CHAPTER IX.

THE COURT.

The Court of Charles II. was not unlike that of Comus, for drunkenness and vice reigned supreme in both. Pepys’s “Diary” forms a valuable antidote to the Grammont “Memoirs,” because in the latter work the pictures are drawn in rose colour, while in the former we see the squalid poverty that accompanied the wasteful extravagance. In the courts of most of our sovereigns statesmen have borne an important part, but at the Restoration the court was formed of wits and beautiful women only. Then statesmen moved in the outer circles, and were laughed at by those who dwelt in the inner ones. Grammont relates that the Earl of Arlington was one day offering his humble services and best advice to Miss Stewart, to assist her in conducting herself as King’s mistress, a situation “to which it had pleased God and her virtue to raise her!” He had only just begun his speech, “when she recollected that he was at the head of those whom the Duke of Buckingham used to mimic; and as his presence and his language exactly revived the ridiculous ideas that had been given her of him, she could not forbear bursting out into a fit of laughter in his face, so much the more violent as she had for a long time struggled to suppress it.” It is not to be supposed that Pepys could know much of the inner circle of the court, but still there was much gossip about those who composed it, and he sets down many tales in his “Diary” respecting the doings of the too celebrated ladies. Several of the stories which were supposed to have owed much to the lively imaginations of Counts Hamilton and Grammont, are corroborated by Pepys.[244] The wild frolic of Miss Jennings and Miss Price, to which allusion will be made later on in this chapter, is not overlooked by Pepys.[245] Miss Jennings was not singular in her freak, and Bishop Burnet relates that about the year 1668, the King and Queen and all the court went about disguised in sedan chairs to houses where they were not known. On one occasion the Queen’s chairmen, not knowing who she was, left her alone, and she had to get back to Whitehall as best she could in a hackney coach or in a cart. The same masqueradings went on in the country as in town; and in 1670 the Queen, the Duchess of Richmond, the Duchess of Buckingham, and some others, disguised themselves as country lasses, in red petticoats, waistcoats, &c., in order to visit the fair at Audley End. The grand ladies and their companions overacted their parts, and were soon discovered, so that they were glad to escape as best they could from the crowd that gathered round them.

Pepys seems to have held the vulgar opinion that the great people ought to converse in a more distinguished tone than ordinary mortals, and he constantly remarks on the commonplace character of the King’s talk. On October 26th, 1664, there was a launch at Woolwich, attended by the King and his Court, which is fully described by our Diarist, who remarks: “But Lord! the sorry talke and discourse among the great courtiers round about him, without any reverence in the world, but so much disorder. By and by the Queene comes and her Mayds of Honour; one whereof Mrs. Boynton, and the Duchesse of Buckingham had been very sicke coming by water in the barge (the water being very rough); but what silly sport they made with them in very common terms, methought was very poor and below what people think these great people say and do.”

On the 15th of November, 1666, there was a grand ball at court, that day being the Queen’s birthday; and Pepys and his wife went to see the dancing, which they found very tiresome. The ladies, however, were pleasant to look upon, and their dresses very rich; so we read in the “Diary:” “Away home with my wife, between displeased with the dull dancing and satisfied with the clothes and persons.”

These ladies owe much of their fame to the series of portraits which still exists to show a later age the outward forms that charmed the men of two centuries ago. We are told in the Grammont “Memoirs” that, “the Duchess of York being desirous of having the portraits of the handsomest persons at court, Lely painted them, and employed all his skill in the performance; nor could he ever exert himself upon more beautiful subjects. Every picture appeared a masterpiece; and that of Miss Hamilton appeared the highest finished: Lely himself acknowledged that he had drawn it with a particular pleasure.” Next to the deshabille, in which most of these ladies are arranged, the most noticeable feature in these portraits is the soft, sleepy eye—a supposed beauty that was attained to after a considerable amount of practice:—

