_By Leigh Hunt, Esq._
These volumes exhibit a lively picture of the gayest and most profligate
periods of the history of the English Court. The writer, Sir Ralph Esher,
is an adventurer in the Court of our Second Charles, where he is
introduced by luckily securing a feather that escapes from the hat of one
of the ladies of the Court on horseback. The work opens with some account
of the writer's family, of some antiquity, in the county of Surrey, with a
few delightful sketches of the great men of the period. Witness this
slight outline of
_Cowley._
"I rode one day on purpose to see Cooper's Hill, because Mr. Denham had
written a poem upon it; and hearing that Cowley was coming to see Mr.
Evelyn at Wootton, I went there and waited all the morning, till I saw him
arrive. He had a book in his hand, with his finger between the leaves, as
if he had been reading. He was a fleshy, heavy man, not looking in good
health, and had something of a stare in his eye. Before he entered the
gate, he stooped down to pinch the cheeks of some little children at play;
and afterwards, when I heard he was put in prison, I could not, for the
life of me, persuade myself that he deserved it."
The third chapter describes one of Charles's visits to Durdans, a rural
retreat built with materials from Nonsuch in the vicinity. The opening has
all the summer freshness of a race-day morning at Epsom:
"The bells awoke me in the morning, ringing a merry peal. When the wind
died, they seemed to be calling towards London; when it rose again, they
poured their merriment through the town, as if telling us that the King
was coming. I got up, and went into the street, where the people were
having their breakfasts under the trees, as the gentry do in the time of
the races. It was a very animated scene. The morning was brilliant. A fine
air tempered the coming warmth. The tables set out with creams and cakes
under the trees, had a pretty country look, though the place was crowded.
Everybody was laughing, chattering, and expecting; and the lasses, in
their boddices and white sleeves, reminded me of Miss Warmestre."
The arrival of the King and his mistress is beautifully told, as are the
costumes described, nay, coloured, for they are like highly-finished
portraits.
_Charles and his Court at Epsom_.
"The King!--The silence now seemed to become more silent; and in spite of
the opinions in which I had been brought up, I felt what it was to be in
the presence of one who inherited sovereign power. His Majesty himself
alighted first, and together with Buckingham, presented his hand to assist
the Queen. Then came a handsome boy, Mr. Crofts (afterwards Duke of
Monmouth); and last, assisted by her cousin the Duke, the long looked for
beauty, beautiful indeed, triumphantly beautiful. She looked around, and
the spectators could hardly refrain from another shout.
"The dress at that time was well calculated to set off a woman to
advantage. Lady Castlemain was dressed in white and green, with an open
boddice of pink, looped with diamonds. Her sleeves were green, looped up
full on the shoulders with jewelry, and showing the white shift beneath,
richly trimmed with lace. The boddice was long and close, with a very low
tucker. The petticoat fell in ample folds, but not so long as to keep the
ankles unexposed; and it was relieved from an appearance of too much
weight by the very weightiness of the hanging sleeves, which
counterpoising its magnitude, and looking flowery with lace and ribbons,
left the arms free at the elbows, and fell down behind on either side. The
hair was dressed wide, with ringlets at the cheeks; and the fair vision
held a fan in one hand, while the Duke led her by the other. When she had
ascended the steps, and came walking up the terrace, the lowness of her
dress in the bosom, the visibility of her trim ankles, and the flourishing
massiness of the rest of her apparel, produced the effect, not of a woman
over-dressed, but of a dress displaying a woman; and she came on,
breathing rosy perfection, like the queen of the gardens.
