who knew that friendship was nothing of that nature, but rather an alliance for the comprehension of fortunes, should find his mind solacing his wakefulness with the folly of sentiment, he could not understand. Yet, as he fell asleep, it was the text which pushed him into the deeps of slumber.

Chapter II: James I

T

HE great Queen is dead. Sir Robert Carey, her kinsman and creature, had sat booted and spurred watching what he calls "her Christian and comfortable end." Satisfied that the sun had at last really sunk beyond the horizon of the world, he evades the orders of the Council and gallops north in record time to be the first to see the rising of the new sun and earn himself a place in history as a classic example of mean ingratitude.

Sir Robert Cecil breathes more freely. There was no longer need to write letters to James in cipher and by the pens of others. He was going to serve and rule his country in his own name. The Queen's "little elf" was to be the King's "little beagle." The lonely, deformed dwarf, with his wry-neck, crooked back, and splay foot, had within his strange anatomy a heart of oak and a mind of steel. Moreover, he could govern.

Like all Cecils, he was a good patriot, loved his own country first, loved it, indeed, so greatly that he treated it as if it were his own and became the freeholder of broad acres of it. But though he took great rewards, he did honest suit and service for them. He was a pensioner of Spain but he served England. The Spaniards paid their tribute to Robertus Diabolus, but the devil cheated them of their dues, and he used his Spanish friends as spy-alls and whisperers in their own Court.

This man was the patron and master of young Overbury, who thus had the vantage of being reared in the high school of diplomacy. To-day his prospects were of the brightest. He was to be a servant of the Secretary.

Like many another clever, pushing young man, he looked to the new reign as an opportunity for place and advancement. Cecil used him for a time, found him too earnest on his own behalf, perhaps even feared his eager abilities and ambition, and after a few months sent him on his travels to France and the Low Countries, to his bitter chagrin and disappointment. But for the moment he was full of high hopes, showing them too eagerly, perhaps, before his master, as he busied himself at Theobalds preparing for the arrival of the King.

His Majesty set out from Edinburgh on April 5th, 1603, and started on his royal progress with a magnificence to which he had hitherto been a stranger. At every halt there was feasting, hunting, and the cheering of loyal subjects, and by May 3rd the King was within call of London and had reached Sir Robert Cecil's princely manor of Theobalds, near Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire.

The house stood back from the common street-way by the space of a furlong, and an avenue of young elms and ash trees led from the highway to the first court. An incredible concourse of people had gathered from all the home counties to see and cheer their King, and when they caught sight of the procession of the Sheriff, with his one hundred and fifty followers in their particoloured red and yellow hats and feathers, and heard the call of the trumpets, the whole country-side left work and horses and carts to shift for themselves and rushed towards Theobalds, throwing their hats in the air and cheering uproariously.

What they cheered and applauded was a King endowed with divine rights. But all that they saw in fact was an uncouth man lolling on an ambling steed which he scarcely attempted to manage. For it was a royal maxim that " a horse never stumbled but when he was reined." The strange creature was wrapped in swaddling garments, doublets, and breeches, heavily quilted to save his coward carcase from the stiletto of which he lived in constant fear. Their new King was indeed a very ordinary human

being, corpulent, of middle stature, inclined to obesity, with a full, ruddy face with light brown hair tinged with grey. His large eyes were for ever rolling at any stranger who came into his presence, insomuch that the timid feared him and were put out of countenance by his ill manners. His beard was thin. His tongue, too large for his mouth, made him speak in mumbling fashion, and when he ate and drank, which he did gluttonously, the wine rolled out of each side of his mouth into the cup. Yet he had vanity, and was proud of his soft skin—“ as soft as taffeta sarsnet," says an old writerand to preserve his hands never washed them, but only rubbed his fingers' ends slightly with the wet end of a napkin.

His legs were weak from ill-nursing as a child, and this he made an excuse for leaning upon the shoulder of some courtier as he slouched about the room. Nor was he ever without a favourite, some young fellow chosen, as Clarendon tells us, " for the comeliness of his person, to act as prop and support, and through whom the King's good graces must be sought.

The Gaveston of the hour was that memorable simpleton, Philip Herbert, at that time a youth of twenty. He had fine eyes, flowing locks, a handsome mien, and a knowledge of horses, dogs, and hawks that appealed to his master's love of the chase. He rode by the King's side as they made their progress through the country and gratified the mob by his splendid presence.

Sir Robert Cecil stood at the entrance of the courtyard to welcome the King to Theobalds. Those who had been faithful to the Scots succession in the last reign were with him to claim their reward, and it was here that they foreclosed and entered into possession of the places they had marked down for themselves. Lord Henry Howard and his nephew, Thomas, stood on each hand of Sir Robert. These two were to be Privy Councillors, and the latter that day became the King's Lord Chamberlain. They had ridden to Hertfordshire

with their retainers in great state, and the meeting of these three with the King announced to the world that Cecil and the Howards were working together and the government of the country was in their hands. Cecil was to be Earl of Salisbury, Henry Howard Earl of Northampton, and Thomas Howard, father of the beautiful Frances, Earl of Suffolk. Thomas Overbury glowed at the thought that he was standing within the magic circle of the great ones of the earth. That this meeting of the rulers of kingdoms presaged his ruin and doom, no one could foresee. Certainly the stars had not disclosed it to the victim. Ambition was to him a high and glorious passion. He could not conceive himself as a pawn in the game of life, to be sacrificed by a callous player. He looked on these men before him as coming patrons of a youth of exceptional knowledge and discretion. For the moment he was a contented onlooker at a great hour in the world's history, in which he was to play a worthy part in the future.

As the King's horse stopped at the outer side of the courtyard, before the entrance doors, Philip Herbert threw himself lightly from his handsome chestnut mare and helped the King to alight, which he did with as much grace as the business would permit. The Lords knelt, and were motioned by the King to rise. Then His Majesty, throwing his arm caressingly round young Philip's neck, and preceded by Sir Robert Cecil, who walked backwards before him, and hailed by a fanfare of trumpets, waddled slowly up the stairs of the entrance, and came for the first time into that palace of Theobalds which he was destined to covet and enjoy at the expense of subservience to its astute owner.

Whilst the greasy citizens are being regaled without the curtilage of the palace on beef, mutton, veal, bread, and beer, and drinking the health of Cecil, their host, and his royal guest, the King is ambling round the gardens in the meanders among the bays and rosemary, supported by young Philip, and talking State affairs