Mrs. Hyde, the first wife of Henry Hyde, afterwards second Earl of Clarendon, had by long practice given such a languishing tenderness to her looks, that we are told by Hamilton, “she never opened her eyes but like a Chinese.” In spite of all this softness, many of these women were in the habit of swearing “good mouth-filling oaths”—a practice thoroughly in character with the general grossness of manners and language at Charles’s court. When looking at these portraits of the beauties, we must not think of them all as the mistresses of the King and Duke of York, for some remained pure in this corrupt atmosphere. “La belle Hamilton” was one of these, and the description both of her mind and person by her husband, the Count de Grammont, forms such an exquisite portrait in words that, although well known, I venture to transfer it to my pages:—“Miss Hamilton was at the happy age when the charms of the fair sex begin to bloom; she had the finest shape, the loveliest neck, and most beautiful arms in the world; she was majestic and graceful in all her movements; and she was the original after which all the ladies copied in their taste and air of dress. Her forehead was open, white, and smooth; her hair was well set, and fell with ease into that natural order which it is so difficult to imitate. Her complexion was possessed of a certain freshness, not to be equalled by borrowed colours: her eyes were not large, but they were lively, and capable of expressing whatever she pleased: her mouth was full of graces, and her contour uncommonly perfect: nor was her nose, which was small, delicate, and turned up, the least ornament of so lovely a face. In fine, her air, her carriage, and the numberless graces dispersed over her whole person, made the Chevalier de Grammont not doubt but that she was possessed of every other qualification. Her mind was a proper companion for such a form: she did not endeavour to shine in conversation by those sprightly sallies which only puzzle; and with still greater care she avoided that affected solemnity in her discourse, which produces stupidity; but without any eagerness to talk, she just said what she ought, and no more. She had an admirable discernment in distinguishing between solid and false wit; and far from making an ostentatious display of her abilities, she was reserved, though very just in her decisions: her sentiments were always noble, and even lofty to the highest extent, when there was occasion; nevertheless, she was less prepossessed with her own merit than is usually the case with those who have so much. Formed as we have described, she could not fail of commanding love; but so far was she from courting it, that she was scrupulously nice with respect to those whose merit might entitle them to form any pretensions to her.”

On the 25th of July, 1666, Pepys went to Whitehall to see the King at dinner, and thought how little he should care to have people crowding about him as they were round his Majesty. He adds, “Among other things it astonished me to see my Lord Barkeshire waiting at table, and serving the King drink, in that dirty pickle as I never saw man in my life.”

There is a good story told of Grammont which is apropos of the above. One day, when the King dined in state, he made the Count remark that he was served upon the knee, a mark of respect not common at other courts. “I thank your Majesty for the explanation,” answered Grammont; “I thought they were begging pardon for giving you so bad a dinner.”

I have already remarked on the poverty that went hand-in-hand with extravagance, and this is well illustrated by one or two entries in the “Diary.” In April, 1667,[246] the King was vexed to find no paper laid for him at the Council table. Sir Richard Browne called Wooly, the person who provided the paper, to explain the reason of the neglect. He told his Majesty that he was but a poor man, and was already out of pocket £400 or £500, which was as much as he was worth; and that he could not provide it any longer without money, not having received a penny since the King’s coming in. Evelyn corroborated this, and told Pepys that several of the menial servants of the court lacked bread, and had not received a farthing of wages since the Restoration.[247]

Shortly afterwards the King was found to want personal linen, and Mr. Ashburnham, one of the Grooms of the Bedchamber, rated the wardrobe-man very severely for this neglect. Mr. Townsend pleaded that he wanted money, and owed the linendraper £5,000. He further told Pepys that the grooms took away the King’s linen at the end of the quarter as their fee, whether he could get more or not.[248] Hence the great want.

