion: at least there seems to be such rational evidence of it, as no man, however fortified against superstition, can well resist.

But let us now enter upon the life of the son of this great man; who, if he was inferior to his father as a statesman, was superior in wit, and wanted only application to have made a very great figure, even in the senate, but his love of pleasure was immoderate, which embarrassed him in the pursuit of any thing solid or praise-worthy.

He was an infant when his father's murder was perpetrated, and received his early education from several domestic tutors, and was afterwards sent to the university of Cambridge: when he had finished his course there, he travelled with his brother lord Francis, under the care of William Aylesbury, esquire. Upon his return, which was after the breaking out of the civil wars, he was conducted to Oxford, and presented to his Majesty, then there, and entered into Christ Church. Upon the decline of the King's cause, the young duke of Buckingham attended Prince Charles into Scotland, and was present in the year 1651 at the battle of Worcester, where he escaped beyond sea, and was soon after made knight of the garter. He came afterwards privately into England, and, November 19, 1657, married Mary, the daughter and heir of Thomas lord Fairfax, by whose interest he recovered all or most of his estate, which he had lost before. After the restoration, at which time he is said to have possessed an estate of 20,000 l. per annum, he was made one of the lords of the King's bed-chamber, and of the privy council, lord lieutenant of Yorkshire, and, at last, master of the horse.

In the year 1666, being discovered to have maintained secret correspondence by letters, and other transactions, tending to raise mutinies among some of his Majesty's forces, and stir up sedition among his people, and to have carried on other traiterous designs and practices, he absconded, upon which a proclamation was issued the same year for apprehending him. Mr. Thomas Carte, in his Life of the Duke of Ormond[1], tells us, 'that the duke's being denied the post of president of the North, was probably the reason of his disaffection to the King; and, that just before the recess of the Parliament, one Dr. John Heydon was taken up for treasonable practices, in sowing a sedition in the navy, and engaging persons in a conspiracy to seize the Tower. The man was a pretender to great skill in astrology, but had lost much of his reputation, by prognosticating the hanging of Oliver to his son Richard Cromwel and Thurloe, who came to him in disguise, for the calculation of nativities, being dressed like distressed cavaliers. He was for that put into prison, and continued in confinement sixteen months, whilst Cromwel outlived the prediction four years. This insignificant fellow was mighty great with the duke of Buckingham, who, notwithstanding the vanity of the art, and the notorious ignorance of the professor of it, made him cast not only his own, but the King's nativity; a matter of dangerous curiosity, and condemned by a statute which could only be said to be antiquated, because it had not for a long time been put in execution. This fellow he had likewise employed, among others, to excite the seamen to mutiny, as he had given money to other rogues to put on jackets to personate seamen, and to go about the country begging in that garb, and exclaiming for want of pay, while the people oppressed with taxes, were cheated of their money by the great officers of the crown. Heydon pretended to have been in all the duke's secrets, for near four years past, and that he had been all that time designing against the King and his government, that his grace thought the present reason favourable for the execution of his design, and had his agents at work in the navy and in the kingdom, to ripen the general discontents of the people, and dispose them to action, that he had been importuned by him to head the first party he could get together, and engage in an insurrection, the duke declaring his readiness to appear and join in the undertaking, as soon as the affair was begun. Some to whom Heydon unbosomed himself, and had been employed by him to carry letters to the duke of Buckingham, discovered the design. Heydon was taken up, and a serjeant at arms sent with a warrant by his Majesty's express order to take up the duke, who, having defended his house by force, for some time at least, found means to escape. The King knew Buckingham to be capable of the blackest designs, and was highly incensed at him for his conduct last sessions, and insinuating that spirit into the Commons, which had been so much to the detriment of the public service. He could not forbear expressing himself with more bitterness against the duke, than was ever dropped from him upon any other occasion. When he was sollicited in his behalf, he frankly said, that he had been the cause of continuing the war, for the Dutch would have made a very low submission, had the Parliament continued their first vigorous vote of supplying him, but the duke's cabals had lessened his interest both abroad and at home, with regard to the support of the war. In consequence of this resentment, the King put him out of the privy council, bedchamber, and lieutenancy of York, ordering him likewise to be struck out of all commissions. His grace absconding, a proclamation was issued out, requiring his appearance, and surrender of himself by a certain day.'

Notwithstanding this appearance of resentment against him, yet Charles, who was far from being of an implacable temper, took Buckingham again into favour, after he had made an humble submission; he was restored to his place in the council, and in the bedchamber in 1667, and seemed perfectly confirmed in the good graces of the King, who was, perhaps, too much charmed with his wit to consider him as an enemy.

