But some of these magnificent masques appear to have been conducted with but little attention to decorum. The Countess of Dorset mentions in her Memoirs that there was “much talk of a mask which the Queen held at Winchester, and how all the ladies about the Court had gotten such ill names, that it was grown a scandalous place; and the Queen herself was much fallen from her former greatness and reputation she had in the world.” Peyton’s censure is even stronger. “The masks,” he says, “and plays at Whitehall wereused only as incentives for lust; therefore the courtiers invited the citizens’ wives to those shows on purpose to defile them. There is not a chamber nor lobby, if it could speak, but would verify this.”
In the following reign the masque became a highly beautiful and exquisite entertainment, encouraged by the fine taste of Charles I., and aided by such cultured men as Buckingham, Jonson, Lawes the musician, and Inigo Jones. The masque at this period was produced at an enormous outlay, and one presented at Whitehall by the Inns of Court in the year 1633 cost the prodigious sum of £21,000. In the masque of “The Night and the Hours,” the first scene represented a double valley, one side with dark clouds hanging before it, on the other a green vale, with trees, nine of which were covered with gold, and were fifteen feet high. From this grove towards the “state,” or seat of the King, extended a dancing-place, with the bower of Flora on the right, and the house of Night on the left. The bower of Flora was decorated with flowers and leafy branches, whilst Night appears in her house, “her long black hair spangled with gold, amidst her hours, their faces black, and each bearing a lighted black torch.”
On another occasion the Lords’ masque was performed, which was also divided into two parts, the lower being first discovered, in which there was seen a wood in perspective; and on the sudden fall of a curtain there appeared a heaven of clouds of all hues, whilst from a bright and transparentcloud eight maskers descended with the music of a full song. On reaching the ground the cloud broke in twain, and, after the manner of a transformation scene, a series of changes took place. With these gorgeous entertainments was usually presented the anti-masque, a humorous parody of the more solemn show. And to the popularity of this species of exhibition we owe Milton’s “Comus and Arcades.”[74]
During the reign of Charles II. masquerading was the rage, and it is recorded how the King and Queen and all the courtiers went about masked, and so completely disguised that no one, unless in the secret, could distinguish them. They were carried about in hackney-chairs, entered houses where merry-makings were going on, and danced about with the wildest frolic. On one occasion the Queen got separated from her party, and her chairmen, not knowing her, went away. Much frightened, she returned to Whitehall in a hackney-coach, or, according to some authorities, in a cart. The Earl of Manchester—the Lord Chamberlain—well aware that she was surrounded by spies who were ready to make the most of the slightest indiscretion on her part, did not hesitate to tell her that “it was neither decent nor safe for her to go about as she had done of late.” The Duke of Buckingham seriously proposed to Charles that in some nocturnal frolic they should carry the Queen off, and send her to the plantations, to which, according to Burnet, the King would have had no objection had she retired voluntarily into a convent.
A harmless feature of the frolic and fun of the exiled Court at St. Germains were the balls and receptions given by Mary Beatrice. A lively description, too, has been given of the Shrove Tuesday masquerade at St. Germains, to which the whole town was admitted, the barriers being thrown open by her Majesty’s command, in order that all classes, high and low, young and old, English and French, might join in the carnival. Etiquette, however, forbade the Prince and Princess from wearing masks, or assuming any particular characters on these occasions; yet they are represented as dancing merrily in the midst of the motley crowd.
On one occasion some indignation was caused when it was discovered that, at a masked ball, the son of the Court apothecary, Bondin, had found admittance, at which the Duchess of Burgundy was present. The apothecary’s son, concealed under his mask, had the audacity to pass for a marquis, and was bold enough to dance with a princess who was not very remote from the throne. At these balls not only James and his Queen, but the young Prince of Wales, were often present. At one of these riotous gatherings the crowd was so great that the little Duke de Berri, son of the Dauphin, nearly lost his life in the pressure by suffocation. Happily he was rescued, but not without some difficulty. It may be noted that the “pretended Prince of Wales,” as the son of James is invariably called by the English papers of the period, is described as being present atthese masked balls, “masked,” to save him from being “tied to ceremonials.”
And it is recorded that whilst this kind of merriment was going on, the ears of James were deafened by solicitations from his starving disbanded soldiers, whose distress was appalling. Indeed, their condition became so desperate that Louis was petitioned to enrol one hundred of them in the French army; and, when this request was refused, an honest captain of gendarmes, expressing himself too freely, was punished with the loss of his personal freedom, and was flung into the Bastille. It is said that James would have had sympathy with the bold speaker thus cruelly punished, but that his attention was, through the force of circumstances, attracted in different directions.[75]
Masquerading was general in Scotland as far back as the days of James I. At the celebration of the marriage of James IV. and the Lady Margaret, a company of English comedians, under the management of John English, enlivened the festivities of the Court with a dramatic representation. “After dinnar a moralite was played by the said Master Englishe and his companions, in the presence of the Kyng and Qwene, and then daunces were daunced.”
During the regency of Mary of Guise, and the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, “when masques became more and more splendid and extravagant, and when the Queen pirouetted in newly introducedFrench dances which were anything but models of decorum, no wonder the more sober-minded were disgusted, and all amusement of the kind was brought into disrepute.”[76]But it would appear that, however much such frivolities grated on the feelings of the sober-minded Scotsman, royalty was not disposed on that account to dispense with a mode of diversion which had never been so severely censured elsewhere.
In the year 1681 there were gay doings at Edinburgh, when the Duke and Duchess of York and the Lady Anne—afterwards Queen of England—were present. Balls, plays, and masquerades were introduced; but the last were soon laid aside, “the taste of the times being opposed to such ungodly innovations,” and there were substituted poetic and dramatic masques and pastorals, in which the Princess Anne, with other young ladies of quality, personated some of the mythological characters. These entertainments included the “Comus” of Milton, and similar pieces by Ben Jonson, Shirley, Davenant, and other dramatic poets of the last century, and they were interspersed with music, and were set off with splendid dresses and decorations.
And coming down to later times, a practical joke which was played by the Duke of Montagu on Heidegger, a celebrated conductor of operas and masquerades, is said to have been much enjoyed by George II. A few days previous to one of Heidegger’s famous masquerades, at which the King had promised to be present, the Duke ofMontagu invited the German to sup with him at the Devil’s Tavern in Fleet Street, and plied him with wine till he became helplessly intoxicated. Whilst in this condition, Mrs. Salmon was commissioned to take a cast of his face, which was afterwards painted “to the very image of life.” The Duke then procured a suit of clothes exactly like Heidegger’s ordinary costume, and having procured a person whose voice and figure resembled those of the German, he managed to create an excellent counterpart of his unfortunate victim. On the evening of the masquerade Heidegger ordered the band to play the National Anthem as soon as the King and his suite arrived; whereupon the counterfeit Heidegger commanded them to play the Jacobite tune of “Over the water to Charley.” The King and the players were in the secret of the joke, for the former laughed immoderately, and the latter followed the orders of the fictitious manager. Heidegger was in a state of fury, and when informed by the Duke of Montagu of his Majesty’s displeasure at the insolence of the band, repaired to the royal box to vindicate his character. The King kept up the joke for a time, and terminated it by ordering the counterfeit Heidegger to remove his mask.
