THE FASCINATION OF VILLIER’S CHARACTER AS OPPOSED TO THE VENALITY OF SOMERSET—LORD CLARENDON’S OPINION—THE FRIENDSHIP OF ARCHBISHOP ABBOT—CHARACTER OF THE PRIMATE—HIS AFFECTION FOR VILLIERS—ANECDOTE OF VILLIERS WHEN CUP-BEARER—HE IS BEFRIENDED BY ANNE OF DENMARK—BY HER MEANS KNIGHTED—SINGULAR SCENE IN THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER—JEALOUSY OF SOMERSET—INGRATITUDE AFTERWARDS SHEWN BY VILLIERS TO ABBOT—ABBOT COMMITS MANSLAUGHTER—IS PARDONED BY THE KING—THE INCESSANT PLEASURES OF THE COURT—HORSE-RACING—BEN JONSON’S “GOLDEN AGE RESTORED”—ALLUSION IN IT TO SOMERSET, AND TO OVERBURY—AN ANGRY INTERVIEW BETWEEN VILLIERS AND SOMERSET—VILLIERS SUPPLANTS THE FAVOURITE—HE USES NO UNFAIR MEANS TO DO SO—DISCOVERY OF SOMERSET’S GUILT BY WINWOOD, WHO FINDS PROOFS OF IT IN AN OLD TRUNK—SOMERSET’S DOWNFALL—BACON’S LETTER TO VILLIERS—VILLIERS CONTINUES TO PROFIT BY THE DELINQUENCIES AND DISGRACE OF SOMERSET.

Introduced, as he now found himself, into the atmosphere of a Court, Buckingham retained the free and joyous spirit, the boyish impetuosity, the incapability of dissimulation which characterised him during the whole of his life. The combination of “English familiarity and French vivacity” have in his deportment been happily expressed by Hume. The carelessness of consequences, which was a part of his variable and fascinating character, was soon perceived by his friends, soon made the theme of comment on the part of his enemies.

To those who had long deplored the rapacity of Somerset, and who viewed, in the depravity of the Court, the degradation of the nation, the very imprudence of Villiers, coupled, as it was, with great courage, quick perceptions, energy, and a capability of being aroused to high designs and “lofty aspirations,”^[79] must have been refreshing. “As yet,” says Lord Clarendon, “he was the most rarely accomplished the Court had ever beheld; while some that found inconvenience in his nearness, intending by some affront to discountenance him, perceived he had masked under the gentleness of a terrible courage as could safely protect all his sweetness.” The rise of this gifted and fascinating adventurer, rapid as it undoubtedly was, was obstructed by various obstacles, the details of which are not to be found in the ordinary narratives of his career.

Abbot, Archbishop of Canterbury, held at this time a supreme influence both in Church and in State affairs. His great learning, his eloquence, his moderation, and his indefatigable exertions for the public welfare procured him at once the confidence of the country and the goodwill of his sovereign. By his conciliatory deportment, Abbot, when he held the appointment of chaplain to the Earl of Dunbar, Treasurer of Scotland, effected such an understanding, as to ensure the establishment of the Episcopal order in that country. He was also one of the eight divines at Oxford to whom the charge of translating the New Testament, with the exception of the Epistles, was entrusted.^[80] Thus qualified for the highest station in his sacred profession, Abbot had attained the rare art of satisfying all parties. His zeal for the Protestant faith secured the esteem of the Calvinist, and his devotion to the order to which he belonged satisfied even the disciples of Laud.

This prelate now became the patron of George Villiers. Perhaps the fearless, open disposition of the youth interested the Archbishop, who was by no means an austere churchman, but who mingled to a great extent in secular affairs, and united a love of popular diversions with his saintly zeal and real piety of character;—enjoyed a day’s hunting, and regulated alternately the concerns of foreign nations and the disputes of controversialists. Archbishop Abbot appears to have fostered Villiers as a son. A circumstance shortly occurred which showed how necessary to the well-being of the rash youth such a protector and counsellor must have proved.

Villiers now held the office of cup-bearer, and, since it was purchased, as most offices in that reign were, it is probable that those who promoted his rise, from a hatred of the Earl of Somerset, supplied him with the means of thus drawing near to his sovereign at the social board; nor was the office in those days, when James was frequently in a state of inebriation, a sinecure.