In the year 1670, the duke was supposed to be concerned in Blood's attempt on the life of the duke of Ormond. This scheme was to have conveyed that nobleman to Tyburn, and there to have hanged him; for which purpose he was taken out of his coach in St. James's Street, and carried away by Blood and his son beyond Devonshire House, Piccadilly, but then rescued. Blood afterwards endeavoured to steal the crown out of the Tower, but was seized; however, he was not only pardoned, but had an estate of five hundred pounds a year given him in Ireland, and admitted into an intimacy with the King. The reason of Blood's malice against the duke of Ormond was, because his estate at Sorney was forfeited for his treason in the course of government, and must have been done by any lord lieutenant whatever. This, together with the instigation of some enemy of the duke of Ormond's at court, wrought upon him so, that he undertook the assassination. Mr. Carte supposes, that no man was more likely to encourage Blood in this attempt, than the duke of Buckingham, who, he says was the most profligate man of his time, and had so little honour in him, that he would engage in any scheme to gratify an irregular passion. The duke of Ormond had acted with some severity against him, when he was detected in the attempt of unhinging the government, which had excited so much resentment, as to vent itself in this manner. Mr. Carte likewise charges the duchess of Cleveland with conspiring against Ormond, but has given no reasons why he thinks she instigated the attempt. The duchess was cousin to the duke of Buckingham, but it appears in the Annals of Gallantry of those times, that she never loved him, nor is it probable she engaged with him in so dangerous a scheme.

That Buckingham was a conspirator against Ormond, Mr. Carte says, there is not the least doubt; and he mentions a circumstance of his guilt too strong to be resisted. That there were reasons to think him the person who put Blood upon the attempt of the duke of Ormond, (says he) 'cannot well be questioned, after the following relation, which I had from a gentleman (Robert Lesly of Glaslough, in the county of Monaghan, esquire) whose veracity and memory, none that knew him, will ever doubt, who received it from the mouth of Dr. Turner, bishop of Ely. The earl of Ossory came in one day, not long after the affair, and seeing the duke of Buckingham standing by the King, his colour rose, and he spoke to this effect; My lord, I know well, that you are at the bottom of this late attempt of Blood's upon my father, and therefore I give you fair warning, if my father comes to a violent end by sword or pistol, or the more secret way of poison, I shall not be at a loss to know the first author of it; I shall consider you as the assassin; I shall treat you as such, and wherever I meet you, I shall pistol you, though you stood behind the King's chair, and I tell it you in his Majesty's presence, that you may be sure I shall keep my word.' I know not whether this will be deemed any breach of decorum to the King, in whose presence it was said, but, in my opinion, it was an act of spirit and resentment worthy of a son, when his father's life was menaced, and the villain (Blood) who failed in the attempt, was so much courted, caressed, and in high favour immediately afterwards.

In June 1671, the duke was installed chancellor of the university of Cambridge, and the same year was sent ambassador to the King of France; who being pleased with his person and errand, entertained him very nobly for several days together; and upon his taking leave, gave him a sword and belt set with Pearls and Diamonds, to the value of 40,000 pistoles. He was afterwards sent to that King at Utrecht in June 1672, together with Henry earl of Arlington, and George lord Hallifax. He was one of the cabal at Whitehall, and in the beginning of the session of Parliament, February 1672, endeavoured to cast the odium of the Dutch war from himself, upon lord Arlington, another of the cabal. In June 1674, he resigned the chancellorship of Cambridge. About this time he became a great favourer of the Nonconformists. February 16, 1676, his grace, and James earl of Salisbury, Anthony earl of Shaftsbury, and Philip lord Wharton, were committed to the Tower by order of the House of Lords, for a contempt, in refusing to retract what they had said the day before, when the duke, immediately after his Majesty had ended his speech to both Houses, endeavoured to shew from law and reason, that the long prorogation was nulled, and the Parliament was consequently dissolved.

The chief of our author's works is,

The Rehearsal, a Comedy, first acted on December 7, 1671. It is said that the duke was assisted in writing this play, by his Chaplain Dr. Thomas Sprat, Martin Clifford, esquire, master of the Charterhouse, and Mr. Samuel Butler, author of Hudibras. Jacob, in his Lives of the Poets, observes, 'that he cannot exactly learn when his grace began this piece; but this much, says he, we may certainly gather from the plays ridiculed in it, that it was before the end of 1663, and finished before 1664, because it had been several times rehearsed, the players were perfect in their parts, and all things in readiness for its acting, before the great plague in 1665, and that then prevented it, for what was then intended, was very different from what now appears. In that he called his poet Bilboa, by which name Sir Robert Howard was the person pointed at. During this interval, many plays were published, written in heroic rhime, and on the death of Sir William Davenant 1669, whom Mr. Dryden succeeded in the laurel, it became still in greater vogue; this moved the duke to change the name of his poet, from Bilboa to Bayes.'

This character of Bayes is inimitably drawn; in it the various foibles of poets (whether good, bad or indifferent) are so excellently blended as to make the most finished picture of a poetical coxcomb: 'Tis such a master-piece of true humour as will ever last, while our English tongue is understood, or the stage affords a good comedian to play it. How shall I now avoid the imputation of vanity, when I relate, that this piece, on being revived (when I[2] first appeared in the part of Bayes) at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden in the year 1739, was, in that one season (continued to 1740) played upwards of forty nights, to great audiences, with continued mirthful applause. As this is a truth, I give it to the candid; and let the relation take its chance, though it should not be thought by some (who may not abound in good nature) that I only mean by this, to pay due regard to the merit of the piece, though it speaks for itself; for, without extraordinary merit in the writing, it could never have gained such an uncommon run, at the distance of fourscore years from its being first written, when most of those pieces were forgot which it particularly satirises; or, if remembered, they were laughed into fame by the strong mock-parodies with which this humorous piece of admirable burlesque abounds.

