Part 7

I’ve read of ilands floating and remov’d In Ovids time, but never heard it prov’d Till now: that fable, by the prince and you, By your transporting England, is made true. Wee are not where wee were; the dog-starr raignes No cooler in our climate, then in Spaines; The selfe-same breath, same ayre, same heate, same burning, Is here, as there; will be, till your returning: Come, e’re the card be alter’d, lest perhaps Your stay may make an errour in our mapps; Lest England should be found, when you shall passe, A thousand miles more southward then it was. Oh that you were, my lord, oh that you were Now in Blackfryers, in a disguis’d haire; That you were Smith againe, two houres to bee In Paules next Sunday, at full sea at three; There you should heare the legend of each day, The perills of your inne, and of your way; Your enterprises, accidents, untill You did arrive at court, and reach Madrill. There you should heare how the State-grandees flout you, With their twice-double diligence about you; How our environ’d prince walkes with a guard Of Spanish spies, and his owne servants barr’d; How not a chaplaine of his owne may stay When hee would heare a sermon preach’d, or pray. You would be hungry, having din’d, to heare The price of victuailes, and the scarcity, there; As if the prince had ventur’d there his life To make a famine, not to fetch a wife. Your eggs (which might be addle too) are deare As English capons; capons as sheepe, here; No grasse neither for cattle; for they say It is not cutt and made, grasse there growes hay: That ’tis soe seething hott in Spaine, they sweare They never heard of a raw oyster there: Your cold meate comes in reaking, and your wine Is all burnt sack, the fire was in the vine; Item, your pullets are distinguish’t there Into foure quarters, as wee carve the yeare, And are a weeke a wasting: Munday noone A wing; at supper something with a spoone; Tuesday a legg, and soe forth; Sunday more, The liver and a gizard betweene foure: And for your mutton, in the best houshoulder ’Tis felony to cheapen a whole shoulder. Lord! how our stomackes come to us againe, When wee conceive what snatching is in Spaine! I, whilst I write, and doe the newes repeate, Am forc’t to call for breakfast in, and eate: And doe you wonder at the dearth the while? The flouds that make it run in th’ middle ile, Poets of Paules, those of duke Humfryes messe, That feede on nought but graves and emptinesse. But heark you, noble sir, in one crosse weeke My lord hath lost a thowsand pound at gleeke; And though they doe allow but little meate, They are content your losses should be great. False, on my deanery! falser then your fare is; Or then your difference with _Cond’ de Olivares_, Which was reported strongly for one tyde, But, after six houres floating, ebb’d and dyde. If God would not this great designe should be Perfect and round without some knavery, Nor that our prince should end this enterprize, But for soe many miles, soe many lyes: If for a good event the Heav’ns doe please Mens tongues should become rougher then the seas, And that th’ expence of paper shall be such, First written, then translated out of Dutch: Corantoes, diets, packets, newes, more newes, Which soe much innocent whitenesse doth abuse; If first the Belgicke[76] pismire must be seene, Before the Spanish lady be our queene; With such successe, and such an end at last, All’s wellcome, pleasant, gratefull, that is past. And such an end wee pray that you should see, A type of that which mother Zebedee Wisht for her sonnes in heav’n; the prince and you At either hand of James, (you need not sue) Hee on the right, you on the left, the king Safe in the mids’t, you both invironing. Then shall I tell my lord, his word and band Are forfeit, till I kisse the princes hand; Then shall I tell the duke, your royall friend Gave all the other honours, this you earn’d; This you have wrought for; this you hammer’d out Like a strong Smith, good workman and a stout. In this I have a part, in this I see Some new addition smiling upon mee: Who, in an humble distance, claime a share In all your greatnesse, what soe ere you are.

