CHAPTER XI.

Henry the Eighth -- His Person and Character -- Modern

Qualifications of it considered -- Passages respecting him from

Lingard, Sir Thomas Wyatt, and others -- His additions to

Whitehall -- A Retrospect at Elizabeth -- Court of James

resumed -- Its gross Habits -- Letter of Sir John Harrington

respecting them -- James's Drunkenness -- Testimonies of

Welldon, Sully, and Roger Coke -- Curious Omission in the

Invective of Churchill the Poet -- Welldon's Portrait of James

-- Buckingham, the Favourite -- Frightful Story of Somerset --

Masques -- Banqueting House -- Inigo Jones and Ben Jonson --

Court of Charles the First -- Cromwell -- Charles the Second --

James the Second.

We have said more about Wolsey than we intend to say of Henry the

Eighth; for the son of the butcher was a great man, and his master was

only a king. Henry, born a prince, became a butcher; Wolsey, a

butcher, became a prince. And we are not playing upon the word as

applied to the king; for Henry was not only a butcher of his wives, he

resembled a brother of the trade in its better and more ordinary

course. His pleasures were of the same order; his language was coarse

and jovial; he had the very straddle of a fat butcher, as he stands in

his doorway. Take any picture or statue of Henry the Eighth--fancy its

cap off, and a knife in its girdle, and it seems in the very act of

saying, "What d'ye buy? What d'ye buy?" There is even the petty

complacency in the mouth, after the phrase is uttered.

And how formidable is that petty unfeeling mouth, in the midst of

those wide and wilful cheeks! Disturb the self-satisfaction of that

man, derange his bile for an instant, make him suppose that you do not

quite think him

"Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,"

and what hope have you from the sentence of that mass of pampered

egotism?

Let us not do injustice, however, even to the doers of it. What better

was to be looked for, in those times, from the circumstances under

which Henry was born and bred--from the son of a wilful father, and an

unfeeling state marriage--from the educated combiner of church and

state, instinctively led to entertain the worldliest notions of both,

and of heaven itself--from the inheritor of the greatest wealth, and

power, and irresponsibility, ever yet concentrated in an English

sovereign? It has been attempted of late by various writers (and the

attempt is a good symptom, being on the charitable side,) to make out

a case for Henry the Eighth, as if he were a sort of rough but honest

fellow, a kind of John Bull of that age, who meant well upon the

whole, and thought himself bound to keep up the conventionalities of

his country. We know not what compliment is intended to be implied by

this, either to Henry or his countrymen; but really when a man sends

his wives, one after the other, to the scaffold, evidently as much to

enable him to marry another as to vindicate any propriety--when he

"cuts" and sacrifices his best friends and servants, and pounces upon

their goods--when he takes every license himself, though he will not

allow others even to be suspected of it--when he grows a brute beast

in size as well as in habits, and dies shedding superfluous blood to

the last--we cannot, for our parts, as Englishmen, but be glad of some

better excuses for him of the kind above stated, than such as are to

be found in the roots of the national character, however jovial.

Imagine only the endearments that must have passed between this man

and Anne Bullen, and then fancy the heart that could have sent the

poor little, hysterical, half-laughing, half-crying thing to the

scaffold! The man was _mad_ with power and vanity. That is his real

excuse.

It has been said, that all which he did was done by law, or at least

under the forms of it, and by the consent, sometimes by the

recommendation, of his statesmen. The assertion is not true in all

instances; and where it is, what does it prove but that his tyrannical

spirit had helped to make his statesmen slaves? They knew what he

wished, and notoriously played the game into his hands. When they did

not, their heads went off. That circumstances had spoilt them

altogether, and that society, with all its gaudiness, was but in a

half-barbarous state, is granted; but it is no less true, that his

office, his breeding, and his natural temper, conspired to make Henry

the worst and most insolent of a violent set of men; and he stands

straddling out accordingly in history, as he does in his pictures, an

image of sovereign brutality.

Excessive vanity, aggravated by all the habits of despotism and

luxury, and accompanied, nevertheless, by that unconscious misgiving

which is natural to inequalities between a man's own powers and those

which he derives from his position, is the clue to the character of

Henry the Eighth. Accordingly, no man gave greater ear to tale-bearers

and sowers of suspicion, nor resented more cruelly or meanly the

wounds inflicted on his self-love, even by those who least intended

them, or to whom he had shown the greatest fondness. The latter,

indeed, he treated the worst, out of a frenzy of egotistical

disappointment; for his love arose, not from any real regard for their

merits, but from what he had taken for a flattery to his own. Sir

Thomas More knew him well, when, in observation to some one who had

congratulated him on the King's having walked up and down with his arm

around his neck, he said that he would have that neck cut in two next

day, if the head belonging to it opposed his will. He not only took

back without scruple all that he had given to Wolsey, but he went to

live in the houses of his fallen friend and servant--places which a

man of any feeling and kindly remembrance would have avoided. He was

very near picking a murderous quarrel with his last wife, Catherine

Parr, on one of his theological questions. And how did he conduct

himself to the memory of poor Anne Bullen, even on the day of her

execution? Hear Lingard, who, though no partizan of his, thinks he

must have had some heinous cause of provocation, to induce him to

behave so roughly:--

"Thus fell," says the historian, "this unfortunate Queen within

four months after the death of Catherine. To have expressed a

doubt of her guilt during the reign of Henry, or of her

innocence during that of Elizabeth, would have been deemed a

proof of disaffection. The question soon became one of

religious feeling, rather than of historical disquisition.

Though she had departed no farther than her husband from the

ancient doctrine, yet, as her marriage with Henry led to the

separation from the communion of Rome, the Catholic writers

were eager to condemn, the Protestant to exculpate her memory.

In the absence of those documents which alone could enable us

to decide with truth, I will only observe that the King must

have been impelled by some powerful motive to exercise against

her such extraordinary, and, in one supposition, such

superfluous vigour. Had his object been (we are sometimes told

that it was) to place Jane Seymour by his side on the throne,

the divorce of Anne without execution, or the execution without

the divorce, would have effected his purpose. But he seemed to

have pursued her with insatiable hatred. Not content with

taking her life, he made her feel in every way in which a wife

and a mother could feel. He stamped on her character the infamy

of adultery and incest; he deprived her of the name and right

of wife and Queen; and he even bastardized her daughter, though

he acknowledged that daughter to be his own. If then he were

not assured of her guilt, he must have discovered in her

conduct some most heinous cause of provocation, which he never

disclosed. He had wept at the death of Catherine (of Arragon);

but, as if he sought to display his contempt for the character

of Anne, he dressed himself in white on the day of her

execution, and was married to Jane Seymour the next

morning."[339]

Now, nothing could be more indecent and unmanly than such conduct as

this, let Anne have been guilty as she might; and nothing, in such a

man, but mortified self-love could account for it. Probably he had

discovered, that in some of her moments of levity she had laughed at

him. But not to love him would have been offence enough. It would have

been the first time he had discovered the possibility of such an

impiety towards his barbarous divinityship: and his rage must needs

have been unbounded.

What Providence may intend by such instruments, is one thing: what we

are constituted to think of them, is another: charitably, no doubt,

when we think our utmost; but still with a discrimination, for fear of

consequences. As to what was thought of Henry in his own time or

afterwards, we must not rely on the opinion of Baker, Holinshed, and

other servile chroniclers, of mean understanding and time-serving

habits, who were the least honourable kind of "waiters upon

Providence," taking the commonest appearances of adversity and

prosperity (so to speak) for vice and virtue, and flattering every

arbitrary and conventional opinion, as though it were not to perish in

its turn. We are to recollect what More said of him (as above) in his

confidential moments and Wolsey in his agony, and Pole and others,

when, having got to a safe distance, they returned him foul language

for his own bullying, and blustered out what was thought of him by

those who knew him thoroughly. Observe also the manifest allusions in

what was written upon the court of those days, by one of the wisest

and best of its ornaments, Sir Thomas Wyat--a friend of Anne Bullen's.

The verses are entitled, "Of a Courtier's Life," and it may be

observed, by the way, that they furnish the second example, in the

English language, of the use of the Italian _rime terzette_, or

triplets, in which Dante's poem is written, and which had been first

introduced among us by Sir Thomas's friend, the Earl of Surrey

(another of Henry's victims):--

Mine owne John Poynes, sins ye delight to know

The causes why that homeward I me draw

And flee the prease of courtes whereso they goe,

Rather than to live thrall _under the awe_

_Of lordly lookes_, wrapped within my cloke,

_To will and lust_ learning to set a law,

It is not, that because I storme or mocke

The power of those whom fortune here hath lent

Charge over us, of right to strike the stroke;

But true it is, that I have alway ment

Less to esteeme them, than the common sort

Of outward thinges that judge in their entent;

* * * * *

My Poynes, I cannot frame my tong to fayn,

To cloke the truth, for praise, without desert,

Of them that list all vice for to retayne;

I cannot _honour_ them that set theyr part

_With Venus and with Bacchus their life long_,

Nor hold my peace of them although I smart

I cannot crouch, nor _kneele_ to such a wrong,

TO WORSHIP THEM LIKE GOD ON EARTH ALONE,

_That are as wolves these sely lambs among_.

(Here was a sigh perhaps to the memory of his poor friend Anne):--

I cannot wrest the law to fyll the coffer

With innocent blood to feed myselfe _fat_,

And do most hurt where that most help I offer

I am not he that can allow the state

Of hye Cæsar, and damn Cato to die;

(an allusion probably to Sir Thomas More).