Mr. Dryden, in revenge for the ridicule thrown on him in this piece, exposed the duke under the name of Zimri in his Absalom and Achitophel. This character, drawn by Dryden, is reckoned a masterpiece; it has the first beauty, which is truth; it is a striking picture, and admirably marked: We need make no apology for inserting it here; it is too excellent to pass unnoticed.

In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was every thing by starts, and nothing long; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was Chymist, fidler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhiming, drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, In something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing, and praising were his usual themes, And both, to shew his judgment, in extremes; So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God, or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laught himself from court, then sought relief, By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief. Thus wicked, but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.

It is allowed by the severest enemies of this nobleman, that he had a great share of vivacity, and quickness of parts, which were particularly turned to ridicule; but while he has been celebrated as a wit, all men are silent as to other virtues, for it is no where recorded, that he ever performed one generous disinterested action in his whole life; he relieved no distressed merit; he never shared the blessing of the widow and fatherless, and as he lived a profligate, he died in misery, a by-word and a jest, unpitied and unmourned.

He died April 16, 1687, Mr. Wood says, at his house in Yorkshire, but Mr. Pope informs us, that he died at an inn in that county, in very mean circumstances. In his Epistle to lord Bathurst, he draws the following affecting picture of this man, who had possessed an estate of near 50,000 l. per annum, expiring,

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed, Where tawdry yellow, strove with dirty red, Great Villiers lies—alas! how chang'd from him That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury[3] and love; Or just as gay in council, in a ring Of mimick'd statesmen and their merry king. No wit to flatter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more; There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. His grace's fate, sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advised him, 'live like me.' As well, his grace replied, 'like you, Sir John! That I can do, when all I have is gone:'

Besides the celebrated Comedy of the Rehearsal, the duke wrote the following pieces;

1. An Epitaph on Thomas, Lord Fairfax, which has been often reprinted.

2. A Short Discourse upon the Reasonableness of Men's having a Religion or Worship of God. This Piece met with many Answers, to which, the Duke wrote Replies.

3. A Demonstration of the above Duty.

4. Several Poems, particularly, Advice to a Painter to draw my Lord Arlington. Timon, a Satire on several Plays, in which he was assisted by the Earl of Rochester; a Consolatory Epistle to Julian Secretary to the Muses; upon the Monument; upon the Installment of the Duke of Newcastle; the Rump-Parliament, a Satire; the Mistress; the Lost Mistress; a Description of Fortune.

5. Several Speeches.

Footnotes: 1. B. vi. vol. ii. p. 347. 2. T.C. 3. The countess of Shrewsbury, a woman abandoned to gallantries. The earl her husband was killed by the duke of Buckingham; and it has been said that, during the combat, she held the duke's horses in the habit of a page.

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MATTHEW SMITH, Esquire.

(The following Account of this Gentleman came to our Hands too late to be inserted in the Chronological Series.)

This gentleman was the son of John Smith, an eminent Merchant at Knaresborough in the county of York, and descended from an ancient family of that name, seated at West-Herrington and Moreton House in the county pal. of Durham. Vide Philpot's Visitation of Durham, in the Heralds Office, page 141.

He was a Barrister at Law, of the Inner-Temple, and appointed one of the council in the North, the fifteenth of King Charles I. he being a Loyalist, and in great esteem for his eminence and learning in his profession; as still further appears by his valuable Annotations on Littleton's Tenures he left behind him in manuscript. He also wrote some pieces of poetry, and is the author of two dramatical performances.

1. The Country Squire, or the Merry Mountebank, a Ballad Opera of one Act.

2. The Masquerade du Ciel, a Masque, which was published the year that he died, 1640, by John Smith of Knaresborough, Esq; (eldest son and heir to this Matthew, by Anne his wife, daughter of Henry Roundell, esq; who dedicated it to the Queen. He was a person of the greatest loyalty, and very early addicted to arms, which made him extreamly zealous and active during the civil wars, in joining with the Royalists, particularly at the battle of Marston-Moor 1644, when he personally served under Prince Rupert, for which he and his family were plundered and sequestered. He also fined twice for Sheriff, to avoid the oaths in those days.)

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THOMAS OTWAY.

This excellent poet was not more remarkable for moving the tender passions, than for the variety of fortune, to which he was subjected. We have some where read an observation, that the poets have ever been the least philosophers, and were always unhappy in a want of firmness of temper, and steadiness of resolution: of the truth of this remark, poor Mr. Otway is a lively instance; he never could sufficiently combat his appetite of extravagance and profusion, to live one year in a comfortable competence, but was either rioting in luxurious indulgence, or shivering with want, and exposed to the insolence and contempt of the world. He was the son of Mr. Humphry Otway, rector of Wolbeding in Sussex, and was born at Trottin in that county, on March 3, 1651. He received his education at Wickeham school, near Winchester, and became a commoner of Christ Church in Oxford, in the beginning of the year 1669. He quitted the university without a degree, and retired to London, though, in the opinion of some historians, he went afterwards to Cambridge, which seems very probable, from a copy of verses of Mr. Duke's to him, between whom subsisted a sincere friendship till the death of Mr. Otway. When our poet came to London, the first account we hear of him, is, that he commenced player, but without success, for he is said to have failed in want of execution, which is so material to a good player, that a tolerable execution, with advantage of a good person, will often supply the place of judgment, in which it is not to be supposed Otway was deficient.