On New Year’s Eve 1745 Frederick the Great, in celebration of the peace with Silesia, gave at the Opera House a masked ball, to which every one, without distinction, was admitted. The Court and the nobility were entertained at six large tables, in addition to which people of every rank and station found on all sides richly furnished buffets. On thesquare before the Opera House a temple of Janus was erected, behind which a grand display of fireworks took place. The ball lasted till morning, the maskers giving only too manifest proof that they had found the wines most excellent. But the King, who made the round of the tables, where he saw a good deal of his plate finding its way into the pockets of his guests, and discovered many persons lying hopelessly drunk in the lobbies of the house, remarked, “I shall never repeat this joke.”
On the 13th of March 1799 the Opera House of Berlin was the scene of a masquerade which contemporary reports describe as well worthy of the days of Louis XIV., or of Augustus the Strong of Saxony. It represented the marriage of the English Queen Mary with Philip of Spain, the character of the bride being supported by Queen Louisa, and that of the bridegroom by the Duke of Sussex. A minuet of these two royal personages was followed by a quadrille between Queen Elizabeth, Don John of Austria, Margaret of Parma, and the Duke of Savoy.
On the evening of March 16, 1792, Gustavus III. was mortally wounded at a masked ball at the Opera House at Stockholm, and died, after great suffering, on the 29th. The pistol-shot was fired by a man of noble family, Ankarström, formerly a captain in the Guards, who, having retired from active service, and still holding a half-civil command in the island of Gothland, had been—rightly or wrongly—accused of a traitorous understanding with the Finland mutineers in 1788. He had,therefore, been sentenced by the King to a term of imprisonment. This sentence, it has been suggested, and the wrongs his order had sustained in the constitutional changes of 1789, may have wrought a mind naturally gloomy into madness; in addition to which he is said to have lost heavily by a sudden depreciation of paper money to an extent of 30 per cent. Hence the King, in his eyes, was a tyrant and a robber, and he vowed vengeance. With him were joined several other discontented and angry nobles, who had suffered arrest in 1789, and had real or fancied wrongs to avenge; and it may be added that the King’s secretary, Bjelke, who enjoyed much of his Majesty’s confidence, persuaded him to go to the ball, taking care to give timely notice to the conspirators.
At night, after Christina had taken the most solemn step of abandoning the community of Luther for the Church of Rome, at Innsbruck, in Tyrol, the Archduke entertained her with a masque and dancing. Nor was this all, for there was a play represented before her that evening, the moral of which, it is said, was not of the cleanest, and upon which the illustrious convert made this comment: “Well, gentlemen, it is but proper that you should entertain me with a comedy to-night, since I amused you with a farce this morning”—a profane remark, concerning which the great Leibnitz remarks that, if it was really uttered, it proved that “Christina was not mindful of—decorum!”
ROYALTY IN DISGUISE
Toavoid the dangers inseparable from war, or to seek a temporary concealment in political troubles, has caused many a monarch in times past to assume the most varied disguises, the circumstances connected with which forming some of the most romantic episodes in history. In “Candide, or the Optimist,” Voltaire tells in an admirable manner how eight travellers meet in an obscure inn, and some of them with not even sufficient money to pay for a scurvy dinner; but in the course of conversation they are discovered to be eight monarchs in Europe, who had been deprived of their crowns. And what gave point to this satire was that these eight monarchs were not the fictitious majesties of the poetic brain—“imperial shadows like those that appeared to Macbeth,” but living monarchs who were wandering at that moment about the world. If tradition be true, there is Alfred the disguised minstrel in the Danish camp; and, later on, romance tells how the last of the Saxon kings lived and died disguised as a hermit in a cell at Chester. Another traditionary story informs us that the Emperor Henry V., husband of Matilda of England, did not die atthe time he was said to have done so; but fled, disguised “in a woollen garment,” to England, where, at Westchester, he lived for ten years as the hermit “God’s Call.” And it is further told how the Empress Matilda, when hotly pursued by Stephen’s troops at Devizes, made her escape by personating a corpse when wrapped in grave clothes, and placed in a coffin. She was borne on the shoulders of some of her trusty partisans to Gloucester, where, it is said, she arrived “faint and weary with long fasting and mortal terror.” It is not, however, with disguise as associated with the vicissitudes of royalty that we are concerned, but rather as adopted by sovereigns for some freak, or fancy.
Thus Charles VI. of France spent large sums of money in the pursuit of pleasure, and, amidst other excesses, he was fond of disguising himself. In the first week of the year 1393 there were festive doings at Court, in consequence of the nuptials of the Queen’s favourite, a German lady. It was her third marriage, and the event was considered to give occasion for more than usual licence. As a novel diversion, it was proposed to the King and his companions by one named Guisay to attire themselves as satyrs, and, under cover of their masks, to taunt and tease the wedding party. Accordingly, the disguise was effected by means of linen dresses, to which tow was fixed with pitch. Dressed in this manner, five of the party joined the wedding company at the Hôtel St. Pol, and indulged in the most extravagant cries, dances, andgestures, when the mad idea seized the Duke of Orleans of setting fire to the dresses of the masqueraders. Instantly they were in flames, with the exception of the King, whom the Duchess of Berri covered with her robe. But the others perished, except one, who managed to save himself by leaping into a butt of water. The accident, it is said,[77]might have become more serious, by reason of the anger of the people, who, “when they learned it, attributed all to the dissolute folly of the Court, and were for taking vengeance on those present for the danger which had befallen the King.”
It is also recorded of the same monarch that his treasurer, Noujant, was most desirous to lay by a certain sum for any urgent necessity that might arise; and in order to secure the King’s approval, he proposed to frame with it a golden stag which should be marvellous as a work of wealth and art. But more than the neck and head of this stag was never completed, for the King found another which pleased him better—a gilded stag which could hold a sword and shake it. And, in order to exhibit this, “he imagined the public entrance of the Queen into Paris. He himself went to see the procession in disguise, mounted behind one of his servitors, his eagerness to enjoy his own spectacle bringing upon his back many a blow from the serjeants who cleared the way for the pageant. The King boasted of having received these blows in a good joke.”[78]
Some of the habits and predilections of Louis XI. were not only distasteful to his nobles, but even incomprehensible to his people. Occasionally he would set forth with half-a-dozen companions, clad like himself in coarse grey cloth, with wooden paternosters about their necks, under the pretext of forming some pilgrimage—his real aim being to visit the marches and confines of his kingdom, and to become acquainted with all things, and all men, through the evidence of his own eyes. In similar guise Louis journeyed along the sea-coast to Bordeaux, being nearly captured by an English boat which fired upon him. The King’s staff lay concealed in some high reeds till there was an opportunity of escaping.
We hear, too, of Charles IX. figuring at a tournament, with a party of gay and festive followers, all of whom, King and courtiers, fought in the lists attired as women.
Christina of Sweden, after she had resigned the throne, travelled in the guise of a foreign knight, habited as a cavalier, with a red scarf, according to the Spanish fashion. In this attire she rode into Hamburg, where the inhabitants had prepared a residence for her, but she preferred lodging with a Jewish physician named Texeira. “That action,” says a contemporary writer, “much amazed both the Senate, whose honourable entertainment and reception she refused, and the priests of the town, who, inflamed with the zeal of God’s house, could not forbear to speak in public against her for her ridiculous and scandalous choice of the house ofa man who is professedly a sworn enemy of Jesus Christ.” In answer to such objections, Christina urged that Jesus Christ had all His life conversed with the Jews, that He was one of their seed, and that He had preferred their company to that of all other nations.
When travelling in male attire, and under the name of “the son of the Count of Dohna,” Madame du Noyer, in herLettres Galantes, tells how Christina, when staying at an inn, was visited by the Queen of Denmark, who disguised herself as a servant, and in that character waited on the ex-queen. So cleverly did she act her part that Christina had not the slightest suspicion, and, putting no restraint upon her tongue, she occasionally spoke with entire unreserve of the King of Denmark in terms of a not very complimentary kind. But, on her leaving the inn, the Queen of Denmark commanded a page to inform his errant mistress that she had done great injustice to the King. The page hastened to deliver the message, at hearing which Christina laughed aloud, and exclaimed, “What! that servant-girl who was standing there all dinner-time was the Queen of Denmark! Well, there has happened to her what often happens to curious people—they make discovery of more things than are agreeable to them. It is her own fault, for as I have not the gift of divination, I did not look for her under such a dress as that.”
The vacillating fortunes of the Polish monarchy seem to have convinced more than one king thata crown is not always the most enviable of possessions. Thus it is recorded that one sovereign—probably Boleslaus II.—having quitted his companions in the hunting-field, was discovered some days afterwards in the market-place of the capital disguised as a porter, and lending out the use of his shoulders for a few pence. At first there was some doubt as to whether the porter could be his Majesty; but when this was removed, there was some indignation that so great and exalted a personage should debase himself by so vile an employment. He was then entreated to return to his vacant throne, but his Majesty replied, “Upon my honour, gentlemen, the load which I quitted is by far heavier than the one you see me carry here: the weightiest is but a straw when compared to that world under which I laboured. I have slept more in four nights than I have during all my reign. I begin to live, and to be a king of myself. Elect whom you choose. For me, who am so well, it were madness to return to Court.” The story goes that when search was made for this philosophic ex-monarch he was found only with extreme difficulty. He was elected against his will, and when the sceptre was placed in his hand as he was seated on the throne, he exclaimed, with some emotion, “I had rather tug at the oar than occupy such a place.” But, as it has been justly remarked, “few are the kings of the Poles who might not have given utterance to the same sentiment, whether they were of the country, or as was often the case after Casimir, obtained from foreigncountries,” it having been the boast of the Polish nobility that they held their kings, and were not holden by them.[79]
The marriage of Ulrica, sister of Frederick the Great, with Adolphus Frederick of Sweden was the fruit of a stratagem rather unfairly played off on her sister. The Court and Senate of Sweden sent an ambassador incognito to Berlin to watch and report upon the characters and dispositions of Frederick’s two unmarried sisters, Ulrica and Amelia, the former of whom had the reputation of being very haughty, crafty, satirical, and capricious; and the Swedish Court had already determined in favour of Amelia, who was remarkable for her personal beauty, and sweetness of character. It so happened that Amelia was much disquieted in her mind on account of her insuperable objection to renounce the tenets of Calvin for those of Luther. In her perplexity she sought the assistance of her sister’s counsels to prevent a union so repugnant to her happiness. The wary Ulrica—only too anxious to hold her place—advised her to assume by way of disguise the most insolent and repulsive deportment to every one in the presence of the Swedish ambassador—whose arrival had soon been buzzed abroad—which advice she followed; whilst her sister adopted all those attractive and amiable qualities which Amelia had for the time being laid aside. Every one, ignorant of the cause, was astonished at the unaccountable change in the conduct of the two sisters; and the ambassador on his return to Berlin informed his Court that fame had completely reversed their reciprocal good and bad qualities. The result of this stratagem was that Ulrica was preferred, and mounted the throne of Sweden.
And with this ruse we may compare one practised by Catherine II. of Russia on Joseph II., Emperor of Germany. At the village of Zarsko-Zelo, at which is situated the magnificent imperial country palace, there were no inns, an inconvenience which the hospitality of Mr. Bush, the English gardener, prevented being felt by visitors properly introduced to him. Accordingly, when Joseph II., to whom every appearance of show was highly distasteful, expressed his intention of visiting Catherine, she offered him apartments in her palace, which he declined. Her Majesty, fully aware of his dislike to parade, had Mr. Bush’s house fitted up as an inn, with the sign of a Catherine wheel, below which appeared in German characters, “The Falkenstein Arms”—Falkenstein being the name which the Emperor assumed. His Majesty knew nothing of the ingenious and attentive deception till after he had quitted Russia.
On one occasion, when the Emperor visited Moscow, he is said to have preceded the royal carriage as anavant-coureur, in order to avoid what he felt to be the obnoxious pomp and ceremony which an acknowledgment of his rank would have awakened. And when at Paris he amused himself by frequenting the cafés incognito, one day being asked to play a game of chess. He lost the game andwished to play another, but his opponent excused himself, as he was anxious to visit the opera to see the Emperor. “What do you expect to see in the Emperor?” he inquired, “for he is just like any other man.” “No matter,” said the stranger, “he is a very great man, and I will not be disappointed.” Whereupon the Emperor rejoined, “If that is your only motive for going to the opera, we may as well play another game, for you see him before you.”
