his speculations. Such an indulgence serves to keep him in humour with
himself, and may be a means to convert a low and plodding genius to
the only use of which it is capable. But for a man of experience in
affairs, and who is qualified to shine in them, to hold this language,
is very extraordinary.

I saw with what impatience he heard me, and therefore took care to
add, “’Tis true, the studies to which you would devote yourself, are
the noblest in the world of science. For _Divinity_, the very name
speaks its elogium. And the countenance which his majesty is pleased,
in his true wisdom, to give to _natural science_, must be thought to
ennoble that branch of learning beyond all others, that are merely
of human consideration. Yet still, my friend, what need of taking
these studies out of the hands of those, to whom they are properly
intrusted? Religion is very safe in the bosom of the national church.
And questions of natural science will doubtless be effectually cleared
and ventilated in the _New Society_[48], and in the schools of our
_Universities_. It could never be his majesty’s intention to thin his
court, for the sake of furnishing students in natural philosophy.”

And can you then, interposed he, in your concern for what you very
improperly call my interests, allow yourself to speak so coolly of the
great interests of natural and divine truth? Is religion a trade to
be confined to the craftsmen? Or, are fellows of colleges and of the
Royal Society, if such we are to have, the only persons concerned to
adore God in the wonders of his creation? Pardon me, my friend: I know
you mean nothing less; but the strange indifference of your phrase
provokes me to this expostulation.

You warm yourself, resumed I, too hastily. My design was only to
suggest, that as there are certain orders of men appointed for the sole
purpose of studying divinity, and advancing philosophy, I did not see
that a man of business was obliged to desert his proper station for the
sake of either.

I suspect, said he, there may be some equivocation wrapped up in
that word _obliged_. All I know is, that I shall spend my time more
innocently, at least; and, I presume to think, more usefully in those
studies, than in that slippery _station_, if it may deserve to be
called one, of court-favour and dependence. And if I extended the
observation to many others, that are fond to take up their residence in
these quarters, I cannot believe I should do them any injustice.

I cannot tell, returned I, against whom this censure is pointed. But
I know there are many of the gravest characters, and even lights and
fathers of the church, who do not consider it as inconsistent, either
with their duty, or the usefulness of their profession, to continue in
that station.

O! mistake me not, replied he: I intended no reflection on any of the
clergy, and much less on the great prelates of the church, for their
attendance in the courts of princes. Theirs is properly an exempt
case. They are the authorized guides and patterns of life. Their great
abilities indeed qualify them, above all others, for serving the cause
of science and religion, by their private studies and meditations.
But they very properly consider too, that part of their duty is to
enlighten the ignorant of all ranks, by their wise and pious discourse,
and to awe and reclaim the wandering of all denominations, by their
example. Hence it is, that I cannot enough admire the zeal of so many
pastors of the church; who, though the slavish manners and libertinism
of a court must be more than ordinarily offensive to men of their
characters, continue to discharge their office so painfully, and yet so
punctually, in that situation.

Here, my lord, observing my friend for once to deliver himself
reasonably, I was encouraged to add, that since he was so just to
maintain the commerce of good and wise churchmen in the great world
to be, as it truly was, a matter of duty, he should also have the
candour to own, that his withdrawing from it was, at least, a work of
_Supererogation_.

It might be so, he said; but, though our church gave no encouragement
to think we merit by such works, he did not know that it condemned and
utterly forbad them.

O! but, returned I, if that be all, and you acknowledge at last that
your _retiring_ is no matter of duty, it will be easy to advance
another step, and demonstrate to you, that such a project is, in your
case, altogether unreasonable[49].

For, notwithstanding all you have said, in the spirit and language
of stoicism, of the comforts of your present SITUATION, will you
seriously undertake to persuade me that they are in any degree
comparable to what you might propose to yourself, by returning to a
life of business? Is the littleness, the obscurity, and pardon me if I
even say, the meanness of this retreat, to be put in competition with
the liberal and even splendid provision, which your friends at court
will easily be able to make for you? Is it nothing, my friend, (for
let us talk common sense, and not bewilder ourselves with the visions
of philosophy) is it nothing to live in a well-furnished house, to
keep a good table, to command an equipage, to have many friends and
dependants, to be courted by inferiors, to be well received by the
great, and to be somebody even in the _presence_?

And what if, in order to compass such things, some little devoirs and
assiduities are expected? Is it not the general practice? And what
every body submits to, can it be ignominious? Is this any thing more
than conforming one’s self to the necessary subordination of society?
Or, what if some time passes in these services, which a present humour
suggests might be more agreeably spent in other amusements? The
recompence cannot be far off; and, in the mean time, the lustre and
very agitation of a life of business, hath somewhat in it sprightly
and amusing. Besides, yours is not the case of one that is entering,
for the first time, on a course of expectation. Your business is half
done. The prince is favourable; and there are of his ministers that
respect and honour you. Your services are well known; your reputation
is fair; your connexions great; and the season inviting. What, with all
these advantages, forego the court in a moping mood, or, as angry men
use, run to moralize in a cloister!

I was proceeding in the warmth of this remonstrance, when, with a
reproachful smile, he turned upon me, and, in a kind of rapture,
repeated the following lines of SPENSER:

    “Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,
    What hell it is in suing long to bide:
    To lose good days, that might be better spent;
    To waste long nights in pensive discontent:
    To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
    To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
    To have thy prince’s grace, yet want his peeres[50];
    To have thy askings, yet wait many yeers[51];
    To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;
    To eat thy heart through comfortless despaires;
    To faun, to crouche, to wait, to ride, to ronne;
    To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.”

This, said he, is my answer once for all to your long string of
interrogatories. I learnt it of one that had much experience in courts:
and I thought it worth imprinting on my memory, to have it in readiness
on such an occasion. Or, if you would rather have my answer in my
own words, the Muse shall give it you in a little poem, she dictated
very lately[52]. It may shew you perhaps, that, though my nature be
somewhat melancholy, I am not _moping_; and that I can moralize, and
even _complain_, as I have reason to do, without being _angry_.

The look and tone of voice, with which he said this, a little
disconcerted me. But I recovered myself, and was going on to object to
his unreasonable warmth, and the fascination of this wicked poetry,
when he stopped me with saying, “Come, no more of these remonstrances
and upbraidings. I have heard enough of your pleadings in a cause,
which no eloquence can carry against my firm and fixed resolutions.
I have seen, besides, the force you have done to yourself in this
mock combat. Your extreme friendliness hath even tempted you to act a
part which your true sense, and the very decorum of your profession,
I have observed through all your disguises, has rendered painful to
you. I will tell you my whole mind in one word. No inducements of what
the world calls INTEREST, no views of HONOUR, no, nor what the poet
aptly calls, SANCTISSIMA DIVITIARUM MAJESTAS[53], shall make me recede
from the purpose I am bent upon, of consecrating the remainder of a
comfortless distracted life, to the sweets of this obscure retirement.
Believe me, I have weighed it well, with all its inconveniencies.
And I find them such as are nothing to the agonies have long felt
in that troubled scene, to which you would recal me. If it hath any
ingredients, which I cannot so well relish, they are such as my
friends, and, above all, such as you, my best friend, may reconcile to
me. Let me but have the pleasure to see the few, I love and esteem, in
these shades, and I shall not regret their solitude.

And as for my much honoured friend, whose munificence hath placed me
in them, I shall hope to satisfy him in the most effectual manner.
Nothing, you will believe, could give me a pain equal to that of being
suspected of ingratitude towards my best benefactor. It was indeed
with the utmost difficulty, that I constrained myself at last to think
of leaving his service. The truth is, he expostulated with me upon it
pretty roundly; and though my resolution was taken, I left him with
the concern of not being able to give him entire satisfaction. These
repeated instances by you are a fresh proof of his goodness, and do me
an honour I had little reason to expect from him. But his lordship’s
notions of life and mine are very different, as is fitting in persons,
whom fortune hath placed in two such different situations. It becomes
me to bear the most grateful remembrance of his kind intentions; and,
for the rest, I can assure myself, that his equity and nobleness
of mind, will permit an old servant to pursue, at length, his own
inclinations.

However, to repay his goodness as I can, and to testify all imaginable
respect to his judgment, I have purposed to write my own APOLOGY to his
lordship; and to represent to him, in a better manner, than I have done
in this sudden and unpremeditated conversation, the reasons that have
determined me to this resolution. I have even made some progress in the
design, and have digested into several _essays_ the substance of such
reflections as, at different times, have had most weight with me[54].

Hearing him speak in so determined a manner, I was discouraged from
pressing him further with such other considerations, as I had, prepared
on this argument. Only I could not help enforcing, in the warmest
manner, and in terms your lordship would not allow me to use in this
recital, what he himself had owned of your unexampled goodness to
him; and the obligation which, I insisted, that must needs create in
a generous mind, of paying an unreserved obedience to your lordship’s
pleasure. He gave me the hearing very patiently; but contented himself
with repeating his design of justifying himself to your lordship in the
apology he had before promised.

And now, resumed he with an air of alacrity, since you know my whole
mind, and that no remonstrances can move me, confess the whole truth;
acknowledge at last that you have dissembled with me all this while,
and that, in reality, you approve my resolution. I know you do, my
friend, though you struggle hard to conceal it. It cannot be otherwise.
Nature, which linked our hearts together, had formed us in one mould.
We have the same sense of things; the same love of letters and of
virtue. And though I would not solicit one of your years and your
profession to follow me into the shade, yet I know you so well[55],
that you will preserve in the world that equal frame of mind, that
indifference to all earthly things, which I pretend to have carried
with me into this solitude.

Go on, my friend, in this track; and be an example to the churchmen of
our days, that the highest honours of the gown, which I easily foresee
are destined to your abilities, are not incompatible with the strictest
purity of life, and the most heroic sentiments of integrity and honour.
Go, and adorn the dignities which are reserved for you; and remember
only in the heights of prosperity to be what you are, to serve the
world with vigour, yet so as to indulge with me

                      “THE GENEROUS SCORN
    OF THINGS, FOR WHICH WE WERE NOT BORN[56].”

I began to be a little uneasy at his long sermon, when he broke it off
with this couplet. The day by this time was pretty far advanced; and
rising from his seat, he proposed to me to walk into his hermitage (so
he called his house); where, he said, I should see how a philosopher
lived as well as talked. I staid to dine, and spent a good part of
the afternoon with him. We discoursed of various matters; but not a
word more of what had occasioned this visit. Only he shewed me the
_complaining poem_ he had mentioned, and of which, for the pleasure so
fine a composition will give you, I here send your lordship a copy.
His spirits, he said, were enlivened by the face of an old friend; and
indeed I never knew his conversation more easy and chearful[57]; which
yet I could not perfectly enjoy for the regret the ill success of my
negociation had given me.

I returned to town in the evening, ruminating on what had passed, and
resolving to send your lordship an exact account of our conversation.
I particularly made a point of suppressing nothing which Mr. COWLEY
had to say for himself in this debate, however it may sometimes seem
to make against me. The whole hath grown under my pen into a greater
length than I expected. But your Lordship wished to know the bottom of
our friend’s mind; and I thought you would see it more distinctly and
clearly in this way, than in any other. I am, my lord, with the most
profound respect,

  Your Lordship’s most obedient

  and faithful servant,

  T. SPRAT.

  THE

  COMPLAINT[58].

    In a deep vision’s intellectual scene
    Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
        Th’ uncomfortable shade
        Of the black yew’s unlucky green,
    Mixt with the mourning willow’s careful gray,
    Where reverend CAM cuts out his famous way,
    The melancholy COWLEY lay:
      And lo! a Muse appear’d to’s closed sight,
    (The Muses oft in lands of visions play)
    Bodied, array’d, and seen by an internal light:
    A golden harp with silver strings she bore,
    A wonderous hieroglyphic robe she wore,
    In which all colours, and all figures were,
    That nature, or that fancy can create,
      That art can never imitate;
    And with loose pride it wanton’d in the air.
    In such a dress, in such a well-cloath’d dream,
    She us’d of old, near fair ISMENUS’ stream,
    PINDAR her THEBAN favourite to meet;
    A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.

II.

    She touch’d him with her harp, and rais’d him from the ground;
    The shaken strings melodiously resound.
        Art thou return’d at last, said she,
        To this forsaken place and me?
    Thou prodigal, who didst so loosely waste
    Of all thy youthful years, the good estate?
    Art thou return’d here to repent too late;
    And gather husks of learning up at last,
    Now the rich harvest-time of life is past,
        And _Winter_ marches on so fast?
    But when I meant t’adopt thee for my son,
    And did as learn’d a portion thee assign,
    As ever any of the mighty Nine
        Had to her dearest children done;
    When I resolv’d t’exalt thy anointed name,
    Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame[59];
    Thou changeling, thou, bewitch’d with noise and show,
    Would’st into courts and cities from me go;
    Would’st see the world abroad, and have a share
    In all the follies, and the tumults there.
    Thou would’st, forsooth, be something in a state,
    And business thou would’st find, and would’st create:
        Business! the frivolous pretence
    Of humane lusts to shake off innocence:
        Business! the grave impertinence:
    Business! the thing which I of all things hate:
    Business! the contradiction of thy fate.

