CHAPTER V

“Our Second Charles of fame facéte,On loin of beef did dine;He held his sword, pleased, o’er the meat,Arise, thou fam’d Sir Loin.”

But Fuller, in his “Ecclesiastical History,” relates of Henry VIII. at the Abbey of Reading, how “a sirloin of beef was set before him, so knighted, saith tradition, by this King Henry;” and, according to another account, James I., on his return from a hunting excursion, so much enjoyed his dinner, consisting of a loin of roast beef, that he laid his sword across it and dubbed it Sir Loin. And at Chingford, in Essex, is a house called “Friday Hill House,” in one of the rooms of which is an oak table with a brass plate thus inscribed:“All lovers of roast beef will like to know that on this table a loin was knighted by King James I. on his return from hunting in Epping Forest.”

When Cosmo III., the Grand Duke of Tuscany, was in England, Charles II., on the evening before his departure, supped with him at the house of his Highness, when a singular adventure occurred, which the Grand Duke thus relates:—

“The entertainment was most superb, both as to the quantity and quality of the dishes. The supper was served up in eighty magnificent dishes, many of which were decorated with other smaller ones, filled with various delicious meats. To the service of fruit succeeded a most excellent course of confectionery, both those of Portugal and other countries famous for the choiceness of their sweetmeats. But scarcely was it set upon the table when the whole was carried off and plundered by the people who came to see the spectacle of the entertainment; nor was the presence of the King sufficient to restrain them from the pillage of these very delicate viands, much less his Majesty’s soldiers, armed with carbines, who guarded the entrance of the saloon, to prevent all ingress into the inside, lest the confinement and too great heat should prove annoying; so that his Majesty, to avoid the crowd, was obliged to rise from the table and retire to his Highness’s apartment.”

An amusing little anecdote is told by Lady Marlborough of William III., who thus writes: “I give an instance of his worse than vulgar behaviour at his own table when the Princess dined with him.It was the beginning of his reign, and some weeks before the birth of the Duke of Gloucester. There happened to be just before her a plate of green peas, the first that had been seen that year. The King, without offering the Princess the least share of them, drew the plate before him, and devoured them all. The Princess Anne confessed when she came home, that she had so much mind for the peas that she was afraid to look at them, and yet could hardly keep her eyes off them.”

Prince George of Denmark, consort of Queen Anne, was renowned for his appetite, and for the bent of it towards pastry, which reminds us of the readiness with which Charles XII. was wont to swallow raspberry tarts, and Frederick II. Savoy cakes.

Under Queen Anne, who had Lister, one of the editors of theApicius, for her pet physician, and who “achieved the highest honour of gastronomy by giving her name to a pudding,” cookery did not suffer from any lack of encouragement; but soon after the accession of the House of Brunswick a fashion was introduced which somewhat threatened to retard the progress of cookery. “The last branch of our fashion,” says Horace Walpole, “into which the close observation of nature has been introduced, is our desserts.” Jellies, biscuits, sugar-plums, and creams have long since given way to harlequins, gondoliers, Turks, Chinese, and shepherdesses of Saxon China. But these, unconnected, and only seeming to wander among groves of curled paper and silk flowers, were soon discovered to be too insipid and unmeaning. Bydegrees, meadows of cattle, of the same brittle materials, spread themselves over the table; cottages rose in sugar, and temples in barley-sugar; pigmy Neptunes in cars of cockle-shells triumphed over oceans of looking-glass, or seas of silver-tissue.... The Intendant of Gascony, on the birth of the Duke of Burgundy, amidst many other magnificent festivities, treated the noblesse of the province with a dinner and a dessert, the latter of which concluded with a representation, by wax figures moved by clock-work, of the whole labour of the Dauphiness, and the happy birth of an heir to the monarchy.”[34]

George I. was fond of good living, and was indiscreet, it is said, in what he ate. His too free indulgence in sturgeon and other strong food, and his custom of partaking of hearty suppers at late hours of the night, counteracted the exertions made by nature in his behalf. On the 3rd of June 1727 the King left Greenwich for Holland, and on reaching Delden, and taking supper with the Count de Twittel, he indulged too freely in melons, an act of imprudence to which was ascribed the disorder that caused his death.

A characteristic anecdote is told of George II., to the effect that the House of Commons having gratified him on some point in which the interests of Hanover were concerned, he sent for his German cook, and said to him: “Get me a very good supper, get me all the varieties;” and he added, “I don’t mind expense.”[35]The mention of hisGerman cook reminds us of the poor opinion he had of our own cooks, insisting that “no English cooks knew how to roast.”

George III. lived like an ascetic, for fear of corpulence and gout; and light diet was one of the grand fundamentals in his idea of health. In “A Sketch of their Majesties’ Domestic Life at Kew during the Summer Season” of 1775, in theAnnual Register, it is said: “His Majesty feeds chiefly on vegetables, and drinks but little wine. The Queen is what many private gentlewomen would call whimsically abstemious; for, at a table covered with dainties, she prefers the plainest and simplest dish, and seldom eats of more than two things at a meal.”

