PART II AMONG THE MONUMENTS CHAPTER XIII PURITANS AND CAVALIERS IN THE ABBEY

By a strange irony of fate, the royal chapel of the Tudors was destined to be, at least for awhile, the burying-place of many Parliamentary leaders, and perhaps stranger still it is to realise how Roundhead and Cavalier, disgraced minister and triumphant reformer, came at last to the old Abbey, which opened its arms to receive them, condemning no man, but committing all unto the care of Him who judgeth with righteous judgment. The Duke of Buckingham and Pym, Cromwell and Prince Rupert, Admiral Blake, Clarendon the historian of the great rebellion, Essex and General Monk, all were buried within a few feet of each other, and their names are still engraved on Abbey stones, though some of them sleep there no more.

These men, in their different ways, stood in the forefront of that hard-fought Revolution, and as I want Westminster to be something more to you than a place of names and monuments, I will try to tell you enough of each one for you to be able to fit them into their proper places in the history of those stormy days.

We will begin with Buckingham, who, as young George Villiers, was brought up to be a courtier, and taught only such accomplishments as would fit him for that part. He was an apt pupil, graceful, witty, versatile, full of charm, and from the moment he entered the service of James I. as cupbearer, his upward career began. He leapt from step to step with dazzling rapidity, and the king became a mere puppet in his hands. "I love the Earl of Buckingham more than anything else," he declared. "Whatsoever he desireth must be done." For awhile Buckingham did not seriously interfere with politics; his ambition was satisfied with personal power and court influence, while his own position concerned him much more closely than the affairs of the country. But eventually he was drawn into the vortex, to his own undoing, for his brilliancy was only superficial, his wild schemes collapsed one after the other, while his reckless extravagance, coupled with his disastrous undertakings, staggered the Parliament, which had for a brief moment believed in him. However, Charles, who was now king, implicitly believed in him through all his failures, and supported his exorbitant demands for money to carry on his unpopular and unsuccessful foreign policy. At last the gathering indignation burst.

"The Duke of Buckingham is the cause of all our miseries," was the deliberate statement made in the House of Commons, followed by a long list of charges, and the determination, for the first time, to hold a minister responsible to Parliament for his actions. The king was furious. "None of my servants shall be questioned by you, or it shall be the worse for you," he said scornfully, and he dissolved Parliament. But the trial of Buckingham was taken out of their hands, for shortly afterwards he was stabbed to death by a certain Fenton, a melancholy, malcontented gentleman, who declared that he did so to rid the country of an intolerable tyrant. He was buried quietly in the Abbey, and the king set up to his memory the elaborate but hardly beautiful monument which you see. You must notice, though, the three figures of his children, for one of them, Francis, a very gallant boy, "of rare beauty and comeliness," fell fighting for the king at Kingston, wounded nine times, yet scorning to ask quarter, standing with his back against an oak tree till he dropped.

General Monk, afterwards Duke of Albemarle, fought on the Parliamentary side, and after the defeat of the Royalists in England he was with Cromwell through his victorious campaigns in Scotland and Ireland, remaining behind as commander-in-chief for Scotland. But it was as a sailor rather than as a soldier that he made his greatest reputation, for when the struggle began between England and the Dutch for the command of the seas, the Dutch challenging the English right to it, Monk, and another Parliamentary officer, Blake, were appointed generals at sea, it being thought that their ability to lead, their energy and their good sense, would more than compensate for their lack of technical experience. So it eventually proved, and after some close fighting Monk was able to report that the English held the coast of Holland as if it were besieged. Parliament rewarded Monk with a vote of thanks, a medal and a chain worth ￡300, and he assured them that he had "no other thought but to defend the nation against all enemies, whether by sea or by land, as might be entrusted to him."

Not altogether approving of the arbitrary way in which Cromwell treated Parliament, he determined to keep clear of politics and to remain a "plain fighting man." But while employed by the Protector he was entirely loyal to him, and at once sent to him a letter he received from Charles II. suggesting negotiations. "An honest, very simple-hearted man," was Cromwell's remark on him.

