World Enough and Time

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1: By the Tide of Humber

  2: Cringes and Genuflexions

  3: At the Sign of the Pelican

  4: The World’s Disjointed Axle

  5: The Batteries of Alluring Sense

  6: Green Thoughts

  7: A Gentleman Whose Name is Marvell

  8: A Fine and Private Place

  9: A Good Man For the State to Make Use Of

  10: I Saw Him Dead

  11: His Majesties Happy Return

  12: A Breach of the Peace

  13: Beyond Sea

  14: Peasants and Mechanicks

  15: Sober English Valour

  16: An Idol of State

  17: The Faults and the Person

  18: Arbitrary Malice

  19: Our Mottly Parliament

  20: A Gracious Declaration

  21: Animadversions

  22: Rosemary and Bays

  23: A Shoulder of Mutton

  24: Tinkling Rhyme

  25: The Late Embezzlements

  26: Divines in Mode

  27: This Sickly Time

  28: No Popery

  29: A Death in Bloomsbury

  30: The Island’s Watchful Sentinel

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  Also by Nicholas Murray

  Copyright

  For S.

  My vegetable Love should grow

  Vaster then Empires, and more slow.

  Marvell, therefore, more a man of the century than a Puritan, speaks more clearly and unequivocally with the voice of his literary age than does Milton.

  T.S. Eliot

  Prologue

  He walked in the funeral procession of Oliver Cromwell, guiding the steps of the blind poet, Milton, along the Strand, yet he would later sit in the Restoration Parliament and declare of the English Civil War: ‘The Cause was too good to have been fought for.’ He wrote one of the finest and most subtle political poems in the English language, ostensibly in praise of Cromwell the political strongman, but most memorable for its compassionate gesture towards the executed King Charles I. He worked as a civil servant for the English Republic, and was friendly with the leading revolutionary Puritans of his time, yet he wrote pamphlets at the Restoration, at least one of which gave pleasure to King Charles II.

  For some, there is too much smoothness in these transitions. They seem to hint at opportunism. The truth, perhaps, is that he was, in T.S. Eliot’s phrase, ‘a lukewarm partisan’, consistent in his support for the Good Old Cause, but not as committed a fundamentalist as his friend John Milton. He was something of a fatalist who wrote: ‘’Tis Madness to resist or blame/The force of angry Heavens flame.’ His early lyric poems – in their obliquity, their vulnerable tenderness, their search for some sense of balance or perspective – to some degree embody the fractured consciousness of his time, a revolutionary period in English history that saw another of those decisive moments in the transition from feudalism to modern bourgeois democracy. Drawn towards solitude and the reflective life, he could not ignore the divided society around him, its tensions and conflicts, its calls to public duty. His strangely complex poetic conceits make him one of the more politically interesting, edgy and wholly distinctive poets of the seventeenth-century school labelled the Metaphysicals. The poet Gerard Manley Hopkins called him ‘a most rich and nervous poet’. It was Marvell’s gift to find an aesthetic counterpoint to the troubled society history had placed him in.

  And yet he was so often absent. During the great upheaval of the Civil War he was abroad on a Grand Tour. His life contains many passages of enigma. There are occasional periods of darkness in the record. There is the hint of mystery and intrigue. He remains always a contradiction. He was a Puritan and a sensualist, a private and a public man, a cool and detached lover of solitude and reserve yet passionate in religious and political polemic, an apparent treader of the via media who could be quick-tempered and angry on the floor of the House of Commons. He was a champion of political liberty and religious toleration who was in the grip of a virulent anti-Catholicism. He was a love poet of great tenderness and delicacy yet, in the words of one of his early biographers: ‘He had no wife, and his gallantries are not known.’ He was a celebrant of childhood innocence who was himself childless. He wrote some of the most exquisitely crafted and formally perfect poems in English yet penned many coarse satires that occasionally descend to the level of slapstick.