The excellent health which George III. long enjoyed, as well as his exemption from the obesity which was constitutional in his family was once, in the course of a conversation with Lord Mansfield, attributed by him to the following circumstance. He happened to pay a visit to his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, when the conversation turned on the Duke’s increased corpulency. “It was a constitutional malady,” remarked his Royal Highness, from which on reaching middle age he could scarcely be absolved. But temperance and abstinence, he said, were the best remedies, and if neglected, he added, “depend upon it that nothing can prevent your Majesty arising to my size.” Such was the impression made upon the King’s mind that, as he assured Lord Mansfield, from that moment he resolved to check his tendency toobesity by inuring himself to habits of the strictest temperance.[36]And many years afterwards, congratulating himself on his excellent health, he remarked: “The fault of his constitution was a tendency to excessive fat, which, however, he kept in order by the most vigorous exercise and by the strictest attention to a simple diet.” Mrs. Delaney, one of the company, commending him for his remarkable forbearance, he exclaimed, “No, no; I only prefer eating plain and little to growing diseased and infirm.”[37]It would seem the pet potage of George III. was a rich vermicelli soup, with a very few green chevril leaves in it—a preparation which with his more epicurean successor was also equally a favourite.

Carème, a lineal descendant of the celebratedchefof Leo X., who received the name of Jean de Carème—Jack of Lent—for asoup-maigrewhich he invented for the Pope, was induced, by persevering solicitations and the promise of a salary of £1000 a year, to becomechefto George IV., then Regent, but he left him at the end of a few months. The Emperors of Russia and Austria then made new advances to him, but in vain, for Carème accepted an engagement with Baron Rothschild of Paris. But, however great an epicure George IV. might be, he was of opinion that a roast neck of mutton is a dinner fit for a prince. When Prince of Wales he happened on one occasion to partake of bubble-and-squeak at abachelor’s table in Shropshire, this homely dish so pleasing him that it was afterwards very often seen at Carlton House. A roast fowl was the favourite dish of William IV., a black bottle of sherry being uniformly placed on the table near his Majesty.

It is evident that the gastronomic tastes of royalty, at one time or another, have been diverse and numerous. The late Duke of Cambridge, being on a visit to Belvoir Castle for the celebration of its owner’s birthday, was shown the bill of fare for the day, skilfully arranged by an admirablechef, and on being asked whether there was anything else that he fancied, replied, “Yes, a roast pig and an apple dumpling.” Messengers were at once despatched in all directions, and at length a pig was happily found, notwithstanding the season.

A wild boar’s head from the Black Forest would elevate the plainest dinner into dignity, and the late King of Hanover was clearly of this opinion, for he used to send one to each of his most esteemed friends in England every Christmas; and it was a test of political consistency to remain long upon his list, for “all who abandoned his Majesty’s somewhat rigid creed of orthodoxy in Church and State were periodically weeded out.”

Queen Victoria was most simple in her diet, luncheon being her favourite meal, at which we are told a sirloin of beef and a boiled chicken generally appeared on the bill of fare. Of Scotch cookery she was very fond, and was even known to partake of the national dish of “haggis.”

CURIOUS FADS OF ROYALTY

Itis recorded how a certain Spaniard, who once attempted to assassinate a king, Ferdinand of Spain, on being put on the rack could give no other reason for his strange conduct but an inveterate antipathy which he had taken to the King as soon as he saw him:—

“The cause which to that impelled himWas, he ne’er loved him since he first beheld him.”

Although, happily, such an exceptional case as this is almost unique, yet in a minor degree it illustrates a phase of character which is of almost universal application. Thus, for instance, going back to an early period, the Emperor Heraclius at the age of fifty-nine was seized with an unconquerable terror at the sight of the sea. On his return from his Syrian expedition he sojourned in the palace of Herea, on the shore of the Hellespont, and the story goes that the princes of Constantinople were compelled to span the strait with a bridge of boats, and protect it on both sides with planks and branches of trees, so that one could pass over it without seeing the water. Likewise, the Emperor Augustus was terribly afraid of lightning, and as a safeguard not only carried about his person a seal’s skin, but on the approach of a storm took shelter in an underground chamber.

But coming to later times, Henry III. of France could not remain in the same room with a cat, a fact which reminds us of the Duke d’Epernay, who swooned on seeing a leveret, although, curious to say, the sight of a hare did not produce a similar result. And it was the sight of an apple that always put Vladislaus, King of Poland, into fits. Queen Elizabeth detested as ominous all dwarfs and monsters, and seldom could be prevailed upon to bestow an appointment—either civil or ecclesiastical—on an ugly man. She liked to be surrounded by the young and handsome, and she studiously shunned all crippled or deformed persons. She carried this fad to such an extreme that she refused the post of a gentleman usher to an unexceptional person, for no other reason than the lack of one tooth; and “whenever she went abroad, all ugly, deformed, and diseased persons were thrust out of her way by certain officers, whose duty it was to preserve her Majesty from the displeasure of looking on objects offensive to her taste.” Aubrey relates the following story as an illustration of Elizabeth’s peculiarity on this point: “There came a country gentleman up to town who had several sons, but one an extraordinary handsome fellow, whom he did hope to have preferred to be a yeoman of the Guard. ‘Had you spoken for yourself,’ quoth Sir Walter Raleigh, ‘I should have readily granted your desire, but I put in no boys.’ Then said the father, ‘Boy, come in,’ and the son enters—about eighteen or nineteen years of age—but such a goodly proper youth as Sir Walter had not seen the like, for he was the tallest of all the Guard. Sir Walter not only swore him in, but ordered him to carry up the first dish at dinner, when the Queen beheld him with admiration, as if a beautiful quaint young giant had stalked in with the service.” And Lord Bacon, speaking of this whim of Elizabeth, writes: “She always made sedulous inquiries regarding the moral qualifications of any candidate for preferment, and then considered his mien and appearance. Upon one such occasion she observed to me, ‘How can the magistrate maintain his authority, if the man be despised.’”