Charles II. was one of the most worthless of our monarchs, and the most beloved. The responsibility of all evils, troubles, or crimes, was laid upon his advisers, his mistresses, and anyone but upon himself, by his loving subjects. His readiness of access, and good-humoured freedom of manner charmed all who came in contact with him. “Unthinkingness” was said by Halifax to be one of his characteristics, and Rochester uses the expression, “Unthinking Charles;” yet this was more an apparent than a real characteristic. Like most indolent men, he tried to get his own way, and he was one of the earliest to find out that if the people are allowed their way when they are in earnest, they will let their governors do as they wish at other times. It has been said that the strongest resolve he ever formed was a determination not to go on his travels again; therefore he never opposed a strong popular movement. He sought, however, every opportunity of turning the movement to his own advantage, if there were any possibility of doing so.

Charles was fit to be the head of his court, for he was among the wittiest there. He was a good teller of a story, and fond of exhibiting his talent. Walpole proposed to make a collection of his witty sayings, and Peter Cunningham carried out this idea in “The Story of Nell Gwyn.”

Curiously enough, Pepys held a very poor opinion of the King’s power in this respect. On one occasion he says Charles’s stories were good, although “he tells them but meanly.”[249] At another time he alludes to “the silly discourse of the King.”[250]

The Diarist must surely have been prejudiced, for the general opinion on this point, and the stories that have come down to us, are against him. That was a happy distinction made by Charles when he said of Godolphin, then a page at court, that he was never in the way, and never out of the way. Of the King’s natural abilities there can be no doubt. He took an intelligent interest in the formation of the Royal Society, and passed many hours in his own laboratory. Pepys visited this place on January 15th, 1668–69, and was much pleased with it. He saw there “a great many chymical glasses and things, but understood none of them.”

The King was fond of seeing and making dissections,[251] and the very month he died he was engaged in some experiments on the production of mercury.

His greatest fault was want of faith, for he believed neither in the honour of man nor the virtue of woman; and, as a consequence, he lived down to his debased views. His religion always sat lightly upon him, but such as it was it was not that of a Protestant. James II. told Pepys, in a private conversation, that Charles had been a Roman Catholic some long time before his death.[252]

Charles’s relations with women were singularly heartless. His conduct towards his wife was abominable, although when in her company he was usually polite. On the occasion of her serious illness, when she was like to die, he conjured her to live for his sake, and Grammont hints that he was disappointed when she took him at his word.

The Queen, although not beautiful, was pleasing in appearance, and the King appears to have been satisfied with her when she arrived in England, for he wrote to Clarendon, that her eyes were excellent and her voice agreeable, adding, “If I have any skill in physiognomy, which I think I have, she must be as good a woman as ever was born.” A few days after he wrote to the Chancellor in these words, “My brother will tell you of all that passes here, which I hope will be to your satisfaction. I am sure ’tis so much to mine that I cannot easily tell you how happy I think myself, and I must be the worst man living (which I hope I am not) if I be not a good husband. I am confident never two humors were better fitted together than ours are.”[253] Yet shortly after writing thus, he thrust his abandoned mistress, Lady Castlemaine, upon this virtuous wife; so that from his own mouth we can condemn him. Pepys reports a sharp answer (“a wipe,” he calls it) which the Queen made to the favourite. Lady Castlemaine came in and found the Queen under the dresser’s hand, which she had been for a long time. “I wonder your Majesty,” says she, “can have the patience to sit so long adressing?”—“I have so much reason to use patience,” says the Queen, “that I can very well bear with it.”[254]

Clarendon was charged with choosing Katherine because he knew that she could not bear children to the King, but this was a most foul calumny. She was naturally most anxious to be a mother, and in her delirium she fancied that she had given birth to a boy, but was troubled because he was ugly. The King, being by, said, “No, it is a very pretty boy.” “Nay,” says she, “if it be like you it is a fine boy indeed, and I would be very well pleased with it.”[255]

The Duke of York was pre-eminently a man of business, and there remains little to be added here to what has been already said in the chapter on the Navy. He did not shine at Court, and his conduct there is amusingly described in the Grammont “Memoirs,” apropos of his fancy for “la belle Hamilton:”—“As hunting was his favourite diversion, that sport employed him one part of the day, and he came home generally much fatigued; but Miss Hamilton’s presence revived him, when he found her either with the Queen or the Duchess. There it was that, not daring to tell her what lay heavy on his heart, he entertained her with what he had in his head: telling her miracles of the cunning of foxes and the mettle of horses; giving her accounts of broken legs and arms, dislocated shoulders and other curious and entertaining adventures; after which, his eyes told her the rest, till such time as sleep interrupted their conversation; for these tender interpreters could not help sometimes composing themselves in the midst of their ogling.”