  The only reliable portrait we possess of Andrew Marvell turns out to be a disappointment. This graceful, witty, complex artist looks out from the heavy frame in the National Portrait Gallery with the plump cheeks and cold demeanour of a discountenanced pork butcher. Scholars have doubted whether even this painting, by an anonymous artist, is genuine. At all points Marvell resists attempts to pin him down.

  Marvell’s current reputation was largely formed in the twentieth century. None of the poems for which he is best known was published in his lifetime. None survives in his own manuscript. In his day he was known as a satirist and a pamphleteer, a champion of political liberty and religious toleration, an incorruptible patriot. This image persisted (with embellishments) throughout the eighteenth century, which had little taste for the Metaphysical style, considering it fantastic and lacking in true poetic decorum. Slowly, the lyric poetry of Marvell made headway in the nineteenth century. A few poems (but not ‘To his Coy Mistress’) found their way into that defining anthology of Victorian taste, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, in 1861. Tennyson was said to have walked up and down declaiming: ‘But at my back I alwaies hear/Time’s winged Charriot hurrying near.’ Charles Lamb praised Marvell’s ‘witty delicacy’. But it was not until the early twentieth century that Marvell was finally launched into his current eminence.

  In 1921, a seminal essay by T.S. Eliot – then enjoying an almost papal critical authority – declared that Marvell speaks in his poetry ‘more clearly and unequivocally with the voice of his literary age than does Milton’. He praised Marvell’s distinctive quality of Metaphysical wit: ‘a tough reasonableness beneath the slight lyric grace’. In the same year he published his essay on ‘The Metaphysical Poets’ with its famous (though not unchallenged) theory, possibly purloined from William Hazlitt,1 of ‘the dissociation of sensibility’, that fatal separation of thought and feeling whose origins Eliot traced to the seventeenth century in the wake of John Donne, for whom a thought ‘was an experience; it modified his sensibility’. A revolution in poetic taste was complete. Perhaps a generation recovering from the profound national trauma of the Great War could finally warm to a poetic sensibility forged out of a similar collective psychic upheaval where fracture and conflict could be explored, if not resolved, aesthetically. After this, it was left to the burghers of Hull, Marvell’s native town, to celebrate his tercentenary the same year with a fleet of municipal trams decorated with Marvellian livery.

  If criticism has taken to Marvell with great energy, biography has lagged behind. Apart from a few brief passages by his contemporaries, the first lives were those of his early editors in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The first – and, astonishingly, the last – fully comprehensive modern biography of Marvell was written in French by Pierre Legouis and published in an edition of only 500 copies in 1928. T
his appeared again, in English, abridged and shorn of its valuable footnotes, in 1965. At the tercentenary of Marvell’s death in 1978 the British Library mounted an exhibition of Marvell’s life and work that incorporated the findings of recent research. The catalogue of that landmark exhibition was published in 1978, a year that also saw a new study of Marvell’s life and writings by John Dixon Hunt. But in spite of the extraordinary volume of twentieth-century Marvell criticism, no major biography has appeared since Legouis and no life of Marvell is currently in print. For too long scholars have insisted that not enough is known about Marvell’s life, but that view is now unsustainable, largely as a result of the quiet and diligent efforts of a small cluster of Marvell scholars whose work I acknowledge at the end of this book and without whose findings I could not have attempted this life.

