His indolence so exasperated his wife Eleanor, that she said to her son Maximilian in a fit of anger, “On my word, if I thought you would be like your father, I should be ashamed of being the mother of such a king.” Frederick was too lazy, it is said, to turn the handle of a door, but kicked till some one came to open it, or he burst it in. He paid the penalty of his stupidity, for by so doing he one day hurt his foot, and as mortification threatened the surgeons cut it off. “Ah me!” said Frederick, “a healthy boot is better than a sick Emperor.” His exact opposite was Frederick the Great, who was wont to exclaim, “Nothing is nearer akin to death than idleness. It is not necessary that I should live, but it is necessary that whilst I live I be busy.”
Of the many despicable traits of character of Louis XV., not one, perhaps, was more odious than his mania for speculating in corn. He became the chief partner of a company which forestalled corn. From the exceptional advantages this company enjoyed, “it created local and artificial famine in the different provinces for purposes of private gain. The King thus traded on the hunger of his people,” and, as it is added, “the most abject courtier of Versailles could not avoid feeling a twinge of shame when he noted on his bureau day by day the lists of the prices of grain in the different provinces as a guide for speculation.” From such shameful dealings arose the legend of the Pacte de famine, which lingered in the memories of the people, and the spectre of which arose in terrible form during the most horrible scenes of the Revolution.
And Louis XI. in a capricious mood once promoted a poor priest whom he found sleeping in the porch of a church, that the proverb might be verified, that to lucky men good fortune will come even when they are asleep.
Lastly, it has been said that the restlessness of Don Sebastian was the despair of his attendants. From one end to the other of his little kingdom there was a perpetual shifting of the royal quarters, “as the royal vagrant hurried in search of novelty and excitement, from Coimbra to Cape St. Vincent, from Almeirim to Alcobaça, to Salvaterra.” Impenetrable to fatigue or hardship, the day afforded too scanty a scope for his activity, and the dead of night often found him exhausting his feverish impatience of repose in long hours of solitary pacing on the sandy shores of the Tagus, or under the dense gloom of the forest arcades of Cintra. And in Sebastian we are reminded of Charles XII. of Sweden, who, determined to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, ventured to make long marches during the cold of the memorable winter of 1709, in one of which 2000 of his men died from the cold, in allusion to which Campbell, in “The Pleasures of Hope,” writes:—
“Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,
Marched by their Charles to Dnieper’s swampy shore;
Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,
The Swedish soldier sank, and groaned his last.”
CHAPTER VI
DANCING MONARCHS
It is recorded that Nero, during a dangerous illness, made a vow that if he recovered he would dance the story of Turnus in Virgil; and the great Scipio Africanus amused himself with dancing, “not,” writes Seneca, “those effeminate dances which announce voluptuousness and corruption of manners, but those manly, animated dances in use among their ancestors, which even their enemies might witness without abating their respect.” Indeed, dancing has always been a favourite amusement amongst all classes of society, having from an early period been countenanced by the example of the Court. Thus it is said that Edward II. paid one Jack of St. Albans, his painter, for dancing on the table before him, and making him laugh excessively.
After the coronation dinner of Richard II., the remainder of the day was spent in rejoicings, and we are told how the King, the prelates, the nobles, the knights, and the rest of the company danced in Westminster Hall to the music of the minstrels. Several of our English monarchs were noted for their skill in dancing, and none, perhaps, more than Henry VIII., who was particularly partial to this mode of diversion. At this period, when masques and pageants were much in vogue, the King himself was occasionally “a frequent performer as well as spectator,” and numerous anecdotes have been handed down of his dancing feats. Thus, at the festivities held at Westminster in honour of the birth of a prince on New Year’s Day 1511, the King and a selected company danced before Catherine’s throne, executing their stately pavons and “corantos high” with the utmost success; at the conclusion of which the young King bade the lady spectators come forward and pluck the golden letters and devices from his dress, and that of his company. An unlooked-for incident followed, for a vast crowd of the London populace, who were the constant witnesses of the Court ceremonials in the middle ages, rushed forth and plucked off with startling rapidity the glittering ornaments from himself, and his noble guests. Not only were the ladies despoiled of their jewels, but the King himself was stripped to his doublet and drawers. The King, laughing heartily, took the matter in good part, and treated the whole scramble as a frolic, remarking that “they must consider their losses as largess to the commonalty.”[46]
Catherine of Aragon excelled in Spanish dances, and at the festivities in honour of her marriage with Prince Arthur—her short-lived bridegroom—apparelled in Spanish garb, she gave an exhibition of her high proficiency in this mode of dancing. On this occasion, too, the dancing of Henry Duke of York and his sister, Lady Margaret, the young Queen of Scots, gave such satisfaction that it was renewed, when the young Duke, finding himself encumbered with his dress, “suddenly threw off his robe and danced in his jacket with the said Lady Margaret, in so good and pleasant a manner that it was to King Henry and Queen Elizabeth great and singular pleasure.”