RICHARD, THE THIRD EARL OF DORSET,

Is described by his wife, the celebrated lady Anne Clifford, daughter of George earl of Cumberland, in the manuscript memoirs of her life, as a man “in his own nature of a just mind, of a sweet disposition, and very valiant in his own person. He had a great advantage in his breeding, by the wisdom and devotion of his grandfather, Thomas Sackville, earl of Dorset, and lord high treasurer of England, who was then held one of the wisest of that time; by which means he was so good a scholar in all manner of learning, that, in his youth, when he was at the university, there was none of the young nobility then students there that excelled him. He was also a good patriot to his country, and generally well beloved in it; much esteemed in all the parliaments that sat in his time, and so great a lover of scholars and soldiers, as that, with an excessive bounty towards them, or indeed any of worth that were in distress, he did much diminish his estate; and also with excessive prodigality in house-keeping, and other noble ways at court, as tilting, masking, and the like; prince Henry being then alive, who was much addicted to those noble exercises, and of whom he was much beloved.” He died at the age of 35, March 28th, 1624.

I should be very unwilling to deprive Corbet of the praise due to a poem of so much intrinsic merit; but as the following epitaph is printed among the poems of his contemporary, King, bishop of Chichester, and again attributed to the latter in MS. Ashmole, A 35, Corbet’s claim to the composition of it is rendered very disputable.

ON THE EARL OF DORSETS DEATH.

Let no prophane, ignoble foot tread here, This hallowed piece of earth, Dorset lyes there: A small poor relique of a noble spirit, Free as the air, and ample as his merit: A soul refin’d, no proud forgetting lord, But mindful of mean names, and of his word: Who lov’d men for his honour, not his ends, And had the noblest way of getting friends By loving first, and yet who knew the court, But understood it better by report Than practice: he nothing took from thence But the kings favour for his recompence. Who, for religion or his countreys good, Neither his honour valued, nor his blood. Rich in the worlds opinion, and mens praise, And full in all we could desire, but days. He that is warn’d of this, and shall forbear To vent a sigh for him, or shed a tear, May he live long scorn’d, and unpitied fall, And want a mourner at his funeral!

TO THE NEW-BORNE PRINCE, AFTERWARDS CHARLES II.

(Born May 29th[77], 1630; died 6th of February, 1684-5.)

UPON THE APPARITION OF A STARR, AND THE FOLLOWING ECCLYPSE.

Was heav’ne afray’d to be out-done on earth When thou wert borne, great prince, that it brought forth Another light to helpe the aged sunn, Lest by thy luster he might be out-shone? Or were th’ obsequious starres so joy’d to view Thee, that they thought their countlesse eyes too few For such an object; and would needes create A better influence to attend thy state? Or would the Fates thereby shew to the earth A Cæsars birth, as once a Cæsars death? And was ’t that newes that made pale Cynthia run In so great hast to intercept the sunn; And, enviously, so shee might gaine thy sight, Would darken him from whome shee had her light? Mysterious prodigies yet sure they bee, Prognosticks of a rare prosperity: For, can thy life promise lesse good to men, Whose birth was th’ envy, and the care of heav’ne?

ON THE BIRTH OF THE YOUNG PRINCE CHARLES.

When private men gett sonnes they get a spoone[78], Without ecclypse, or any starr at noone: When kings gett sonnes, they get withall supplyes And succours, farr beyond all subsedyes. Wellcome, Gods loane! thou tribute to the State, Thou mony newly coyn’d, thou fleete of plate! Thrice happy childe! whome God thy father sent To make him rich without a parliament!

VINCENT CORBET,

The only son of the poet, was born (if the authority of a manuscript in the Harleian collection may be relied upon, in which this pathetic address appears,) on the 10th of November, 1627. From the following injunction in the bishop’s will[79], it seems he was educated at one of the universities: “I commit and commend the nurture and maintenance of my sonne and daughter unto the faythfull and loving care of my mother-in-law, declaring my intent, &c., that my sonne be placed at Oxford or Cambridge, where I require him, upon my blessing, to apply himself to his booke studiously and industriously.”