III.

    Go, renegado, cast up thy account,
        And see to what amount
        Thy foolish gains by quitting me:
    The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty,
    The fruits of thy unlearn’d apostasy.
    Thou thought’st, if once the public storm were past,
    All thy remaining life should sun-shine be;
    Behold, the public storm is spent at last,
    The sovereign is tost at sea no more,
    And thou, with all the noble company,
        Art got at last to shore.
    But whilst thy fellow voyagers, I see,
    All march’d up to possess the promis’d land,
    Thou still alone (alas!) dost gaping stand
    Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand.

IV.

    As a fair morning of the blessed spring,
        After a tedious stormy night;
    Such was the glorious entry of our king:
    Enriching moisture dropp’d on every thing;
    Plenty he sow’d below, and cast about him light.
        But then (alas!) to thee alone,
    One of old GIDEON’S miracles was shown;
    For every tree, and every herb around,
        With pearly dew was crown’d,
    And upon all the quicken’d ground
    The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lye,
    And nothing but the Muse’s fleece was dry.
        It did all other threats surpass
    When God to his own people said,
    (The men, whom thro’ long wanderings he had led)
        That he would give them ev’n a heaven of brass;
    They look’d up to that heaven in vain,
    That bounteous heaven, which God did not restrain,
    Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.

V.

    The RACHAEL, for which twice seven years and more
    Thou didst with faith and labour serve,
    And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve,
        Though she contracted was to thee,
        Giv’n to another who had store
    Of fairer, and of richer wives before,
    And not a _Leah_ left, thy recompence to be.
    Go on, twice seven years more thy fortune try,
    Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may
        Give thee, to fling away
    Into the court’s deceitful lottery.
        But think how likely ’tis that thou,
    With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
    Should’st in a hard and barren season thrive,
        Should even able be to live;
    Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall,
    In the miraculous year, when MANNA rain’d on all.

VI.

    Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
    That seem’d at once to pity and revile,
    And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
        The melancholy COWLEY said:
        Ah, wanton foe, dost thou upbraid
    The ills which thou thyself hast made?
    When, in the cradle, innocent I lay,
    Thou, wicked spirit, stolest me away,
        And my abused soul didst bear
    Into thy new-found words I know not where,
    Thy golden _Indies_ in the air;
        And ever since I strive in vain
    My ravish’d freedom to regain:
    Still I rebel, still thou dost reign,
    Lo, still in verse against thee I complain.
        There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
    Which if the earth but once, it ever breeds;
        No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
        No useful plant can keep alive;
    The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
    Make all my art and labour fruitless now;
    Where once such Fairies dance no grass doth ever grow.

VII.

    When my new mind had no infusion known,
    Thou gav’st so deep a tincture of thine own,
        That ever since I vainly try
        To wash away the inherent dye:
    Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite,
    But never will reduce the native white;
        To all the ports of honour and of gain,
        I often steer my course in vain,
    Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
    Thou slack’nest all my nerves of industry,
        By making them so oft to be
    The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsie.
    Whoever this world’s happiness would see,
        Must as entirely cast off thee,
        As they who only heaven desire,
        Do from the world retire.
    This was my error, this my gross mistake,
    Myself a demy-votary to make.
    Thus with SAPPHIRA, and her husband’s fate,
    (A fault which I like them am taught too late)
    For all that I gave up, I nothing gain,
    And perish for the part which I retain.

VIII.

    Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse,
        The court, and better king, t’ accuse;
    The heaven under which I live is fair;
    The fertile soil will a full harvest bear;
    Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou
    Mak’st me sit still and sing, when I should plough;
    When I but think, how many a tedious year
        Our patient sov’reign did attend
        His long misfortunes fatal end;
    How chearfully, and how exempt from fear,
    On the Great Sovereign’s will he did depend,
    I ought to be accurst, if I refuse
    To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
    Kings have long hands (they say) and though I be
    So distant, they may reach at length to me.
        However, of all princes, thou
    Should’st not reproach rewards for being small or slow;
    Thou, who rewardest but with popular breath,
        And that too after death.

  DIALOGUE III.

  ON THE

  GOLDEN AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  BETWEEN

  THE HON. ROBERT DIGBY,

  DR. ARBUTHNOT,

  AND

  MR. ADDISON.

  DIALOGUE III.

  ON THE AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.

It happened, in the summer of the year 1716, that Dr. ARBUTHNOT and Mr.
ADDISON had occasion to take a journey together into _Warwickshire_.
Mr. DIGBY, who had received intelligence of their motions, and was then
at _Coleshill_, contrived to give them the meeting at _Warwick_; where
they intended to pass a day or two, in visiting the curiosities of
that fine town, and the more remarkable of these remains of antiquity
that are to be seen in its neighbourhood. These were matter of high
entertainment to all of them; to Dr. ARBUTHNOT, for the pleasure of
recollecting the ancient times; to Mr. ADDISON, on account of some
political reflexions, he was fond of indulging on such occasions; and
to Mr. DIGBY, from an ingenuous curiosity, and the love of seeing and
observing whatever was most remarkable, whether in the past ages, or
the present.

Amongst other things that amused them, they were much taken with the
great church at _Warwick_. They entertained themselves with the several
histories, which it’s many old monuments recalled to their memory[60].
The famous inscription of Sir FULK GREVIL occasioned some reflexions;
especially to Mr. DIGBY, who had used to be much affected with the
fame and fortunes of the accomplished Sir PHILIP SIDNEY. The glory
of the house of WARWICK was, also, an ample field of meditation. But
what chanced to take their attention most, was the monument of the
great earl of LEICESTER. It recorded his titles at full length, and
was, besides, richly decorated with sculpture, displaying the various
ensigns and trophies of his greatness. The pride of this minister had
never appeared to them so conspicuous, as in the legends and ornaments
of his tomb-stone; which had not only outlived his family, but seemed
to assure itself of immortality, by taking refuge, as it were, at the
foot of the altar.

These funeral honours engaged them in some common reflexions on the
folly of such expedients to perpetuate human grandeur; but at the same
time, as is the usual effect of these things, struck their imaginations
very strongly. They readily apprehended what must have been the state
of this mighty favourite in his lifetime, from what they saw of it in
this proud memorial, which continued in a manner to insult posterity
so many years after his death. But understanding that the fragments at
least of his supreme glory, when it was flourishing at its height, were
still to be seen at KENELWORTH, which they knew could be at no great
distance, they resolved to visit them the next day, and indulge to the
utmost the several reflexions which such scenes are apt to inspire.
On enquiry, they found it was not more than five or six miles to the
castle; so that, by starting early in the morning, they might easily
return to dinner at _Warwick_. They kept to their appointment so well,
that they got to _Kenelworth_ in good time, and had even two or three
hours on their hands to spend, in taking an exact view of the place.

It was luckily one of those fine days, which our travellers would most
have wished for, and which indeed are most agreeable in this season. It
was clear enough to afford a distinct prospect of the country, and to
set the objects, they wanted to take a view of, in a good light; and
yet was so conveniently clouded as to check the heat of the sun, and
make the exercise of walking, of which they were likely to have a good
deal, perfectly easy to them.

When they alighted from the coach, the first object that presented
itself was the principal GATE-WAY of the Castle. It had been converted
into a farm-house, and was indeed the only part of these vast ruins
that was inhabited. On their entrance into the _inner-court_, they were
struck with the sight of many mouldering towers, which preserved a
sort of magnificence even in their ruins. They amused themselves with
observing the vast compass of the whole, with marking the uses, and
tracing the dimensions, of the several parts. All which it was easy
for them to do, by the very distinct traces that remained of them, and
especially by means of DUGDALE’S plans and descriptions, which they
had taken care to consult.

After rambling about for some time, they clambered up a heap of ruins,
which lay on the west side the court: and thence came to a broken
tower, which, when they had mounted some steps, led them out into a
path-way on the tops of the walls. From this eminence they had a very
distinct view of the several parts they had before contemplated; of the
_gardens_ on the north-side; of the _winding meadow_ that encompassed
the walls of the castle, on the west and south; and had, besides, the
command of the country round about them for many miles. The prospect of
so many antique towers falling into rubbish, contrasted to the various
beauties of the landscape, struck them with admiration, and kept them
silent for some time.

At length recovering himself, I perceive, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, we are
all of us not a little affected with the sight of these ruins. They
even create a melancholy in me; and yet a melancholy of so delightful
a kind, that I would not exchange it, methinks, for any brisker
sensation. The experience of this effect hath often led me to enquire,
how it is that the mind, even while it laments, finds so great a
pleasure in visiting these scenes of desolation. Is it, continued he,
from the pure love of antiquity, and the amusing train of reflexions
into which such remains of ancient magnificence naturally lead us?

I know not, returned Mr. ADDISON, what pain it may give you to
contemplate these triumphs of time and fortune. For my part, I am
not sensible of the mixt sensation you speak of. I feel a pleasure
indeed; but it is sincere, and, as I conceive, may be easily accounted
for. ’Tis nothing more, I believe, than a fiction of the imagination,
which makes me think I am taking a revenge on the once prosperous and
overshadowing height, PRÆUMBRANS FASTIGIUM, as somebody expresses it,
of inordinate Greatness. It is certain, continued he, this theatre of a
great statesman’s pride, the delight of many of our princes, and which
boasts of having given entertainment to one of them in a manner so
splendid, as to claim a remembrance, even in the annals of our country,
would now, in its present state, administer ample matter for much
insulting reflexion.

“Where, one might ask, are the tilts and tournaments, the princely
shows and sports, which were once so proudly celebrated within these
walls? Where are the pageants, the studied devices and emblems of
curious invention, that set the court at a gaze, and even transported
the high soul of our ELIZABETH? Where now, pursued he, (pointing to
that which was formerly a canal, but at present is only a meadow with
a small rivulet running through it) where is the floating island, the
blaze of torches that eclipsed the day, the lady of the lake, the
silken nymphs her attendants, with all the other fantastic exhibitions
surpassing even the whimsies of the wildest romance? What now is become
of the revelry of feasting? of the minstrelsy, that took the ear so
delightfully as it babbled along the valley, or floated on the surface
of this lake? See there the smokeless kitchens, stretching to a length
that might give room for the sacrifice of a hecatomb; the vaulted
hall, which mirth and jollity have set so often in an uproar; the
rooms of state, and the presence-chamber: what are they now but void
and tenantless ruins, clasped with ivy, open to wind and weather, and
representing to the eye nothing but the ribs and carcase, as it were,
of their former state? And see, said he, that proud gate-way, once the
mansion of a surly porter[61], who, partaking of the pride of his
lord, made the crowds wait, and refused admittance, perhaps, to nobles
whom fear or interest drew to these walls, to pay their homage to their
master: see it now the residence of a poor tenant, who turns the key
but to let himself out to his daily labour, to admit him to a short
meal, and secure his nightly slumbers. Yet, in this humble state, it
hath had the fortune to outlive the glory of the rest, and hath even
drawn to itself the whole of that little note and credit which time
hath continued to this once pompous building. For, while the castle
itself is crumbled into shapeless ruins, and is prophaned, as we there
see, by the vilest uses, this outwork of greatness is left entire,
sheltered and closed in from bird and beast, and even affords some
decent room in which the _human face divine_ is not ashamed to shew
itself.”

While Mr. ADDISON went on in this vein, his two friends stood looking
on each other; as not conceiving what might be the cause of his
expressing himself with a vehemence, so uncommon, and not suited to his
natural temper. When the fit was over, I confess, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT,
this is no bad topic for a moralist to declaim upon. And, though it
be a trite one, we know how capable it is of being adorned by him
who, on a late occasion, could meditate so finely on the TOMBS AT
WESTMINSTER[62]. But surely, proceeded he, you warm yourself in this
contemplation, beyond what the subject requires of you. The vanity
of human greatness is seen in so many instances, that I wonder to
hear you harangue on this with so peculiar an exultation. There is
no travelling ten miles together in any part of the kingdom without
stumbling on some ruin, which, though perhaps not so considerable
as this before us, would furnish occasion, however, for the same
reflexions. There would be no end of moralizing over every broken
tower, or shattered fabric, which calls to mind the short-lived glories
of our ancestors.

True, said Mr. ADDISON; and, if the short continuance of these
glories were the only circumstance, I might well have spared the
exultation, you speak of, in this triumph over the shattered remnants
of _Kenelworth_. But there is something else that fires me on the
occasion. It brings to mind the fraud, the rapine, the insolence, of
the potent minister, who vainly thought to immortalize his ill-gotten
glory by this proud monument. Nay, further, it awakens an indignation
against the prosperous tyranny of those wretched times, and creates
a generous pleasure in reflecting on the happiness we enjoy under a
juster and more equal government. Believe me, I never see the remains
of that greatness which arose in the past ages on the ruins of public
freedom and private property, but I congratulate with myself on living
at a time, when the meanest subject is as free and independent as
those royal minions; and when his property, whatever it be, is as
secure from oppression, as that of the first minister. And I own
this congratulation is not the less sincere for considering that the
instance before us is taken from the reign of the virgin queen, which
it hath been the fashion to cry up above that of any other of our
princes[63]. I desire no other confutation of so strange unthankful
a preference, than the sight of this vast castle, together with the
recollection of those means by which its master arrived at his enormous
greatness.