Though his success as an actor was but indifferent, yet he gained upon the world by the sprightliness of his conversation, and the acuteness of his wit, which, it seems, gained him the favour of Charles Fitz Charles, earl of Plymouth, one of the natural sons of King Charles II. who procured him a cornet's Pommission in the new raised English forces designed for Flanders. All who have written of Mr. Otway observe, that he returned from Flanders in very necessitous circumstances, but give no account how that reverse of fortune happened: it is not natural to suppose that it proceeded from actual cowardice, or that Mr. Otway had drawn down any disgrace upon himself by misbehaviour in a military station. If this had been the case, he wanted not enemies who would have improved the circumstance, and recorded it against him, with a malicious satisfaction; but if it did not proceed from actual cowardice, yet we have some reason to conjecture that Mr. Otway felt a strong disinclination to a military life, perhaps from a consciousness that his heart failed him, and a dread of misbehaving, should he ever be called to an engagement; and to avoid the shame of which he was apprehensive in consequence of such behaviour, he, in all probability, resigned his commission, which could not but disoblige the earl of Plymouth, and expose himself to necessity. What pity is it, that he who could put such masculine strong sentiments into the mouth of such a resolute hero as his own Pierre, should himself fail in personal courage, but this quality nature withheld from him, and he exchanged the chance of reaping laurels in the field of victory, for the equally uncertain, and more barren laurels of poetry. The earl of Rochester, in his Session of the Poets, has thus maliciously recorded, and without the least grain of wit, the deplorable circumstances of Otway.

Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany, And swears for heroics he writes best of any; Don Carlos his pockets so amply had filled, That his mange was quite cured, and his lice were all killed. But Apollo had seen his face on the stage, } And prudently did not think fit to engage } The scum of a playhouse, for the prop of an age. }

Mr. Otway translated out of French into English, the History of the Triumvirate; the First Part of Julius Caesar, Pompey and Crassus, the Second Part of Augustus, Anthony and Lepidus, being a faithful collection from the best historians, and other authors, concerning the revolution of the Roman government, which happened under their authority, London 1686 in 8vo. Our author finding his necessities press, had recourse to writing for the stage, which he did with various success: his comedy has been blamed for having too much libertinism mixed with it; but in tragedy he made it his business, for the most part, to observe the decorum of the stage. He has certainly followed nature in the language of his tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate parts more than any of our English poets. As there is something familiar and domestic in the fable of his tragedy, he has little pomp, but great energy in his expressions; for which reason, though he has admirably succeeded in the tender and melting parts of his tragedies, he sometimes falls into too great a familiarity of phrase in those, which, by Aristotle's rule, ought to have been raised and supported by the dignity of expression. It has been observed by the critics, that the poet has founded his tragedy of Venice Preservcd, on so wrong a plot, that the greatest characters in it are those of rebels and traitors. Had the hero of this play discovered the same good qualities in defence of his country, that he shewed for his ruin and subversion, the audience could not enough pity and admire him; but as he is now represented, we can only say of him, what the Roman historian says of Catiline, that his fall would have been glorious (si pro Patria sic concidisset) had he so fallen, in the service of his country.

Mr. Charles Gildon, in his Laws of Poetry, stiles Mr. Otway a Poet of the first Magnitude, and tells us, and with great justice, that he was perfect master of the tragic passions, and draws them every where with a delicate and natural simplicity, and therefore never fails to raise strong emotions in the soul. I don't know of a stronger instance of this force, than in the play of the Orphan; the tragedy is composed of persons whose fortunes do not exceed the quality of such as we ordinarily call people of condition, and without the advantage of having the scene heightened by the importance of the characters; his inimitable skill in representing the workings of the heart, and its affection, is such that the circumstances are great from the art of the poet, rather than from the figure of the persons represented. The whole drama is admirably wrought, and the mixture of passions raised from affinity, gratitude, love, and misunderstanding between brethren, ill usage from persons obliged slowly returned by the benefactors, keeps the mind in a continual anxiety and contrition. The sentiments of the unhappy Monimia are delicate and natural, she is miserable without guilt, but incapable of living with a consciousness of having committed an ill act, though her inclination had no part in it. Mrs. Barry, the celebrated actress, used to say, that in her part of Monimia in the Orphan, she never spoke these words, Ah! poor Castalio, without tears; upon which occasion Mr. Gildon observes, that all the pathetic force had been lost, if any more words had been added, and the poet would have endeavoured, in vain, to have heightened them, by the addition of figures of speech, since the beauty of those three plain simple words is so great by the force of nature, that they must have been weakened and obscured by 'the finest flowers of rhetoric.

The tragedy of the Orphan is not without great blemishes, which the writer of a criticism on it, published in the Gentleman's Magazine, has very judiciously and candidly shewn. The impetuous passion of Polydore breaks out sometimes in a language not sufficiently delicate, particularly in that celebrated passage where he talks of rushing upon her in a storm of love. The simile of the bull is very offensive to chaste ears, but poor Otway lived in dissolute times, and his necessity obliged him to fan the harlot-face of loose desire, in compliance to the general corruption. Monimia staying to converse with Polydor, after he vauntingly discovers his success in deceiving her, is shocking; had she left him abruptly, with a wildness of horror, that might have thrown him under the necessity of seeking an explanation from Castalio, the scene would have ended better, would have kept the audience more in suspence, and been an improvement of the consequential scene between the brothers; but this remark is submitted to superior judges.