"I did not see all this at the time; there was not leisure for it; but I
had the general impression, which I reduced into detail afterwards. The
spectators forgot everybody but the King and her. His Majesty, at that
period of his life, (he was little more than thirty,) looked at his best,
and I thought I never saw a manlier face, or a more graceful figure. He
was in mulberry coloured velvet and gold. He not only took off his hat in
return to our salutations, but persisted in keeping it so, as if in the
presence of the whole people of England. This fairly transported us. The
royal features were strong, somewhat grim even, and he had a black brow
and a swarthy complexion, reminding us of the southern part of his stock;
but there was good temper in the smile of his wide though not unhandsome
mouth; and his carriage was eminently that of the gentleman. Lady
Castlemain at that time was little more than twenty. The Queen, though
short of stature, was young also, and looked handsomer than we expected;
and as all parties seemed pleased, and his Majesty's little son came on
the other side of the lady of the bed-chamber, we pretended to ourselves,
that things were not so bad as report made them; though never more
convinced, that everything which had been related was true."
An animated snatch from court life:
"I passed a delightful winter, carrying messages, going to plays, dining,
drinking, dressing, and hearing the King and his courtiers talk. By
degrees I was encouraged to talk myself. I got a reputation for being both
a hearty and a judicious admirer of wit and poetry, and this procured me
the regard of the men I was most anxious to please. Lord Buckhurst liked
me because I was discriminating; Sir John Denham, because I listened with
respect; Sir Charles Sedley, because none of his similes were lost on me;
and Mr. Waller, because I thought him the greatest poet that ever was, I
had some misgiving on that point, when I thought of poor Mr. Cowley, who
died not long afterwards. Mr. Sprat (lately made Bishop of Rochester, then
the Duke of Buckingham's chaplain,) took me to see that great and good man
in his retreat in the country, where he talked so delightfully of rural
pleasures, that I began to sigh after my old fields, till I heard him say
he had realized nothing but agues, and that the Arcadians in his vicinity
were anything but what they should be. He thought, however, he should find
them a little higher up the river."
_Lely's Portrait of Cromwell_
is thus introduced in the second volume:
"Oliver now stood erect, with his back to a fire-place, and resembled the
picture which had been lately painted of him by Lely. The artist flattered
him perhaps in the general air, as far as it implied ordinary good
breeding, and an habitual urbanity of carriage; and yet the momentary look
may not have been flattered even in that respect; for as the greater
includes the less, so the princely serenity which Cromwell could assume as
well as any man, or rather which was natural to him in his princely
moments, involved of necessity whatever is of the like quality in the
self-possession of an ordinary gentleman. You have heard what Cromwell
said, when Lely was about to paint this picture? He desired him to omit
nothing that could complete the likeness, however it might tell against
smoothness and good looks. Not a wart, or a wrinkle was to be left out.
Lely accordingly produced a stronger and bluffer face than is usual with
him; though it is to be doubted, whether the sense of beauty to which he
afterwards made such a sacrifice of his pencil, would have permitted him
to go to the extent of Cromwell's direction, granting even that the
instinct of a courtier had not prevented it. Nor are we to suppose, that
Cromwell himself, however great a man, was displeased to think that his
warts and wrinkles had been found less inimical to pleasingness of aspect,
than might have been looked for. Be this as it may, I was afterwards when
I came to see the picture, highly struck with the resemblance it bore to
him at the period of this interview. If there was any defect on the wrong
side it was, that the eyes were not fine enough; not sufficiently deep and
full of meaning. And yet they are not vulgar eyes, in Lely's picture. The
forehead, and the open flow of hair on either side, as if he was looking
out upon the realm he governed, and the air of it was breathing upon him,
are wonderfully like; and so is the determined yet unaffected look of the
mouth. The nose, which in every face is, perhaps, the seat of refinement
or coarseness, (at least I have never found the symptom fail) is hardly
coarse enough; and in a similar proportion, it is wanting in power.
Cromwell's nose looked almost like a knob of oak. Indeed, throughout his
face there was something of the knobbed and gnarled character of that
monarch of our woods. I will add, that as this picture was painted
immediately after Cromwell's accession to the sovereign power, the
princely aspect of the sitter was never more genuine, perhaps, than at
that moment. But there was one thing which Lely assuredly took upon
himself to qualify; to wit, the redness of the nose. It was too red in
ordinary, though not so much so as his libellers gave out, nor so
distinguished in colour from the rest of his face. When he was moved to
anger, the whole irritability of his nature seemed to rush into both nose
and cheeks; and this produced an effect, the consciousness of which was,
perhaps, of no mean service in helping him to control himself. Upon the
whole if many princes have had a more graceful aspect, few have shown a
more striking one, and fewer still have warranted the impression by their
actions."