Your indignation then, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, is not so much of the
moral, as _political_ kind[64]. But is not the conclusion a little too
hasty, when, from the instance of one overgrown favourite, you infer
the general infelicity of the time, in which he flourished? I am not,
I assure you, one of those unthankful men who forget the blessings
they enjoy under a prince of more justice and moderation than queen
ELIZABETH, and under a better constitution of government than prevailed
in the days of our forefathers. Yet, setting aside some particular
dishonours of that reign (of which, let the tyranny of _Leicester_,
if you will, be one), I see not but the acknowledged virtues of that
princess, and the wisdom of her government, may be a proper foundation
for all the honours that posterity have ever paid to her.

Were I even disposed to agree with you, returned Mr. ADDISON, I should
not have the less reason for triumphing, as I do, on the present state
of our government. For, if such abuses could creep in, and be suffered
for so many years under so great a princess, what was there not to fear
(as what, indeed, did not the subject actually feel) under some of her
successors? But, to speak my mind frankly, I see no sufficient grounds
for the excessive prejudice, that hath somehow taken place, in favour
of the GOLDEN REIGN, as it is called, OF ELIZABETH. I find neither the
wisdom, nor the virtue in it, that can entitle it to a preference
before all other ages.

On the contrary, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I never contemplate the monuments
of that time, without a silent admiration of the virtues that adorned
it. Heroes and sages crowd in upon my memory. Nay, the very people were
of a character above what we are acquainted with in our days. I could
almost fancy, the soil itself were another face, and, as you poets
imagine on some occasions, that our ancestors lived under a brighter
sun and happier climate than we can boast of.

To be sure! said Mr. ADDISON, smiling: or, why not affirm, in the
proper language of romance, that the women of those days were all
chaste, and the men valiant? But cannot you suspect at least that
there is some enchantment in the case, and that your love of antiquity
may possibly operate in more instances than those of your favourite
_Greeks_ and _Romans_? Tell me honestly, pursued he, hath not this
distance of a century and a half a little imposed upon you? Do not
these broken towers, which moved you just now to so compassionate a
lamentation over them, dispose you to a greater fondness for the times
in which they arose, than can be fairly justified?

I will not deny, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, but we are often very generous
to the past times, and unjust enough to the present. But I think there
is little of this illusion in the case before us. And, since you call
my attention to these noble ruins, let me own to you, that they do
indeed excite in me a veneration for the times of which they present
so striking a memorial. But surely not without reason. For there is
scarce an object in view, that doth not revive the memory of some
distinguishing character of that age, which may justify such veneration.

Alas! interrupted Mr. ADDISON, and what can these objects call to mind
but the memory of barbarous manners and a despotic government?

For the _government_, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I do not well conceive how
any conclusion about that can be drawn from this fabric. The MANNERS I
was thinking of; and I see them strongly expressed in many parts of it.
But whether barbarous or not, I could almost take upon me to dispute
with you. And why, indeed, since you allowed yourself to declaim on
the vices, so apparent, as you suppose, in this monument of antiquity,
may not I have leave to consider it in another point of view, and
present to you the virtues which, to my eye at least, are full as
discernible?

You cannot, continued he, turn your eyes on any part of these ruins,
without encountering some memorial of the virtue, industry, or
ingenuity, of our ancestors.

Look there, said he, on that fine room (pointing to the HALL, that
lay just beneath them); and tell me if you can help respecting the
HOSPITALITY which so much distinguished the palaces of the great in
those simpler ages. You gave an invidious turn to this circumstance
when you chose to consider it only in the light of wasteful expence
and prodigality. But no virtue is privileged from an ill name. And, on
second thoughts, I persuade myself, it will appear you have injured
this, by so uncandid an appellation. Can it deserve this censure,
that the lord of this princely castle threw open his doors and spread
his table for the reception of his friends, his followers, and even
for the royal entertainment of his sovereign? Is any expence more
proper than that which tends to conciliate[65] friendships, spread
the interests of society, and knit mankind together by a generous
communication in these advantages of wealth and fortune? The arts of
a refined sequestered luxury were then unknown. The same bell, that
called the great man to his table, invited the neighbourhood all
around, and proclaimed a holiday to the whole country[66]. Who does not
feel the decorum, and understand the benefits of this magnificence? The
pre-eminence of rank and fortune was nobly sustained: the subordination
of society preserved: and yet the envy, that is so apt to attend the
great, happily avoided. Hence this weight and influence of the old
nobility, who engaged the love, as well as commanded the veneration, of
the people. In the mean time, rural industry flourished: private luxury
was discouraged: and in both ways that frugal simplicity of life, our
country’s grace and ornament in those days, was preserved and promoted.

It would spoil your panegyric, I doubt, said Mr. ADDISON, to observe
the factious use, that was made of this magnificence, and the tendency
it had to support the pride and insolence of the old nobility. The
interest of the great, I am afraid, was but another name for the
slavery of the people[67].

I see it, Dr. ARBUTHNOT said, in a different light; and so did our
princes themselves, who could not but be well acquainted with the
proper effects of that interest. They considered the weight of the
nobility, as a counterpoise to their own sovereignty. It was on this
account they had used all means to lessen their influence. But the
consequence was beside their expectation. The authority of the crown
fell with it: and, which was still less expected by political men, the
liberty of the people, after it had wantoned for a time, sunk under the
general oppression. It was then discovered, but a little of the latest,
that public freedom throve best, when it wound itself about the stock
of the ancient nobility. In truth, it was the defect, not the excess,
of patrician influence, that made way for the miseries of the next
century.

You see then it is not without cause that I lay a stress, even in a
political view, on this popular hospitality of the great in the former
ages[68].

But, lest you think I sit too long at the table, let us go on to the
TILTYARD, which lies just before us; that school of fortitude and
honour to our generous forefathers. A younger fancy, than mine, would
be apt to kindle at the sight. And our sprightlier friend here, I
dare say, has already taken fire at the remembrance of the gallant
exercises, which were celebrated in that quarter.

Mr. DIGBY owned, he had a secret veneration for the manly games of that
time, which he had seen so triumphantly set forth in the old poets and
romancers.

Right, said Mr. ADDISON; it is precisely in that circumstance that the
enchantment consists. Some of our best wits have taken a deal of idle
pains to ennoble a very barbarous entertainment, and recommend it to
us under the specious name of gallantry and honour. But Mr. DIGBY sees
through the cheat. Not that I doubt, continued he, but the Doctor,
now he is in the vein of panegyric, will lay a mighty stress on these
barbarities; and perhaps compare them with the exercises in the _Roman_
Circus, or the _Olympic_ Barriers.

And why not? interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT. The tendency of all three was
the same; to invigorate the faculties both of mind and body; to give
strength, grace, and dexterity, to the limbs; and fire the mind with a
generous emulation of the manly and martial virtues.

Why truly, said Mr. ADDISON, I shall not deny that all _three_, as you
observe, were much of the same merit. And, now your hand is in for this
sort of encomium, do not forget to celebrate the sublime taste of our
forefathers for _bear-baiting_[69], as well as _tilting_; and tell us
too, how gloriously the mob of those days, as well as their betters,
used to belabour one another.

I confess, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, the softness of our manners makes it
difficult to speak on this subject without incurring the ridicule,
you appear so willing to employ against me. But you must not think
to discredit these gymnastics by a little raillery, which has its
foundation only in modern prejudices. For it is no secret that the
gravest and politest men of antiquity were of my mind. You will hardly
suspect PLATO of incivility, either in his notions or manners. And
need I remind you how much he insists on the gymnastic discipline;
without which he could not have formed, or at least have supported, his
Republic?

It was upon this principle, I suppose then, said Mr. DIGBY, or perhaps
in imitation of his _Græcian_ master, that our MILTON laid so great a
stress on this discipline in his TRACTATE OF EDUCATION. And before him,
in the very time you speak of, ASCHAM, I observe, took no small pains
to much the same purpose in his TOXOPHILUS.

It is very clear, resumed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, from these instances, and many
more that might be given, that the ancients were not singular in their
notions on this subject. But, since you have drawn me into a grave
defence of these exercises, let me further own to you that I think the
_Gothic_ Tilts and Tournaments exceeded, both in use and elegance, even
the _Græcian_ gymnastics[70]. They were a more direct image of war,
than any of the games at _Olympia_. And if _Xenophon_ could be so
lavish in his praises on the _Persian_ practice of hunting, because it
had some resemblance to the exercise of arms, what would he not have
said of an institution, which has all the forms of a real combat?

But there was an elegance, too, in the conduct of the tournament, that
might reconcile it even to modern delicacy. For, besides the splendor
of the shew; the dexterity, with which these exercises were performed;
and the fancy, that appeared in their accoutrement, dresses, and
devices; the whole contest was ennobled with an air of gallantry, that
must have had a great effect in refining the manners of the combatants.
And yet this gallantry had no ill influence on morals; for, as you
insulted me just now, it was the odd humour of those days for the women
to pride themselves in their chastity[71], as well as the men in their
valour.

In short, I consider the _Tournay_, as the best school of civility
as well as heroism. “High-erected thoughts, seated in a heart of
courtesy,” as an old writer[72] well expresses it, was the proper
character of such as had been trained in this discipline.

No wonder then, pursued he, the poets and romance-writers took so much
pains to immortalize these trials of manhood. It was but what PINDAR
and HOMER himself, those ancient masters of romance, had done before
them. And how could it be otherwise? The shew itself, as I said,
had something very taking in it; whilst every graceful attitude of
person, with every generous movement of the mind, afforded the finest
materials for description. And I am even ready to believe, that
what we hear censured in their writings, as false, incredible, and
fantastic, was frequently but a just copy of life, and that there was
more of truth and reality[73] in their representations, than we are
apt to imagine. Their notions of honour and gallantry were carried to
an elevation[74], which, in these degenerate days, hurts the credit
of their story; just as I have met with men that have doubted whether
the virtues of the REGULI and the SCIPIOS of ancient fame were not the
offspring of pure fancy.

Nay now, Dr. ARBUTHNOT, said Mr. ADDISON, you grow quite extravagant.
What you, who are used to be so quick at espying all abuses in science,
and defects in good taste, turn advocate for these fopperies! Mr. DIGBY
and I shall begin to think you banter us, in this apology for the
ancient gymnastics, and are only preparing a chapter for the facetious
memoirs[75], you sometimes promise us.

Never more in earnest, assure you, replied the Doctor. I know what you
have to object to these pictures of life and manners. But, if they
will not bear examining as copies, they may deserve to be imitated as
models. And their use, methinks, might atone for some defects in the
article of probability.

For my part, I consider the legends of ancient chivalry in a very
serious light,

    As _niches_, fill’d with statues to invite
    Young valours forth—[76]

as BEN JONSON, a valorous hardy poet, and who, himself, would have made
a good knight-errant, justly says of them. For, it is certain, they had
this effect. The youth, in general, were fired with the love of martial
exercises. They were early formed to habits of fatigue and enterprise.
And, together with this warlike spirit, the profession of chivalry was
favourable to every other virtue. Affability, courtesy, generosity,
veracity, these were the qualifications most pretended to by the men of
arms, in the days of pure and uncorrupted chivalry. We do not perhaps,
ourselves, know, at this distance of time, how much we are indebted to
the force of this singular institution. But this I may presume to say,
that the men, among whom it arose and flourished most, had prodigious
obligations to it. No policy, even of an ancient legislator, could
have contrived a better expedient to cultivate the manners and tame
the spirits of a rude and ignorant people. I could almost fancy it
providentially introduced among the northern nations, to break the
fierceness of their natures, and prevent that brutal savageness and
ferocity of character, which must otherwise have grown upon them in the
darker ages.

Nay, the generous sentiments, it inspired, perhaps contributed very
much to awaken an emulation of a different kind; and to bring on
those days of light and knowledge which have disposed us, somewhat
unthankfully, to vilify and defame it. This is certain, that the first
essays of wit and poetry, those harbingers of returning day to every
species of good letters, were made in the bosom of chivalry, and amidst
the assemblies of noble dames, and courteous knights. And we may even
observe, that the best of our modern princes, such as have been most
admired for their personal virtues, and have been most concerned
in restoring all the arts of civility and politeness, have been
passionately addicted to the feats of ancient prowess. In the number
of these, need I remind you of the courts of FRANCIS I, and HENRY IV,
to say nothing of our own EDWARDS and HENRYS, and that mirrour of all
their virtues in one, our renowned and almost romantic ELIZABETH[77]?