One day, Villiers happened to take by mistake the upper end of the board instead of another attendant. The person whom he had thus superseded was a creature of Somerset’s; Villiers was told of his error in an offensive manner, and removed from his post. Incensed afterwards by a second instance of incivility, he lost his self-control, and gave his brother cup-bearer a blow. By the custom of the Court, Villiers thus made himself liable to have his hand cut off; and Somerset, who was Lord Chamberlain, was bound by his office to see that penalty inflicted. It may readily be conceived with what alacrity Somerset would have fulfilled this part of his duty, but the King interposed, and pardoned Villiers, “who henceforth,” remarks an historian, “was regarded as a budding favourite, and appeared like a proper palm beside the discerning spirit of the King, who first cherished him, through his innate virtue, that surprised all men.”^[81]

It was however necessary that the merits of Villiers should be unfolded to the Queen. Anne of Denmark, although apparently slighted by her royal husband, exercised so considerable a control over his actions that he never, according to the testimony of Archbishop Abbot, “would admit anyone to nearness about himself but such a one as the Queen should commend unto him, and had made some suit on his behalf.” Nor did this wholly proceed from a reverence for Her Majesty’s judgment. It was the result of the mingled weakness of conduct and duplicity which characterised James, forming a strong contrast with his real ability and acquirements; the absence of good sense and good taste were equally conspicuous in all he did in private life; but he was cunning enough to desire that if he made a false step the blame should rest upon his Queen. His motive in desiring her approval was that, if she were ill treated by the favourite, he might have the power of saying to her, “You were the party that commended him to me.” “Our old master,” remarks Archbishop Abbot, “took delight in things of this nature.”^[82]

Queen Anne had previously been solicited in behalf of Villiers, but in vain; Abbot was, however, successful in his application. For some time, indeed, the Queen answered him in these terms: “My lord, you and your friends know not what you ask, for if this young man be brought in, the first persons that he will plague will be you that labour for him. Yea, I shall have my part also; the King,” added the wary Queen, “will teach him to despise and hardly entreat us, that he may seem to be beholden to no one but himself.”

“Noble Queen,” exclaimed Abbot, when, after experiencing the hollowness of Court favour and the ingratitude of Buckingham, he wrote the narrative of these incidents, “how like a prophetess did you speak!” Upon the compliance of the Queen, it was resolved to introduce Villiers to the King, for the double honour of being appointed one of His Majesty’s Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, and of receiving knighthood. The day was approaching, when Villiers fell ill, not without suspicion of having taken the small-pox. This happened when all his friends were “casting about” how to make him a great man. On the twenty-third of April^[83] he was, however, sufficiently recovered for the good offices of his party to take effect.

The event was accomplished in the following manner:—The Queen and Prince being in the King’s bedchamber, it was contrived that Villiers,^[84] who was near, should be summoned on some pretext, and when the “Queen saw her own time, he was asked in.” “Then,” says an historian, “did the Queen speak to the Prince to draw out the sword and to give it her; and immediately, with the sword drawn, she kneeled to the King, and humbly beseeched His Majesty to do her that especial favour as to knight this noble gentleman, whose name was George, for the honour of St. George, whose feast was now kept. The King at first seemed to be afraid that the Queen should come too near him with a naked sword, but then he did it very joyfully, and it might very well be that it was his own contriving, for he did much please himself with such inventions.”^[85]

It must have been a strange scene, for Somerset, who was at hand, entreated of the King that his rival might only be made a Groom of the Chamber; but Abbot, and others whom the Archbishop does not name, stood at the door and plied the Queen with messages that she would “perfect her work, and cause him to be made a gentleman,” and Her Majesty, as we have seen, prevailed. Nor were these honours, in the case of Villiers, attended with the expense which usually lessened their value; on the contrary, a pension of a thousand pounds was added to maintain the dignity of knighthood.^[86]

The termination of this incident, so important in the life of Villiers, is related by Archbishop Abbot; Villiers at this time called him “father.” The professions which he made to his reverend patron were then doubtless sincere; but gratitude was not the only good seed which political feuds and evil counsels stifled in the breast of Villiers.

