The political sorcery of 'harmless buffoon' Sir John Harington

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2 days ago

Analysis: The poet, inventor and wannabe statesman played a secret role in controversial 1599 peace talks between Irish and English forces
By Matt Ryan, Newcastle University
For the first few weeks of October 1599, Queen Elizabeth I was furious. The target of her rage? Her godson, Sir John Harington. Poet, inventor and wannabe statesman, Harington had accompanied the Earl of Essex earlier that year on an ill-fated Irish campaign to subdue the forces of Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone. Humiliated on the battlefield, Essex and Harington retreated across the Irish Sea without the surrender they were after.
But they didn't leave entirely empty-handed, and the document they carried back to England was the source of the queen's fury. On September 7th, Essex met with O'Neill on the banks of the river Glyde, at the border between Monaghan and Louth. It was here, without the permission of his monarch, that Essex signed a controversial peace treaty with the Earl of Tyrone.
When word trickled back to Westminster, the queen was not amused, and the fallout would play a crucial part in sending Essex to the executioner's block two years later. Harington fared better and managed to wriggle himself back into his godmother's good graces. Yet, if she'd known about his actions at the meeting with O'Neill, he too might have lost his head.
Harington spent much of his career presenting himself as a harmless buffoon, too fond of 'jestes… sportes and frolicks' to be taken seriously. Relegated to the footnotes of literary history, he is chiefly remembered as a minor figure who never made it as either poet or politician.
But this is exactly what he wanted. A canny operator, Harington's bluff persona obscured a hidden life: he was connected to several prominent Catholic families, circulated dozens of banned books and wrote reams of politically explosive poems which never saw the light of day. These secret endeavours often led Harington into dangerous territory.
On the morning of Essex's meeting with O'Neill, Harington risked his neck with a carefully coded message to an enemy. In a letter to John Carey, justice of the peace for Cambridge, he recounts how Sir William Warren and himself were despatched to begin negotiating the treaty with O'Neill. According to this version of events, Warren and O'Neill set about the discussing the truce, while Harington was assigned babysitting duties.
Nudged out of the important business of the day, the queen's gregarious godson decided to take matters into his own hands and began to read from his translation of Ludovico Ariosto's Orlando Furioso (1591) to the Earl's sons. An epic poem full of sorcerers, fantastical voyages and a loveable flying horse, Harington's reading material must have seemed harmless enough.
But his performance clearly caught the ear. In his letter to Carey, he reveals how O'Neill's attention was drawn toward the contents of his elaborately printed book. Before long, the Earl 'call'd to see it openly.' Here was Harington's chance: granted an audience with the most notorious man in Ireland, the opportunity had arrived for one of his trademark sleights of hand.
The letter to Warren explains how Harington 'turn'd (as it had been by chance) to the beginning of the 45th canto' and launched into his oration. Canto 45 refers to Elizabeth's time as her sister Mary I's prisoner. Here, to supplement the action in the poem, he retells the story of how the young princess 'wrote in the window… with a diamond: much suspected by me, nothing proved can be.'
Harington's choice of verse was dangerously double-edged. On the surface, it demonstrates his commitment to his godmother: she was wrongly imprisoned and overcame adversity. Delivered to a political radical on the banks of the Glyde, however, it carries with it a more explosive message: shifts of fortune can impact anyone, but things will turn eventually.
Placed in context, this passage serves not only as a demonstration of public loyalty to the queen, but also as a dangerous message of hope to an exiled enemy. To his fellow Elizabethans, the 'hidden drift' of Harington's words seems to have gone unnoticed. O'Neill, however, got the hint, and 'solemnly swore his boys should read all the book over to him.'
Harington was always aware of his audience and his cautious handling of words in person and on the page kept his secrets hidden
The brilliance of this moment lies in Harington's carefully managed bait-and-switch. Apparently happy to sit on the sidelines with the kids, he must first have appeared a harmless fop to O'Neill. Feigning nonchalance, this seemingly idle-minded courtier is called to read, thumbs through Orlando and falls as if 'by chance' on what appeared to be a random verse. Then, as if from nowhere, he casually tosses into the Earl's lap a political hand grenade wrapped inside what is revealed to be a judiciously chosen, and carefully coded passage. A masterclass in conjuring, this moment sees Harrington suddenly transformed from children's entertainer into the political sorcerer he was.
Even the letter to Carey is a savvy bit of gamesmanship. While he served in the Elizabethan court, Carey appears to have held Catholic sympathies and was tied up with a network of anti-Elizabethan courtiers. Harington wrote a relentless stream of letters home from Ireland, but never mentioned this episode to any of his other courtly contacts. Harington was always aware of his audience, and his cautious handling of words in person and on the page kept his secrets hidden. On that September morning in 1599, this verbal dexterity likely saved him from his godmother's axeman.