But you think I push the argument too far. And less than this may
dispose you to conceive with reverence of the scene before us, which
must ever be regarded as a nursery of brave men, a very seed-plot
of warriors and heroes. I consider the successes at the barriers as
preludes to future conquests in the field. And, as whimsical a figure
as a young tilter may make in your eye, who will say that the virtue
was not formed here, that triumphed at AXELL, and bled at ZUTPHEN?

We shall very readily, replied Mr. ADDISON, acknowledge the bravery
and other virtues of the young hero, whose fortunes you hint at. He
was, in truth, to speak the language of that time, the very flower of
knighthood, and contributed more than any body else, by his pen, as
well as sword, to throw a lustre on the profession of chivalry. But
the thing itself, however adorned by his wit and recommended by his
manners, was barbarous; the offspring of _Gothic_ fierceness; and shews
the times, which favoured it so much, to have scarcely emerged from
their original rudeness and brutality. You may celebrate, as loudly
as you please, the deeds of these wonder-working knights. Alas, what
affinity have such prodigies to our life, and manners? The old poet,
you quoted just now with approbation, shall tell us the difference:

    These were bold stories of our _Arthur’s_ age:
    But here are other acts, another stage
    And scene appears; it is not since as then;
    No giants, dwarfs, or monsters here, but MEN[78].

Or, if you want a higher authority, we should not, methinks, on such an
occasion, forget the admirable CERVANTES, whose ridicule hath brought
eternal dishonour on the profession of knight-errantry.

With your leave, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I have reason to except
against both your authorities. At best, they do but condemn the
_abuses_ of chivalry, and the madness of continuing the old romantic
spirit in times when, from a change of manners and policy, it was no
longer in season. Adventures, we will say, were of course to cease,
when giants and monsters disappeared. And yet have they totally
disappeared, and have giants and monsters been no where heard of out
of the castles and forests of our old romancers. ’Tis odds, methinks,
but, in the sense of ELIZABETH’S good subjects, PHILIP II. might be a
_giant_ at least: and, without a little of this adventurous spirit,
it may be a question whether all her enchanters, I mean her BURLEIGHS
and WALSINGHAMS, would have proved a match for him. I mention this the
rather to shew you, how little obligation his countrymen have to your
CERVANTES for laughing away the remains of that prowess, which was the
best support of the _Spanish_ monarchy.

As if, said Mr. ADDISON, the prowess of any people were only to be kept
alive by their running mad. But let the case of the _Spaniards_ be what
it will, surely we, of this country, have little obligation to the
spirit of chivalry, if it were only that it produced, or encouraged
at least, and hath now entailed upon us, the curse of duelling; which
even yet domineers in the fashionable world, in spite of all that
wit, and reason, and religion itself, have done to subdue it. ’Tis
true, at present this law of arms is appealed to only in the case some
high point of nice and mysterious honour. But in the happier days you
celebrate, it was called in aid, on common occasions. Even questions of
right and property, you know, were determined at the barriers[79]: and
brute force was allowed the most equitable, as well as shortest, way of
deciding all disputes both concerning a man’s estate and honour.

You might observe too, interposed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that this was the way
in which those fiercer disputes concerning a mistress, or a kingdom,
were frequently decided. And, if this sort of decision, in such cases,
were still in use among Christian princes, you might call it perhaps
a barbarous custom: but would it be ever the worse, do you think, for
their good subjects?

Perhaps it would not, returned Mr. ADDISON, in some instances. And
yet will you affirm, that those _good subjects_ were in any enviable
situation, under their fighting masters? After all, allowing you to put
the best construction you can on these usages of our forefathers,

                          “all we find
    Is, that they did their work and din’d.”

And though such feats may argue a sound athletic constitution, you must
excuse me, if I am not forward to entertain any high notions of their
civility.

Their civility, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, is another consideration. The HALL
and TILT-YARD are certainly good proofs of what they are alleged for,
the hospitality and bravery of our ancestors. But it hath not been
maintained, that these were their only virtues. On the contrary, it
seems to me, that every flower of humanity, every elegance of art and
genius, was cultivated amongst them. For an instance, need we look any
further than the LAKE, which in the flourishing times of this castle
was so famous, and which we even now trace in the winding bed of that
fine meadow?

I do not understand you, replied Mr. ADDISON. I can easily imagine what
an embellishment that lake must have been to the castle; but am at a
loss to conceive what flowers of wit and ingenuity, to use your own
ænigmatical language, could be raised or so much as watered by it.

And, have you then, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, so soon forgotten the large
description, you gave us just now, of the shows and pageants displayed
on this lake? And can any thing better declare the art, invention, and
ingenuity, of their conductors? Is not this canal as good a memorial of
the ardour and success with which the finer exercises of the mind were
pursued in that time, as the tilt-yard, we have now left, is of the
address and dexterity shewn in those of the body?

I remember, said Mr. ADDISON, that many of the shows, intended for the
queen’s entertainment at this place, were exhibited on that canal. But
as to any art or beauty of contrivance—

“You see none, I suppose.”

Why truly none, resumed Mr. ADDISON. To me they seemed but well enough
suited to the other barbarities of the time. “The Lady of the Lake and
her train of Nereids,” was not that the principal? And can it pass for
any thing better than a jumble of _Gothic_ romance and pagan fable?
a barbarous modern conceit, varnished over with a little classical
pedantry?

And is that the best word you can afford, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to
these ingenious devices? The business was, to welcome the Queen
to this palace, and at the same time to celebrate the honours of
her government. And what more decent way of complimenting a great
Prince, than through the veil of fiction? or what so elegant way of
entertaining a learned Prince, as by working up that fiction out of the
old poetical story? And if something of the _Gothic_ romance adhered
to these classical fictions, it was not for any barbarous pleasure,
that was taken in this patchwork, but that the artist found means to
incorporate them with the highest grace and ingenuity. For what, in
other words, was the _Lady of the Lake_ (the particular that gives
most offence to your delicacy), but the presiding nymph of the stream,
on which these shews were presented? And, if the contrivance was to
give us this nymph under a name that romance had made familiar, what
was this but taking advantage of a popular prejudice to introduce his
fiction with more address and probability?

But see the propriety of the scene itself, for the designer’s purpose,
and the exact decorum with which these fanciful personages were brought
in upon it. It was not enough, that the pagan deities were summoned to
pay their homage to the queen. They were the deities of the fount and
ocean, the watery nymphs and demi-gods: and these were to play their
part in their own element. Could any preparation be more artful for
the panegyric designed on the naval glory of that reign? Or, could any
representation be more grateful to the queen of the ocean, as ELIZABETH
was then called, than such as expressed her sovereignty in those
regions? Hence the sea-green Nereids, the Tritons, and Neptune himself,
were the proper actors in the drama. And the opportunity of this
spacious lake gave the easiest introduction and most natural appearance
to the whole scenery. Let me add too, in further commendation of the
taste which was shewn in these agreeable fancies, that the attributes
and dresses of the deities themselves were studied with care; and the
most learned poets of the time employed to make them speak and act in
character. So that an old _Greek_ or _Roman_ might have applauded the
contrivance, and have almost fancied himself assisting at a religious
ceremony in his own country.

And, to shew you that all this propriety was intended by the designer
himself, and not imagined at pleasure by his encomiast; I remember,
that when, some years after, the earl of HERTFORD had the honour to
receive the queen at his seat in _Hampshire_, because he had no such
canal as this in readiness on the occasion, he set on a vast number of
hands to hollow a bason in his park for that purpose. With so great
diligence and so exact a decorum were these entertainments conducted!

Did not I tell you, interposed Mr. ADDISON, addressing himself to Mr.
DIGBY, to what an extravagance the Doctor’s admiration of the ancient
times would carry him? Could you have expected all this harangue
on the art, elegance, and decorum of THE PRINCELY PLEASURES OF
KENELWORTH[80]? And must not it divert you to see the unformed genius
of that age tricked out in the graces of _Roman_ or even _Attic_
politeness?

Mr. DIGBY acknowledged, it was very generous in the Doctor to represent
in so fair a light the amusements of the ruder ages. But I was
thinking, said he, to what cause it could possibly be owing, that these
pagan fancies had acquired so general a consideration in the days of
ELIZABETH.

The general passion for these fancies, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, was a
natural consequence of the revival of learning. The first books, that
came into vogue, were the poets. And nothing could be more amusing to
rude minds, just opening to a taste of letters, than the fabulous story
of the pagan gods, which is constantly interwoven in every piece of
ancient poetry. Hence the imitative arts of _sculpture_, _painting_,
and _poetry_, were immediately employed in these pagan exhibitions. But
this was not all. The first artists in every kind were of _Italy_; and
it was but natural for them to act these fables over again on the very
spot that had first produced them. These too were the masters to the
rest of _Europe_. So that _fashion_ concurred with the other prejudices
of the time, to recommend this practice to the learned.

From the men of art and literature the enthusiasm spread itself to
the great; whose supreme delight it was to see the wonders of the
old poetical story brought forth, and realized, as it were, before
them[81]. And what, in truth, could they do better? For, if I were not
a little afraid of your raillery, I should desire to know what courtly
amusements even of our time are comparable to the shows and masques,
which were the delight and improvement of the court of ELIZABETH.
I say, the _improvement_; for, besides that these shows were not
in the number of the INERUDITÆ VOLUPTATES, so justly characterized
and condemned by a wise ancient, they were even highly useful and
instructive. These devices, composed out of the poetical history, were
not only the vehicles of compliment to the great on certain solemn
occasions, but of the soundest moral lessons, which were artfully
thrown in, and recommended to them by the charm of poetry and numbers.
Nay, some of these masques were moral dramas in form, where the virtues
and vices were impersonated. We know the cast of their composition by
what we see of these fictions in the next reign; and have reason to
conceive of them with reverence when we find the names of FLETCHER and
JONSON[82] to some of them. I say nothing of JONES and LAWES, though
all the elegance of their respective arts was called in to assist the
poet in the contrivance and execution of these entertainments.

And, now the poets have fallen in my way, let me further observe,
that the manifest superiority of this class of writers in ELIZABETH’S
reign, and that of her successor, over all others who have succeeded to
them, is, among other reasons, to be ascribed to the taste which then
prevailed for these moral representations. This taught them to animate
and impersonate every thing. Rude minds, you will say, naturally give
into this practice. Without doubt. But art and genius do not disdain to
cultivate and improve it. Hence it is, that we find in the phraseology
and mode of thinking of that time, and of that time only, the essence
of the truest and sublimest poetry.

Without doubt, Mr. ADDISON said, the poetry of that time is of a better
taste than could well have been expected from its barbarism in other
instances. But such prodigies as SHAKESPEAR and SPENSER would do great
things in any age, and under every disadvantage.

Most certainly they would, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, but not the things
that you admire so much in these immortal writers. And, if you will
excuse the intermixture of a little philosophy in these ramblings, I
will attempt to account for it.

There is, I think, in the revolutions of taste and language, a certain
point, which is more favourable to the purposes of poetry, than any
other. It may be difficult to fix this point with exactness. But we
shall hardly mistake in supposing it lies somewhere between the rude
essays of uncorrected fancy, on the one hand, and the refinements of
reason and science, on the other.

And such appears to have been the condition of our language in the
age of ELIZABETH. It was pure, strong, and perspicuous, without
affectation. At the same time, the high figurative manner, which fits
a language so peculiarly for the uses of the poet, had not yet been
controlled by the prosaic genius of philosophy and logic. Indeed, this
character had been struck so deeply into the _English_ tongue, that
it was not to be removed by any ordinary improvements in either: the
reason of which might be, the delight which was taken by the _English_
very early in their old MYSTERIES and MORALITIES; and the continuance
of the same spirit in succeeding times, by means of their MASQUES and
TRIUMPHS. And something like this, I observe, attended the progress of
the _Greek_ and _Roman_ poetry; which was the _truest_ poetry, on the
clown’s maxim in SHAKESPEAR, because it was _the most feigning_[83]. It
had its rise, you know, like ours, from religion: and pagan religion,
of all others, was the properest to introduce and encourage a spirit of
allegory and moral fiction. Hence we easily account for the allegoric
cast of their old dramas, which have a great resemblance to our ancient
moralities. NECESSITY is brought in as a _person of the drama_, in one
of ÆSCHYLUS’S plays; and DEATH in one of EURIPIDES: to say nothing
of many shadowy persons in the comedies of ARISTOPHANES. The truth
is, the pagan religion _deified_ every thing, and delivered these
deities into the hand of their painters, sculptors, and poets. In like
manner, Christian superstition, or, if you will, modern barbarism,
_impersonated_ every thing; and these persons, in proper form,
subsisted for some time on the stage, and almost to our days, in the
masques. Hence the picturesque style of our old poetry; which looks so
fanciful in SPENSER, and which SHAKESPEAR’S genius hath carried to the
utmost sublimity.