In 1648 he administered to the will[80] of his grandmother Anne Hutton; and of the further circumstances of his life I am ignorant.

TO HIS SON, VINCENT CORBET,

On his BIRTH-DAY, November 10, 1630, being then Three Years old.

What I shall leave thee none can tell, But all shall say I wish thee well; I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, Both bodily and ghostly health: Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee, So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee learning, not for show, Enough for to instruct, and know; Not such as gentlemen require, To prate at table, or at fire. I wish thee all thy mothers graces, Thy fathers fortunes, and his places. I wish thee friends, and one at court, Not to build on, but support; To keep thee, not in doing many Oppressions, but from suffering any. I wish thee peace in all thy ways, Nor lazy nor contentious days; And when thy soul and body part, As innocent as now thou art[81].

AN EPITAPH ON DR. DONNE, DEAN OF PAULS.

Born in 1573; died March 31, 1631.

He that would write an epitaph for thee, And do it well, must first begin to be Such as thou wert; for none can truly know Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv’d so. He must have wit to spare, and to hurl down Enough to keep the gallants of the town; He must have learning plenty, both the laws Civil and common, to judge any cause; Divinity great store, above the rest, Not of the last edition, but the best. He must have language, travel, all the arts, Judgment to use, or else he wants thy parts: He must have friends the highest, able to do, Such as Mecænas and Augustus too. He must have such a sickness, such a death, Or else his vain descriptions come beneath. Who then shall write an epitaph for thee, He must be dead first; let ’t alone for me.

CERTAIN FEW WOORDES SPOKEN CONCERNINGE ONE BENET CORBETT AFTER HER DECEASE.

She died October the 2d, Anno 1634.

(From MS. Harl. No. 464.)

Here, or not many feet from hence, The virtue lies call’d Patience. Sickness and Death did do her honour By loosing paine and feare upon her. Tis true they forst her to a grave, That’s all the triumph that they have.... A silly one.... Retreat o’er night Proves conquest in the morning-fight: She will rise up against them both.... All sleep, believe it, is not sloth. And, thou that read’st her elegie, Take something of her historie: She had one husband and one sonne; Ask who they were, and then have doone.

ITER BOREALE

Seems a sort of imitation of Horace’s Brundusian journey. Davenant has “a journey into Worcestershire” (page 215. fol. edit.) in a similar vein, says Headley. If the popularity of this poem may be estimated by the frequency of manuscript copies in the public libraries, we may conclude it was valued very highly, as the transcripts of it are very numerous.

Misled by one of these, I considered this poem, the longest and most celebrated of bishop Corbet’s productions, to have been written in 1625: subsequent examination has induced me to place the date of its composition considerably earlier: the reasons on which this opinion is grounded, will be detailed in the following analysis of the Tour.

Our author commences his journey from Oxford in a company consisting of four persons, two of whom then were, and two of whom wished to be, doctors: but there is nothing in the course of the tour to show us which of the classes he belonged to, unless we are to suppose, from the shortness of cash which discovers itself before the termination of his adventures, that he was rather one of those who had wealth in expectancy than in possession.

[Sidenote: 30]

[Sidenote: 12]

They set off on the 10th of August, and, long as the days are about that period, had a good chance of sharpening their appetites by their first half-day’s ride, thirty miles before dinner, when they sat down to dine with Dr. Christopher Middleton, at his rectory of Ashton on the Wall in Northamptonshire, about eight miles north of Banbury; where we learn that their entertainment was better than the looks of their host, whom they left in the evening, and rode to Flore, about twelve miles north-east, and took up their lodgings for the night.

At Flore they were entertained by a country surgeon, or (in the vulgar phrase) bone-setter, the tenant of Dr. Leonard Hutton, the rector of Flore and dean of Christ-Church, who fed them upon venison.

[Sidenote: 5]

The third morning they set off for Daventry, about five miles. Here it happened to be the market- and lecture-day: and after having washed down the dust which their throats had acquired in the ride, one of them was summoned by the serjeant at mace to deliver the lecture; for which they were all rewarded with thanks and wine.

