THE COURT.
“And when he was beat,
He still made his retreat
To his Clevelands, his Nells, and his Carwells.”
MARVELL’S _Ballad on the Lord Mayor and Aldermen_.
The Court of Charles II. was not unlike that of Comus, for drunkenness
and vice reigned supreme in both. Pepys’s “Diary” forms a valuable
antidote to the Grammont “Memoirs,” because in the latter work the
pictures are drawn in rose colour, while in the former we see the
squalid poverty that accompanied the wasteful extravagance. In the
courts of most of our sovereigns statesmen have borne an important
part, but at the Restoration the court was formed of wits and beautiful
women only. Then statesmen moved in the outer circles, and were laughed
at by those who dwelt in the inner ones. Grammont relates that the
Earl of Arlington was one day offering his humble services and best
advice to Miss Stewart, to assist her in conducting herself as King’s
mistress, a situation “to which it had pleased God and her virtue to
raise her!” He had only just begun his speech, “when she recollected
that he was at the head of those whom the Duke of Buckingham used
to mimic; and as his presence and his language exactly revived the
ridiculous ideas that had been given her of him, she could not forbear
bursting out into a fit of laughter in his face, so much the more
violent as she had for a long time struggled to suppress it.” It is not
to be supposed that Pepys could know much of the inner circle of the
court, but still there was much gossip about those who composed it, and
he sets down many tales in his “Diary” respecting the doings of the too
celebrated ladies. Several of the stories which were supposed to have
owed much to the lively imaginations of Counts Hamilton and Grammont,
are corroborated by Pepys.[244] The wild frolic of Miss Jennings and
Miss Price, to which allusion will be made later on in this chapter,
is not overlooked by Pepys.[245] Miss Jennings was not singular in her
freak, and Bishop Burnet relates that about the year 1668, the King
and Queen and all the court went about disguised in sedan chairs to
houses where they were not known. On one occasion the Queen’s chairmen,
not knowing who she was, left her alone, and she had to get back to
Whitehall as best she could in a hackney coach or in a cart. The
same masqueradings went on in the country as in town; and in 1670 the
Queen, the Duchess of Richmond, the Duchess of Buckingham, and some
others, disguised themselves as country lasses, in red petticoats,
waistcoats, &c., in order to visit the fair at Audley End. The grand
ladies and their companions overacted their parts, and were soon
discovered, so that they were glad to escape as best they could from
the crowd that gathered round them.
[Illustration: Frances Jennings, Duchess of Tyrconnel]
Pepys seems to have held the vulgar opinion that the great people
ought to converse in a more distinguished tone than ordinary mortals,
and he constantly remarks on the commonplace character of the King’s
talk. On October 26th, 1664, there was a launch at Woolwich, attended
by the King and his Court, which is fully described by our Diarist,
who remarks: “But Lord! the sorry talke and discourse among the great
courtiers round about him, without any reverence in the world, but so
much disorder. By and by the Queene comes and her Mayds of Honour; one
whereof Mʳˢ. Boynton, and the Duchesse of Buckingham had been very
sicke coming by water in the barge (the water being very rough); but
what silly sport they made with them in very common terms, _methought
was very poor and below what people think these great people say and
do_.”
On the 15th of November, 1666, there was a grand ball at court, that
day being the Queen’s birthday; and Pepys and his wife went to see the
dancing, which they found very tiresome. The ladies, however, were
pleasant to look upon, and their dresses very rich; so we read in the
“Diary:” “Away home with my wife, between displeased with the dull
dancing and satisfied with the clothes and persons.”
These ladies owe much of their fame to the series of portraits which
still exists to show a later age the outward forms that charmed the
men of two centuries ago. We are told in the Grammont “Memoirs” that,
“the Duchess of York being desirous of having the portraits of the
handsomest persons at court, Lely painted them, and employed all
his skill in the performance; nor could he ever exert himself upon
more beautiful subjects. Every picture appeared a masterpiece; and
that of Miss Hamilton appeared the highest finished: Lely himself
acknowledged that he had drawn it with a particular pleasure.” Next
to the deshabille, in which most of these ladies are arranged, the
most noticeable feature in these portraits is the soft, sleepy eye--a
supposed beauty that was attained to after a considerable amount of
practice:--
“---- on the animated canvas stole
The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.”
