CHAPTER IV.

HAVING introduced ourselves to Rochester, and Rochester to the court, we purpose to take leave of him during the immediately succeeding chapters, in order to make the acquaintance of some of the other literary rakes at the court of Charles II. For this purpose let us imagine ourselves at Whitehall. Considering that that palace was the scene of so much history and romance, it is wonderful how little of it remains and how small the interest taken in its site, now put to other uses.

As everybody knows, the banqueting hall designed by Inigo Jones is practically all that is left of the palace. It was in this handsome building, by the way, that Charles II. used to touch for the evil. Possibly the destruction of the remainder may not be much loss from an architectural point of view, especially if the description of it given in the Travels of Cosmo III is to be trusted. It is there stated that the palace was more remarkable for its situation on the Thames and its connection with the beautiful park of St. James "than for the nobleness of its structure; being nothing more than an assemblage

1 Page 367.

of several houses, badly built, at different times and for different purposes; it has nothing in its exterior from which you could think it to be the habitation of the King. All its magnificence is confined to the royal saloon," meaning, of course, the banqueting hall, in front of which Charles I. was beheaded. The remainder of the palace, says the same authority, "is mean and out of all order, being divided into lodges," ie., houses, "galleries, halls, and chambers, of which there are reckoned to be as many as two thousand. All the apartments, however, are small, and badly arranged, and without doors, etc." Roughly speaking, the palace extended from Scotland Yard (inclusive) to Parliament Street, and from the Horse Guards to the river. The King's garden was immediately to the west of the banqueting hall, and the king's and the queen's rooms lay between the garden and the river, to which they almost reached. There were, however, other buildings at Whitehall besides these "lodgings". There was a handsome theatre, though Pepys says that it was ill-built for hearing, and that the plays were not so good there as in the public theatres; its chief attraction being the display of beautiful and finely dressed Maids of Honour to give them their nominal title —who sat in the pit, a place which they never occupied in public theatres. Some slight idea of the usual occupants of pit and gallery at a theatre may be obtained from the prologue to Rochester's play "Valentinian":

And now, ye little Sparks who infest the Pit,
Learn all the rev'rence due to sacred wit,
Disturb not with your empty noise each bench,
Nor break your bawdy jests to orange-wench;
Nor in that scene of Fops, the Gallery,
Vent your no-wit, and spurious raillery,
That noisy place where meet all sorts of tools,
Your huge fat lovers, and consumptive fools.

There was also at Whitehall a concert-room, called the King's Music House, a large tennis-court, where Charles II. used to begin to play tennis in summer as early as five o'clock in the morning, a tilt-yard, and a large and beautiful bowling-green.

We will now enter the King's garden and approach the group of courtiers standing near the celebrated sundial in its midst. It is a fine November day, and if there be a slight suspicion of mist rising from the Thames, there is none of that thick murky fog which under similar conditions will make the same spot opaque, gloomy and nauseous two hundred years hence. Yet, in the autumn air, it is not overwarm, and the courtiers are wearing their short capes, over which hang deep lace collars. On their heads are wide-brimmed hats, adorned with long ostrich feathers dyed in various brilliant tints.

This group of rakes, some few of whom are literary, are talking and laughing over jokes which, from the twinkle of their eyes and the mischievous expression of their faces, we suspect to be neither particularly charitable nor exceptionally chaste.

Presently a grave, dark-complexioned, hard-fea

tured and morose-looking man, in a coal-black wig, with so small a moustache that it looks like a mere line across his upper lip, and followed by a number of little long-haired, black and tan lap-dogs, lounges up to the group, which receives him with a deference that cannot be due to his age. One of the courtiers, however, whispers to another that the gold and silver lacing on the new-comer's coat is now quite out of fashion. His taciturn expression is in strong contrast to that of most of the merry, rollicking courtiers among whom he takes his place.

There is sudden silence, the solemn-looking man's severe expression gives place to a pleasant smile ; he begins to talk; everybody eagerly listens as if expecting to be amused, and he has not spoken for many minutes before the genuine laughter of his audience greatly exceeds their merriment before his arrival. The new-comer is the King.

Yes! In his own garden at Whitehall, the King has every right to be; but has he a claim to a place in our pages? In other words, was Charles II. a literary rake?

His rakishness has never been questioned; but was he literary? Horace Walpole would probably have replied "No". "The only genius of the line of Stuart," says he,1“Charles II., was no author, unless we allow him to have composed" two papers, which Walpole attributes to other hands. These papers

1 1 Royal and Noble Authors, vol. i., p. 50.