Elizabeth’s strong aversion to unpleasant smells was well known at Court. One day the stout Sir Roger Williams, kneeling to her to beg a suit, which she was unwilling to grant, and yet ashamed to deny, she exclaimed, “Sir Roger, your boots stink”—hoping to divert the conversation. “No, no, your Majesty,” replied the brave Welshman, “it’s not my boots, it’s my suit.” We are reminded of Louis XI., who had a conceit, says Burton, “that everything did stink about him; all the odoriferous perfumes they could get would not ease him, but still he smelt a filthy stink.”

According to common report, James I. shuddered at the sight of a drawn sword, and Sir Kenelm Digby, in his “Powder of Sympathy,” says that when James knighted him he very narrowly escaped having the sword thrust into his eyes, hisMajesty turning away his face to avoid the sight of the naked weapon—a peculiarity which he attributes to the fright occasioned to his unhappy mother by the assassination of Rizzio in her presence. In a caricature of the time King James was exhibited with an empty scabbard, and in another as having his sword so firmly fixed in the scabbard that it was impossible to draw it out.

William III. had an intense hatred of mourning. When the King of Denmark died, September 4, 1698, Prince George expressed a wish that on this account his Majesty would allow the Princess and himself to congratulate him on his birthday, November 4, without doffing their sable weeds, under the impression that the favour would be granted, as “the late kings, Charles II. and James II., never wished any persons in recent mourning for their relatives to change it for coloured clothes on such occasions.” King William’s ideas, however, respecting mourning were more consonant with those of Henry VIII.; and his Majesty, although Christian V. of Denmark was a near relative of his own, “signified his pleasure that their Royal Highnesses were to visit him in gay Court dresses, or to keep away.”[38]

To such an extent did George II. carry his love of exactness, even in the minutest affairs of life, that it is said he never even allowed his pleasures to interfere with it. For some years after he had ascended the throne, writes Mr. Jesse,[39]his customwas to visit his mistress, Lady Suffolk, every evening at nine o’clock. Sometimes he was dressed and in readiness before the prescribed time, and “on these occasions he used to pace his apartment for ten minutes together with his watch in his hand, waiting till the moment of departure had arrived.”

George II., too, in moments of fretfulness and impatience would vent his feelings by kicking his hat about the room. “When incensed either with his Ministers or his attendants,” writes Wraxall, “he was sometimes not master of his actions, nor attentive to preserve his dignity. On these occasions his hat, and it is asserted his wig, became frequently the objects on which he expended his anger.”

But the fads and eccentricities of royalty have been illustrated in a variety of ways. A notable instance having been Ferdinand II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, who died in 1670, and who was known as the “Fool of his Health,” from the anxiety with which he attended to his health. “I have frequently seen him,” writes the Abbé Arnauld, “pacing up and down his chamber between two large thermometers, upon which he would keep his eyes constantly fixed, unceasingly employed in taking off and putting on a variety of skull-caps of different degrees of warmth, of which he had always five or six in his hand, according to the degree of heat or cold registered by the instruments.” This, he adds, “was a mighty pleasant sight to behold, for there was not a conjurer in all his dominionsmore dexterous in handling his cups and balls than was this prince in shifting his caps.”

Strange, again, was the behaviour of Charles II. of Spain, who was sometimes sunk in listless melancholy, and was occasionally a prey to the wildest and most extravagant fancies. At one time he was weak-minded enough to be induced to believe that his malady was the same as that of the wretched individuals in the New Testament who dwelt among the tombs. At another time a sorceress who lived in the mountains of the Asturias was consulted about his malady. Several persons were accused of having bewitched him, and at last the rite of exorcism was recommended, which was actually performed. Nor was this all, for his Majesty had terrible visions of demons, and kept monks and priests by his side to exorcise them. He believed himself to be the cruel victim of sorcery, and to have been charmed with a portion of the brains of a corpse administered in a cup of chocolate, to counteract the malignant influences of which it was proposed to diet him on hens fed with vipers’ flesh. Even the people, too, believed that he was enchanted, and called him the “bewitched king”—a name which is traditionally preserved to the present day.[40]Instances of a kindred nature are noted elsewhere in the chapter which deals with the superstitions of royalty, where it will be seen how at one time or another the credulity of crowned heads has been responsible for many foolish acts,and in some cases it has been productive of immense harm.