I will not deny, said Mr. ADDISON, but there may be something in this
deduction of the causes, by which you account for the strength and
grandeur of the _English_ poetry, unpolished as it still was in the
hands of ELIZABETH’S great poets. But for the masques themselves—

You forget, I believe, _one_, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, which does
your favourite poet, MILTON, almost as much honour, as his _Paradise
Lost_.—But I have no mind to engage in a further vindication of
these fancies. I only conclude that the taste of the age, the state
of letters, the genius of the _English_ tongue, was such as gave a
manliness to their compositions of all sorts, and even an elegance to
those of the lighter forms, which we might do well to emulate, and not
deride, in this æra of politeness.

But I am aware, as you say, I have been transported too far. My design
was only to hint to you, in opposition to your invective against the
memory of the old times, awakened in us by the sight of this castle,
that what you object to is capable of a much fairer interpretation.
You have a proof of it, in two or three instances; in their festivals,
their exercises, and their poetical fictions: or, to express myself in
the classical forms, you have seen by this view of their CONVIVIAL,
GYMNASTIC, and MUSICAL character, that the times of ELIZABETH may pass
for golden, notwithstanding what a fondness for this age of baser metal
may incline us to represent it.

In the mean time, these smaller matters have drawn me aside from
my main purpose. What surprised me most, pursued he, was to hear
you speak so slightly, I would not call it by a worse name, of the
GOVERNMENT of ELIZABETH. Of the manners and tastes of different ages,
different persons, according to their views of things, will judge very
differently. But plain facts speak so strongly in favour of the policy
of that reign, and the superior talents of the sovereign, that I could
not but take it for the wantonness of opposition in you to espouse the
contrary opinion. And, now I am warmed by this slight skirmish, I am
even bold enough to dare you to a defence of it; if, indeed, you were
serious in advancing that strange paradox. At least, I could wish to
hear upon what grounds you would justify so severe an attack on the
reverend administration of that reign, supported by the wisdom of such
men as CECIL and WALSINGHAM, under the direction of so accomplished a
princess as our ELIZABETH. Your manner of defending even the wrong side
of the question will, at least, be entertaining. And, I think, I may
answer for our young friend, that his curiosity will lead him to join
me in this request to you.

Mr. ADDISON said, He did not expect to be called to so severe an
account for what had escaped him on this subject. But, though I was
ever so willing, continued he, to oblige you, this is no time or place
for entering on such a controversy. We have not yet compleated the
round of these buildings. And I would fain, methinks, make the circuit
of that pleasant meadow. Besides its having been once, in another
form, the scene of those shows you described so largely to us, it will
deserve to be visited for the sake of the many fine views which, as we
wind along it, we may promise to ourselves of these ruins.

You forget my bad legs, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT smiling; otherwise, I
suppose, we can neither of us have any dislike to your proposal. But,
as you please: let us descend from these heights. We may resume the
conversation, as we walk along: and especially, as you propose, when we
get down into that valley.

  DIALOGUE IV.

  ON THE

  GOLDEN AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  BETWEEN

  THE HON. ROBERT DIGBY,

  DR. ARBUTHNOT,

  AND

  MR. ADDISON.

  DIALOGUE IV.

  ON THE AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.

But do you consider, said Mr. ADDISON, as they descended into the
valley, what an invidious task you are going to impose upon me? One
cannot call in question a common opinion in any indifferent matter,
without the appearance of some degree of perverseness. But to do it in
a case of this importance, where the greatest authorities stand in the
way, and the glory of one of our princes is concerned, will, I doubt,
be liable to the imputation of something worse than singularity. For,
besides that you will be apt to upbraid me, in the words of the poet,

                Nullum memorabile nomen
    Fœmineâ in pœnâ est, nec habet victoria laudem,

such a liberty of censure is usually taken for an argument, not of
discourtesy or presumption only, but of ill-nature. At best, the
attempt to arraign the virtues and government of ELIZABETH will appear
but like the idleness of the old sophists, who, you know, were never so
well pleased as when they were controverting some acknowledged fact, or
assaulting some established character.

That censure might be just enough, Dr. ARBUTHNOT said, of the old
sophists, who had nothing in view but the credit of their own skill
in the arts of disputation. But in this friendly debate, which
means nothing more than private amusement, I see no colour for such
apprehensions.

But what shall we say, interposed Mr. ADDISON, to another difficulty?
The subject is very large; and it seems no easy matter to reduce
it into any distinct order. Besides, my business is not so much to
advance any thing of my own, as to object to what others have advanced
concerning the fame and virtues of ELIZABETH. And to this end, I must
desire to know the particulars on which you are disposed to lay the
greatest stress, and indeed to have some plan of the subject delivered
in to me, which may serve, as it were, for the groundwork of the whole
conversation.

I must not presume, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to prescribe the order in
which your attack on the great queen shall be conducted. The subject,
indeed, is large. But this common route of history is well known to all
of us. To that, then, you may well enough refer, without being at the
trouble, before you go to work, of laying foundations. Or, if you will
needs have a basis to build upon, what if I just run over the several
circumstances which I conceive to make most for the credit of that
reign? A sketch of this sort, I suppose, will answer all the ends of
the plan, you seem to require of me.

Mr. ADDISON agreed to this proposal; which he thought would be of use
to shorten the debate, or at least to render the progress of it more
clear and intelligible.

In few words then, resumed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, the reasons, that have
principally determined me to an admiration of the government and
character of queen ELIZABETH, are such as these: “That she came to the
crown with all possible disadvantages; which yet, by the prudence and
vigour of her counsels, she entirely overcame: that she triumphed over
the greatest foreign and domestic dangers: that she humbled the most
formidable power in _Europe_ by her arms; and composed, or checked at
least, by the firmness of her administration, TWO, the most implacable
and fiery factions at home: that she kept down the rebellious spirit
of _Ireland_, and eluded the constant intrigues of her restless
neighbours, the _Scots_: that she fixed our religious establishment on
solid grounds; and countenanced, or rather conducted, the Protestant
cause abroad: that she made her civil authority respected by her
subjects; and raised the military glory of the nation, both by sea and
land, to the greatest height: that she employed the ablest servants,
and enacted the wisest laws: by all which means it came to pass that
she lived in a constant good understanding with her parliaments, was
idolized by her people, and admired and envied by all the rest of the
world.”

Alas, said Mr. ADDISON, I shall never be able to follow you through
all the particulars of this encomium: and, to say the truth, it would
be to little purpose; since the wisdom of her policy, in all these
instances of her government, can only be estimated from a careful
perusal of the histories of that time; too numerous and contradictory
to be compared and adjusted in this conversation. All I can do,
continued he, after taking a moment or two to recollect himself, is
to abate the force of this panegyric by some general observations of
the CIRCUMSTANCES and GENIUS of that time; and then to consider the
personal QUALITIES of the queen, which are thought to reflect so great
a lustre on her government.

As you please, Dr. ARBUTHNOT replied. We shall hardly lose ourselves in
this beaten field of history. And, besides, as your undertaking is so
adventurous, it is but reasonable you should have the choice of your
own method.

You are in the common opinion, I perceive, resumed Mr. ADDISON, that
ELIZABETH’S government was attended with all possible disadvantages.
On the contrary, it appears to me that the security and even splendour
of her reign is chiefly to be accounted for from the fortunate
CIRCUMSTANCES of her situation.

Of these the FIRST, that demands our notice, is the great affair of
religion.

The principles of PROTESTANTISM had now for many years been working
among the people. They had grown to that head in the short reign of
EDWARD VI. that the bloody severities of his successor served only to
exasperate the zeal, with which these principles had been embraced
and promoted. ELIZABETH, coming to the crown at this juncture, was
determined, as well by interest as inclination, to take the side of
the new religion. I say by _interest_, as well as inclination. And,
I think, I have reason for the assertion. For though the persons in
power, and the clergy throughout the kingdom, were generally professed
papists; yet they were most of them such as had conformed in king
EDWARD’S days, and were not therefore much to be feared for any tie,
their _profession_ could really have on their consciences. Whereas,
on the other hand, it was easy to see, from many symptoms, that the
general bent of the nation was towards Protestantism; and that,
too, followed with a spirit, which must in the end prevail over all
opposition. Under these circumstances, then, it was natural for the
queen, if she had not been otherwise led by her principles, and the
interest of her title, to favour the Reformation.

The truth is, she came into it herself so heartily, and provided so
effectually for its establishment, that we are not to wonder she
became the idol of the Reformed, at the same time that the papal power
through all _Europe_ was confederated against her. The enthusiasm
of her Protestant subjects was prodigious. It was raised by other
considerations; but confirmed in all orders of the state by the ease
they felt in their deliverance from the tyranny of the church; and in
the great especially, by the sweets they tasted in their enjoyment
of the church-revenues. It was, in short, one of those extraordinary
conjunctures, in which the public danger becomes the public security;
when religion and policy, conscience and interest, unite their powers
to support the authority of the prince, and to give fidelity, vigour,
and activity to the obedience of the subject.

And thus it was, continued he, that so warm and unconquerable a zeal
appeared in defence of the queen against all attempts of her enemies.
Her people were so thoroughly Protestant, as to think no expence of
her government too great, provided they could but be secured from
relapsing into Popery. And her parliaments were disposed to wave all
disputes about the stretch of her prerogative, from a sense of their
own and the common danger.

In magnifying this advantage of the zeal and union of ELIZABETH’S
good subjects, you forgot, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that two restless and
inveterate factions were contending, all her lifetime, within her own
kingdom.

I am so far from forgetting that circumstance, returned Mr. ADDISON,
that I esteem it ANOTHER of the great advantages of her situation.

The contrary tendencies of those factions in some respects defeated
each other. But the principal use of them was, that, by means of their
practices, some domestic plot, or foreign alarm, was always at hand,
to quicken the zeal and inflame the loyalty of her people. But to be a
little more particular about the factions of her reign.

The PAPIST was, in truth, the only one she had reason to be alarmed at.
The PURITAN had but just begun to shew himself, though indeed with that
ferocity of air and feature, which signified clearly enough what spirit
he was of, and what, in good time, he was likely to come to. Yet even
he was kept in tolerable humour, by a certain commodious policy of the
queen; which was, so to divide her regards betwixt the Church and the
Puritans, as made it the interest of both to keep well with her. ’Tis
true, these last felt the weight of her resentment sometimes, when they
ventured too saucily to oppose themselves to the establishment. But
this was rarely, and by halves: and, when checked with the most rigour,
they had the satisfaction to see their patrons continue in the highest
places at court, and, what is more, in the highest degree of personal
favour.

And what doth all this shew, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, but that she
managed so well as to disarm a furious faction, or rather make it serve
against the bent of its nature, to the wise ends of her government?

As to any wise ends of government, I see none, replied Mr. ADDISON,
deserving to be so called, that were answered by her uncertain conduct
towards the Puritans. For she neither restrained them with that
severity, which might perhaps have prevented their growth, at first;
nor shewed them that entire indulgence, which might have disabled
their fury afterwards. It is true, this temporizing conduct was well
enough adapted to prevent disturbances in her own time. But large
materials were laid in for that terrible combustion, which was soon to
break forth under one of her successors.

And so, instead of imputing the disasters that followed, said Dr.
ARBUTHNOT, to the ill-government of the STUARTS, you are willing to lay
the whole guilt of them on this last and greatest of the TUDORS. This
is a new way of defending that royal house; and, methinks, they owe you
no small acknowledgments for it. I confess, it never occurred to me to
make that apology for them.

Though I would not undertake, said Mr. ADDISON, to make their apology
from this, or any other, circumstance; I do indeed believe that part
of the difficulties the house of STUART had to encounter, were brought
upon them by this wretched policy of their predecessor. But, waving
this consideration, I desire you will take notice of what I chiefly
insist upon, “That the ease and security of ELIZABETH’S administration
was even favoured by the turbulent practices and clashing views of her
domestic factions.” The PURITAN was an instrument, in her hands, of
controuling the church, and of balancing the power of her ministers:
besides that this sort of people were, of all others, the most
inveterate against the common enemy. And for the PAPISTS themselves
(not to insist that, of course, they would be strictly watched, and
that they were not, perhaps, so considerable as to create any immediate
danger[84]), the general abhorrence both of their principles and
designs had the greatest effect in uniting more closely, and cementing,
as it were, the affections of the rest of her subjects. So that,
whether within or without, the common danger, as I expressed it, was
the common safety.

Still, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I must think this a very extraordinary
conclusion. I have no idea of the security of the great queen,
surrounded, as she was, by her domestic and foreign enemies.

Her foreign enemies, returned Mr. ADDISON, were less formidable than
they appear at first view. And I even make the condition of the
neighbouring powers on the Continent, in her time, a THIRD instance of
the signal advantages of her situation.

