Lives of the Queens of England of the House of Hanover, volume 2 (of 2)

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Title: Lives of the Queens of England of the House of Hanover, volume 2 (of 2)
Author: Doran, Dr. (John)
Language: English
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THE
QUEENS OF ENGLAND
OF THE
HOUSE OF HANOVER

_VOL. II._

LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET

LIVES
OF THE
QUEENS OF ENGLAND
OF THE
HOUSE OF HANOVER

BY
DR. DORAN, F.S.A.

AUTHOR OF ‘TABLE TRAITS’ ‘HABITS AND MEN’ ETC.

FOURTH EDITION

_CAREFULLY REVISED AND MUCH ENLARGED_

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II.

[Illustration]

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty
1875

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

_CHARLOTTE SOPHIA--Cont._

CHAPTER IV.

BIRTHS, DEATHS, AND MARRIAGES.
PAGE
Death of the Duke of Cumberland--His military career--The
_soubriquet_ of the Butcher given him--Anecdotes of him
--Marriage of Caroline Matilda--Her married life unhappy
--Dr. Struensee--_Mésalliances_ of the Dukes of Gloucester
and Cumberland--The Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor
--The Royal Marriage Act--Olivia Serres--Lord Clive’s
present of diamonds to the Queen--Disgusting correspondence
of the Duchess of Orleans and Queen Caroline--The Prince
of Wales’s juvenile Drawing-room--Simple life of the Royal
Family at Kew--Prince Frederick and his cottage beauty--
Paton and his naval pictures--Royal births--The custom
of cake and caudle observed--Petty larcenists--Sarah
Wilson and her subsequent life--Death of Princess Mary; and
of Princess Augusta, the King’s mother--The Earl of Bute
--Neglected education of George III.--Petronilla, Countess
Delitz--The Countess of Chesterfield, her conversion by
Whitfield--Efforts of Lady Huntingdon to convert the
gay Earl of Chesterfield--Mr. Fitzroy--George III. at
Portsmouth--Jacob Bryant’s ‘golden rule’--Witty remark
of Queen Charlotte--Attendant bards on Royalty; Mark
Smeaton, Thomas Abel, David Rizzio--The Princess under
the guardianship of Lady Charlotte Finch--The Queen’s
benevolence--Satirists 1

CHAPTER V.

PERILS, PROGRESS, AND PASTIMES.

The American War--Dr. Dodd--The Duchess of Queensberry
and the ‘Beggar’s Opera’--Royal Progress--Royal Visit to
Bulstrode--Mrs. Delany and Queen Charlotte--Birth of
Prince Octavius--Strange, the Engraver--The Riots of
London--Lady Sarah Lennox--The Prince and his Sire--The
Prince’s Preceptors--Errors committed in the education of
the Princes--The Prince’s favourite, Perdita Robinson--
Marie Antoinette’s present to her--Separate establishment
granted to the Prince--Lord North’s facetious remark--
Parliamentary provision for the Prince--The Prince’s
presence in the House of Commons not acceptable--His
pursuit of pleasure--The Duke of Clarence described by
Walpole--The Prince of Wales overwhelmed with debts--
Dissension in the Royal Family--Marriage proposed to him
to extricate him from his debts--The Prince’s connection
with Mrs. Fitzherbert--The Prince’s marriage disclaimed by
Mr. Fox--The Prince’s behaviour to Mrs. Fitzherbert--The
Prince acknowledges his marriage to the Queen 31

CHAPTER VI.

COURT FORMS AND COURT FREEDOMS.

Loss of the American Colonies--Political Struggle--The
King’s health unsatisfactory--Life of the Royal Family at
Windsor--Mrs. Delany--The Queen and the Widow--Early
service in the Chapel Royal at Windsor--Rev. Tom Twining
and Miss Burney--Miss Burney’s Reception by the Queen--
Promenade of the Royal Family on the terrace--The Queen’s
‘dressing’--The Queen’s partiality for Snuff--Country
life of the Royal Family at Kew--Princess Amelia; the
King’s great affection for her--Scene on the birthday of
the Princess--Margaret Nicholson’s attempt to assassinate
the King--The Queen’s dread--Her fondness for Diamonds
--Mrs. Warren Hastings--The present from the Nizam of
the Deccan--Unpopularity of the King and Queen--Their
affection for each other--The Queen’s tenderness to Mrs.
Delany--Reconciliation of the King and the Prince--A
pleasant scene--Another Court Incident 54

CHAPTER VII.

SHADOWS IN THE SUNSHINE.

The Princess Amelia--Her connection with the Duke of Grafton
--Beau Nash and the Princess--Her despotism as Ranger
of Richmond Park--Checked by Mr. Bird--A scene at her
Loo-table--Her fondness for stables--Her eccentric
Costume--Inordinate love of Snuff--Her Death--Conduct
of the Princes--The King’s Illness--Graphic picture
of the state of affairs--Lord Thurlow’s treachery--
Heartlessness of the Prince--Deplorable condition of the
Queen--The King delirious--Particulars of his Illness--
Dr. Warren--Melancholy scene--The King wheedled away to
Kew--Placed under Dr. Willis--The Prince and Lord Lothian
eavesdroppers--The King’s Recovery--The King unexpectedly
encounters Miss Burney 72

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ‘FIRST GENTLEMAN’ AND HIS PRINCIPLES.

Inconsistency of the Whigs--The Tories become radical
reformers--Party spirit--A restricted Regency scorned
by the Prince--Compelled to accept it--The King’s rapid
recovery--Incredulity of the Princes in regard to the
King’s recovery--A family scene at Kew--Ball at White’s
Club on the King’s recovery, and unbecoming conduct of the
Princes--Thanksgiving at St. Paul’s--Indecent conduct
of the Princes--Grief of the King--Expectations of the
Prince disappointed--Caricatures and satires 92

CHAPTER IX.

ROYALTY UNDER VARIOUS PHASES.

Bishop Watson a partisan of the Prince--The bishop’s
reception by the Queen--The Prince’s patronage of the
bishop--Bishop Watson’s views on the Regency--Laid on the
shelf--The Prince and the bishop’s ‘Apology’--Ball given
on the King’s recovery by Brookes’s Club--Mrs. Siddons,
as Britannia--The Queen’s Drawing-room on the occasion--
Mrs. Siddons’s readings at Buckingham House--Gay life of
the Duke of York--Popularity of the Duke of Clarence--His
boundless hospitality at the Admiralty--Duel between the
Duke of York and Colonel Lennox--Littleness of spirit of
the Princes--Royal Visit to Lulworth Castle--Assault on
the King--Caricatures of the day--Marriage of the Duke
of York--Ceremonious royal visit to the young couple--
Caricatures of the Duchess of York--Unhappy in her marriage
--The Duchess and Monk Lewis--Alleged avarice of the King
and Queen--Dr. Johnson’s opinion of the King--Etiquette
at Court--The Sailor Prince ‘too far gone’ for a minuet--
The Royal Family at Cheltenham--The mayor and the master of
the ceremonies--Questionable taste of the Queen in regard
to the drama--Moral degradation of England during the reign
of the first two Georges--Mrs. Hannah More’s ideas on
morality; and Rev. Sydney Smith’s witty remark on it--A
delicate hint by the Queen to Lady Charlotte Campbell--The
Prince’s pecuniary difficulties--The Prince and affairs of
the heart--_Mésalliance_ of the Duke of Sussex 102

CHAPTER X.

LENGTHENING SHADOWS.

The Prince of Wales’s marriage to the Princess Caroline of
Brunswick--Her character--The Prince’s behaviour at
the marriage ceremony--Lord Holland’s two accounts of
the Princess irreconcileable--The Prince’s hatred of the
Princess--Propriety of the Queen’s Court--Unpopularity
of the King--Pelted by the mob--Birth of the Princess
Charlotte--Strict observance of Court etiquette--
Marriage of the Princess Royal to the Prince of Wurtemburg
--First book stereotyped in England--The Volunteer
mania--Attempted assassination of the King--Archbishop
Cornwallis’s drums, and Lady Huntingdon’s efforts to induce
him to discontinue--Her hot reception by Mrs. Cornwallis
--Lady Huntingdon induces the King to aid her--The King’s
letter to the archbishop--Conduct of the clergy--Incident
of the Drawing-room--The Prince a Radical--The King’s
illness--His excitement--Feeling exhibited by the Duke of
York--The Prince of Wales incredulous of the recovery of
the King--Conversation between the King and Dr. Willis--
The Queen’s anxiety--Particulars of the King’s Illness--
Recovery of the King--Home scene at Windsor Castle 128

CHAPTER XI.

THE END OF GREATNESS.