Affirm that favill (fable-lying) hathe a goodly grace

In eloquence, and _cruelty to name_

_Zeale of justice_, and change in time and place;

And he that suffreth offence without blame,

Call him pitiefull, _and him true and playne

That raylest reckless unto each man's shame_;

Say he is rude, that cannot lye and fayne,

_The lecher a lover_, AND TYRANNY

TO BE RIGHT OF A PRINCE'S RAIGNE;

I cannot, I;--no, no;--it will not be;

This is the cause that I could never yet

Hang on their sleeves, that weigh, as thou maist see,

A chippe of chaunce more than a pound of wit;

This makes me at home to hunt and hawke,

And in foul weather at my book to sit;

In frost and snowe, then with my bowe stalke;

No man doth marke whereso I ryde or goe;

In lustie leas at libertie I walke.

Towards the conclusion, he says he does not spend his time among those

who have their wits _taken away_ with _Flanders cheer and

"beastliness:"_--

Nor I am not, where truth is given in prey

For money, and prison and treason of some

A common practice used night and day;

But I am here in Kent and Christendom,

Among the Muses, where I read and ryme;

Where if thou list, mine owne John Poynes, to come,

Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.

Among the poems of Surrey, is a sonnet in reproach of "Sardanapalus,"

which probably came to the knowledge of Henry, and may have been

intended to do so.

It was in Whitehall that Henry made his ill-assorted marriage with

Anne Bullen; Dr. Lingard says in a "garret;" Stowe says in the royal

"closet." It is likely enough that the ceremony was hurried and

sudden;--a fit of will, perhaps, during his wine; and if the closet

was not ready, the garret was. The clergyman who officiated was

shortly afterwards made a bishop.

Henry died in Whitehall; so fat, that he was lifted in and out his

chamber and sitting-room by means of machinery.

He was "_somewhat_ gross, or, as we tearme it, bourlie," says

time-serving Holinshed.[340]

"He _laboured_ under the _burden_ of an extreme fat and unwieldy

body," says noble Herbert of Cherbury.[341]

"The king," says Lingard, "had long indulged without restraint

in the pleasures of the table. At last he grew so _enormously

corpulent_, that he could neither support the weight of his own

body, nor remove without the aid of machinery into the

different apartments of his palace. Even the fatigue of

subscribing his name to the writings which required his

signature, was more than he could bear; and to relieve him from

this duty, three commissioners were appointed, of whom two had

authority to apply to the paper a dry stamp, bearing the

letters of the king's name, and the third to draw a pen

furnished with ink over the blank impression. An inveterate

ulcer in the thigh which had more than once threatened his

life, and which now seemed to baffle all the skill of the

surgeons, added to the irascibility of his temper."[342]

[Illustration: HOLBEIN'S GATE OF WHITEHALL PALACE.]

It was under this Prince (as already noticed) that the palace of the

Archbishop of York first became the "King's Palace at Westminster,"

and expanded into that mass of houses which stretched to St. James's

Park. He built a gate-house which stood across what is now the open

street, and a gallery connecting the two places, and overlooking a

tilt-yard; and on the park-side he built a cockpit, a tennis-court,

and alleys for bowling; for although he put women to death, he was

fond of manly sports. He was also a patron of the fine arts; and gave

an annuity and rooms in the palace to the celebrated Holbein, who is

said to have designed the gate, as well as decorated the interior. It

is to Holbein we are indebted for our familiar acquaintance with his

figure.

The reader is to bear in mind, that the street in front of the modern

Banqueting-house was always open, as it is now, from Charing Cross to

King Street, narrowing opposite to the south end of the

Banqueting-house, at which point the gate looked up it towards the

Cross. Just opposite the Banqueting-house, on the site of the present

Horse Guards, was the Tilt-yard. The whole mass of houses and gardens

on the river side comprised the royal residence. Down this open street

then, just as people walk now, we may picture to ourselves Henry

coming with his regal pomp, and Wolsey with his priestly; Sir Thomas

More strolling thoughtfully, perhaps talking with quiet-faced Erasmus;

Holbein, looking about him with an artist's eyes; Surrey coming

gallantly in his cloak and feather, as Holbein has painted him; and a

succession of Henry's wives, with their flitting groups on horseback

or under canopy;--handsome, stately Catherine of Arragon; laughing

Anne Bullen; quiet Jane Seymour; gross-bodied but sensible Anne of

Cleves; demure Catherine Howard, who played such pranks before

marriage; and disputatious yet buxom Catherine Parr, who survived one

tyrant, to become the broken-hearted wife of a smaller one. Down this

road, also, came gallant companies of knights and squires, to the

tilting-yard; but of them we shall have more to say in the time of

Elizabeth.

We see little of Edward the Sixth, and less of Lady Jane Grey and

Queen Mary, in connection with Whitehall. Edward once held the

Parliament there, on account of his sickly condition; and he used to

hear Latimer preach in the Privy garden (still so called), where a

pulpit was erected for him on purpose. As there are gardens there

still to the houses erected on the spot, one may stand by the rails,

and fancy we hear the voice of the rustical but eloquent and honest

prelate, rising through the trees.

Edward has the reputation usually belonging to young and untried

sovereigns, and very likely deserves some of it; certainly not all--as

Mr. Sharon Turner, one of the most considerate of historians, has

shown. He partook of the obstinacy of his father, which was formalised

in him by weak health and a precise education; and though he shed

tears when prevailed upon to assign poor Joan of Kent to what he

thought her eternity of torment, his faults assuredly did not lie on

the side of an excess of feeling, as may be seen by the cool way in

which he suffered his uncles to go to the scaffold, one after another,

and recorded it in the journal which he kept. He would probably have

turned out a respectable, but not an admirable sovereign, nor one of

an engaging character. Years do not improve a temperament like his.

Even poor Lady Jane Grey's character does not improve upon inspection.

The Tudor blood (she was grand-daughter of Henry's sister) manifested

itself in her by her sudden love of supremacy the moment she felt a

crown on her head, and her preferring to squabble with her husband and

his relations (who got it her), rather than let him partake her

throne. She insisted he should be only a Duke, and suspected that his

family had given her poison for it. This undoes the usual romance of

"Lady Jane Grey and Lord Guildford Dudley;"--and thus it is that the

possession of too much power spoils almost every human being,

practical or theoretical. Lady Jane came out of the elegancies and

tranquillities of the schools, and of her Greek and Latin, to find her

Platonisms vanish before a dream of royalty. She rediscovered them,

however, when it was over; and that is something. She was brought up a

slave, and therefore bred to be despotic in her turn; but habit,

vanity, and good sense alike contributed to restore her to the better

part of herself at the last moment.

We confess we pity "Bloody Mary," as she has been called, almost as

much as any unfortunate sovereign on record. She caused horrible and

odious suffering, but she also suffered horribly herself, and became

odious where she would fain have been loved. She had a bigoted

education and a complexional melancholy; was stunted in person, plain

in face, with impressive but gloomy eyes; a wife with affections

unrequited; and a persecuting, unpopular, but conscientious sovereign.

She derived little pleasure apparently from having her way, even in

religious matters; but acted as she did out of a narrow sense of duty;

and she proved her honesty, however perverted, by a perpetual anxiety

and uneasiness. When did a charitable set of opinions ever inflict

upon honest natures these miseries of an intolerant one?

It was under Elizabeth that Whitehall shone out in all its romantic

splendour. It was no longer the splendour of Wolsey alone, nor of

Henry alone, or with a great name by his side now and then; but of a

Queen, surrounded and worshipped through a long reign by a galaxy of

the brightest minds and most chivalrous persons ever assembled in

English history.

Here she comes, turning round the corner from the Strand, under a

canopy of state, leaving the noisier, huzzaing multitude behind the

barriers that mark the precincts of the palace, and bending her eyes

hither and thither, in acknowledgment of the kneeling obeisances of

the courtiers. Beside her are Cecil and Knolles, and Northampton, and

Bacon's father; or, later in life, Leicester, and Burleigh, and Sir

Philip Sidney, and Greville, and Sir Francis Drake (and Spenser is

looking on); or, later still, Essex, and Raleigh, and Bacon himself,

and Southampton, Shakspeare's friend, with Shakspeare among the

spectators. We shall see her by and by, at that period, as brought to

life to us in the description of Heutzner the traveller. At present

(as we have her at this moment in our eye) she is younger, of a large

and tall, but well-made figure, with fine eyes, and finer hands, which

she is fond of displaying. We are too apt to think of Elizabeth as

thin and elderly, and patched up; but for a good period of her life

she was plump and personable, warranting the history of the robust

romps of the Lord Admiral, Seymour; and till her latter days (and even

then, as far as her powers went), we are always to fancy her at once

spirited and stately of carriage, impulsive (except on occasions of

ordinary ceremony), and ready to manifest her emotions in look and

voice, whether as woman or Queen; in a word, a sort of Henry the

Eighth corrected by a female nature and a better understanding--or

perhaps an Anne Bullen, enlarged, and made less feminine, by the

father's grossness. The Protestants have represented her as too staid,

and the Catholics as too violent and sensual. According to the latter,

Whitehall was a mere sink of iniquity. It was not likely to be so, for

many reasons; but neither, on the other hand, do we take it to have

been anything like the pattern of self-denial which some fond writers

have supposed. Where there is power, and leisure, and luxury, though

of the most legitimate kind, and refinement, though of the most

intellectual, self-denial on the side of enjoyment is not apt to be

the reigning philosophy; nor would it reasonably be looked for in any

court, at all living in wealth and splendour.

Imagine the sensations of Elizabeth, when she first set down in the

palace at Whitehall, after escaping the perils of imputed

illegitimacy, of confinement for party's sake and for religion's, and

all the other terrors of her father's reign and of Mary's, danger of

death itself not excepted. She was a young Queen of twenty-five years

of age, healthy, sprightly, good-looking, with plenty of will, power,

and imagination; and the gallantest spirits of the age were at her

feet. How pitiable, and how respectable, become almost all sovereigns,

when we consider them as human beings put in possession of almost

superhuman power; and when we reflect in general how they have been

brought up, and what a provocative to abuse at all events becomes the

possession of a throne! We in general spoil them first;--we always

tempt them to take every advantage, by worshipping them as if they

were different creatures from ourselves;--and then we are astonished

that they should take us at our word. How much better would it be to

be astonished at the likeness they retain to us, even in the kindlier

part of our weaknesses.