Venice Preferred is still a greater proof of his influence over our passions, and the faculty of mingling good and bad characters, and involving their fortunes, seems to be the distinguished excellence of this writer. He very well knew that nothing but distressed virtue can strongly touch us with pity, and therefore, in this play, that we may have a greater regard for the conspirators, he makes Pierre talk of redressing wrongs, and repeat all the common place of male contents.

To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures, And own myself a man: to see our senators Cheat the deluded people with a shew Of Liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of! They say by them our hands are free from fetters, Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds; Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow; Drive us like wrecks down the rough tide of power Whilst no hold's left, to save us from destruction: All that bear this are villains, and I one, Not to rouse up at the great call of nature, And check the growth of these domestic spoilers, Who make us slaves, and tell us 'tis our charter.

Jaffier's wants and distresses, make him prone enough to any desperate resolution, yet says he in the language of genuine tenderness,

But when I think what Belvidera feels, The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, I own myself a coward: bear my weakness, If throwing thus my arms about thy neck, I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom.

Jaffier's expostulation afterwards, is the picture of all who are partial to their own merit, and generally think a relish of the advantages of life is pretence enough to enjoy them.

Tell me, why good Heaven Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires That fill the happiest man? ah rather why Didst thou not form me, sordid as my fate, Base minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens.

How dreadful is Jaffier's soliloquy, after he is engaged in the conspiracy.

I'm here; and thus the shades of night surround me, I look as if all hell were in my heart, And I in hell. Nay surely 'tis so with me; For every step I tread, methinks some fiend Knocks at my breast, and bids it not be quiet. I've heard how desperate wretches like myself Have wandered out at this dead time of night To meet the foe of mankind in his walk: Sure I'm so curst, that though of Heaven forsaken, No minister of darkness, cares to tempt me. Hell, hell! why sleep'st thou?

The above is the most awful picture of a man plunged in despair, that ever was drawn by a poet; we cannot read it without terror: and when it is uttered as we have heard it, from the late justly celebrated Booth, or those heart-affecting actors Garrick, and Barry, the flesh creeps, and the blood is chilled with horror.

In this play Otway catches our hearts, by introducing the episode of Belvidera. Private and public calamities alternately claim our concern; sometimes we could wish to see a whole State sacrificed for the weeping Belvidera, whose character and distress are so drawn as to melt every heart; at other times we recover again, in behalf of a whole people in danger. There is not a virtuous character in the play, but that of Belvidera, and yet so amazing is the force of the author's skill in blending private and public concerns, that the ruffian on the wheel, is as much the object of pity, as if he had been brought to that unhappy fate by some honourable action.

Though Mr. Otway possessed this astonishing talent of moving the passions, and writing to the heart, yet he was held in great contempt by some cotemporary poets, and was several times unsuccessful in his dramatic pieces. The merits of an author are seldom justly estimated, till the next age after his decease; while a man lives in the world, he has passion, prejudice, private and public malevolence to combat; his enemies are industrious to obscure his fame, by drawing into light his private follies; and personal malice is up in arms against every man of genius.

Otway was exposed to powerful enemies, who could not bear that he should acquire fame, amongst whom Dryden is the foremost. The enmity between Dryden and Otway could not proceed from jealousy, for what were Otway's, when put in the ballance with the amazing powers of Dryden? like a drop to the ocean: and yet we find Dryden declared himself his open enemy; for which, the best reason that can be assigned is, that Otway was a retainer to Shadwell, who was Dryden's aversion. Dryden was often heard to say, that Otway was a barren illiterate man, but 'I confess, says he, he has a power which I have not;' and when it was asked him, what power that was? he answered, 'moving the passions.' This truth was, no doubt, extorted from Dryden, for he seems not to be very ready in acknowledging the merits of his cotemporaries. In his preface to Du Fresnoy's Art of Painting, which he translated, he mentions Otway with respect, but not till after he was dead; and even then he speaks but coldly of him. The passage is as follows, 'To express the passions which are seated on the heart by outward signs, is one great precept of the painters, and very difficult to perform. In poetry the very same passions, and motions of the mind are to be expressed, and in this consists the principal difficulty, as well as the excellency of that art. This (says my author) is the gift of Jupiter, and to speak in the same Heathen language, is the gift of our Apollo, not to be obtained by pains or study, if we are not born to it; for the motions which are studied, are never so natural, as those which break out in the heighth of a real passion. Mr. Otway possessed this part as thoroughly as any of either the ancients or moderns. I will not defend every thing in his Venice Preserved, but I must bear this testimony to his memory, that the passions are truly touched in it, though, perhaps, there is somewhat to be desired, both in the grounds of them, and the heighth and elegance of expression; but nature is there, which is the greatest beauty.' Notwithstanding our admiration of Dryden, we cannot, without some indignation, observe, how sparing he is in the praises of Otway, who, considered as a tragic writer, was surely superior to himself. Dryden enchants us indeed with flow'ry descriptions, and charms us with (what is called) the magic of poetry; but he has seldom drawn a tear, and millions of radiant eyes have been witnesses for Otway, by those drops of pity which they have shed. Otway might be no scholar, but that, methinks, does not detract from the merit of a dramatist, nor much assist him in succeeding. For the truth of this we may appeal to experience. No poets in our language, who were what we call scholars, have ever written plays which delight or affect the audience. Shakespear, Otway and Southern were no scholars; Ben Johnson, Dryden and Addison were: and while few audiences admire the plays of the latter, those of the former are the supports of the stage.