Mrs. Hyde, the first wife of Henry Hyde, afterwards second Earl of
Clarendon, had by long practice given such a languishing tenderness to
her looks, that we are told by Hamilton, “she never opened her eyes but
like a Chinese.” In spite of all this softness, many of these women
were in the habit of swearing “good mouth-filling oaths”--a practice
thoroughly in character with the general grossness of manners and
language at Charles’s court. When looking at these portraits of the
beauties, we must not think of them all as the mistresses of the King
and Duke of York, for some remained pure in this corrupt atmosphere.
“La belle Hamilton” was one of these, and the description both of her
mind and person by her husband, the Count de Grammont, forms such an
exquisite portrait in words that, although well known, I venture to
transfer it to my pages:--“Miss Hamilton was at the happy age when
the charms of the fair sex begin to bloom; she had the finest shape,
the loveliest neck, and most beautiful arms in the world; she was
majestic and graceful in all her movements; and she was the original
after which all the ladies copied in their taste and air of dress.
Her forehead was open, white, and smooth; her hair was well set, and
fell with ease into that natural order which it is so difficult to
imitate. Her complexion was possessed of a certain freshness, not to
be equalled by borrowed colours: her eyes were not large, but they
were lively, and capable of expressing whatever she pleased: her mouth
was full of graces, and her contour uncommonly perfect: nor was her
nose, which was small, delicate, and turned up, the least ornament of
so lovely a face. In fine, her air, her carriage, and the numberless
graces dispersed over her whole person, made the Chevalier de Grammont
not doubt but that she was possessed of every other qualification. Her
mind was a proper companion for such a form: she did not endeavour to
shine in conversation by those sprightly sallies which only puzzle;
and with still greater care she avoided that affected solemnity in
her discourse, which produces stupidity; but without any eagerness
to talk, she just said what she ought, and no more. She had an
admirable discernment in distinguishing between solid and false wit;
and far from making an ostentatious display of her abilities, she
was reserved, though very just in her decisions: her sentiments were
always noble, and even lofty to the highest extent, when there was
occasion; nevertheless, she was less prepossessed with her own merit
than is usually the case with those who have so much. Formed as we have
described, she could not fail of commanding love; but so far was she
from courting it, that she was scrupulously nice with respect to those
whose merit might entitle them to form any pretensions to her.”
On the 25th of July, 1666, Pepys went to Whitehall to see the King at
dinner, and thought how little he should care to have people crowding
about him as they were round his Majesty. He adds, “Among other things
it astonished me to see my Lord Barkeshire waiting at table, and
serving the King drink, in that dirty pickle as I never saw man in my
life.”
There is a good story told of Grammont which is _apropos_ of the above.
One day, when the King dined in state, he made the Count remark that he
was served upon the knee, a mark of respect not common at other courts.
“I thank your Majesty for the explanation,” answered Grammont; “I
thought they were begging pardon for giving you so bad a dinner.”
I have already remarked on the poverty that went hand-in-hand with
extravagance, and this is well illustrated by one or two entries in
the “Diary.” In April, 1667,[246] the King was vexed to find no paper
laid for him at the Council table. Sir Richard Browne called Wooly, the
person who provided the paper, to explain the reason of the neglect.
He told his Majesty that he was but a poor man, and was already out of
pocket _£_400 or _£_500, which was as much as he was worth; and that
he could not provide it any longer without money, not having received
a penny since the King’s coming in. Evelyn corroborated this, and told
Pepys that several of the menial servants of the court lacked bread,
and had not received a farthing of wages since the Restoration.[247]
Shortly afterwards the King was found to want personal linen, and Mr.