By a very natural process, considering the great and chivalrous men of

that day, Elizabeth became at once one of the greatest of Queens and

one of the most flattered and vain of women. Nor were the courtiers so

entirely insincere as they are supposed to have been, when they

worshipped her as they did, and gave her credit for all the beauty and

virtue under heaven. On the contrary, the power to benefit them went

hand-in-hand with their self-love to give them a sincere though

extravagant notion of their mistress; and the romantic turn of the age

and its literature, its exploits, its poetry, all conspired to warm

and sanction the enthusiasm on both sides, and to blind the admiration

to those little outward defects, and inward defects too, which love at

all periods is famous for overlooking--nay, for converting into noble

grounds of denial, and of subjection to a sentiment. Thus Elizabeth's

hook nose, her red hair, nay, her very age and crookedness at last,

did not stand in the way of raptures at her "beauty" and "divine

perfections," any more than a flaw in the casket that held a jewel.

The spirit of love and beauty was there; the appreciation of the soul

of both; the glory of exciting, and of giving, the glorification;--and

all the rest was a trifle, an accident, a mortal show of things, which

no gentleman and lady can help. The Queen might even swear a good

round oath or so occasionally; and what did it signify? It was a

pleasant ebullition of the authority which is above taxation; the

Queen swore, and not the woman; or if the woman did, it was only an

excess of feeling proper to balance the account, and to bring her

royalty down to a level with good hearty human nature.

It has been said, that as Elizabeth advanced in life, the courtiers

dropped the mention of her beauty; but this is a mistake. They were

more sparing in the mention of it, but when they spoke they were

conscious that the matter was not to be minced. When her Majesty was

in her sixty-second year, the famous Earl of Essex gave her an

entertainment, in the course of which she was complimented on her

"_beauty_" and _dazzling outside_, in speeches written for the

occasion by Lord, then "Mr. Francis, Bacon."[343] Sir John Davies,

another lawyer, who was not born till she was near forty, and could

not have written his acrostical "Hymns" upon her till she was elderly,

celebrates her as awakening "thoughts of young love," and being

"beauty's rose indeed;"[344] and it is well known that she was at a

reverend time of life when Sir Walter Raleigh wrote upon her like a

despairing lover, calling her "Venus" and "Diana," and saying he could

not exist out of her presence.

At the entrance from Whitehall to St. James's Park, where deer were

kept, was the following inscription, recorded by Heutzner, the German

traveller:--

"The fisherman who has been wounded learns, though late, to beware:

But the unfortunate Actæon always presses on.

The chaste Virgin naturally pitied;

But the powerful Goddess revenged the wrong.

Let Actæon fall a prey to his dogs,

An example to youth,

A disgrace to those that belong to him!

May Diana live the care of Heaven,

The delight of mortals,

The security of those that belong to her."

Walpole thinks that this inscription alluded to Philip the Second,

who courted Elizabeth after her sister's death, and to the destruction

of his Armada. It might; but it implied also a pretty admonition to

youth in general, and to those who ventured to pry into the goddess's

retreats.

It was about the time of Essex's entertainment that the same traveller

gives the following minute and interesting account of her Majesty's

appearance, and of the superhuman way in which her very dinner-table

was worshipped. He is describing the manner in which she went to

chapel at Greenwich:--

"First went Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter,

all richly dressed and bare-headed; next came the Chancellor,

bearing the seals in a silk purse, between two, one of which

carried the royal sceptre, the other the sword of state in a

red scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point

upwards; next came the Queen, in the fifty-sixth year of her

age (as we were told), very majestic; her face oblong, fair but

wrinkled; her eyes small, yet black and pleasant; her nose a

little hooked, her lips narrow, and her teeth black (a defect

the English seem subject to, from their too great use of

sugar); she had in her ears two very rich pearls with drops;

she wore false hair, and that red: upon her head she had a

small crown, reported to have been made of some of the gold of

the celebrated Lunebourg table; her bosom was uncovered, as all

the English ladies have it till they marry; and she had on a

necklace of exceeding fine jewels; her hands were small, her

fingers long; and her stature neither tall nor low; her air was

stately; her manner of speaking mild and obliging. The day she

was dressed in white silk, bordered with pearls of the size of

beans, and over it a mantle of black silk shot with silver

threads; her train was very long, the end of it borne by a

Marchioness; instead of a chain, she had on an oblong collar of

gold and jewels. As she went along in all this state and

magnificence, she spoke very graciously, first to one and then

to another (whether foreign ministers, or those who attended

for different reasons), in English, French, or Italian; for

besides being very well skilled in Greek and Latin, and the

languages I have mentioned, she is mistress of Spanish, Scotch,

and Dutch. Whoever speaks to her, it is kneeling; now and then

she raises some with her hand. While we were there, William

Slawater, a Bohemian Baron, had letters to present to her, and

she, after pulling off her glove, gave him her right hand to

kiss, sparkling with rings and jewels, a mark of particular

favour. Whenever she turned her face as she was going along,

everybody fell down on their knees. The ladies of the court

followed next to her, very handsome and well shaped, and for

the most part dressed in white. She was guarded on each side by

the Gentlemen Pensioners, fifty in number, with gilt

battle-axes. In the ante-chamber next the hall, where we were,

petitions were presented to her, and she received them most

graciously, which occasioned the acclamation of 'God Save the

Queen Elizabeth!' She answered it with 'I thanke youe, myne

good peupel.' In the chapel was excellent music; as soon as it

and the service was over, which scarce exceeded half an hour,

the Queen returned in the same state by water, and prepared to

go to dinner.

"A gentleman entered the room bearing a rod, and along with him

another bearing a table-cloth, which, after they had both

kneeled three times with the utmost veneration, he spread upon

the table, and after kneeling again they both retired; then

came two others, one with the rod again, the other with a

salt-cellar, a plate, and bread; when they had kneeled as the

others had done, and placed what was brought upon the table,

they too retired with the same ceremonies performed by the

first: at last came an unmarried lady, (we were told she was a

Countess), and along with her a married one, bearing a tasting

knife; the former was dressed in white silk, who when she had

prostrated herself three times in the most graceful manner,

approached the table, and rubbed the table with bread and salt,

with as much awe as if the Queen had been present. When they

had waited there a little while, the Yeoman of the Guard

entered, bare headed, clothed in scarlet with golden roses upon

their backs, bringing in each turn a course of dishes, served

in plate, most of it gilt. These dishes were received by a

gentleman in the same order they were brought, and placed upon

the table, while the lady taster gave to each guard a mouthful

to eat of the particular dish he had brought, for fear of any

poison. During the time that this guard (which consist of the

tallest and stoutest men that can be found in all England,

being carefully selected for this service), were bringing

dinner, twelve trumpets and two kettle drums made the hall ring

for half an hour together. At the end of all this ceremonial a

number of unmarried ladies appeared, who with particular

solemnity lifted the meat from the table and conveyed it to the

Queen's inner and more private chamber, where after she had

chosen for herself, the next goes to the ladies of the court.

"The queen dines and sups alone, with very few attendants; and

it is very seldom that anybody, foreigner or native, is

admitted at that time, and then only at the intercession of

somebody in power."[345]

A "Character of Queen Elizabeth," written by Edmund Bohun, Esq.,

published in "Nichols's Progresses," has given the following account

of her daily habits:--

"Before day, every morning, she heard the petitions of those

that had any business with her, and, calling her secretaries of

state, and masters of requests, she caused the order of

councils, proclamations, patents, and all other papers relating

to the public, to be read, which were then depending; and gave

such order in each affair as she thought fit, which was set

down in short notes, either by herself, or her secretaries. As

often as anything happened that was difficult, she called her

great and wise men to her; and proposing the diversity of

opinions, she very attentively considered and weighed on which

side the strongest reason lay, ever preferring that way which

seemed most to promote the public safety and welfare. When she

was thus wearied with her morning work, she would take a walk,

if the sun shined, into her garden, or otherwise in her

galleries, especially in windy or rainy weather. She would then

cause ---- Stanhop, or Sir Henry Savill, or some other learned

man, to be called to walk with her, and entertain her with some

learned subject; the rest of the day she spent in private,

reading history, or some other learning, with great care and

attention; not out of ostentation, and a vain ambition of being

always learning something, but out of a diligent care to enable

herself thereby to live the better, and to avoid sin; and she

would commonly have some learned man with her, or near her, to

assist her; whose labour and industry she would well reward.

Thus she spent her winter.

