36 



this Mr. Gibson. My Lord Fairfax, of Gilling Castle, came in the 

 afternoon, but he was speechless when he came. 



I have ordered the corpse to be embalmed and carried to Helmsley 

 Castle, and there to remain till my Lady Duchess her pleasure shall be 

 known. There must be speedy care taken, for there is nothing here but 

 confusion not to be expressed. Though his stewards have received 

 vast sums there is not as much as one farthing, as they tell me, for 

 defraying the least expense, but I have ordered his intestines to be 

 buried at Helmsley, where his body is to remain until further orders. 



Being the nearest kinsman upon the place, I have taken the liberty 

 to give His Majesty an account of his death, and have sent his George 

 and blue ribbon, to be disposed of as His Majesty shall think fit. I 

 have addressed under cover to my Lord President, to whom I beg you 

 would carry the bearer the minute he arrives. 



So now that I have given your Lordship this particular account 

 of everything, I have nothing more to do, but to assure your Lordship 

 that I am, 



My Lord, your Lordship's most assured friend and humble servant, 



ARRAN. 



This letter is full of pathos, and makes patent that 

 Buckingham was not friendless at the end, and that, as no 

 one denies, Pope exaggerated this last scene in his satire. 

 The poet forgot or disregarded the command De mortuis 

 nil nisi bonum. In his lines pregnant with spleen, cruel 

 in their exaggeration, more cruel still in their truth at a 

 time when most people would have sympathised. These 

 lines have done more in latter years to damn the reputation 

 of George Villiers than all historical fact. They are forcible, 

 it is true, and perhaps never was poet or writer more success- 

 ful in producing the effect he desired. The contrast is the 

 attainment of poetical comparison, the licence which is 

 allowed to the writer of verse is abused to a degree un- 

 paralleled in any other lines of equal fame. The lines run : — 



Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! 

 And see, what comfort it affords our end. 

 In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, 

 The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung. 

 On once a flock bed, but repaired with straw, 

 With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw, 

 The George and Garter dangling from that bed 

 Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, 

 Great Villiers lies — alas ! how chang'd from him, 