The early period of female domination through the regency of the Queen-mother, Marie Anne of Austria, had made such an impression on Charles II. when young that he felt a horror at the sight of a petticoat, and turned aside when he met a lady. His former governess, the Marquesa de los Velez, had to wait six months to get a word from him. With such antipathy to women, it seemed improbable that he would regard with any favour the mention of marriage, but during the negotiations for an alliance with Marie Louise, this aversion suddenly changed, and, when the miniature of the Princess was sent to him, “he wore the picture on his heart, addressed fine speeches to it,” and as soon as he was informed that she wasen routefor Spain, he set out to meet her.

When Isabella, mother of Philip II., was, writes D’Israeli,[41]“ready to be delivered of him, she commanded that all the lights should be extinguished: that, if the violence of her pain should occasion her face to change colour, no one might perceive it. And when the midwife said, ‘Madam, cry out, that will give you ease,’ she answered, ‘How dare you give me such advice? I would rather die than cry out.’”

In truth, the fads of sovereigns, with their royal etiquette, were frequently carried to such lengths as to make martyrs of them. According to another absurd story from the same source, Philip III.,when seated by the fireside, was once nearly suffocated with heat from the large quantity of wood that the fire-maker had kindled; but “his grandeur would not suffer him to rise from the chair, and the domestics could not presume to enter the apartment, because it was against the etiquette. At length the Marquis de Potat appeared, and the King ordered him to damp the fire; but he excused himself, alleging that he was forbidden by the etiquette to perform such a function, for which the Duke d’Ussada ought to be called upon, as it was his business. The Duke was gone out, the fire burnt fiercer, and the King actually endured it rather than derogate from his dignity.” But, it is said, his blood was heated to such a degree that an erysipelas of the head appeared the next day, which, succeeded by a violent fever, carried him off in the twenty-fourth year of his reign. And what can be more ludicrous than the following: The palace was once on fire; a soldier who knew the King’s sister was in her apartment, and must inevitably have been consumed in a few minutes by the flames, rushed in at the risk of his life, and brought her out. But Spanish etiquette was wofully broken, and the loyal soldier was brought to trial and condemned to death. The Spanish princess, however, in consideration of the circumstance, condescended to pardon the soldier, and saved his life.[42]Churchill might indeed well exclaim—

“Spain gives us pride—which Spain to all the earthMay largely give, nor fear herself a dearth.”

Leopold the “Angel,” second son of the Emperor Ferdinand, would rear the most odoriferous plants, but inflicted on himself the mortification of never going near enough to smell them, imagining that by this act of self-denial he was thereby adding a step to a ladder of good works, “by which he hoped to scale heaven!”

Peter the Great had a strong aversion to being looked at in public, a peculiarity which when visiting this country kept him almost entirely aloof from the gaieties of the Court. On the birthday of the Princess Anne, when a grand ball was given by William III. at Kensington, curiosity so far prevailed over his diffidence as to induce him to express a wish to be present. But he contented himself with occupying a small apartment where, without being seen himself, he could be a spectator of the festive scene. On another occasion, writes Lord Dartmouth, Peter had a mind to see the King in Parliament, “in order to which he was placed in a gutter upon the house-top, to peep in at the window, where he made so ridiculous a figure that neither King nor people could forbear laughing, which obliged him to retire sooner than he intended.” It was probably from what was styled “the lantern” in the roof of the old House of Commons that the Czar witnessed the proceedings below. And many other anecdotes illustrative of this peculiar fad are to be found in the biographies of his Majesty.

Immediately on ascending the throne of Prussia, Frederick William’s mania for crimping and recruiting giants broke out with such force as to be the talk of Europe, “and the terror of every mother of a stalwart youth, not only in his own dominions, but in the neighbouring principalities.” So violently had his agents gone to work, that before the year 1713 was ended he issued a proclamation “not to stop the passengers on the post, as had been done several times.” Indeed, a regular man-hunt was instituted throughout all the villages, even during divine service. Once a rural pastor died of the shock occasioned by seeing his taller sacramental communicants carried offen masseby a recruiting party, “who thought that the Sunday congregation would spare them all further trouble in hunting through the cottages.” In 1720 this was repeated, but so violent was the indignation that an insurrection ensued.[43]From 1713 to 1735 it is said that Frederick William sent 12,000,000 of dollars for recruiting purposes into foreign countries, in connection with which may be quoted the following humorous but tragic occurrence: “In the duchy of Juliers, a Baron Hompesch, who was crimp-in-chief, once bespoke by way of strategy of a very tall master-joiner, who did not know him, a cupboard as long and as broad as the artisan himself. After some days the Baron called to take away the cupboard, but complained that it was of insufficient length. In a fit of alacrity the long-legged joiner laid himself full length within the cupboard as a proof that Hompesch was mistaken; but suddenly the doorwas fastened by the people whom Hompesch had in waiting, and the unfortunate joiner was carried off as a recruit. On opening the cupboard afterwards he was found dead. Hompesch, however, was condemned to death, but the King commuted his sentence to imprisonment for life.”[44]

Numerous anecdotes have been told illustrative of Frederick William’s other fads and eccentricities. Sometimes he would signify his rejection of what he considered an absurd petition by drawing on the margin an ass’s head and ears. One day a baron of ancient patent having complained of another baron taking precedence of him, the King wrote on the petition: “Mere folly; whether a man sits above me or below me, my birth remains the same.” Oftentimes he would ask people in the streets who they were, a peculiarity which made nervous people evade the royal presence. One day when a Jew saw the King approaching he took to his heels and ran; but Frederick William pursued him in hot haste, and when he overtook him, asked, “Why did you run away from me?” “From fear,” answered the Jew, whereupon his Majesty gave him a heavy thwack with his cane, and said that he “wished himself to be loved, and not to be feared.”