It is true, if a perfect union had subsisted between the Catholic
princes, the papal thunders would have carried terror with them. But,
as it was, they were powerless and ineffectual. The civil wars of
_France_, and its constant jealousy of _Spain_, left the queen but
little to apprehend from that quarter. The _Spanish_ empire, indeed,
was vast, and under the direction of a bigoted vindictive prince. But
the administration was odious and corrupt in every part. So that wise
men saw there was more of bulk than of force in that unwieldy monarchy.
And the successful struggles of a handful of its subjects, inflamed by
the love of liberty, and made furious by oppression, proclaimed its
weakness to all the world.

It may be true, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that the queen had less to
fear from the princes on the Continent, than is sometimes represented.
But you forget, in this survey of the public dangers, the distractions
of IRELAND, and the restless intrigues of her near neighbours, the
SCOTS: both of them assisted by _Spain_; and these last under the
peculiar influence and direction of the GUISES.

You shall have my opinion, returned Mr. ADDISON, in few words.

For the IRISH distractions, it was not the queen’s intention, or
certainly it was not her fortune, to compose them: I mean, during the
greatest part of her reign; for we are now speaking of the general
tenor of her policy. Towards the close of it, indeed, she made some
vigorous attempts to break the spirits of those savages. And it was
high time she should. For, through her faint proceedings against them,
they had grown to that insolence, as to think of setting up for an
independency on _England_. Nay, the presumption of that arch-rebel
TYRONE, countenanced and abetted by _Spain_, seemed to threaten
the queen with still further mischiefs. The extreme dishonour and
even peril of this situation roused her old age, at length, to the
resolution of taking some effectual measures. The preparation was
great, and suitable to the undertaking. It must, further, be owned, it
succeeded: but so late, that she herself did not live to see the full
effect of it. However, this success is reckoned among the glories of
her reign. In the mean time, it is not considered that nothing but her
ill policy, in suffering the disorders of that country to gather to a
head, made way for this glory. I call it her _ill policy_, for unless
it were rather owing to her excessive frugality[85] one can hardly help
thinking she designed to perpetuate the _Irish_ distractions. At least,
it was agreeable to a favourite maxim of hers, to check, and not to
suppress them. And I think it clear, from the manner of prosecuting the
war, that, till this last alarm, she never was in earnest about putting
an end to it.

SCOTLAND, indeed, demanded a more serious attention. Yet the weak
distracted counsels of that court—a minor king—a captive queen—and
the unsettled state of _France_ itself, which defeated in a good degree
the malice of the GUISES—were favourable circumstances.

But to be fair with you (for I would appear in the light of a
reasonable objector, not a captious wrangler); I allow her policy in
this instance to have been considerable. She kept a watchful eye on the
side of _Scotland_. And, though many circumstances concurred to favour
her designs, it must be owned they were not carried without much care
and some wisdom.

I understand the value of this concession, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT. It
must have been no common degree of both, that extorted it from you.

I decline entering further, said Mr. ADDISON, into the public
transactions of that reign; if it were only that, at this distance of
time, it may be no easy matter to determine any thing of the policy,
with which they were conducted. Only give me leave to add, as a FOURTH
instance of the favourable circumstances of the time, “That the
prerogative was then in its height, and that a patient people allowed
the queen to use it on all occasions.” Hence the apparent vigour and
firmness of her administration: and hence the opportunity (which is so
rarely found in our country) of directing the whole strength of the
nation to any end of government, which the glory of the prince or the
public interest required.

What you impute to the high strain of prerogative, returned Dr.
ARBUTHNOT, might rather be accounted for from the ability of her
government, and the wise means she took to support it. The principal
of these was, by employing the GREATEST MEN in the several departments
of her administration. Every kind of merit was encouraged by her
smile[86], or rewarded by her bounty. Virtue, she knew, would
thrive best on its native stock, a generous emulation. This she
promoted by all means; by her royal countenance, by a temperate and
judicious praise, by the wisest distribution of her preferments. Hence
would naturally arise that confidence in the queen’s counsels and
undertakings, which the servile awe of her prerogative could never have
occasioned.

This is the true account of the loyalty, obedience, and fidelity,
by which her servants were distinguished. And thus, in fact, it was
that, throughout her kingdom, there was every where that reverence of
authority[87], that sense of honour, that conscience of duty, in a
word, that gracious simplicity of manners, which renders the age of
ELIZABETH truly GOLDEN: as presenting the fairest picture of humanity,
that is to be met with in the accounts of any people.

It is true, as you say, interposed Mr. ADDISON, that _this picture is a
fair one_. But of what is it a copy? Of the GENIUS of the time, or of
the queen’s virtues? You shall judge for yourself, after I have laid
before you TWO remarkable events of that age, which could not but have
the greatest effect on the public manners; I mean, THE REFORMATION OF
RELIGION, and what was introductory of it, THE RESTORATION OF LETTERS.
From these, as their proper sources, I would derive the ability and
fidelity of ELIZABETH’S good subjects.

The passion for LETTERS was extreme. The novelty of these studies, the
artifices that had been used to keep men from them, their apparent
uses, and, perhaps, some confused notion of a certain diviner virtue
than really belongs to them; these causes concurred to excite a
curiosity in all, and determined those, who had leisure, as well as
curiosity, to make themselves acquainted with the _Greek_ and _Roman_
learning. The ecclesiastics, who, for obvious reasons, would be the
first and most earnest in their application to letters, were not
the only persons transported with this zeal. The gentry and nobility
themselves were seized with it. A competent knowledge of the old
writers was looked upon as essential to a gentleman’s education. So
that _Greek_ and _Latin_ became as fashionable at court in those days,
as _French_ is in ours. ELIZABETH herself, which I wonder you did not
put me in mind of, was well skilled in both[88]; they say, employed her
leisure in making some fine translations out of either language. It
is easy to see what effect this general attention to letters must have
on the minds of the liberal and well-educated. And it was a happiness
peculiar to that age, that learning, though cultivated with such zeal,
had not as yet degenerated into pedantry: I mean, that, in those
stirring and active times, it was cultivated, not so much for show, as
use; and was not followed, as it soon came to be, to the exclusion of
other generous and manly applications.

Consider, too, the effects, which the alterations in RELIGION had
produced. As they had been lately made, as their importance was great,
and as the benefits of the change had been earned at the expence of
much blood and labour: all these considerations begot a zeal for
religion, which hardly ever appears under other circumstances. This
zeal had an immediate and very sensible effect on the morals of the
Reformed. It improved them in every instance; especially as it produced
a cheerful submission to the government, which had rescued them from
their former slavery, and was still their only support against the
returning dangers of superstition. Thus religion, acting with all its
power, and that, too, heightened by gratitude and even self-interest,
bound obedience on the minds of men with the strongest ties[89]. And
luckily for the queen, this obedience was further secured to her
by the high uncontroverted notions of royalty, which, at that time,
obtained amongst the people.

Lay all this together; and then tell me where is the wonder that a
people, now emerging out of ignorance; uncorrupted by wealth, and
therefore undebauched by luxury; trained to obedience, and nurtured
in simplicity; but, above all, caught with the love of learning and
religion, while neither of them was worn for fashion-sake, or, what
is worse, perverted to the ends of vanity or ambition; where, say, is
the wonder that such a people should present so bright a picture of
manner’s to their admiring panegyrist?

To be fair with you; it was one of those conjunctures, in which the
active virtues are called forth, and rewarded. The dangers of the time
had roused the spirit, and brought out all the force and genius, of
the nation. A sort of enthusiasm had fired every man with the ambition
of exerting the full strength of his faculties, which way soever they
pointed, whether to the field, the closet, or the cabinet. Hence such
a crop of soldiers, scholars, and statesmen had sprung up, as have
rarely been seen to flourish together in any country. And as all owed
their duty, it was the fashion of the times for all to bring their
pretensions, to the court. So that, where the multitude of candidates
was so great, it had been strange indeed, if an ordinary discretion
had not furnished the queen with able servants of all sorts; and the
rather, as her occasions loudly called upon her to employ the ablest.

I was waiting, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to see to what conclusion this
career of your eloquence would at length drive you. And it hath
happened in this case, as in most others where a favourite point is to
be carried, that a zeal for it is indulged, though at the expence of
some other of more importance. Rather than admit the personal virtues
of the queen, you fill her court, nay, her kingdom, with heroes and
sages: and so have paid a higher compliment to her reign, than I had
intended.

To her _reign_, if you will, replied Mr. ADDISON, so far as regards the
qualities and dispositions of her subjects: for I will not lessen the
merit of this concession with you, by insisting, as I might, that their
_manners_, respectable as they were, were debased by the contrary,
yet very consistent, vices of servility and insolence[90]; and their
virtues of every kind deformed by, barbarism. But, for the queen’s own
merit in the choice of her servants, I must take leave to declare my
sentiments to you very plainly. It may be true, that she possessed a
good degree of sagacity in discerning the natures and talents of men.
It was the virtue by which, her admirers tell us, she was principally
distinguished. Yet, that the high fame of this virtue hath been owing
to the felicity of the times, abounding in all sorts of merit, rather
than to her own judgment, I think clear from this circumstance, “That
some of the most deserving of those days, in their several professions,
had not the fortune to attract the queen’s grace, in the proportion
they might have expected.” I say nothing of poor SPENSER. Who has any
concern for a poet[91]? But if merit alone had determined her majesty’s
choice, it will hardly at this day admit a dispute, that the immortal
HOOKER and BACON[92], at least, had ranked in another class than that,
in which this great discerner of spirits thought fit to leave them.

And her character; continued he, in every other respect is just as
equivocal. For having touched one part of it, I now turn from these
general considerations on the circumstances and genius of the time,
to our more immediate subject, the PERSONAL QUALITIES of ELIZABETH.
Hitherto we have stood aloof from the queen’s person. But there is no
proceeding a step further in this debate, unless you allow me a little
more liberty. May I then be permitted to draw the veil of ELIZABETH’S
court, and, by the lights which history holds out to us, contemplate
the mysteries, that were celebrated in that awful sanctuary?

After so reverend a preface, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I think you may
be indulged in this liberty. And the rather, as I am not apprehensive
that the honour of the illustrious queen is likely to suffer by it. The
secrets of her cabinet-council, it may be, are not to be scanned by the
profane. But it will be no presumption to step into the drawing-room.

Yet I may be tempted, said Mr. ADDISON, to use a freedom in this survey
of her majesty, that would not have been granted to her most favoured
courtiers. As far as I can judge of her character, as displayed in that
solemn scene of her court, she had some apparent VIRTUES, but more
genuine VICES; which yet, in the public eye, had equally the fortune to
reflect a lustre on her government.

Her gracious affability, her love of her people, her zeal for the
national glory; were not these her more obvious and specious qualities?
Yet I doubt they were not so much the proper effects of her nature, as
her policy; a set of spurious virtues, begotten by the very necessity
of her affairs.

For her AFFABILITY, she saw there was no way of being secure amidst
the dangers of all sorts, with which she was surrounded; but by
ingratiating herself with the body of the people. And, though in her
nature she was as little inclined to this condescension as any of her
successors, yet the expediency of this measure compelled her to save
appearances. And it must be owned, she did it with grace, and even
acted her part with spirit. Possibly the consideration of her being a
female actor, was no disadvantage to her.

But, when she had made this sacrifice to interest, her proper temper
shewed itself clearly enough in the treatment of her nobles, and of all
that came within the verge of the court. Her caprice, and jealousy,
and haughtiness, appeared in a thousand instances. She took offence so
easily, and forgave so difficultly, that even her principal ministers
could hardly keep their ground, and were often obliged to redeem her
favour by the lowest submissions. When nothing else would do, they
sickened, and were even at death’s door: from which peril, however, she
would sometimes relieve them; but not till she had exacted from them,
in the way of penance, a course of the most mortifying humiliations.
Nay, the very ladies of her court had no way to maintain their credit
with her, but by, submitting patiently to the last indignities.

It is allowed, from the instances you have in view, returned Dr.
ARBUTHNOT, that her nature was something high and imperious. But these
sallies of passion might well enough consist with her general character
of affability.

Hardly, as I conceive, answered Mr. ADDISON, if you reflect that
these sallies, or rather habits of passion, were the daily terror and
vexation of all about her. Her very minions seemed raised for no other
purpose, than the exercise of her ill-humour. They were encouraged, by
her smile, to presume on the royal countenance, and then beaten down
again in punishment of that presumption. But, to say the truth, the
slavish temper of the time was favourable to such exertions of female
caprice and tyranny. Her imperious father, all whose virtues, she
inherited, had taught her a sure way to quell the spirit of her nobles.
They had been long used to stand in awe of the royal frown. And the
people were pleased to find their betters ruled with so high a hand,
at a time when they themselves were addressed with every expression of
respect, and even flattery.

She even carried this mockery so far, that, as HARRINGTON observes
well, “she converted her reign, through the perpetual love-tricks
that passed between her and her people, into a kind of romance.” And
though that political projector, in prosecution of his favourite
notion, supposes the queen to have been determined to these intrigues
by observing, that the weight of property was fallen into the popular
scale; yet we need look no further for an account of this proceeding,
than the inherent haughtiness of her temper. She gratified the
insolence of her nature, in neglecting, or rather beating down, her
nobility, whose greatness might seem to challenge respect: while the
court, she paid to the people, revolted her pride less, as passing only
upon herself, as well as others, for a voluntary act of affability.
Just as we every day see very proud men carry it with much loftiness
towards their equals, or those who and raised to some nearness of
degree to themselves; at the same time that they affect a sort of
courtesy to such, as are confessedly beneath them.

