those political spectacles at which the
simple-minded stare, and the politic smile; when, after the most cruel
civil war of words,[411] Cartwright wrote very compliant letters to
his old rival, Whitgift, now Archbishop of Canterbury; while the
Archbishop was pleading with the Queen in favour of the inveterate
Republican, declaring that had Cartwright not so far engaged himself
in the beginning, he thought he would have been, latterly, drawn into
conformity. To clear up this mysterious conduct, we must observe that
Cartwright seems to have graduated his political ambition to the
degree the government touched of weakness or of strength; and besides,
he was now growing prudent as he was growing rich. For it seems that
he who was for scrambling for the Church revenues, while telling the
people of the Apostles, _silver and gold they had none_, was himself
"feeding too fair and fat" for the meagre groaning state of a
pretended reformation. He had early in life studied that part of the
law by which he had learned the marketable price of landed property;
and as the cask still retains its old flavour, this despiser of
bishops was still making the best interest for his money by
land-jobbing.[412]

One of the memorable effects of this attempted innovation was that
continued stream of libels which ran throughout the nation, under the
portentous name of Martin Mar-Prelate.[413] This extraordinary
personage, in his collective form, for he is to be splitted into more
than one, long terrified Church and State. He walked about the kingdom
invisibly, dropping here a libel, and there a proclamation for
sedition; but wherever _Martinism_ was found, _Martin_ was not. He
prided himself in what he calls "Pistling the Bishops." Sometimes he
hints to his pursuers how they may catch him, for he prints, "within
two furlongs of a bouncing priest," or "in Europe;" while he acquaints
his friends, who were so often uneasy for his safety, that "he has
neither wife nor child," and prays "they may not be anxious for him,
for he wishes that his head might not go to the grave in peace."--"I
come, with the rope about my neck, to save you, howsoever it goeth
with me." His press is interrupted, he is silent, and Lambeth seems to
breathe in peace. But he has "a son; nay, five hundred sons!" and
_Martin Junior_ starts up! He inquires

"Where his father is; he who had studied the art of pistle-making? Why
has he been tongue-tied these four or five months? Go