“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 as the 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, a valet-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-Consort was 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 were present 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.