It is not necessary to enter fully into the history of the Duke’s amours, but one curious incident in his life may be noticed here. In the year 1673 he had a passion for Susan, Lady Bellasys, widow of Sir Henry Bellasys, K.B. (who fell in a foolish duel with Tom Porter,[256]), and, although she was a Protestant, he gave her a promise of marriage, after having tried in vain to convert her to the Roman Catholic faith. When her father-in-law, John, Lord Bellasys, who was a Roman Catholic, heard of this, he, fearing that she would convert the Duke, and thus spoil all hope of introducing the Roman Catholic religion into England, went to the King and told him of his brother’s matrimonial intentions. Charles thereupon prohibited the marriage.[257]

After James came to the throne, his daughter Mary, Princess of Orange, expressed a desire through Monsieur d’Alberville to know the chief motives of his conversion; and in reply he wrote her a full account of the circumstances that led to it. He tells her that he was bred a strict Church of England man, “And I was so zealous that way, that when the Queen my mother designed to bring up my brother, the Duke of Gloucester, a Catholic, I, preserving still the respect due to her, did my part to keep him steady to his first principles; and, as young people often do, I made it a point of honour to stick to what we had been educated in, without examining whether we were right or wrong.”[258]

Anne Hyde, then in the household of the Princess of Orange, was contracted to the Duke of York on November 24th, 1659, and was secretly married to him at Worcester House, on September 3rd, 1660. There is a good story told by Locke, in his “Memoirs of Lord Shaftesbury,” which shows how shrewd that nobleman was: “Soon after the Restoration the Earl of Southampton and Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper, having dined together at the Chancellor’s, as they were returning home Sir Anthony said to my Lord Southampton, ‘Yonder Mrs. Anne Hyde is certainly married to one of the Brothers.’ The Earl, who was a friend to the Chancellor, treated this as a chimÆra, and asked him how so wild a fancy could get into his head. ‘Assure yourself’ (replied he) ‘it is so. A concealed respect (however suppressed) showed itself so plainly in the looks, voice, and manner wherewith her mother carved to her, or offered her of every dish, that it is impossible but it must be so.’ My Lord Southampton, who thought it a groundless conceit then, was not long after convinced, by the Duke of York’s owning her, that Lord Ashley was no bad guesser.”[259]

An infamous conspiracy was formed by Sir Charles Berkeley and others to induce the Duke to deny his marriage by accusing his wife of immoral conduct. Although the Duke in the end acted honourably by her, he did not dismiss the miscreants who lied in the basest manner. There seems reason to believe that a few years afterwards she did carry on an intrigue with Henry Sidney, afterwards Earl of Romney, and Pepys alludes to the rumours respecting this on November 17th, 1665, January 9th, 1665–6, and October 15th, 1666. Peter Cunningham sums up the evidence on the point as follows:—“There cannot, I think, be any doubt of the intrigue of the Duchess of York (Anne Hyde) with Harry Sidney, afterwards Earl of Romney, brother of Algernon Sidney and of Waller’s Sacharissa. See on what testimony it rests. Hamilton more than hints at it; Burnet is very pointed about it in his History; Reresby just mentions and Pepys refers to it in three distinct entries and on three different authorities.”[260]

Pepys tells us that the Duchess sat at her husband’s council, and interfered with business,[261] and the fact that she was the master was generally acknowledged. On one occasion the King called his brother “Tom Otter,” alluding to the henpecked husband in Ben Jonson’s “Epicene, or the Silent Woman.” Tom Killegrew threw the sarcasm back upon the King with telling effect, by saying, “Sir, pray which is the best for a man to be, a Tom Otter to his wife or to his mistress?”[262] it being well known that Charles was the slave of Lady Castlemaine.