  Marvell is not an easy man to know, but the attempt to find him is deeply rewarding. ‘He was of middling stature,’ wrote John Aubrey, ‘pretty strong sett, roundish faced, cherry cheek’t, hazell eie, browne haire. He was in his conversation very modest, and of few words … He had not a generall acquaintance.’ The personality behind the poems is as elusive as the man was to his contemporaries, and it cannot be said that this teasing obliquity is without its own appeal. Marvell remains one of the most fascinating figures in seventeenth-century poetry. Yet his life was not lived in total obscurity. For nearly twenty years he was a member of the House of Commons. His speeches and his letters to constituents are on record, and he was witness to some of the most important political events of the century. This makes the life of Marvell of interest not just to the lovers of seventeenth-century poetry but to all with an interest in English history and the shaping of the modern political outlook. Marvell’s intimate yet oblique insight into the contemporary political universe has long been recognised by the more discerning historians who have seen him as a witness of incalculable value. There has long been a need for a biography of Marvell that seeks to integrate the various elements of his life, to regard his Cromwellian period and his long Parliamentary career after the Restoration not as a sad falling off from his exclusive role as a lyric poet but as a dedicated avocation, drawing on his energy, imagination, moral commitment and literary skill in such a way that requires the modern reader to apply the same kind of attention that has been paid to the poetry during the twentieth century. If the aim of biography is to render a life in the most complete way, we do Marvell little service by cordoning off the poet from the politician, the actor in history. To do so would be to isolate and misrepresent something which is actually intrinsic to Marvell’s peculiar genius.

  Marvell’s finest poetry, that which is so immensely popular today, needs no special advocacy. What Eliot wrote in 1921 is still true today: ‘His grave needs neither rose nor rue nor laurel; there is no imaginary justice to be done.’ Profoundly rooted in the circumstances of its time and indelibly marked by one of the crucial passages in English history, Marvell’s poetry can, it hardly needs emphasising, more deeply be understood by a knowledge both of the poet who created it and of his time. But in spite of advances in biographical knowledge, intriguing areas of mystery remain, and his best poetry – which a narrative of the life must sometimes seem to pass by with too little commentary for this very reason – often enjoys a vestigial connection with the definite historical personality. The poems are what bring us back to Marvell; his prose works are now little read. But the clearer picture that we now have of his life, both in poetry and out of it, sheds, I believe, a brighter light on him and deepens his enduring appeal.

  1

  By the Tide of Humber

  … a certain Jack Gentleman that was born of pure parents, and bred among Cabin-boys …

  Samuel Parker1

  In the early part of the seventeenth century the flat peninsula of Holderness in the East Riding of Yorkshire, which extends south-eastwards between the Humber estuary and the North Sea and ends in the wispy curlicue of land known as Spurn Head, might have looked much as it does today. Changes in agricultural practice combined with the ravages of Dutch elm disease have perhaps left it a little more bare and unwooded, but it is still the peculiarly exposed and low-lying tract of country alluded to in the opening couplet of Chaucer’s Somnour’s Tale:

  Lordinges, ther is in Yorkshire, as I gesse,

  A mersshy contree called Holdernesse.

  A later Elizabethan satirist, Joseph Hall, referred in his Virgidemiarum, to ‘the wastes of Holderness’2 and Marvell’s first modern biographer, Pierre Legouis, would find the landscape, in the 1920s, ‘plate et triste’. It is also the landscape of Philip Larkin’s poem, ‘Here’, from The Whitsun Weddings. A saying can still be heard on the lips of local farmers today: ‘The plains of Holderness, where the winds whistle.’

  It was to this bleak spot that the Reverend Andrew Marvell, father of the poet, came on 23 April 1614 to receive, from Sir Christopher Hildyard, the head of the local landed family, the living of the Church of St Germain, Winestead-in-Holderness. It is a small, dumpy church, twelfth-century in origin, half-hidden behind trees, and it was in the rectory, long since demolished, that Andrew Marvell was born on Easter Eve, 1621. His father had previously held the post of minister at Flamborough, where he had arrived from Cambridgeshire in 1610.

  Although the Reverend Andrew Marvell had been born in the Cambridgeshire village of Meldreth, where a half-timbered house called ‘The Marvells’ (later Meldreth Court) was still standing at the end of the nineteenth century, his ancestors came from the nearby village of Shepreth. In the first of many variations of the family’s name, in the sixteenth century ‘Merwell’ was possibly derived, in that country of meers and fens, from ‘meer-well’. In October 1528 a John Marwell left a will that included, for the high altar of All Saints Church, Shepreth, ‘2 bushells of Barley for tythes forgotten’ and also ‘a cowe for my yearly memory’. In October 1531 another equally pious provision to the church was made by a John Marvell, together with four sheep for each of his daughters. And Thomas Mervell in February 1543 continued this tradition of family piety with similar bequests.3 Although these wills appear to indicate a traditional religiosity and Mariolatry, a marked Puritan strain would soon emerge in the Marvells.

