[24] Old Antony Wood was not likely to speak well of any regicide, and from the hypothetical way in which he speaks of Marten’s penitence, he seems to have known of the anecdote with Mr. Lewis, or, at least, as much as it indicates.—See his character as given by Mr. Carlyle.
[25] As no such epitaph was at all likely to be permitted to be engraven, on the tombstone, if Marten was even allowed a tombstone, until after the Revolution, which took place nine years after his death, is it not more likely that these lines were composed by some quaint “Old Mortality” of the Cromwell school, than by the subject of them?—Correspondent.
[26] How Mr. Seward or Mr. Heath could have applied this quotation to Marten, it is difficult to imagine.
[27] Here follows a disquisition on the genuineness of the picture, which concludes:—“Such is the account attached to this picture, which, after what has been said, does not positively prove it to be the portrait of Henry Marten; but I am the more inclined to assent to the traditionary evidence, because it has all the character of such a man. It further seems to have been taken while he was in the army, from his wearing armour, being Cromwell’s major-general over the county of Surrey, in which command his conduct was marked by the most flagrant rapacity; so that the picture must have been brought to St. Pierre, and not painted during his residence in Monmouthshire. If, therefore, the picture must be received as the portrait of Harry Marten, I am led to believe that, when his family came to share in his confinement, they brought it with them to Chepstow, and, after Marten’s decease, gave it to Mr. Lewis’s ancestors. It is in the finest preservation.”
[28] The Lords of Striguil were entitled to the prisage and butlerage of all wines brought into the ports of Swansea and Chepstow.
[29] Tradition relates that an officer actually made his escape from this castle in the manner described, and, crossing the river by swimming, joined the Protector’s army on the Gloucester heights, where a battery was established.
[30] During the siege, as the tradition runs, a barge lay at anchor immediately under this window, by means of which, if driven to extremity, the governor at least, and part of the garrison—desperate as the attempt must have been—might be enabled to make their escape. This becoming an object of suspicion, a soldier of the republican army volunteered to deprive the governor of this last resource. Throwing himself at midnight into the river, he swam to the barge, and there with a knife, which he had carried in his teeth for that purpose, severed the cable, sent the boat adrift, and then swam back to his comrades in triumph.
[31] In 1696, the castle was garrisoned by the royal troops, the daily expense of which may be estimated by the following examples:—The governor, in addition to six captains’ pay, had 2s. a day; the gunner, 20d.; a mathorse, 10d.; fire and candle for the guard, 8d.; a company of foot, consisting of a captain, 8s.; a lieutenant, 4s.; two sergeants, at 1s. 6d. each, 3s.; three corporals and a drummer, at 1s. each, 4s.; sixty-two soldiers, at 8d. each, 41s. 4d. = £3. 5s. 6d.—Hist. of Chepstow.
[32] Fosbroke—Local History and Guide.
[33] His history is short and melancholy. In the course of the American war, he was appointed governor of the island of St. Vincent, where he expended a large sum from his own private resources in its fortification. Upon its fall, the minister of the day disavowed his claim for compensation. His creditors became clamorous, and he was cast into the King’s Bench prison, where he languished for twelve years. When released from his confinement, he was broken in health and spirits—suffering most of all from the domestic calamity which his fallen fortunes had produced in the insanity of his wife; and shortly after he died at the house of a relative in London. He was a generous and benevolent man, as the poor of his neighbourhood could well testify. On his departure for the West Indies, they came in troops to bid him a tearful farewell; and the muffled bells of the neighbouring church rang a funeral knell as he left the home of his love, and the scenes which he had embellished both by his taste and his life.—Roscoe’s South Wales.