<p>"E DONNA!" <SPAN name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></SPAN></p>
<h2> KING CHARLES II. AND NELL GWYN </h2>
<p>One might classify the kings of England in many ways. John was undoubtedly
the most unpopular. The impetuous yet far-seeing Henry II., with the other
two great warriors, Edward I. and Edward III., and William of Orange, did
most for the foundation and development of England's constitutional law.
Some monarchs, such as Edward II. and the womanish Henry VI., have been
contemptible. Hard-working, useful kings have been Henry VII., the
Georges, William IV., and especially the last Edward.</p>
<p>If we consider those monarchs who have in some curious way touched the
popular fancy without reference to their virtues we must go back to
Richard of the Lion Heart, who saw but little of England, yet was the best
essentially English king, and to Henry V., gallant soldier and conqueror
of France. Even Henry VIII. had a warm place in the affection of his
countrymen, few of whom saw him near at hand, but most of whom made him a
sort of regal incarnation of John Bull—wrestling and tilting and
boxing, eating great joints of beef, and staying his thirst with flagons
of ale—a big, healthy, masterful animal, in fact, who gratified the
national love of splendor and stood up manfully in his struggle with the
Pope.</p>
<p>But if you look for something more than ordinary popularity—something
that belongs to sentiment and makes men willing to become martyrs for a
royal cause—we must find these among the Stuart kings. It is odd,
indeed, that even at this day there are Englishmen and Englishwomen who
believe their lawful sovereign to be a minor Bavarian princess in whose
veins there runs the Stuart blood. Prayers are said for her at English
shrines, and toasts are drunk to her in rare old wine.</p>
<p>Of course, to-day this cult of the Stuarts is nothing but a fad. No one
ever expects to see a Stuart on the English throne. But it is significant
of the deep strain of romance which the six Stuarts who reigned in England
have implanted in the English heart. The old Jacobite ballads still have
power to thrill. Queen Victoria herself used to have the pipers file out
before her at Balmoral to the "skirling" of "Bonnie Dundee," "Over the
Water to Charlie," and "Wha'll Be King but Charlie!" It is a sentiment
that has never died. Her late majesty used to say that when she heard
these tunes she became for the moment a Jacobite; just as the Empress
Eugenie at the height of her power used pertly to remark that she herself
was the only Legitimist left in France.</p>
<p>It may be suggested that the Stuarts are still loved by many Englishmen
because they were unfortunate; yet this is hardly true, after all. Many of
them were fortunate enough. The first of them, King James, an absurd
creature, speaking broad Scotch, timid, foolishly fond of favorites, and
having none of the dignity of a monarch, lived out a lengthy reign. The
two royal women of the family—Anne and Mary—had no misfortunes
of a public nature. Charles II. reigned for more than a quarter of a
century, lapped in every kind of luxury, and died a king.</p>
<p>The first Charles was beheaded and afterward styled a "saint"; yet the
majority of the English people were against his arrogance, or else he
would have won his great struggle against Parliament. The second James was
not popular at all. Nevertheless, no sooner had he been expelled, and been
succeeded by a Dutchman gnawing asparagus and reeking of cheeses, than
there was already a Stuart legend. Even had there been no pretenders to
carry on the cult, the Stuarts would still have passed into history as
much loved by the people.</p>
<p>It only shows how very little in former days the people expected of a
regnant king. Many monarchs have had just a few popular traits, and these
have stood out brilliantly against the darkness of the background.</p>
<p>No one could have cared greatly for the first James, but Charles I. was
indeed a kingly personage when viewed afar. He was handsome, as a man,
fully equaling the French princess who became his wife. He had no personal
vices. He was brave, and good to look upon, and had a kingly mien. Hence,
although he sought to make his rule over England a tyranny, there were
many fine old cavaliers to ride afield for him when he raised his
standard, and who, when he died, mourned for him as a "martyr."</p>
<p>Many hardships they underwent while Cromwell ruled with his iron hand; and
when that iron hand was relaxed in death, and poor, feeble Richard
Cromwell slunk away to his country-seat, what wonder is it that young
Charles came back to England and caracoled through the streets of London
with a smile for every one and a happy laugh upon his lips? What wonder is
it that the cannon in the Tower thundered a loud welcome, and that all
over England, at one season or another, maypoles rose and Christmas fires
blazed? For Englishmen at heart are not only monarchists, but they are
lovers of good cheer and merrymaking and all sorts of mirth.</p>
<p>Charles II. might well at first have seemed a worthier and wiser successor
to his splendid father. As a child, even, he had shown himself to be no
faint-hearted creature. When the great Civil War broke out he had joined