“George,” relates the prelate, “went in with the King, but no sooner he got loose but he came forth unto me into the Privy Gallery, and there embraced me. He professed that he was so infinitely bound unto me, that all his life long he must honour me as his father; and now he did beseech me, that I would give him some lessons how he should carry himself.” These lessons were three in number:—first, to pray daily to God to bless the King his master, and to give him grace studiously to serve and please him. The second was, that he should do all good offices between the King and the Queen, the King and the Prince. The third, that he should fill his master’s ears with nothing but the truth. These excellent instructions were afterwards repeated to James, who observed that they were “instructions worthy of an archbishop to give to a young man.”

For some time, an affection, on the one hand expressed in parental terms, and gratitude on the other, continued. “And now, my George,” wrote the Archbishop, “because, out of your kind affection to me, you style me your father, I will from this day forward repute and esteem you for my son, and so hereafter you know yourself to be; and in token thereof I do now give you my blessing again, and charge you, as my son, daily to serve God, to be diligent and pleasing to your master, and to be wary that at no man’s instance you press him with many suits, because they are not your friends who urge those things upon you, but have private ends of their own, which are not fit for you. So praying God to bless you,

The conduct of Villiers on a subsequent occasion made a deep impression on the mind of the excellent prelate who thus befriended the youth. “The Roman historian, Tacitus,” he bitterly remarks, “hath somewhere a note, that benefits while they may be requited, seem courtesies, but when they are so high that they cannot be repaid, they prove matters of hatred.”^[88] This was a severe reflection on one who ought never to have forgotten the greatest of all obligations, those bestowed on the unfriended by one in the height of favour. Villiers may henceforth be regarded as fairly launched in his career; it was perhaps his misfortune that so few important obstacles occurred in his progress, and that it was achieved by an apparent concurrence of lucky events, and not by patient merit, nor by any of the legitimate sources of success. “The genius of the man,” observes a modern writer, “was daring and magnificent, and his elocution was graceful as his manners; but these were natural talents; he possessed no acquired ones.”^[89]

A true, free-spoken, conscientious friend might have guarded his youth from peril, and given to his aspiring mind a laudable bias. Abbot would have been that friend, but Abbot was soon discarded, and an incident occurred some years afterwards which clouded this excellent prelate’s days, and produced a temporary, though unmerited, disgrace.

The archbishop, like many churchmen of his time, was an ardent lover of the chace. In this respect he resembled Cranmer, who was so great a horseman as to be called the “rough rider,” since no steed came amiss to his fearless and practised guidance.

Abbot was hunting, in the summer of 1621, in Lord Zouch’s park of Bramsell, in Hampshire. He aimed at a deer, which, leaping up, evaded the shot, but a gamekeeper who had hidden himself behind the herd, was killed by the discharge from the lively primate’s gun. An inquest was held, and a verdict of death by “misfortune and the keeper’s own fault” was returned. It appeared that the man had been that very morning warned not to go in that direction. King James, on first hearing of this occurrence, declared that none “but a fool or knave would think the worse of Abbot for that accident, the like of which had once nearly happened to himself.”

Abbot, it seemed, had gone into Hampshire with the intention of consecrating a chapel as Lord Zouch’s, and not merely for the purposes of amusement.^[90] On considering the matter, nevertheless, his legal advisers did not consider the verdict to have been legally drawn up. Abbot therefore wrote to Lord Zouch, requesting him to have the coroner and jury re-summoned, and the verdict re-considered, the credit of his profession being involved, and his enemies ready to slander him.^[91] In a subsequent letter he recalled this request, declaring that it was unnecessary; that he had a clear conscience, and was anxious to do everything to give his enemies no advantages over him. In a few days, nevertheless, he went again to Lord Zouch, declaring that his unhappy accident had been a bitter potion to him, on account of the conflict with his conscience, complaining that he was the talk of men, the cause of rejoicing to the Papist and insult to the Puritan.^[92] The King was still gracious to him, but the primate remained in seclusion, and misfortune seemed at hand.^[93] These letters were written in August. In the October of the same year, the King appointed an inquiry into the accidental killing of the keeper in Bramsell Park, and desired three bishops and others to examine whether there had been scandal brought upon the Church or not.^[94] The commissioners were divided, strange to say, upon the question of the archbishop’s guilt or innocence, but their decision, influenced by the strong advocacy of the Bishop of Winchester, was ultimately in his favour. The King, as the head of the Church, then absolved him, but all the new bishops were so unwilling to receive consecration at his hand, that Abbot was obliged to appoint three prelates to consecrate for him. All forfeitures and penalties for this offence were remitted, and the archbishop restored to the King’s presence. There is, however, no proof of what one looks for with solicitude, the mediation of Buckingham in favour of his friend and patron, although there is no reason, from the result, to suppose that it may not have been exerted.