Queen as an author--Domestic life of the Royal Family--
Return of the King’s Illness--His continual agitation
--Dr. Symonds not the medical officer for the King--
Capricious changes made by the King in his household--
His humorous eccentricities--Contest between the King
and the Prince--The Queen’s conduct--Scant courtesy
to the royal invalid--Errors committed by the King--
Wellesley and Nelson--Gradual decay of the King--His
eccentricity at the installation of Knights of the Garter--
Picture of the daily life of the Royal Family--Position
of the Queen--The King’s resignation on his blindness--
Distress of his mind--Renewal of the Regency question--
Extraordinary assertion to Lord Eldon--The King’s person
confided to the Queen--The Queen’s letters to Lord Eldon
--Her merry letter to him--A touching incident--The
Queen’s unpopularity--Marriage of the Princess Charlotte--
Decline of the Queen’s health--Disgraceful reception of
her by the City--Her death--Considered as a parent--Her
political influence--The debts of Prince of Strelitz--The
Court on George III.’s ceasing to exercise authority--Regal
retinue about the old King dismissed--The Queen’s funeral
--Her will--Her diamonds--Death of the Duke of Kent--
Death of the King--Visit of the Emperor of the French to
the Duchess of Gloucester 151

_CAROLINE OF BRUNSWICK_,

WIFE OF GEORGE IV.

CHAPTER I.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Marriage of Princess Augusta to the Prince of Brunswick--
His reception at Harwich--Wedding performed with maimed
rites--The Prince at the opera--A scene--Old mode
of travelling of the bride and bridegroom--Issue of
this marriage--Dashing replies of Princess Caroline--
Her mother the Duchess a weak and coarse-minded woman--
Education of German princesses--Infamous conduct of the
Duke of York--Lord Malmesbury sent to demand Princess
Caroline in marriage for the Prince of Wales--His account
of the Princess--Eloquence of the Duchess on the virtues of
the Princess--The Duke’s mistress, and picture of the Court
of Brunswick--The Duchess’s stories of bygone times--The
marriage by proxy--Celebration of the wedding-day--The
marriage treaty--Eccentricity of the Duke--Education of
the Princess neglected--The courtesan champion of morality
--The Duke’s fears for the Princess--Lady Jersey and the
Queen--Lord Malmesbury’s advice to the Princess--Madame
de Hertzfeldt’s portrait of the Princess--The Princess’s
exuberant spirits at a court masquerade--More admonitions
by Lord Malmesbury--Madame de Waggenheim’s taunt, and Lord
Malmesbury’s thrust _en carte_ 183

CHAPTER II.

THE NEW HOME.

The Princess desires to have Lord Malmesbury as her lord
chamberlain--The Duchess a coarse-minded woman--The
Duke of Clarence her bitter enemy--The Duke and Duchess’s
caution to Lord Malmesbury, and his dignified reply--The
Abbess of Gandersheim’s opinion of mankind--Difficult
question proposed by the Princess, and Lord Malmesbury’s
gallant reply--The Abbess without human sympathy--A
state dinner, and a mischievous anonymous letter--The
Princess’s departure for England--Her indifference to money
--Instances--Ignorance of the Duchess--Difficulties of
the journey--The Princess’s design to reform the Prince
of Wales--Indefatigable care of Lord Malmesbury--Story
of the Princess at Hanover--Care as to her toilette
recommended--Presents given by the Princess--Her
arrival in England--Ridiculed by Lady Jersey--Reproof
administered to her ladyship by Lord Malmesbury--The first
interview of the Prince and Princess--Cold reception of the
bride--Flippant conduct of the Princess--Lord Malmesbury
reproached by the Prince of Wales 209

CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.

The Princess’s letters to her family intercepted--Unkindness
exhibited to her--The Prince seeks a separation--
Acceded to by the Princess--She removes to Blackheath--
Her income settled--Merry hours spent by the Princess
at Blackheath--Intercourse between the Princess and her
daughter--The Princess’s unfortunate acquaintance with Lady
Douglas--The boy Austin--Lady Douglas’s communication
to the Prince attacking the Princess--The _delicate
investigation_--Witnesses examined--The Princess hardly
dealt with--Her memorial to the King--Delay in doing her
justice--The Monarch’s decision--Exculpated from the
grave charges--Comparison of Caroline Queen of George II.
and Caroline of Brunswick--The Prince and Lady Hertford--
Miss Seymour, and the Prince’s subornation of witnesses--
Persecution of the Princess by her husband--Her appeal to
the King--Menace of publishing The Book--The Princess
received at the Queen’s Drawing-room--Meeting of the Prince
and Princess--Death of the Duke of Brunswick at the battle
of Jena--The Duchess a fugitive--The Princess’s debts 235

CHAPTER IV.

MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS.

Imbecility finally settled on the mind of George
III.--Intercourse between the Princess and her daughter
obstructed--The Whigs betrayed by the Prince--Sketch
of the Duchess of Brunswick--The Princess’s Court at
Kensington diminished--Her pleasant dinners there--
Lively outbreaks of the Princess--Her sketches of character
--Her indiscretion--An adventure--Description of the
Princess Charlotte--The Princess of Wales’s demeanour to
her mother--Thoughtlessness of the Duchess of Brunswick--
Popularity of the Princess on the wane--Her determination
to bring her wrongs before the public--She becomes more
melancholy--An incident--Continued agitation of the
Princess--She becomes querulous--The poet Campbell
presented to her--A humorous fault of orthography--The
Prince and John Kemble 263

CHAPTER V.

HARSH TRIALS AND PETTY TRIUMPHS.

The Princess again in public--Restricted intercourse
between the Princess and her daughter--Sealed letters
addressed by the Princess to the Prince--Published--The
Princess’s appeal to Parliament--Bitterness on both sides
--Meeting of the Princess and her daughter--The Princess
at Vauxhall--Death of the Duchess of Brunswick--Last
interview between the Duke of Brunswick and the Princess--
Her depressed spirits--Unnoticed during the festivities
of 1814--Sacrifice made by the Princess--Unnoticed by the
Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia--The Princess at
the opera--A scene--Not invited to the great City banquet
--Mr. Whitbread’s advice to the Princess--A freak--
Reception of the Regent in the City--The Princess excluded
from the Drawing-rooms--Correspondence between the Queen
and the Princess--Her letter to the Regent--Discussed in
the House of Commons 277

CHAPTER VI.

A DOUBLE FLIGHT.

The Prince of Orange proposes to the Princess Charlotte--His
suit declined--Dr. Parr--A new household appointed for
the Princess Charlotte--Her astonishment and immediate
flight--Alarm and pursuit--Princess Charlotte removed
to Cranbourne Lodge--The Princess of Wales determines to
leave England--Her departure from Worthing--The Regent’s
continued hatred of her 299

CHAPTER VII.

THE ERRANT ARIADNE.

The Princess arrives at Hamburgh--Assumes the title of
Countess of Wolfenbüttel--Travels in Switzerland--
Meeting of the Princess with the ex-Empress Maria Louisa
and the divorced wife of the Grand Duke Constantine--
The Princess at Milan--Her English attendants fall off
--Her reception by the Pope--At a masked ball at Naples
--Her imprudence--Her festivals at Como--The Princess
at Palermo--Bergami her chamberlain--The Princess at
Genoa--Corresponds with Murat--Personal vanity of Queen
Charlotte--The Pope visits the Princess--Surrounded by
Italians--Her roving life--Proceeds to Syracuse--At
Jericho--Lands at Tunis and visits the Bey--Liberates
European slaves--The Princess at Athens--At Troy--
At Constantinople--At Ephesus--At Acre--Stopped at
Jaffa--Enters Jerusalem--Her reception by the Capuchin
Friars--Institutes a new order of chivalry--Life on
board the polacca--The Princess and Countess Oldi at Como
--Private theatricals a favourite pastime--Agents and
spies--Innocent incidents converted into crimes--Bergami
divested of his knighthood--The Princess at Carlsruhe--
Contemptuously neglected at Vienna--The chamberlain her
only attendant--The Princess in public--Deeply affected
by the death of Princess Charlotte--As uncircumspect as
ever 313

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

Report of the Milan Commissioners--The Princess’s
determination to return to England--Studied neglect of
her by Louis XVIII.--Lord Hutchinson’s proposal to her to
remain abroad--Her indignant refusal--Bergami’s anger
on the refusal of the proposition--Discourtesy of the
French authorities to the Princess--Her reception in
England--The Regent’s message to Parliament--The green
bag--Sympathy with the Queen--Desire for a compromise
evinced; meeting for the purpose at Lord Castlereagh’s--The
contending parties in Parliament--Mr. Wilberforce as Mr.
Harmony--Mr. Brougham the Queen’s especial advocate--The
Queen’s name in the Liturgy demanded--Mr. Denman’s argument
for it--Address of the House of Commons to the Queen--Her
reply, and appeal to the nation--A secret inquiry protested
against--The Queen at Waithman’s shop--Violence of party
spirit 334

CHAPTER IX.

QUEEN, PEERS, AND PEOPLE.