After suffering many eclipses of fortune, and being exposed to the most cruel necessities, poor Otway died of want, in a public house on Tower-hill, in the 33rd year of his age, 1685. He had, no doubt, been driven to that part of the town, to avoid the persecution of his creditors and as he durst not appear much abroad to sollicit assistance, and having no means of getting money in his obscure retreat, he perished. It has been reported, that Mr. Otway, whom delicacy had long deterred from borrowing small sums, driven at last to the most grievous necessity ventured out of his lurking place, almost naked and shivering, and went into a coffee-house on Tower-hill, where he saw a gentleman, of whom he had some knowledge, and of whom he sollicited the loan of a shilling. The gentleman was quite shocked, to see the author of Venice Preserved begging bread, and compassionately put into his hand a guinea.

Mr. Otway having thanked his benefactor, retired, and changed the guinea to purchase a roll; as his stomach was full of wind by excess of fasting, the first mouthful choaked him, and instantaneously put a period to his days.

Who can consider the fate of this gentleman, without being moved to pity? we can forgive his acts of imprudence, since they brought him to so miserable an end; and we cannot but regret, that he who was endowed by nature with such distinguished talents, as to make the bosom bleed with salutary sorrow, should himself be so extremely wretched, as to excite the same sensations for him, which by the power of his eloquence and poetry, he had raised for imaginary heroes. We know, indeed, of no guilty part of Otway's life, other than those fashionable faults, which usually recommend to the conversation of men in courts, but which serve for excuses for their patrons, when they have not a mind to provide for them. From the example of Mr. Otway, succeeding poets should learn not to place any confidence in the promises of patrons; it discovers a higher spirit, and reflects more honour on a man to struggle nobly for independance, by the means of industry, than servilely to wait at a great man's gate, or to sit at his table, meerly to afford him diversion: Competence and independence have surely more substantial charms, than the smiles of a courtier, which are too frequently fallacious. But who can read Mr Otway's story, without indignation at those idols of greatness, who demand worship from men of genius, and yet can suffer them to live miserably, and die neglected?

The dramatic works of Mr. Otway are,

1. Alcibiades, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1675, dedicated to Charles, Earl of Middlesex. The story of this play is taken from Cor. Nepos, and Plutarch's Life of Alcibiades.

2. Titus and Berenice, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1677, dedicated to John, Earl of Rochester. This play consists of but three Acts, and is a translation from M. Racine into heroic verse; for the story see Suetonius, Dionysius, Josephus; to which is added the Cheats of Scapin, a Farce, acted the same year. This is a translation from Moliere, and is originally Terence's Phormio.

3. Friendship in Fashion, a Comedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1678, dedicated to the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex. This play was revived at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1749, and was damned by the audience, on account of the immorality of the design, and the obscenity of the dialogue.

4. Don Carlos, Prince of Spain, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1679. This play, which was the second production of our author, written in heroic verse, was acted with very great applause, and had a run of thirty nights; the plot from the Novel called Don Carlos.

5. The Orphan, or the Unhappy Marriage, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1680, dedicated to her Royal Highness the Duchess. It is founded on the History of Brandon, and a Novel called the English Adventurer. Scene Bohemia.

6. The History and Fall of Caius Marius, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1680, dedicated to Lord Viscount Falkland. The characters of Marius Junior and Lavinia, are borrowed literally from Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet, which Otway has acknowledged in his Prologue.

7. The Soldier's Fortune, a Comedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1681. This play is dedicated to Mr. Bentley his Bookseller; for the copy money, as he tells us himself, see Boccace's Novels, Scarron's Romances.

8. The Atheist, or the Second Part of the Soldier's Fortune, a Comedy, acted at the Duke of York's Theatre, 1684, dedicated to Lord Eland, the eldest son to the Marquis of Hallifax.

9. Venice Preserved, or a Plot Discovered, a Tragedy, acted at the Duke's Theatre, 1685, dedicated to the Duchess of Portsmouth. Of this we have already given some account, and it is so frequently acted, that any enlargement would be impertinent. It is certainly one of the most moving plays upon the English stage; the plot from a little book, giving an account of the Conspiracy of the Spaniards against Venice.

Besides his plays, he wrote several poems, viz.

The Poet's Complaint to his Muse, or a Satire against Libels, London; 1680, in 4to.

Windsor Castle, or a Monument to King Charles the Second.

Miscellany Poems, containing a New Translation of Virgil's Eclogues, Ovid's Elegies, Odes of Horace, London 1864. He translated likewise the Epistle of Phaedra to Hyppolitus, printed in the Translation of Ovid's Epistles, by several hands. He wrote the Prologue to Mrs. Bhon's City Heiress. Prefixed to Creechis Lucretius, there is a copy of verses written by Mr. Otway, in praise of that translation.

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JOHN OLDHAM.