his father's army. It met with disaster at Edgehill, and was finally
shattered by the crushing defeat of Naseby, which afterward inspired
Macaulay's most stirring ballad.</p>
<p>Charles was then only a child of twelve, and so his followers did wisely
in hurrying him out of England, through the Scilly isles and Jersey to his
mother's place of exile. Of course, a child so very young could be of no
value as a leader, though his presence might prove an inspiration.</p>
<p>In 1648, however, when he was eighteen years of age, he gathered a fleet
of eighteen ships and cruised along the English coast, taking prizes,
which he carried to the Dutch ports. When he was at Holland's capital,
during his father's trial, he wrote many messages to the Parliamentarians,
and even sent them a blank charter, which they might fill in with any
stipulations they desired if only they would save and restore their king.</p>
<p>When the head of Charles rolled from the velvet-covered block his son
showed himself to be no loiterer or lover of an easy life. He hastened to
Scotland, skilfully escaping an English force, and was proclaimed as king
and crowned at Scone, in 1651. With ten thousand men he dashed into
England, where he knew there were many who would rally at his call. But it
was then that Cromwell put forth his supreme military genius and with his
Ironsides crushed the royal troops at Worcester.</p>
<p>Charles knew that for the present all was lost. He showed courage and
address in covering the flight of his beaten soldiers; but he soon
afterward went to France, remaining there and in the Netherlands for eight
years as a pensioner of Louis XIV. He knew that time would fight for him
far more surely than infantry and horse. England had not been called
"Merry England" for nothing; and Cromwell's tyranny was likely to be far
more resented than the heavy hand of one who was born a king. So Charles
at Paris and Liege, though he had little money at the time, managed to
maintain a royal court, such as it was.</p>
<p>Here there came out another side of his nature. As a child he had borne
hardship and privation and had seen the red blood flow upon the
battlefield. Now, as it were, he allowed a certain sensuous,
pleasure-loving ease to envelop him. The red blood should become the rich
red burgundy; the sound of trumpets and kettledrums should give way to the
melody of lutes and viols. He would be a king of pleasure if he were to be
king at all. And therefore his court, even in exile, was a court of
gallantry and ease. The Pope refused to lend him money, and the King of
France would not increase his pension, but there were many who foresaw
that Charles would not long remain in exile; and so they gave him what he
wanted and waited until he could give them what they would ask for in
their turn.</p>
<p>Charles at this time was not handsome, like his father. His complexion was
swarthy, his figure by no means imposing, though always graceful. When he
chose he could bear himself with all the dignity of a monarch. He had a
singularly pleasant manner, and a word from him could win over the
harshest opponent.</p>
<p>The old cavaliers who accompanied their master in exile were like
Napoleon's veterans in Elba. With their tall, powerful forms they stalked
about the courtyards, sniffing their disapproval at these foreign ways and
longing grimly for the time when they could once more smell the pungent
powder of the battle-field. But, as Charles had hoped, the change was
coming. Not merely were his own subjects beginning to long for him and to
pray in secret for the king, but continental monarchs who maintained spies
in England began to know of this. To them Charles was no longer a
penniless exile. He was a king who before long would take possession of
his kingdom.</p>
<p>A very wise woman—the Queen Regent of Portugal—was the first
to act on this information. Portugal was then very far from being a petty
state. It had wealth at home and rich colonies abroad, while its flag was
seen on every sea. The queen regent, being at odds with Spain, and wishing
to secure an ally against that power, made overtures to Charles, asking
him whether a match might not be made between him and the Princess
Catharine of Braganza. It was not merely her daughter's hand that she
offered, but a splendid dowry. She would pay Charles a million pounds in
gold and cede to England two valuable ports.</p>
<p>The match was not yet made, but by 1659 it had been arranged. The
Spaniards were furious, for Charles's cause began to appear successful.</p>
<p>She was a quaint and rather piteous little figure, she who was destined to
be the wife of the Merry Monarch. Catharine was dark, petite, and by no
means beautiful; yet she had a very sweet expression and a heart of utter
innocence. She had been wholly convent-bred. She knew nothing of the
world. She was told that in marriage she must obey in all things, and that
the chief duty of a wife was to make her husband happy.</p>
<p>Poor child! It was a too gracious preparation for a very graceless
husband. Charles, in exile, had already made more than one discreditable
connection and he was already the father of more than one growing son.</p>
<p>First of all, he had been smitten by the bold ways of one Lucy Walters.