The secret committee on the Queen’s conduct--Encounter
between the Queen and Princess Sophia--Bill of Pains and
Penalties brought into the House of Lords--The Queen
demands to know the charges against her--Her demand refused
--The Queen again petitions--Lord Liverpool’s speech--
The Queen’s indignant message to the Lords--Money spent
to procure witnesses against her--Public feeling against
the Italian witnesses--Dr. Parr’s Advice to the Queen
--His zealous advocacy of her cause--Lord Erskine’s
efforts in her favour--Her hearty protest against legal
oppression--Gross attack on her in a provincial paper--
Cruel persecution of her--Her sharp philippic against
Ministers--Lord John Russell’s letter to Mr. Wilberforce,
and petition to the King--The Queen at Brandenburgh House
--Death of the Duchess of York--Her eccentricities--Her
character--Addresses to the Queen, and her replies 349

CHAPTER X.

THE QUEEN’S TRIAL.

The Queen’s reception by the House of Lords--Royal progress
to the House--The Queen’s enthusiastic reception by the
populace--Their treatment of the King’s party--Marquis
of Anglesea--The Duke of Wellington’s reply to them--
The Attorney-General’s opening speech--Examination of
Theodore Majocchi--The Queen overcome at the ingratitude
of this knowing rogue--Disgusting nature of the evidence
--Other witnesses examined--Mr. Brougham’s fearless
defence of the Queen--Mr. Denman’s advocacy not less bold
--His denunciation of the Duke of Clarence--Question of
throwing up the bill entertained by Ministers--Stormy
debates--Lords Grey and Grosvenor in favour of the Queen
--Duke of Montrose against her--Ministerial majority--
The Queen protests against the proceedings--The Ministers
in a minority--The bill surrendered by Lord Liverpool--
Reception of the news by the Queen--Her unspeakable grief 365

CHAPTER XI.

‘TRISTIS GLORIA.’

The result of the Queen’s trial advantageous to neither party
--The Queen’s application to Parliament for a residence--
Lord Liverpool’s reply--Royal message from the Queen to
Parliament, and its discourteous reception--The Queen goes
to St. Paul’s to return thanks--Uncharitable conduct of the
Cathedral authorities--Their unseemly behaviour rebuked by
the Lord Mayor--Revenue for the Queen recommended by the
King--Accepted by her--The Coronation of George IV.--The
Queen claims a right to take part in the ceremony--Her
right discussed--Not allowed--Determines to be present
--The Queen appears at the Abbey, and is refused admittance
--With a broken spirit retires--Her sense of degradation
--The King labours to give _éclat_ to his Coronation--
The Coronation-festival in Westminster Hall described--
Appearance of the Duke of Wellington--His banquet to the
King--The King’s speech on the occasion--True greatness
of the Duke--Anecdote of Louis XIV. and Lord Stair--Regal
banquet to the foreign ministers--The Duke of Wellington
appears as an Austrian general--Incident of the Coronation
--Lord Londonderry’s banquet to the minister of Louis
Napoleon 381

CHAPTER XII.

A CROWN LOST, AND A GRAVE WON.

The Queen’s agitation--Her illness--Her sufferings--
Desires her diary may be destroyed--Her death--Sketch
of her life--Her mother a foolish woman--Every sense of
justice outraged by the King--Inconsistency of the Whigs
--The Queen persecuted even after death--Disrespect
shown to her remains by the Government--Protest against
a disgraceful haste to remove her remains--Course of the
funeral procession interrupted by the people--Collision
between the military and the populace--Effort to force
a way through the people ineffectual--The procession
compelled to pass through the City--The plate on the
Queen’s coffin removed--The funeral reaches Harwich--The
Queen’s remains taken to Brunswick--Funeral oration--
Tombs of the illustrious dead there 401

_ADELAIDE OF SAXE-MEINENGEN_,

WIFE OF WILLIAM IV.

The pocket Duchy--Old customs--Early training--The Father
of the Princess Adelaide--Social life at the Ducal Court--
Training of the Princess Adelaide--Marriage Preliminaries
--English Parliament--The Duke of Clarence--Arrival in
London of the Princess--Quaint royal weddings--At home
and abroad--Duke and Duchess of Clarence at Bushey--‘State
and Dirt’ at St James’s--William IV. and Queen Adelaide--
Course of life of the new Queen-consort--King’s gallantry
to an old love--Royal simplicity--The Sovereigns and
the Sovereign people--Court anecdotes--Drawing-rooms
--Princess Victoria--The Coronation--Incidents of the
day--Coronation finery of George IV.--Princess Victoria
not present--Revolutionary period--Reform question--
Unpopularity of the Queen--Attacks against her on the part
of the press--Violence of party spirit--Friends and foes
--Bearing of the King and Queen--Duchess of Angoulême--
King a republican--His indiscretion--Want of temper--
Continental press adverse to the Queen--King’s declining
health--Conduct of Queen Adelaide--King William’s death
--Declining health of the Queen--Her travels in search
of health--Her last illness--Her will--Death--And
funeral 419

LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND.

_CHARLOTTE SOPHIA.--Cont._

CHAPTER IV.

BIRTHS, DEATHS, AND MARRIAGES.

Death of the Duke of Cumberland--His military career--The
_soubriquet_ of the Butcher given him--Anecdotes of him--
Marriage of Caroline Matilda--Her married life unhappy--
Dr. Struensee--_Mésalliances_ of the Dukes of Gloucester and
Cumberland--The Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor--The
Royal Marriage Act--Olivia Serres--Lord Clive’s present
of diamonds to the Queen--Disgusting correspondence of the
Duchess of Orleans and Queen Caroline--The Prince of Wales’s
juvenile drawing-room--Simple life of the Royal Family at Kew
--Prince Frederick and his cottage beauty--Paton and his
naval pictures--Royal births--The custom of cake and caudle
observed--Petty larcenists--Sarah Wilson and her subsequent
life--Death of Princess Mary; and of Princess Augusta, the
King’s mother--The Earl of Bute--Neglected education of
George III.--Petronilla, Countess Delitz--The Countess of
Chesterfield, her conversion by Whitfield--Efforts of Lady
Huntingdon to convert the gay Earl of Chesterfield--Mr.
Fitzroy--George III. at Portsmouth--Jacob Bryant’s ‘golden
rule’--Witty remark of Queen Charlotte--Attendant bards on
Royalty; Mark Smeaton, Thomas Abel, David Rizzio--The Princes
under the guardianship of Lady Charlotte Finch--The Queen’s
benevolence--Satirists.

The favourite son of Caroline, and the favourite brother of the
Princess Amelia, died on the last day of October. His health had long
been precarious: he had, like his mother, grown extremely corpulent,
and his sight had nearly perished. Indeed, he could only see, and that
very imperfectly, with one eye--and yet he was comparatively but a
young man; not more than forty-four years of age. His course of life,
both in its duties, and its so-called pleasures, had made an old man of
him before his time. He had had a paralytic stroke, was much afflicted
with asthma, and suffered continually from a wound in the leg, which
he had received in his first great battle, at Dettingen, and which had
never healed.

He was born when his mother was yet Princess of Wales. She loved him
because he was daring and original; qualities which he evinced by his
replies to her when she was lecturing him as a wayward child. For the
same reasons was he liked by his grandfather, at whose awkward English
the graceless grandson laughed loudly, and mimicked it admirably.

It is not astonishing that his mother loved him, for as he grew in
years he (up to a certain time) grew in grace and dignity. In outward
bearing, as in mental endowments, he was very superior to his brother,
the Prince of Wales: he was gentlemanlike without affectation; and
accomplished without being vain of his accomplishments. Never was a
prince so popular, so winning in his ways, as William of Cumberland
during his minority.

He was but twenty-two years of age when he accompanied George II. to
the field and shared in the bloody honours of the day at Dettingen.
The honours he reaped here, however, were fatal to him. They led to
his being placed in chief command of an army before he was fitted
to do more than lead a brigade. In ’45, when the French invested
Tournay under Marshal Saxe, the son of Aurora Königsmark, the Duke of
Cumberland was placed in command of the English and Dutch forces,
numerically very inferior to the foe, and charged with leading them to
force the enemy to raise the siege. The attempt was made in the great
battle of Fontenoy, where we gained a victory, and yet were vanquished.
We beat the enemy, but, through want of caution, exposed ourselves to a
cross fire of batteries, against which valour was impotent. It cost us
ten thousand men and unmerited loss of reputation.

The rose which had fallen from his chaplet the duke replaced at
Culloden, where he fought one of the battles whereby the hopes of the
Stuarts were crushed in half an hour. The alleged severity of the young
general, after the battle, gave him the name of the ‘Butcher.’ The duke
was not ashamed of the name. He wore it with as much complacency as
though it had been a decoration. With regard to his severities, it may
be said that, terrible as they were, they had the effect of deterring
men from rushing into another rebellion, which would have cost more
blood than the duke ever caused to be shed by way of prevention.