  The Reverend Andrew Marvell was sent to the most Puritan of Cambridge colleges at that time, Emmanuel, where he took his MA degree in 1608. It seems likely that the clergyman’s father was one of a group of local residents who refused to pay a forced loan levied by Charles I without Parliamentary authority in 1627. A list of local defaulters, sent to London on 13 October of that year by one of the county Commissioners for the loan, contains the name of an Andrew Marvell, assessed to pay £2. Written against his name are the words ‘Removed into Yorkshire’. This is almost certainly the ‘Andrew Marvell, yeoman’ whose name is in the burial register at Holy Trinity, Hull for 13 April 1628. The poet’s grandfather, who thus died a year after the family moved from Meldreth to Humberside, was patently no Royalist.4 His grandson would later call that loan, and the ecclesiastical backing for it, one of the major causes of the Civil War.5

  Marvell later wrote, in the second part of his prose polemic against the Bishop of Oxford, Samuel Parker, The Rehearsal Transpros’d (1673):

  But as to my Father, he dyed before ever the War broke out, having lived with some measure of reputation, both for Piety and Learning: and he was moreover a Conformist to the established Rites of the Church of England, though I confess none of the most over-running or eager in them.6

  Thomas Fuller, author of The Worthies of England (1622), wrote of the Reverend Andrew Marvell, as a clergyman, ‘for his lifetime he was well beloved. Most facetious in his discourse, yet grave in his carriage, a most excellent preacher, who like a good husband never broached what he had new brewed, but preached what he had pre-studied some competent time before. Insomuch that he was wont to say that he would cross the common proverb which called Saturday the working day, and Munday the holy day of preachers.’7 Abraham de la Prynne called the p
oet’s father: ‘a Verry Learned, Ingenious & Florid Man’.8 All these comments suggest that the liveliness of humour and anti-Establishment temper, coupled to an underlying seriousness, that characterised the son were qualities also present in the father.

  On 22 October 1612, the Reverend Andrew Marvell married Anne Pease at Cherry Burton, near Flamborough. Their first daughter, Anne, was born in 1615, the year after the move to Winestead. Mary was born in 1616, and Elizabeth in 1618. The two elder sisters would later marry into the Hull merchant aristocracy, ensuring good business and parliamentary contacts for their younger brother when he became an MP for the town.

  Andrew was born on 31 March 1621, on Holy Saturday, and he was baptised by his father in the thirteenth-century Winestead font on 5 April. His antagonist of adult years, Bishop Samuel Parker, the source of the more vividly disparaging comments we have about Marvell, would call him ‘an hunger-starved whelp of a country vicar’9 (the charitable epithet emerging from the comfort of a well-endowed Kentish rectory) but there is no evidence of any poverty in the family or meagreness in the living. The boy’s godfather was John Duncalfe of adjoining Patrington, who later left the sixteen-year-old poet ten shillings in his will.10 The parson entered his son’s name in the church register with the words: ‘Andrewe the sonne of Andrew Marvell borne Martij ultimo, being Easter-even, was baptized Apr: 5to.’ Although a respected minister to the small flock of thirty families, the Reverend Andrew Marvell had been summoned by the Archbishop in 1619 ‘for suffering the Winestead chancell to be in ruine, being parson there’.11 He appeared in person but the case was dismissed when it was stated that he had already made the necessary repairs.

  In 1623 a younger brother, John, was born, but he died the following year aged one, ten days before the Reverend Andrew Marvell was appointed to the post of ‘lecturer’ or assistant preacher at Holy Trinity Church in the centre of Hull. After three years spent in the rectory garden of Winestead, Andrew and his family moved to the city with which he would be associated throughout his life.