This attempt to make the archbishop’s mishap a “culpable homicide,” originated in the Lord Keeper Williams, who had formed a plot for depriving Abbot. The accusation was based upon the ground that the primate had been employed in an unlawful act when the accident occurred, but Coke decreed that “by the laws of the realm, a bishop may lawfully hunt in a park; hunt he may, because a bishop, when dying, is to leave his pack of hounds to the King’s free will and disposal.”^[95]

Such were the incidents which deprived Villiers, for a time, of the valuable counsels of Abbot. It must, however, be also remembered, when the real ignorance of Villiers is considered, and when his deficiencies and his errors are lamented as constituting in his case a national misfortune, that in his career as a courtier he wanted the needful element in all improvement, leisure. The daily existence of James was made up of toilsome pleasures,—the chase, the drama, the mask,—at which Villiers, weary, doubtless, at times, of the incessant pageant, sometimes assisted. He soon imbibed a still greater taste for display than even his crafty mother had implanted in him for ambitious purposes, and became, like most persons suddenly raised from poverty and obscurity, inordinately ostentatious and prodigal.

It is amusing, however, to find him, in the early days of his greatness, learning horsemanship. James was passionately fond of seeing others exhibit on horseback. One of his favourite places of resort was Newmarket. The King generally joined in all country amusements, drawn in a litter, a mortal inward disease even then making that gentle movement necessary; whilst the young and noble thronged around him on their steeds, set off in all the bravery of costly caparisons. Prince Henry had, during his brief career, set the fashion of a fondness for horse-racing, and James, who suffered so many of his accomplished son’s higher objects to become extinct in his grave, maintained in all its prosperity that diversion. Newmarket, henceforth, was a favourite place of resort. Amongst the late Prince’s equerries was a Frenchman named St. Antoine, whose feats are frequently the subject of comment in the newsletters of the day.

It was in the depth of the winter when James, attended by twenty earls and barons, repaired to Newmarket. There was little accommodation for them in that place, and the gay company were obliged to bestow themselves in the poor villages around. Every morning, whilst at this resort, Villiers was mounted on horseback, and taught to ride;^[96] and his progress in the King’s favour seemed to be commensurate with his prowess. This was in the December of the year 1615. On the fourth of January, 1615-16, Villiers was appointed Master of the Horse, instead of the Earl of Worcester, who resigned all his posts into the King’s hands, and was made Lord Privy Seal.^[97]

This mark of royal preference gave a fresh impetus to the decline of Somerset’s fortunes. In a masque written by Ben Johnson, and performed at court, a bold allusion was made to the sinking prosperity of the Earl, and a hint thrown out of his suspected crime. The play was entitled, “The Golden Age Restored,” and these lines excited considerable attention and speculation—

The “weak” was conjectured to be Overbury, and the delicacy of the allusion has been pronounced by a modern critic^[98] “to be above all praise.” The masque was followed by a banquet, at which the new Master of the Horse doubtless assisted, attired in all the splendours which his now adequate means enabled him to assume.

Those who viewed, merely as spectators, these various incidents, were curious to know on what terms Somerset and his young rival stood together. It was impossible, they knew, for James, always involved, as he was, in the labyrinths of some crooked policy, not to temporise with one whose influence over him was fast waning away, not to unite, if possible, amity to Somerset with partiality to Villiers. Accordingly, whilst honours were thus showered upon the new favourite, “like main showers, then sprinkling drops on dews,”^[99] it was still thought necessary to conciliate Somerset, and to make it appear, at all events to the public, that Villiers owed his elevation to the goodwill of that offended and resentful nobleman.

It was deemed, therefore, expedient to take the very first opportunity that could be available for propitiating Somerset, and, accordingly, after the completion of the ceremonial of knighting, Sir Humphrey May was despatched to inform Somerset that “Sir George Villiers, newly knighted, would desire his protection.” Half an hour afterwards, Sir George visited the Lord Chamberlain, and paid him this compliment:—

“My lord, I desire to be your servant and creature, and to take my court preferment under your favour, assuring your lordship that you shall find me as faithful a servant as ever did serve you.”