The Duchess possessed great abilities, and readily adapted herself to her exalted position. Burnet says of her that she “was a very extraordinary woman. She had great knowledge, and a lively sense of things. She understood what belonged to a princess, and took state upon her rather too much.”

The next personage of importance at court was Mrs. Palmer, afterwards Countess of Castlemaine and Duchess of Cleveland, who figures so largely in the “Diary.” It is greatly to the credit of Lords Clarendon and Southampton that they would have nothing to do with the King’s favourite. Burnet tells us that the former would let nothing pass the Great Seal in which she was named, and the latter would never suffer her name to appear in the Treasury books. The King usually held a court at his mistress’s lodgings before going to church, and his ministers made their applications there, but Clarendon and Southampton were never to be seen in her rooms.

Clarendon opposed her admission to the post of Lady of the Bedchamber to the Queen, and would not allow his wife to visit her; in consequence he made an implacable enemy who did not rest until she had compassed his disgrace.

On July 26th, 1662, Pepys heard that when the mistress’s name was presented by the King to his wife, the Queen pricked it out of the list. On February 23rd, 1662–63, he heard that the King had given to Lady Castlemaine all the Christmas presents made him by the peers; and that at a court ball she was much richer in jewels than the Queen and Duchess both together. Although our Diarist was a devoted admirer of the lady, he is forced to call this “a most abominable thing.”

Lady Castlemaine was a woman of the most abandoned profligacy, and, moreover, of bad manners as well as bad morals. In the Grammont “Memoirs” she is described as “disagreeable from the unpolished state of her manners, her ill-timed pride, her uneven temper and extravagant humours.” Pepys knew her only in the distance, and was infatuated with her beauty; at one time he fills his eyes with her, which much pleases him,[263] and at another he “gluts himself with looking at her.”[264] The sight of her at any public place was quite sufficient to give him pleasure, whatever the entertainment might be, and his admiration was extended to everything which was in any way connected with the King’s mistress.

The greatest beauty at the court of Charles II. was Frances Stuart, who was most assiduously followed by the King. She was the exact opposite of Lady Castlemaine, being as much a lady as her rival was ill-mannered, and as foolish as the other was clever. Her portrait is admirably painted in the Grammont “Memoirs,” thus:—“She was childish in her behaviour and laughed at everything, and her taste for frivolous amusements, though unaffected, was only allowable in a girl about twelve or thirteen years old. A child however she was in every other respect, except playing with a doll: blind man’s buff was her most favourite amusement: she was building castles of cards, while the deepest play was going on in her apartments, where you saw her surrounded by eager courtiers, who handed her the cards, or young architects, who endeavoured to imitate her.”

Her relations with the King were of a very risky character, and scandal made very free with her good fame. Pepys took it for granted after hearing the common report that she was the King’s mistress;[265] yet Evelyn told him on April 26th, 1667, that up to the time of her leaving the court to be married there was not a more virtuous woman in the world. A passage in the “Diary” (Nov. 6th, 1663) exhibits very strongly the low state of morality at court. Lord Sandwich told Pepys “how he and Sir H. Bennet, the Duke of Buckingham and his Duchess, was of a committee with somebody else for the getting of Mrs. Stewart for the King, but that she proves a cunning slut, and is advised at Somerset House by the Queen mother, and by her mother, and so all the plot is spoiled and the whole committee broke.” By the early part of the year 1667 Mrs. Stewart’s position had become quite untenable, and to escape from the King’s importunities she accepted the proposal of marriage made to her by the Duke of Richmond. The King threw all the obstacles he could in the way of the marriage, and when the lovers escaped and were united he exhibited the greatest chagrin. Pepys relates a story[266] that Charles one Sunday night took a pair of oars and rowed secretly to Somerset House in order to get sight of the Duchess, who was then living there. The garden door not being open, he is said to have clambered over the wall, “which is a horrid shame!”

The Duke was afterwards appointed ambassador to Denmark, and died at Elsinore, December 21st, 1672. After the death of her husband the Duchess lived at court and attached herself to the person of the Queen. In the latter years of her life she remained in seclusion dividing her time between cards and cats. She died in 1702, and by her last will left several favourite cats to different female friends with legacies for their support.

Among the lesser lights of the court was Elizabeth, Countess of Chesterfield, who figures so prominently in the Grammont “Memoirs.” The scandal there related did not escape the open ears of Pepys, who on the 3rd of November, 1662, first hears that the Duke of York is smitten with the lady; that the Duchess has complained to the King, and that the Countess has gone into the country. The Earl is not mentioned here, but on January 19th, 1662–3, the Diarist obtained fuller particulars, and learnt that Lord Chesterfield had long been jealous of the Duke. Pepys calls the Countess “a most good virtuous woman,” and evidently considers the husband’s conduct in carrying off his wife to his seat in Derbyshire as caused by a fit of ungrounded jealousy. The day after Lord Chesterfield had seen his wife talking with the Duke of York, he went to tell the latter how much he felt wronged, but the Duke answered with calmness, and pretended not to understand the reason of complaint. The story of the bas verds that forms so prominent a feature in the Grammont account is not alluded to by the Diarist, but these brilliant coloured stockings introduced by the Countess, seem to have become fashionable subsequently, for on the 15th of February, 1668–9, Pepys bought a pair of green silk stockings, garters, and shoe-strings, and two pairs of jessimy gloves to present to his valentine.

The career of pretty Margaret Brook, who married Sir John Denham on the 25th of May, 1665, was a short one. On the 10th of June, 1666, Pepys hears that she has become the Duke of York’s new mistress, and that she declares she will be owned publicly. On November 12th of the same year he hears of her serious illness, an illness that terminated in death.

At this time rumours of poisoning were easily put into circulation, and some supposed that Lady Denham was murdered by her husband. Others whispered that the Duchess of York had poisoned her with powder of diamonds, but when her body was opened after death, as she had desired it should be, no sign of poison was found.[268]

One of the most brilliant of the maids of honour, and, to her credit be it said, one of the few virtuous ladies at court, was Frances Jennings, the eldest sister of Sarah, afterwards Duchess of Marlborough. The Duke made advances to her, which she repulsed coolly. He could not believe in his defeat, and plied her with love-letters. It was not etiquette for her to return them to him, so she affected unconsciousness, and carelessly drawing out her handkerchief allowed these royal effusions to fall upon the floor for anyone who chose to pick up. The King now laid siege to the beauty, but was equally unsuccessful as his brother had been. In the Grammont “Memoirs” there is a full account of the lady’s freaks, and Pepys managed to hear of one of them:—“Mrs. Jennings, one of the Duchess’s maids, the other day dressed herself like an orange wench, and went up and down, and cried oranges; till falling down, or by some accident, her fine shoes were discerned, and she put to a great deal of shame.”[269] This is but a bald account of the adventure so graphically described by Hamilton, who makes the object of Miss Jennings’s disguise to be a visit to the famous German doctor and astrologer in Tower Street. Rochester assumed this character and the name of Alexander Bendo at the same time, issuing a bill in which he detailed his cures, and announced his powers of prophecy. This was on the occasion of one of the wild young Lord’s escapes from court, but we are not told its date. Hamilton is silent on this point, but Pepys’s corroboration of one part of the adventure helps to date the other.

Frances Jennings was loved by the dashing Dick Talbot, who was accounted the finest figure and the tallest man in the kingdom, but she offended him by her partiality for the lady-killer Jermyn. She was soon disgusted by this empty coxcomb, and in 1665 was married to George Hamilton, brother of the author of the Grammont “Memoirs.” After the death of Hamilton, the widow married her first lover Talbot, afterwards created Duke of Tyrconnel. Subsequent to the death of her second husband, she visited London, and hired a stall at the New Exchange in the Strand, where, dressed in a white robe and masked with a white domino, she maintained herself for a time by the sale of small articles of haberdashery. Thus her second and more notorious adventure caused her to be known as the “White Milliner.”

This notice of the ladies of the Court of Charles II. may be concluded with a brief mention of the two actresses,—Nell Gwyn and Moll Davis.

Pepys’s first mention of the former is under date April 3rd, 1665, where he calls her “pretty witty Nell.” He was always delighted to see her, and constantly praises her excellent acting, yet sometimes he finds fault, for instance—“Nell’s ill-speaking of a great part made me mad.”[270] She disliked acting serious parts, and with reason, for she spoilt them.[271] Pepys mentions on January 11th, 1667–68, that the King had sent several times for Nell, but it was not until some time after that she left the stage finally, and became a recognized mistress of the King. Peter Cunningham tells us, in his “Story of Nell Gwyn,” that had the King lived she would have been created Countess of Greenwich. James II. attended to his brother’s dying wish: “Do not let poor Nelly starve,” and when she was outlawed for debt he paid her debts. Her life was not a long one, and she died of apoplexy in November, 1687, in the thirty-eighth year of her age.

Moll Davis it is well known charmed the King by her singing of the song, “My lodging is on the cold ground,” in the character of the shepherdess Celania in Davenant’s “Rivals,” a play altered from “The Two Noble Kinsmen,” and the Duke of Buckingham is said to have encouraged the King’s passion for her in order to spite the Countess of Castlemaine. She was also a fine dancer, and greatly pleased Pepys on more than one occasion. On March 7th, 1666–67, he expresses the opinion that her dancing of a jig in boy’s clothes was infinitely better than that of Nell Gwyn. About a year after this, when Moll Davis had been “raised” to the position of King’s mistress, she danced a jig at court; and the Queen being at this public exhibition of one of her rivals in her own palace, got up and left the theatre.[272]

After the ladies come the male courtiers, but these butterflies of the court do not figure very prominently in the “Diary.” Rochester is occasionally mentioned, as is Henry Jermyn rather oftener. Buckingham appears more frequently, but then he set up for a statesman. He was one of the most hateful characters in history, and as one reads in the “Diary” the record of his various actions, the feelings of disgust and loathing that they inspire are near akin to hatred. He gave counsel to the King at which Charles recoiled; he showed himself a coward in his relations with Lord Ossory, and his conduct towards his wife proves that he was not even a gentleman. Grammont calls Buckingham a fool, but he was more of a knave than a fool, for he was too clever for us to be able to despise him. He seems to have exerted the fascination of the serpent over those around him, and the four masterly hands that have drawn his portrait evidently thought it worthy the devotion of their greatest care. Walpole says of these four famous portraits: “Burnet has hewn it out with his rough chisel; Count Hamilton touched it with that slight delicacy that finishes while it seems but to sketch; Dryden caught the living likeness; Pope completed the historical resemblance.”[273]

In conclusion, some mention must be made of those who did not take a prominent position at court, but who nevertheless exerted considerable influence in that corrupted circle, such as the Chiffinches, Bab May, and Edward Progers, with all of whom Pepys had constant communication. Thomas Chiffinch was one of the pages of the King’s bedchamber, and keeper of his private closet. He died in 1666, and was succeeded in his employments by his brother William, who became a still greater favourite of the King than Thomas, and was the receiver of the secret pensions paid by the court of France to the King of England. Progers had been banished from Charles’s presence in 1650, by an Act of the Estates of Scotland, “as an evil instrument and bad counseller of the King.” Baptist May, Keeper of the Privy Purse, had a still worse rebuff than this, for when he went down in state as the court candidate for Winchelsea, he was rejected by the people, who cried out that they would have “No court pimp to be their burgess.”[274] It would not be fair, however, to throw all the obloquy upon these understrappers, for we have already seen that the bearers of historical names could lend themselves to perform the same duties.