But not from his contemporaries. For himself and his troops the
popular heart beat high with admiration and sympathy; and while the
public hand scattered rewards in profuse showers upon the army,
parliament increased the duke’s reward, and colleges offered him
their presidential chairs. He was familiarly called ‘the Duke,’ as
Marlborough had been before him, and as Wellington was after him.

As he grew in manhood his heart became hardened; he had no affection
for his family, nor fondness for the army, for which he had affected
attachment. When his brother died, pleasure, not pain, made his heart
throb, as he sarcastically exclaimed, ‘It is a great blow to the
country, but I hope it will recover in time.’ The death, if it did not
place him next to the throne, at least gave him hopes of being regent
should his sire die before the young heir was of age.

It was, however, the bloody Mutiny Act, of which he was really
the author, which brought upon him the universal execration. ‘The
penalty of death,’ says Walpole, ‘came over as often as the curses
of the commination on Ash Wednesday.’ He who despised popularity was
philosophically content when deprived of it. He was dissolute and a
gambler. He hated marriage, and escaped from being united with a Danish
princess by the adroit manœuvre of getting his friends to insist upon a
large settlement from the royal father, too avaricious to grant it.

If he was lashed into fury by his name being omitted from the Regency
Bill, he was more sensitively wounded still, by being made to feel that
English uncles had, before this, murdered the nephews who were heirs to
the throne. He was incapable of the crime, for it could have profited
him nothing. The knowledge, however, that popular opinion stigmatised
him as being capable of committing an offence so sanguinary was a
torture to him. One day, Prince George, his nephew, entered his room.
It was a soldier’s apartment, hung with arms. He took down a splendid
sword to exhibit it to the boy. The future husband of Charlotte
turned pale, evidently suspecting that his uncle was on sanguinary
thoughts intent. The duke was dreadfully shocked, and complained to the
Princess-dowager of Wales that scandalous prejudices had been instilled
into the child against him.

In 1757 he reluctantly assumed the command of the army commissioned to
rescue Hanover from the threatened invasion of the French. His opponent
was Marshal D’Estrées, from before whom he fell back at the Rhine,
and to whom he disgracefully surrendered Hanover, by the infamous
convention of Klosterseven. When the King saw him enter Kensington
Palace, after his peremptory recall, the monarch exclaimed, ‘Behold the
son who has ruined me and disgraced himself!’ That son, who declared he
had written orders for all he did, and who certainly was invested with
very full powers, resigned all his posts; and the hero of Dettingen
and pacificator of North Britain became a private gentleman, and took
to dice, racing, and other occupations natural then, or common at
least, to gentlemen with more money than sense or principle. There is
a good trait remembered of him at this period of his career. He had
dropped and lost his pocket-book at Newmarket; and declined to make
any more bets, saying that ‘he had lost money enough for that day.’
In the evening the book was brought to him by a half-pay officer who
had picked it up. ‘Pray keep it, sir,’ said the duke, ‘for if you had
not found it, the contents would, before this, have been in the hands
of the blacklegs.’ Another favourable trait was his desire to give
commissions to men who earned them on the field. He felt that while
any ‘fool’ might purchase a commission, it was hard to keep it back
from the man who had fought for it. He once promoted a sergeant to an
ensigncy, and, finding him very coolly treated by his brother officers,
the duke refused to dine with Lord Ligonier unless--pointing to
the ensign--he might bring his ‘friend’ with him. This recognition
settled the question.

The duke, cheated by his father’s will, and sneered at by Marshal Saxe;
with no reputation but for bravery, and no merit as a country gentleman
but that of treating his labourers with some liberality, lived on as
contentedly as though he were quietly enjoying all possible honour.
His good-humoured gallantry was of a hearty nature. When George III.,
in 1762, complimented Lady Albemarle, in full drawing-room, on the
victories achieved by her husband, the Duke of Cumberland stepped
across the room to her and enthusiastically exclaimed, ‘If it was not
in the drawing-room I would kiss you.’ He was a constant attendant at
these ceremonies. On the morning of the 31st of October he had been
to court, and had conversed cheerfully with Queen Charlotte. It was
the last time she ever beheld him. He subsequently dined in Arlington
Street with Lord Albemarle, and appeared in good health, although the
day before, when playing at picquet with General Hodgson, he had been
confused and mistook his cards. Early in the evening he was at his
town-house, 54, Upper Grosvenor Street, when the Duke of Newcastle
and Lord Northington called upon him. As they entered the room he
was seized with a suffocation. One of his valets, who was accustomed
to bleed him, was called, and prepared to tie up his arm; but the
duke exclaimed, ‘It is all over!’ and immediately expired in Lord
Albemarle’s arms.

Thus died the favourite son of Caroline of Anspach, to place a
crown on whose brow she would have sacrificed her own life. He was
an indifferent general, who outlived the reputation he acquired at
Culloden, where it was impossible that he should be beaten. Where to
be vanquished was possible he never had the good luck of being victor.
But he cared as little for fame as he did for money; and his neglect in
the latter case is testified by the fact that nearly eighteen hundred
pounds, in bank notes, were found in the pocket of one of his cast-off
suits, of which a present had been made, after the duke’s death, to one
of his hussars. The hussar had the honesty to return the money.

The King behaved with appropriate delicacy on this occasion. When Lord
Albemarle, the duke’s executor, presented to the King the key of his
uncle’s cabinet, George III. returned it, bidding Lord Albemarle use
his own discretion in examining all private papers, and in destroying
all such as the duke himself probably would not have wished to be made
public. On the 28th of December the death of his Majesty’s youngest
brother, Prince Frederick, at the early age of sixteen years, threw
additional gloom on the circle of the royal family. At least, so say
the journalists of the period.

At this time the King and Queen resided chiefly at Richmond, in very
modest state, and with very few servants. Their chief amusement,
amid the turmoil of politics and the crush of factions, consisted in
‘going about to see places,’ as Walpole describes their visits to
such localities as Oatlands and Wanstead; and the ‘call’ of the Queen
at Strawberry Hill, which the sovereign lady could not see, for the
sufficient reason that the sovereign lord was in bed and unable to
perform the necessary honours.

The youngest daughter of Frederick, Prince of Wales, was married by
proxy on the 1st of October 1766, in the Chapel Royal, St. James’s, to
Christian VII., King of Denmark. Queen Charlotte was not present, she
having given birth, only two days previously, to Charlotte Augusta,
Princess Royal, and subsequently Duchess of Wurtemburg.

The King of Denmark was an exceedingly small, but not an ill-made, a
weakly, not an ill-favoured man. His character was, however, in every
respect detestable; and when poor Caroline Matilda passed on in tears,
amid the congratulations of the court of Queen Charlotte, her tears
were better founded than their smiles. She was speedily treated with
cruelty, and abandoned at home while her lord travelled in foreign
countries and indulged in profligacy. Queen Charlotte accorded him a
more hearty reception than he deserved when he came over to England,
two years subsequent to the marriage. At that time his absurdly
pompous airs were the ridicule of the circle at the Queen’s and at
Carlton House, the residence of the Princess-dowager of Wales.

After spending some years in travel, he returned, neither a wiser
nor a better man, to Denmark. In his suite was the German physician,
Struensee. This man enjoyed his master’s utmost confidence. He soon
gained that of the young Queen also, who sought by his means to be
reconciled to the King. He was, on the other hand, hated by the
Queen-mother and other branches of the royal family; particularly
in his character of reformer of political abuses. They contrived to
overthrow him, procured a warrant for his execution from the King, and
involved the young Queen in his ruin, on the ground of an improper
familiarity between them. The triumphant enemies of Struensee would
have put Caroline Matilda also to death but for the appearance in the
Baltic of a British fleet under Admiral Keith, by whom she was carried
off to Zell, where she died in 1775, neglected, unhappy, and under the
weight of accusation of a charge of which she has never been proved
guilty.

It may be stated here, that of all the children of Frederick, Prince
of Wales, George III. can be said to have been the only one happily
married. The second son, William Henry, the amiable, assiduous,
brave, but not over-accomplished Duke of Gloucester (born in 1743),
scandalised Queen Charlotte and the court by a _mésalliance_ which he
contracted, in 1766, with Maria, Countess-dowager of Waldegrave. This
marriage was not, indeed, especially unhappy to the contractors of it,
except inasmuch as they were embarrassed by being obliged for some time
to keep it secret, and that when discovered, the royal husband and his
noble wife were for a long period banished from court. They resided
during a portion of their time of exile in Italy; and at Rome, the
Pope himself had so much esteem for the Prince that his Holiness, on
one occasion, declined to take precedence of him when their carriages
encountered in the streets. The Holy Father drew on one side, and
courteously waited while the Prince, in obedience to the bidding of
the Universal Bishop, passed on. The children of this union were
subsequently acknowledged as the legal heirs of their parents. The duke
died in 1805.