You see, then, what her boasted affability comes to. She gave good
words to her people, whom it concerned her to be well with, and whom
her pride itself allowed her to _manage_: she insulted her nobles, whom
she had in her power, and whose abasement flattered the idea, she doted
upon, of her own superiority and importance[93].

Let the queen’s manner of treating her subjects be what it would, Dr.
ARBUTHNOT said, it appears to have given no offence in those days,
when the sincerity of her intentions was never questioned. Her whole
life is a convincing argument; that she bore the most entire affection
to her people.

HER LOVE OF HER PEOPLE, returned Mr. ADDISON hastily, is with me a very
questionable virtue. For what account shall we give of the multitude of
penal statutes, passed in her reign? Or, because you will say, there
was some colour for these; what excuse shall we make for her frequent
grants of monopolies, so ruinous to the public wealth and happiness,
and so perpetually complained of by her parliaments? You will say,
she recalled them. She did so. But not till the general indignation
had, in a manner, forced her to recall them. If by her _people_, be
meant those of the poorer and baser sort only, it may be allowed, she
seemed on all occasions willing to spare them. But for those of better
rank and fortune, she had no such consideration. On the other hand,
she contrived in many ways to pillage and distress them. It was the
tameness of that time, to submit to every imposition of the sovereign.
She had only to command her gentry on any service she thought fit, and
they durst not decline it. How many of her wealthiest and best subjects
did she impoverish by these means (though under colour, you may be
sure, of her high favour); and sometimes by her very visits! I will not
be certain, added he, that her visit to this pompous castle of her own
LEICESTER, had any other intention.

But what, above all, are we to think of her vow of celibacy, and her
obstinate refusal to settle the succession, though at the constant
hazard of the public peace and safety?

You are hard put to it, I perceive, interrupted. Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to
impeach the character of the queen in this instance, when a few penal
laws, necessary to the support of her crown in that time of danger; one
wrong measure of her government, and that corrected; the ordinary use
of her prerogative; and even her virginity; are made crimes of. But I
am curious to hear what you have to object to her ZEAL FOR THE ENGLISH
GLORY, carried so high in her reign; and the single point, as it seems
to me, to which all her measures and all her counsels were directed.

The _English_ glory, Mr. ADDISON said, may, perhaps, mean the state and
independency of the crown. And then, indeed, I have little to object.
But, in any other sense of the word, I have sometimes presumed to
question with myself, if it had not been better consulted, by more
effectual assistance of the Reformed on the Continent; by a more
vigorous prosecution of the war against _Spain_[94]; as I hinted
before, by a more complete reduction of _Ireland_. But say, we are
no judges of those high matters. What glory accrued to the _English_
name, by the insidious dealing with the queen of _Scots_; by the
vindictive proceedings against the duke of _Norfolk_; by the merciless
persecutions of the unhappy earl of _Essex_? The same spirit, you see,
continued from the beginning of this reign to the end of it. And the
observation is the better worth attending to, because some have excused
the queen’s treatment of ESSEX by saying, “That her nature, in that
decline of life, was somewhat clouded by apprehensions; as the horizon,
they observe, in the evening of the brightest day, is apt to be
obscured by vapours[95].” As if this fanciful simile, which illustrates
perhaps, could excuse, the perverseness of the queen’s temper; or, as
if that could deserve to pass for an incident of age, which operated
through life; and so declares itself to have been the proper result of
her nature.

You promised, interposed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, not to pry too closely into
the secrets of the cabinet. And such I must needs esteem the points
to be, which you have mentioned. But enough of these beaten topics.
I would rather attend you in the survey you promised to take of her
court, and of the princely qualities that adorned it. It is from what
passes in the inside of his palace, rather than from some questionable
public acts, that the real character of a prince is best determined.
And there, methinks, you have a scene opened to you, that deserves your
applause. Nothing appears but what is truly royal. Nobody knew better,
than ELIZABETH, how to support the decorum of her rank. She presided
in that high orb with the dignity of a great queen. In all emergencies
of danger, she shewed a firmness, and, on all occasions of ceremony,
a magnificence, that commanded respect and admiration. Her very
diversions were tempered with a severity becoming her sex and place,
and which made her court, even in its lightest and gayest humours, a
school of virtue.

These are the points, concluded he, I could wish you to speak to. The
rest may be left to the judgment of the historian, or rather to the
curiosity of the nice and critical politician.

You shall be obeyed, Mr. ADDISON said. I thought it not amiss to
take off the glare of those applauded qualities, which have dazzled
the public at a distance, by shewing that they were either feigned
or over-rated. But I come now to unmask the real character of this
renowned princess. I shall paint her freely indeed, but truly as she
appears to me. And, to speak my mind at once; I think it is not so
much to her virtues, which at best were equivocal, as to her very
VICES, that we are to impute the popular admiration of her character
and government.

I before took notice of the high, indecent PASSION, she discovered
towards her courtiers. This fierceness of temper in the softer sex was
taken for heroism; and, falling in with the slavish principles of the
age, begot a degree of reverence in her subjects, which a more equal,
that is a more becoming, deportment would not have produced. Hence, she
was better served than most of our princes, only because she was more
feared; in other words, because she less deserved to be so. But high as
she would often carry herself in this unprincely, I had almost said,
unwomanly, treatment of her servants; awing the men by her oaths, and
her women by blows; it is still to be remembered, that she had a great
deal of natural TIMIDITY in her constitution.

What! interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT hastily, the magnanimous ELIZABETH
a coward? I should as soon have expected that charge against CÆSAR
himself, or your own MARLBOROUGH.

I distinguish, Mr. ADDISON said, betwixt a parade of courage, put on to
serve a turn, and keep her people in spirits, and that true greatness
of mind, which, in one word, we call _magnanimity_. For this last,
I repeat it, she either had it not, or not in the degree in which
it has been ascribed to her. On the contrary, I see a littleness,
a pusillanimity, in her conduct on a thousand occasions. Hence it
was, that both to her people and such of the neighbouring states as
she stood in awe of, she used an excessive hypocrisy, which, in the
language of the court, you may be sure, was called policy. To the
_Hollanders_, indeed, she could talk big; and it was not her humour to
manage those over whom she had gained an ascendant. This has procured
her, with many, the commendation of a princely magnanimity. But, on the
other hand, when discontents were apprehended from her subjects, or
when _France_ was to be diverted from any designs against her, no art
was forgotten that might cajole their spirits with all the professions
of cordiality and affection. Then she was _wedded_, that was the tender
word, to her people: and then the interest of religion itself was
sacrificed by this Protestant queen to her newly-perverted brother on
the Continent.

Her foible, in this respect, was no secret to her ministers. But, above
all, it was practised upon most successfully by the Lord BURGHLEY; “for
whom, as I have seem it observed, it was as necessary that there should
be treasons, as for the state that they should be prevented[96].” Hence
it was, that he was perpetually raising her fears, by the discovery
of some plot, or, when that was wanting, by the proposal of some
law for her greater security. In short, he was for ever finding, or
making, or suggesting, dangers. The queen, though she would look big
(for indeed she was an excellent actress), startled at the shadows of
those dangers, the slightest rumours. And to this convenient timidity
of his mistress, so constantly alarmed, and relieved in turn by this
wily minister, was owing, in a good degree, that long and unrivalled
interest, he held in her favour.

Still, further, to this constitutional _fear_ (which might be forgiven
to her sex, if it had not been so strangely mixed with a more than
masculine ferocity in other instances) must be ascribed those favourite
maxims of policy, which ran through her whole government. Never was
prince more attached to the Machiavelian doctrine, DIVIDE ET IMPERA,
than our ELIZABETH[97]. It made the soul of her policies, domestic
and foreign. She countenanced the two prevailing factions of the time.
The Churchmen and Puritans divided her favour so equally, that her
favourites were sure to be the chiefs of the contending parties. Nay,
her court was a constant scene of cabals and personal animosities. She
gave a secret, and sometimes an open, countenance to these jealousies.
The same principle directed all her foreign[98] negociations.

And are you not aware, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that this objected
policy is the very topic that I, and every other admirer of the
queen, would employ in commendation of her great ability in the art
of government? It has been the fate of too many of our princes (and
perhaps some late examples might be given) to be governed, and even
insulted, by a prevailing party of their own subjects. ELIZABETH was
superior to such attempts. She had no bye-ends to pursue. She frankly
threw herself on her people. And, secure in their affection, could
defeat at pleasure, or even divert herself with, the intrigues of this
or that aspiring faction.

We understand you, Mr. ADDISON replied; but when two parties are
contending within a state, and one of them only in its true interest,
the policy is a little extraordinary that should incline the sovereign
to discourage _this_, from the poor ambition of controuling _that_, or,
as you put it still worse, from the dangerous humour of playing with
_both_ parties. I say nothing of later times. I only ask; if it was
indifferent, whether the counsels of the CECILS or of LEICESTER were
predominant in that reign? But I mentioned these things before, and I
touch them again now, only to shew you, that this conduct, however it
may be varnished over by the name of wisdom, had too much the air of
fearful womanish intrigue, to consist with that heroical firmness and
intrepidity so commonly ascribed to queen ELIZABETH[99].

And what if, after all, I should admit, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that, in
the composition of a woman’s courage, at least, there might be some
scruples of discretion? Is there any advantage, worth contending for,
you could draw from such a concession? Or, because you would be thought
serious, I will put the matter more gravely. The arts of prudence,
you arraign so severely, could not be taken for pusillanimity. They
certainly were not, in her own time; for she was not the less esteemed
or revered by all the nations of _Europe_ on account of them. The most
you can fairly conclude is, that she knew how to unite address with
bravery, and that, on occasion, she could _dissemble_ her high spirit.
The difficulties of her situation obliged her to this management.

Rather say at once, returned Mr. ADDISON, that the constant
dissimulation, for which she was so famous, was assumed to supply
the want of a better thing, which had rendered all those arts as
unnecessary as they were ignoble.

But _haughtiness_ and _timidity_, pursued he, were not the only vices
that turned to good account in the queen’s hands. She was frugal
beyond all bounds of decorum in a prince, or rather AVARICIOUS beyond
all reasonable excuse from the public wants and the state of her
revenue. Nothing is more certain than this fact, from the allowance
both of friends and enemies. It seems as if, in this respect, her
father’s example had not been sufficient; and that, to complete her
character, she had incorporated with many of his, the leading vice of
her grandfather.

Here Dr. ARBUTHNOT could not contain himself; and the castle happening
at that time, from the point where they stood, to present the most
superb prospect, “Look there, said he, on the striking, though small,
remnants of that grandeur you just now magnified so much; and tell me
if, in your conscience, you can believe such grants are the signs,
or were the effects, of avarice. For you are not to learn, that this
palace before us is not the only one in the kingdom, which bears the
memory of the queen’s bounty to her servants.”

Mr. ADDISON seemed a little struck with the earnestness of this
address: “It is true, said he, the queen’s fondness for one or two of
her favourites made her sometimes lavish of her grants; especially
of what cost her nothing, and did not, it seems, offend the delicacy
of her scruples; I mean, of the _church-lands_. But at the same time
her treasury was shut against her ambassadors and foreign ministers;
who complain of nothing more frequently than the slenderness of their
appointments, and the small and slow remittances that were made
to them. This frugality (for I must not call it by a worse name)
distressed the public service on many occasions[100]; and would have
done it on more, if the zeal of her trusty servants had not been
content to carry it on at the expence of their own fortunes. How many
instances might be given of this, if ONE were not more than sufficient,
and which all posterity will remember with indignation!

You speak of WALSINGHAM, interposed Dr. ARBUTHNOT. But were it not more
candid to impute the poverty of that minister to his own generous
contempt of riches, which he had doubtless many, fair occasions of
procuring to himself, than to any designed neglect of him by his
mistress?

The candour, returned Mr. ADDISON, must be very extraordinary, that
can find an excuse for the queen in a circumstance that doubles her
disgrace. But be it as you pretend. The uncommon moderation of the
man shall be a cover to the queen’s parsimony. It was not, we will
say, for this wise princess to provoke an appetite for wealth in her
servants: it was enough that she gratified it, on proper occasions,
where she found it already raised. And in this proceeding, no doubt,
she was governed by a tender regard, for their honour, as well as her
own interest. For how is her great secretary ennobled, by filling a
place in the short list of those worthies, who, having lived and died
in the service of their countries, have left not so much as a pittance
behind them, to carry them to their graves! All this is very well. But
when she had indulged this humour in one or two of her favourites,
and suffered them, for example’s sake, to ascend to these heights of
honour, it was going, methinks, a little too far, to expect the same
delicacy of virtue in all her courtiers. Yet it was not her fault, if
most of them did not reap this fame of illustrious poverty, as well as
WALSINGHAM. She dealt by them, indeed, as if she had ranked poverty, as
well as celibacy, among the cardinal virtues.

