Great Ralegh

by Hugh De Sélincourt

Not only in dress was the courtier distinct, but also in language. Fashions in speech were constantly in vogue. None was more pronounced than the fashion set by John Lyly, who wrote elegant court plays and the novel Euphues. Of Euphues with his instructive letters and sound moral tone Sir Charles Grandison is the direct descendant: Richardson owed as much to Lyly, as Defoe to Thomas Nash or Fielding to Defoe. But that is a literary by-path which leads to the history of fiction. His immediate influence was on the speech of the courtiers and the language of the Court. "That beautie in Court which could not parley Euphuisme was as shee which now there speaks not French." John Lyly came to Court about 1577 and was helped by Lord Burghley; perhaps the rage of affectation which he started, gave the stern Lord Treasurer a distaste for poets and was one of the reasons which made him disinclined to favour Spenser afterwards. Probably Lyly seemed innocuous enough at first, with his modest desire to lie shut in a lady's casket rather than open in a scholar's library. No one could have foreseen the frenzied fashion which he inaugurated and which with its stilted periphrases must have been sorely irritating to the great matter-of-fact man of business. No wonder he looked askance at poets. Euphuism, as the jargon is called, has been described many times; it was the first effort in English towards ornament in speech. In itself it was wholly good; in its excess it was wholly bad.

As a fashion of speech it must have been not a little wearisome. And indeed that proved to be the case; for its place was taken about as soon as dull people were beginning to obtain the knack of it by another fashion, no less elaborate, but of a different manner of elaborateness taken from Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. Here a jingle on one word was the effect to be obtained, as for example, "Each senselesse thing had sense of pity; only they that had sense were senselesse." This fashion set by a writer upon the speech of the fashionable finds a modern counterpart in the influence of Oscar Wilde, with this difference that his pointed epigram becomes feeble nonsense and his genius for using the right word degenerates into amiable talk about passionate neckties and purple sin; whereas with Lyly's and Sidney's manner no imitation could be feebler or more exaggerated than the original often is—not always. Lyly has real wit and fancy, especially in his charming court plays, as when he writes, "They give us pap with a spoon before we can speak, and when we speake for that we love, pap with a hatchet"; there he is inimitable.

The common task of dress and language was sufficiently elaborate to keep a courtier of average intelligence busy. And when he was equipped in mind and body there were countless ceremonies and functions at which his presence was expected. The Queen was in continual progress, and every progress was a pageant, whether by land or river, whether she were journeying from one palace to another, or visiting a university to encourage learning, a town or a noble subject to show her gracious favour and to give her subjects the opportunity of proving by their hospitality their loyalty. She kept in constant touch with her people. And on her progresses she was accompanied by her principal courtiers, who were themselves followed by a suite of gentlemen retainers. In this excellent display of the superficial side of life—the very panoply of existence—Ralegh by his wit and by his bearing was conspicuous. He was as famous for his power of turning a neat phrase as he was famous for his power of wearing with grace a fortune in one suit. Many men were obliged to give all their attention to the brilliant outside of things to keep pace at all with the changes of phrase and habit; and would never be at ease in either. Ralegh owed his envied distinction in both chiefly to the reason that he always held them at their proper value. His nature was magnificent, and instinct led him naturally to a height which others could not climb to with the greatest conscious effort. In that he was like his mistress, Queen Elizabeth.

It is fitting that such life should be gorgeously caparisoned; there was no homespun in its disposition.

But there is another side to the picture of this Court, a second party in the Court and the country. For some fifteen years another woman had been living under restraint in England—a woman who was the mother of a king; who had been queen of two kingdoms and aspired to be queen of a third; she was of great personal power though not so powerful as Elizabeth. She was a devout Catholic and was called Mary, Queen of Scots. A large number of gentlemen had remained faithful to their religion. These Catholics were divided roughly into two classes, those who were faithful to their religion and to their country, and those who were primarily faithful to their religion and would stop at nothing to establish Catholicism again in England They looked on Mary, Queen of Scots, as their rightful head. The moderate Catholics wanted to make sure that she would succeed Elizabeth; the fanatical Catholics wanted to kill the usurper at once and let Mary reign in her stead.

As years passed by and Elizabeth remained unmarried and averse to the mention even of a successor, the question became acute, not in England only but throughout Europe. Spain and France were anxious to have a Catholic sovereign in England; but neither wanted the other to have the added strength of England as a dependency. Elizabeth kept playing them off one against the other with her various matrimonial schemes; and Mary was in correspondence with them, trying to exact promises of assistance. Intrigue grew more and more involved. At last matters came to a head. It became recognized, after the dismissal of the Duc d'Anjou as a suitor, that Time itself would no longer permit a marriage for Elizabeth. The Catholics in larger numbers resolved that her death was imperative and the death of her strong supporters. Elizabeth with the fearlessness of true strength had allowed Mary great freedom of correspondence in her confinement. Now she cut her off from the outside world, until a diplomatic necessity arose to know exactly how far foreign powers were prepared to support Mary, how far they were speaking their true intentions in their dealings with Elizabeth. Walsingham had spies in every influential Catholic household in England, at all the Courts and even the Jesuitical centres in Spain and France. But the information was not yet sufficient. Nothing illustrates more effectively the extraordinary difficulty of obtaining accurate news in those days of slow travelling and messengers, than the elaborate method which Walsingham and Elizabeth were obliged to arrange at this juncture. It is a mistake to suppose it illustrates the treachery and deceitfulness of the times. The times have changed not in moral tone but in quickness of transit. Men are very much the same; but steam and electricity, the telegraph, the telephone, and a postal system have altered the aspect of affairs and the methods of conducting business or intrigue.