"In the summer time, when she was hungry, she would eat

something that was of light and easy digestion, in her chamber,

with the windows open to admit the gentle breezes of wind from

the gardens or pleasant hills. Sometimes she would do this

alone, but more commonly she would have her friends with her

then. When she had thus satisfied her hunger and thirst with a

moderate repast, she would rest awhile upon an Indian couch,

curiously and richly covered. In the winter time she observed

the same order; but she omitted her noon sleep. When her day

was thus spent, she went late to supper, which was ever

sparing, and very moderate. At supper she would divert herself

with her friends and attendants; and if they made her no

answer, she would put them upon mirth and pleasant discourse

with great civility. She would also then admit Tarleton, a

famous comedian and a pleasant talker, and other such like men,

to divert her with stories of the town, and the common jests or

accidents; but so that they kept within the bounds of modesty

and chastity. In the winter time, after supper, she would

sometimes hear a song, or a lesson or two played upon the lute;

but she would be much offended if there was any rudeness to any

person, any reproach or licentious reflection used. Tarleton,

who was then the best comedian in England, had made a pleasant

play; and when it was acted before the Queen, he pointed at Sir

Walter Rawleigh, and said,--'See, the knave commands the

Queen;' for which he was corrected by a frown from the Queen;

yet he had the confidence to add, that he was of too much and

too intolerable a power; and going on with the same liberty was

so universally applauded by all that were present, that she

thought fit for the present to bear these reflections with a

seeming unconcernedness. But yet she was so offended, that she

forbad Tarleton and all her jesters from coming near her table,

being inwardly displeased with this impudent and unreasonable

liberty. She would talk with learned men that had travelled, in

the presence of many, and ask them many questions concerning

the government, customs, and discipline used abroad. She loved

a natural jester, that would tell a story pleasantly, and

humour it with his countenance, and gesture, and voice; but she

hated all those praters who made bold with other men's

reputation, or defamed them. She detested, as ominous and

unfortunate, all dwarfs and monstrous births. She loved little

dogs, singing birds, parrots, and apes; and when she was in

private, she would recreate herself with various discourses, a

game at chess, dancing, or singing. Then she would retire into

her bedchamber, where she was attended by married ladies of the

nobility, the Marchioness of Winchester, then a widow, the

Countess of Warwick, and the Lord Scroop's Lady, whose husband

was governor of the West Marshes. She would seldom suffer any

one to wait upon her there, except Leicester, Hatton, Essex,

Nottingham, and Sir Walter Rawleigh, who were more intimately

conversant with her than any other of the courtiers. She

frequently mixed serious things with her jests and her mirth;

and upon festival-days, and especially in Christmas time, she

would play at cards and tables, which was one of her usual

pastimes; and if any time she happened to win, she would be

sure to demand the money. When she found herself sleepy, she

would take her leave of them that were present with much

kindness and gravity, and so betake her to her rest; some lady

of good quality, and of her intimate acquaintance, always lying

in the same chamber. And besides her guards, that were always

upon duty, there was a gentleman of good quality, and some

others, up in the next chamber, who were to wake her in case

anything extraordinary happened.

"Though she was endowed with all the goods of nature and

fortune, and adorned with all those things which are valuable

and to be desired, yet there were some things in her that were

capable of amendment, nor was there any mortal, whose virtues

were not eclipsed by the neighbourhood of some vices or

imperfections. She was subject to be vehemently transported

with anger; and when she was so, she would show it by her

voice, her countenance, and her hands. She would chide her

familiar servants so loud, that they that stood afar off might

sometimes hear her voice. And it was reported, that for small

offences she would strike her maids of honour with her hand:

but then her anger was short, and very innocent; and she

learned from Xenophon's book of the Institution of Cyrus, the

method of curbing and correcting this unruly and uneasy

passion. And when her friends acknowledged their offences, she

with an appeased mind easily forgave them many things. She was

also of opinion, that severity was safe, and too much clemency

was destructive; and, therefore, in her punishments and

justice, she was the more severe."

Some of the panegyric in this account must be taken with allowance;

as, for instance, in what is said of the maiden modesty of Elizabeth's

ears. It would be far easier than pleasant to bring proofs to the

contrary from plays and other entertainments performed in her

presence, and honoured with her thanks. Some of the licenses in them

would be held much too gross for the lowest theatre in our days.

Allowance, however, is to be made for difference of times; and

considering the grave assumptions that must have been practised at

court in more than one respect, and made most likely a matter of

conscience towards the community, it may have been none of the least

exquisite of them, that what was understood to all the masculine ears

present, was unintelligible to those of "Diana," even though she had a

goddess's knowledge as well as beauty.

Of one thing, it surprises us that there could ever have been a

question; namely, that Elizabeth was a great as well as fortunate

sovereign,--a woman of extraordinary intellect. To the undervaluing

remark that she had wise Ministers, it was well answered that she

chose them; and if, like most other people, she was less wise and less

correct in her conduct than she had the reputation of being, nothing,

on that very account, can surely be thought too highly of the

wonderful address with which she succeeded in sitting upon the top of

the Protestant world as she did throughout her whole reign, supreme

over her favourites as well as her Ministers--the refuge of struggling

opinion, and the idol of romance.

Enter James I., on horseback, fresh from hunting, clad all in grass

green, with a green feather, shambling limbs, thick features, a spare

beard, and a tongue too big for his mouth. He looks about him at the

by-standers, half frightened; yet he has ridden boldly, and been "in

at the death."

The sensations of James the First on getting snugly nestled in the

luxurious magnificence of Whitehall must, if possible, have been still

more prodigious than those of Elizabeth in her triumphant safety.

Coming from a land comparatively destitute, and a people whose

contentiousness at that time was equal to their valour, and suddenly

becoming rich, easy, and possessor of the homage of Elizabeth's sages

and cavaliers, the lavish and timid dogmatist must have felt himself

in heaven. There are points about the character of this prince, which

it is not pleasant to canvass; but we think the whole of it (like that

of other men, if their history were equally known,) traceable to the

circumstances of his birth and breeding. He was the son of the

accomplished and voluptuous Mary, and the silly and debauched Darnley;

his mother, during her pregnancy, saw Rizzio assassinated before her

face; Buchanan was his tutor, and made him a pedant, "which was all,"

he said, "that he could make of him;" he was a king while yet a

child;--and from all these circumstances it is not to be wondered at

that he was at once clever and foolish--confident, and, in some

respects, of no courage--the son of handsome people, and yet

disjointedly put together--and that he continued to be a child as long

as he existed.

Granger, a shrewd man up to a certain pitch, makes a shallow remark

upon what Sir Kenelm Digby has said on one of these points in James's

history. "Sir Kenelm Digby," says he, "imputes the strong aversion

James had to a drawn sword, to the fright his mother was in, during

her pregnancy, at the sight of the sword with which David Rizzio, her

secretary, was assassinated in her presence. 'Hence it came,' says

this author, 'that her son, King James, had such an aversion, all his

life-time, to a naked sword, that he could not see one without a great

emotion of the spirits, although otherwise courageous enough; yet he

could not over-master his passion in this particular. I remember, when

he dubbed me knight, in the ceremony of putting the point of a naked

sword upon my shoulder, he could not endure to look upon it, but

turned his face another way; insomuch, that, in lieu of touching my

shoulder, he had almost thrust the point into my eyes, had not the

Duke of Buckingham guided his hand aright.' 'I shall only add,"

continues Granger, "to what Sir Kenelm has observed, that James

discovered so many marks of pusillanimity, when the sword was at a

distance from him, that it is needless in this case to allege that an

impression was made upon his tender frame before he saw the

light."[346] And then he makes another objection, which, though not so

obviously unfounded, is perhaps equally so; for effects must have

causes of some sort; and among the mysteries of our birth and being,

what is more probable, than that the same wonders by which we exist at

all, should cause the peculiarities of our existence? The same "tender

frame" would produce the general pusillanimity, as well as the

particular.

Before we continue our remarks on the court of James the First, we

must look back a moment at that of Elizabeth, to say, that Tallis,

Bird, and others, gave dignity to the service of Elizabeth's chapel at

Whitehall, by their noble psalmody and organ-playing. Her Majesty, one

day, not in quite so appropriate a strain, looked out of her closet in

the chapel, and lectured a preacher out loud, for talking indiscreetly

of people's age and dress in a sermon!

The Court of James the First was a great falling off from that of

Elizabeth, in point of decency. It was Sir Toby keeping house after

the death of Olivia; or a fox-hunting squire succeeding to the estate

of some courtly dame, and mingling low life with high. The open habit

of drinking to intoxication, so long the disgrace of England, seems

first to have come up in this reign; yet James, who indulged in it,

was remarkable for his edicts against drunkenness. Perhaps he issued

them during his fits of penitence; or out of a piece of his boasted

"kingcraft," as a blind to his subjects; or, at best, as intimations

to them, that the vulgar were not to take liberties like the gods.

James's court was as great in inconsistency as himself. His father's

grossness, his mother's refinement, and the faults common to both,

were equally to be seen in it--drunkenness and poetry, dirt and

splendour, impiety with claims to religion, favouritism without

principle, the coarsest and most childish buffoonery, and the

exquisite fancies of the masque.

When Christian IV. of Denmark, brother of James's queen, came into

England to visit him, both the kings got drunk together. Sir John

Harrington the wit, translator of Ariosto (the best English version of

that poet, till Mr. Stewart Rose's appeared), has left a letter on the

subject of the court revels of those days, which makes mention of

these royal elegancies, and is on every account worth repeating:--

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON TO MR. SECRETARY BARLOW.

[From London] 1606.

"My good Friend,

"In compliance with your asking, now shall you accept my poor

accounte of rich doings. I came here a day or two before the

Danish King came, and from the day he did come till this hour,

I have been well nigh overwhelmed with carousal and sports of

all kinds. The sports began each day in such manner and such

sorte, as well nigh persuaded me of Mahomet's paradise. We had

women, and indeed wine too, of such plenty, as would have

astonished each beholder. Our feasts were magnificent, and the

two royal guests did most lovingly embrace each other at table.

I think the Dane hath strangely wrought on our good English

nobles; for those whom I could never get to taste good liquor,

now follow the fashion, and wallow in beastly delights. The

ladies abandon their sobriety, and are seen to roll about in

intoxication. In good sooth, the parliament did kindly to

provide his Majestie so seasonably with money, for there have

been no lack of good livinge, shews, sights, and banquetings

from morn to eve.