But with the death of the Protector the whole aspect of things changed. Monk had fully intended to serve Richard Cromwell as he had served his father, only it became palpably evident that the new Protector was not in any way capable of controlling the country or the army, and within a few weeks dissatisfaction and discontent were evident everywhere—the pendulum had swung back, and England cried for a king once more. With Richard Cromwell at the head of affairs, Monk saw that the days of the Commonwealth were numbered. "He forsook himself or I had never faltered in my allegiance," he explained; for Dick Cromwell was as anxious as any one to be rid of his office. Through his brother, Nicholas Monk, a sturdy Royalist, afterwards made Bishop of Hereford, Charles sent a straightforward letter to the general, judging rightly that plain words were more likely to take effect with him. "If you take my interests to heart," wrote the king, "I will leave the way and manner to you and act as you advise."

For awhile Monk hesitated, then he accepted the situation. He met the king at Dover, and served him faithfully in whatever capacity it was desired of him, assisting in the settlement of Scotland, or going to sea with Prince Rupert, or keeping order in London during those years of panic when first the plague, then the Great Fire produced the wildest terror and confusion. He died "like a Roman general and a soldier, his chamber door open as if it had been a tent, his officers around him," and England mourned an honest, duty-loving man, brave on every point excepting where his wife was concerned, and here he frankly admitted to a "terror of her tongue and passions." The king, who had made him Duke of Albemarle, was present at his funeral, and undertook to pay all the expenses, besides erecting a monument to him. But his memory and gratitude were both short-lived, so that it was left to the second Duke to see that his father's name and fame were duly chronicled in the Abbey, that future generations might know him as "an honest man, who served his country."

Admiral Blake, buried in the Cromwell vault, first went to sea to settle Prince Rupert, who with his tiny fleet was a terror to English ships, and so successful was he, that at last Rupert was thankful to reach France in safety with his one remaining vessel. For reward, Parliament gave him a place in the council of state, and he devoted himself to making the navy more efficient, as he felt sure a war at sea with the Dutch was imminent. He desired to make his sailors men of the same stamp as Cromwell's famous Ironsides, but though he was a great disciplinarian he was very popular, and his men fought for him with a will. The war began with a victory for Blake, which, far from disheartening the Dutch, put them on their mettle, and off Dungeness they compelled the English admiral to retreat on Dover, after a fierce struggle. So elated was Van Tromp at this advantage, that as he passed along the Channel he had a broom fastened to the masthead of his ship to show how he meant to sweep the English from the seas. Blake was sorely grieved at his failure, and for a moment gave way to a depression which led him to entreat Parliament that he might be discharged from "an employment much too great for him." Then his old spirit returned, and he asked "for more men to fight again."

At the battle of Portland the fleets met once more, and it was a terrible fight. Though Blake was badly wounded, the victory lay with the English. He followed up the advantages he had gained, and near the North Foreland took eleven Dutch ships and 1350 prisoners, with a small loss. His wound had by now so affected his health, that he was compelled to return to England, leaving Monk to fight the last great fight, in which Van Tromp was killed, 6000 Dutchmen killed, wounded, or made prisoners, and twenty-six of their ships sunk or taken. However, though the Dutch were settled, it was necessary to assert the English power in the Mediterranean, especially where Spain was concerned, and Blake was the name to conjure with. So, in spite of his painful illness, he set out once more, "the one man able to preserve the commonwealth," Cromwell told him. At Santa Cruz he met the Spanish fleet and conquered it. "To God be all the glory," he wrote in his simply worded despatch which told of this great and popular victory.

Then, feeling his increasing weakness, he asked leave to return home, as "the work was done and the chain complete." But he died at sea, in sight of Plymouth Sound. His funeral in Westminster Abbey was a splendid one, worthy of the splendid service he had rendered to England, Cromwell having ordered that "no pomp was to be spared, so as to encourage all officers to venture their lives." A lasting shame it is indeed that at the Restoration his remains, with those of Deane, one of his admirals, and other Parliamentary officers, were taken from their graves, and buried without any mark of respect in one common grave in St. Margaret's Churchyard. Within the Abbey no monument marks his grave, though he had held for England the supremacy of the seas against vigorous attacks, and had made a reputation for himself "very wonderful, which will never be forgotten in Spain."