Ashburnham, one of the Grooms of the Bedchamber, rated the wardrobe-man
very severely for this neglect. Mr. Townsend pleaded that he wanted
money, and owed the linendraper _£_5,000. He further told Pepys that
the grooms took away the King’s linen at the end of the quarter as
their fee, whether he could get more or not.[248] Hence the great want.
Charles II. was one of the most worthless of our monarchs, and the most
beloved. The responsibility of all evils, troubles, or crimes, was laid
upon his advisers, his mistresses, and anyone but upon himself, by his
loving subjects. His readiness of access, and good-humoured freedom of
manner charmed all who came in contact with him. “Unthinkingness” was
said by Halifax to be one of his characteristics, and Rochester uses
the expression, “Unthinking Charles;” yet this was more an apparent
than a real characteristic. Like most indolent men, he tried to get his
own way, and he was one of the earliest to find out that if the people
are allowed their way when they are in earnest, they will let their
governors do as they wish at other times. It has been said that the
strongest resolve he ever formed was a determination not to go on his
travels again; therefore he never opposed a strong popular movement. He
sought, however, every opportunity of turning the movement to his own
advantage, if there were any possibility of doing so.
Charles was fit to be the head of his court, for he was among the
wittiest there. He was a good teller of a story, and fond of exhibiting
his talent. Walpole proposed to make a collection of his witty sayings,
and Peter Cunningham carried out this idea in “The Story of Nell Gwyn.”
Curiously enough, Pepys held a very poor opinion of the King’s power
in this respect. On one occasion he says Charles’s stories were good,
although “he tells them but meanly.”[249] At another time he alludes to
“the silly discourse of the King.”[250]
The Diarist must surely have been prejudiced, for the general opinion
on this point, and the stories that have come down to us, are against
him. That was a happy distinction made by Charles when he said of
Godolphin, then a page at court, that he was never _in_ the way, and
never _out_ of the way. Of the King’s natural abilities there can be no
doubt. He took an intelligent interest in the formation of the Royal
Society, and passed many hours in his own laboratory. Pepys visited
this place on January 15th, 1668–69, and was much pleased with it. He
saw there “a great many chymical glasses and things, but understood
none of them.”
The King was fond of seeing and making dissections,[251] and the very
month he died he was engaged in some experiments on the production of
mercury.
His greatest fault was want of faith, for he believed neither in the
honour of man nor the virtue of woman; and, as a consequence, he
lived down to his debased views. His religion always sat lightly upon
him, but such as it was it was not that of a Protestant. James II.
told Pepys, in a private conversation, that Charles had been a Roman
Catholic some long time before his death.[252]
Charles’s relations with women were singularly heartless. His conduct
towards his wife was abominable, although when in her company he was
usually polite. On the occasion of her serious illness, when she was
like to die, he conjured her to live for his sake, and Grammont hints
that he was disappointed when she took him at his word.
The Queen, although not beautiful, was pleasing in appearance, and
the King appears to have been satisfied with her when she arrived in
England, for he wrote to Clarendon, that her eyes were excellent and
her voice agreeable, adding, “If I have any skill in physiognomy,
which I think I have, she must be as good a woman as ever was born.” A
few days after he wrote to the Chancellor in these words, “My brother
will tell you of all that passes here, which I hope will be to your
satisfaction. I am sure ’tis so much to mine that I cannot easily tell
you how happy I think myself, and I must be the worst man living (which
I hope I am not) if I be not a good husband. I am confident never two
humors were better fitted together than ours are.”[253] Yet shortly
after writing thus, he thrust his abandoned mistress, Lady Castlemaine,
upon this virtuous wife; so that from his own mouth we can condemn
him. Pepys reports a sharp answer (“a wipe,” he calls it) which the
Queen made to the favourite. Lady Castlemaine came in and found the
Queen under the dresser’s hand, which she had been for a long time. “I
wonder your Majesty,” says she, “can have the patience to sit so long
adressing?”--“I have so much reason to use patience,” says the Queen,
“that I can very well bear with it.”[254]
Clarendon was charged with choosing Katherine because he knew that she
could not bear children to the King, but this was a most foul calumny.