[Sidenote: 16]

[Sidenote: 13]

The fourth morning they rode to Lutterworth in Leicestershire, about sixteen miles. This was once the benefice of Wickliffe, the father of English reformers; and here the tourist very properly remarks on the double injustice done to that venerable character, first by the Papists in burning his body, and afterwards by the Puritans in destroying the sacred memorial of the interment of his ashes. At Lutterworth they were met by a parson, who though well-beneficed was better-mannered, and was their guide to his dwelling within a mile of Leicester. A note on the older editions of Corbet calls this gentleman the Parson of Heathcot: but there is no place of the name of Heathcot in that neighbourhood; and as, by comparison with other parts of the tour in which miles are mentioned, one mile will be invariably found to signify one and a half at the least; and as less than two reputed miles is accounted only one mile in the distance of places, I presume it was Ayleston, and not Heathcot, where the party rested, and were regaled with stale beer. At length they arrived at Leicester, thirteen miles north of Lutterworth, where, passing over six steeples and two hospitals, (“one hospital twice told,”) which he refers to the eye of Camden, he censures the ignorance of the alms-man, who, notwithstanding it was written on the walls that Henry of Grisemont laid the foundation, told them it was John of Gaunt. Henry Plantagenet, earl of Lancaster, was the first founder of the hospital in the Newark at Leicester in the year 1330, which was considerably enlarged and improved, and converted into a college by his son Henry, the good duke of Lancaster, in 1355; but there is a more general sense in which the word Founder is used, namely, that in which it is extended to all those who inherit, either by descent or by purchase, the patronage under the original founder. And in this sense it may be applied to John of Gaunt, the second duke of Lancaster, who married his near kinswoman the heiress of the former duke, and perfected both in buildings and endowments what the others had commenced. The other hospital alluded to, is that founded by William Wigston, merchant of the Staple, about 1520.

The tourist next observes on the extortion of the innkeeper, who, reckoning by the number of his guests rather than the goodness of his provision, charged them seven shillings and sixpence for bread and beer; but, after a kindly caution to the publican to forbear such cozenage upon Divines in future, lest they should be suspected of drinking as freely as he charges them, turns from a subject so unworthy of his Pegasus in disgust, and inquires if this be not the burial-place of Richard the Third; and, finding that there is no memorial for him, moralizes upon the neglected state in which he lies, as the eventual fate of all greatness: then from Richard proceeds to Wolsey, who was also buried at Leicester, and produces similar reflections; and from Wolsey, to William the ostler of the inn, who outdoes the company in years as well as drink, and calls them to horse as imperiously as if he had a warrant from the earl of Nottingham.

The earl of Nottingham here glanced at was Charles lord Howard of Effingham, lord high admiral of England under queen Elizabeth and king James the First. He died in 1624.

[Sidenote: 25]

From Leicester to Nottingham (twenty-five miles) the travellers pass without noticing any thing on their way, until approaching the latter place they cross the Trent, pray to St. Andrew as they ride up hill, into the town, and observe that the people burrow, like conies, in caverns, from whence the smoke ascends at the feet of the woman who stands on the surface watching, down the chimney, the cooking of her dinner. The part of the town at which they enter is described as the Rocky Parish, higher than the rest; and the church of St. Mary, as embracing her Baby in her arms. From hence they proceed to the Castle, which is described as a ruin, with two statues of giants at the gates, whom the tourist severely censures for their negligence in permitting their charge to come to ruin, and reproaches them with the fidelity of the giants at Guildhall and Holmeby, who had carefully kept the buildings committed to their charge when the founders were dead. The poet might still compliment the giants at Guildhall; but of Holmeby (Holdenby House, Northamptonshire, built by queen Elizabeth’s lord chancellor, sir Christopher Hatton,) not one stone remains upon another: nay, the very memory of the giants might have perished but for the Iter Boreale.