The very name of Prince Rupert breathes of romance and adventure. His mother was the fascinating and high-spirited Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I., who had married Frederick, Prince Palatine of the Rhine, and had persuaded him to accept the crown of Bohemia when it was offered to him by the people, who had just wrested their independence from the Emperor of Austria. But his reign at Prague was short, for the Emperor won back his own, and the Queen of Hearts, as Elizabeth was affectionately called, had to escape with her children as best she could, Rupert being but a few weeks old. Her father, afraid of Spain and the Roman Catholic powers, would do nothing to help her, so she would have fared badly had it not been for some faithful English friends, headed by Lord Craven, and the people of Holland, who looked on the king of Bohemia as a sufferer in the Protestant cause, and who therefore gave his family a home besides a generous allowance. Frederick was not only deprived of his new kingdom, but lost also his old possessions, for the Emperor seized his lands on the Rhine and spoiled his palaces. Many a brave attempt he made to win back the Palatinate, always to be baffled, and at last, after the death of his eldest son, he fell into such a low state of health that he died of a fever. Elizabeth was left with three sons and two daughters, Rupert being her idol, for she believed him born to be a hero. And truly he was a boy to be proud of, excelling in everything he undertook, and such a true soldier that, when he was only fourteen, his tutors declared he was worthy to command a regiment. When Charles I. became king, he invited two of his nephews to England, and, with the queen, at once lost his heart to Rupert, who was then about eighteen. He proposed making him a bishop or marrying him to an heiress, but Rupert would hear of neither plan. A soldier's life, with plenty of adventure, was the only life for him.

On the 22nd of August in the year 1642, the Civil War broke out in England; the royal standard was set up at Nottingham, and Prince Rupert was made General of the Royal Horse, he being then but twenty-three. His very presence, brimming over as he was with enthusiasm, vigour, and determination, brought a breath of new life to the men who "could not hold back when the royal standard waved," yet "who did not like the quarrel, and heartily wished the king would yield and consent to what Parliament desired."

But Rupert was quite untouched by the general feeling of depression. The cause or its merits concerned him but little; he knew nothing of the intensity of the struggle, of the many unredressed grievances, of the arbitrary treatment of the nation's representatives in Parliament, of the total disregard for the opinions of the people which had at last made nothing but war possible between two such conflicting parties. He only saw the romantic side, a king called upon to defend himself in his own realm against rebels and traitors, and so heart and soul he espoused his uncle's cause. A cavalier of the cavaliers was Prince Rupert, with his handsome face, long flowing hair, clean-shaved cheeks, beplumed hat, and scarlet cloak, to which he added a very gallant bearing and a lordly manner. Directly he saw the cavalry he was to command, less than a thousand badly mounted untrained men, he dashed away like a whirlwind, to scour the country in search of more. Here, there, and everywhere he came and went like a flash, "in a short time heard of in many places at great distances," to quote a Parliamentary historian, till the very sound of his name had a magic effect. He charmed some, he terrified others, but he did what he would with them all, and in less than a month he rode back to join the court at Shrewsbury, with a picked force of three thousand men, well horsed and equipped. Contrasted with the indecision of Charles, Rupert's high-handed audacity was refreshing, and when the king left him free "to steer his own course," he at once set out for Worcester, which was threatened by Essex and the Parliamentary army.

The Royalist plan was to march on London, a plan which Parliament saw must at all costs be frustrated, so Essex received imperative orders to intercept and check the enemy. At Edgehill, near Banbury, the armies met, and the king, from his position on a hill-top, took view of Essex and his army in the vale.

"I shall give them battle," he said. "God assist the justice of my cause."

Then he called a council of war, at which many points of difference arose between the old soldiers and the young. Of course Rupert was the spokesman for the latter, and this was not the first time he had come into collision with the other generals of the Royalist army. Caution was a word unknown to him, and patience did not exist in his vocabulary. Slow and steady tactics he abhorred; he scorned the enemy, and pleaded vehemently for bold, dashing movements, which were, he said, best suited to the high-spirited soldiers of the king. As usual he prevailed, for he was never one who could be persuaded to change his opinion. His plan of battle was decided on, which meant that the Royal Horse should charge and drive the Roundhead Cavalry from the field, afterwards falling upon the flank of the enemy's infantry, while the Royalist infantry attacked them from the front.

