Pepy's Diary. 03 Mar 1667. Thence to my Chancellor's (age 58), and there, meeting Sir H. Cholmly (age 34), he and I walked in my Lord's garden, and talked; among other things, of the treaty: and he says there will certainly be a peace, but I cannot believe it. He tells me that the Duke of Buckingham (age 39) his crimes, as far as he knows, are his being of a caball with some discontented persons of the late House of Commons, and opposing the desires of the King (age 36) in all his matters in that House; and endeavouring to become popular, and advising how the Commons' House should proceed, and how he would order the House of Lords. And that he hath been endeavouring to have the King's nativity calculated; which was done, and the fellow now in the Tower about it; which itself hath heretofore, as he says, been held treason, and people died for it; but by the Statute of Treasons, in Queen Mary's times and since, it hath been left out. He tells me that this silly Lord hath provoked, by his ill-carriage, the Duke of York (age 33), my Chancellor (age 58), and all the great persons; and therefore, most likely, will die. He tells me, too, many practices of treachery against this King; as betraying him in Scotland, and giving Oliver an account of the King's private councils; which the King (age 36) knows very well, and hath yet pardoned him¹.

Note 1. Two of our greatest poets have drawn the character of the Duke of Buckingham (age 39) in brilliant verse, and both have condemned him to infamy. There is enough in Pepys's reports to corroborate the main features of Dryden's (age 35) magnificent portrait of Zimri in "Absolom and Achitophel". "In the first rank of these did Zimri stand; A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome; Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long, But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking, * * * * * * * He laughed himself from Court, then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief". Pope's facts are not correct, and hence the effect of his picture is impaired. In spite of the duke's constant visits to the Tower, Charles II still continued his friend; but on the death of the King (age 36), expecting little from James, he retired to his estate at Helmsley, in Yorkshire, to nurse his property and to restore his constitution. He died on April 16th, 1687, at Kirkby Moorside, after a few days' illness, caused by sitting on the damp grass when heated from a fox chase. The scene of his death was the house of a tenant, not "the worst inn's worst room" ("Moral Essays", epist. iii.). He was buried in Westminster Abbey.

Pepy's Diary. 29 Jul 1667. But, above all, I saw my Lord Mordaunt (age 41) as merry as the best, that it seems hath done such further indignities to Mr. Taylor' since the last sitting of Parliament as would hang (him), if there were nothing else, would the King (age 37) do what were fit for him; but nothing of that is now likely to be. After having spent an hour or two in the hall, my cozen Roger (age 50) and I and Creed to the Old Exchange [Map], where I find all the merchants sad at this peace and breaking up of the Parliament, as men despairing of any good to the nation, which is a grievous consideration; and so home, and there cozen Roger (age 50) and Creed to dinner with me, and very merry:-but among other things they told me of the strange, bold sermon of Dr. Creeton yesterday, before the King (age 37); how he preached against the sins of the Court, and particularly against adultery, over and over instancing how for that single sin in David, the whole nation was undone; and of our negligence in having our castles without ammunition and powder when the Dutch come upon us; and how we have no courage now a-days, but let our ships be taken out of our harbour. Here Creed did tell us the story of the dwell last night, in Coventgarden [Map], between Sir H. Bellasses (age 28) and Tom Porter. It is worth remembering the silliness of the quarrell, and is a kind of emblem of the general complexion of this whole kingdom at present. They two it seems dined yesterday at Sir Robert Carr's (age 30), where it seems people do drink high, all that come. It happened that these two, the greatest friends in the world, were talking together: and Sir H. Bellasses talked a little louder than ordinary to Tom Porter, giving of him some advice. Some of the company standing by said, "What! are they quarrelling, that they talk so high?" Sir H. Bellasses hearing it, said, "No!" says he: "I would have you know that I never quarrel, but I strike; and take that as a rule of mine!"-"How?" says Tom Porter, "strike! I would I could see the man in England that durst give me a blow!" with that Sir H. Bellasses did give him a box of the eare; and so they were going to fight there, but were hindered. And by and by Tom Porter went out; and meeting Dryden (age 35) the poet, told him of the business, and that he was resolved to fight Sir H. Bellasses presently; for he knew, if he did not, they should be made friends to-morrow, and then the blow would rest upon him; which he would prevent, and desired Dryden (age 35) to let him have his boy to bring him notice which way Sir H. Bellasses goes.