The third son of Frederick, Prince of Wales, Henry, Duke of Cumberland
(after the death of his uncle ‘_the_ Duke’), born in 1744, more
grievously offended Queen Charlotte by a _mésalliance_ than his
brother. He was fierce of temper, frivolous of character, and foppish
in his dress. In the year 1770 the attentions of the duke to Lady
Grosvenor were so marked, and so ridiculous, that everybody talked
about them, except her husband. The lady, when a Miss Vernon, had
been first seen by Lord Grosvenor as she and a companion were leaving
Kensington Gardens, flying under sudden and heavy rain. He looked at
and pitied the shower-bearing nymphs, as Aristophanes styles maidens so
molested, and he offered them an asylum in his carriage. Soon after,
Miss Vernon was the married mistress of his house; and the union would
have been happy had not the foolish prince appeared to disturb it. He
speedily contrived to seduce Lady Grosvenor from her duty. He followed
her about in disguises, often betraying himself by his fopperies and
imbecility, slept whole nights in woods like any Corydon not subject
to the infirmities of nature, and subsequently had 10,000_l._ to pay
for the ruin he brought to Lord Grosvenor’s hearth. But this guilt did
not so much flurry Queen Charlotte as the marriage of the duke in the
following year with Mrs. Horton, a widow, daughter of Lord Carhampton,
who was much older than the senseless and coarse-minded prince, her
husband.

This act of folly caused him to be permanently banished from court.
The Queen would never consent to a reconciliation; and the King, to
prevent such unions in future, brought in the Royal Marriage Act.
By this act no prince or princess of the blood could marry without
consent of the Sovereign before the age of twenty-five. After that age
the royal sanction was still to be applied for; but if withheld the
prince or princess had a resource in the privy council. To this body
the name of the individual to whom the English member of the royal
family desired to be married was to be given, and if parliament made
no objection within the year the enamoured parties were at liberty
to enter into the holy bond of matrimony. Queen Charlotte, who was
exceedingly ‘nice’ on such matters, thought that she at least prevented
all such alliances among her own children. She little thought how one
of her sons would twice offend.

The duke died childless and a widower in 1790, but a paternity derived
from him was claimed by ‘Olivia Serres,’ who professed to be the
daughter of a second marriage. Her claim was never heeded, but she used
to patronise the cheaper minor theatres, whose bills announced her
presence as that of ‘H.R.H. the Princess Olivia of Cumberland.’ She was
as much a princess as the counterfeits upon the stage, but not more so.

There are two more children of Frederick yet to be mentioned. These
are Edward, Duke of York, the second son, born in 1739, and the
Princess Louisa Anne, born ten years later. Neither of these was
married. A report, nevertheless, was long prevalent that the weak (he
voted against ministers on the American Stamp Act) but witty duke was
privately married to a lady at Monaco, where he died in 1767. The
Princess Louisa, his sister, was almost from her birth the victim of
slow consumption, which finally ended her life when she was in the
eighteenth year of her age.

A circumstance occurred in 1767 which was not advantageous to the
memory or reputation of Queen Caroline, and which did not raise her
in the opinion of Queen Charlotte. The latter, however, was too much
occupied in contemplating with delight the Indian presents brought over
to her by Lord Clive to trouble herself much about the character of
Caroline. These consisted of two diamond drops worth twelve thousand
pounds. In the year just named the Duchess of Brunswick’s repositories
were examined by her executors, and among other things discovered
therein were not less than eight hundred letters addressed by the
Duchess of Orleans, second wife of the brother of Louis XIV., to
Caroline Wilhelmina Dorothea, Princess of Wales, and to Ulric, Duke of
Brunswick. From this correspondence selections have been published,
which have disgusted most persons who have read them. The portions
suppressed must have been edifying indeed. But even if no more had come
under the eyes of the wife of George Augustus than what publishers have
ventured to print, there would still be evidence enough to show that,
although Caroline conversed with philosophers, her mind could descend
to be dragged through the filthiest pollution. There was not much
refinement in the age, it is true; but, impure as it may have been, the
fact that Caroline could submit to have such letters addressed to her,
or to read a second, is proof that it was more radically rotten and
profoundly unclean than has been generally supposed.

The most interesting domestic event of the following year was the
juvenile drawing-room held by the Prince of Wales and the Princess
Royal. The boy heir-apparent was, perhaps, too early initiated into the
solemnities of festivals and gorgeous ceremonies. On this occasion he
was attired in a crimson suit, his brother of York in one of blue and
gold, while the Princess Royal and the younger branches of the family
were grouped together on a sofa in Roman togas. The happy mother looked
upon them with delight, and thought the scene worthy of a painter. The
public did not share the enthusiasm nor approve of the royal taste
for extensive displays; and when the youthful Prince of Wales gave a
ball and supper this year at the Queen’s House the mob broke into the
court-yard, drove a hearse round it, and saluted the revellers, old and
young, with anything but shouts of compliment or congratulation.

But if the town life of the royal family was one of considerable
display, private life at Kew was of the very simplest aspect. Their
Majesties were early risers, an example which, forcible as the fashion
is which royalty deigns to offer, was not followed very generally even
by their own household, except such persons whose services were needed.
A king and queen rising at six and spending the first two hours of
the day emphatically as their own, undisturbed by business of state,
afforded a singular spectacle to those who could remember the indolent
habits of the late court, for it was only on rare occasions that George
II. was an early riser. Caroline was never so by choice. At eight
o’clock there was a joyous family breakfast, at which the Sovereigns
were surrounded by the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh, as the
second son was called before he was created Duke of York, the Princes
William and Edward, and the Princess Royal. At this morning festival
the children were not bound to the silence which they always observed
in presence of their parents in public. After breakfast the younger
children were brought in, and with these the King and Queen spent an
hour of amusement, while the elder princes were away at exercise of
body or mind.

Queen Charlotte generally, and often in company with the King, presided
at the children’s early dinner. Such attendance was the forerunner
of the early dinners which the King subsequently took himself. A
weekly holiday was passed by the whole family in Richmond Gardens.
This was, in some sort, a continuation of a custom commenced by George
II. His custom, however, had not so pure a motive as that observed
by George III. and Queen Charlotte, who took innocent delight in
witnessing innocent enjoyment. In the cottage there, erected from her
own design, she would ply the needle (Queen Adelaide was not a more
indefatigable worker) while the King read aloud to her, generally from
Shakspeare. The Sovereign loved the poet as deeply as the great Duke
of Marlborough did, who knew nothing of English history, save what he
had gathered from the not altogether indisputable authority of the
great poet. ‘Whatever charms,’ says an ‘observer,’ with more enthusiasm
than elegance, ‘ambition or folly may conceive to surround so exalted
a station, it is neither on the throne nor in the drawing-room, in
the splendour or the joys of sovereignty, that the King and Queen
place their felicity. It is in social and domestic gratifications,
in breathing the free air, admiring the works of nature, tasting and
encouraging the elegances of art, and in living without dissipation.
In the evening all the children pay their duty at Kew House before
retiring to bed; after which the King reads to her Majesty; and having
closed the day with a joint act of devotion, they retire to rest.
This is the order of each revolving day, with such exceptions as are
unavoidable in their high stations.

‘The Sovereign is the father of the family; not a grievance reaches
his knowledge that remains unredressed, nor a character of merit or
ingenuity disregarded; his private conduct, therefore, is as exemplary
as it is amiable.’

Alexander Young, referring to the period when the Prince of Wales
was not above twelve years old, furnishes us with a picture that
represents the Queen’s sons as so many Cincinnati at the plough, or
rather like Diocletian cultivating cabbages; only that _he_ did not
take to the healthy pursuit until he had lost a throne, whereas the
English heir-apparent had not yet gained one. The young princes were,
perhaps, more like the royalty of Cathay, whose greatest glory was to
cultivate the soil, and delude itself into the idea that it was being
useful to mankind. Nevertheless the royal pursuits of the Prince of
Wales and his brother of York were harmless at least. ‘A spot of ground
in the garden at Kew was dug by his royal highness the Prince of Wales
and his brother the Duke of York, who sowed it with wheat, attended
the growth of their little crop, weeded, reaped, and harvested it,
solely by themselves. They thrashed out the corn and separated it from
the chaff; and at this period of their labour were brought to reflect
from their own experience upon the various labours and attention of
the husbandman and farmer. The princes not only raised their own crop,
but they also ground it; and, having parted the bran from the meal,
attended the whole process of making it into bread, which it may
well be imagined was eaten with no slight relish. The King and Queen
partook of the philosophical repast, and beheld with pleasure the very
amusements of their children rendered the source of useful knowledge.’