When in London Peter the Great attended a masked ball at the Temple in the costume of a butcher; and Dr. Doran quotes an amusing incident in connection with a Christmas custom in his own country. Formerly, it appears, there was a masquerading ceremony in Russia consisting of a sledge procession, which took place between Christmas and the New Year, in which the clergy, gorgeously attired, stopped at certain houses, sang a carol, and “received in return donations from those who wished to be considered peculiarly orthodox Christians. Peter once witnessed this procession, and was so edified by the amount of the contributions, that he placed himself, suitably attired, at the head of the sledges and the Church, sang his own carols, and pocketed the contributions of the loyal and faithful” with the most marked satisfaction.
An amusing and familiar story is told of Charles V., who, being curious to know the sentiments of his meanest subjects concerning himself, would often go incognito and mix in such companies as he felt inclined. One night, at Brussels, his bootrequiring immediate attention, he was directed to a cobbler. It happened to be St. Crispin’s day, and the cobbler was in the height of his jollity among his acquaintances. The Emperor acquainted him with what he wanted, and offered him a handsome gratuity.
“What, friend?” said the cobbler, “do you know no better than to ask one of our craft to work on St. Crispin? Was it Charles himself, I’d not do a stitch for him now, but if you’ll come in and drink St. Crispin, do, and welcome; we are as merry as the Emperor can be.”
The Emperor accepted the offer, and ere he had sat down the jovial host thus accosted him: “What, I suppose you are some courtier politician or other by that contemplative phiz; but be you who, or what you will, you are heartily welcome; drink about, here’s Charles V.’s health.”
“Then you love Charles V.,” replied the Emperor.
“Love him!” exclaimed the cobbler; “aye, aye, I love his long-noseship well enough, but I should love him much better would he but tax us a little less. But what have we to do with politics? Round with the glasses, and merry be our hearts.”
Shortly afterwards the Emperor took his leave, and Charles, pleased with the good nature and humour of the man, sent for him next morning to Court. But great was his surprise and alarm when he found that his late guest was no other than the Emperor—fearing the joke upon his long nose might be punished with death. The Emperor, however, thanked him for his hospitality, and as a reward bade him ask for what he most desired. Next day he appeared, and requested that for the future the cobblers of Flanders might bear for their arms “a boot with the Emperor’s crown upon it.” That request was granted, and as his ambition was so moderate, the Emperor bade him make another. “If,” said he, “I am to have my utmost wishes, command that henceforth the Company of Cobblers shall take place of the Company of Shoemakers.” It was permitted, and there may be seen a chapel in Flanders adorned with a boot and imperial crown upon it; and in all processions it was customary for the Company of Cobblers to take precedence of the Company of Shoemakers.
James IV. of Scotland occasionally amused himself in wandering about the country in different disguises. One night he was overtaken by a violent storm, and was obliged to take shelter in a cavern near Wemyss in Scotland. Having advanced some way in it, the King discovered a number of men and women preparing to roast a sheep. From their appearance he at once saw that he had not fallen into the best company, for they were a band of robbers and cut-throats; but, as it was too late to retreat, he asked their hospitality. This was granted, and James sat down to supper, at the conclusion of which one of them placed before him a plate, upon which two daggers were laid in the form of a St. Andrew’s cross, at the same time informing the King that this was the dessert they always served to strangers;that he must choose one of the daggers, and fight him whom the company might select to attack him. Thereupon the King instantly seized the two daggers, one in each hand, and plunged them into the two robbers who were next him, and running to the mouth of the cave he escaped through the darkness of the night. On the following morning, however, the King ordered the whole of the band of outlaws to be seized and hanged.
The father of the last Duke of Mantua, Charles III., loved to go abroad in the dirtiest of disguises, and “accompanied by an escort of equally ill-clad bullies for his defence.” It was his sport, when so engaged, “to assail all he met in the coarsest terms, and when some person assaulted, more impatient than others, fell upon him in return with tongue or cudgel, he would laugh till he was sore, and then his escort came to the rescue. On other occasions he would enter the shops of vendors of very breakable materials, and taking up mirror or drinking glass, or any other fragile matter that came to hand, he would let it fall to the ground, and find double provocation to laughter in the ruin he had committed, and in the expressions of unrestrained abuse which were showered on him in consequence.”[80]
Gustavus III. in his incognito travels assumed the name of Count Haga, and one of his adventures, on his way to Italy in 1783, was amusing. It appears that he had long promised a visit to the little Court of Schwerin. Accordingly, as soon asthe Duchess of Mecklenburg heard of his landing in Germany, she prepared two fêtes in his honour—one in her capital, the other at Ludwigslust; but Gustavus, who “rather disdained these petty German Courts, thought it a good joke, instead of going himself to Schwerin, to send two of his attendants—a page named Peyron, and Desvouges, avalet-de-chambre, who had formerly been an actor. These two personated Count Haga and his minister, Baron Sparre, and sustained the characters throughout; accepted all the homage meant for their master, danced with all the Mecklenburg ladies who were presented to them, and Peyron went even so far as to ask one of them for her portrait. Meantime Gustavus was taking his pleasure at Ludwigslust, and the mistake lasted long enough for him fully to enjoy the mystification.”[81]
The disguise adopted by Anne of Warwick, the sad and unfortunate girl-widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, who fell beneath the Yorkist daggers after the fatal field of Tewkesbury, to elude Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was one of the most romantic incidents in our history. Richard was anxious to make her his wife, but, in order to conceal from him her whereabouts, she put up with every privation, and, with the privity of her brother-in-law, Clarence, she went so far as to descend from the rank of Princess of Wales to the disguise of a servant—a scullery-maid—in a mean house in London, under which servile condition the future Queen-Consortwas eventually discovered. The incident, as told by the Latin chronicler, is thus recorded: “Richard, Duke of Gloucester, wished to discover Anne, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Warwick, in order to marry her; this was much disapproved by his brother, the Duke of Clarence, who did not wish to divide his wife’s inheritance; he therefore hid the young lady.”
Many amusing details have been given of the adventurous journey of Prince Charles when he set out with the Duke of Buckingham in disguise for Spain, in order to see the Infanta. In crossing the river at Gravesend, for want of silver, they had given the ferryman a gold piece, who, imagining that his benefactors were crossing the Channel to fight a duel, hinted his suspicions to the authorities. At Canterbury they were summoned before the Mayor, and the Duke, finding concealment impossible, divested himself of his beard, and after satisfying that functionary as to who he was, informed him that in his capacity of Lord High Admiral he was about to acquaint himself secretly with the condition of the fleet. On reaching Boulogne they posted to Paris, and on the way fell in with two Germans who had recently seen the Prince at Newmarket, and fancied they recognised him. The improbability, however, of their being right, added to the cool denial of their conjecture, convinced them they were mistaken. At Paris the Prince and Buckingham, in order to disguise their features still more, provided themselves with periwigs, and the same evening they werepresent at a Court masked ball, where Buckingham first beheld the princess whom he afterwards married. Nothing of importance occurred till they had almost set foot on Spanish soil, when their progress was on the point of being interrupted, and Howell writes from Madrid: “The Prince’s journey was like to be spoiled in France, for if he had stayed but a little longer at Bayonne he had been discovered, for Monsieur Grammont, the governor, had notice of him not long after he had taken post.” Another escape was from the hospitality of the Duke d’Epernon, who invited them to his château. But he was informed that they were persons of such low degree as to be “unfit for such splendid society, and thus they eluded the invitation.” The people of Madrid were much struck with the romance and gallantry of their visit, and the city soon became a constant scene of magnificence and rejoicing in honour of the Prince and the Duke of Buckingham, who in their disguise had styled themselves Mr. John Smith and Mr. Thomas Smith.