This eminent satyrical poet, was the son of the reverend Mr. John Oldham, a nonconformist minister, and grandson to Mr. John Oldham, rector of Nun-Eaton, near Tedbury in Gloucestershire. He was born at Shipton (where his father had a congregation, near Tedbury, and in the same county) on the 9th of August 1653. He was educated in grammar learning, under the care of his father, till he was almost fitted for the university; and to be compleatly qualified for that purpose, he was sent to Tedbridge school, where he spent about two years under the tuition of Mr. Henry Heaven, occasioned by the earnest request of alderman Yeats of Bristol, who having a son at the same school, was desirous that Mr. Oldham should be his companion, which he imagined would much conduce to the advancement of his learning. This for some time retarded Oldham in the prosecution of his own studies, but for the time he lost in forwarding Mr. Yeat's son, his father afterwards made him an ample amends. Mr. Oldham being sent to Edmund Hall in Oxford, was committed to the care of Mr. William Stephens: of which hall he became a bachelor in the beginning of June 1670. He was soon observed to be a good latin scholar, and chiefly addicted himself to the study of poetry, and other polite acquirements[1]. In the year 1674, he took the degree of bachelor of arts, but left the university before he compleated that degree by determination, being much against his inclination compelled to go home and live for some time with his father. The next year he was very much afflicted for the death of his dear friend, and constant companion, Mr. Charles Mervent, as appears by his ode upon that occasion. In a short time after he became usher to the free-school at Croyden in Surry. Here it was, he had the honour of receiving a visit from the earl of Rochester, the earl of Dorset, Sir Charles Sedley, and other persons of distinction, meerly upon the reputation of some verses which they had seen in manuscript. The master of the school was not a little surprized, at such a visit, and would fain have taken the honour of it to himself, but was soon convinced that he had neither wit nor learning enough to make a party in such company. This adventure was no doubt very happy for Mr. Oldham, as it encreased his reputation and gained him the countenance of the Great, for after about three years continuance at Croyden school, he was recommended by his good friend Harman Atwood, Esq; to Sir Edward Thurland, a judge, near Rygate in the same county, who appointed him tutor to his two grandsons. He continued in this family till 1680. After this he was sometime tutor to a son of Sir William Hicks, a gentleman living within three or four miles of London, who was intimately acquainted with a celebrated Physician, Dr. Richard Lower, by whose peculiar friendship and encouragement, Mr. Oldham at his leisure hours studied physic for about a year, and made some progress in it, but the bent of his poetical genius was too strong to become a proficient in any school but that of the muses. He freely acknowledges this in a letter to a friend, written in July 1678.

While silly I, all thriving arts refuse, } And all my hopes, and all my vigour lose, } In service of the worst of jilts a muse. } * * * * * Oft I remember, did wise friends dissuade, And bid me quit the trifling barren trade. Oft have I tryed (heaven knows) to mortify This vile and wicked bent of poetry; But still unconquered it remains within, Fixed as a habit, or some darling sin. In vain I better studies there would sow; Oft have I tried, but none will thrive or grow. All my best thoughts, when I'd most serious be, Are never from its foul infection free: Nay God forgive me when I say my prayers, I scarce can help polluting them with verse. The fab'lous wretch of old revers'd I seem, Who turn whatever I touch to dross of rhime.

Our author had not been long in London, before he was found out by the noblemen who visited him at Croyden, and who now introduced him to the acquaintance of Mr. Dryden. But amongst the Men of quality he was most affectionately caressed by William Earl of Kingston, who made him an offer of becoming his chaplain; but he declined an employment, to which servility and dependence are so necessarily connected. The writer of his life observes, that our author in his satire addressed to a friend, who was about to quit the university, and came abroad into the world, lets his friend know, that he was frighted from the thought of such an employment, by the scandalous sort of treatment which often accompanies it. This usage deters men of generous minds from placing themselves in such a station of life; and hence persons of quality are frequently excluded from the improving, agreeable conversation of a learned and obsequious friend. In this satire Mr. Oldham writes thus,

Some think themselves exalted to the sky, If they light on some noble family. Diet and horse, and thirty-pounds a year, Besides the advantage of his lordship's ear. The credit of the business and the state, Are things that in a youngster's sense found great. Little the unexperienced wretch does know, What slavery he oft must undergo; Who tho' in silken stuff, and cassoc drest, Wears but a gayer livery at best. When diner calls, the implement must wait, With holy words to consecrate the meat; But hold it for a favour seldom known, If he be deign'd the honour to sit down. Soon as the tarts appear, Sir Crape withdraw, Those dainties are not for a spiritual maw. Observe your distance, and be sure to stand Hard by the cistern, with your cap in hand: There for diversion you may pick your teeth, Till the kind voider comes for your relief, For meer board wages, such their freedom sell, Slaves to an hour, and vassals to a bell: And if th' employments of one day be stole, They are but prisoners out upon parole: Always the marks of slavery remain, And they tho' loose, still drag about their chain. And where's the mighty prospect after all, A chaplainship serv'd up, and seven years thrall? The menial thing, perhaps for a reward, Is to some slender benefice prefer'd, With this proviso bound that he must wed, } My lady's antiquated waiting maid, } In dressing only skill'd, and marmalade. } Let others who such meannesses can brook, Strike countenance to ev'ry great man's look: Let those, that have a mind, turn slave to eat, And live contented by another's plate: I rate my freedom higher, nor will I, For food and rayment track my liberty. But if I must to my last shift be put, To fill a bladder, and twelve yards of gut, Richer with counterfeited wooden leg, And my right arm tyed up, I'll choose to beg. I'll rather choose to starve at large, than be, The gaudiest vassal to dependancy.