And even while distracted with the gout, his eccentricity showed itself; for, as a hymn was being sung to him, at the passage, “Naked shall I go hence,” he interrupted the singers and said, “No—I shall be buried in my uniform.”

Gregory of Tours, speaking of the “Do-nothing kings” of France, says that they sat at home “and gormandized like brute beasts,” showing themselves, as Dr. Doran writes, “once a year perhaps to the people, in state robes.” Such conduct was not to be commended, and so little was Childeric III. ever seen that he was known as the “Phantom King,” his chief amusement having consisted in curling his hair and dressing his beard. Equally apathetic and indifferent to his duties was Ferdinand I. of Austria. And, as an instance of his weak mind, one day he remarked in the imperial palace at Vienna, “I once very readily paid a visit to one of the theatres in the suburbs; but I don’t know—I can’t make out whether they wanted me or not.” It seems he thought he was there to put his signature to some document, “and he was puzzled as to whether he had been asked to do so or not.”

Frederick III. often fell asleep whilst the most important affairs of the State were being discussed, which acquired for him the nickname of “Emperor Night Cap.” When the Turks were destroying the villages and harvests of his people, he amused himself in his garden picking caterpillars out of his roses, and catching slugs with buttered cabbage leaves.[45]

His indolence so exasperated his wife Eleanor, that she said to her son Maximilian in a fit of anger, “On my word, if I thought you would be like your father, I should be ashamed of being the mother of such a king.” Frederick was too lazy, it is said, toturn the handle of a door, but kicked till some one came to open it, or he burst it in. He paid the penalty of his stupidity, for by so doing he one day hurt his foot, and as mortification threatened the surgeons cut it off. “Ah me!” said Frederick, “a healthy boot is better than a sick Emperor.” His exact opposite was Frederick the Great, who was wont to exclaim, “Nothing is nearer akin to death than idleness. It is not necessary that I should live, but it is necessary that whilst I live I be busy.”

Of the many despicable traits of character of Louis XV., not one, perhaps, was more odious than his mania for speculating in corn. He became the chief partner of a company which forestalled corn. From the exceptional advantages this company enjoyed, “it created local and artificial famine in the different provinces for purposes of private gain. The King thus traded on the hunger of his people,” and, as it is added, “the most abject courtier of Versailles could not avoid feeling a twinge of shame when he noted on his bureau day by day the lists of the prices of grain in the different provinces as a guide for speculation.” From such shameful dealings arose the legend of thePacte de famine, which lingered in the memories of the people, and the spectre of which arose in terrible form during the most horrible scenes of the Revolution.

And Louis XI. in a capricious mood once promoted a poor priest whom he found sleeping in the porch of a church, that the proverb might be verified, that to lucky men good fortune will come even when they are asleep.

Lastly, it has been said that the restlessness of Don Sebastian was the despair of his attendants. From one end to the other of his little kingdom there was a perpetual shifting of the royal quarters, “as the royal vagrant hurried in search of novelty and excitement, from Coimbra to Cape St. Vincent, from Almeirim to Alcobaça, to Salvaterra.” Impenetrable to fatigue or hardship, the day afforded too scanty a scope for his activity, and the dead of night often found him exhausting his feverish impatience of repose in long hours of solitary pacing on the sandy shores of the Tagus, or under the dense gloom of the forest arcades of Cintra. And in Sebastian we are reminded of Charles XII. of Sweden, who, determined to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, ventured to make long marches during the cold of the memorable winter of 1709, in one of which 2000 of his men died from the cold, in allusion to which Campbell, in “The Pleasures of Hope,” writes:—

“Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,Marched by their Charles to Dnieper’s swampy shore;Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,The Swedish soldier sank, and groaned his last.”

DANCING MONARCHS

Itis recorded that Nero, during a dangerous illness, made a vow that if he recovered he would dance the story of Turnus in Virgil; and the great Scipio Africanus amused himself with dancing, “not,” writes Seneca, “those effeminate dances which announce voluptuousness and corruption of manners, but those manly, animated dances in use among their ancestors, which even their enemies might witness without abating their respect.” Indeed, dancing has always been a favourite amusement amongst all classes of society, having from an early period been countenanced by the example of the Court. Thus it is said that Edward II. paid one Jack of St. Albans, his painter, for dancing on the table before him, and making him laugh excessively.