She was naturally most anxious to be a mother, and in her delirium she
fancied that she had given birth to a boy, but was troubled because
he was ugly. The King, being by, said, “No, it is a very pretty boy.”
“Nay,” says she, “if it be like you it is a fine boy indeed, and I
would be very well pleased with it.”[255]
The Duke of York was pre-eminently a man of business, and there remains
little to be added here to what has been already said in the chapter on
the Navy. He did not shine at Court, and his conduct there is amusingly
described in the Grammont “Memoirs,” _apropos_ of his fancy for “la
belle Hamilton:”--“As hunting was his favourite diversion, that sport
employed him one part of the day, and he came home generally much
fatigued; but Miss Hamilton’s presence revived him, when he found her
either with the Queen or the Duchess. There it was that, not daring
to tell her what lay heavy on his heart, he entertained her with what
he had in his head: telling her miracles of the cunning of foxes and
the mettle of horses; giving her accounts of broken legs and arms,
dislocated shoulders and other curious and entertaining adventures;
after which, his eyes told her the rest, till such time as sleep
interrupted their conversation; for these tender interpreters could not
help sometimes composing themselves in the midst of their ogling.”
It is not necessary to enter fully into the history of the Duke’s
amours, but one curious incident in his life may be noticed here.
In the year 1673 he had a passion for Susan, Lady Bellasys, widow
of Sir Henry Bellasys, K.B. (who fell in a foolish duel with Tom
Porter,[256]), and, although she was a Protestant, he gave her a
promise of marriage, after having tried in vain to convert her to the
Roman Catholic faith. When her father-in-law, John, Lord Bellasys, who
was a Roman Catholic, heard of this, he, fearing that she would convert
the Duke, and thus spoil all hope of introducing the Roman Catholic
religion into England, went to the King and told him of his brother’s
matrimonial intentions. Charles thereupon prohibited the marriage.[257]
After James came to the throne, his daughter Mary, Princess of Orange,
expressed a desire through Monsieur d’Alberville to know the chief
motives of his conversion; and in reply he wrote her a full account
of the circumstances that led to it. He tells her that he was bred a
strict Church of England man, “And I was so zealous that way, that
when the Queen my mother designed to bring up my brother, the Duke
of Gloucester, a Catholic, I, preserving still the respect due to
her, did my part to keep him steady to his first principles; and, as
young people often do, I made it a point of honour to stick to what
we had been educated in, without examining whether we were right or
wrong.”[258]
Anne Hyde, then in the household of the Princess of Orange, was
contracted to the Duke of York on November 24th, 1659, and was
secretly married to him at Worcester House, on September 3rd,
1660. There is a good story told by Locke, in his “Memoirs of Lord
Shaftesbury,” which shows how shrewd that nobleman was: “Soon after
the Restoration the Earl of Southampton and Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper,
having dined together at the Chancellor’s, as they were returning home
Sir Anthony said to my Lord Southampton, ‘Yonder Mrs. Anne Hyde is
certainly married to one of the Brothers.’ The Earl, who was a friend
to the Chancellor, treated this as a chimæra, and asked him how so wild
a fancy could get into his head. ‘Assure yourself’ (replied he) ‘it is
so. A concealed respect (however suppressed) showed itself so plainly
in the looks, voice, and manner wherewith her mother carved to her, or
offered her of every dish, that it is impossible but it must be so.’
