If we turn, for help—in our strait—to the admirable biography of Eliot, by Mr. Forster, we shall find that its author rather accepts the doubt, than solves it. Inclining to the opinion that Sir John Eliot was the actual utterer, he thinks nevertheless that the best course is to ‘let the speech stand double and inseparable; a memorial of a fast friendship.’ It was the friendship, I may add, of two statesmen who fought a good fight, side by side; until one of them was violently torn out of the arena, and thrust into a dungeon, in the hope that slow disease might unstring the eloquent tongue which honours could not bribe, and terrors could not silence.
In Sir Robert’s posthumous tracts (as they were published by James Howell) this speech has been printed as unquestionably spoken by him who wrote it. But that publication—as I have had occasion to show already, in relation to the ‘Twenty-four Arguments’—carries no grain of authority. Spoken or simply composed by its author, the speech is alike memorable in English history, and in the personal life of the man himself.
The existence of the plague in London had led to the adjournment of the first Parliament of King Charles to Oxford. It was there, and on the 10th of August, 1625, that the speech which—whether it came from the lips of John Eliot or of Robert Cotton—made a deep impression on the House, was spoken. It gave the key-note to not a few speeches of a subsequent date, and it contains passages which, in the event, came to have on their face something of the stamp of prophecy.
Retrenchment in expenditure,—Parliamentary curb on Royal favourites,—No trust of a transcendent power to any one Minister,—Less lavishness in the bestowal of honours and dignities won by suit, or purchase, rather than by public meed,—Wary distrust of Spain,—Abolition of unjust monopolies and oppressive imposts;—these are amongst the earnest counsels which (whether it were as writer, or as speaker) Sir Robert Cotton impressed on his fellow-members in that memorable sitting at Oxford. Both the pith and the sting of the Speech may be found in its concluding words: ‘His Majesty hath ... wise, religious, and worthy servants.... In loyal duty, we offer our humble desires that he would be pleased to advise with them together; ... not with young and single counsel.’ Well would it have been for Charles, had he taken those simple words to heart, in good time.
To us, and now, there is a special interest in an incidental passage of this speech which relates to Somerset. The reader has seen how Count Gondomar’s secret testimony—just disinterred from Simancas—against Somerset, as well as against Cotton, has recently been dealt with by an eminent historian. |(See, also, heretofore, the foot-note to p. 73.)| It is worth our while to remember some other words on that subject spoken publicly in the Parliament at Oxford almost two centuries and a half agone. They were spoken in the ears of men whose eyes had looked with keen scrutiny into the Spanish envoy as well as into the English minister. Somerset was still living. Men who then sat in the Parliament Chamber knew every incident in his official life, and not a few incidents in his private life, as well as every charge by which—publicly or privately—he had been infamed. They knew, exactly, Sir Robert Cotton’s position towards the fallen minister. If we choose to suppose that Eliot was now speaking what Cotton wrote, the inference is unchanged. To those listeners Sir John and Sir Robert were known to be politically ‘double and inseparable.’
Cotton’s Eulogy on Lord Somerset’s policy (August, 1625).
The facts being so, what is the course taken by the speaker when he finds occasion to remind the House of things that happened when ‘My Lord of Somerset stood in state of grace, and had the trust of the Signet Seal?’ Does he take a line of apology and use words of extenuation? Not a whit. In the presence of some of the wisest and ablest of English statesmen, he eulogises Somerset as an honest and unselfish minister of the Crown. He asserts, that the Earl had discovered ‘the double dealings’ of Spanish emissaries, and the dangers of the Spanish alliance; and had made some progress in dissuading even King James from putting faith in Spaniards. Then, winding up this episode, in order to pass to the topic of the hour, Cotton says: ‘Thus stood the effect of Somerset’s power with His Majesty, when the clouds of his misfortune fell upon him. What future advisers led to we may well remember. |MS. Lansd.,[[12]] 491, fol. 195.| The marriage with Spain was renewed; Gondomar declared an honest man; Popery heartened; His Majesty’s forces in the Palatinate withdrawn; His Highness’s children stripped of their patrimony; our old and fast allies disheartened; and the King our now master exposed to so great a peril as no wise and faithful counsel would ever have advised.’
At Court, speech such as this was deeply resented, instead of being turned to profit. A curious little incident which occurred at the Coronation of Charles in the next winter testifies, characteristically, to the effect which it produced on the minds both of the new King and of his favourite.
At the date of that ceremony, Sir Robert’s close political connection with the future Parliamentary chiefs was but in its infancy. His views of public policy were fast ripening, and had borne fruit. His private friendships were more and more shaping themselves into accordance with his tendencies in politics. Amongst those whose intimacy he cultivated—besides that of Eliot and others who have been mentioned already—were Symonds D’Ewes, and John Selden. |Friends and Hospitalities.| It was at Cotton’s hospitable table, in Old Palace Yard, that the two men last named first made acquaintance with each other. Both were scholars; both were strongly imbued with the true antiquarian tinge; both had an extensive acquaintance with the black-letter lore of jurisprudence, as well as with the more elegant branches of archæology; and both, up to a certain point, had common aims in public life; yet they did not draw very near together. Selden’s more robust mind, and his wider sympathies, shocked some of the puritanic nicenesses of D’Ewes. Precisely the same remark would hold good of the relations between Cotton and D’Ewes. But a certain geniality of manners in Sir Robert, combined with his grandee-like openness of hand and mind, attracted his fellow-baronet in a degree which went some way towards vanquishing D’Ewes’ most ingrained scruples. |Harl. MS., as above.| ‘I had much more familiarity with Sir Robert Cotton, than with Master Selden,’ jots down Sir Symonds in his Autobiographic Diary, and then he adds: ‘Selden being a man exceedingly puffed up with the apprehension of his own abilities.’ That last sentence,—as the reader, perhaps, will agree with me in thinking,—may possibly tell a more veracious tale of the writer, than of the man whom it reproves.
Be that as it may, the dining-room in Old Palace Yard witnessed frequent meetings of many groups of visitors of whose tabletalk it would be delightful could we find as good a record as we have of the tabletalk in Bolt Court, or at Streatham Park; or even as we have of almost contemporary talk around the board at Hawthornden. Glorious old Ben himself was a frequent guest at Sir Robert Cotton’s table. Until late in James’ reign, Camden, when his growing infirmities permitted him to journey up from Chislehurst, would still be seen there, now and again. During the rare sessions of Parliament, many a famous member, as he left the House of Commons, would join the circle. And the high discourse about Greeks and Romans, about poetry and archæology, would be pleasantly varied, by the newest themes of politics, by occasional threnodies on the exorbitant power of court minions, but also by occasional and glowing anticipations of a better time to come.