The second son of Charlotte was not very far advanced in his teens
when he carried his love of rustic pursuits to rustic persons. He so
especially admired one cottage beauty in the neighbourhood of Kew or
Windsor that his absences from home became rather too numerous and too
prolonged to escape notice. The royal truant was less narrowly watched
than strictly looked after upon being missed. On one of these occasions
something more powerful than conjecture took the enquirers to a certain
cottage door, and on looking into the room upon which it opened there
sat the second son of Queen Charlotte, Duke of York and Bishop of
Osnaburgh, upon a wooden stool shelling peas!

Reference has been made to the patronage which both Queen Charlotte
and King George extended to art. Their patronage of painters was not,
generally speaking, on a liberal scale. They requested Paton to bring
to the palace, for their inspection, the naval pictures intended for
Saint Petersburgh. The artist obeyed, but at a cost of fifty pounds
for carriage. He was repaid in thanks, but he received no pecuniary
compensation. On another occasion twenty-five pounds was given to an
artist for a picture worth four times the sum. The artist had a friend
in Dr. Wolcot, and the satires of Peter Pindar avenged the disappointed
painter.

It was the excuse of both King and Queen that their increasing family
prevented them from exercising all the liberality they could wish.
However the fact may or may not have influenced the plea, it could
not be denied that the circle round the royal hearth was annually
enlarging. In 1767 was born Edward, afterwards Duke of Kent; and in
the following year the Princess Augusta Sophia. At this period the
old custom was still observed of admitting the public to ‘cake and
caudle.’ Among the loyal young ladies who flocked to the palace to
see the infant princess were two who partook so plentifully of the
caudle as to lose their discretion, and to walk away with the cup in
their keeping. They were detected, and were pardoned after kneeling
to ask for forgiveness. The inequality in the application of the law
was as marked then as it is now. Petty larcenists of high birth, as
these young ladies were, were permitted to escape; not so a poor Sarah
Wilson, who, yielding to a strong temptation in the year 1771, filched
one or two of the Queen’s jewels, and was condemned to be executed. It
was considered almost a violation of justice that the thief should be
saved from the halter, and be transported instead of hanged. She was
sent to America, where she was allotted as slave or servant to a Mr.
Dwale, Bud Creek, Frederick County. Queen Charlotte would have thought
nothing more of her had her Majesty not heard, with some surprise,
that her own sister, Susannah Caroline Matilda, was keeping her court
in the plantations. Never was surprise more genuine than the Queen’s;
it was exceeded only by her hilarity when it was discovered that the
Princess Susannah was simply Sarah Wilson at large. That somewhat
clever girl, having stolen a queen’s jewels, thought nothing, after
escaping from the penal service to which she was condemned, of passing
herself off as a queen’s sister. The Americans--so in love were some
of them with the greatness they affected to despise--paid royal
honours to the clever impostor. She passed the most joyous of seasons
before she was consigned again to increase of penalty for daring to
pretend relationship with the consort of King George. The story of
the presuming girl, whose escapades, however, were not fully known in
England at the time, served, as far as knowledge of them had reached
the court, to amuse the ‘gossips’ who had assembled in 1770 about
the cradle of the young Elizabeth, and still more those who, in the
following year, greeted the new Prince Ernest, one of the three sons of
Charlotte destined to wear a crown.

The fourth daughter of Caroline and George II. died on the 14th of
June in this year, 1771. She was born on the 22nd of February, 48
years before. Before she had completed her eighteenth year she was
married to Frederick, Prince of Hesse, a man whose naturally brutal
temperament was rendered still more brutal after his passing over from
Protestantism to Romanism. This aggravation of a naturally bad temper
was not the immediate result of the change of religion, but of the
political restrictions to which such change subjected him. Never had
wife a more vicious and unfeeling husband than poor Mary; never had
husband a more submissive and uncomplaining wife than Frederick of
Hesse. His death relieved her of a most inhuman tyrant, and her last
days were spent in a happy tranquillity.

The person of Her Majesty at this period is described as having been
easy and graceful, rather than striking or majestic. They who could
not call her handsome, which she never was, compromised the matter
by describing the contour of her face as delicate and pleasing. Her
well-shaped forehead and her beautiful teeth, no inconsiderable items
in a face, were her chief beauties. Her bright chestnut-coloured hair
would have been an additional beauty to have been reckoned, but that
it was generally hidden under thick layers of powder--so long, at
least, as powder was in fashion. Of her hands and arms the royal lady
was proud to a very late period of her life; and amateurs, in the
early term of her reign, eulogised the beauties of a neck, which soon
very well bore the discreet veil with which it was wisely and modestly
covered. Her countenance was naturally benignant, except when flushed,
as it could sometimes be, by an offended feeling; and it was naturally
pallid, ‘except,’ says an anonymous writer ‘(which happened not
unfrequently), when a blush of diffidence suffused her modest cheek.’

The succeeding year to that last named brought mourning with it, for
the death of the mother of George III. On the death of her husband she
was appointed the chief guardian of her eldest son, in case of the
demise, before that son’s majority, of the king, his grandfather. In
the meantime she was really his guardian during that king’s lifetime.
This office, however, she shared with Lord Bute, who, according to the
scandal-mongers, was less attached to the pupil than to the pupil’s
mother. Of this attachment the Prince of Wales himself is said to have
had full knowledge, and did not object to Lord Bute taking solitary
walks with the Princess, while _he_ could do the same with Lady
Middlesex. However this may be, the Princess and Lord Bute kept the
Prince George in very strict seclusion after his father’s death. The
future husband of Charlotte had, however, abundance of teachers, but a
paucity of instruction. One taught him ‘_deportment_,’ another imbued
him with Jacobitism. Dr. Thomas did honestly his little ineffective
best. Lord Bute superintended Dr. Thomas, and the Princess said the boy
was slow, and the masters indifferent.

The boy would probably have been an accomplished scholar had his
preceptors been more careful in their training. There was the _stuff_
and also the taste in him; but he was neglected, and the lost ground
was never recovered. His affection for his mother was strong, and she
deserved it. She was not a favourite with the people, and she did _not_
deserve her unpopularity. George III. and Queen Charlotte visited her
regularly every evening at eight o’clock. After one of these filial
visits, in February 1772, when her health had been long declining,
she expressed a hope that she might pass a good night. The hope was
fulfilled, but death came in the morning. Never was woman more praised
or censured than she. Her merit lay, perhaps, between both. Her son
adored her, Queen Charlotte respected her, and a commercial country
should reverence the memory of a woman who, out of her own jointure,
paid off all the debts which her husband left at his decease. During
the illness of the Dowager-Princess of Wales, her daughter, the
Princess of Brunswick, arrived in England, on her mother’s invitation.
The Princess was coolly treated by her brother, George III., and by
Queen Charlotte. She was ill lodged in a furnished house in Pall
Mall, while the Prince of Mecklenburg had apartments in the royal
palace. Charlotte was jealous of Augusta, her sister-in-law, and could
not help showing it unbecomingly. At the Court held on the Queen’s
birthday Augusta was attended by Lady Gower, an old friend, and one of
her former ladies-in-waiting. Lady Gower followed the Princess into
the ball-room, and sat next to her--Lady Gower’s friend, the Duchess
of Argyle, courteously making way for her. The Queen was excessively
angry. A few days later, all her ladies being present, Her Majesty
said, crossly, to the Duchess of Argyle, ‘Duchess, I must reprimand
you for letting Lady Gower take place of you as lady to the Princess
of Brunswick. I had a mind to speak to you on the spot, but would not,
for fear of saying anything I should repent of, _though I should have
thought it_. The Princess of Brunswick has nothing to do here, and
I insist on your recovering the precedence you gave up. One day or
other my son will be married, and then I shall have his wife’s ladies
pretending to take place in my palace, which they shall not do.’ The
Princess of Brunswick left England in a naturally angry mood. The King,
reluctantly and tardily, paid both her journeys, and gave her 1,000_l._
besides. Her mother left her nothing.

The death of a woman of less note caused some conversation in Queen
Charlotte’s circle, soon after the demise of the Princess-dowager of
Wales, and it may be fittingly noticed here.

Petronilla Melusina was the illegitimate daughter of George I. and
Mdlle. von der Schulenburg (Duchess of Kendal). It was the discovery
of her birth (in 1693) that stirred Sophia Dorothea to the resolution
to leave Hanover. Petronilla came to England, passed as her mother’s
niece, and was created Countess of Walsingham. She became acquainted in
this country with Lady Huntingdon, and that good, active, eccentric,
but earnest apostle of the Gospel, Whitfield. With the latter
Petronilla maintained a long correspondence, and she is spoken of as
being a gem in the crown which metaphor placed upon the preacher’s brow.