"One day a great feast was held, and after dinner the

representation of Solomon, his temple, and the coming of the

Queen of Sheba was made, or (as I may better say) was meant to

have been made before their Majesties, by device of the Earl of

Salisbury and others. But, alas! as all earthly things do fail

to poor mortals in enjoyment, so did prove our presentment

thereof. The lady who did play the Queen's part did carry most

precious gifts to both their Majesties; but forgetting the

steppes arising to the canopy, overset her caskets into his

Danish Majestie's lap, and fell at his feet, though I think it

was rather in his face. Much was the hurry and confusion;

cloths and napkins were at hand to make all clean. His Majestie

then got up, and would dance with the Queen of Sheba; but he

fell down and humbled himself before her, and was carried to an

inner chamber, and laid on a bed of state, which was not a

little defiled with the presents of the Queen, which had been

bestowed on his garments; such as wine, cream, jelly,

beverage, cakes, spices, and other good matters. The

entertainment and show went forward, and most of the presenters

went backward or fell down; wine did so occupy their upper

chambers. Now did appear, in rich dress, Hope, Faith, and

Charity. Hope did essay to speak, but wine rendered her

endeavours so feeble that she withdrew, and hoped the king

would excuse her brevity. Faith was then all alone, for I am

certain she was not joyned to good works, and left the court in

a staggering condition. Charity came to the King's feet, and

seemed to cover the multitude of sins her sisters had

committed; in some sorte she made obeyance, and brought giftes,

but said she would return home again, as there was no gift

which heaven had not already given his Majesty. She then

returned to Hope and Faith, who were both sick ... in the lower

hall. Next came Victory, in bright armour, and presented a rich

sword to the King, who did not accept it, but put it by with

his hand; and by a strange medley of versification, did

endeavour to make suit to the King. But Victory did not triumph

long; for, after much lamentable utterance, she was led away

like a silly captive, and laid to sleep in the outer steps of

the anti-chamber. Now did Peace make entry, and strive to get

foremoste to the King; but I grieve to tell how great wrath she

did discover unto those of her attendants; and much contrary to

her semblance, made rudely war with her olive-branch, and laid

on the pates of those who did oppose her coming."[347]

We suspect that some excuse might be found for James's tendency to

drinking, in the same lax and ricketty constitution which made him

timid and idle. His love of field sports might indeed have given him

strength enough to counteract it, had he been forced into greater

economy of living; but the sportsman is seldom famous for eschewing

the pleasures of the table; he thinks he has earned, and can afford,

excess; and so he can, more than most men. James would have died of

idleness and repletion at half the age he did, had he not been a lover

of horseback; but when he got to his table he loved it too well; one

excess produced another; the nerves required steadying; and the poor

disjointed, "ill-contrived" son of Mary (to use a popular, but truly

philosophic epithet,) felt himself too stout and valiant by the help

of the bottle, not to become overfond of it when he saw it return. All

his feelings were of the same incontinent maudlin kind, easily flowing

into temptation, and subjecting themselves to a ruler. The bottle

governed him; the favourite governed him; his horse and dogs governed

him; pedantry governed him; passion governed him; and when the fit was

over, repentance governed him as absolutely.

Sir Anthony Welldon (a discharged servant of James's for writing a

banter upon Scotland, and therefore of doubtful authority concerning

him, but credible from collateral evidence, and in some respects

manifestly impartial,) says that there was an organised system of

buffoonery for the King's amusement, at the head of which were Sir

Edward Souch, singer and relater of indecent stories, Sir John Finet,

composer of ditto, and Sir George Goring, master of the practical

jokes! Sir George sometimes brought two fools riding on people's

shoulders, and tilting at one another till they fell together by the

ears. The same writer says that James was not addicted to drinking;

but in this he is contradicted by every other authority, and indeed a

different conclusion may be drawn from what Sir Anthony himself

subsequently remarks. Sully (Henry the Fourth's Sully, who was at one

time ambassador to James, and who tells us that the English monarch

usually spent part of the afternoon in bed, "sometimes the whole of

it,") says that his custom was "never to mix water with his

wine;"[348] and Sir Roger Coke says he was--

"Excessively addicted to hunting and drinking, not ordinary

French and Spanish wines, but strong Greek wines; and though he

would _divide_ his hunting from drinking those wines (that is

to say, have set times for them, apart), yet he would

_compound_ his hunting with drinking those wines; and to that

purpose he was attended with a special officer, who was, as

much as could be, always at hand to fill the King's cup in his

hunting when he called for it. I have heard my father say that,

being hunting with the King, after the King had drank of the

wine, he also drank of it, and though he was young and of a

healthful constitution, it so disordered his head that it

spoiled his pleasure, and disordered him for three days after.

Whether it was from drinking these wines, or from some other

cause, the King became so lazy and unwieldy, that he was thrust

on horseback, and as he was set, so he would ride, without

otherwise poising himself on his saddle; nay, when his hat was

set on his head, he would not take the pains to alter it, but

it sat as it was upon him."[349]

Perhaps Sir Anthony was fond of the bottle himself, and thought the

King drank no more than a gentleman should. It is curious, that

Churchill, in his long and laboured invective against James,[350] does

not even allude to this propensity. The poet drank himself; probably

wrote the very invective with the bottle at his side. However, it is

strange, nevertheless, he did not turn the habit itself against the

Scottish monarch, as a virtue which failed to redeem him and make him

a good fellow.

Sir Anthony Welldon's account of James's person and demeanour is so

well painted that we must not omit it. It carries with it its own

proofs of authenticity, and is one of those animal likenesses which,

in certain people, convey the best evidence of the likeness moral:--

"He was of a middle stature, more corpulent through his clothes

than in his body, yet fat enough, his clothes being made large

and easie, the doublets quilted for steletto proofe, his

breeches in great pleits and full stuffed. He was naturally of

a timorous disposition, which was the reason of his quilted

doublets; his eyes large, ever rolling after any stranger that

came in his presence, insomuch as many for shame have left the

roome, as being out of countenance; his beard was very thin;

his tongue too large for his mouth, which ever made him speak

full in the mouth, and made him drink very uncomely, as if

eating his drink, which came out into the cup of each side of

his mouth; his skin was as soft as taffeta sarsnet, which felt

so because he never washt his hands, onely rubb'd his fingers'

ends slightly with the wet end of a napkin; his legs were very

weake, having had (as was thought) some foul play in his youth,

or rather before he was born, that he was not able to stand at

seven years of age, that weaknesse made him ever leaning on

other men's shoulders. His walke was ever circular, his fingers

ever in that walke fiddling about."--"In his dyet, apparell,

and journeys, he was very constant; in his apparell so

constant, as by his good-will he would never change his

clothes, until worn out to ragges; his fashion never--insomuch,

as one bringing to him a hat of a Spanish block, he cast it

from him, swearing he neither loved them nor their fashions.

Another time, bringing him roses on his shooes, he asked, If

they would make him a ruffe-footed dove? One yard of sixpenny

ribbon served that turn. His diet and journeys were so

constant, that the best observing courtier of our time was wont

to say, were he asleep seven yeares, and then awakened, he

would tell where the King every day had been, and every dish he

had had at his table."[351]

Sir Anthony tells us, that James could be as pleasant in speech, and

"witty," as any man, though with a grave face; and that he never

forsook a favourite, not even Somerset, till the "poisoning" stories

about the latter forced him. It may be added, that he did not even

then forsake Somerset, as far as he could abide by him; for he gave a

pardon to him and his wife for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury,

though he hanged their agents. This is the greatest blot on James's

character; for though it was a very mean thing in him to put Raleigh

to death, we really believe Raleigh "frightened" him; and as to his

discountenance of the "mourning" for Queen Elizabeth, it appears to

us, that, instead of telling against him, and being a thing

"ungrateful," it was the least evidence he could give of something

like a feeling for his own mother whom Elizabeth had put to death.

James owed no "gratitude" to Elizabeth. She would manifestly have

hindered him from succeeding her, could she in common policy, or regal

feeling, have helped it; and she kept him, or tried to keep him, in

doubt of his succession to the last.

James's style of evincing his regard for his favourites was of a

maudlin and doating description, not necessary to be dwelt upon; and

it was traceable perhaps to the same causes as his other morbid

imperfections; but the horrible injustice which he would allow these

favourites to perpetrate, and his open violation of his own solemn

oaths and imprecations of himself to the contrary, deepen the

suffocating shadow which is thrown over this part of the history of

Whitehall by the perfumes of effeminacy and the poisons of murderous

incontinence. James's lavish bestowal of other people's money upon his

favourites (for it was all money of the State which he gave away, not

his own; though, indeed, he might have bestowed it in a less generous

style upon himself) was the fault of those who let him give it. There

was something hearty and open in the character of Buckingham, though

he was a "man of violence" after his fashion, and made Whitehall the

scene of his "abductions." But the sternest and most formidable

testimony we know against the spirit of this prince's favouritism, and

the horrors with which it became mixed up, probably against his will,

but still with a connivance most weak and guilty, is in the verses

entitled the "Five Senses," the production of his countryman, admirer,

and panegyrist, and one of the most loyal of men to his

house--Drummond of Hawthornden, who had formerly written a beautiful

eulogium upon him, in a poem which Ben Jonson wished had been his own,

the "River of Forth Feasting." It is clear by these verses that

Drummond believed in the worst stories related of Somerset and the

Court. The history of that unhappy favourite is well known. The

Countess of Essex, the young and beautiful wife of the subsequent

parliamentary general, fell in love with him, and got divorced from

her husband under circumstances of the most revolting indelicacy. Sir

Thomas Overbury, an agent of Somerset's, and one of those natures that

puzzle us by the extreme inconsistency of a fine and tender genius,

combined with a violent worldliness (with such at least is he

charged), was to be got rid of for stopping short in his furtherance

of their connection after the divorce. He was poisoned, and Somerset

and his new wife were tried for the murder. Somerset denied it, but

was found guilty; the Countess confessed it; yet both were pardoned,

while other agents of theirs were hung. There is no rescuing James,

after this, from the imputation of the last degree of criminal

weakness, to say the least of it. It is said that the other guilty

parties (the victims, most likely, of a bad bringing-up,) grew at last

as hateful to one another, as they had been the reverse--the

dreadfulest punishment of affections destitute of all real regard, and

furthered by hateful means.

We gladly escape from these subjects into the poetical atmosphere of

the Masque, the only glory of King James's reign, and the greatest

glory of Whitehall.