In the mean time, I would not deny that she had a princely fondness for
shew and appearance. She took a pride in the brilliancy of her court.
She delighted in the large trains of her nobility. She required to be
royally entertained by them. And she thought her honour concerned in
the figure they made in foreign courts, and in the wars. But, if she
loved this pomp, she little cared to furnish the expence of it. She
considered in good earnest (as some have observed, who would have the
observation pass for a compliment[101]) _the purses of her subjects
as her own_; and seemed to reckon on their being always open to her on
any occasion of service, or even ceremony. She carried this matter so
far, that the very expences of her wars were rather defrayed out of the
private purses of her nobility, than the public treasury. As if she had
taken it for a part of her _prerogative_ to impoverish her nobles at
pleasure; or rather, as if she had a mind to have it thought that one
of their _privileges_ was, to be allowed to ruin themselves from a zeal
to her service.

But the queen’s avarice, proceeded he, did not only appear from her
excessive parsimony in the management of the public treasure, but from
her rapacity in getting what she could from particulars into her privy
purse. Hence it was that all offices, and even personal favours, were
in a manner set to sale. For it was a rule with her majesty, to grant
no suit but for a reasonable consideration. So that whoever pretended
to any place of profit or honour was sure to send a jewel, or other
rich present beforehand, to prepare her mind for the entertainment
of his petition. And to what other purpose was it that she kept her
offices so long vacant, but to give more persons an opportunity of
winning a preference in her favour; which for the most part inclined
to those who had appeared, in this interval, to deserve it best? Nay,
the slightest disgust, which she frequently took on very frivolous
occasions, could not be got over but by the reconciling means of some
valuable or well fancied present. And, what was most grievous, she
sometimes accepted the present, without remitting the offence.

I remember a ridiculous instance of this sort. When the Lady LEICESTER
wanted to obtain the pardon of her unfortunate son, the Lord ESSEX, she
presented the queen with an exceeding rich gown, to the value of above
an hundred pounds. She was well pleased with the gift, but thought no
more of the pardon. We need not, after this, wonder at what is said of
her majesty’s leaving a prodigious quantity of jewels and plate behind
her, and even a _crowded wardrobe_. For so prevalent was this thrifty
humour in the queen’s highness, that she could not persuade herself to
part with so much, as a cast-gown to any of her servants[102].

You allow yourself to be very gay, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, on this
foible of the great queen. But one thing you forget, that it never
biased her judgment so far as to prevent a fit choice of her servants
on all occasions[103]. And, as to her wary management of the public
revenue, which you take a pleasure to exaggerate, this, methinks, is
a venial fault in a prince, who could not, in her circumstances; have
provided for the expences of government, but by the nicest and most
attentive economy.

I understand, said Mr. ADDISON, the full force of that consideration;
and believe it was that _attention_ principally, which occasioned the
popularity of her reign, and the high esteem, in which the wisdom of
her government is held to this day. The bulk of her subjects were, no
doubt, highly pleased to find themselves spared on all occasions of
expence. And it served at the same time, to gratify their natural envy
of the great, to find, that _their_ fortunes were first and principally
sacrificed to the public service. Nay, I am not sure that the very
rapacity of her nature, in the sale of her offices, was any objection
with the people at large, or even the lower gentry of the kingdom.
For these, having no pretensions themselves to those offices, would
be well enough pleased to see them not _bestowed_ on their betters,
but dearly purchased by them. And then this traffic at court furnished
the inferior gentry with a pretence for making the most of their
magistracies. This practice at least must have been very notorious
amongst them, when a facetious member of the lower house could define
a justice of peace to be, “A living creature, that for half a dozen of
chickens, will dispense with a whole dozen of penal statutes[104].”
But, however this be, the queen’s ends, in every view, were abundantly
answered. She enriched herself: she gained the affections of the
people, and depressed and weakened the nobility. And by all these ways
she effectually provided for, what she had ever most at heart, her own
supreme and uncontrolled authority.

And is that to be wondered at in a great prince? returned Dr.
ARBUTHNOT. Or, to take the matter in the light you place it, what if
the queen had so much of her sex[105] and family in her disposition, as
to like well enough to have her own way, is this such a crime as you
would make of it? If she loved power, it was not to make a wanton or
oppressive use of it. And if all princes knew as well to bound their
own wills, as she did, we should not much complain of their impatience
to be under the control of their subjects.

I am sorry, said Mr. ADDISON, that the acts of her reign will not allow
me to come into this opinion of her moderation. On the other hand, her
government appears to me, in many instances, OPPRESSIVE, and highly
prejudicial to the ancient rights and privileges of her people. For
what other construction can we make of her frequent interposition
to restrain the counsels of their representatives in parliament:
threatening some, imprisoning others, and silencing all with the
thunder of her prerogative? Or, when she had suffered their counsels to
ripen into bills, what shall we say of her high and mighty rejection of
them, and that not in single and extraordinary cases, but in matters
of ordinary course, and by dozens? I pass by other instances. But was
her _moderation_ seen in dilapidating the revenues of the church; of
that church, which she took under the wing of her supremacy, and would
be thought to have sheltered from all its enemies[106]. The honest
archbishop PARKER, I have heard, ventured to remonstrate against this
abuse, the cognizance of which came so directly within his province.
But to what effect, may be gathered, not only from the continuance
of these depredations, but her severe reprehension of another of her
bishops, whom she threatened with an oath to UNFROCK—that was her
majesty’s own word—if he did not immediately give way to her princely
extortions.

It may be hardly worth while to take notice of smaller matters. But
who does not resent her capricious tyranny, in disgracing such of
her servants as presumed to deviate, on any pretence, from her good
pleasure; nay, such as gave an implicit obedience to her will, if it
stood with her interest to disgrace them? Something, I know, may be
said to excuse the proceedings against the queen of _Scots_. But the
fate of DAVISON will reflect eternal dishonour on the policy, with
which that measure was conducted.

I run over these things hastily, continued Mr. ADDISON, and in no
great order: but you will see what to conclude from these hints; which
taken together, I believe, may furnish a proper answer to the most
considerable parts of your apology.

To sum it up in few words. Those two great events of her time, THE
ESTABLISHMENT OF THE REFORMATION, and THE TRIUMPH OVER THE POWER OF
SPAIN, cast an uncommon lustre on the reign of ELIZABETH. Posterity,
dazzled with these obvious successes, went into an excessive admiration
of her personal virtues. And what has served to brighten them the more,
is the place in which we chance to find her, between the bigot queen on
the one hand, and the pedant king on the other. No wonder then that, on
the first glance, her government should appear able, and even glorious.
Yet, in looking into particulars, we find that much is to be attributed
to fortune, as well as skill; and that her glory is even lessened by
considerations, which, on a careless view, may seem to augment it.
The difficulties, she had to encounter, were great. Yet these very
difficulties, of themselves, created the proper means to surmount
them. They sharpened the wits, inflamed the spirits, and united the
affections, of a whole people. The name of her great enemy on the
continent, at that time, carried terror with it. Yet his power was, in
reality, much less than it appeared. The _Spanish_ empire was corrupt
and weak, and tottered under its own weight. But this was a secret
even to the _Spaniard_ himself. In the mean time, the confidence,
which the opinion of great strength inspires, was a favourable
circumstance. It occasioned a remissness and neglect of counsel
on one side, in proportion as it raised the utmost vigilance and
circumspection on the other. But this was not all. The religious feuds
in the Low Countries—the civil wars in _France_—the distractions of
_Scotland_—all concurred to advance the fortunes of ELIZABETH. Yet all
had, perhaps, been too little in that grand crisis of her fate, and, as
it fell out, of her glory, if the conspiring elements themselves had
not fought for her.

Such is the natural account of her foreign triumphs. Her domestic
successes admit as easy a solution. Those external dangers themselves,
the genius of the time, the state of religious parties, nay, the very
factions of her court, all of them directly, or by the slightest
application of her policy, administered to her greatness. Such was the
condition of the times, that it forced her to assume the resemblance,
at least, of some popular _virtues_: and so singular her fortune, that
her very _vices_ became as respectable, perhaps more useful to her
reputation, than her virtues. She was vigilant in her counsels; careful
in the choice of her servants; courteous and condescending to her
subjects. She appeared to have an extreme tenderness for the interests,
and an extreme zeal for the honour, of the nation. This was the bright
side of her character; and it shone the brighter from the constant and
imminent dangers, to which she was exposed. On the other hand, she was
choleric, and imperious; jealous, timid, and avaricious: oppressive,
as far as she durst; in many cases capricious, in some tyrannical.
Yet these vices, some of them sharpened and refined her policy, and
the rest, operating chiefly towards her courtiers and dependents,
strengthened her authority, and rooted her more firmly in the hearts
of the people. The mingled splendour of these qualities, good and bad
(for even her worst had the luck, when seen but on one side, or in
well-disposed lights to look like good ones) so far dazzled the eyes
of all, that they did not, or would not, see many outrageous acts of
tyranny and oppression.

And thus it hath come to pass that, with some ability, more cunning,
and little real virtue, the name of ELIZABETH is, by the concurrence
of many accidental causes, become the most revered of any in the long
roll of our princes. How little she merited this honour, may appear
from this slight sketch of her character and government. Yet, when all
proper abatement is made in both, I will not deny her to have been
a great, that is, a _fortunate_, queen; in this, perhaps, the most
fortunate, that she has attained to so unrivalled a glory with so few
pretensions to deserve it.

And so, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, you have concluded your invective in
full form, and rounded it, as the ancient orators used to do, with
all the advantage of a peroration. But, setting aside this trick of
eloquence, which is apt indeed to confound a plain man, unused to such
artifices, I see not but you have left the argument much as you took
it up; and that I may still have leave to retain my former reverence
for the good old times of queen ELIZABETH. It is true, she had some
foibles. You have spared, I believe, none of them. But, to make amends
for these defects, let but the history of her reign speak for her, I
mean in its own artless language, neither corrupted by flattery, nor
tortured by invidious glosses; and we must ever conceive of her, I
will not say as the most faultless, perhaps not the most virtuous,
but surely the most able, and, from the splendour of some leading
qualities, the most glorious of our _English_ monarchs.

To give you my notion of her in few Words.—For the dispute, I find,
must end, as most others usually do, in the simple representation of
our own notions.—She was discreet, frugal, provident, and sagacious;
intent on the pursuit of her great ends, _the establishment of
religion_, and _the security and honour of her people_: prudent in
the choice of the best _means_ to effect them, the employment of able
servants, and the management of the public revenue; dexterous at
improving all advantages which her own wisdom or the circumstances
of the times gave her: fearless and intrepid in the execution of
great designs, yet careful to unite the deepest foresight with her
magnanimity. If she seemed AVARICIOUS, let it be considered that the
nicest frugality was but necessary in her situation: if IMPERIOUS,
that a female government needed to be made respectable by a shew
of authority: and if at any time OPPRESSIVE, that the _English_
constitution, as it then stood, as well as her own nature, had a good
deal of that bias.

In a word, let it be remembered, that she had the honour of
ruling[107], perhaps of forming, the wisest, the bravest, the most,
virtuous people, that have adorned any age or country; and that she
advanced the glory of the _English_ name and that of her own dignity to
a height, which has no parallel in the annals of our nation.

Mr. DIGBY, who had been very attentive to the course of this debate,
was a little disappointed with the conclusion of it. He thought to have
settled his judgment of this reign by the information his two friends
should afford him. But he found himself rather perplexed by their
altercations, than convinced by them. He owned, however, the pleasure
they had given him; and said, he had profited so much at least by the
occasion, that, for the future, he should conceive with something less
reverence of the great queen, and should proceed with less prejudice to
form his opinion of her character and administration.

Mr. ADDISON did not appear quite satisfied with this sceptical
conclusion; and was going to enforce some things, which he thought had
been touched too slightly, when Dr. ARBUTHNOT took notice that their
walk was now at an end; the path, they had taken, having by this time
brought them round again to the walls of the castle. Besides, he said,
he found himself much wearied with this exercise; though the warmth
of debate, and the opportunities he took of resting himself at times,
had kept him from complaining of it. He proposed, therefore, getting
into the coach as soon as possible; where, though the conversation was
in some sort resumed, there was nothing material enough advanced on
either side to make it necessary for me to continue this recital any
further.

  DIALOGUE V.

  ON THE

  CONSTITUTION

  OF THE

  ENGLISH GOVERNMENT.

  BETWEEN

  SIR JOHN MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS,

  AND

  BISHOP BURNET.

  DIALOGUE V.

  ON THE CONSTITUTION OF THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT.

  SIR JOHN MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS, BISHOP BURNET[108].

TO DR. TILLOTSON.

Though the principles of nature and common sense do fully authorise