My Lord Southampton, who thought it a groundless conceit then, was
not long after convinced, by the Duke of York’s owning her, that Lord
Ashley was no bad guesser.”[259]
An infamous conspiracy was formed by Sir Charles Berkeley and others to
induce the Duke to deny his marriage by accusing his wife of immoral
conduct. Although the Duke in the end acted honourably by her, he
did not dismiss the miscreants who lied in the basest manner. There
seems reason to believe that a few years afterwards she did carry on
an intrigue with Henry Sidney, afterwards Earl of Romney, and Pepys
alludes to the rumours respecting this on November 17th, 1665, January
9th, 1665–6, and October 15th, 1666. Peter Cunningham sums up the
evidence on the point as follows:--“There cannot, I think, be any doubt
of the intrigue of the Duchess of York (Anne Hyde) with Harry Sidney,
afterwards Earl of Romney, brother of Algernon Sidney and of Waller’s
Sacharissa. See on what testimony it rests. Hamilton more than hints
at it; Burnet is very pointed about it in his History; Reresby just
mentions and Pepys refers to it in three distinct entries and on three
different authorities.”[260]
Pepys tells us that the Duchess sat at her husband’s council, and
interfered with business,[261] and the fact that she was the master
was generally acknowledged. On one occasion the King called his
brother “Tom Otter,” alluding to the henpecked husband in Ben Jonson’s
“Epicene, or the Silent Woman.” Tom Killegrew threw the sarcasm back
upon the King with telling effect, by saying, “Sir, pray which is the
best for a man to be, a Tom Otter to his wife or to his mistress?”[262]
it being well known that Charles was the slave of Lady Castlemaine.
[Illustration: Barbara Villiers, Duchess of Cleveland]
The Duchess possessed great abilities, and readily adapted herself
to her exalted position. Burnet says of her that she “was a very
extraordinary woman. She had great knowledge, and a lively sense of
things. She understood what belonged to a princess, and took state upon
her rather too much.”
The next personage of importance at court was Mrs. Palmer, afterwards
Countess of Castlemaine and Duchess of Cleveland, who figures so
largely in the “Diary.” It is greatly to the credit of Lords Clarendon
and Southampton that they would have nothing to do with the King’s
favourite. Burnet tells us that the former would let nothing pass the
Great Seal in which she was named, and the latter would never suffer
her name to appear in the Treasury books. The King usually held a court
at his mistress’s lodgings before going to church, and his ministers
made their applications there, but Clarendon and Southampton were never
to be seen in her rooms.
Clarendon opposed her admission to the post of Lady of the Bedchamber
to the Queen, and would not allow his wife to visit her; in consequence
he made an implacable enemy who did not rest until she had compassed
his disgrace.
On July 26th, 1662, Pepys heard that when the mistress’s name was
presented by the King to his wife, the Queen pricked it out of the
list. On February 23rd, 1662–63, he heard that the King had given to
Lady Castlemaine all the Christmas presents made him by the peers; and
that at a court ball she was much richer in jewels than the Queen and
Duchess both together. Although our Diarist was a devoted admirer of
the lady, he is forced to call this “a most abominable thing.”
Lady Castlemaine was a woman of the most abandoned profligacy, and,
moreover, of bad manners as well as bad morals. In the Grammont
“Memoirs” she is described as “disagreeable from the unpolished state
of her manners, her ill-timed pride, her uneven temper and extravagant
humours.” Pepys knew her only in the distance, and was infatuated with
her beauty; at one time he fills his eyes with her, which much pleases
him,[263] and at another he “gluts himself with looking at her.”[264]
The sight of her at any public place was quite sufficient to give him
pleasure, whatever the entertainment might be, and his admiration was
extended to everything which was in any way connected with the King’s
mistress.
The greatest beauty at the court of Charles II. was Frances Stuart,
who was most assiduously followed by the King. She was the exact
opposite of Lady Castlemaine, being as much a lady as her rival was
ill-mannered, and as foolish as the other was clever. Her portrait
is admirably painted in the Grammont “Memoirs,” thus:--“She was
childish in her behaviour and laughed at everything, and her taste
for frivolous amusements, though unaffected, was only allowable in
a girl about twelve or thirteen years old. A child however she was
in every other respect, except playing with a doll: blind man’s buff
was her most favourite amusement: she was building castles of cards,
while the deepest play was going on in her apartments, where you saw
her surrounded by eager courtiers, who handed her the cards, or young
architects, who endeavoured to imitate her.”
