ROYAL MASQUES AND MASQUERADES

At Court in bygone years, on occasions of festivity, it was customary for the whole company to appear in borrowed characters, a practice which may be traced back as early as the reign of Edward III. Pageants of this kind were exhibited with great splendour, and at a costly outlay. The magnificent disguisings which took place in the reign of Henry VIII. have long been proverbial. The chief aim seems to have been to surprise the spectators “by the ridiculous and exaggerated oddity of the visors, and by the singularity and splendour of the dresses, everything being out of nature and propriety. Frequently the masque was attended with an exhibition of gorgeous machinery, resembling the wonders of a modern pantomime,”[70] the preparation of which occupied a considerable time.

It was at the Christmas festivities in the year 1509 that Henry VIII. appeared in the disguise of a strange knight, astonishing the Court circle with the grace and vigour of his tilting. Henry was specially fond of disguisings and masquings, and on another occasion he presented himself with his cousin, the Earl of Essex, and other nobles, in the disguise of Robin Hood and his men, “Whereat,” writes Holinshed, “the Queen and her ladies were greatly amazed, as well for the strange sight as for their sudden appearance.”

At Shrovetide soon afterwards, in a grand banquet given at Westminster, Henry, with the Earls of Essex, Wiltshire, and Fitzwalter, appeared in Russian costume, “with furred hats of grey, each of them having a hatchet in hand, and wearing boots with peaks turned up.” The King’s sister, the Princess Mary, danced a masquing ballet, hiding her face under a black gauze mask, as “she had assumed the character of an Ethiop queen.”

In the early part of the year 1510 a royal masque was given to celebrate the birth of Prince Henry, on which occasion Sir Charles Brandon, afterwards Duke of Suffolk, introduced himself before Queen Catherine in the garb of a “hermit poor,” craving permission to tilt in her honour. In the evening, when her Majesty sat in state at Westminster, a nobleman entered to inform her “how that in a garden of pleasure was an arbour of gold, full of ladies, who were very desirous of showing pastime for the Queen’s diversion.”

Catherine graciously replied, “I and my ladies will be happy to behold them and their pastime.”

Then a curtain was drawn aside, and the pageant moved forwards. It was an arbour, covered with gold, above which were twined branches of hawthorn, roses, and eglantines, all made of silk and satin to resemble the natural colours of the flowers. In the arbour were six ladies, dressed in gowns of white and green satin, covered with gold letters of H and K. Near the bower stood the King himself and five lords, dressed in purple satin, likewise covered with the same monograms in solid bullion, and every one had his name in letters of bullion. Then the King and his company danced before Catherine’s throne.

In honour of the marriage of Arthur, Prince of Wales, with Catherine of Aragon, three pageants were exhibited in Westminster Hall. The first was a castle with ladies; the second, a ship in full sail, that cast anchor near the castle; and the third, a mountain with several armed knights upon it, who stormed the castle and obliged the ladies to surrender. The pageant terminated with a dance.

But these Court spectacles were, perhaps, at no period more cultivated in this country than by Henry VIII. and his favourite, Wolsey, in whose strangely contrived shows a moving mountain would sometimes “enter the great hall, adorned with trees, flowers, and herbage, and studded with wild beasts and savage men, which, opening suddenly, would send forth a gay throng of knights and ladies, or allegorical personages, who, having sung and danced before the guests, retired again to their place of concealment.”[71] Such performances, as may be imagined, by their novelty and grotesqueness, rarely failed to create as much fun and amusement among the royal circle as among the privileged persons invited to see them.

When an inventory was taken after the death of Henry VIII. of all the tapestry, pictures, plate, jewels, and other goods of which he died possessed, it was found that he had no less than ninety-nine vizors, or “masks of sondry sorts,” besides many sets of “maskings heads” at Greenwich, which he and his courtiers were in the habit of wearing.

In her youthful days Queen Mary made her appearance at a pantomimic ballet, when she wore a black crape mask as an Ethiopian princess. In the year 1527 she exhibited herself before the French ambassadors at Greenwich Palace, with five of her ladies, dressed in Icelandic costume; and with six lords, in the costume of the same country, the party “daunced lustily about the hall.”

At another masque, before the same ambassadors, in May of that year, the Princess Mary issued out of a cave with her seven ladies, dressed after the Roman fashion in rich cloth of gold and crimson tinsel, and they danced a ballet with eight lords. It is said that the young Princess soon became emboldened and at her ease when engaged in such royal pageantry; although, as it has been remarked, it seems strange to us nowadays that one so young should have been allowed or encouraged, so attired, to challenge the gaze and criticism of strangers. The only instance, says Payne Collier, in which Queen Mary called on the Master of the Revels to provide for entertainments at Court during her reign was in 1557. On St. Mark’s Day she commanded, for her “regal disport, recreation, and comfort,” a “notorious maske of Almaynes, Pilgrymes, and Irishemen.”