After the coronation dinner of Richard II., the remainder of the day was spent in rejoicings, and we are told how the King, the prelates, the nobles, the knights, and the rest of the company danced in Westminster Hall to the music of the minstrels. Several of our English monarchs were noted for their skill in dancing, and none, perhaps, more than Henry VIII., who was particularly partial to thismode of diversion. At this period, when masques and pageants were much in vogue, the King himself was occasionally “a frequent performer as well as spectator,” and numerous anecdotes have been handed down of his dancing feats. Thus, at the festivities held at Westminster in honour of the birth of a prince on New Year’s Day 1511, the King and a selected company danced before Catherine’s throne, executing their stately pavons and “corantos high” with the utmost success; at the conclusion of which the young King bade the lady spectators come forward and pluck the golden letters and devices from his dress, and that of his company. An unlooked-for incident followed, for a vast crowd of the London populace, who were the constant witnesses of the Court ceremonials in the middle ages, rushed forth and plucked off with startling rapidity the glittering ornaments from himself, and his noble guests. Not only were the ladies despoiled of their jewels, but the King himself was stripped to his doublet and drawers. The King, laughing heartily, took the matter in good part, and treated the whole scramble as a frolic, remarking that “they must consider their losses aslargessto the commonalty.”[46]

Catherine of Aragon excelled in Spanish dances, and at the festivities in honour of her marriage with Prince Arthur—her short-lived bridegroom—apparelled in Spanish garb, she gave an exhibition of her high proficiency in this mode of dancing. On this occasion, too, the dancing of Henry Duke ofYork and his sister, Lady Margaret, the young Queen of Scots, gave such satisfaction that it was renewed, when the young Duke, finding himself encumbered with his dress, “suddenly threw off his robe and danced in his jacket with the said Lady Margaret, in so good and pleasant a manner that it was to King Henry and Queen Elizabeth great and singular pleasure.”

Again, on New Year’s Day 1515, Henry VIII. performed a ballet with the Duke of Suffolk and two noblemen and four ladies, the young Duchess of Savoy being supposed to be in love with Suffolk. After dancing had been continued for some time, the company took off their vizors, and when they were known, “the Queen heartily thanked the King’s grace for her good pastime, and kissed him.” But on the very day this ballet was performed the King of France died, and his fair bride was left a widow, after having been married less than three months.

Another interesting instance of Court dances at this time is given by Hall, who tells how, on the King’s visit to France with Anne Boleyn—lately made Marchioness of Pembroke—a magnificent reception was given by him at Calais in honour of the French sovereign, at which, after supper, “came in the Marchioness of Pembroke, with seven ladies, in masking apparel of strange fashion, made of cloth of gold, slashed with crimson tinsel satin puffed with cloth of silver and knit with laces of gold. These ladies were led into the state chamber by four damsels dressed in crimson satin, with tabards ofpine cypress. Then the lady marchioness took the French king, the Countess of Derby the King of Navarre, and every lady took a lord. In dancing, King Henry removed the ladies’ vizors, so that their beauties were shown.” It was then discovered by the French king that he had been dancing with an old acquaintance—no other than the lovely English maid-of-honour of his first queen; and having conversed with her some time apart, he sent her a present on the next morning of a jewel valued at 15,000 crowns.

Queen Elizabeth was a great patroness of the dance, which accounts for its having flourished in her reign. It is said that she bestowed the office of Lord Chancellor on Sir Christopher Hatton, not so much for his knowledge of the law, but because he wore green bows on his shoes, and danced the pavon to perfection, to whom mention is made in Gray’s humorous lines:—

“Full oft within the spacious walls,When he had fifty winters over him,My grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,The seals and maces danced before him.His bushy head, and shoe strings green,His high-crown’d hat and satin doublet,Moved the stout heart of England’s queen,Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.”

“Full oft within the spacious walls,When he had fifty winters over him,My grave Lord Keeper led the brawls,The seals and maces danced before him.

His bushy head, and shoe strings green,His high-crown’d hat and satin doublet,Moved the stout heart of England’s queen,Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.”

Many notices occur, too, of Queen Mary’s participation in the revelry of her father’s court, and we find her figuring, in her young days, as a dancer in Court ballets. Some courtly adulator, who had been present at a ball at which many danced withher royal father, appears to have been much struck with her charms, making her appearance the subject of a poetic effusion, wherein he tells us:—

“Ravished I was, that well was meO Lord! to me so fain [willing]To see that sight that I did see,I long full sore again.I saw a king and a princessDancing before my face,Most like a god and a goddess;I pray Christ save their grace.”

“Ravished I was, that well was meO Lord! to me so fain [willing]To see that sight that I did see,I long full sore again.

I saw a king and a princessDancing before my face,Most like a god and a goddess;I pray Christ save their grace.”

Charles II. was specially fond of dancing. Writing from Cologne to Henry Bennett on the 18th of August 1655, he says: “Pray, get me pricked down as many new corrants and farrabands, and ‘other little dances’ as you can, and bring them with you, for I have got a small fiddler that does not play ill on the fiddle.”

The last day of the year 1662 concluded with a grand ball at the palace of Whitehall, and Pepys tells us that he got into the room where the dancing was to take place, which was crowded with fine ladies. “By-and-by comes the King and Queen and all the great ones. After seating themselves, all rose again; the King took out the Duchess of York, the Duke the Duchess of Buckingham, the Duke of Monmouth my Lady Castlemaine, other lords other ladies, and they danced ‘the brantle.’ Afterwards the King led a lady a single coranto, and then the lords, one after another, other ladies; very noble it was, and pleasant to see. Then to country-dances, the King leading the first, which hecalled for by name as ‘Cuckolds all awry,’ the old dance of England. The manner was, when the King dances, all the ladies in the room, and the Queen herself, stand up; and, indeed, he dances rarely, and much better than the Duke of York.” Pepys adds that it was reported the King reprimanded Lady Gerard as he was leading her down the dance, for having spoken against Lady Castlemaine to the Queen, and forbade her to attend her Majesty any more.

