“Dear Will,—Affairs begin to alter, and men talk of a peace with Holland, and taking them into our protection; and it is my opinion it will be before Michaelmas, for some reasons, not fit to write. We cannot have a peace with France and Holland both. The Dutch are now brought very low; but Amsterdam, and some other provinces, are resolved to stand out till the last. De-wit is stabbed, and dead of his wounds. It was at twelve a clock at night, the 11th of this month, as he came from the council at the Hague. Four men wounded him with their swords. But his own letter next morning to the States says nothing appeared mortal. The whole Province of Utrecht is yielding up. No man can conceive the condition of the State of Holland, in this juncture, unless he can at the same time conceive an earthquake, an hurricane, and the deluge. France is potent and subtle. Here have been several fires of late. One at St. Catherine’s, which burned about six score or two hundred houses, and some seven or eight ships. Another in Bishopsgate-street. Another in Crichet Fryars. Another in Southwark; and some elsewhere. You may be sure all the old talk is hereupon revived. There was the other day, though not on this occasion, a severe proclamation issued out against all who shall vent false news, or discourse ill concerning affairs of state. So that in writing to you I run the risque of making a breech in the commandment.—Yours,” etc.
The following letter deals with another matter of human concern than politics, for it seeks to condole with a father who has lost an only son.
To Sir John Trott
(Undated.)
“Honoured Sir,—I have not that vanity to believe, if you weigh your late loss by the common ballance, that any thing I can write to you should lighten your resentments: nor if you measure things by the rules of christianity, do I think it needful to comfort you in your duty and your son’s happyness. Only having a great esteem and affection for you, and the grateful memory of him that is departed being still green and fresh upon my spirit, I cannot forbear to inquire, how you have stood the second shock at your sad meeting of friends in the country. I know that the very sight of those who have been witnesses of our better fortune, doth but serve to reinforce a calamity. I know the contagion of grief and infection of tears, and especially when it runs in a blood. And I myself could sooner imitate than blame those innocent relentings of nature, so that they spring from tenderness only and humanity, not from an implacable sorrow. The tears of a family may flow together like those little drops that compact the rainbow, and if they be placed with the same advantage towards Heaven as those are to the sun, they too have their splendour; and like that bow, while they unbend into seasonable showers, yet they promise, that there shall not be a second flood. But the dissoluteness of grief, the prodigality of sorrow, is neither to be indulged in a man’s self, nor complyed with in others. If that were allowable in these cases, Eli’s was the readyest way and highest compliment of mourning, who fell back from his seat and broke his neck. But neither does that precedent hold. For though he had been Chancellor, and in effect King of Israel, for so many years (and such men value, as themselves, their losses at an higher rate than others), yet, when he heard that Israel was overcome, that his two sons Hophni and Phineas were slain in one day, and saw himself so without hope of issue, and which imbittered it farther, without succession to the government, yet he fell not till the news that the ark of God was taken. I pray God that we may never have the same parallel perfected in our publick concernments. Then we shall need all the strength of grace and nature to support us. But on a private loss, and sweetened with so many circumstances as yours, to be impatient, to be uncomfortable would be to dispute with God. Though an only son be inestimable, yet it is like Jonah’s sin, to be angry at God for the withering of his shadow. Zipporah, though the delay had almost cost her husband his life, yet, when he did but circumcise her son, in a womanish peevishness reproached Moses as a bloody husband. But if God take the son himself, but spare the father, shall we say that He is a bloody God? He that gave His own son, may He not take ours? It is pride that makes a rebel; and nothing but the over-weening of ourselves and our own things that raises us against Divine Providence. Whereas Abraham’s obedience was better than sacrifice. And if God please to accept both, it is indeed a farther tryal, but a greater honour. I could say over upon this beaten occasion most of those lessons of morality and religion which have been so often repeated, and are as soon forgotten. We abound with precept, but we want examples. You, sir, that have all these things in your memory, and the clearness of whose judgment is not to be obscured by any greater interposition, should be exemplary to others in your own practice. ’Tis true, it is an hard task to learn and teach at the same time. And, where yourselves are the experiment, it is as if a man should dissect his own body, and read the anatomy lecture. But I will not heighten the difficulty while I advise the attempt. Only, as in difficult things, you would do well to make use of all that may strengthen and assist you; the word of God; the society of good men; and the books of the ancients; there is one way more, which is by diversion, business, and activity; which are also necessary to be used in their season. But I myself, who live to so little purpose, can have little authority or ability to advise you in it, who are a person that are and may be much more so, generally useful. All that I have been able to do since, hath been to write this sorry Elogy of your son, which if it be as good as I could wish, it is as yet no indecent employment. However, I know you will take any thing kindly from your very affectionate friend, and most humble servant.”
Milton died on the 8th of November 1674. Marvell remained among the poet’s intimate friends until the end, and intended to write his life. It is idle to mourn the loss of an unwritten book, but Marvell’s life of Milton would have been a treasure.[1]
When Parliament met on the 13th of April 1675, members found in their places a mock-speech from the throne. They knew the hand that had penned it. It was a daring production and ran as follows:—
His Majesty’s Most Gracious Speech to Both Houses of Parliament.
“My Lords and Gentlemen,—I told you at our last meeting, the winter was the fittest time for business, and truly I thought so, till my Lord Treasurer assured me the spring was the best season for sallads and subsidies. I hope therefore that April will not prove so unnatural a month, as not to afford some kind showers on my parched exchequer, which gapes for want of them. Some of you, perhaps, will think it dangerous to make me too rich; but I do not fear it; for I promise you faithfully, whatever you give me I will always want; and although in other things my word may be thought a slender authority, yet in that, you may rely on me, I will never break it.
“My Lords and Gentlemen,—I can bear my straits with patience; but my Lord Treasurer does protest to me, that the revenue, as it now stands, will not serve him and me too. One of us must pinch for it, if you do not help me. I must speak freely to you: I am under bad circumstances, for besides my harlots in service, my reformado concubines lye heavy upon me. I have a passable good estate, I confess, but, God’s-fish, I have a great charge upon ’t. Here’s my Lord Treasurer can tell, that all the money designed for next summer’s guards must, of necessity, be applyed to the next year’s cradles and swadling-cloths. What shall we do for ships then? I hint this only to you, it being your busyness, not mine. I know, by experience, I can live without ships. I lived ten years abroad without, and never had my health better in my life; but how you will be without, I leave to yourselves to judge, and therefore hint this only by the bye: I do not insist upon it. There’s another thing I must press more earnestly, and that is this:—It seems a good part of my revenue will expire in two or three years, except you will be pleased to continue it. I have to say for ’t, pray, why did you give me so much as you have done, unless you resolve to give on as fast as I call for it? The nation hates you already for giving so much, and I’ll hate you too, if you do not give me more. So that if you stick not to me, you must not have a friend in England. On the other hand, if you will give me the revenue I desire, I shall be able to do those things for your religion and liberty, that I have had long in my thoughts, but cannot effect them without a little more money to carry me through. Therefore look to ’t and take notice that if you do not make me rich enough to undo you, it shall lie at your doors. For my part I wash my hands on ’t. But that I may gain your good opinion, the best way is to acquaint you what I have done to deserve it, out of my royal care for your religion and your property. For the first, my proclamation is a true picture of my mind, He that cannot, as in a glass, see my zeal for the Church of England, does not deserve any farther satisfaction, for I declare him wilful, abominable, and not good. Some may, perhaps, be startled, and cry, how comes this sudden change? To which I answer, I am a changling, and that’s sufficient, I think. But to convince men farther, that I mean what I say, there are these arguments:—