Theobalds was a fine old palace, and has been celebrated in the verses of poets and the pages of novelists, and the memoirs of historians; but no biography of Watts gives any specific account of the magnificent old building in which he spent the greater number of the years of his life. It was as much Watts’ home as if it had been his own property; and he was in the habit of saying his poetical contributions would have been much more numerous had he, in his early life, been privileged with the means of retirement among such shades and gardens, and ample grounds. Theobalds was, and had been, everything that could excite the memory, or stir or soothe and lull the imagination. Situated a little more than a mile from Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire, and within an easy ride from the metropolis, on the borders of Enfield Chase, it possessed a very remarkable history; it had been the favourite residence of the mighty Cecil, Lord Burleigh; to this place he fled with eagerness to enjoy his short intervals of leisure; amidst its shades he planned and plotted schemes in which the whole future of England’s history was interested; he laid out immense sums of money upon the grand pile, and kept up great state with extraordinary magnificence, while he might be seen ambling along upon a mule through the groves of his magnificent domains, overlooking his workmen or the parties of pleasure he had gathered around him. Here, at this old house, Queen Elizabeth had repeatedly rested in the course of her great progresses. Here, when Burleigh and his mistress had both passed away, came James I., and held his masques, written by Ben Jonson, and enjoyed his pleasures. It was in his reign that it was given up by the Earl of Salisbury to Queen Anne of Denmark, amidst such strange pageantries of most intemperate folly that Sir John Harington writes, contrasting the days of James I. with what he remembered of the same place in the days of Queen Elizabeth, “I never did see such lack of good order, discretion, and sobriety, as I have now done.”
In Watts’ day there was living in the neighbouring village of Cheshunt that remarkable man, also a member of Watts’ church. Richard Cromwell, although, somewhat to shroud himself in obscurity, he usually went by the name of Mr. Clarke. An eminent novelist[14] has woven into his fiction very naturally one of the most striking incidents of his story from the casual meeting of his hero and the son of the Protector on this very spot, when Cromwell became his host and entertainer. Richard Cromwell died probably before Watts became a constant resident at Theobalds; and indeed Cromwell removed from Cheshunt some time before his death.
Cheshunt churchyard once contained a number of inscriptions upon the tombs from the pen of the poet; most of them have probably long been obliterated, but two or three have been snatched from oblivion; an inscription for the tomb of Thomas Pickard, Esq., citizen of London, who died suddenly, probably a member of Watts’ church:
A soul prepared needs no delays,
The summons comes, the saint obeys;
Swift was his flight and short the road,
He closed his eyes and saw his God.
His flesh rests here till Jesus come
And claims the treasure from the tomb.