Her impudence amused the exiled monarch. She was not particularly
beautiful, and when she spoke as others did she was rather tiresome; but
her pertness and the inexperience of the king when he went into exile made
her seem attractive. She bore him a son, in the person of that brilliant
adventurer whom Charles afterward created Duke of Monmouth. Many persons
believe that Charles had married Lucy Walters, just as George IV. may have
married Mrs. Fitzherbert; yet there is not the slightest proof of it, and
it must be classed with popular legends.</p>
<p>There was also one Catherine Peg, or Kep, whose son was afterward made
Earl of Plymouth. It must be confessed that in his attachments to English
women Charles showed little care for rank or station. Lucy Walters and
Catherine Peg were very illiterate creatures.</p>
<p>In a way it was precisely this sort of preference that made Charles so
popular among the people. He seemed to make rank of no account, but would
chat in the most familiar and friendly way with any one whom he happened
to meet. His easy, democratic manner, coupled with the grace and prestige
of royalty, made friends for him all over England. The treasury might be
nearly bankrupt; the navy might be routed by the Dutch; the king himself
might be too much given to dissipation; but his people forgave him all,
because everybody knew that Charles would clap an honest citizen on the
back and joke with all who came to see him feed the swans in Regent's
Park.</p>
<p>The popular name for him was "Rowley," or "Old Rowley"—a nickname of
mysterious origin, though it is said to have been given him from a fancied
resemblance to a famous hunter in his stables. Perhaps it is the very
final test of popularity that a ruler should have a nickname known to
every one.</p>
<p>Cromwell's death roused all England to a frenzy of king-worship. The
Roundhead, General Monk, and his soldiers proclaimed Charles King of
England and escorted him to London in splendid state. That was a day when
national feeling reached a point such as never has been before or since.
Oughtred, the famous mathematician, died of joy when the royal emblems
were restored. Urquhart, the translator of Rabelais, died, it is said, of
laughter at the people's wild delight—a truly Rabelaisian end.</p>
<p>There was the king once more; and England, breaking through its long
period of Puritanism, laughed and danced with more vivacity than ever the
French had shown. All the pipers and the players and panderers to vice,
the mountebanks, the sensual men, and the lawless women poured into the
presence of the king, who had been too long deprived of the pleasure that
his nature craved. Parliament voted seventy thousand pounds for a memorial
to Charles's father, but the irresponsible king spent the whole sum on the
women who surrounded him. His severest counselor, Lord Clarendon, sent him
a remonstrance.</p>
<p>"How can I build such a memorial," asked Charles, "when I don't know where
my father's remains are buried!"</p>
<p>He took money from the King of France to make war against the Dutch, who
had befriended him. It was the French king, too, who sent him that
insidious, subtle daughter of Brittany, Louise de Keroualle—Duchess
of Portsmouth—a diplomat in petticoats, who won the king's wayward
affections, and spied on what he did and said, and faithfully reported all
of it to Paris. She became the mother of the Duke of Lenox, and she was
feared and hated by the English more than any other of his mistresses.
