Part 29
The satire in this piece against the Puritans is of a more refined character than in any other play of the period; and the contrast between the rash and ardent cavalier and the cautious Puritan is very fairly drawn. “Suppose I see not many vices,” says the Roundhead, Testimony, “morality is not the thing. The heathens had morality; and, forsooth, would you have your footman or your coachman to be no better than Seneca?” This is really complimentary to the Cromwellians; and there is but a good-natured dash of satire in the answer of Testimony, when asked what time of day it may be, that--“Truly, I do believe it is about four. I can not say it positively, for I would not tell a lie for the whole world.”
I find little worthy of notice in other dramatic pieces having knights for their heroes. Southeran produced one entitled, “Sir Anthony Love” at the Theatre Royal in 1691, for the purpose of showing off Mrs. Mountfort as an errant lady in male attire.
In the eighteenth century, the knights gave name to a few historical pieces not worth recording. The only exceptions are scarcely worthy of more notice. Dodsley’s “Sir John Cockle at Court” made our ancestors, of George the Second’s time, laugh at the sequel of the “King and the Miller of Mansfield;” and “Sir Roger de Coverley” was made the hero of a pantomime at Covent Garden in 1746. By this time, however, the fashion was extinct of satirizing living politicians under knightly names. To detail the few exceptions to the rule would only fatigue the perhaps already wearied reader.
To what a low condition knight and squire could fall may be seen in the Sir Joseph Wittol and Captain Bluffe, in Congreve’s comedy, the “Old Batchelor.” The only redeeming point about this disreputable pair is, that, cowards and bullies as they are, they have both read a little. The Captain has dipped into history, and he remarks that “Hannibal was a pretty fellow in his day, it must be granted; but, alas, sir! were he alive now, he would be nothing; nothing on the earth.” Sir Joseph, the knight, _in comitatu Bucks_, has also indulged in a little reading, but that of a lighter sort than the Captain’s. When the gallant Captain affects not to be frightened at the aspect of Sharper, and exclaims, “I am prepared for him now, and he shall find he might have safer roused a sleeping lion,” the knight remarks, “Egad, if he should hear the lion roar, he’d cudgel him into an ass, and his primitive braying. Don’t you remember the story in Æsop’s Fables, Bully? Egad, there are good morals to be picked out of Æsop’s Fables, let me tell you that; and ‘Reynard the Fox’ too;” to which the deboshed Captain can only reply, “D--n your morals!” as though he despised fiction when compared with history.
Some of the stage knights are wonderfully great boasters, yet exceedingly dull fellows. I do not know that in the mouth of any one of them there is put so spirited a remark as the great Huniades made to Ulderick, Count of Sicily. The latter asked for a conference with the great governor of Hungary. Huniades bade him come to the Hungarian camp. The offended Ulderick, in a great chafe, replied that it was beneath him to do such a thing, seeing that he was descended from a long line of princely ancestors; whereas Huniades was the first of his family who had ever been raised to honor. The Hungarian very handsomely remarked, “I do not compare myself with your ancestors; but _with you_!” This has always appeared to me as highly dramatic in spirit. There is nothing half so spirited in the knightly pieces brought on the stage during the reign of George III., and which caused infinite delight to very easily-pleased audiences. It is well known that the good-natured Sovereign of England, although unassuming in his domestic character, was exceedingly fond of display in public ceremonies. He used to arrange the paraphernalia of an installation of the Garter with all the energy and care of an anxious stage-manager. The people generally were as anxious to have an idea of the reality. On one occasion, in the preceding reign, they so nearly forced their way into the banqueting-room, where the knights were holding festival, that the troops fired over their heads in order to frighten them into dispersing. Under George III. they were more content to view these splendors through a dramatic lens.