He spoke, however, to the inflamed mind of a jealous foe. The Earl is said to have turned fiercely upon him, and answered impetuously in these words:—^[100]

“I will have none of your service, and you shall have none of my favour. I will, if I can, break your neck, and of that be confident.” This rash conduct is declared to have hastened the fall of Somerset, by proving to the friends of Villiers that one of the two rivals in the royal favour must retire, and that Somerset would brook no equal in the court.

But there were other circumstances palpably concurring to close the shameless career of Somerset, and abundantly accounting for his fall, without attributing much importance to the adventitious appearance of George Villiers at Court. The discovery of his guilt by Secretary Winwood^[101] was preceded by such a long course of public and private profligacy, that it is no wonder that Somerset should see, in the prosperity of a young man whose reputation was unstained by a single crime, an earnest of his own downfall, and that he should employ the greater precaution to avert the coming storm. His efforts were, however, unavailing. His sending away the apothecary who administered the poison to Overbury to France; his disgracing all who spoke of the death of that unfortunate man, hoping by such arbitrary acts to smother the remembrance of that crime; his tyrannical investigation, by his warrant as a privy counsellor, of all trunks, chests, and libraries in which he suspected that any letters relative to that dark business might be concealed; all were proofs confirmatory of that dark and foul plot the recollection of which permitted to the terror-stricken Somerset not one moment of comfort. He now began to act as a friendless and desperate man, who, feeling that the ground is slipping from beneath his feet, tries to hoard up wealth as a resource. He undertook no intercession with the King without large bribes; and every new occurrence brought him what is termed by the authors of the tract entitled “The First Fourteen Years of King James’s Reign,” a fleece of money.^[102] Offices about the Court were all for the highest bidder, and even the King’s letters were bought and sold; no plunder was obtained without purchase, so that Somerset was soon known to be as notorious a bribe-taker as his mother-in-law, the Countess of Suffolk. The high-born and the highly-principled saw with disgust, now ill-concealed, the minion leaning on the King’s cushion even in public, and treating their haughty and influential class with rash scorn, disdaining even that respect which was imperatively due to the Primate, AbbotAbbot, whose popularity was at that time in its zenith. Many suspected that beneath this arrogant bearing, stimulating an impolitic cupidity of gain, there lurked secret fears and a stricken heart, a horror of the past and a dread of the future; and conjectured, as well they might, that Somerset was never more to know repose of mind—nor, perhaps, long to enjoy personal security.^[103]

By all these circumstances Villiers wisely profited during his early days of favour; and happy had it been for him had he never forgotten the lesson thus afforded him in the awful tragedy of Somerset’s career; more awful, perhaps, than if the secret sins of the wretched Earl had been visited with a signal retribution from the hand of power. There is something in this miscreant’s forlorn and protracted existence, after all that in life is valuable—honour, peace of mind, influence—were gone, that is more desolate and appalling to the fancy than if the Tower had for ever enclosed him, or the executioner claimed his life as a penalty for his sins. The unpunished murderer walking abroad, shunned by all, is a sort of moral leper; desolate in his freedom, and chastised even by the silence and avoidance of his fellow men.

That Villiers took any active part in the measures which ensued, his bitterest foes have not ventured to allege. Young, devoted to pleasure, indifferent, at this time, to gain, ambitious, but not grasping, he enjoyed at this period that general esteem, the absence of which he bitterly felt in after life. Those who hated Somerset turned to Villiers, and found him full of courtesy and of generous impulses. Those who were on the point of offering bribes to Somerset discovering that Villiers had the ear of the King, applied to him, and obtained gratuitously what they sought. The country, as well as the Court, was ringing with complaints of the Lord Chamberlain’s extortions, when the accidental illness and remorse of an apothecary’s boy decided his fate. That individual, employed by his master to administer the dose to Overbury, fell ill at Flushing, and the whole mystery, with all its concomitants, was revealed. “A small breach thus being made, Somerset’s enemies, like the rush of many waters, rise up against him, following the stream.” Thus does Arthur Wilson well express the ruin of one who, for two years, had succeeded in defying curiosity and keeping the secret of his crime unrevealed.

With the inconsistent conduct of the King during the proceedings against his rival, Villiers appears to have had no concern, except such as his situation of private secretary to King James, an office which appears to have devolved upon him upon the disgrace of Somerset, necessarily entailed. The alienation of James’s regard from Somerset, and the rising influence of Villiers, are nevertheless, according to a high authority, “very necessary to be borne in mind” through the legal proceedings against the fallen favourite.^[104] That Villiers desired the entire exclusion of Somerset from royal favour is more than probable; that he took any undue or direct means to ensure it is doubtful, unless we take as evidence of an under-current of intrigue, the secret negociations which went on between him and Sir Francis Bacon, to whom the conduct of the prosecution was consigned before the 15th of February, 1615. Whilst

Somerset was awaiting his trial, Bacon addressed to Villiers the following letter. It is commonly remarked that a postscript is the most important portion of a letter; but, in this case, the endorsement gives the greatest insight into the motives of the writer. On the back of the epistle are these words: “A letter to Sir G. Villiers, touching a message brought to me by Mr. Shute, of a promise of the chancellor’s place.” To this the following letter is the reply:—

That the fortunes of Villiers were ensured by the awful disclosures of guilt which ensued, there can be no doubt. It is worthy of remark, how vitiated must have been the state of that society, the highest in rank, the foremost in fashion, in which crimes so fearful, compassed and aided by associates of the lowest and most infamous description, could be ascribed to individuals, and yet those individuals continue to hold their position in society. It is true that, during that interval which must have been to the guilty Earl and Countess of Somerset a season of incessant fear and anguish, reports had been “buzzing about Somerset’s ears, like a rising storm upon a well-spread oak;” but he had considered himself to be too firmly planted in the King’s regard ever to be up-rooted. And perhaps, had Villiers not come forward opportunely to redeem the national credit, and to save a remnant of the King’s character from utter reprobation and contempt, England might have been still enslaved, until the close of James’s reign, by the extortionate Earl and his haughty and murderous Countess.

Meantime, Villiers continued to profit by the delinquencies of his rival. He profited in the way most gratifying to an honourable mind.way most gratifying to an honourable mind. No intrigues to supplant, no efforts to hasten the ruin of the Earl, are recorded to his discredit. He set, at this period of his career, a bright, though unhappily a transient, example of what a royal favorite might prove. He repudiated, not only the avarice, but the over-bearing of Somerset.

He was courteous and affable to all, and seemed to “court men as they courted him.” Free from all assumption, he still delighted to associate with the gentlemen in waiting, and to join in their amusements, which consisted, after supper, in leaping and exercises, in which none was so active as the young favorite.^[106] He thus preserved in health and agility that noble form which excited the admiration of his country. Such was his popularity, even with the old and haughty nobility, that they were proud if they might aid in decking the “handsomest bodied man of England.”^[107] His taste for gorgeous apparel now displaying itself, he was complimented by the nobles of James’s Court in the following manner:—one of them would send to “his tailor and his mercer to put good clothes upon the newly-made knight; another to his sempstress for curious linen; others took upon them to be his bravos, and all hands helped to piece up the new minion.”^[108] So winning was the deportment of Villiers, that even his enemies were propitiated to acknowledge “that he was as inwardly beautiful, as he was outwardly, and that the world had not a more ingenious gentleman.”^[109] He incurred, however, some risk in his ardour for amusement; and on one occasion over-strained himself in running, which greatly distressed the King.^[110] So rapid was the rise of Villiers, that Lord Clarendon describes it by the term “germination.” “Surely had he been a plant,” says that great historian, “he would have been reckoned among the stoute nascentes, for he sprang without any help, by a sort of ingenious composure (as we may term it) to the likeness of our late sovereign and master, of blessed memory, who, taking him into his regard, taught him more and more to please himself, and moulded him, as it were, platonically, to his own idea, delighting first in the choice of his materials, because he found him susceptible of good form, and afterwards by degrees, as great architects used to do, in the workmanship of his regal hand.”^[111] This flattering tribute to King James might have been spared, for the monarch, whose blind and almost wicked partiality emboldened, and perhaps corrupted, Somerset, can hardly be conceived to have formed the character of Villiers.

The testimony of Lord Clarendon that Villiers, like his supposed prototype, the Earl of Essex, was a “fair-spoken gentleman,” not prone and eager to detract openly from any man, “is a greater eulogy,” and to this, the noble historian adds another, which, he affirms, “the malignant eye could not refuse to Villiers;” “that certainly never man in his place or power did entertain greatness more familiarly,” an expression singularly felicitous, as conveying a sense of that innate greatness which exalts its possessor above conventional distinctions. His looks were “untainted by his felicity.”^[112] No conscious importance, no haughty contempt, none of the littleness of pride, disgusted his equals or depressed his inferiors. “This, in my judgment,” remarks Clarendon, “was one of his greatest virtues and victories of himself.”

The elevation of Villiers appears, however, not to have been so spontaneous as Lord Clarendon supposes. “Once commenced, it ran,” says Sir Henry Wotton, “as smoothly as numerous verses, till it met with certain rubs in Parliament.”

Thus, to borrow still from the same author, “the course of royal favour being uninterrupted, the Duke’s thoughts were free.”^[113]

Meanwhile, the most fearful disclosures were shocking the public ear, and rendering more secure than ever the prosperity of Villiers.

In the month of March, 1616, Lady Somerset was committed to the Tower. So promptly were the measures now resolved upon executed, that she had “scant leisure,” as a contemporary relates, “to shed a few tears over her little daughter at the parting.”^[114] This was the single touch of natural affection which is latent in every heart, and was not wholly extinguished even in the heart of the unhappy woman. Having given way to that burst of emotion, she bore herself, as the same report states, “constantly enough,” until she was carried into the enclosure of the Tower. Then, affrighted and conscience-stricken, she did, according to the same account, “passionately deprecate, and entreat the Lieutenant, that she might not be lodged in Sir Thomas Overbury’s lodging, so that he was fain to remove himself out of his own chamber for two or three nights, till Sir Walter Raleigh’s lodging might be furnished and made fit for her.”

To this gloomy apartment, the wretched countess was consigned; her trial was fixed for the fifteenth of May. But when that day drew near, when the stage in the middle of Westminster Hall was completed, the scaffolding around it finished, and when seats had been purchased at the rate of four or five pieces each—that being an ordinary price—and when even a lawyer and his wife, as Mr. Chamberlain, the writer of the letter from whom these details are collected, states, agreed to give two pounds for himself and his wife for ten days, and fifty pounds was given for a corner that “would scarcely contain a dozen,” the eager public was disappointed. The trial was put off till the twenty-second of the same month.^[115]

Lady Somerset’s sudden illness was assigned as the cause of this delay. Upon warning being given her that her trial was to come on on Wednesday, “she fell to casting and scouring, and so continued the next day very sick,” her illness being ascribed partly to trepidation, partly to the suspicion of her having taken poison. But she recovered to make, as the same eye-witness remarks, shorter work of it, by confessing the indictment; and “to win pity by her sober demeanour,” “more curious and confident than was fit for a lady in such distress; and yet she shed, or made shew of, some tears divers times.” Contrary to the usual practice in criminal trials, no invectives were urged against her, it being the King’s pleasure that no “odious nor uncivil speeches” should be given. The general opinion was, that in spite of her manifest guilt, this miserable culprit would not suffer the penalty of the law. It must have been a singular sight to have beheld the Earl of Essex, her former husband, a spectator among the titled crowd at the arraignment; the first day, privately—the second “full in Somerset’s face.”

Lady Somerset was sentenced “to be hanged by the neck till she was stark dead.” When the fatal cap was assumed, and the decree uttered, she bore herself with more calmness than her husband; who, upon sentence of death being passed upon him, was so appalled that, when asked what he should say to avert that decree, he would “stand still upon his own innocence,” and could hardly be brought to refer himself to the King’s mercy. He was afterwards induced to rest upon that point; to write to the King, entreating that the judgment of “hanging should be changed to that of heading;” “and that his daughter might have such lands as the King did not resume.”^[116]

Villiers, no doubt, witnessed this memorable trial, and beheld the utter degradation of his rival. The contrast which his own brilliant fortunes presented to the disgrace and ruin of others, is shewn by the rapid succession of honours which were conferred upon him.

The spectacle, which must have harrowed a mind not corrupted by the ambition of a court, was diversified by a grand ceremonial, and a new honour. This was the election of Villiers into the order of the Garter, which took place on the 24th of April, on St. George’s day, whilst Somerset and his wife lay trembling in the Tower.