The work, as our readers may imagine, is from first to last, an ever
shifting round of adventure. It has its dark shades as well as its lively
tints. The Great Plague and Fire furnish ample materials for the former,
as do the court beauties and _intriguantes_ for the latter. An episodal
narrative of the Plague is one of the most touching pieces in the whole
work. At present we subjoin one of
_The Great Fire._
"I was pondering one night, as I was sitting in the parlour at
Mickleham,[1] looking at a beautiful moon, and delaying to go to bed, when
Bennett came in and told me, that there was a dreadful fire in London. One
of the tradesmen had brought news of a dreadful fire the day before; but
as every fire was dreadful, and I had seen the good people of London run
away from a cow, crying out, a "mad bull," I had thought nothing of it,
and was prepared to think as little of the new one. The old gentleman,
however, assuring me that both fires were one and the same, that it had
burnt a whole night and day, and was visible as far as Epsom, I thought it
time to see into the truth of the matter. I ordered my horse, and
promising to bring back a correct account, purely to satisfy the house
that there was no such thing, (for some of the domestics had kindred in
London,) I set off at a round gallop, looking towards the north, as if I
could already discern what I had doubted. Nobody was stirring at
Leatherhead; but at Epsom, sure enough, there was a great commotion, all
the people being at their doors, and vowing they saw the fire; which,
however, I could not discern. That there was a fire, however, and a
dreadful one, was but too certain, from accounts brought into the town
both by travellers and the inhabitants; so with the natural curiosity
which draws us on and on upon much less occasions, especially on a road, I
pushed forward, and soon had pretty clear indications of a terrible fire
indeed. I began to consider what the King might think of it, and whether
he would not desire to have his active servants about him. At Morden the
light was so strong, that it was difficult to persuade one's-self the fire
was not much nearer; and at Tooting you would have sworn it was at the
next village. The night was, nevertheless, a very fine one, with a
brilliant moon.[2] Not a soul seemed in bed in the villages, though it
was ten o'clock. There was a talk of the French, as if they had caused it.
By degrees, I began to meet carts laden with goods; and on entering the
borders of Southwark, the expectation of the scene was rendered truly
awful, there was such a number of people abroad, yet such a gazing silence.
Now and then one person called to another; but the sound seemed as if in
bravado, or brutish. An old man, in a meeting of cross-roads, was
haranguing the people in the style of former years, telling them of God's
judgments, and asserting that this was the pouring out of that other vial
of wrath, which had been typified by the Fiery Sword,--a spectacle
supposed to have been seen in the sky at the close of the year sixty-four.
The plague was thought to have been announced by a comet.
"Very different from this quieter scene, was the one that presented itself,
on my getting through the last street, and reaching the water-side. The
comet itself seemed to have come to earth, and to be burning and waving in
one's face, the whole city being its countenance, and its hair flowing
towards Whitehall in a volume of fiery smoke. The river was of a bloodish
colour like the flame, and the sky over head was like the top of a
pandemonium. From the Tower to St. Paul's there was one mass of fire and
devastation, the heat striking in your eyes, and the air being filled with
burning sparkles, and with the cries of people flying, or removing goods
on the river. Ever and anon distant houses fell in, with a sort of
gigantic shuffling noise, very terrible. I saw a steeple give way, like
some ghastly idol, its long white head toppling, and going sideways, as if
it were drunk. A poor girl near me, who paced a few yards up and down,
holding her sides as if with agony, turned and hid her eyes at this
spectacle, crying out, 'Oh, the poor people! oh the mothers and babies!'
She was one of the lowest of an unfortunate class of females. She thought,
as I did, that there must be a dreadful loss of lives; but it was the most
miraculous circumstance of that miraculous time, that the fire killed
nobody, except some women and infirm persons with fright.