In 1733, this lady married the Earl of Chesterfield, and in her name
her husband is said to have compelled George II. to pay him a very
large sum, which also, according to report, was bequeathed her by
George I. in the will which was destroyed. She led as gay and careless
a life as her lord, but not for so long a period as he. She was in the
very height of her enjoyment of the splendour of the great world, when,
attracted by curiosity to the obscurely lighted drawing-room of Lady
Huntingdon, where Whitfield was preaching, she learned, for the first
time, to heed as well as hear the story of the brighter splendour of a
greater, and the night and anguish of a more terrible, world than the
one in which she was the chief lady of the revels, and the fascinator,
not to be resisted, of every man in it except her husband. It was here
she first felt that all was not so well with her heart, nor so safe
for her soul, as should be. She was a woman of strong mind, and she at
once braved all the storm with which fools and fine gentlemen pelted
her, by boldly declaring the difference which had come over her views,
and that which should in future mark her practice. She would fain have
retired altogether from the world, but in obedience to her husband, who
exacted from her a service which he never repaid, she went occasionally
to court. At each visit it was remarked that her costume diminished
in finery, but increased in taste. At her last visit among the gay
and panting throng she appeared in a plain but elegant dress of sober
brown brocade, ‘powdered with silver flowers.’ A smile may mock this
humility of a court lady, but the costly and continental simplicity
was encountered by her half-brother the King (for it was in George
II.’s time that this occurred) with a frown. He had not yet learned to
honour pious men or women of any creed, and he had little respect for
Lady Huntingdon or Whitfield. He accordingly made two or three steps
in advance to the shrinking lady, and rather rudely remarked, ‘I know
who selected that gown for you; it must have been Mr. Whitfield. I
hear you have been a follower of his for this year and a half.’ Lady
Chesterfield mildly replied, ‘I have, and very well do I like him,’ and
withdrew; but she afterwards used to regret that she had not said more
when she had so excellent an opportunity for uttering a word in season
with effect.

Lady Huntingdon hoped, for some time, that a sense of religion might
soon touch the heart of the Earl, who continued to be polite and
impious to the last. He laughingly called death a leap in the dark,
and he obstinately refused the light which would have saved him from
leaping to his destruction. The nearest approach he ever made to being
converted by Lady Huntingdon was when he once sent her a subscription
towards building a chapel, and earnestly implored her not to expose him
to ridicule by revealing the fact!

His noble wife--for she _was_ a wife--true woman, rising above the
shame of her birth, and resolute to save even him who was resolute and
resigned to perish, was most assiduous at the death-bed of a husband
who was as anxious as Charles II. to be courteous and civil, even in
death. His last day on earth was the 24th of March, 1773; and his
courtesy had well-nigh failed him when he heard that his wife had
sent for Mr. Rowland Hill to attend him. ‘Dear Lady Chesterfield,’
says Lady Huntingdon, in one of her letters detailing ‘the blackness
of darkness’ which had thickened round his dying moments, ‘Dear
Lady Chesterfield could not be persuaded to leave his room for an
instant. What unmitigated anguish has she endured! But her confidential
communications I am not at liberty to disclose. The curtain has fallen;
his immortal part has passed to another state of existence. Oh, my
soul, come not thou unto _his_ end!’

This wife, the illegitimate daughter of George I., was not even
mentioned incidentally in a will which recognised the services of
menials, and rewarded them with ostentation. But after Chesterfield’s
death the mansion in May Fair, and its great room, and its dark,
mysterious boudoirs, curtained with blue and silver tissue, and
slightly echoing the rustle of silks that were not worn by the wife
of the lord of the house--over all these there came a change. The
stage remained, but the actors and audiences were different, and now
we see that once little girl who usurped in Hanover a love to which
she was not legitimately entitled, a sober woman grown, throwing open
her saloons to Rowland Hill and the eager multitude who thronged to
hear that hearty, honest, and uncompromising man. In March 1777,
Horace Walpole wrote: ‘Lady Chesterfield has had a stroke of palsy,
but may linger some time longer.’ In September of the following year,
the record is: ‘Lady Chesterfield is dead, at above fourscore. She
was not a girl when she came over with George I.’ ‘She was very like
him,’ Walpole writes, in the following month to Cole, ‘as her brother,
General Schulenburg, is, in black, to the late King.’

Such was the end of that lady whose birth in 1693 had so severely
wounded the pride and self-dignity of Sophia Dorothea. ‘I was with
her to the last,’ says Lady Huntingdon, ‘and never saw a soul more
humbled in the dust before God, on account of her own vileness and
nothingness, but having a sure and steadfast hope of the love and mercy
of God in Christ, constantly affirming that his blood cleanseth from
all sin. The last audible expressions which fell from her a few moments
before her final struggle were, “Oh, my friend, I have hope, a strong
hope--through grace.” Then, taking my hand, and clasping it earnestly
between hers, she exclaimed with much energy, “God be merciful to me, a
sinner!”’

Between the period of the birth of the last child of Queen Charlotte
and the date last named Her Majesty had presented other claimants upon
the love and liberality of the people. These were Augustus (Sussex),
born in 1773; Adolphus (Cambridge), in 1774; Mary, in 1776; and
Sophia, in 1777. Walpole compares a Mrs. Fitzroy with the Queen. ‘Mrs.
Fitzroy,’ he writes, ‘has got a seventh boy. Between her and the Queen,
London will be like the senate of old Rome, an assembly of princes. In
a few generations there will be no joke in saying, “_Their Highnesses
the Mob_.”’ Meanwhile a Queen, thus constantly occupied, performed
all household and matronly duties in a way that won respect even from
those who detected in her faults of temper or errors in politics. Of
her method and success in training some of her children we have this
evidence. The King took frequent excursions, while the Queen kept house
at home. Of one of these, a visit to the fleet at Portsmouth, Walpole
writes: ‘All England is gone to meet King George at Portsmouth. The
Duchess of Northumberland gives forty guineas for a bed, and must take
her chamber-maid into it. I did not think she would pay so dear for
such company. His Majesty, because the post-chaises of gods are as
immortal as their persons, would not suffer a second chaise to be sent
for him; and therefore, if his could and did break down, he would enter
Portsmouth in triumph in a hack.’

When the youngest of the daughters of Her Majesty was about six years
old, the well-known Jacob Bryant heard the Queen make a remark to the
child which he (the author of the ‘Treatise on the Authenticity of
the Scriptures and Truth of the Christian Religion’) considered and
cited as high authority for a mode of reasoning which he adopted when
speaking of the obstacles that encumber the way even of the seekers
after truth. He is alluding to those who are discouraged because
the truth they would fain seize is not yet obvious to them; and he
bids them wait with patience and not be discouraged. ‘I have high
authority,’ he says, ‘for this mode of reasoning, which I hope I may
take the liberty to produce. When a great personage some years ago
was visiting the royal nursery, a most amiable princess (the Princess
Mary, afterwards Duchess of Gloucester), then about six years old,
ran with a book in her hand, and tears in her eyes, and said, “Madam,
I cannot comprehend it! I cannot comprehend it!” Her Majesty, with
true parental affection, looked upon the princess, and bade her not
to be alarmed. “What you cannot comprehend to-day, you may comprehend
to-morrow; and what you cannot attain to this year, you may arrive at
the next. Do not therefore be frightened with little difficulties, but
attend to what you do know, and the rest will come in time.”’ This
was good common sense, and Mr. Bryant calls it ‘a golden rule, well
worthy our observation.’ Charlotte, too, could say a witty as well as
a wise thing. The year 1775 was unmarked by the birth of an heir or
heiress in Brunswick’s line. The Queen’s own birthday drawing-room was
all the more brilliant. ‘The crowd,’ says Walpole, ‘was excessive,
and had squeezed, and shoved, and pressed upon the Queen in the most
hoyden manner. As she went out of the drawing-room, somebody said, in
flattery, that “the crowd was very great.” “Yes,” said the Queen, “and
wherever one went, the Queen was in everybody’s way.”’

Her Majesty displayed even more readiness in patronising such men as
the author above named than she did in the patronage of musicians, fond
as she and her royal consort were of the really tuneful art. In old
days the honour of British queens was said to be most safe when it had
a bard for its attendant protector. At a comparatively early period
the Queen furnished the grateful Prince of Wales with a chaplain,
whose chief duty was comprised in daily reading prayers in the young
prince’s presence, and, if we may judge by the result, not very much
to the young prince’s profit. Among those who were candidates for the
office was the too celebrated Dr. Dodd; but though the Queen was in
some degree interested in him, on account of his reported ability,
she united heartily with the King in refusing to nominate him to the
responsible duty. The elder princes were, as early as 1773, located at
Carlton House, under the guardianship of Lady Charlotte Finch, almost
daily superintended by the Queen. The latter was, however, always glad
to escape from town to Kew, which had come into the King’s possession
on the death of his mother, and for which the residence at Old Richmond
had been abandoned. It was at Kew that she received Beattie, for whom
she had procured a pension of 200_l._ a-year, right royal reward, for
his indifferent work on the Immutability of Truth. The well-recompensed
author was in too good a humour with the royal lady to see any fault
in her. He even pronounced her English ‘fair,’ and herself as ‘most
agreeable.’ The portraits of her, he thought, hardly rendered her
justice, and the expression of her eye and of her smile was declared by
him to be most engaging.