[Illustration: Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond]
Her relations with the King were of a very risky character, and scandal
made very free with her good fame. Pepys took it for granted after
hearing the common report that she was the King’s mistress;[265] yet
Evelyn told him on April 26th, 1667, that up to the time of her leaving
the court to be married there was not a more virtuous woman in the
world. A passage in the “Diary” (Nov. 6th, 1663) exhibits very strongly
the low state of morality at court. Lord Sandwich told Pepys “how he
and Sir H. Bennet, the Duke of Buckingham and his Duchess, was of a
committee with somebody else for the getting of Mrs. Stewart for the
King, but that she proves a cunning slut, and is advised at Somerset
House by the Queen mother, and by her mother, and so all the plot is
spoiled and the whole committee broke.” By the early part of the year
1667 Mrs. Stewart’s position had become quite untenable, and to escape
from the King’s importunities she accepted the proposal of marriage
made to her by the Duke of Richmond. The King threw all the obstacles
he could in the way of the marriage, and when the lovers escaped
and were united he exhibited the greatest chagrin. Pepys relates a
story[266] that Charles one Sunday night took a pair of oars and rowed
secretly to Somerset House in order to get sight of the Duchess, who
was then living there. The garden door not being open, he is said to
have clambered over the wall, “which is a horrid shame!”
The Duke was afterwards appointed ambassador to Denmark, and died at
Elsinore, December 21st, 1672. After the death of her husband the
Duchess lived at court and attached herself to the person of the Queen.
In the latter years of her life she remained in seclusion dividing her
time between cards and cats. She died in 1702, and by her last will
left several favourite cats to different female friends with legacies
for their support.
“But thousands died without or this or that,
Die and endow a college or a cat.”[267]
Among the lesser lights of the court was Elizabeth, Countess of
Chesterfield, who figures so prominently in the Grammont “Memoirs.” The
scandal there related did not escape the open ears of Pepys, who on the
3rd of November, 1662, first hears that the Duke of York is smitten
with the lady; that the Duchess has complained to the King, and that
the Countess has gone into the country. The Earl is not mentioned here,
but on January 19th, 1662–3, the Diarist obtained fuller particulars,
and learnt that Lord Chesterfield had long been jealous of the Duke.
Pepys calls the Countess “a most good virtuous woman,” and evidently
considers the husband’s conduct in carrying off his wife to his seat
in Derbyshire as caused by a fit of ungrounded jealousy. The day after
Lord Chesterfield had seen his wife talking with the Duke of York, he
went to tell the latter how much he felt wronged, but the Duke answered
with calmness, and pretended not to understand the reason of complaint.
The story of the _bas verds_ that forms so prominent a feature in the
Grammont account is not alluded to by the Diarist, but these brilliant
coloured stockings introduced by the Countess, seem to have become
fashionable subsequently, for on the 15th of February, 1668–9, Pepys
bought a pair of green silk stockings, garters, and shoe-strings, and
two pairs of jessimy gloves to present to his valentine.
The career of pretty Margaret Brook, who married Sir John Denham on the
25th of May, 1665, was a short one. On the 10th of June, 1666, Pepys
hears that she has become the Duke of York’s new mistress, and that she
declares she will be owned publicly. On November 12th of the same year
he hears of her serious illness, an illness that terminated in death.
At this time rumours of poisoning were easily put into circulation,
and some supposed that Lady Denham was murdered by her husband. Others
whispered that the Duchess of York had poisoned her with powder of
diamonds, but when her body was opened after death, as she had desired
it should be, no sign of poison was found.[268]
One of the most brilliant of the maids of honour, and, to her
credit be it said, one of the few virtuous ladies at court, was
Frances Jennings, the eldest sister of Sarah, afterwards Duchess of
Marlborough. The Duke made advances to her, which she repulsed coolly.
He could not believe in his defeat, and plied her with love-letters.