But the Masque, in which James's Queen was a performer, reminds us

that we must first say a word or two of herself and the other princely

inmates of Whitehall during this reign. The Queen, Anne of Denmark,

has been represented by some as a woman given to love intrigues, and

by others to intrigues political. We take her to have been a

common-place woman, given as much perhaps to both as her position and

the surrounding example induced;--the good-natured wife (after her

fashion) of a good-natured husband, sympathising with him in his

pleasures of the table, and dying of a dropsy. She danced and

performed in the Masques at court, not, we should guess, with any

exquisite grace. Her daughter Elizabeth, who married the Elector

Palatine, afterwards struggling King of Bohemia, and who has found an

agreeable biographer and panegyrist in the late Miss Benger, appears

to have partaken of her good nature, with more levity, and was very

popular with the gentry for her affable manners and her misfortunes.

When she accompanied the Elector to the altar, in the chapel at

Whitehall, she could not help laughing out loud, at something which

struck her fancy. Her brother Henry, Prince of Wales, who died in the

flower of his youth, and who, like all princes who die early, has been

extolled as a person of wonderful promise, obtained admiration in his

day for frequenting the tilt-yard while his father was lying in bed,

and for announcing himself as the opponent of his anti-warlike

disposition. There was probably quite as much of the opposition of

heirs apparent in this, as anything more substantial; for Henry seems

to have exhibited his father's levity and inconsistency of character.

He was thought to be no adorer of the fair sex, yet has the credit of

an intrigue with the Countess of Essex; and though he reprobated his

father's swearing, made no scruple of taunting his brother Charles for

his priestly education, and "quizzing" him for not being straight in

the legs. As to poor Charles ("Baby Charles," as his father called

him, for he was a fond parent, though not a wise one), he became at

once the ornament of his family, and the most unfortunate of its

members; but he seems from an early age to have partaken of the

weakness of character, and the consequent mixture of easiness and

obstinacy, common to the family. Buckingham lorded it over him like a

petulant elder brother. He once rebuked him publicly, in language

unbefitting a gentleman; and at another time, threatened to give him a

knock on the head.

[Illustration: BANQUETING HOUSE, WHITEHALL.]

We have seen court mummeries in the time of Henry the Eighth, and

pageants in that of Elizabeth. In the time of James, the masquings of

the one, and the gorgeous shows of the other, combined to produce the

Masque, in its latest and best acceptation; that is, a dramatic

exhibition of some brief fable or allegory, uniting the most fanciful

poetry and scenery, and generally heightened with a contrast of

humour, or an anti-masque. Ben Jonson was their great poetical master

in the court of James; and Inigo Jones claimed to be their no less

masterly and important setter-forth in scene and show. The poet and

artist had a quarrel upon this issue, and Inigo's memory suffers from

divers biting libels in the works of his adversary. The noble

Banqueting-house remains to show that the architect might have had

some right to dispute pretensions, even with the author of the

"Alchemist" and the "Sad Shepherd;" for it is a piece of the very

music of his art (if we may so speak)--the harmony of proportion.

Within these walls, as we now see them, rose, "like a steam of rich

distilled perfumes," the elegant lines of Ben Jonson, breathing court

flowers,--the clouds and painted columns of Jones--and the fair faces,

gorgeous dresses, and dances, of the beauties that dazzled the young

eyesight of the Miltons and Wallers. Ben's burly body would then break

out, as it were, after his more refined soul, in some burlesque

anti-masque, now and then not a little coarse; and the sovereign and

the poet most probably concluded the night in the same manner, though

not at the same table, in filling their skins full of wine.

The Court of Charles I. was decorum and virtue itself in comparison

with that of James. Drunkenness disappeared; there were no scandalous

favourites; Buckingham alone retained his ascendency as the friend and

assistant; and the King manifested his notions of the royal dignity by

a stately reserve. Little remained externally of the old Court but its

splendour; and to this a new lustre was given by a taste for painting,

and the patronage of Rubens and Vandyke. Charles was a great collector

of pictures. He was still fonder of poetry than his father, retained

Ben Jonson as his laureate, encouraged Sandys, and May, and Carew, and

was a fond reader of Spenser and Shakspeare; the last of whom is

styled by Milton (not in reproach, as Warton strangely supposed; for

how could a poet reproach a King with loving a poet?) the "closet

companion" of the royal "solitudes." Walpole, as Mr. Jesse observes,

was of opinion, that--

"The celebrated festivals of Louis XIV. were copied from the

shows exhibited at Whitehall, in its time the most polite court

in Europe." Bassompierre, in mentioning his state introduction

to Charles and Henrietta, says, "I found the King on a stage

raised two steps, the Queen and he on two chairs, who rose on

the first bow I made them on coming in. The company was

magnificent, and the order exquisite." "I never knew a duller

Christmas than we have had this year," writes Mr. Gerrard to

the Earl of Strafford: "but one play all the time at Whitehall,

and no dancing at all. The Queen had some little infirmity, the

bile or some such thing, which made her keep in; only on

Twelfth Night she feasted the King at Somerset House, and

presented him with a play newly studied, the _Faithful

Shepherdess_ (Fletcher's) which the King's players acted in the

robes she and her ladies acted their pastoral in last year. I

had almost forgot to tell your Lordship, that the dicing night,

the King carried away in James Palmer's hat 1,850_l._ The Queen

was his help, and brought him that luck; she shared presently

900_l._ There are two masques in hand; first, the Inns of

Court, which is to be presented on Candlemas-day; the other,

the King presents the Queen with on Shrove Tuesday, at night:

high expenses; they speak of 20,000_l._ that it will cost the

men of the law."[352]

"Charles was not only well informed," says Mr. Jesse, "in all

matters of court etiquette, and in the particular duties of

each individual of his household, but enjoined their

performance with remarkable strictness. Ferdinand Masham, one

of the esquires of his body, has recorded a curious anecdote

relative to the King's nice exaction of such observances. 'I

remember,' he says, 'that coming to the King's bedchamber door,

which was bolted in the inside, the Earl of Bristol, then being

in waiting and lying there, he unbolted the door upon my

knocking, and asked me "What news?" I told him I had a letter

for the King. The earl then demanded the letter of me, which I

told him I could deliver to none but to the King himself; upon

which the King said, "The esquire is in the right: for he ought

not to deliver any letter or message to any but myself, he

being at this time the chief officer of my house; and if he had

delivered the letter to any other, I should not have thought

him fit for his place."' It seems, that after a certain hour,

when the guard was set, and the 'all right' served up, the

royal household was considered under the sole command of the

esquire in waiting. 'The King,' says Lord Clarendon, 'kept

state to the full, which made his court very orderly, no man

presuming to be seen where he had no pretence to be.'"[353]

The truth is, that both from greater virtue and a less jovial

temperament, Charles carried his improvement upon the levity of his

father's court too far. Public opinion had long been quitting the old

track of an undiscerning submission; and, though it was the King's

interest to avoid scandal, it was not so to provoke dislike. It was on

the side of manner in which he failed. His reformations, the more

scandalous ones excepted, appear to have been rather external than

otherwise. Mrs. Hutchinson, while she speaks of them highly, intimates

that there was still a good deal of private licence; and though it is

asserted that Charles discountenanced swearing, perhaps even this was

only by comparison. It is reported of Charles II., that in answer to a

remonstrance made to him on the oaths in which he indulged, he

exclaimed in a very irreverent and unfilial manner, "Oaths! why, your

Martyr was a greater swearer than I am." It has been questioned also,

whether in other respects Charles's private conduct was so

"immaculate," to use Mr. Jesse's phrase, as the solemnity of his

latter years and his fate has led most people to conclude. Indeed, it

is a little surprising how anybody, partisans excepted, could have

supposed, that a prince, brought up as he was, and the friend of

Buckingham, should be entirely free from the licence of the time. His

manners and speeches to women, though not gross for that age, would be

thought coarse now; and, at all events, were proofs of a habit of

thinking quite in unison with custom. But the present age has been far

stricter in its judgment on these points than any which preceded

it--at least up to the time of George III. It was not the question of

his gallantries, or of his freedom with them, that had anything to do

with Charles's unpopularity. The people will pardon a hundred

gallantries sooner than one want of sympathy. Charles I. would not

have been unpopular in the midst of court elegancies, if he had not

been stiff and repulsive in his manners. Unfortunately he wanted

address; he had a hesitation in his speech; and his consciousness of a

delicate organization and of infirmity of purpose, with the addition

of a good deal of the will common to most people, and particularly

encouraged in princes, made him afraid of being thought weak and easy.

He therefore, in what he thought self-defence, took to an offensive

coldness and dryness of behaviour, and gradually became not unwilling

even to wreak upon other people the irritability occasioned by it to

himself. He got into unseemly passions with ambassadors, and neither

knew how to refuse a petition gracefully, nor to repel an undue

assumption with real superiority. Even his troubles did not teach him

wisdom in these respects till the very last. He was riding out one day

during the wars, when a "Dr. Wykes, dean of Burian in Cornwall," says

Mr. Jesse, "an inveterate punster, happened to be near him, extremely

well mounted. 'Doctor,' said the King, 'you have a pretty nag under

you; I pray, how old is he?' Wykes, unable to repress, even in the

presence of majesty, the indifferent conceit which presented itself,

'If it please your Majesty' he said, 'he is in the second year of his

reign' (rein). Charles discovered some displeasure at this unlicensed

ribaldry. 'Go,' he replied, 'you are a fool!'" Now that the dean was a

fool there can be no doubt; but that this blunt, offensive, and

never-to-be-forgotten word was the only one which a king in a state of

war with his subjects could find, in order to discountenance his

folly, shows a lamentable habit of subjecting the greater

consideration to the less.