A continual series of pageantry and masquing welcomed Queen Elizabeth’s reception at Kenilworth; and on Shrove Tuesday, 1594, the members of Gray’s Inn got up a burlesque masque for her amusement, with which she was so much pleased that the courtiers, fired with emulation, as soon as the masque was over began to dance a measure, which caused her Majesty to utter this reproof: “What, shall we have bread and cheese after a banquet?”

The Earl of Essex, who took good care to propitiate his royal mistress by all sorts of flattery, on the 17th of November 1596—the anniversary of her accession to the throne—caused a sort of masque to be represented which was thus described by an eye-witness: “My lord of Essex’s device is much commended in these late triumphs. Some pretty while before he came in himself to the tilt, he sent his page with some speech to the Queen, who returned with her Majesty’s glove; and when he came himself, he was met by an old hermit, a secretary of state, a brave soldier, and an esquire. The first presented him with a book of meditations, the second with political discourses, the third with orations of brave-fought battles, the fourth was but his own follower, to whom the other three imparted much of their purpose before their coming in. Another devised with him, persuading him to this and that course of life, according to their own inclinations. Then comes into the tilt-yard, unthought upon, the ordinary post-boy of London, a ragged villain, all bemired, upon a poor lean jade, galloping and blowing for life, and delivered the secretary a packet of letters, which he presently offered to my lord of Essex; and with this dumb show our eyes were fed for that time.”

In the after-supper before the Queen, “they first delivered a well-penned speech to move this worthy knight to leave his vain following of love, and to betake him to heavenly meditation, the secretaries all tending to have him follow matters of state, the soldiers persuading him to war;” but the esquire answered them all in plain English: “That this knight would never forsake his mistress’s love, whose virtue made all his thoughts divine, whose wisdom taught him all true policy, whose beauty and worth were at all times able to make him fit to command armies. He showed all the defects and imperfections of the times, and therefore thought his course of life the best in serving his mistress.” The Queen said, “If she had thought there had been so much said of her, she would not have been there that night.”

A Court masque was the accompaniment of Darnley’s murder, probably arranged, it has been suggested, as one of the episodes of that cruel tragedy. Much has been written on the beauty and romance of the Elizabethan masques, which it was required should be something more than a ballet, or a fancy ball. According to Mr. Thornbury, in his “Shakspere’s England” (vol. ii. p. 371), “the poetry was such as Jonson could write—tender as Anacreon, vigorous as Æschylus; though occasionally tedious, laboured, dull, and rugged, mythology, history, and romance were ransacked to furnish new materials for these plays; the poetry and costume were all but perfect, and the scenery was left to fancy, so well able to realise it. The amusement that delighted such minds as Bacon’s and Jonson’s is not to be sneered at in the nineteenth century.” The sympathy and support, too, which Elizabeth gave to this class of diversion had a more or less lasting effect; but there was an inclination as time went on to introduce many innovations which were not always in good taste.

One of the chief amusements of James I. and his Court were masques and emblematic pageants, and it appears by what is entitled “A Briefe Collection of the Extraordinarie Payments” of the Court of James I., from 1603 to the end of 1609, that the “charges for masks” amounted to £4215.[72] An imposing instance occurred in the year 1610, to commemorate the Queen’s eldest son, Henry, being created Prince of Wales. On this occasion the “whole Court of England, the Queen, the Princess-Royal, and all the aristocratic beauties of the day were busy devising robes, arranging jewels, and practising steps and movements for this beautiful poem of action, in which music, painting, dancing, and decoration, guided by the taste of Inigo Jones, were all called into employment to make the palace of Whitehall a scene of enchantment. In this masque the Court ladies personated the nymphs of the principal rivers, the Queen represented the Empress of Streams, and the little Prince Charles, in the character of Zephyr, attended by twelve little ladies, was to deliver the Queen’s presents to his elder brother, the newly created Prince of Wales, the presentation being the ostensible business of the masque. One of the chief attractions of this entertainment was a ballet, which was so arranged that Prince Charles always danced encircled by his little ladies, all of whom had been so carefully trained that they were rapturously applauded by the whole Court. This festive scene was perhaps one of the brightest and happiest in the Queen’s life, for when in after days some one accidentally recalled it to her memory after the death of Prince Henry, she gave way to the most acute grief.[73]

But some of these magnificent masques appear to have been conducted with but little attention to decorum. The Countess of Dorset mentions in her Memoirs that there was “much talk of a mask which the Queen held at Winchester, and how all the ladies about the Court had gotten such ill names, that it was grown a scandalous place; and the Queen herself was much fallen from her former greatness and reputation she had in the world.” Peyton’s censure is even stronger. “The masks,” he says, “and plays at Whitehall were used only as incentives for lust; therefore the courtiers invited the citizens’ wives to those shows on purpose to defile them. There is not a chamber nor lobby, if it could speak, but would verify this.”