"Then," he added, carried away by the thought of a victory which seemed so obvious, "the day is ours."

When the battle began in earnest Rupert charged with his cavalry, and so magnificently, that it seemed as if all his prophecies were fully justified, for the Roundheads were swept backwards till they broke and fled. But so excited and eager were the horsemen to pursue their flying foes, that they left all the Royalist infantry unprotected, and when Prince Rupert returned with such troops as he could rally from the chase, he found all confusion and uncertainty. Moreover, it was nearly dark, and no one was ready to support Rupert when he entreated that another charge might be made to settle the day. So, after all, it was only half a victory for the king's army, even though he held the road to London, while altogether quite 6000 Englishmen lay dead on the field.

Charles next made a move to Oxford, where he established his Court, for Oxford was almost the only city at that time "wholly devoted to his Majesty," and from here peace negotiations were again entered into, with the usual result that both sides were left still more bitterly opposed to each other. Rupert was charged with attacking two Parliamentary regiments at Brentford during the negotiations when all fighting was suspended. But with all his faults of impatience and impetuosity he was far too honourable a soldier to have willingly taken any unfair advantage of his foe, and it seems clear what he did was at the king's command, or when he was in ignorance of the stage which had been reached in the negotiations. While the king and the main army lay inactive though full of talk at Oxford, Rupert with his cavalry scoured the country round in search of men, horses, food, and forage, and indeed whatever they could lay hands on; for as Parliament held all the money, the king's soldiers had to live off the country as best they could, and wait patiently for pay which rarely came. The Prince, as was his wont, journeyed far and wide, his special object being to extend the king's territory all round Oxford and to take in all the west of England. So we hear of him, sometimes successful and sometimes baffled, at Cirencester, Banbury, Bristol, Gloucester, Birmingham, and Wales, then moving northwards in Leicester and Northamptonshire, till at the peremptory command of Charles he made his way towards York, which was in great danger, and which, "if lost," wrote the king, "would mean little less than the loss of the crown."

He relieved the town with great dash, but was so eager to press on that he would not even wait to speak to the governor, Lord Newcastle, who was very offended at what he considered to be a want of respect. Still more angry was he when he received a message from Rupert commanding him to follow the cavalry without delay. He made no haste to carry out this order, and Rupert, who was in close touch with the enemy, waited for him in vain. The delay cost the Royalists dear, for the battle of Marston Moor which ensued was a complete triumph for the Roundheads. But even then Rupert did not lose heart, as did so many of his party.

"'What will you do?' asked General King of him. 'I will rally my men,' sayes ye Prince. Sayes General King, 'Nowe what will my Lord Newcastle do?' Sayes he, 'I will go to Holland, for all is lost.'"

The defeat of the Northern army was decisive, and Rupert felt the only help lay in Wales and the west of England. But defeat followed defeat. At Naseby the Parliamentary army was again victorious; Bristol surrendered, then Oxford. Nor was this all. Among the king's nearest advisers were many who disliked Prince Rupert, especially Lord Digby, and when the Prince surrendered Bristol, he saw his opportunity for revenge. Very cleverly he worked on Charles to such an extent that he made it appear as if Rupert had weakly capitulated without any justification, and the king, who all too easily forgot the past, signed an order revoking the military authority and position he had bestowed on his nephew. The Prince was sorely hurt and indignant at this want of confidence. "It is Digby that is the cause of all the distraction," he said quietly, and then proceeded to defend his honour and his action, which he did in a manner that commended itself to all fair-minded men.

Having written a full account of the siege, and proved that holding out longer would have only meant a useless sacrifice of valuable lives, he followed this up by going straight to the king at Newark, in spite of having been forbidden to do so by Digby. "I am come, sir," he said, "to render an account of Bristol." At first Charles would not listen, but Rupert insisted on a court-martial, which at last was granted, and which completely cleared him. The king accepted the verdict, but in a half-hearted way, which nettled the Prince, who was already chafing at the unjust accusations made against his honour. A few days later he vigorously fought the battle of another officer who had been dismissed—also the victim of Digby's jealousy.