In 1771, accordingly, the splendors of the then late installation of the Garter were reproduced on the stage, in a masque, called “The Institution of the Garter, or Arthur’s Round Table Restored.” The show was as good as the piece was bad. The former was got up to profit the managers, the latter to flatter or do homage to the King and Queen. It was at once cumbersome and comic. A trio of spirits opened the delectable entertainment by summoning other spirits from every nook and corner of the skies, the moon’s horns included, to the work of escorting the car of the Male Genius of England, the husband probably of Britannia, down to earth. Nothing can exceed the alacrity with which the spirits and bards of the empyreal heaven obey the summons. They descend with the car of the Genius, singing a heavy chorus, ponderous as the chariot they help to “waft down,”--in which, not the chariot, but the chorus, there is the assurance that
“The bliss that spotless patriots feel Is kindred to the bliss above,”--
so that we may hope, though we can not feel certain, that there are some few persons here below, who are not unconscious of an ante-past of heaven.
The Genius is a civil and polished personage, who with due remembrance to metropolitan fogs, very courteously apologizes to the spirits, that he has been the cause of bringing them down
“To this grosser atmosphere awhile.”
After such celestial compliments as these, he despatches them to shed heavenly influences over Windsor, while he remains to hold a little colloquy with the Druids, “Britain’s old philosophers,” as he calls them. He adds an assertion that may, probably, have startled the Society of Antiquaries of that day, namely, that the aforesaid Druids--
“Still enamored of their ancient haunts, Unseen of mortal eyes, do hover round Their ruined altars and their sacred oaks,”
which may account for that loose heterodoxy which marked the period when Druids exercised these unseen influences.
The Genius requests the Druids to have the kindness to repair to Windsor, where the order is in the act of being founded by Edward, and there direct his choice in the selection of members. This is a very heathenish idea, but Druids and Bards are alike delighted at it; for, as the Genius remarks, Edward’s perspicuity, his intellectual eyes, needed charming
“from the mists It haply hath contracted from a long Unebbing current of prosperity.”
The heathen priests are flaming patriots, and express their eagerness to leave Heaven for England, seeing that the new order may be the means to propagate
“The sovereignty of England, and erect Her monarchs into judges of mankind.”
As this expressed end has not been accomplished, and the order has not propagated the sovereignty of England, we may logically conclude that the Druids themselves hardly knew much of the subject upon which they were singing to their tuneless harps. Meanwhile, the first Bard, in a bass song, petitions the south gales to blow very mildly, and bring blue skies and sweet smells to the installation.
The ceremony of the installation then opens to the view when all the knights have been created, except the King’s son, Edward the Black Prince, who really was not created knight when the order was founded. How far the Druids have succeeded in influencing the choice of the King, there is no possibility of knowing. No one utters a word, save royal father and son: and the commonplace prose which they deliver does not give us a very exalted idea of the Druidic inspiration. The old sages themselves, however, are perfectly satisfied with the result; and in a noisy chorus, they make an assertion which might well have frightened the Archbishop of Canterbury--had he cared about the matter. After vaticinating that the name of the Prince should roll down through the tide of ages, they add, that glory shall fire him, and virtue inspire him,
“Till blessed and blessing, Power possessing, From earth to heaven he lifts his soul,”--
a feat which one would like to see put upon canvass by a Pre-Raphaelite.
While the Knights are supposed to be preparing to pass to the hall, the scene takes us to the front of the castle, where crowds of liege and loyal people are assembled. First Citizen, “very like a whale indeed,” sings a comic song, which, as a specimen of the homage offered to monarch and consort, more than fourscore years ago, is worth transcribing--for both its imagery and syntax:--
“Oh, the glorious installation! Happy nation! You shall see the King and Queen: Such a scene! Valor he, sir; Virtue she, sir; Which our hearts will ever win. Sweet her face is, With such graces Show what goodness dwells within.
“Oh, the glorious installation! Happy nation! You shall see the noble knights: Charming sights! Feathers wagging, Velvet dragging, Trailing, sailing, on the ground; Loud in talking, Proud in walking, Nodding, ogling, smirking round.”
The banquet over, and more comic business, as dreary as the song above quoted, being concluded, King Edward walks forth into the garden for refreshment--and there the Genius of England takes him by the hand. Edward, we are sorry to say, knows so little of this Genius, that he boldly asks him, “What art thou, stranger?” We should, only with reluctance, trouble our readers with all this unrecognised Genius says in reply to the royal inquirer, but one passage may be transcribed to show what the popular spirit was thought to be in the last century.