Pepys, too, gives a graphic account of a ball given at Whitehall, in the year 1666, to celebrate the Queen’s birthday, on which occasion he contrived to climb up to a loft, where he obtained a view of the festive scene, which he thus describes: “It was indeed a glorious sight to see Mrs. Stuart in black and white lace, and her head and shoulders dressed with diamonds, only the Queen none (as she was in mourning for her mother), and the King in his rich vest of some rich silk and silver trimming; the Duke of York and all the other dancers wore cloth of silver. Presently, after the King was come in he took the Queen, and about fourteen more couple there were, and began the brantle. After the brantles a corant, and now and then a French dance: but that so rare, that the corants grew tiresome, and I wished it done, only Mrs. Stuart danced mighty fine; and many French dances, especially one the King called ‘the new dance,’ which was very pretty. But, upon the whole, the business of the dancing itself was not extraordinary pleasing. About twelve at night it broke up.” Indeed, Queen Catherine is said to have been childishly attached to dancing, and in some verses, entitled “The Queen’s Ball,” published in the State Poems, she is styled:—

“Ill-natured little goblin, and designedFor nothing but to dance and vex mankind.”

Pepys further tells us how he was admitted by his acquaintance, Lady Peterborough, into the apartments of the Duchess of York at Whitehall when the young Mary Stuart was taking her dancing lesson, which incident he thus describes: “Stepping to the Duchess of York’s side to speak to my Lady Peterborough, I did see the young Duchess, a little child in hanging sleeves, dance most finely, so as almost to ravish me, her ear is so good, taught by a Frenchman that did heretofore teach King Charles II. and all the royal family, and the Queen-mother herself, who do still dance well.”

It may be added that the first introduction of the royal sisters, Mary and Anne, was their performance of a ballet, written for them by the poet Crowne, called “Calista, or the Chaste Nymph,” acted December 2, 1674. They were trained for this performance by Mrs. Betterton, the principal actress at the King’s Theatre, the ballet being remarkable for the future historical parts of the performers. The Lady Mary of York was the heroine, Calista; her sister the Lady Anne, Nyphe; Lady Harriet Wentworth performed Jupiter. The epilogue was written by Dryden, and addressed to Charles II.

In after years, when Mary assumed the burden of regal dignity, she was exposed to the malevolent misinterpretation of a Court to which she was almost as much a stranger as was her husband himself. She was considered too fond of the frivolous gaieties from which in truth she shrank, and she writes: “The world who cannot see the heart ... began to take notice of the change that was in my life, and comparing my way of living in Holland to that here, were much scandalised to see me grown so remiss.” But this kind of criticism, which was unjust, did not prevent her pursuing the course she considered right; and although on the King’s birthday in 1689 a ball was given at her desire, she tells us:—

“I really thought it no proper time, when war was round about, and my father himself engaged against us.... Yet such is the depravation of this age and place where I live, none seems to think of such things, and so, ill-custom prevailing, there was a ball, but by my writings may be seen how I endeavoured to spend that day as also the next, which was Gunpowder Treason, God be praised for it.”

The following particulars of a grand ball given at Marli in July 1705, at which the royal exiles of St. Germains were present, is a proof of the respectful consideration with which they were treated by Louis XIV. At the upper end of the saloon in which the ball took place were placed three fauteuils for the King of France, the widowed Queen of England, and her son—Mary Beatrice,as in the lifetime of her royal consort, occupying the centre seat. The titular King of England opened the ball with his sister, the King of France standing all the time they were dancing. This mark of respect, it is said, he would have done every time the young royal pair danced together, had not Mary Beatrice induced him to be seated; and even then it was not till he had paid them this token of regard twice or thrice that he would consent to sit down.

The introduction in the Russian Court of foreign dances coincided with the adoption of foreign dress and other customs; hence in the time of Peter the Great ignorance of the minuet, or of Polish and English dances, was looked upon as a serious defect in education. During the latter part of her life the Empress Anne was fond of listening to the jests of her buffoons. At the conclusion of these exhibitions her maids of honour would sing to her, and occasionally she would watch them dance. One day, according to the “Memoirs of the Princess Daschkov,” she commanded four of the principal beauties of St. Petersburg to perform a Russian dance before her. But they became so nervous at the stern glance of the Empress that, losing all presence of mind, they forgot the figure of the dance, and amidst the general confusion were electrified by the approach of her Majesty, who, advancing towards them in a fit of rage, gave each a sound box on the ear, and ordered them instantly to begin over again, which they did, half dead withfear.[47]The Empress Elizabeth was an accomplished dancer, and in order to see the minuet danced to perfection it was commonly said one should go to the Russian Court. Catherine II. was very fond of the ballet, and gave it every possible encouragement, taking an active pleasure in most kinds of pantomimic ballet. Amongst some of the many anecdotes told of this sovereign, it is related how she treated her maids of honour almost as if they were her own daughters. Noticing one day that Freiline Potocka, who had lately come to the Court, had no pearls, she immediately seized the opportunity of a fancy dress ball, to which the girl came in the disguise of a milkmaid, in order to slip a superb necklace into the pail that she had put down whilst dancing. “It is you, madame, ... it is your Majesty,” she stammered on discovering the present. “No!” replied the Empress, “the milk has curdled.”[48]