"No officer," he declared indignantly, "should be deprived of his commission without being able to defend himself against a council of war."

In his anger he applied to Parliament for permission to return to Holland, but when the message came that this would only be given on condition that he did not fight again, he indignantly refused the terms. His loyalty was deeper than his anger when it came to the test.

Ere long, however, the hopeless, weary struggle reached its end. The king threw himself on the mercy of his Scottish army, who for ￡400,000 gave him up to Parliament, and he was made a prisoner. Rupert found his way to France, and later on he joined the Prince of Wales in getting together a small fleet which it was proposed to send to Ireland. He entered enthusiastically into this new career. "The royal cause," he said, "is now at sea." Far and wide on the ocean he was to be heard of with his ships, round Spain, Portugal, in the Mediterranean and the West Indies, near Azores and Cape Verde, seizing wherever he could find them the treasure-ships belonging to the English Parliament. His name was a terror by sea as it had been by land, and the adventurous life was quite according to his liking. With the Restoration he came back to England, and Charles settled on him an allowance of ￡4000 a year, besides giving him an important command in the fleet. But no real scope was allowed him for his powers, and Charles, with all his foreign intrigues, found Rupert too inconveniently straightforward and resolute.

So the end of his life was a disappointment, though when action of one sort was denied him, his eager brain turned to science, chemistry, and inventions. Most of his old friends had vanished; his mother had died many years before, protected and comforted to the last by Lord Craven, who had taken for a motto the words "For God and for Her;" and of his sisters, one was an abbess, the other married to the Elector of Hanover.

He lived alone and quietly at his house in Spring Gardens at the top of Whitehall, and when he died, comparatively young, he was "generally lamented for an honest, brave, true-hearted man, whose life had embraced innumerable toils, and a variety of noble actions by land and by sea."

"It is an infinite pity he is not employed according to his genius," a friend of his mother's had written to her long years before. "He is full of spirit and action, and may be compared to steel, which is the commanding metal if it be rightly tempered and disposed. Whatever he wills, he wills vehemently."

And this criticism, which was true of him up to the day he died, contains the essence of his successes and of his failures.

It was in this vaulted chapel of the Tudor kings that Oliver Cromwell was buried with regal magnificence, his effigy robed in purple, surrounded by a sceptre, a sword, and an imperial crown, being also placed in the Abbey. Many of his friends and followers—Pym, the hero of his early days; Ireton, his son-in-law; Bradshaw, the President of the Court which had tried and condemned the King in Westminster Hall close by—were already by his desire buried in the Abbey, as were most of his immediate family; his old mother, who had always said "she cared nothing for her son's grandeur, and was always afraid when she heard a musket lest he should be shot, and his best loved daughter, Betty, Elizabeth Claypole. The latter was such an attractive girl, and "played the part of princess so naturally, and obliging all persons by her civility," that Cromwell feared lest her very charms should be a snare to her, leading her thoughts from God. His letters to her show all the tenderest side of his strong nature. "I watch thy growth as a Seeker after truth," he once wrote to her. "To be a Seeker is to be of the best sect, next to a Finder. And such a one shall every happy Seeker be at the end."
OLIVER CROMWELL.
OLIVER CROMWELL.

Oliver Cromwell was ever a son of strife, and two years after his death, on the anniversary of the king's execution, his body was dragged from the grave by order of the Restoration Parliament and publicly hung, a similar revenge being meted out to Bradshaw and Ireton, and the "pure-souled patriot John Pym."

So to-day we do not even know where he is buried, and only a plate in the floor of Henry VII.'s chapel, put there by Dean Stanley, shows us where once the great man lay.

For great he surely was, even though narrow, relentless, arbitrary, and overbearing; great, that is to say, if high aims, honest ambitions, dogged courage, and unswerving obedience to what he held to be the Divine voice, count for ought in the standard we require of our public men.