“Know that those actions which are great and good, Receive a nobler sanction from the free And universal voices from all mankind, Which is the voice of Heaven, than from the highest, The most illustrious act of royal power.”
This maxim of the Genius of England further shows that the individual in question not only passed off prose for blank verse, but stole the phrase of “Vox populi vox Dei,” and tried to render it unrecognisable by indefinite extension.
That the sentiment is not very much to the taste of the Monarch may be conjectured from the fact that he sulkily lets it pass without any comment, and very naturally falls asleep of being talked-at by so heavily-pinioned a Genius. The latter avails himself of the opportunity to exhibit to the slumbering Monarch a vision of the future of England, down to the era of George and Charlotte. The spectacle soothes him still less than the speech, though oppressive ecstacy may be sweet, and Edward springs into wakefulness, and loudly exclaiming that
“This is too much for human strength to bear,”
the loquacious Genius flies at him again with some remarkable figures of speech, to which the worn-out Edward answers nothing. The Genius, unwilling to attribute his taciturnity to rudeness, finds a satisfactory solution in the conclusion that
“Astonishment seals up his lips.”
The founder of the “Garter” will not provoke the eloquence of the heavenly visiter by unsealing the lips which astonishment is supposed to have sealed up, and the remainder of the piece is left to Genius and chorus, who unite in a musical asseveration, to the effect that the reigning Sovereign of England is
“The great miracle on earth, a patriot king,”
and so terminates, amid the most vociferous plaudits, the scenic story of the Garter, enacted in celebration of the great installation of 1771.
The real installation was, by far, a more cheerful matter than its theatrical counterfeit. It took place on the 25th of July. At this ceremony the King raised to the dignity of Knights of the illustrious order, his sons the Prince of Wales and the Bishop of Osnaburg, his brother the Duke of Cumberland, with the Queen’s brother, the Duke of Mecklenburgh, and Prince Henry of Brunswick, the Dukes of Marlborough and Grafton, and the Earls of Gower and Albermarle. The festival occupied the entire day. Four mortal hours in the morning were consumed in making the Knights, after which Sovereign and chapter dined together in St. George’s Hall. While the banquet was progressing, Queen Charlotte sat in a gallery, looking on. She was brilliantly surrounded, and had at her right side the pretty Princess Royal, and the infant Prince Ernest at her left. One of her Majesty’s brothers stood by each royal child. On the right of the canopy under which the King dined, was a long table, at which were seated all the Knights, in full view of the occupants of raised seats and a gallery in front. At the end of the first course, the good-natured Monarch was determined to make a Knight Bachelor of some deserving individual present, and he rendered good Mr. Dessac (clerk of the check, belonging to the band of Gentlemen Pensioners) supremely happy by selecting _him_. As soon as the other courses had been served, and the banquet was concluded, which was not till between six and seven o’clock, the whole of the cavaliers and company separated in haste, hurrying to their respective rooms or hotels, to dress for the ball which was to be held in the Great Guard-Room. When all the guests were there assembled, the King and Queen entered the apartment about nine o’clock. Whereupon the Duke of Gloucester danced a couple of minuets with a brace of duchesses--Grafton and Marlborough. The minuets were continued till eleven o’clock. No one seemed to tire of the stately, graceful dance, and it was only during the hour that followed, that any young lady, as anxious as the elegant American belle, who told Mr. Oliphant at Minnesota that “she longed to shake the knots out of her legs,” had a chance of indulging in her liveliness. During one hour--from eleven to midnight--country dances were accomplished. I say accomplished, for only three were danced--and each set procured twenty minutes of very active exercise. Midnight had scarcely been tolled out by the castle clock when the festive throng separated--and thus closed one of the most brilliant installations that Windsor had ever seen, since Edward first became the founder of the order. If there was any drawback to the gratification which the King felt on this occasion, it was at beholding Wilkes and his daughter conspicuously seated among the spectators in the courtyard; whither the man whom the King hated had penetrated by means of a ticket from Lord Tankerville. It was at this period that Mr. Fox revived, for a few court-days, the fashion of appearing at the drawing-room in red-heeled shoes. To the public, these matters were far more comic than the comic portion of the “Installation,” in which (setting aside the Edward III. of Aikin, and the Genius of England, played by Reddish) King enacted Sir Dingle, a court fool knighted; Parsons, Nat Needle; and Weston, Roger. Never was foolish knight played by an actor so chivalrous of aspect as King.
