Prior. "The beauty of flowers never fails to inspire us with joy; and when we have sufficiently examined the fairest, we are sensible they are only proper to refresh the sight; and, indeed, the prospect they afford is so touching, and we experience their power to be so effectual, that the generality of those arts which are ambitious to please, seem most successful when they borrow their assistance. Sculpture imitates them in its softest ornaments; architecture bestows the embellishments of leaves and festoons on those columns and fronts, which would otherwise be too naked. The richest embroideries are little more than foliage and flowers; the most magnificent silks are almost covered with these charming forms, and are thought beautiful, in proportion as they resemble the lively tinge of natural flowers.
"These have always been the symbols, or representations of joy; they were formerly the inseparable ornaments of feasts, and are still introduced with applause, toward the close of our entertainments, when they are brought in with the fruit, to enliven the festival that begins to languish. And they are so peculiarly adapted to scenes of pleasure, that they are always considered as inconsistent with mourning. Decency, informed by nature, never admits them into those places where tears and affliction are predominant.
Countess. "The festivals in the country are never celebrated without garlands, and the entertainments of the polite are ushered in by a flower. If the winter denies them that gratification, they have recourse to art. A young bride, in all the magnificence of her nuptial array, would imagine she wanted a necessary part of her ornaments, if she did not improve them with a sprig of flowers. A queen, amidst the greatest solemnities, though she is covered with the jewels of the crown, has an inclination to this rural ornament; she is not satisfied with mere grandeur and majesty, but is desirous of assuming an air of softness and gaiety, by the mediation of flowers.
Prior. "Religion itself, with all its simplicity and abstraction, and amidst the abhorrence it professes to theatrical pomp, which rather tends to dissipate the heart, than to inspire it with a due reverence for sacred mysteries, and a sensibility of human wants, permits some of its festivals to be celebrated with boughs, and chaplets of flowers."
[66] In his Diary is the following entry:—"1658, 27 Jan. After six fits of an ague, died my son Richard, five years and three days old onely, but, at that tender age, a prodigy for witt and understanding; for beauty of body, a very angel; for endowment of mind, of incredible and rare hopes. He was all life, all prettinesse. What shall I say of his frequent pathetical ejaculations uttered of himselfe: Sweete Jesus, save me, deliver me, pardon my sins, let thine angels receive me! So early knowledge, so much piety and perfection! Such a child I never saw! for such a child I blesse God in whose bosome he is!"
Nanteuil's portrait is prefixed to his Sylva, 1664; and a fine copy of the same, by Bartolozzi, is prefixed to Hunter's Sylva. Worlidge engraved a fine portrait of him, prefixed to his Sculptura. Gaywood engraved his portrait for the translation of Lucretius. In Walpole's Anecdotes is his portrait, by Bannerman.
[67] In "A Picturesque Promenade round Dorking," are selected many interesting particulars of Mr. Evelyn.
[68] Essex lost his head for having said that Elizabeth grew old and cankered, and that her mind was as crooked as her carcase. Perhaps the beauty of Mary galled Elizabeth.
The Quarterly Review of July, 1828, thus remarks:—"When Elizabeth's wrinkles waxed many, it is reported that an unfortunate master of the Mint incurred disgrace, by a too faithful shilling; the die was broken, and only one mutilated impression is now in existence. Her maids of honour took the hint, and were thenceforth careful that no fragment of a looking glass should remain in any room of the palace. In fact, the lion-hearted lady had not heart to look herself in the face for the last twenty years of her life."
It seems that Elizabeth was fond of executions. She loved Essex, of all men, best; and yet the same axe which murdered Anne Bulleyn, was used to revenge herself on him. The bloody task took three strokes, which so enraged the multitude, (who loved Essex) that they would have torn the executioner to pieces, had not the soldiers prevented them. Mr. Hutton, in his "Journey to London," observes, that "their vengeance ought to have been directed against the person who caused him to use it." What her reflections were on these two bloody acts when on her death-bed, we scarcely know. A modern writer on horticulture, nearly concludes a very pleasing work, by enumerating (with slight historical notices) the several plants cultivated in our gardens. He thus concludes his account of one:—"Queen Elizabeth, in her last illness, eat little but Succory Pottage." Mr. Loudon says it is used "as a fodder for cattle." The French call it Chicoree sauvage. Her taste must have been something like her heart. Poor Mary eat no supper the night previous to her last illness. Had it been possible for Elizabeth to have read those pages of Robertson, which paint the long succession of calamities which befel Mary, and the insolence and brutality she received from Darnley, and which so eloquently plead for her frailties, perhaps even these pages would not have softened her bloody disposition, which she seems to have inherited from that insolent monster, her father. "Mary's sufferings (says this enchanting historian) exceed, both in degree and duration, those tragical distresses which fancy has feigned, to excite sorrow and commiseration; and while we survey them, we are apt altogether to forget her frailties; we think of her faults with less indignation, and approve of our tears as if they were shed for a person who had attained much nearer to pure virtue. With regard to the queen's person, all contemporary authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of countenance, and elegance of shape, of which the human form is capable. Her hair was black, though, according to the fashion of that age, she frequently borrowed locks, and of different colours. Her eyes were a dark grey; her complexion was exquisitely fine, and her hands and arms remarkably delicate, both as to shape and colour. Her stature was of an height that rose to the majestic. She danced, she walked, and she rode with equal grace. She sung, and played upon the lute with uncommon skill."