him while he was himself--for his last plays were but his dotages--I
think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theater ever
had. He was a most severe judge of himself, as well as others. One can
not say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his
works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit, and language, and
humor also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art
was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to
more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making
love in any of his scenes, or endeavoring to move the passions; his
genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially
when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a
height. Humor was his proper sphere; and in that he delighted most to
represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients,
both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them; there is
scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times whom
he has not translated in "Sejanus" and "Catiline." But he has done his
robberies so openly that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any
law. He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in
other poets, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers
he so represents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and
customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his
tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him.
If there was any fault in his language, 'twas that he weaved it too
closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially: perhaps, too, he
did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he
translated almost as much Latin as he found them; wherein, tho he
learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the
idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakespeare, I must
acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater
wit. Shakespeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets:
Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing: I admire him,
but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of him: as he has given us the
most correct plays, so, in the precepts which he has laid down in his
"Discoveries," we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the
stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 100: From the "Essay on Dramatic Poetry."]
[Footnote 101: John Hales, "the ever-memorable" canon of Windsor and
author of "Golden Remains," born in 1584, died in 1656.]
SAMUEL PEPYS
Born in 1633, died in 1703; son of a London tailor, educated
at Cambridge; a clerk in the Admiralty in 1660, becoming
finally Secretary; conducted the entire administration
during the great plague, when he alone remained in London;
assisted in checking the great fire in 1666; elected to
Parliament in 1678; President of the Royal Society in
1684-86; gave his library of three thousand volumes to one
of the colleges at Cambridge; his "Diary," first published
in 1825, was written in cipher, without intent of
publication.
I
OF VARIOUS DOINGS OF MR. AND MRS. PEPYS[102]
_August 18, 1660._--Towards Westminster by water. I landed my wife at
Whitefriars with £5 to buy her a petticoat, and my father persuaded
her to buy a most fine cloth, of 26_s._ a yard, and a rich lace, that
the petticoat will come to £5; but she doing it very innocently, I
could not be angry. Captain Ferrers took me and Creed to the Cockpit
play, the first that I have had time to see since my coming from sea,
_The Loyall Subject_, where one Kinaston, a boy, acted the Duke's
sister, but made the loveliest lady that ever I saw in my life. After
the play done, we went to drink, and, by Captain Ferrers' means,
Kinaston, and another that acted Archas the General, came and drank
with us.
19. (Lord's Day.)--This morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and myself, went
to church to the churchwardens, to demand a pew, which at present
could not be given us; but we are resolved to have one built. So we
staid, and heard Mr. Mills, a very good minister. Home to dinner,
where my wife had on her new petticoat that she bought yesterday,
which indeed is a very fine cloth and a line lace; but that being of a
light color, and the lace all silver, it makes no great show.
_March 2, 1667._--After dinner, with my wife, to the King's house to
see _The Maiden Queene_, a new play of Dryden's mightily commended for
the regularity of it, and the strain and wit; and, the truth is, there
is a comical part done by Nell Gwynne, which is Florimell, that I
never can hope ever to see the like done again, by man or woman. The
King and Duke of York were at the play. But so great performance of a
comical part was never, I believe, in the world before as Nell do this
both as a mad girl, then most and best of all, when she comes in like
a young gallant; and hath the motions and carriage of a spark the most
that ever I saw any man have. It makes me, I confess, admire her.
_October 5._--To the King's house; and there, going in, met with
Knipp, and she took us up into the tireing-rooms: and to the woman's
shift, where Nell was dressing herself, and was all unready, and is
very pretty, prettier than I thought. And into the scene-room, and
there sat down, and she gave us fruit: and here I read the questions
to Knipp, while she answered me, through all her part of _Flora
Figarys_, which was acted to-day. But, Lord! to see how they were
both painted would make a man mad, and did make me loath them; and
what base company of men comes among them, and how lewdly they talk!
and how poor the men are in clothes, and yet what a show they make on
the stage by candle-light, is very observable. But to see how Nell
cursed for having so few people in the pit, was pretty; the other
house carrying away all the people at the new play, and is said,
now-a-days, to have generally most company, as being better players.
By and by into the pit, and there saw the play, which is pretty good.
_December 28._--To the King's house, and there saw _The Mad Couple_,
which is but an ordinary play; but only Nell's and Hart's mad parts
are most excellent done, but especially hers: which makes it a miracle
to me to think how ill she do any serious part, as, the other day,
just like a fool or changeling; and in a mad part do beyond imitation
almost. It pleased us mightily to see the natural affection of a poor
woman, the mother of one of the children, brought on the stage; the
child crying, she by force got upon the stage, and took up her child,
and carried it away off of the stage from Hart. Many fine faces here
to-day.
_February 27, 1667-8._--With my wife to the King's house, to see _The
Virgin Martyr_, the first time it hath been acted a great while: and
it is mighty pleasant; not that the play is worth much, but it is
finely acted by Beck Marshall. But that which did please me beyond
anything in the whole world was the wind-musick when the angel comes
down, which is so sweet that it ravished me, and indeed, in a word,
did wrap up my soul so that it made me really sick, just as I have
formerly been when in love with my wife; that neither then, nor all
the evening going home, and at home, I was able to think of anything,
but remained all night transported, so as I could not believe that
ever any musick hath that real command over the soul of a man as this
did upon me: and makes me resolve to practise wind-musick, and to make
my wife do the like.
_May 26, 1667._--My wife and I to church, where several strangers of
good condition come to our pew. After dinner, I by water alone to
Westminster to the parish church, and there did entertain myself with
my perspective glass up and down the church, by which I had the great
pleasure of seeing and gazing at a great many very fine women; and
what with that, and sleeping, I passed away the time till sermon was
done. I away to my boat, and up with it as far as Barne Elmes, reading
of Mr. Evelyn's late new book against Solitude, in which I do not find
much excess of good matter, tho it be pretty for a bye discourse.
_August 18._--To Cree Church, to see it how it is: but I find no
alteration there, as they there was, for my Lord Mayor and Aldermen to
come to sermon, as they do every Sunday, as they did formerly to
Paul's. There dined with me Mr. Turner and his daughter Betty. Betty
is grown a fine young lady as to carriage and discourse. We had a good
haunch of venison, powdered and boiled, and a good dinner. I walked
towards Whitehall, but, being wearied, turned into St. Dunstan's
Church, where I heard an able sermon of the minister of the place;
and stood by a pretty, modest maid, whom I did labor to take by the
hand; but she would not, but got further and further from me; and, at
last, I could perceive her to take pins out of her pocket to prick me
if I should touch her again--which, seeing, I did forbear, and was
glad I did spy her design. And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty
maid, in a pew close to me, and she on me; and I did go about to take
her by the hand, which she suffered a little and then withdrew. So the
sermon ended.
_May 11, 1667._--My wife being drest this day in fair hair did make me
so mad, that I spoke not one word to her, tho I was ready to burst
with anger. After that, Creed and I into the Park, and walked, a most
pleasant evening, and so took coach, and took up my wife, and in my
way home discovered my trouble to my wife for her white locks,
swearing several times, which I pray God forgive me for, and bending
my fist that I would not endure it. She, poor wretch, was surprised
with it, and made me no answer all the way home; but there we parted,
and I to the office late, and then home, and without supper to bed,
vexed.
12. (Lord's Day.)--Up and to my chamber, to settle some accounts
there, and by and by down comes my wife to me in her night-gown, and
we begun calmly, that, upon having money to lace her gown for second
mourning, she would promise to wear white locks no more in my sight,
which I, like a severe fool, thinking not enough, begun to except
against, and made her fly out to very high terms and cry, and in her
heat, told me of keeping company with Mrs. Knipp, saying, that if I
would promise never to see her more--of whom she hath more reason to
suspect than I had heretofore of Pembleton--she would never wear white
locks more. This vexed me, but I restrained myself from saying
anything, but do think never to see this woman--at least, to have her
here more--and so all very good friends as ever. My wife and I
bethought ourselves to go to a French house to dinner, and so inquired
out Monsieur Robins, my perriwigg-maker, who keeps an ordinary, and in
an ugly street in Covent Garden, did find him at the door, and so we
in; and in a moment almost had the table covered, and clean glasses,
and all in the French manner, and a mess of potage first, and then a
piece of boeuf-a-la-mode, all exceeding well seasoned, and to our
great liking; at least it would have been anywhere else but in this
bad street, and in a perriwigg-maker's house; but to see the pleasant
and ready attendance that we had, and all things so desirous to
please, and ingenious in the people, did take me mightily. Our dinner
cost us 6_s._
_November 30, 1668._--My wife, after dinner, went the first time
abroad in her coach, calling on Roger Pepys, and visiting Mrs. Creed,
and my cosen Turner. Thus ended this month with very good content, but
most expenseful to my purse on things of pleasure, having furnished my
wife's closet and the best chamber, and a coach and horses, that ever
I knew in the world; and I am put into the greatest condition of
outward state that ever I was in, or hoped ever to be, or desired.
_December 2._--Abroad with my wife, the first time that ever I rode in
my own coach, which do make my heart rejoice, and praise God and pray
Him to bless it to me and continue it. So she and I to the King's
playhouse, and there saw _The Usurper_; a pretty good play, in all but
what is designed to resemble Cromwell and Hugh Peters, which is mighty
silly. The play done, we to Whitehall; where my wife staid while I up
to the Duchesse's and Queene's side, to speak with the Duke of York:
and here saw all the ladies, and heard the silly discourse of the
King, with his people about him.
_April 11, 1669._--Thence to the Park, my wife and I; and here Sir W.
Coventry did first see me and my wife in a coach of our own; and so
did also this night the Duke of York, who did eye my wife mightily.
But I begin to doubt that my being so much seen in my own coach at
this time may be observed to my prejudice; but I must venture it now.
II
ENGLAND WITHOUT CROMWELL[103]
_July 12, 1667._--Up betimes and to my chamber, there doing business,
and by and by comes Greeting and begun a new month with him, and now
to learn to set anything from the notes upon the flageolet, but Lord!
to see how like a fool he goes about to give direction would make a
man mad. I then out and by coach to White Hall and to the Treasury
chamber, where did a little business, and thence to the Exchequer to
Burges, about Tangier business, and so back again stepping into the
Hall a little, and then homeward by coach, and he with me to the
Excise Office, there to do a little business also, in the way he
telling me that undoubtedly the peace is concluded; for he did stand
where he did hear part of the discourse at the Council table, and
there did hear the King argue for it.
Among other things that the spirits of the seamen were down, and the
forces of our enemies are grown too great and many for us, and he
would not have his subjects overprest, for he knew an Englishman would
do as much as any man upon hopeful terms; but where he sees he is
overprest, he despairs soon as any other; and besides that, they have
already such a load of dejection upon them, that they will not be in
temper a good while again. He heard my Lord Chancellor say to the
King, "Sir," says he, "the whole world do complain publickly of
treachery, that things have been managed falsely by some of his great
ministers." "Sir," says he, "I am for your Majesty's falling into a
speedy enquiry into the truth of it, and, where you meet with it,
punish it. But, at the same time, consider what you have to do, and
make use of your time for having a peace; for more money will not be
given without much trouble, nor is it, I fear, to be had of the
people, nor will a little do it to put us into condition of doing our
business." But Sir H. Cholmly tells me he (the Chancellor) did say the
other day at his table, "Treachery," says he; "I could wish we could
prove there was anything of that in it; for that would imply some wit
and thoughtfulness; but we are ruined merely by folly and neglect."
And so Sir H. Cholmly tell me they did all argue for peace and so he
do believe that the King hath agreed to the three points Mr. Coventry
brought over, which I have mentioned before, and is gone with them
back....
While we were at the Excise Office talking with Mr. Ball, it was
computed that the Parliament had given the King for this war only,
besides all prizes, and besides the £200,000 which he was to spend of
his own revenue to guard the sea, above £5,000,000 and odd £100,000;
which is a most prodigious sum. Sir H. Cholmly, as a true English
gentleman, do decry the King's expenses of his Privy-purse, which in
King James's time did not rise to above £5,000 a year, and in King
Charles's to £10,000, do now cost us above £100,000 besides the great
charge of the Monarchy, as the Duke of York £100,000 of it, and other
limbs of the Royal family, and the guards, which, for his part, says
he, "I would have all disbanded, for the King is not the better by
them, and would be as safe without them; for we have had no rebellions
to make him fear anything." But contrarily, he is now raising of a
land army, which this Parliament and Kingdom will never bear, besides,
the commanders they put over them are such as will never be able to
raise or command them; but the design is, and the Duke of York he
says, is hot for it, to have a land army, and so to make the
government like that of France, but our princes have not brains, or at
least care and forecast enough to do that.
It is strange how he and everybody now-a-days do reflect upon
Oliver,[104] and commend him, what brave things he did, and made all
the neighbor princes fear him; while here a prince, come in with all
the love and prayers and good liking of his people, who have given
greater signs of his loyalty and willingness to serve him with their
estates than ever was done by any other people, hath lost all so soon,
that it is a miracle what way a man could devise to lose so much in so
little time.
Thence he set me down at my Lord Crew's and away, and I up to my Lord,
where Sir Thomas Crew was, and by and by comes Mr. Cæsar, who teaches
my Lady's page upon the lute, and here Mr. Cæsar did play some very
fine things indeed, to my great liking. Here was my Lord Hitchingbroke
also, newly come from Hitchingbroke, where all well, but methinks I
knowing in what case he stands for money by his demands to me and the
report Mr. Moore gives of the management of the family, make me, God
forgive me! to contemn him, tho I do really honor and pity them, tho
they deserve it not that have so good an estate and will live beyond
it. To dinner, and very good discourse with my Lord. And after dinner,
Sir Thomas Crew and I alone, and he tells me how I am mightily in
esteem with the Parliament; there being harangues made in the House to
the Speaker, of Mr. Pepy's readiness and civility to shew them
everything, which I am this time very glad of.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 102: From the "Diary."]
[Footnote 103: From the "Diary."]
[Footnote 104: Oliver Cromwell had died in 1658, nine years before the
date of Pepy's paragraph.]
GILBERT BURNET
Born in 1643, died in 1715; accompanied William III from
Holland to England as chaplain in 1688; made Bishop of
Salisbury in 1689; his "History of Our Own Times" published
after his death in 1723-34, having been edited by his son;
other works published in his lifetime.
CHARLES II[105]
Thus lived and died King Charles II. He was the greatest instance in
history of the various revolutions of which any one man seemed
capable. He was bred up the first twelve years of his life with the
splendor that became the heir of so great a crown. After that, he
passed through eighteen years of great inequalities: unhappy in the
war, in the loss of his father, and of the crown of England. Scotland
did not only receive him, tho upon terms hard of digestion, but made
an attempt upon England for him, tho a feeble one. He lost the battle
of Worcester with too much indifference. And then he shewed more care
of his person than became one who had so much at stake. He wandered
about England for ten weeks after that, hiding from place to place.
But, under all the apprehensions he had then upon him, he shewed a
temper so careless, and so much turned to levity, that he was then
diverting himself with little household sports, in as unconcerned a
manner as if he had made no loss, and had been in no danger at all. He
got at last out of England. But he had been obliged to so many who had
been faithful to him, and careful of him, that he seemed afterwards to
resolve to make an equal return to them all; and finding it not easy
to reward them all as they deserved, he forgot them all alike. Most
princes seem to have this pretty deep in them, and to think that they
ought not to remember past services, but that their acceptance of them
is a full reward. He, of all in our age, exerted this piece of
prerogative in the amplest manner; for he never seemed to charge his
memory, or to trouble his thoughts, with the sense of any of the
services that had been done him.
While he was abroad at Paris, Cologne, or Brussels, he never seemed to
lay anything to heart. He pursued all his diversions and irregular
pleasures in a free career, and seemed to be as serene under the loss
of a crown as the greatest philosopher could have been. Nor did he
willingly hearken to any of those projects with which he often
complained that his chancellor persecuted him. That in which he seemed
most concerned was, to find money for supporting his expense. And it
was often said, that if Cromwell would have compounded the matter, and
have given him a good round pension, that he might have been induced
to resign his title to him. During his exile, he delivered himself so
entirely to his pleasures, that he became incapable of application. He
spent little of his time in reading or study, and yet less in
thinking. And in the state his affairs were then in, he accustomed
himself to say to every person, and upon all occasions, that which he
thought would please most; so that words or promises went very easily
from him. And he had so ill an opinion of mankind, that he thought,
the great art of living and governing was, to manage all things and
all persons with a depth of craft and dissimulation. And in that few
men in the world could put on the appearances of sincerity better than
he could; under which so much artifice was usually hid, that in
conclusion he could deceive none, for all were become mistrustful of
him.
He had great vices, but scarce any virtues to correct them. He had in
him some vices that were less hurtful, which corrected his more
hurtful ones. He was, during the active part of life, given up to
sloth and lewdness to such a degree, that he hated business, and could
not bear the engaging in anything that gave him much trouble, or put
him under any constraint. And tho he desired to become absolute, and
to overturn both our religion and our laws, yet he would neither run
the risk, nor give himself the trouble, which so great a design
required. He had an appearance of gentleness in his outward
deportment; but he seemed to have no bowels nor tenderness in his
nature, and in the end of his life he became cruel. He was apt to
forgive all crimes, even blood itself, yet he never forgave anything
that was done against himself, after his first and general act of
indemnity, which was to be reckoned as done rather upon maxims of
state than inclinations of mercy. He delivered himself up to a most
enormous course of vice, without any sort of restraint, even from the
consideration of the nearest relations. The most studied extravagances
that way seemed, to the very last, to be much delighted in and pursued
by him. He had the art of making all people grow fond of him at first,
by a softness in his whole way of conversation, as he was certainly
the best-bred man of the age. But when it appeared how little could be
built on his promise, they were cured of the fondness that he was apt
to raise in them. When he saw young men of quality, who had something
more than ordinary in them, he drew them about him, and set himself to
corrupt them both in religion and morality; in which he proved so
unhappily successful, that he left England much changed at his death
from what he had found it at his restoration.
He loved to talk over all the stories of his life to every new man
that came about him. His stay in Scotland, and the share he had in the
war of Paris, in carrying messages from one side to the other, were
his common topics. He went over these in a very graceful manner, but
so often and so copiously, that all those who had been long accustomed
to them grew weary of them; and when he entered on those stories, they
usually withdrew: so that he often began them in a full audience, and
before he had done, there were not above four or five persons left
about him: which drew a severe jest from Wilmot, Earl of
Rochester.[106] He said he wondered to see a man have so good a
memory as to repeat the same story without losing the least
circumstance; and yet not remember that he had told it to the same
persons the very day before. This made him fond of strangers, for they
harkened to all his oft-repeated stories, and went away as in a
rapture at such an uncommon condescension of a king.
His person and temper, his vices as well as his fortunes, resemble the
character that we have given us of Tiberius so much, that it were easy
to draw the parallel between them. Tiberius's banishment, and his
coming afterward to reign, makes the comparison in that respect come
pretty near. His hating of business, and his love of pleasures; his
raising of favorites, and trusting them entirely; and his pulling them
down, and hating them excessively; his art of covering deep designs,
particularly of revenge, with an appearance of softness, brings them
so near a likeness, that I did not wonder much to observe the
resemblance of their faces and persons. At Rome, I saw one of the last
statues made for Tiberius, after he had lost his teeth. But, bating
the alteration which that made, it was so like King Charles, that
Prince Borghese and Signior Dominico, to whom it belonged, did agree
with me in thinking that it looked like a statute made for him.
Few things ever went near his heart. The Duke of Gloucester's death
seemed to touch him much. But those who knew him best, thought it was
because he had lost him by whom only he could have balanced the
surviving brother, whom he hated, and yet embroiled all his affairs to
preserve the succession to him....