"I took boat, and got to Whitehall, where I found the King in a more
serious and stirring humour than ever I saw him. Mr. Pepys, begging God to
forgive him for having an appetite at such a crisis, and interrupting his
laughter at the supper they gave him, with tears of pity and terror, had
brought word to his Majesty that the whole city would be destroyed, if
some of the houses were not blown up. The King accordingly not only
dispatched myself and many others to assist, but went in person with his
brother, and did a world of good. I never saw him look so grim, or say so
many kind things. Wherever he went, he gave the people a new life, for
they seemed dead with fright. Those who had not fled, (which they did by
thousands into the fields where they slept all night,) seemed only to have
been prevented from doing so, by not knowing what steps to take. The Lord
Mayor, a very different one from his predecessor, who showed a great deal
of courage during the plague, went about like a mad cook with his
handkerchief, perspiring, and lamenting himself; and nobody would have
taken the citizens for the same men who settled my court friends at the
battle of Naseby. The court, however, for that matter, was as frightened
as the city, with the exception of the King and one or two others; so
terrible is a new face of danger, unless there is some peculiar reason for
meeting it. The sight indeed of the interior of the burning city, was more
perilous, though not so awful, as its appearance outside. Many streets
consisted of nothing but avenues between heaps of roaring ruins; the sound
of the fire being nothing less than that of hundreds of furnaces, mixed up
with splittings, rattlings, and thunderous falls; and the flame blowing
frightfully one way, with a wind like a tempest. The pavement was hot
under one's feet; and if you did not proceed with caution, the fire singed
your hair. All the water that could be got seemed like a ridiculous
dabbling in a basin, while the world was burning around you. The blowing
up of the houses marked out by the King, was the ultimate salvation of
some of the streets that remained; but as a whole, the city might be
looked upon as destroyed. I observed the King, as he sat on his horse at
the beginning of Cheapside, and cast his eyes up that noble thoroughfare;
and certainly I had never seen such an expression in his countenance
before.
"The fire raged four days and nights; and on the fifth of September,
London, from the Tower to Fleet-street, was as if a volcano had burst in
the midst of it, and destroyed it, the very ruins being calcined, and
nothing remaining in the most populous part, to show the inhabitants where
they had lived, except a church here and there, or an old statue. I looked
into it, three days afterwards, when the air was still so hot, that it was
impossible to breathe; and the pavement absolutely scorched the soles of
my shoes.
"The loss of property by the fire was of course far greater than that by
the plague, and yet assuredly it was not felt a thousandth part so much,
even in the city; for money, even with the lovers of it, is not so great a
thing, after all, as their old habits and affections. The wits at court
never chose to say much about the plague; but the fire, after the fright
was over, was a standing joke. And the beneficial consequences to the city
itself soon became manifest, in the widening and better building of the
streets, an improvement which came in aid of the cleanliness that was
resorted to against the plague; so that instead of a judgment against the
King and his government, Rochester said, in his profane way, that heaven
never showed a judgment of a better sort."
We need scarcely add our commendation of these delightful volumes. Each
page teems with life, and everywhere to use an expression of the writer,
his "soul rises with springy freshness." The portraits, and to use a
familiar term of artists, the bits of painting, have the touches of a
master-hand, and they are interwoven with genius which enlivens art and
embellishes nature.
[1] At or near Mickleham, by the way, the writer might have commanded a
distant view of the burning City. On a fine, clear day we have often
discerned the dome of St. Paul's from one of the hills rising from
Mickleham to Norbury Park.
[2] Evelyn, speaking of this night, says, that it was "light as day for
about ten miles round about, after a dreadful manner."--_Memoirs_, vol.
i. p. 391. second edit 4to. Sir Ralph does not seem to make the light
so strong, though he does not absolutely say it was otherwise. Perhaps
Evelyn speaks of a later hour. The flames appear to have become
visible afterwards to the distance of forty miles.--_Edit._
* * * * *