The travellers then go to dinner at the Bull’s Head, where the archbishop of York had been before them, and where their discontent with bed and diet was answered by a reference to the satisfaction which _he_ had received; and where the aged landlord, formerly an ostler, is noticed as a rare example to those who have an itch for gold.

[Sidenote: 20]

Their next stage was to Newark, (about twenty miles, or, according to the reckoning of the poet, twelve), which is spoken of as no journey, but only a walk; and the banks of the Trent as so fertile and beautiful, that the English river takes away the palm from the celebrated Meander. The pleasure of this part of their journey was not diminished by their reception at Newark, where they met with a friend, out of respect to whom the town united as a family to give the travellers a hearty welcome; and even the landlord of one inn did not repine that they had passed his house to go to another, and the landlord of the inn where they rested was more solicitous of their approbation than his own profit. The very beggars rather prayed for their friend than begged of his guests, and the Puritans were willing to “let the organs play,” if the visitors would tarry.

From Newark they saw Bever (Belvoir) and Lincoln, and would fain have gone there but for the limitation on their purse and horses. At three o’clock they set off, with twenty (thirty) miles to ride, (probably to Melton Mowbray); and having neither guide, nor horse of speed, after losing their way, two hours after sun-set blundered upon a village, from whence they obtained a guide to Loughborough. From thence they set off next morning for Bosworth, (eighteen miles,) but in their way thither are lost in Charley Forest, and ask their way from the travellers they meet about the coal-mines at Coalorton, without receiving an answer; when William, their attendant, seeing a man approach, imagines himself to be in Fairyland. But the party are agreeably surprised by finding him one of the keepers of the forest, who conducts them within view of Bosworth.

At Bosworth they meet with far better treatment than the appearance of the place had promised; and, when their host there, who was their guide the next morning, brought them near to the field on which the battle of Bosworth was fought, are greatly amused by his romantic description of the battle. The guide seems to leave them at Nuneaton in Warwickshire, six miles (about nine) from Bosworth; from whence they proceed to Coventry, nine miles; and from thence, having scarcely had time to dine, depart for Kenilworth, five miles, where they are offended by the indecency of an aged parson, who attended the servant of the lord Leicester, it is presumed, to show them the Castle. The Castle of Kenilworth was once the splendid residence of Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester, one of the favourites of queen Elizabeth, and on his death, in 1588, passed to his son, Robert Dudley, who used the title of earl of Leicester,—but by a decree of the Star-Chamber was declared to be illegitimate, and from disgust at that sentence retired into Italy, under a license for three years; and being summoned by the privy-council, at the instigation of his enemies, to return into England, and refusing to obey the summons, the Castle of Kenilworth was, for his contumacy, seized by the Crown under the statute of Fugitives; and Henry prince of Wales, in the year 1611, purchased a release of the inheritance of it from sir Robert Dudley, who was to have the constableship of the Castle, under prince Henry, for life. It does not appear, however, that sir Robert Dudley resided at Kenilworth afterwards: he probably had little regard for a place of which he had been compelled to relinquish the inheritance. This may account for the neglected state in which it was found by our poet and his companions.

From Kenilworth they proceed to Warwick, three (five) miles, noticing in their way the Cave of the celebrated hero of English romance, Guy earl of Warwick, as also his Pillar: and at Warwick we have a humorous description of the landlady of the inn. From the inn they proceed to the Castle, where they are received by “the lord of all this frame, the honourable Chancellor,” whose politeness and elegance of manners receive favourable notice. Sir Fulk Greville obtained a grant of Warwick Castle from king James the First, in the second year of his reign, (1604,) and was about the same time appointed chancellor of the exchequer; and resigned his office of chancellor, on being elevated to the peerage by the title of lord Brooke, 19th of January, 1620-21. It may be observed, that the author of the Iter notices him as an honourable chancellor, not as noble lord; which he certainly would have done if the Iter had not been of an earlier date than 1621.