In the following reign the masque became a highly beautiful and exquisite entertainment, encouraged by the fine taste of Charles I., and aided by such cultured men as Buckingham, Jonson, Lawes the musician, and Inigo Jones. The masque at this period was produced at an enormous outlay, and one presented at Whitehall by the Inns of Court in the year 1633 cost the prodigious sum of £21,000. In the masque of “The Night and the Hours,” the first scene represented a double valley, one side with dark clouds hanging before it, on the other a green vale, with trees, nine of which were covered with gold, and were fifteen feet high. From this grove towards the “state,” or seat of the King, extended a dancing-place, with the bower of Flora on the right, and the house of Night on the left. The bower of Flora was decorated with flowers and leafy branches, whilst Night appears in her house, “her long black hair spangled with gold, amidst her hours, their faces black, and each bearing a lighted black torch.”

On another occasion the Lords’ masque was performed, which was also divided into two parts, the lower being first discovered, in which there was seen a wood in perspective; and on the sudden fall of a curtain there appeared a heaven of clouds of all hues, whilst from a bright and transparent cloud eight maskers descended with the music of a full song. On reaching the ground the cloud broke in twain, and, after the manner of a transformation scene, a series of changes took place. With these gorgeous entertainments was usually presented the anti-masque, a humorous parody of the more solemn show. And to the popularity of this species of exhibition we owe Milton’s “Comus and Arcades.”[74]

During the reign of Charles II. masquerading was the rage, and it is recorded how the King and Queen and all the courtiers went about masked, and so completely disguised that no one, unless in the secret, could distinguish them. They were carried about in hackney-chairs, entered houses where merry-makings were going on, and danced about with the wildest frolic. On one occasion the Queen got separated from her party, and her chairmen, not knowing her, went away. Much frightened, she returned to Whitehall in a hackney-coach, or, according to some authorities, in a cart. The Earl of Manchester—the Lord Chamberlain—well aware that she was surrounded by spies who were ready to make the most of the slightest indiscretion on her part, did not hesitate to tell her that “it was neither decent nor safe for her to go about as she had done of late.” The Duke of Buckingham seriously proposed to Charles that in some nocturnal frolic they should carry the Queen off, and send her to the plantations, to which, according to Burnet, the King would have had no objection had she retired voluntarily into a convent.

A harmless feature of the frolic and fun of the exiled Court at St. Germains were the balls and receptions given by Mary Beatrice. A lively description, too, has been given of the Shrove Tuesday masquerade at St. Germains, to which the whole town was admitted, the barriers being thrown open by her Majesty’s command, in order that all classes, high and low, young and old, English and French, might join in the carnival. Etiquette, however, forbade the Prince and Princess from wearing masks, or assuming any particular characters on these occasions; yet they are represented as dancing merrily in the midst of the motley crowd.

On one occasion some indignation was caused when it was discovered that, at a masked ball, the son of the Court apothecary, Bondin, had found admittance, at which the Duchess of Burgundy was present. The apothecary’s son, concealed under his mask, had the audacity to pass for a marquis, and was bold enough to dance with a princess who was not very remote from the throne. At these balls not only James and his Queen, but the young Prince of Wales, were often present. At one of these riotous gatherings the crowd was so great that the little Duke de Berri, son of the Dauphin, nearly lost his life in the pressure by suffocation. Happily he was rescued, but not without some difficulty. It may be noted that the “pretended Prince of Wales,” as the son of James is invariably called by the English papers of the period, is described as being present at these masked balls, “masked,” to save him from being “tied to ceremonials.”

And it is recorded that whilst this kind of merriment was going on, the ears of James were deafened by solicitations from his starving disbanded soldiers, whose distress was appalling. Indeed, their condition became so desperate that Louis was petitioned to enrol one hundred of them in the French army; and, when this request was refused, an honest captain of gendarmes, expressing himself too freely, was punished with the loss of his personal freedom, and was flung into the Bastille. It is said that James would have had sympathy with the bold speaker thus cruelly punished, but that his attention was, through the force of circumstances, attracted in different directions.[75]

Masquerading was general in Scotland as far back as the days of James I. At the celebration of the marriage of James IV. and the Lady Margaret, a company of English comedians, under the management of John English, enlivened the festivities of the Court with a dramatic representation. “After dinnar a moralite was played by the said Master Englishe and his companions, in the presence of the Kyng and Qwene, and then daunces were daunced.”

During the regency of Mary of Guise, and the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, “when masques became more and more splendid and extravagant, and when the Queen pirouetted in newly introduced French dances which were anything but models of decorum, no wonder the more sober-minded were disgusted, and all amusement of the kind was brought into disrepute.”[76] But it would appear that, however much such frivolities grated on the feelings of the sober-minded Scotsman, royalty was not disposed on that account to dispense with a mode of diversion which had never been so severely censured elsewhere.