They called her "Madam Carwell," and they seemed to have an instinct that
she was no mere plaything of his idle hours, but was like some strange
exotic serpent, whose poison might in the end sting the honor of England.</p>
<p>There is a pitiful little episode in the marriage of Charles with his
Portuguese bride, Catharine of Braganza. The royal girl came to him fresh
from the cloisters of her convent. There was something about her grace and
innocence that touched the dissolute monarch, who was by no means without
a heart. For a time he treated her with great respect, and she was happy.
At last she began to notice about her strange faces—faces that were
evil, wanton, or overbold. The court became more and more a seat of
reckless revelry.</p>
<p>Finally Catharine was told that the Duchess of Cleveland—that
splendid termagant, Barbara Villiers—had been appointed lady of the
bedchamber. She was told at the same time who this vixen was—that
she was no fit attendant for a virtuous woman, and that her three sons,
the Dukes of Southampton, Grafton, and Northumberland, were also the sons
of Charles.</p>
<p>Fluttered and frightened and dismayed, the queen hastened to her husband
and begged him not to put this slight upon her. A year or two before, she
had never dreamed that life contained such things as these; but now it
seemed to contain nothing else. Charles spoke sternly to her until she
burst into tears, and then he petted her and told her that her duty as a
queen compelled her to submit to many things which a lady in private life
need not endure.</p>
<p>After a long and poignant struggle with her own emotions the little
Portuguese yielded to the wishes of her lord. She never again reproached
him. She even spoke with kindness to his favorites and made him feel that
she studied his happiness alone. Her gentleness affected him so that he
always spoke to her with courtesy and real friendship. When the Protestant
mobs sought to drive her out of England he showed his courage and
manliness by standing by her and refusing to allow her to be molested.</p>
<p>Indeed, had Charles been always at his best he would have had a very
different name in history. He could be in every sense a king. He had a
keen knowledge of human nature. Though he governed England very badly, he
never governed it so badly as to lose his popularity.</p>
<p>The epigram of Rochester, written at the king's own request, was
singularly true of Charles. No man relied upon his word, yet men loved
him. He never said anything that was foolish, and he very seldom did
anything that was wise; yet his easy manners and gracious ways endeared
him to those who met him.</p>
<p>One can find no better picture of his court than that which Sir Walter
Scott has drawn so vividly in Peveril of the Peak; or, if one wishes
first-hand evidence, it can be found in the diaries of Evelyn and of
Samuel Pepys. In them we find the rakes and dicers, full of strange oaths,
deep drunkards, vile women and still viler men, all striving for the royal
favor and offering the filthiest lures, amid routs and balls and noisy
entertainments, of which it is recorded that more than once some woman
gave birth to a child among the crowd of dancers.</p>
<p>No wonder that the little Portuguese queen kept to herself and did not let
herself be drawn into this swirling, roaring, roistering saturnalia. She
had less influence even than Moll Davis, whom Charles picked out of a
coffee-house, and far less than "Madam Carwell," to whom it is reported
that a great English nobleman once presented pearls to the value of eight
thousand pounds in order to secure her influence in a single stroke of
political business.</p>
<p>Of all the women who surrounded Charles there was only one who cared
anything for him or for England. The rest were all either selfish or
treacherous or base. This one exception has been so greatly written of,
both in fiction and in history, as to make it seem almost unnecessary to
add another word; yet it may well be worth while to separate the fiction
from the fact and to see how much of the legend of Eleanor Gwyn is true.</p>
<p>The fanciful story of her birthplace is most surely quite unfounded. She
was not the daughter of a Welsh officer, but of two petty hucksters who
had their booth in the lowest precincts of London. In those days the
Strand was partly open country, and as it neared the city it showed the
mansions of the gentry set in their green-walled parks. At one end of the
Strand, however, was Drury Lane, then the haunt of criminals and every
kind of wretch, while nearer still was the notorious Coal Yard, where no
citizen dared go unarmed.</p>
<p>Within this dreadful place children were kidnapped and trained to various
forms of vice. It was a school for murderers and robbers and prostitutes;
and every night when the torches flared it vomited forth its deadly spawn.