It was not etiquette for her to return them to him, so she affected
unconsciousness, and carelessly drawing out her handkerchief allowed
these royal effusions to fall upon the floor for anyone who chose
to pick up. The King now laid siege to the beauty, but was equally
unsuccessful as his brother had been. In the Grammont “Memoirs” there
is a full account of the lady’s freaks, and Pepys managed to hear of
one of them:--“Mrs. Jennings, one of the Duchess’s maids, the other day
dressed herself like an orange wench, and went up and down, and cried
oranges; till falling down, or by some accident, her fine shoes were
discerned, and she put to a great deal of shame.”[269] This is but a
bald account of the adventure so graphically described by Hamilton,
who makes the object of Miss Jennings’s disguise to be a visit to the
famous German doctor and astrologer in Tower Street. Rochester assumed
this character and the name of Alexander Bendo at the same time,
issuing a bill in which he detailed his cures, and announced his powers
of prophecy. This was on the occasion of one of the wild young Lord’s
escapes from court, but we are not told its date. Hamilton is silent
on this point, but Pepys’s corroboration of one part of the adventure
helps to date the other.
Frances Jennings was loved by the dashing Dick Talbot, who was
accounted the finest figure and the tallest man in the kingdom, but
she offended him by her partiality for the lady-killer Jermyn. She was
soon disgusted by this empty coxcomb, and in 1665 was married to George
Hamilton, brother of the author of the Grammont “Memoirs.” After the
death of Hamilton, the widow married her first lover Talbot, afterwards
created Duke of Tyrconnel. Subsequent to the death of her second
husband, she visited London, and hired a stall at the New Exchange in
the Strand, where, dressed in a white robe and masked with a white
domino, she maintained herself for a time by the sale of small articles
of haberdashery. Thus her second and more notorious adventure caused
her to be known as the “White Milliner.”
This notice of the ladies of the Court of Charles II. may be concluded
with a brief mention of the two actresses,--Nell Gwyn and Moll Davis.
Pepys’s first mention of the former is under date April 3rd, 1665,
where he calls her “pretty witty Nell.” He was always delighted to see
her, and constantly praises her excellent acting, yet sometimes he
finds fault, for instance--“Nell’s ill-speaking of a great part made
me mad.”[270] She disliked acting serious parts, and with reason, for
she spoilt them.[271] Pepys mentions on January 11th, 1667–68, that
the King had sent several times for Nell, but it was not until some
time after that she left the stage finally, and became a recognized
mistress of the King. Peter Cunningham tells us, in his “Story of Nell
Gwyn,” that had the King lived she would have been created Countess
of Greenwich. James II. attended to his brother’s dying wish: “Do not
let poor Nelly starve,” and when she was outlawed for debt he paid
her debts. Her life was not a long one, and she died of apoplexy in
November, 1687, in the thirty-eighth year of her age.
Moll Davis it is well known charmed the King by her singing of the
song, “My lodging is on the cold ground,” in the character of the
shepherdess Celania in Davenant’s “Rivals,” a play altered from
“The Two Noble Kinsmen,” and the Duke of Buckingham is said to have
encouraged the King’s passion for her in order to spite the Countess of
Castlemaine. She was also a fine dancer, and greatly pleased Pepys on
more than one occasion. On March 7th, 1666–67, he expresses the opinion
that her dancing of a jig in boy’s clothes was infinitely better than
that of Nell Gwyn. About a year after this, when Moll Davis had been
“raised” to the position of King’s mistress, she danced a jig at court;
and the Queen being at this public exhibition of one of her rivals in
her own palace, got up and left the theatre.[272]
After the ladies come the male courtiers, but these butterflies of
the court do not figure very prominently in the “Diary.” Rochester is
occasionally mentioned, as is Henry Jermyn rather oftener. Buckingham
appears more frequently, but then he set up for a statesman. He was one
of the most hateful characters in history, and as one reads in the
“Diary” the record of his various actions, the feelings of disgust and
loathing that they inspire are near akin to hatred. He gave counsel to
the King at which Charles recoiled; he showed himself a coward in his
relations with Lord Ossory, and his conduct towards his wife proves
that he was not even a gentleman. Grammont calls Buckingham a fool, but
he was more of a knave than a fool, for he was too clever for us to be
able to despise him. He seems to have exerted the fascination of the
serpent over those around him, and the four masterly hands that have
drawn his portrait evidently thought it worthy the devotion of their
greatest care. Walpole says of these four famous portraits: “Burnet
has hewn it out with his rough chisel; Count Hamilton touched it with
that slight delicacy that finishes while it seems but to sketch;
Dryden caught the living likeness; Pope completed the historical
resemblance.”[273]
In conclusion, some mention must be made of those who did not take a
prominent position at court, but who nevertheless exerted considerable
influence in that corrupted circle, such as the Chiffinches, Bab May,
and Edward Progers, with all of whom Pepys had constant communication.