Unluckily for Charles's dignity in the eyes of his attendants, and for

his ultimate welfare with the people, there was a contest of

irritability too often going forward between him and his consort

Henrietta; in which the latter, by dint perhaps of being really the

weaker of the two, generally contrived to remain conqueror. Swift has

recorded an extraordinary instance of her violence in his list of

_Mean and Great Fortunes_. He says, that one day Charles made a

present to his wife of a handsome brooch, and gallantly endeavouring

to fix it in her bosom, happened unfortunately to wound the skin, upon

which her Majesty, in a fit of passion, and in the presence of the

whole court, took the brooch out and dashed and trampled it on the

floor. The trouble that Charles had to get rid of Henrietta's noisy

and meddling French attendants, not long after his marriage, is well

known; but not so, that, having contrived to turn the key upon her in

order that she might not behold their departure, "she fell into a rage

beyond all bounds, tore the hair from her head, and cut her hands

severely by dashing them through the glass windows."[354]

When not offended, however, the Queen's manners were lively and

agreeable. We are to imagine the time of the court divided between her

Majesty's coquetries, and accomplishments, and Catholic confessors,

and the King's books, and huntings, and political anxieties;

Buckingham, as long as he lived, being the foremost figure next to

himself; and Laud and Strafford domineering after Buckingham. In the

morning the ladies embroidered and read huge romances, or practised

their music and dancing (the latter sometimes with great noise in the

Queen's apartments), or they went forth to steal a visit to a

fortune-teller, or to see a picture by Rubens, or to sit for a

portrait to Vandyke, who married one of them. In the evening there was

a masque, or a ball, or a concert, or gaming; the Sucklings, the

Wallers, and Carews repeated their soft things, or their verses; and

"Sacharissa" (Lady Dorothy Sydney) doubted Mr. Waller's love, and

glanced towards sincere-looking Henry Spencer; Lady Carlisle flirted

with the Riches and Herberts; Lady Morton looked grave; the Queen

threw round the circle bright glances and French _mots_; and the King

criticised a picture with Vandyke or Lord Pembroke, or a poem with Mr.

Sandys (who, besides being a poet, was gentleman of his Majesty's

chamber); or perhaps he took Hamilton or Strafford into a corner, and

talked, not so wisely, against the House of Commons. It was, upon the

whole, a grave and a graceful court, not without an under-current of

intrigue.

It seems ridiculous to talk of the court of Oliver Cromwell, who had

so many severe matters to attend to in order to keep himself on his

throne; but he had a court, nevertheless; and, however jealously it

was watched by the most influential of his adherents, it grew more

courtly as his protectorate advanced; and it must always have been

attended with a respect which Charles knew not sufficiently how to

insure, and James not at all. Its dinners were not very luxurious, and

the dishes appear to have been brought in by the heavy gentlemen of

his guard. In April, 1654, we read of the "grey coats" of these

gentlemen, with "black velvet collars, and silver lace and

trimmings"--a very sober effort at elegance. Here his daughters would

pay him visits of a morning, fluttering betwixt pride and anxiety; and

his mother sit with greater feelings of both, starting whenever she

heard a noise: flocks of officers came to a daily table, at which he

would cheerfully converse; and now and then ambassadors or the

Parliament were feasted; and in the evening, perhaps after a portion

of a sermon from his Highness, there would be the consciousness of a

princely presence, and something like a courtly joy. In the circle

Waller himself was to be found (making good the doubts of

"Sacharissa"), and Lord Broghill, the friend of Suckling, who refused

to join him; and Lady Carlisle, growing old, but still setting her

beauty-spots at the saints; and Richard Cromwell, heir-apparent, whom

Dick Ingoldsby is forcing to die with laughter, though severe

Fleetwood is looking that way; and the future author of Paradise Lost

talking Italian with the envoys from the Apennines; and Marvel, his

brother secretary, chuckling to hear from the Swedish ambassador the

proposal of a visit from Queen Christina; and young Dryden, bashfully

venturing in under the wing of his uncle Sir Gilbert Pickering, the

chamberlain. There was sometimes even a concert; Cromwell's love of

music prevailing against the un-angelical denouncements of it from the

pulpit. The Protector would also talk of his morning's princely

diversion of hunting; or converse with his daughters and the foreign

ambassadors, some of which latter had that day paid their respects to

the former, as to royal personages, on their arrival in England; or

if the evening were that of a christening or a marriage, or other

festive solemnity, his Highness, not choosing to forget the rough

pleasures of his youth, and combining, perhaps, with the recollection

something of an hysterical sense of his present wondrous condition,

would think it not unbecoming his dignity to recall the days of King

James, and bedaub the ladies with sweetmeats, or pelt the heads of his

brother generals with the chair cushions. Nevertheless, he could

resume his state with an air that inspired the pencil of Peter Lely

beyond its fopperies; and Mazarin at Paris trembled in his chair to

think of it.

But how shall we speak of the court of Charles II.? of that unblushing

seminary for the misdirection of young ladies, which, occupying the

ground now inhabited by all which is proper, rendered the mass of

buildings by the water's side, from Charing Cross to the Parliament,

one vast--what are we to call it?--

"Chi mi darà le voci e le parole

Convenienti a sì nobil soggetto?"

Let Mr. Pepys explain. Let Clarendon explain. Let all the world

explain, who equally reprobate the place and its master, and yet

somehow are so willing to hear it reprobated, that they read endless

accounts of it, old and new, from the not very bashful _exposé_ of the

Count de Grammont, down to the blushing deprecations of Mrs. Jameson.

Mr. Jesse himself begins with emphatically observing, that "a

professed apology either for the character or conduct of Charles II.

might almost be considered as an insult to public rectitude and female

virtue;" yet he proceeds to say, that there is a charm nevertheless in

"all that concerns the 'merry monarch,' which has served to rescue him

from entire reprobation;" and accordingly he proceeds to devote to him

the largest portion given to any of his princes, not omitting

particulars of all his natural children; and winding up with separate

memoirs of the maids of honour, the mistresses, and those confidential

gentlemen--Messrs. Chiffinch, Prodgers, and Brouncker.

Upon the reason of this apparent contradiction between the morals and

toleration of the reading world, we have touched before; and we think

it will not be expected of us to enter further into its metaphysics.

The court is before us, and we must paint it, whatever we may think of

the matter. We shall only observe in the outset, that the "merry

monarch," besides not being handsome, had the most serious face,

perhaps, of any man in his dominions. It was as full of hard lines as

it was swarthy. If the assembled world could have called out to have a

specimen of a "man of pleasure" brought before it, and Charles could

have been presented, we know not which would have been greater, the

laughter or the groans. However, "merry monarch" he is called; and

merry doubtless he was, as far as his numerous cares and headaches

would let him be. Nor should it be forgotten that cares, necessities,

and bad example, conspired, from early youth, to make him the man he

was. We know not which did him the more harm--the jovial despair of

his fellow exiles, or the sour and repulsive reputation which morals

and good conduct had acquired from the gloominess of the Puritans.

Charles was of good height as well as figure, and not ungraceful.

Andrew Marvel has at once painted and intimated an excuse for him, in

an exordium touching upon the associates of his banishment. His

allusion to the filial occupation of Saul is very witty:--

"Of a tall stature and a sable hue,

Much like the son of Kish, that lofty Jew;

Ten years of need he suffer'd in exile,

And kept his father's asses all the while."

He was a rapid and a constant walker, to settle his nerves; talked

affably with his subjects; had a parcel of little dogs about him,

which did not improve the apartments at Whitehall; hated business;

delighted to saunter from one person's rooms at court to another's, in

order to pass the time; was fond of wit, and not without it himself;

drank and gamed, and was in constant want of money for his mistresses,

which ultimately rendered him a scandalous pensioner upon the King of

France; in short, was a selfish man, partly by temperament, and partly

from his early experience of others; but was not ill-natured; and,

like his grandfather James, would live and let live, provided his

pleasures were untouched. His swarthiness he got from the Italian

stock of the Medici, and his animal spirits from Italy or France, or

both: they were certainly not inherited from his father.

The man thus constituted was suddenly transferred from an exile full

of straits and mortifications into the rich and glorious throne of

England. The people, sick of gloom and disappointment, were as mad to

receive him as he was to come. It was May, and all England dressed

itself in garlands and finery. Crowds shouted at him; music floated

around his steps; young females strewed flowers at his feet; gold was

poured into his pockets; and clergymen blessed him. He receives the

homage of Church and State; and goes the same night to sup with Mrs.

Barbara Palmer, at a house in Lambeth.

Such was the event which, by an epithet that has since acquired a

twofold significancy, has been called the "blessed Restoration."

Orthodoxy and loyalty had obtained an awkward champion.

Mrs. Palmer soon restored the King to Whitehall by coming there

herself, where she became in due time Countess of Castlemain, Duchess

of Cleveland, and mother of three dukes and as many daughters. This

was for the benefit of the peerage. But Charles, for the benefit of

royalty, was unfortunately compelled to have a wife; though, as an

alleviation of the misfortune, his wife, he reflected, would have an

establishment, with ladies of the bedchamber; nay, with a pleasing

addition of maids of honour. He therefore put what face he could on

the matter, and wedded Catharine of Braganza. When Lady Castlemain was

presented to her as one of the ladies, the poor Queen burst out

a-bleeding at the nose. It took a good while to reconcile the royal

lady to the "other lady" (Clarendon's constant term for her), but it

was done in time, to the astonishment of most, and disgust of some.

Clarendon was one of the instruments that effected the good work. From

thenceforth the Queen was contented to get what amusement she could,

and was as merry as the rest. She was not an ill-looking woman; was as

fond of dancing as her husband; and he used good-naturedly to try to

make her talk improper broken English, and would not let her be

persecuted.

Whitehall now adjusted itself to the system which prevailed through

this reign, and which may be described as follows: we do not paint it

at one point of time only, but through the whole period.

Charles walked a good deal in the morning, perhaps played at ball or

tennis, chatted with those he met, fed his dogs and his ducks, looked

in at the cockpit, sometimes did a little business, then sauntered

in-doors about Whitehall; chatted in Miss Wells' room, in Miss Price's

room, in Miss Stuart's room, or Miss Hamilton's; chatted in Mr.