I will avail myself of this opportunity to state that at solemn ceremonies, like that above named, four of our kings of England were knighted by their own subjects. These were Edward III., Henry VI. and VII., and Edward VI. The latter was dubbed by the Lord Protector, who was himself empowered to perform the act by letters patent, under the great seal. At a very early period, priests, or prelates rather, sometimes conferred the honor on great public occasions. The Westminster Synod deprived them of this privilege in 1102.
It has been said that English knights wearing foreign orders, without permission of their own sovereign, are no more knights in reality than those stage knights of whom I have been treating. This, however, is questionable, if so great an authority as Coke be not in error. That great lawyer declares that a knight, by whomsoever created, can sue and be sued by his knightly title, and that such is not the case with persons holding other foreign titles, similar to those of the English peerage. Let me add that, among other old customs, it was once common in our armies for knighthood to be conferred previous to a battle, to arouse courage, rather than afterward, as is the case now--after the action, in order to reward valor. Even this fashion is more reasonable than that of the Czar, who claps stars and crosses of chivalry on the bosoms of beaten generals, to make them pass in Muscovy for conquerors.
In connection with the stage, knights have figured sometimes before, as well as behind the curtain. Of all the contests ever maintained, there was never, in its way a fiercer than that which took place between Sir William Rawlings, and young Tom Dibdin. The son of “tuneful Charlie,” born in 1771, and held at the font, as the “Lady’s Magazine” used to say, by Garrick, was not above four years of age when he played Cupid to Mrs. Siddons’ Venus, in Shakespeare’s Jubilee. It was hardly to be expected that after this and a course of attendance as choir-boy at St. Paul’s, he would settle down quietly to learn upholstery. This _was_ expected of him by his very unreasonable relatives, who bound him apprentice to the city knight, Sir William Rawlings, a then fashionable upholsterer in Moorfields. The boy was dull as the mahogany he had to polish, and the knight could never make him half so bright in business matters. “Tom Dibdin,” thus used to remark the city cavalier--“Tom Dibdin is the stupidest hound on earth!” The knight, however, changed his mind when his apprentice, grown up to man’s estate, produced “The Cabinet.” Sir William probably thought that the opera was the upholstery business set to music. But before this point was reached, dire was the struggle between the knight and the page, who would not “turn over a new leaf.” When work was over, the boy was accustomed to follow it up with a turn at the play--generally in the gallery of the Royalty Theatre. On one of these occasions the knight followed him thither, dragged him out, gave him a sound thrashing, and, next morning, brought him before that awfully squinting official, John Wilkes. The struggle ended in a drawn battle, and Tom abandoned trade: and instead of turning out patent bedsteads, turned out the “English Fleet,” and became the father of “Mother Goose.” He would have shown less of his relationship to the family of that name, had he stuck to his tools; in the latter case he might have taken his seat as Lord Mayor, in a chair made by himself, and in those stirring times he might have become as good a knight as his master.
As it was, the refuse of knighthood had a hard time of it. He was actor of all work, wrote thousands of songs, which he sold as cheap as chips, and composed four pieces for Astley’s Theatre, for which he received fourteen pounds--hardly the price of a couple of arm-chairs. How he flourished and fell after this, may be seen in his biography. He had fortune within his grasp at one time, but he lost his hold when he became proprietor of a theatre. The ex-apprentice of the old knight-upholder could not furnish his own house with audiences, and the angry knight himself might have been appeased could his spirit have seen the condition into which “poor Tom” had fallen just previous to his death, some twenty years ago.