Thomas Chiffinch was one of the pages of the King’s bedchamber, and
keeper of his private closet. He died in 1666, and was succeeded in
his employments by his brother William, who became a still greater
favourite of the King than Thomas, and was the receiver of the secret
pensions paid by the court of France to the King of England. Progers
had been banished from Charles’s presence in 1650, by an Act of the
Estates of Scotland, “as an evil instrument and bad counseller of the
King.” Baptist May, Keeper of the Privy Purse, had a still worse rebuff
than this, for when he went down in state as the court candidate for
Winchelsea, he was rejected by the people, who cried out that they
would have “No court pimp to be their burgess.”[274] It would not be
fair, however, to throw all the obloquy upon these understrappers, for
we have already seen that the bearers of historical names could lend
themselves to perform the same duties.
FOOTNOTES:
[244] Peter Cunningham has a note in his “Story of Nell Gwyn,” “on the
Chronology of the English portion of De Grammont’s Memoirs.”
[245] “Diary,” Feb. 21, 1664–65.
[246] “Diary,” April 22, 1667.
[247] April 26, 1667.
[248] Sept. 2, 1667.
[249] “Diary,” Jan. 2, 1667–68.
[250] Dec. 2, 1668.
[251] “Diary,” May 11, 1663.
[252] Smith, vol. ii. p. 264.
[253] Lister’s “Life of Clarendon,” vol. iii. p. 197.
[254] “Diary,” July 3, 1663.
[255] “Diary,” Oct. 26.
[256] Mentioned by Pepys, July 29, Aug. 8, 12, 1667.
[257] “Burnet’s Own Time,” i. 353. The lady afterwards married a
gentleman of fortune named Fortrey, and died in 1713.
[258] James’s letter is printed in “Smith’s Life, &c., of Pepys,” vol.
ii. p. 322.
[259] _Quoted_, Lister’s “Life of Clarendon,” ii. 72 (note).
[260] “The Story of Nell Gwyn,” p. 197 (note).
[261] “Diary,” Jan. 27, 1667–68.
[262] July 30, 1667. Mrs. Otter thus addresses her husband in Act iii.
Sc. 1: “Is this according to the instrument when I married you, that
I would be princess and reign in my own house, and you would be my
subject and obey me?”
[263] “Diary,” July 23, 1661.
[264] Aug. 23, 1662.
[265] “Diary,” Feb. 8, 1662–63; May 18, 1663; April 15, 1666.
[266] May 18, 1668.
[267] Pope’s “Moral Essays,” Epistle iii.
[268] Lord Orrery to the Duke of Ormond, Jan. 25, 1666–67. (Orrery,
“State Papers,” fol. 1742, p. 219.)
[269] “Diary,” Feb. 21, 1664–65.
[270] “Diary,” Nov. 11, 1667.
[271] Dec. 26, 1667.
[272] “Diary,” May 31, 1668.
[273] “Royal and Noble Authors.”
[274] “Diary,” Oct. 21, 1666.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]