In the year 1798 a curious and most imposing ballet was given at Court in honour of the Czarina and the Grand Duke. It was called “The Conquered Prejudice,” and was of a most elaborate character, the most imposing stage effects being introduced. And, coming down to recent years, Théophile Gautier, describing the opening of a Court ball in 1866, tells how the spectators in the ball-room of the Winter Palace separated so as to leave free a pathway of which they formed thehedges. Every one in position, the orchestra played a majestic air, and with slow steps the promenade began, led by the Emperor giving his hand to some lady whom he was desirous of honouring. They were followed by the rest of the Court, all according to precedence, and gradually “the cortège of brilliant uniforms goes on increasing: a nobleman leaves the hedge and takes a lady by the hand, and this new couple take their place in the procession, keeping step by step with the leader. And what adds to the originality of the Russian Court is, that from time to time a young Circassian prince in his fastidious Oriental dress, or a Mongolian officer, will join the cortège.”

Portuguese dances having long been famous, it is not surprising that at most Court festivals dancing was in high repute. King Dom Pedro I. is reported to have been a great votary of the dance, and the Portuguese historian, Ferñao Lopes, tells how, mad with sorrow at the loss of his wife, Inez de Castro, he would in the weary hours of nighttime, as he lay sleepless, order a troop of soldiers “to form a hedge from his palace, and to hold lighted torches that he might dance between them, and thus give bodily expression to the vehemence of his grief.”[49]But a monarch who degraded and brought dancing into the lowest repute was Alfonso VI.—a wicked and unscrupulous sovereign, whose conduct, as already noted, seemed to savour of insanity. Thus, when his country was in the greatest peril, he indulged in every kindof infamy. While his soldiers and his English allies[50]were spilling their blood in defence of his dominions, he devoted his time to ruin himself and his country. His palace, it is said, “particularly his residence at Alcantara, afforded a scene at which the most immodest might blush.” He violated the nunneries, assailed the affrighted sisters with rough wooing, and at once terrified and disgusted them by fitting up a stage in the choir of the church at Alcantara, on which he not only had theatrical performances and unseemly dances, “but compelled the unhappy nuns to honour them with their presence.” This was a pleasing spectacle for a responsible ruler, and one well worthy of the days of a Nero. But one of his successors on the throne—John V.—was of a very different turn of mind; for although a munificent patron of literature and the fine arts—founding the Academy of History at Lisbon—he was a great lover of music and the theatre, and spent large sums in importing singers and dancers from Italy, and actors from France.

Dancing was a monomania with Philip III. of Spain and Portugal, and his Prime Minister distinguished himself as the best dancer of his time—the result being that the whole aristocracy of Spain and Portugal became affected by the dancing rage, which was ridiculed by Manuel de Mello.

The wife of Ferdinand VI. of Spain, the Infanta of Portugal, was haunted by the fear of death andof poverty—apprehensions which she tried to conquer by the extravagant indulgence of a passion for music and dancing. With this melancholy, and oppressed by asthma and unwieldy corpulency, she could scarcely have been a very graceful dancer, for M. de Noailles said of her, “Son visage est tel qu’on ne peut la regarder sans peine.”

A romantic tale is told of Queen Joan of Naples, who, at a magnificent feast given in her castle of Gaeta, gave her hand to Galeazzo of Mantua for the purpose of opening the ball. At the conclusion of the dance the gallant knight knelt down before his royal partner, and, as an acknowledgment of the honour conferred upon him, he made a solemn vow not to rest until he had subdued two valiant knights, and had presented them prisoners at her royal footstool, to be disposed of at her pleasure. Accordingly, after a year spent in visiting various scenes of action in Brittany, England, France, Burgundy, and elsewhere, he returned and offered his two prisoners of rank to Queen Joan. The Queen received the gift very graciously, but, declining to avail herself of the right she had to impose rigorous conditions on the captives, she gave them liberty without ransom, in addition to bestowing on them several marks of liberality.

An early Danish ballad tells how one of the ancient kings of Denmark, dancing at a wake with a fair peasant girl, requested her to sing to him, which she did in tones so clear and thrilling that she woke the Queen Sophie, who had retired to bed. Her Royal Highness’s curiosity being aroused,she got up, put on her purple mantle, and went out to see what sort of girl the songstress might be. On seeing her husband dance with the peasant girl, the Queen’s jealousy was excited, and she exclaimed that it was “a monstrous thing that Signellile”—the peasant girl—“should dance with Denmark’s king.” So she ordered one of her attendants to bring her “the richly moulded horn” filled with wine, giving instructions for an edder-corn to be first dropped in. Then, when the King asked his royal consort if she would not dance with him, Queen Sophie replied—

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