You are a bit More than a mere Sprat;  a Sprat, let us Posit,  of somewhere near twenty years; the Second Son of a Knight who hath Pickled one-notable Gifts as a Soldier in Drink and Dissipated the Fortune of your Ancient Family by complete Contempt for the Elemental principles of Economy. You have been tossed, Sprat-like, into the Pan of Court, there to learn the Arts of the Courtier, and by Fawning, and Flattery, and the myriad Obsequoisnessess that while Natural to the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the Moor, and the Russian, are an Offense to any free-born Englishman;  but through which (it is hoped) such Crumbs will be swept from the Royal Table as will permit Reconstruction of the Lost Fortune.

You are Singularly unsuited for such an Endeavour; indeed, you are the proverbial Square Peg, belabored into a Round Hole; a Hole crafted of Court-Ceremonialism that might bring Glaze the eyes of Philip of Spain; Laudian Ceremonialism within the Church, which with its Memorized Prayers, its Prayer-Books and bowings, not simply tendeth, but races slobbering, like a Dog, toward Rome, and the constraining of the Freedom we have in Christ; and of Frenchmen, and Scots, and Divers Courtiers whose Charm to the King resideth in how not English they are.

You are learning the Art of Gentleman-Usher, and to Serve the King at Table. It is a great and Dreadful Responsibility. There is the Washing of the Hands prior to Entering the King’s Chamber; the Uncovering of Heads, while those blessed with a Seat at his Table wash; the Bowl of Sack, with which those who have just Washed are Toasted; the Placing of the Towel on the Shoulder; the Entering of the Presence Chamber; the Three profound Bows, at Three different Parts of the Chamber; after which you Approach the King’s Board. You are Tasked with ensuring that no man comes near the King’s Chair, nor stands under the Cloth of State, nor sets Foot on the King’s Carpet; and when the King departeth his Chamber, it is your Role to Raise above the Royal Head the Royal Towel used for his Royal Wash. This is to teach Reverence for the Body of the King, and Charles, having seen it Done in Spain (where, as is known, Philip III died of Heat, because the Courtier responsible for the Maintenance of Charcoal Fires was not there to Remove the Offending Pan) brought it to England in lieu of the Princess.

It is fortunately a Large court, with many Second Sons of Impecunious Knights jousting for the Opportunity to perform this and even greater Nonsense, so it is a Simple matter to Creep away to the Remote rooms of the Palace of Whitehall, far from the Ridiculous rituals, the Foreign Languages, the Papistical ceremonies,  the empty Discourse on the paintings of Van Dyck, or the Sinister discussions on Kingship, such as, ‘It is not Necessary that the King speak, or Do; merely that he Be.’ Here, Far from the incessant Yakking, you enjoy a Pipe; a Flagon of Beer (Rustick entertainments that Invite the Contempt of Court, and the Royal Frown of Disapproval); exact small Revenges on your Tormentors through the Scribbling of Doggerel; and, God having Tested you with the Errors and Idolatries of the Laudian Ritual, study Scripture, and the Sermons of the Godly Divines whom it hath ever been the Policy of James and Charles to harry from the Land.

One fine Afternoon, a Scuttling catches your Ear; looking up, you observe a Fat Mouse parading Insouciantly across the Floor. This Court needeth a Cat, you think; a with a taste for Papists, and Foreigners, and Scotsmen, and Fools; that is, a good English Cat, and this Pleasant Image projected on your Sense, you lob your Flagon at the Rodent. It you miss, but a small Table you strike; Tumbling, its Corner catcheth a Drape which covers a monstrous Canvas. The Drape falls; the canvas is Revealed. You stand, amazed; for at that Moment, all makes Sense. The Canvas is a Backdrop, a Scenery, for one of the Masques so beloved by the King and his Court. This One, like the Others, was painted by Mr Inigo Jones, the Architect.

It showeth a Serene sky, with Zephyrs in the middle Distance breathing a gentle Gale, of landscape of Cornfields, of Pleasant trees. It is  a most Pleasant and Beguiling Scene. It is very like what one may See, in England, in perhaps Buckinghamshire, near the Chilterns.

Yet it is Unlike England, and indeed completely in Opposition: for this canvas showeth Not the England that is, the England that is made of the Generations that have Lived and Died here, Tilling these fields, Walking and Riding among these parks, who have Tended and Stewarded this Beauty. No, this Canvas shows not England, but the Design Charles would Impose up it; his Grand Scheme, an England with He at its Center, and with Order flowing from him and Imposed on the Country, which requireth the Destruction of the Order that we English have ourselves Discovered, Absent-Mindedly and without a Scheme, a Design, a Conceit, in our generations on this land.

It is all clear now: not merely the Ship-Money and similar schemes of Taxation; the new and Onerous Duties assigned to Sheriffs, and Justices of the Peace, that take no Regard, except in Contempt, to the Methods that have evolved Naturally and work Best, so that while how a thing is Done in Yorkshire may be different from Suffolk and again from Smithfields in London, the way Particular to each worketh Best for that Particularity; the court of Star-Chamber,  to which those who Object to his Ordering of things are Dragged, and Tried, and sentenced to Lashes, and Branding, and the Fleet.

And it should not be forgotten, what you have heard whispered in Court: Charles hath never Forgiven the English for applauding the ignonimous Collapse of his Suit to the Infanta, when bonfires were lit and Bells rung when he returned to England without the Spanish bride of his dreams; nor hath he forgiven the English for killing his closest of friends Buckingham, that curse upon the land, whose expungement from it was likewise celebrated with bonfire and bell. England loves me not, and loves not that which I love. I will therefore make an England that is worthy of me, and worthy of my love

The Spirit blows where it Will, Christ said; yet Charles would that the Spirit blow only though his Agency, and his Will, and his Word. In this he is like the Roman Antichrist, like Spain the Sword of Rome. Because the great Secret revealed in this Picture of Arcadian Loveliness is that he Hates England. He Hateth England as she was and as she Is; she loves only that England of his Fatal Conceit.