But I fear I have said more than enough about stage knights; may I add some short gossip touching real knights with stage ladies? Before doing so, I may just notice that the wedded wife of a _bona fide_ knight once acted on the English boards under the chivalric name--and a time-honored one it is in Yorkshire--of her husband, Slingsby. Dame, or Lady Slingsby, who had been formerly a Mrs. Lee, was a favorite actress in the days of James II. She belonged to the Theatre Royal, resided in St. James’s parish, and was buried in Pancras church-yard in March 1693-4. In the list of the Slingsbys, baronets, of Scriven, given in Harborough’s “History of Knaresborough,” Sir Henry Slingsby, who died in 1692, is the only one of whose marriage no notice is taken. But to our stage ladies and gallant lovers.
STAGE LADIES AND THE ROMANCE OF HISTORY.
“Our happy love may have a secret church, Under the church, as Faith’s was under Paul’s, Where we may carry on our sweet devotion, And the cathedral marriage keep its state, And all its decencies and ceremonies.” CROWNE, _The Married Beau_.
After the loose fashion of Master Crowne’s Married Beau, it was no uncommon thing for gallants once to woo the mimic ladies of the scene.
From the time that ladies first appeared upon the stage, they seem to have exercised a powerful attraction upon the cavaliers. Under date of the 18th October, 1666, Evelyn says in his Diary: “This night was acted my Lord Broghill’s tragedy, ‘Mustapha,’ before their majesties at court, at which I was present, very seldom going to the public theatres, for many reasons, now, as they are abused to an atheistical liberty, foul and undecent women now (and never till now) permitted to appear and act, who, inflaming several young noblemen and gallants, became their misses, and to some their wives; witness the Earl of Oxford, Sir R. Howard, Prince Rupert, the Earl of Dorset, and another greater person than any of them, who fell into their snares, to the reproach of their noble families, and ruin of both body and soul. I was invited by my Lord Chamberlain to see this tragedy, exceedingly well written, though in my mind I did not approve of any such pastime in a time of such judgments and calamities.”
A year and a half earlier than the date of the above entry, namely, April 3, 1665, Pepys notices the same play, with some allusions to the ladies: “To a play at the Duke’s of my Lord Orrery’s, called ‘Mustapha,’ which being not good, made Betterton’s part and Ianthe’s but ordinary too. All the pleasure of the play was, the king and my Lady Castlemaine were there; and pretty witty Nell of the King’s House, and the younger Marshall sat next us, which pleased me mightily.” The play, however, is not so poor a one as Pepys describes it, and the cast was excellent. Betterton played Solyman the Magnificent. Mustapha and Zanga, the sons of Solyman, were played by Harris and Smith; and Young made a capital Cardinal. Mrs. Betterton was the Roxalana; and Mrs. Davies, one of those ladies who, like her sisters, the two Marshalls, Hughes and Nelly, exercised the fatal attraction over young noblemen and gallants, deplored by Evelyn, was the magnificent Queen of Hungary. Mustapha continued to be the favorite play until the theatre closed, when the plague began to spread. Pepys’s “Ianthe” was Mrs. Betterton, of whom he says, on the 22d October, 1662, “the players do tell me that Betterton is not married to Ianthe, as they say; but also that he is a very sober, serious man, studious and humble, following of his studies, and is rich already with what he gets and saves.” Betterton, however, married the lady, Miss Saunderson, in 1663. She had been famous for her Ianthe in Davenant’s “Siege of Rhodes;” and she played Shakespeare’s heroines with great effect. Pepys rightly designates the author of the play, Lord Orrery. Lord Broghill was made Earl of Orrery, five years before Evelyn saw his play. I may add that Mustapha has appeared in half-a-dozen different versions on the stage. Probably the worst of these was Mallet’s; the latter author created great amusement by one of his passages, in which he said:--
“_Future_ sultans _Have_ shunned the marriage tie;”--
a confusion of tenses which has been compared with a similar error in the sermons of so correct a writer as Blair (vol. v., third edition, page 224), “in _future_ periods the light _dawned_ more and more.”