One of the most notable frolics of Catherine of Braganza occurred towards the close of September 1671, when the Court was at Audley End, the residence of the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, where she and Charles II. were with much magnificence entertained for several days. While there she took it into her head to visit, disguised, Saffron Walden fair with Frances, Duchess of Richmond, and the Duchess of Buckingham. For this purpose they set forth in the costumes of country girls, in short red petticoats and waistcoats, but it seems that theyhad so overdone their disguise, that they were apparently taken for a strolling company of comedians, until the Queen, going into a booth to “buy a pair of yellow stockings for her sweetheart,” was discovered to be a foreigner. It was not very long, however, before the mystery was solved, as a person in the crowd, who had seen the Queen at a public State dinner, recognised her, and forthwith proclaimed his knowledge. This soon brought a crowd to get a glimpse of her Majesty and those accompanying her, with the result that the Court party, finding themselves discovered, at once took to their horses as quickly as they could; but “as many of the country people as had horses straightway mounted, with their wives or sweethearts behind them, to get as much gape as they could, and so attended the Queen and her company to the gates of Audley End, greatly to her confusion.”
In the same way Queen Mary and her ladies, disguised by their black masks, often made excursions to St. James’s fair—a practice mentioned in a letter of Lady Cavendish to her lord: “I went but once to the fair; Sir James gallanted us thither, and in so generous a humour, that he presented us all with fairings; the Queen’s fairing almost cost him twenty guineas. On our return we met my lord chamberlain, Lord Nottingham, in the cloisters of St. James’s Palace.”
ROYAL GAMESTERS
Gambling, under one form or another, has always been a fashionable diversion at Court. Plutarch tells a story of Parysatis, mother of Cyrus, who played with the King, her husband, for the slave who had slain her son, and, as she excelled at playing a certain game with dice, she won him. History abounds in anecdotes of this kind, and we know how popular gambling was in the old days of the Roman Empire. Augustus, for instance, had the reputation of being fond of gambling, and Domitian, indeed, like most of the emperors, rarely passed a day without indulging in some gambling game.
Coming down to modern times, we find the practice more or less prevalent in most European Courts, having naturally met with greater patronage from some monarchs than others. Thus Alfonso of Castille tried to prevent gambling by founding orders of chivalry in which it was forbidden; and later, John of Castille, attempted to do the same by edict.
In spite of several lukewarm attempts to prevent it, gambling ever throve in France. Charles VI. lost one day five thousand livres to his brother, and in the reign of that monarch flourished the Hôtel deNesle, which was notorious for its terrible gambling scandals, where—
“Maint gentilshommes tres haulxOnt perdu armes et cheveaux,Argent, honeuret seignourie.”
“Maint gentilshommes tres haulxOnt perdu armes et cheveaux,Argent, honeuret seignourie.”
“Maint gentilshommes tres haulxOnt perdu armes et cheveaux,Argent, honeuret seignourie.”
It is recorded how Philibert de Chalon, Prince d’Orange, who was in command at the siege of Florence, under the Emperor Charles V., actually gambled away the money which had been confided to him for the pay of the soldiers, and “was compelled, after a struggle of eleven months, to capitulate with those whom he might have forced to surrender.” But when so much encouragement was given to gambling by royalty, it is by no means surprising that the vice prevailed almost everywhere, and was not confined to any one country, especially when many of the French kings were said to patronise and applaud well-known cheats at the gaming-table.[82]
The so-called cards of Charles VI., which are now in the Bibliothèque du Roi of Paris, are in all probability the most ancient of any that are preserved in the various public collections of Europe. They are but seventeen, painted on a gold ground, and surrounded by a silver border, in which is a ribbon rolled spirally round done in points.
It was at Bourges, in the Château du Berri, that the game of piquet was invented, as tradition tells us, by Lahire, as a pastime for Charles VII.
In an old account-book of the monarchs ofFrance, we find that in 1392 there was paid about £8 of our present money for three packs; and the accounts of the jeweller to Queen Marie of Anjou contain this entry: “On the 1st of October, 1454, to William Bouchier, merchant, two games of cards and two hundred pins, delivered to Monsieur Charles of France, to play with, and amuse himself, five sals tournois.”
Henry IV. was an inveterate gambler, and, although not a skilful player, he is said to have been “greedy of gain, timid in high stakes, and ill-tempered when he lost.” In his reign gambling became the rage, and it appears from his Majesty’s letters to Sully that he sometimes played on credit,e.g.“I have lost at play 22,000 pistoles (220,000 livres); I beg you to pay them directly to Faideau, that he may distribute them to the persons to whom I owe them.”
“August 20, 1609.—Pay M. Edouard, Portuguese, 51,000 livres on account of what I owe him at play.”[83]
L’Estoile, referring to this period, says that an Italian named Pimentello gained more than a hundred thousand crowns in the Court circle, to which the King contributed 340,000 livres. It was this Pimentello who one day boasted to Sully of having frequently played with Henry IV., whereupon Sully indignantly replied: “By heavens! so you are the Italian blood-sucker who is every day winning the King’s money! You have fallen into the wrongbox, for I neither like nor wish to have anything to do with such fellows.”
At this remark Pimentello got warm, but Sully, giving him a push, added, “Go about your business, your infernal gibberish will not alter my resolve. Go!” There can be no doubt that this Pimentello was a discreditable character, for, in order to aid his dishonesty, he is said to have induced the dice-sellers in Paris to substitute loaded dice instead of fair ones.
But, as Henry disliked losing, those who played with him had either to lose their money, or to offend his Majesty by beating him. On one occasion the Duke of Savoy, in order to humour Henry, dissimulated his game, thus sacrificing about £28,000. And so great was this king’s passion for the gaming-table that once when it was whispered to him that a certain princess whom he loved was in danger of falling into other arms, he said to Bassompierre, one of his courtiers, “Take care of my money, and keep up the game, whilst I am absent on particular business.”