Francis, Earl of Rutland, was admitted to a similar honour on the same day. The world cavilled at this nobleman’s good fortune; for his wife was an open and known recusant, and the Earl himself was thought to have many disaffected persons about him. It was soon, however, discovered that there was a design to improve the fortunes of Villiers by marrying him to the young heiress of the house of Rutland. Meantime, to enable his favourite to maintain the honours thus lavished upon him, and more especially to support the dignities required by the express articles of the Order in which he was installed, James bestowed upon Villiers “lands and means;” and it was reported that estates, then belonging to the Earl of Somerset, were to be added to those gifts, should that delinquent “sink under his present trial.”^[117]

Hitherto, Sir George Villiers appears to have figured alone amid the gay and envying crowds of Whitehall, or among the equestrians at Newmarket. But one of the greater proofs of his extending influence was the favour shewn at this time to his mother.

The condition of Lady Villiers was wholly changed since her son had left her a widow in the seclusion of Goadby. Having allied herself, by a second marriage, to a rich and potent family—the Comptons—she had shared in their prosperity. Compton had married Elizabeth, the daughter of Sir John Spencer, Mayor of London, who had died some years previously,^[118] first leaving a fortune of three hundred thousand pounds, according to some authors; to others, of eight hundred thousand pounds. The bequest of this money to his wife completely upset Lord Compton’s reason; and it seems to have benefited his family more than himself. For though he appears to have recovered his intellect, he did not live long to enjoy his great wealth, which went to enrich his brother.

Lady Villiers, or as she was henceforth called, Lady Villiers Compton, was now admitted into the circles of the exclusive and lordly inmates of one of the King’s favourite resorts, Hatfield, and in June, 1616, she met His Majesty there.

Some awkwardness attended this visit to the Earl and Countess of Salisbury. The Countess of Suffolk, the mother of Lady Somerset, was there; and fears might be entertained in what manner King James would meet the mother of so great a culprit; but the imperturbable insensibility of the monarch, or perhaps his lingering regard for Somerset, obviated all difficulties. He kissed the Countess of Suffolk twice; and performed the office of sponsor conjointly with her husband, with whom, relates an eye witness, “the King is grown as great and as far in grace as ever he was, which sudden invitations, without any intermedience, made the Spanish Ambassador cry out, ‘Volo a dios que la Corte d’Inglatiérra es com uno libró di Cavalleros andantes.’“ Upon this stately occasion, the Countess of Suffolk “kept a table alone, save that the Lady Villiers Compton only was admitted, and all the entertainment was chiefly intended and directed to her and her children and followers.” Nor was it only empty civility that marked the royal favour: shortly afterwards the elder brother of George Villiers, John, was knighted at Oatlands, in Surrey, that ceremonial being a prelude to the titles of Baron Villiers of Stoke and Viscount Purbeck, which were conferred upon him three years afterwards. On the sixth of July, the instalment of the new Knights of the Garter, the Earl of Rutland and Sir George Villiers, and of Robert Sydney, Viscount Lisle, took place; the ceremonial was performed on a Sunday, and on the same afternoon, a chapter was held to consider the point whether the Earl of Somerset’s arms were to be taken away or left as they were. So closely did the elevation of Villiers follow on the downfall of his rival.^[119]

Somerset, however, still displayed, even in his prison in the Tower, his Garter and his George; whilst the public were scandalized by repeated messages carried by Lord Hay, between the King and the condemned Earl; and the result of these was soon perceived. Somerset had the liberty of the Tower granted to him; he was seen walking about, and talking to the Earl of Northumberland, who was still in prison on account of the Gunpowder Plot; and at other times saluting his lady at the window. “It is much spoken of,” writes Mr. Chamberlain to Sir Dudley Carleton, “how Princes of that Order, to let our own pass, can digest to be coupled with a man civilly dead, and corrupt in blood, and so no gentleman, should continue a Knight of the Garter.” Lady Somerset’s pardon had been signed the foregoing week, and, as matters now stood, Villiers might still tremble lest his advancement should be delayed, and the noble miscreants be restored to favourfavour.

His success, nevertheless, continued, for Anne of Denmark was in the interests of the young favourite. During the month of August the Queen addressed a letter to Villiers, who was then attending on the King, couched in these familiar terms:—