h of her conquering eyes.'

If Hortense failed to carry off from the Duchess of Portsmouth--then the
star of Whitehall--the heart of Charles, she found, at all events, in
St. Evremond, one of those French, platonic, life-long friends, who, as
Chateaubriand worshipped Madame Recamier, adored to the last the exiled
niece of Mazarin. Every day, when in her old age and his, the warmth of
love had subsided into the serener affection of pitying, and yet
admiring friendship, St. Evremond was seen, a little old man in a black
coif, carried along Pall Mall in a sedan chair, to the apartment of
Madame Mazarin, in St. James's. He always took with him a pound of
butter, made in his own little dairy, for her breakfast. When De
Grammont was installed at the court of Charles, Hortense was, however,
in her prime. Her house at Chelsea, then a country village, was famed
for its society and its varied pleasures. St. Evremond has so well
described its attractions that his words should be literally given.
'Freedom and discretion are equally to be found there. Every one is made
more at home than in his own house, and treated with more respect than
at court. It is true that there are frequent disputes there, but they
are those of knowledge and not of anger. There is play there, but it is
inconsiderable, and only practised for its amusement. You discover in no
countenance the fear of losing, nor concern for what is lost. Some are
so disinterested that they are reproached for expressing joy when they
lose, and regret when they win. Play is followed by the most excellent
repasts in the world. There you will find whatever delicacy is brought
from France, and whatever is curious from the Indies. Even the commonest
meats have the rarest relish imparted to them. There is neither a plenty
which gives a notion of extravagance, nor a frugality that discovers
penury or meanness.'

What an assemblage it must have been! Here lolls Charles, Lord
Buckhurst, afterwards Lord Dorset, the laziest, in matters of business
or court advancement--the boldest, in point of frolic and pleasure, of
all the wits and beaux of his time. His youth had been full of adventure
and of dissipation. 'I know not how it is,' said Wilmot, Lord Rochester,
'but my Lord Dorset can do anything, and is never to blame.' He had, in
truth, a heart; he could bear to hear others praised; he despised the
arts of courtiers; he befriended the unhappy; he was the most engaging
of men in manners,