One day when Henry IV. was dining with Sully, the latter had brought in at the close of the repast cards and dice, together with two purses of 4000 pistoles each, one for the King, the other to lend to the lords of his suite. Whereupon his Majesty exclaimed: “Great master, come and let me embrace you, for I love you as you deserve. I feel so comfortable here that I shall sup and stay the night.” But it has been suggested that the whole affair was by the King’s order. At last, if we are to believe the following anecdote, he was cured of gambling.After losing a large sum of money, he requested Sully to send him the amount, who hesitated for some time. Eventually, spreading it out before the King, he exclaimed, “There’s the sum.”
Henry fixed his eyes on the vast amount—sufficient to purchase Amiens from the Spaniards, who then held it—and then he sorrowfully said, “I am corrected; I will never again lose my money at gaming.”
A gaming quarrel was the cause of a slap in the face given by the Duc René to Louis XII., then Duc d’Orleans. This slap was the origin of aliguewhich was termed “the mad war.” The resentment of the outraged prince was not appeased till he mounted the throne, when he uttered these memorable words: “A King of France does not avenge insults offered to a Duke of Orleans.” Similarly, on one occasion Casimir II., King of Poland, received a blow from a Polish subject, named Konarski, who had lost all he possessed in play. Thereupon he took to flight, and on being captured he was condemned to lose his head. But when brought before Casimir, his Majesty thus addressed him: “You, I perceive, are sorry for your fault; that is sufficient. Take your money again, and let us renounce gaming for ever.” And turning to his courtiers, the King added, “I am the only one to blame in this matter, for I ought not by my example to encourage a pernicious practice which may be the ruin of my nobility.”
Louis XIII. was adverse to gambling in any form, but Louis XIV. gave it every encouragement. Madame de Sevigné thus describes a gaming party at which she was present: “I went on Saturday with Villars to Versailles. I need not tell you of the Queen’s toilette, the mass, the dinner—you know it all; but at three o’clock the King rose from table, and he, the Queen, monsieur, madame, mademoiselle, all the princes and princesses, Madame de Montespan, all her suite, all the courtiers, all the ladies, in short, what we call the Court of France, were assembled in that beautiful apartment which you know.” She then describes how “a table of reversi (a compound of loo and commerce) gives a form to the crowd, and a place to every one. The King is next to Madame de Montespan, who deals; the Duke of Orleans, the Queen, and Madame de Soubise; Dangeau & Co., Langée & Co.; a thousand louis are poured out on the cloth—there are no such other counters.... There is always music going on, which has a very good effect; the King listens to the music, and chats to the ladies about him. At last, at six o’clock, they stop playing; they have no trouble in settling their reckonings; there are no counters—the lowest pools are five, six, seven hundred louis, the great ones a thousand, or twelve hundred. They put in five each at first, that makes one hundred, and the dealer puts in ten more—then they give four louis each to whoever has Quinola (the knave of hearts). Some pass, others play; but whenever you play without winning the pool, you must pay in sixteen to teach you how to play rashly; they talk altogether, and forever, and of everything.”
This was the kind of amusement which characterised what Madame de Sevigné has termed “the iniquitous Court,” and well she might tremble at the idea of her son joining such a company. She says, “He tells me he is going to play with his young master—the Dauphin. I shudder at the thought. Four hundred pistoles are very easily lost.”
Numerous anecdotes have been handed down of the disputes which arose at Court owing to the high play. On one occasion, when excessive gambling was going on at Cardinal Mazarin’s, the Chevalier de Rohan lost a large sum to the King. It had been arranged that the money was to be paid only inlouis d’ors, and the Chevalier, after counting out seven or eight hundred, proposed to pay the remainder in Spanish pistoles.
“But you promised melouis d’ors, and not pistoles,” said the King.
“Since your Majesty refuses them,” replied the Chevalier, “I don’t want them either,” and thereupon he flung them out of the window.
The King, annoyed, complained to the Cardinal, who promptly answered, “The Chevalier de Rohan has played the King, and you the Chevalier de Rohan.”
Quite recently at Paris ajeu de Loye, made for the amusement of Louis XIV., in marqueterie of ivory, ebony, and coloured woods, fetched £9; the Grand Monarque’s game of chance having realised a higher price than the curls sold at the same auction, and which had once adorned the mistress of his predecessor on the throne.
At the death of Louis XIV., it is said that three-fourths of the nation thought of nothing but gambling, and incidentally may be noticed a little Court occurrence associated with Louis XV. At the royal card-table M. de Chauvelin was seized with a fit of apoplexy, of which he died. On seeing him fall, some one exclaimed, “M. de Chauvelin is ill!”
“Ill?” said the King, coldly turning round and looking at him; “he is dead. Take him away; spades are trumps, gentlemen!”
During the reign of Louis XVI. gambling “kept pace if it did not outstrip every other licentiousness of that epoch.” But Louis XVI. hated high play, and very often showed displeasure when the loss of large sums was mentioned. Bachaumont, in his Memoirs (tom. xii. p. 189), speaks of the singular precautions taken at play at his Court: “The bankers at the Queen’s table, in order to prevent the mistakes which daily happen, have obtained permission from his Majesty that, before beginning to play, the table shall be bordered by a ribbon entirely round it, and that no other money than that upon the cards beyond the ribbon shall be considered as staked.”[84]
But Marie Antoinette’s love of high play was almost a vice, and her gaming-table often witnessed scenes far from creditable to her sex or rank. Le Comte de Mercy informs us that the Emperor Joseph II.—not too severe a moralist—once sent a message to the Queen to the effect that “theplay at the Queen’s table at Fontainebleau was like that in a common gambling-house; people of all kinds were there, and mingled without decorum; the Comte d’Artois and the Duc de Chartres displayed there every day some fresh trait of folly, and great scandal was caused by the fact that several ladies cheated.... Those who held the bank arrived on the 30th of October; they acted as tellers all night and during the morning of the 31st in the apartments of the Princess de Lamballe. The Queen remained till five o’clock in the morning. In the evening the Queen directed the play to begin again, and continued playing until late in the morning of the 1st of November—All Saints’ Day.” It is not surprising that frivolity and dissipation of this kind were much commented upon, and gave to slanderers much scope for their attacks on her conduct. In order, also, to manage the high play at the Queen’s faro tables, it was necessary to have a banker provided with large sums of money.
Charles X. was an habitual whist-player, and on the eve of his deposition enjoyed his “rubber”; and when as an exile the ex-king was the guest of Cardinal Weld at Lulworth Castle, near Wareham, his principal occupation was whist. Later on, during his sojourn at Prague, at eight, after dinner, the whist-table was prepared, “where the tranquillity of the evening was not disturbed unless Charles found himself with an indifferent partner. He could lose a crown by his own fault with great reluctance, but to lose a trick by the stupidity of his partner was beyond his patience.” But hisequanimity was only temporarily ruffled, and then he was full of redundant apology.