Here was the earliest home of Eleanor Gwyn, and out of this den of
iniquity she came at night to sell oranges at the entrance to the
theaters. She was stage-struck, and endeavored to get even a minor part in
a play; but Betterton, the famous actor, thrust her aside when she
ventured to apply to him.</p>
<p>It must be said that in everything that was external, except her beauty,
she fell short of a fastidious taste. She was intensely ignorant even for
that time. She spoke in a broad Cockney dialect. She had lived the life of
the Coal Yard, and, like Zola's Nana, she could never remember the time
when she had known the meaning of chastity.</p>
<p>Nell Gwyn was, in fact, a product of the vilest slums of London; and
precisely because she was this we must set her down as intrinsically a
good woman—one of the truest, frankest, and most right-minded of
whom the history of such women has anything to tell. All that external
circumstances could do to push her down into the mire was done; yet she
was not pushed down, but emerged as one of those rare souls who have in
their natures an uncontaminated spring of goodness and honesty. Unlike
Barbara Villiers or Lucy Walters or Louise de Keroualle, she was neither a
harpy nor a foe to England.</p>
<p>Charles is said first to have met her when he, incognito, with another
friend, was making the rounds of the theaters at night. The king spied her
glowing, nut-brown face in one of the boxes, and, forgetting his
incognito, went up and joined her. She was with her protector of the time,
Lord Buckhurst, who, of course, recognized his majesty.</p>
<p>Presently the whole party went out to a neighboring coffee-house, where
they drank and ate together. When it came time to pay the reckoning the
king found that he had no money, nor had his friend. Lord Buckhurst,
therefore, paid the bill, while Mistress Nell jeered at the other two,
saying that this was the most poverty-stricken party that she had ever
met.</p>
<p>Charles did not lose sight of her. Her frankness and honest manner pleased
him. There came a time when she was known to be a mistress of the king,
and she bore a son, who was ennobled as the Duke of St. Albans, but who
did not live to middle age. Nell Gwyn was much with Charles; and after his
tempestuous scenes with Barbara Villiers, and the feeling of dishonor
which the Duchess of Portsmouth made him experience, the girl's good
English bluntness was a pleasure far more rare than sentiment.</p>
<p>Somehow, just as the people had come to mistrust "Madam Carwell," so they
came to like Nell Gwyn. She saw enough of Charles, and she liked him well
enough, to wish that he might do his duty by his people; and she alone had
the boldness to speak out what she thought. One day she found him lolling
in an arm-chair and complaining that the people were not satisfied.</p>
<p>"You can very easily satisfy them," said Nell Gwyn. "Dismiss your women
and attend to the proper business of a king."</p>
<p>Again, her heart was touched at the misfortunes of the old soldiers who
had fought for Charles and for his father during the Civil War, and who
were now neglected, while the treasury was emptied for French favorites,
and while the policy of England itself was bought and sold in France. Many
and many a time, when other women of her kind used their lures to get
jewels or titles or estates or actual heaps of money, Nell Gwyn besought
the king to aid these needy veterans. Because of her efforts Chelsea
Hospital was founded. Such money as she had she shared with the poor and
with those who had fought for her royal lover.</p>
<p>As I have said, she is a historical type of the woman who loses her
physical purity, yet who retains a sense of honor and of honesty which
nothing can take from her. There are not many such examples, and therefore
this one is worth remembering.</p>
<p>Of anecdotes concerning her there are many, but not often has their real
import been detected. If she could twine her arms about the monarch's neck
and transport him in a delirium of passion, this was only part of what she
did. She tried to keep him right and true and worthy of his rank; and
after he had ceased to care much for her as a lover he remembered that she
had been faithful in many other things.</p>
<p>Then there came the death-bed scene, when Charles, in his inimitable
manner, apologized to those about him because he was so long in dying. A
far sincerer sentence was that which came from his heart, as he cried out,
in the very pangs of death:</p>
<p>"Do not let poor Nelly starve!"</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />