On the 15th of November, 1666, there was a grand ball at court, that day being the Queen’s birthday; and Pepys and his wife went to see the dancing, which they found very tiresome. The ladies, however, were pleasant to look upon, and their dresses very rich; so we read in the “Diary:” “Away home with my wife, between displeased with the dull dancing and satisfied with the clothes and persons.”
These ladies owe much of their fame to the series of portraits which still exists to show a later age the outward forms that charmed the men of two centuries ago. We are told in the Grammont “Memoirs” that, “the Duchess of York being desirous of having the portraits of the handsomest persons at court, Lely painted them, and employed all his skill in the performance; nor could he ever exert himself upon more beautiful subjects. Every picture appeared a masterpiece; and that of Miss Hamilton appeared the highest finished: Lely himself acknowledged that he had drawn it with a particular pleasure.” Next to the deshabille, in which most of these ladies are arranged, the most noticeable feature in these portraits is the soft, sleepy eye—a supposed beauty that was attained to after a considerable amount of practice:—
“—— on the animated canvas stole
The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.”
Mrs. Hyde, the first wife of Henry Hyde, afterwards second Earl of Clarendon, had by long practice given such a languishing tenderness to her looks, that we are told by Hamilton, “she never opened her eyes but like a Chinese.” In spite of all this softness, many of these women were in the habit of swearing “good mouth-filling oaths”—a practice thoroughly in character with the general grossness of manners and language at Charles’s court. When looking at these portraits of the beauties, we must not think of them all as the mistresses of the King and Duke of York, for some remained pure in this corrupt atmosphere. “La belle Hamilton” was one of these, and the description both of her mind and person by her husband, the Count de Grammont, forms such an exquisite portrait in words that, although well known, I venture to transfer it to my pages:—“Miss Hamilton was at the happy age when the charms of the fair sex begin to bloom; she had the finest shape, the loveliest neck, and most beautiful arms in the world; she was majestic and graceful in all her movements; and she was the original after which all the ladies copied in their taste and air of dress. Her forehead was open, white, and smooth; her hair was well set, and fell with ease into that natural order which it is so difficult to imitate. Her complexion was possessed of a certain freshness, not to be equalled by borrowed colours: her eyes were not large, but they were lively, and capable of expressing whatever she pleased: her mouth was full of graces, and her contour uncommonly perfect: nor was her nose, which was small, delicate, and turned up, the least ornament of so lovely a face. In fine, her air, her carriage, and the numberless graces dispersed over her whole person, made the Chevalier de Grammont not doubt but that she was possessed of every other qualification. Her mind was a proper companion for such a form: she did not endeavour to shine in conversation by those sprightly sallies which only puzzle; and with still greater care she avoided that affected solemnity in her discourse, which produces stupidity; but without any eagerness to talk, she just said what she ought, and no more. She had an admirable discernment in distinguishing between solid and false wit; and far from making an ostentatious display of her abilities, she was reserved, though very just in her decisions: her sentiments were always noble, and even lofty to the highest extent, when there was occasion; nevertheless, she was less prepossessed with her own merit than is usually the case with those who have so much. Formed as we have described, she could not fail of commanding love; but so far was she from courting it, that she was scrupulously nice with respect to those whose merit might entitle them to form any pretensions to her.”
On the 25th of July, 1666, Pepys went to Whitehall to see the King at dinner, and thought how little he should care to have people crowding about him as they were round his Majesty. He adds, “Among other things it astonished me to see my Lord Barkeshire waiting at table, and serving the King drink, in that dirty pickle as I never saw man in my life.”
There is a good story told of Grammont which is apropos of the above. One day, when the King dined in state, he made the Count remark that he was served upon the knee, a mark of respect not common at other courts. “I thank your Majesty for the explanation,” answered Grammont; “I thought they were begging pardon for giving you so bad a dinner.”
I have already remarked on the poverty that went hand-in-hand with extravagance, and this is well illustrated by one or two entries in the “Diary.” In April, 1667,[246] the King was vexed to find no paper laid for him at the Council table. Sir Richard Browne called Wooly, the person who provided the paper, to explain the reason of the neglect. He told his Majesty that he was but a poor man, and was already out of pocket £400 or £500, which was as much as he was worth; and that he could not provide it any longer without money, not having received a penny since the King’s coming in. Evelyn corroborated this, and told Pepys that several of the menial servants of the court lacked bread, and had not received a farthing of wages since the Restoration.[247]
Shortly afterwards the King was found to want personal linen, and Mr. Ashburnham, one of the Grooms of the Bedchamber, rated the wardrobe-man very severely for this neglect. Mr. Townsend pleaded that he wanted money, and owed the linendraper £5,000. He further told Pepys that the grooms took away the King’s linen at the end of the quarter as their fee, whether he could get more or not.[248] Hence the great want.
Charles II. was one of the most worthless of our monarchs, and the most beloved. The responsibility of all evils, troubles, or crimes, was laid upon his advisers, his mistresses, and anyone but upon himself, by his loving subjects. His readiness of access, and good-humoured freedom of manner charmed all who came in contact with him. “Unthinkingness” was said by Halifax to be one of his characteristics, and Rochester uses the expression, “Unthinking Charles;” yet this was more an apparent than a real characteristic. Like most indolent men, he tried to get his own way, and he was one of the earliest to find out that if the people are allowed their way when they are in earnest, they will let their governors do as they wish at other times. It has been said that the strongest resolve he ever formed was a determination not to go on his travels again; therefore he never opposed a strong popular movement. He sought, however, every opportunity of turning the movement to his own advantage, if there were any possibility of doing so.