The plan they contrived was both ingenious and successful. With the help of one Gilbert Gifford, trained in unscrupulous cunning by the Jesuits, they encouraged Mary to open a correspondence with her confederates abroad, and they tapped this correspondence at the fountain-head. Mary was removed to Chartley, near the home of Gifford, whose family was staunchly Catholic. A brewer at Burton supplied Chartley with beer. Into the cask of specially good beer for Mary and her attendants and secretaries was fitted a water-tight box, and in this box were placed the letters. With the brewer was staying Walsingham's secretary Phillipps, a thin red-haired man skilled in cypher, and he transcribed all the letters at Burton before they were sent through an underground post, which had been carefully arranged by the young and innocent-looking Gilbert Gifford, to the Jesuit agency in London. Only six people knew of the whole scheme. Elizabeth, Walsingham, Gifford, Phillipps, Paulet, Mary's Puritan keeper, and the brewer of Burton. The brewer was evidently a man whose business instinct was fully developed. Not only did he receive large and complicated bribes from Elizabeth and from Mary, but he demanded also a higher price for his beer. This demand shocked the good Paulet unspeakably, and throws an interesting sidelight upon the moral sense of the day, and proves that it worked as subtly then as it works now.

From this correspondence Elizabeth learned, what her strange foresight taught her to expect, that France and Spain were too frightened of each other to take any resolute step against her in favour of Mary. But it happened also that she learnt something quite unexpected and of extreme importance, and that was the plot which is known as the Babington conspiracy. She was able to thwart a national calamity and to preserve her own life.

Among the most fanatical of the Catholic disaffected was a Jesuit, named John Ballard. He had obtained a private bull from Gregory XIII., sanctioning the murder of Elizabeth, and was unremitting in his efforts to find a man daring enough to undertake the task. He travelled through England, disguised in blue velvet, as Captain Fortescue, rousing all the Catholic gentlemen to concerted action, and convincing them that Elizabeth's death was a papal necessity. Lord Arundel vouched that he could answer for the Tower, though he was a prisoner within its walls; his uncle, Lord Henry, would raise the eastern counties; Sir William Courtenay promised to seize Plymouth; Lord Montague, Lord Vaux, Lord Stourton, Lord Windsor, and many others, whose names on earth are dark, swore a great oath to stand by the cause and by themselves. Everything was in readiness for a general rising so soon as the blow should fall which should rid England of Elizabeth. The letters of Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, show how confident he is of a complete revolution. Certainly Elizabeth had need of staunch friends whom she was wise to bind to herself by every tie her personality could fashion, and staunch friends she possessed and held in her possession.

And now the men were found at last by Ballard who were ready to strike the blow. They were men who waited upon the Queen's person. The chief amongst them was Anthony Babington, of Dethick, in Derbyshire. He had been a page at Sheffield when the Queen of Scots was first in charge of Lord Shrewsbury, and, like many other men, young and old, who came under the fascination of her influence, he was passionately devoted to her, with all the strength of devotion that a beautiful woman in distress—still more, a beautiful queen—must inevitably arouse. The spirit of chivalry which the great rival Queens infuse into these plots takes away the sordidness and pettiness which breathes from mere political intrigue, and lends a poignant majesty to the terrible dramatic end of it all. This Anthony Babington obtained the help of Charles Tilney, one of Elizabeth's gentleman pensioners, of Edward Abington, the son of her under-treasurer, of Jones, of Dunn, of Robert Barnwell, who was an Irishman on a visit to the Court, and of other young men. Walsingham and Elizabeth knew of them all, and watched them continually. Elizabeth's bravery was magnificent Any moment she might have met death at the hand of an assassin; but she remained undaunted. Her fearlessness no doubt affected the conspirators, though quite unconsciously. They did not know that their every action was watched. Like many other young enthusiasts, they were reckless and self-confident to the verge of lunacy, and as soon as they came to realize that their plot was found out, they lost their heads completely. Abject fear took the place of their courage. They saw the resistless power that was ranged against them, waiting. They fled; but it was too late. The plot was revealed to the public. Ignominy and shameful death awaited the men who hoped to be welcomed as the saviours of their religion, the daring knights of their queen-lady. Their names were proclaimed and the nature of their intentions. Babington had fled to St. John's Wood, which was then a "forest interspersed with farms," and from there he managed to make his way to Harrow, where he with four others lay hid on haystacks and in the straw of barns. But they did not remain long undiscovered. Amid the ringing of bells and the wildest rejoicings they were taken back to London. And very soon they were hung, drawn and quartered publicly.