The Affairs of State Volume 3 The Town Life. But next we'll visit where the Beaus in order come,

(Tis yet too early for the drawing-room)

Here Nowels and Olivio's abound;

But one plain Manly is not to be found:

Flatt'ring the present, the absent they abuse,

And vent their Spleen and Lies, pretending News:

Why, such a Lady's pale and wou'd not Dance

This to the Country gone, and that to France

Who's marry'd, flipp'd away, or mist at Court;

Others Misfortunes thus afford them sport.

A new Song is produced, the Author guest,

The Verses and the Poet made a Jest.

Live Laureat E[...]er, in whom we see

The English can excel Antiquity.

Dryden writes Epick, Woosly Odes in vain

Virgil and Horace still the cheif maintain:

He with his mathless Poems has alone, Bavins and Mivius in their way out-done.

The Huntingdon Peerage Chapter IX Ferdinando Sixth Earl of Huntingdon. The loss of two sons, it may be conceived, was sufficiently distressing to a parent's feelings, but a still severer trial was reserved for them. Little more than two years after, on the 24th of June, 1649, Lord Henry, the eldest son, just in the flower of youth, and the love and admiration of all who knew him, was also cut off. He died of the small-pox, in his twentieth year, under the additional grief to his parents of his being then an only son, and, for a climax of affliction, on the very eve of his nuptials. The premature death of is amiable young nobleman, who, to the sweetest disposition and the most polished manners, added great proficiency in literature and a promise of uncommon talents, was a subject of universal lamentation and sympathy. Several of the most distinguished characters of that period, whether for worth, abilities, or elevated rank, joined the homage of their regrets, and paid "the meed of a melodious tear" to his Lordship's memory. Nearly an hundred elegiac poems were composed on the melancholy occasion, and afterwards published under the title of "Lachrymae Musarum; the Tears of the Muses; expressed in Elegies written by divers Persona of Nobility and Worth, upon the Death of the most hopeful Henry, Lord Hastings, only Son of the Right Honourable Ferdinando Earl of Huntingdon, Heir-general to the high-born Prince George, Duke of Clarence, Brother to King Edward the Fourth: collected and set forth by R. B. 1649". Among the eminent names, contributors to this collection, we find Lord Falkland, Dryden, Marvel, Herrick, Denham, the Honourable Ralph Montagu, and many others who emulated each other in celebrating the virtues of the deceased, and enshrining his character in immortal verse. A few select flowers, transplanted from this funereal garland of the Muses, cannot be deemed exotics here.

The following epitaphs were proposed:

Here lies the age's paramount, the store Of Albion's shame, because it mourns no more, And since the fate is so, if for his fall We cannot weep enough, our children shall. J. Rossz.

Tread off, profaner feet! forbear To press this hallowed mould, where lies Firm virtue's and high honour's heir, The darling of the courteous skies, Who, by rare parts, the flight of fame In life outwent; in death his name. Thomas Bancroft.

Three royal Henries, sprung from Huntingdon, We saw alive: the first and last are gone Bright saints to heaven, above all fancy'd spheres. To meet their sovereign in that House of Peers. The third God's hand by wonder hath preserved. In whom their honour trebly is reserved. So Sybil's books consumed, the last contains Their precious truths, and treble value gains. Howe'er we sadly mourn, his nephew's fate Makes widowed England still more desolate. Oh, never such a son to parent's mind! Oh, never subject loyaller inclined! Oh, none more pious, none more man, so soon Ripe for his set, ere raised to half his noon. That mightier hand that stopped the mighty sun. Canst thou his circle sooner make him run? A varied fever had surprised his head. And death ensued when royal blood he bled; Bodies live not when head and heart decays. Where all their veins are right Basilicas; The fountain dried, how should the channel run? Good night to stars when darkened is the sun. Thus royal, loyal, leam'd, lov'd Hastings lies, All good men's loss, to saints a glorious prize." Thomas Pestellus, filius.