The above is a lively and animated description of the miseries of a slavish dependance on the great, particularly that kind of mortification which a chaplain must undergo. It is to be lamented, that gentlemen of an academical education should be subjected to observe so great a distance from those, over whom in all points of learning and genius they may have a superiority. Tho' in the very nature of things this must necessarily happen, yet a high spirit cannot bear it, and it is with pleasure we can produce Oldham, as one of those poets who have spurned dependence, and acted consistent with the dignity of his genius, and the lustre of his profession.

When the earl of Kingston found that Mr. Oldham's spirit was too high to accept his offer of chaplainship, he then caressed him as a companion, and gave him an invitation to his house at Holmes-Pierpont, in Nottinghamshire. This invitation Mr. Oldham accepted, and went into the country with him, not as a dependant but friend; he considered himself as a poet, and a clergyman, and in consequence of that, he did not imagine the earl was in the least degraded by making him his bosom companion. Virgil was the friend of Maecenas, and shone in the court of Augustus, and if it should be observed that Virgil was a greater poet than Oldham, it may be answered, Maecenas was a greater man than the Earl of Kingston, and the court of Augustus much more brilliant than that of Charles II.

Our author had not been long at the seat of this Earl, before, being seized with the small pox, he died December 9, 1683, in the 30th year of his age, and was interred with the utmost decency, his lordship attending as chief mourner, in the church there, where the earl soon after erected a monument to his memory.—Mr. Oldham's works were printed at London 1722, in two volumes 12mo. They chiefly consist of Satires, Odes, Translations, Paraphrases of Horace, and other authors; Elegiac Verses, Imitations, Parodies, Familiar Epistles, &c.—Mr. Oldham was tall of stature, the make of his body very thin, his face long, his nose prominent, his aspect unpromising, and satire was in his eye. His constitution was very tender, inclined to a consumption, and it was not a little injured by his study and application to learned authors, with whom he was greatly conversant, as appears from his satires against the Jesuits, in which there is discovered as much learning as wit. In the second volume of the great historical, geographical, and poetical Dictionary, he is stiled the Darling of the Muses, a pithy, sententious, elegant, and smooth writer: "His translations exceed the original, and his invention seems matchless. His satire against the Jesuits is of special note; he may be justly said to have excelled all the satirists of the age." Tho' this compliment in favour of Oldham is certainly too hyperbolical, yet he was undoubtedly a very great genius; he had treasured in his mind an infinite deal of knowledge, which, had his life been prolonged, he might have produced with advantage, for his natural endowments seem to have been very great: But he is not more to be reverenced as a Poet, than for that gallant spirit of Independence he discovered, and that magnaninity [sic] which scorned to stoop to any servile submissions for patronage: He had many admirers among his contemporaries, of whom Mr. Dryden professed himself one, and has done justice to his memory by some excellent verses, with which we shall close this account.

Farewel too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think, and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and tools were both abhorred alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive, The last set out, the soonest did arrive, Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, While his young friend perform'd and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store, What could advancing age have added more? It might, what nature never gives the young, Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine, Thro' the harsh cadence of a rugged line: A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betray'd. Thy gen'rous fruits, tho' gather'd e'er their prime, } Still shewed a quickness; and maturing time } But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhime. } Once more, hail and farewel: Farewel thou young, But ah! too short, Marcellus of our tongue; Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound, But fate, and gloomy night encompass thee around.

Footnote: 1. Life of Mr. Oldham, prefixed to his works, vol. i. edit. Lond. 1722.

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(DILLON) (WENTWORTH) Earl of ROSCOMMON,

This nobleman was born in Ireland during the lieutenancy of the earl of Strafford, in the reign of King Charles I. Lord Strafford was his godfather, and named him by his own surname. He passed some of his first years in his native country, till the earl of Strafford imagining, when the rebellion first broke out, that his father who had been converted by archbishop Usher to the Protestant religion, would be exposed to great danger, and be unable to protect his family, sent for his godson, and placed him at his own seat in Yorkshire, under the tuition, of Dr. Hall, afterwards bishop of Norwich; by whom he was instructed in Latin, and without learning the common rules of grammar, which he could never retain in his memory, he attained to write in that language with classical elegance and propriety, and with so much ease, that he chose it to correspond with those friends who had learning sufficient to support the commerce. When the earl of Strafford was prosecuted, lord Roscommon went to Caen in Normandy, by the advice of bishop Usher, to continue his studies under Bochart, where he is said to have had an extraordinary impulse of his father's death, which is related by Mr. Aubrey in his miscellany, 'Our author then a boy of about ten years of age, one day was as it were madly extravagant, in playing, getting over the tables, boards, &c. He was wont to be sober enough. They who observed him said, God grant this proves no ill luck to him. In the heat of this extravagant fit, he cries out my father is dead. A fortnight after news came from Ireland, that his father was dead. This account I had from Mr. Knowles who was his governor, and then with him, since secretary to the earl of Strafford; and I have heard his Lordship's relations confirm the same.'