Strange and pathetic is a well-known anecdote told of the great Napoleon. As “the prisoner of Europe” he arrived at his last dwelling-place on the 15th of October, and exactly one year before he had been playing at cards with his mother in his little saloon in the island of Elba; and as the illustrious lady was about to rise after losing the game, her imperial son said to her laughingly, “Pay your debts, madam, pay your debts!” Since that time, as Dr. Doran writes, “Napoleon had played a most serious game against a host of adversaries, and had been defeated. The winners called upon him to pay the penalty.”
But although Napoleon gambled with kingdoms, he did not do so with cards. Indeed, he despised gamblers, and it is said that when Las Casas in exile admitted that he had played, Napoleon declared that he was glad he had not known it, as gamblers were always ruined in his estimation. A story, however, has been told of his having sent Junot in 1796 to play in order to accumulate funds for the Italian campaign, a statement which there is every reason to disbelieve.
Catherine II. of Russia enjoyed a game of whist at ten roubles the rubber. And at one period she would admit the Chamberlain Tchertkof to make up the party, whose presence generally afforded some amusement. This individual, it is said, generally got into a rage, reproached her imperial majesty with not playing fair, and sometimes invexation he threw the cards in her face, an outburst of temper which she invariably took good-humouredly.
An amusing story is told of one of the German sovereigns. A stranger, plainly dressed, took his seat at a faro-table when the bank was richer than usual. After looking on for a short time he challenged the bank, and tossed his pocket-book to the banker that he might be satisfied of his financial position. It was found to contain bills to a large amount, and on the banker showing reluctance to accept the challenge, the stranger sternly demanded that he should comply with the laws of the game. The card soon turned up which decided the ruin of the banker.
“Heavens!” exclaimed an old infirm Austrian officer who had sat next to the stranger, “the twentieth part of your gains would make me the happiest man in the universe!” Whereupon the stranger answered, “You shall have it then,” and quitted the room. A servant speedily returned, and presented the officer with the twentieth part of the bank, adding, “My master, sir, requires no answer.” The successful stranger was soon discovered to be no other than the King of Prussia in disguise.
Henry VIII.’s losses at cards and dice are said to have been enormous, but Anne Boleyn appears to have been a more fortunate gamester. A game much played at Court was Pope Julius’s game, or as it is sometimes called in the Privy Purse Expenses of Henry VIII., “Pope July’s game.” On the 20th of November 1532 we find thisentry in the Privy Purse Expenses:—“Delivered to the King’s grace at Stone, £9, 6s. 8d., which his grace lost at ‘Pope Julius’s game’ to my lady marques [Anne Boleyn], Mr. Bryan, and Maister Weston.” On the 25th Henry lost twenty crowns to the same party at the same game, and the following day £18, 13s. 4d. On the 28th Anne wins £11, 13s. 4d. in a single-handed game of cards with her royal lover, and on the next day Henry loses £4 at Pope Julius’s game. Henry was an inveterate gamester, and Erasmus in some emphatic words addressed to him bears witness that his queen, Catherine of Aragon, did not suffer such vain pursuits to divert her mind from duties. “Your noble wife,” says he, “spends that time in reading the sacred volume which other princesses occupy in cards and dice.” Henry VIII. gambled away the famous Jesus Campanile bell at St. Paul’s with the great folk-mote bell which summoned the assemblies of the citizens with a throw of the dice at hazard to Sir Miles Patridge, who pulled it down. “But,” adds Spelman in his “History of Sacrilege,” “in the fifth year of King Edward VI. the gamester had worse fortune when he lost his life, being executed on Tower Hill.”
Queen Mary in her young days was fond of betting and wagers, and many items of high play and of money lost by her have been preserved. She lost a frontlet, for instance, in a wager with her cousin, Lady Margaret Douglas, for which she paid four pounds. It is said that the Princess Mary not only pledged caps but lost breakfasts atbowls, which was then a fashionable amusement; “and to counterbalance these vanities she paid for the education of a poor child and the expense of binding him apprentice.”[85]The frontlets referred to above were the ornamented edges of coifs or caps, some of which were edged with gold lace and others with pearls and diamonds. Hence they were occasionally very expensive and cost a high price, and on this account they might easily be given in payment of wagers, or losses incurred through high play.
Through the evil influence of the Duchesses of Portsmouth and Mazarine, excessive gambling became one of the prevailing vices of the Court of Charles II., although his Majesty was not addicted to deep playing, or pursued cards otherwise than as an amusement. Queen Catherine was fond of ombre—which was probably introduced by her into this country—and quadrille, and if she played it was for the sake of the diversion rather than the stake. But the Duchess of Portsmouth had been known to lose five thousand guineas at a sitting, and on the evening of February 1, 1685—the last Sunday that Charles II. was permitted to spend on earth—“the great courtiers and other dissolute persons were playing at basset round a large table, with a bank of at least two thousand pounds before them. The king though not engaged in the game was to the full as scandalously occupied,”[86]“sitting,” writes Evelyn,“in open dalliance with three of the shameless women of the Court, the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Morland, and Mazarine, and others of the same stamp, while a French boy was singing love-songs in that glorious gallery. Six days after,” he adds, “all was in the dust.”
Pepys, too, alludes to the practice of card-playing on Sunday initiated by Catherine into the English Court, and writes: “This evening, going to the queen’s side to see the ladies, I did find the queen, the Duchess of York, and another at cards, with the room full of ladies and great men, which I was amazed to see on a Sunday, having not believed, but contrarily flatly denied the same a little while to my cousin.”
In the ensuing reign, basset and other gambling games were in high vogue in Court and fashionable society. Mary Beatrice, consort of James II., disliked cards, and was frightened at the idea of high play; but, it seems, her ladies told her she must do as others did, or she would become unpopular. Accordingly her reluctance was overcome by their importunities, and soon she was to be seen at the card-table, losing, time after time, large sums of money at a game in playing which she found no pleasure. In after years she was apt to say: “I suffered great pain from my losses at play, and all for the want of a little firmness in not positively refusing to comply with a custom which those who were so much older than myself told me I was not at liberty to decline. I shall always regret my weakness, since it deprived me of the means of doing thegood I ought to have done at that time.” Such was the acknowledgment made nearly forty years afterwards of what she always regarded as an inexcusable error on her part.