Upon the Death of Lord Hastings, by Dryden. Must noble Hastings immaturely die, The honour of his ancient family. Beauty and learning thus together meet. To bring a winding for a wedding sheet? Must virtue prove death's harbinger? must she. With him expiring, feel mortality? Is death, sin's wages, grace's now? shall art Make us more learned, only to depart? If merit be disease; if virtue death; To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath Himself to discipline? who'd not esteem Labour a crime? study self-murther deem?Our noble youth.now have pretence to be Dunces securely, ignorant heathily. Rare linguist whose worth speaks itself whose praise Though not his own, all tongues besides do raise: Than whom great Alexander miay seem less; Who conquer'd mens but not their languages. In his mouth nations spake; his tongue might be Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy. His native soil Was the four parts o' the earth; All Europe was too narrow for his birth. A young apostle; and, with reverence may I speak't inspir'd with gift of tongues, as they. Nature gave him, a child, what men in vain Oft strive, by art though furthered, to obtain. His body was an orb, his sublime soul Did move on virtue's and on learning's pole: Whose regular motions better to our view. Than Archimedes' sphere, the heavens did shew. Graces and virtues, languages and arts. Beauty and learning, fill'd up all the parts. Heaven's gifts, which do like falling stars appear Scatter'd in others; all, as in their sphere. Were fix'd, conglobate in his soul: and thence Shone through his body, with sweet influence; Letting their glories so on each limb fall. The whole frame rendered was celestial. Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make. If thou this hero's altitude cans't take: But that transcends thy skill; thrice happy all. Could we but prove thus astronomical. Liv'd Tycho now, struck with this ray, which shone More bright i' the morn', than others beam at noon, He'd take his astrolabe, and seek out here What new star 'twas did gild our hemisphere. Replenish'd then with such rare gifts as these. Where was room left for such a foul disease? The nation's sin hath drawn that veil, which shrouds Our day-spring in so sad benighting clouds. Heaven would no longer trust its pledge; but thus Recall'd it; rapt its Ganymede from us. Was there no milder way but the small-pox, The very filthiness of Pandora's box? So many spots, like næves on Venus* soil. One jewel set off with so many a foil; Blisters with pride swell'd, which through's flesh did sprout Like rose-buds, stuck i' the lilly skin about. Each little pimple had a tear in it, To wail the fault its rising did commit: Which, rebel like, with its own lord at strife, Thus made an insurrection 'gainst his life. Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin. The cabinet of a richer soul within? No comet need foretel his change drew on. Whose corpse might seem a constellation. O! had he died of old, how great a strife Had been, who from his death should draw their life? Who should, by one rich draught, become whate'er Seneca, Cato, Numa, Csesar, were? Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this An universal metempsychosis. Must all these aged sires in one funeral Expire? all die in one so young, so small? Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame Had swol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name. But hasty winter, with one blast, hath brought The hopes of autumn, summer, spring, to nought Thus fades the oak i' the sprig, i' the blade the corn. Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new bom. Must then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their gout, Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three ages out? Time's offals, only fit for the hospital! Or to hang antiquaries' rooms withal! Must drunkards, lechers, spent with sinning, live With such helps as broths, possets, physic give? None live, but such as should die? shall we meet With none but ghostly fathers in the street? Grief makes me rail; sorrow will force its way; And show'rs of tears tempestuous sighs best lay. The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes Will weep out lasting streams of elegies.

But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone Now thy belov'd, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone, Whose skilful sire in vain strove to apply Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy. With greater than Platonic love, O wed His soul, though not his body, to thy bed: Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth The ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth; Transcribe the original in new copies; give Hastings o' the better part: so shall he live In's nobler half; and the great grandsire be Of an heroic divine progeny: An issue, which to eternity shall last, Yet but the irradiations which he cast. Erect no mausoleums: for his best Monument is his spouse's marble breast.