After musique-practice, to White Hall, and thence to Westminster, in my way calling at Mr. George Montagu’s, to condole him the loss of his son, who was a fine gentleman, and it is no doubt a great discomfort to our two young gentlemen, his companions in France. After this discourse he told me, among other news, the great jealousys that are now in the Parliament House. The Lord Chancellor, it seems, taking occasion from this late plot to raise fears in the people, did project the raising of an army forthwith, besides the constant militia, thinking to make the Duke of York General thereof. But the House did, in very open terms, say, they were grown too wise to be fooled again into another army; and said they had found how that man that hath the command of an army is not beholden to any body to make him King. There are factions (private ones at Court) about Madam Palmer; but what it is about I know not. But it is something about the King’s favour to her now that the Queen is coming.
He told me, too, what sport the King and Court do make at Mr. Edward Montagu’s leaving his things behind him. But the Chancellor (taking it a little more seriously) did openly say to my Lord Chamberlain, that had it been such a gallant as my Lord Mandeville his son, it might have; been taken as a frolique; but for him that would be thought a grave coxcomb, it was very strange.
Thence to the Hall, where I heard the House had ordered all the King’s murderers, that remain, to be executed, but Fleetwood and Downes.
So to the Wardrobe and there dined, meeting my wife there, who went after dinner with my Lady to see Mr. George Montagu’s lady, and I to have a meeting by appointment with Tho. Trice and Dr. Williams in order to a treating about the difference between us, but I find there is no hopes of ending it but by law, and so after a pint or two of wine we parted.
So to the Wardrobe for my wife again, and so home, and after writing and doing some things to bed.
I practice loss,
lousy as a fool in
the king’s favor leaving
his things in
an open grave.
Strange to hear all
the murderers of a pint
part for home.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 22 January 1661/62.