numbers of noble and ignoble were crowded to death, or drowned without the help of an enemy : and as many thousands of the common men were wanting, so few of those principal officers who had attained to a name in war, and by whose courage and experience any war was to be conducted could be found. The effects of this overthrow did not at first appear in whispers, murmurs, and invectives, as the retirement from Cales had done; but produced such a general consternation over the face of the whole nation, as if all the armies of France and Spain were united together, and had covered the land mutinies in the fleet and army, under pretence of their want of pay, (whereof no doubt there was much due to them,) but in truth, out of detestation of the service, and the authority of the duke. The counties throughout the kingdom were so incensed, and their affections poisoned, that they refused to suffer the soldiers to be billeted upon them; by which they often underwent greater inconveniences and mischiefs than they endeavoured to prevent. The endeavour to raise new men for the recruit of the army by pressing (the only method that had ever been practised upon such occasions) found opposition in many places; and the authority by which it was done not submitted to, as illegal ; which produced a resort to martial law, by which many were executed; which raised an asperity in the minds of more than of the common people. And this distemper was so universal, the least spark still meeting with combustible matter enough to make a flame, that all wise men looked upon as the prediction of the destruction and dissolu it tion that would follow. Nor was there a serenity in the countenance of any man, who had age and experience enough to consider things to come; but only in those who wished the destruction of the duke, and thought it could not be purchased at too dear a price, and looked upon this flux of humours as an inevitable way to bring it to pass. And it cannot be denied, that from these two wars so wretchedly entered into, and the circumstances before mentioned, and which flowed from thence, the duke's ruin took its date: and never left pursuing him, till that execrable act upon his person; the malice whereof was contracted by that sole evil spirit of the time, without any partner in the conspiracy. And the venom of that season increased and got vigour, until, from one license to another, it proceeded till the nation was corrupted to that monstrous degree, that it grew satiated, and weary of the government itself; under which it had enjoyed a greater measure of felicity, than any nation was ever possessed of; and which could never be continued to them, but under the same. And as these calamities originally sprung from the inordinate appetite and passion of this young man, under the too much easiness of two indulgent masters, and the concurrence of a thousand other accidents; so that, if he had lived longer, (for he was taken away at the age of thirty-six years,) the observation and experience he had, which had very much improved his understanding, with the greatness of his spirit, and jealousy of his master's honour, (to whom his fidelity was superior to any temptation,) might have repaired many of the inconveniences which he had introduced, and would have prevented the mischiefs which were the natural effects of those causes. There were many stories scattered abroad at that time, of several prophecies and predictions of the duke's untimely and violent death. Amongst the rest there was one, which was upon a better foundation of credit than' usually such discourses are founded upon. There was an officer in the king's wardrobe in Windsor castle, of a good reputation for honesty and discretion, and then about the age of fifty years, or more. This man had, in his youth, been bred in a school, in the parish where sir George Villiers, the father of the duke, lived, and had been much cherished and obliged, in that season of his age, by the said sir George, whom afterwards he never saw. About six months before the miserable end of the duke of Buckingham, about midnight, this man being in his bed at Windsor, where his office was, and in very good health, there appeared to him, on the side of his bed, a man of a very venerable aspect, who drew the curtains of his bed, and, fixing his eyes upon him, asked him, if he knew him. The poor man, half dead with fear and apprehension, being asked the second time, whether he remembered him; and having in that time called to his memory the presence of sir George Villiers, and the very clothes he used to wear, in which at that time he seemed to be habited, he answered, " that he thought him "to be that person." He replied, "he was in the right; that he was the same, and that he expected a service from him; which was, that he 66 should go from him to his son the duke of Buckingham, and tell him, if he did not do somewhat to ingratiate himself to the people, or, at least, to "abate the extreme malice they had against him, I he would be suffered to live a short time." And after this discourse he disappeared; and the poor man, if he had been at all waking, slept very well till morning, when he believed all this to be a dream, and considered it no otherwise. : The next night, or shortly after, the same person appeared to him again in the same place, and about the same time of the night, with an aspect a little more severe than before, and asked him, whether he had done as he had required him and perceiving he had not, gave him very sharp reprehensions; told him," he expected more compliance from “him; and that, if he did not perform his commands, he should enjoy no peace of mind, but "should be always pursued by him;" upon which, he promised him to obey him. But the next morning waking out of a good sleep, though he was exceedingly perplexed with the lively representation of all particulars to his memory, willing still to persuade himself that he had only dreamed; and considered, that he was a person at such a distance from the duke, that he knew not how to find any admission to his presence, much less had any hope to be believed in what he should say. And so with great trouble and unquietness, he spent some time in thinking what he should do, and in the end resolved to do nothing in the matter. he was The same person appeared to him the third time, with a terrible countenance, and bitterly reproaching him for not performing what he had promised to do. The poor man had by this time recovered the courage to tell him, "That in truth he had de"ferred the execution of his commands, upon considering, how difficult a thing it would be for him "to get any access to the duke, having acquaintance with no person about him; and if he could "obtain admission to him, he should never be able "to persuade him, that he was sent in such a manner; but he should at best be thought to be mad, or to be set on and employed, by his own or the "malice of other men, to abuse the duke; and so "he should be sure to be undone." The person replied, as he had done before, "That he should never find rest, till he should perform what he required; and therefore he were better to despatch it that the access to his son was known "to be very easy; and that few men waited long "for him and for the gaining him credit, he "would tell him two or three particulars, which he charged him never to mention to any person "living, but to the duke himself; and he should no sooner hear them, but he would believe all the "rest he should say ;" and so repeating his threats, he left him. 66 66 : And in the morning, the poor man, more confirmed by the last appearance, made his journey to London; where the court then was. He was very well known to sir Ralph Freeman, one of the masters of requests, who had married a lady that was nearly allied to the duke, and was himself well received by him. To him this man went; and though he did not acquaint him with all particulars, he said enough to him to let him see there was somewhat extraordinary in it; and the knowledge he had of the sobriety and discretion of the man |