be remembered, to their credit,
that there never was a more orderly army than that of Cromwell. In
accordance with the sentiments then entertained all theatrical
exhibitions were prohibited. Such austerity and self-denial could not be
of long continuance--it was kept up by an effort, and led to an
inevitable reaction, and so we find that the court of the "Merry
Monarch" became notorious in history for its dissipation. Humour
proportionally changed from what it had been under Charles I., and we
read that that the old Earl of Norwich, who had been esteemed the
greatest wit, was now quite out of fashion.

Barbarous nations have little idea of delicacy of any kind; and
civilisation finds it hard entirely to change nature, so that
where-ever the ground is allowed to lie fallow, the old weeds appear in
their noisesome rankness. Hence from time to time we find indelicacy
springing up, and made to serve the purposes of those who know that the
evil plant is not radically extirpated. One of the most offensive men in
this respect was Peter Aretinus, an Italian adventurer, who became a
great favourite with the Emperor Charles V. He is said to have died from
falling back over his chair in a fit of laughter, on hearing some
indelicate joke. But modes of death have often been invented to accord
with the lives of those who suffered them, just as dithyrambic Anacreon
is said to have been choked by a grape stone.

Louis XI. was also addicted to this jesting which is not convenient. We
read that he told Edward IV. in a jocose way that he was right glad to
see him at Paris, and that if he would come and divert himself with the
gay ladies there, he would assign for his confessor, the Cardinal of
Bourbon, who, he knew, would grant him easy absolution for peccadilloes
of love and gallantry. Edward was much pleased with this raillery, for
he knew the Cardinal was a gay man. Louis was afterwards in great alarm
upon Edward's acceptance of his invitation.

The humour of Charles II. and his court consisted more of jollity than
wit. The king was always ready to laugh outright, even in church at the
sermon. He encouraged and led the way in an indelicate kind of jesting,
which he seems to have learned during his travels in France. On his
telling Lord Shaftesbury, "I believe Shaftesbury, that thou art the
wickedest dog in England," the statesman humbly replied, "May it please
your Majesty, of a subject, I believe I am." We should not expect too
mu