Chiffinch's room, or with Mr. Prodgers; then dined, and took enough

of wine; had a ball or a concert, where he devoted himself to Lady

Castlemain, the Duchess of Portsmouth, or whoever the reigning lady

was, the Queen talking all the while as fast as she could to some

other lady; then, perhaps, played at riddles, or joked with Buckingham

and Killigrew, or talked of the intrigues of the court--the great

topic of the day. Sometimes the ladies rode out with him in the

morning, perhaps in men's hats and feathers; sometimes they went to

the play, where the favourite was jealous of the actresses; sometimes

an actress is introduced at court and becomes a "madam" herself--Madam

Davis, or Madam Eleanor Gwyn. Sometimes the Queen treats them with a

cup of the precious and unpurchasable beverage called tea, or even

ventures abroad with them in a frolicsome disguise. Sometimes the

courtiers are at Hampton, playing at hide-and-seek in a labyrinth;

sometimes at Windsor, the ladies sitting half-dressed for Sir Peter

Lely's voluptuous portraits.

Lady Castlemain, the Duchess of Portsmouth, and Nell Gwyn, all have

their respective lodgings in Whitehall, looking out upon gardens,

elegant with balconies and trellises. By degrees the little dukes grow

bigger, and there is in particular a great romping boy, very handsome,

called Master Crofts, afterwards Duke of Monmouth, who is the protégé

of Lady Castlemain, though his mother was Mrs. Walters, and who takes

the most unimaginable liberties in all quarters. He annoys exceedingly

the solemn Duke of York, the King's brother, who heavily imitates the

reigning gallantries, stupidly following some lady about without

uttering a word, and who afterwards cut off the said young gentleman's

head. The concerts are French, partly got up by St. Evremond and the

Duchess of Mazarin, who come to hear them; and there, in addition to

the ladies before mentioned, come also the Duchess of Buckingham,

short and thick, (daughter of the old Parliamentary general, Fairfax,)

and Lady Ossory, charming and modest, and the Countess of Shrewsbury,

who was neither, and Lady Falmouth, with eyes at which Lord Dorset

never ceased to look, and the Duchess of York (Clarendon's daughter),

eating something, and divine old Lady Fanshawe, who crept out of the

cabin in a sea-fight to stand by her husband's side. The Queen has

brought her there, grateful for a new set of sarabands, at which Mr.

Waller is expressing his rapture--Waller, the visitor of three courts,

and admired and despised in them all. Behind him stands Dryden, with

a quiet and somewhat down-looking face, finishing a couplet of

satire. "Handsome Sydney" is among the ladies; and so is Ralph

Montague, who loved ugly dogs because nobody else would; and Harry

Jermyn, who got before all the gallants, because he was in earnest.

Rochester, thin and flushed, is laughing in a corner at Charles's grim

looks of fatigue and exhaustion; Clarendon is vainly flattering

himself that he is diverting the king's ennui with a long story;

Grammont is shrugging his shoulders at not being able to get in a

word; and Buckingham is making Sedley and Etherege ready to die of

laughter by his mimicry of the poor Chancellor.

The following delicate morceaux from the pages of our friend Pepys

will illustrate the passages respecting my Lady Castlemain and others.

"1660--Sept. 14.--To White Hall Chappell, where one Dr. Crofts

made an indifferent sermon, and after it an anthem, ill sung,

which made the King laugh. Here I first did see the Princesse

Royall since she came into England. Here I also observed, how

the Duke of York (James II.) and Mrs. Palmer (Lady Castlemaine)

did talk to one another very wantonly through the hangings that

part the king's closet and the closet where the ladies sit.

"May 21.--My wife and I to Lord's lodgings, where she and I

staid talking in White Hall Garden. And in the Privy-garden saw

the finest smocks and linnen petticoats of my Lady

Castlemaine's, laced with rich lace at the bottom, that ever I

saw; and did me good to look at them. Sarah told me how the

King dined at my Lady Castlemaine's, and supped, every day and

night the last week; and that the night that the bonfires were

made for joy of the Queene's arrival, the King was there; but

there was no fire at her door, though at all the rest of the

doors almost in the street; which was much observed; and that

the King and she did send for a pair of scales and weighed one

another; and she being with child, was said to be heaviest. But

she is now a most disconsolate creature, and comes not out of

doors, since the King's going (to meet his wife).

"August 23d.--Walked to White Hall, and through my Lord's

lodgings we got into White Hall Garden, and so to the

Bowling-greene, and up to the top of the new Banqueting House

there, over the Thames, which was a most pleasant place as any

I could have got; and all the show consisted chiefly in the

number of boats and barges; and two pageants, one of a king,

and the other a queene, with her maydes of honour sitting at

her feet very prettily; and they tell me the queene is Sir

Richard Ford's daughter. Anon come the King and Queene in a

barge under a canopy with 1,000 barges and boats I know, for

they could see no water for them, nor discern the King nor

Queene. And so they landed at White Hall Bridge, and the great

guns on the other side went off. But that which pleased me best

was, that my Lady Castlemaine stood over against us upon a

piece of White Hall. But methought it was strange to see her

lord and her upon the same place walking up and down without

taking notice one of another, only at first entry he put off

his hat, and she made him a very civil salute, but afterwards

took no notice one of another; but both of them now and then

would take their child, which the nurse held in her armes, and

dandle it. One thing more; there happened a scaffold below to

fall, and we feared much hurt, but there was none, but she of

all the great ladies only run down among the common rabble to

see what hurt was done, and did take care of a child that

received some little hurt, which methought was so noble. Anon,

there come one there booted and spurred that she talked long

with, and by and by, she being in her haire, she put on his

hat, which was but an ordinary one, to keep the wind off. But

it become her mightily, as everything else do."

What Pepys thought "noble" was probably nothing more than the

consequence of a habit of doing what she pleased, in spite of

appearances. The "hat" is a comment on it, to the same effect.

"December 25th.--Christmas Day.--Had a pleasant walk to White

Hall, where I intended to have received the communion with the

family, but I come a little too late. So I walked up into the

house and spent my time looking over pictures, particularly the

ships in King Henry the VIIIth's Voyage to Bullonn[355],

marking the great difference between those built then and now.

By and by, down to the chapel again, where Bishop Morley

preached upon the song of the angels, 'Glory to God on high, on

earth peace, and good-will towards men.' Methought he made but

a poor sermon, but long, and reprehending the common jollity of

the court for the true joy that shall and ought to be on these

days; particularized concerning their excess in playes and

gaming, saying, that he whose office it is to keep the

gamesters in order and within bounds, serves but for a second

rather in a duell, meaning the groome-porter. Upon which it was

worth observing how far they are come from taking the

reprehensions of a bishop seriously, that they all laugh in the

chapel when he reflected on their ill actions and courses. He

did much press us to joy in these publick days of joy, and to

hospitality. But one that stood by whispered in my ear that the

bishop himself do not spend one groate to the poor himself. The

sermon done, a good anthem followed with violls, and the King

come down to receive the sacrament.

"1662-3--February 1st.--This day Creed and I walking in White

Hall did see the King coming privately from my Lady

Castlemaine's; which is a poor thing for a Prince to do: and so

I expressed my sense of it to Creed in terms which I should not

have done, but that I believe he is trusty in that point."

The court of James II. is hardly worth mention. It lasted less than

four years, and was as dull as himself. The most remarkable

circumstance attending it was the sight of friars and confessors, and

the brief restoration of Popery. Waller, too, was once seen there; the

_fourth_ court of his visiting. There was a poetess also, who appears

to have been attached by regard as well as office to the court of

James--Anne Kingsmill, better known by her subsequent title of

Countess of Winchilsea. The attachment was most probably one of

feeling only and good-nature, for she had no bigotry of any sort.

Dryden, furthermore, was laureate to King James; and in a fit of

politic, perhaps real, regret, turned round upon the late court in his

famous comparison of it with its predecessor.

James fled from England in December, 1688, and the history of

Whitehall terminates with its conflagration, ten years afterwards.

FOOTNOTES:

[339] Lingard, vol. iv., p. 246. (Quarto Edit.)

[340] Vol. iii., p. 862, Edit. 1808.

[341] Folio edit

[342] _Ut supra_, p. 347. Henry had been afflicted with this ulcer a

long while. He was in danger from it during his marriage with Anne

Bullen. It should be allowed him among his excuses of temperament; but

then it should also have made him more considerate towards his wives.

It never enters the heads, however, of such people that _their_ faults

or infirmities are to go for anything, except to make others

considerate for them, and warrant whatever humours they choose to

indulge.

[343] Nicholls's "Progresses and Public Processions of Queen

Elizabeth," year 1595, pp. 4-8. "He will ever bear in his heart the

picture of her beauty." "He now looks on his mistress's outside with

the eyes of sense, which are dazzled and amased."

[344] See the poems in Anderson's Edition, vol. ii., p. 706.

[345] From an article in the second volume of that elegant and

interesting publication, the "Retrospective Review;" the

discontinuance of which, some years back, was regretted by every lover

of literature.

[346] Biographical History of England. Vol. ii., p. 7. Fifth Edition.

[347] _Nugæ Antiquæ_, Ed. 1804, vol i., p. 348, _et seq._ (Quoted in a

note to Peyton's "Catastrophe of the Stuarts," in "Secret History of

the Court of James I." Vol. ii., p. 387.)

[348] Harris, vol. i., p. 17.

[349] Harris, vol. i., p. 79.

[350] See the Poem of "Gotham" in Churchill's works.

[351] Secret History, &c., as above, vol. ii., p. 1.

[352] Jesse's Memoirs of the Court of England during the Reign of the

Stuarts, vol. ii., p. 91.

[353] Ibid., p. 94.

[354] Jesse, vol. ii., p. 79.

[355] Boulogne.