In the year 1681 there were gay doings at Edinburgh, when the Duke and Duchess of York and the Lady Anne—afterwards Queen of England—were present. Balls, plays, and masquerades were introduced; but the last were soon laid aside, “the taste of the times being opposed to such ungodly innovations,” and there were substituted poetic and dramatic masques and pastorals, in which the Princess Anne, with other young ladies of quality, personated some of the mythological characters. These entertainments included the “Comus” of Milton, and similar pieces by Ben Jonson, Shirley, Davenant, and other dramatic poets of the last century, and they were interspersed with music, and were set off with splendid dresses and decorations.

And coming down to later times, a practical joke which was played by the Duke of Montagu on Heidegger, a celebrated conductor of operas and masquerades, is said to have been much enjoyed by George II. A few days previous to one of Heidegger’s famous masquerades, at which the King had promised to be present, the Duke of Montagu invited the German to sup with him at the Devil’s Tavern in Fleet Street, and plied him with wine till he became helplessly intoxicated. Whilst in this condition, Mrs. Salmon was commissioned to take a cast of his face, which was afterwards painted “to the very image of life.” The Duke then procured a suit of clothes exactly like Heidegger’s ordinary costume, and having procured a person whose voice and figure resembled those of the German, he managed to create an excellent counterpart of his unfortunate victim. On the evening of the masquerade Heidegger ordered the band to play the National Anthem as soon as the King and his suite arrived; whereupon the counterfeit Heidegger commanded them to play the Jacobite tune of “Over the water to Charley.” The King and the players were in the secret of the joke, for the former laughed immoderately, and the latter followed the orders of the fictitious manager. Heidegger was in a state of fury, and when informed by the Duke of Montagu of his Majesty’s displeasure at the insolence of the band, repaired to the royal box to vindicate his character. The King kept up the joke for a time, and terminated it by ordering the counterfeit Heidegger to remove his mask.

On New Year’s Eve 1745 Frederick the Great, in celebration of the peace with Silesia, gave at the Opera House a masked ball, to which every one, without distinction, was admitted. The Court and the nobility were entertained at six large tables, in addition to which people of every rank and station found on all sides richly furnished buffets. On the square before the Opera House a temple of Janus was erected, behind which a grand display of fireworks took place. The ball lasted till morning, the maskers giving only too manifest proof that they had found the wines most excellent. But the King, who made the round of the tables, where he saw a good deal of his plate finding its way into the pockets of his guests, and discovered many persons lying hopelessly drunk in the lobbies of the house, remarked, “I shall never repeat this joke.”

On the 13th of March 1799 the Opera House of Berlin was the scene of a masquerade which contemporary reports describe as well worthy of the days of Louis XIV., or of Augustus the Strong of Saxony. It represented the marriage of the English Queen Mary with Philip of Spain, the character of the bride being supported by Queen Louisa, and that of the bridegroom by the Duke of Sussex. A minuet of these two royal personages was followed by a quadrille between Queen Elizabeth, Don John of Austria, Margaret of Parma, and the Duke of Savoy.

On the evening of March 16, 1792, Gustavus III. was mortally wounded at a masked ball at the Opera House at Stockholm, and died, after great suffering, on the 29th. The pistol-shot was fired by a man of noble family, AnkarstrÖm, formerly a captain in the Guards, who, having retired from active service, and still holding a half-civil command in the island of Gothland, had been—rightly or wrongly—accused of a traitorous understanding with the Finland mutineers in 1788. He had, therefore, been sentenced by the King to a term of imprisonment. This sentence, it has been suggested, and the wrongs his order had sustained in the constitutional changes of 1789, may have wrought a mind naturally gloomy into madness; in addition to which he is said to have lost heavily by a sudden depreciation of paper money to an extent of 30 per cent. Hence the King, in his eyes, was a tyrant and a robber, and he vowed vengeance. With him were joined several other discontented and angry nobles, who had suffered arrest in 1789, and had real or fancied wrongs to avenge; and it may be added that the King’s secretary, Bjelke, who enjoyed much of his Majesty’s confidence, persuaded him to go to the ball, taking care to give timely notice to the conspirators.

At night, after Christina had taken the most solemn step of abandoning the community of Luther for the Church of Rome, at Innsbruck, in Tyrol, the Archduke entertained her with a masque and dancing. Nor was this all, for there was a play represented before her that evening, the moral of which, it is said, was not of the cleanest, and upon which the illustrious convert made this comment: “Well, gentlemen, it is but proper that you should entertain me with a comedy to-night, since I amused you with a farce this morning”—a profane remark, concerning which the great Leibnitz remarks that, if it was really uttered, it proved that “Christina was not mindful of—decorum!”