Like her sister Anne, Mary II. was in her early life a constant card-player, and, not satisfied with devoting her week-day evenings to this diversion, she played on the Sabbath. In after years she maintained her love for cards, and we find her playing at basset, a game much in request throughout the Courts of Europe, and at which vast sums were won and lost. After the peace of Mimeguen, the Marquis d’Avaux, the ambassador from Louis XIV., sent word on the morning of December 3, 1680, to Monsieur Odyke—an official in the household of the princess—that he would wait on her that evening. But he forgot to give the notice, so that when the French Ambassador arrived he found the princess had commenced her gambling. She rose and asked him if he would play; he made no answer, and she resumed her game, the ambassador sitting down and looking on. After a while he joined in the game, and the Prince of Orange, who arrived shortly afterwards, did the same. According to strict etiquette, however, as the visit of the ambassador had been previously announced, the basset tables should not have been set till his arrival.
William III., too, was much given to gambling. He passed whole days on the race-ground, and in the evenings he gambled, losing at one sitting, it is said, four thousand guineas at basset. The following morning, in a state of exasperated temper, he gave a gentleman a stroke with his horsewhip for riding in front of him on the race-ground. The proceeding was the subject of much comment, and was satirised by abon-mot, declaring “that it was the only blow he had struck for supremacy in his kingdoms.” William appears to have lost enormous sums at the basset-table, and his inveterate habit of gambling, added to the passion of his princess for cards, caused, as might be expected, the scandalmongers of the period to scatter broadcast the most derogatory stories respecting their Sunday gambling parties, a practice which brought down the most unsparing remonstrances of the Church of England clergymen, and caused Mary’s old tutor, Dr. Lake, the greatest concern.
It would seem that the game of basset occupied a considerable portion of Queen Anne’s time, “breaking into her hours by day as well as by night.” At the basset-table the players so closely crowded her Majesty that she could scarcely “put her hand in her pocket,” an obligation, it is said, not infrequent, since she was usually unfortunate at play. Allusions to the game occur in her correspondence, as, for instance, in a letter to the Duchess of Marlborough, written in 1703, dated “Monday night,” and which runs thus: “Just as I came from basset I received my dear Mrs. Freeman’s letter, and though it is very late, I cannot be content with myself without thanking you for it.” It is not surprising that there was a great and constant drain on the privy-purse whenso much was drawn out of it to meet the demands for play-money.
At the period of George II.’s reign there were cards everywhere. “Gaming has become so much the fashion,” writes Seymour, the author of the “Court Gamester,” “that he who in company should be ignorant of the games in vogue, would be reckoned low-bred and hardly fit for conversation.” On Twelfth Day it was customary for the Court to play in state. “This being Twelfth-day his Majesty, the Prince of Wales, and the Knights Companions of the Garter, Thistle, and Bath appeared in the collars of their respective orders. Their Majesties, the Prince of Wales, and three eldest Princesses went to the Chapel Royal, preceded by the heralds. The Duke of Manchester carried the Sword of State. The King and Prince made offerings at the altar of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, according to the annual custom. At night their Majesties played at hazard with the nobility, for the benefit of the groom-porter; and ’twas said the King won 600 guineas; the Queen, 360; Princess Amelia, twenty; Princess Caroline, ten; the Duke of Grafton and the Earl of Portmore, several thousands.”
George II. was once seated at a card-table, when the Countess of Deloraine, who usually formed one of his intimate society, happened to be one of the party at the game. In the midst of the play one of the Princesses quietly glided behind Lady Deloraine, and suddenly drawing the chair from under her caused her to fall on the ground. The King,by his excessive laughter, showed himself highly amused at the occurrence, which so enraged Lady Deloraine that, some time afterwards seizing the King’s chair, she occasioned him the same mishap which she had experienced herself.
But George, says Horace Walpole, “like Louis XIV., was mortal in the part which touched the ground.” Diverted as he had been when the misfortune occurred to another, he regarded the insult as unpardonable when offered to himself, and henceforth Lady Deloraine was banished the Court.[87]
The Princess Amelia Sophia, daughter of George II., was fond of the card-table, and Horace Walpole, who was frequently invited to her card-parties, has given many a graphic picture of the Princess on these occasions. She was a great snuff-taker, and on one occasion, when playing at cards in the public rooms at Bath, a general officer took a pinch from her box, the Princess showing her sense of the liberty he had taken by ordering an attendant to throw the contents of the box into the fire.
But the Princess’s addiction to play was the cause of comment even in the royal circle. Doddington was once conversing with the widow of Frederick Prince of Wales respecting the tastes of her eldest son—afterwards George III.—when “she began by saying that she liked the Prince should now and then amuse himself at small play, but that princes should never play deep, both for example, and because it did not become them towin great sums.” From thence, says Doddington, she told me that “it was highly improper the manner in which the Princess —— behaved at Bath; that she played publicly all the evening very deep.” I asked, with whom? She said, “With the Duke and Duchess of Bedford; that it was prodigious what work she made with Lord Chesterfield; that when his lordship was at Court she would speak to him; but that now at Bath she sent to inquire of his coming before he arrived; and when he came she sent her compliments to him, expecting him at all her parties at play, and that he should always sit by her in the public rooms that he might be sure of a warm place.” Numerous anecdotes of this kind have been recorded illustrative of the gambling tastes of the Princess; and yet notwithstanding the prosecution of her favourite occupation, which frequently kept her from rest till a very late hour, she continued an early riser throughout her life.[88]
George IV., when Prince of Wales, surpassed all his predecessors in his gambling propensities, having lost, it is said, not much less than £800,000 before he was twenty-one years of age—a habit which he probably contracted through his intimacy with Fox. “It was with the view,” it is said, “and in the hope that marriage would cure his love of the gaming table, that his father was so anxious to see him united to Caroline; and it was solely on account of his marriage with that princess constituting the only condition of his debts beingpaid by the country that he agreed to marry her.” Indeed, George IV. was, as Thackeray says,[89]“a famous pigeon for the play-men;” they lived upon him. Egalité Orleans, it was believed, punished him severely. A noble lord is said to have mulcted him in immense sums. He frequented the clubs where play was almost universal, and, as it was known his debts of honour were sacred, whilst he was gambling, Jews waited outside to purchase his notes of hand.
Wraxall, in the “Memoirs of his own Time,” describing the royal residence at Luneville, of the ex-Polish monarch, Stanislaus Leczinski, says that during the last years of his life he withdrew every night at nine o’clock, when his departure constituted the signal for commencing faro. All the persons of both sexes, comprising his Court and household, joined in the game, which was continued to a late hour. But, as Dr. Doran says, “a circumstance seemingly incredible is that the rage for it became such as to attract by degrees to the table all the domestics of the palace, down to the very turnspits or scullions, who, crowding round, staked theirécuson the cards over the heads of the company.” Such a fact, according to Wraxall, proves the relaxation of manners which prevailed at the Court of Lorraine under Stanislaus.