She was not so favourably considered by some of her own court. Thus,
the wearers of the fashionable long feathers denounced her bad taste
when the Queen issued her decree against their being worn at court.
The decree, however, was not issued without great provocation, a
dowager-duchess having appeared at a drawing-room with a head-dress of
feathers a yard and a quarter in height. The sight was so ridiculous
that Charlotte would, for a long time, neither tolerate them in others
nor wear them herself. The maids of honour grumbled as heartily at this
as they did at the rule of the Queen’s household which did not provide
them with supper. The fair ladies’ remonstrance on this latter subject
almost amounted to a mutiny. The affair was ended by compromise. Their
salary was raised, and each maid received on her marriage a gift of
1,000_l._ from the Queen.

The latter frowned when the heavy bargain was concluded, but she
changed the frown for a smile on being told that the Prince of Wales
had corrected Lord Bruce for making a false quantity. Next to his being
a gentleman she hoped he would be a scholar, and here was a prospect of
her hopes being realised!

As a sample of the Queen’s benevolence we may cite the following
record. In the action off Brest, in which the adversaries fought with
a valour which did honour to both parties and enhanced the glory of
the victors, there was no ship more distinguished in the fray than the
gallant but luckless _Quebec_. This vessel blew up in the action, and
out of her numerous crew only seventeen persons escaped. Among the
latter was a master’s mate, named William Moore, afterwards Captain
Moore. He was desperately wounded in the shoulder and leg, and he
conceived little hopes of ever being, like the old commodore in the
song, fit for sea again. Meanwhile, however, he had a friend at court,
in the person of a kinsman named Ashburner, who was mercer to the
Queen. The kind-hearted tradesman was exhibiting his wares to Her
Majesty, when amid his commendations of them he contrived to introduce
his cousin’s name and condition, with some commiserating comment
upon his hard fate. The Queen was extremely judicious in her acts of
charity, and she simply told the mercer to send the master’s mate
down to Windsor, if he were well enough to bear the journey. The very
command was sovereign spermaceti to his wounds, and in a day or two the
sadly battered sailor was comfortably lodged at Windsor, the patient
of the Queen’s own surgeon and physician. He took some time to cure,
but the desired result was achieved at last, and the master’s mate now
stood in presence of the Queen to thank her, which the pale sailor
did with faltering expression of gratitude, for the royal benevolence
which had again made a man of him. To a query from the royal lady, he
protested that he felt perfectly equal for the performance of duty
again. ‘So I hear from the doctor,’ said Queen Charlotte. ‘And I have
spoken about you to the King, and there, Mr. Moore, is His Majesty’s
acknowledgments for your gallantry and sufferings when afloat.’ Mr.
Moore thought the Queen and King an exceedingly civil couple to say so
much about the performance of a matter of duty, and he was about to
retire from the presence, when the Queen said, smilingly, ‘Mr. Moore,
will not you see what His Majesty says?’ The master’s mate obeyed, and
was rewarded for his obedience by finding that he had been promoted to
a lieutenancy on board the _Mercury_. This was a good deed gracefully
enacted. Not less so was another of which the Queen was the author,
whereby she procured for the widow and large family of Captain Farmer,
who fell in the _Quebec_, an annuity which made really princely
provision for the widow and children of the slain commander.

The poets of 1779 were not addicted to satire, except in jest. Thus
one, in a rhymed dialogue, makes one of his interlocutors say to the
other--

I own your satire’s just and keen;
Proceed, and satirise the Queen.

To which the reply is--

With all my heart.--The Queen, they say,
Attends her nurs’ry every day;
And, like a common mother, shares
In all her infants’ little cares.
What vulgar, unamusing scene,
For George’s wife and Britain’s queen.
’Tis whispered also at the palace
(I hope ’tis but the voice of malice)
That (tell it not in foreign lands)
She works with her own royal hands;
And that our sovereign’s sometimes seen
In vest embroidered by his queen.
This might a courtly fashion be
In days of old Andromache;
But modern ladies, trust my words,
Seldom sew tunics for their lords.
What secret next must I unfold?
She hates, I’m confidently told--
She hates the manners of the times
And all our fashionable crimes,
And fondly wishes to restore
The golden age, and days of yore,
When silly, simple women thought
A breach of chastity a fault,
Esteem’d those modest things, divorces,
The very worst of human curses;
And deem’d assemblies, cards, and dice
The springs of every sort of vice.
Romantic notions! all the fair
At such absurdities must stare;
And, spite of all her pains, will still
Love routs, adultery, and quadrille.

Well, is that all you find to blame,
Sir Critic, in the royal dame?

All I could find to blame? no, truly!
The longest day in June and July
Would fail me ere I could express
The half of Charlotte’s blemishes.
Those foolish and old-fashioned ways
Of keeping holy Sabbath days,
That affectation to appear
At church, the Word of God to hear:
That poor-like plainness in her dress,
So void of noble tawdriness:
That affability and ease
That can her menial servants please,
But which incredibly demean
The state and grandeur of a queen:
These, and a thousand things beside,
I could discover and deride.
But here’s enough; another day
I may, perhaps, renew my lay.
Are you content?

Not quite, unless
You put your satire to the press.
For sure a satire in this mode
Is equal to a birthday ode.

No doubt of it! and much better written and applied than any of the
birthday odes of the period. The fact was, that if there were strong
prejudices, there were also simple virtues at court. The King would
have no ode sung to him, as his predecessors had, on New Year’s day;
and the Queen would not allow Twelfth Night to be celebrated by the
usually ruinous play at ‘hazard.’ No wonder the poets praised her.

The King loved Kew, and hated Hampton Court because George II. had once
struck him there. Of the royal domestic life at the former place a
contemporary observer has given a sketch, when the royal parents were
still young and their offspring still children:--

‘Their Majesties rise at 6 o’clock in the morning, and enjoy the two
succeeding hours in a manner which they call their own. At 8 o’clock
the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburg, the Princess Royal, and
the Princes William and Edward are brought from their respective
apartments to breakfast with their illustrious parents. At 9 o’clock
the younger children attend to lisp or smile their good-morrows; and
while the five eldest are closely applying to their tasks, the little
ones and their nurses pass the whole morning in Richmond Gardens.
The King and Queen frequently amuse themselves with sitting in the
room while the children dine, and once a week, attended by the whole
offspring in pairs, make the little delightful tour of Richmond
Gardens. In the afternoon, while the Queen works, the King reads to
her. In the evening all the children again pay their duty at Kew House
before they retire to bed, and the same order is observed through each
returning day. Exercise, air, and light diet are the grand fundamentals
in the King’s idea of health. His Majesty feeds chiefly on vegetables,
and drinks but little wine. The Queen is what many private gentlewomen
would call whimsically abstemious; for, at a table covered with dishes,
she prefers the plainest and simplest dish, and seldom eats of more
than two things at a meal. Her wardrobe is changed every three months;
and while the nobility are eager to supply themselves with foreign
trifles, her care is that nothing but what is English shall be provided
for her wear.’

CHAPTER V.

PERILS, PROGRESS, AND PASTIMES.

The American War--Dr. Dodd--The Duchess of Queensberry and the
‘Beggars’ Opera’--Royal Progress--Royal Visit to Bulstrode
--Mrs. Delany and Queen Charlotte--Birth of Prince Octavius
--Strange, the Engraver--The Riots of London--Lady Sarah
Lennox--The Prince and his Sire--The Prince’s Preceptors--
Errors committed in the education of the Princes--The Prince’s
favourite, Perdita Robinson--Marie Antoinette’s present to her
--Separate establishment granted to the Prince--Lord North’s
facetious remark--Parliamentary provision for the Prince--The
Prince’s presence in the House of Commons not acceptable--His
pursuit of pleasure--The Duke of Clarence described by Walpole
--The Prince of Wales overwhelmed with debts--Dissension in
the Royal Family--Marriage proposed to him to extricate him
from his debts--The Prince’s connection with Mrs. Fitzherbert
--The Prince’s Marriage disclaimed by Mr. Fox--The Prince’s
behaviour to Mrs. Fitzherbert--The Prince acknowledges his
Marriage to the Queen.

There had been, during the recent years of Charlotte’s married life, no
lack of either private or public trials and misfortunes. The struggles
of the government at home against the press had signally failed; and
that against the American colonies, wherein France, Spain, and Holland
were arrayed against England, ended in the acknowledgment, on our part,
of the independence of the United States. The unpopularity of the King,
who applied for and received 100,000_l._ per annum in addition to
the 400,000_l._ granted to him at his accession, was extended to the
Queen. The King was insulted by a female, said to be insane, as he was
proceeding in his chair to the Haymarket Theatre. This circumstance
rendered the Queen ill at ease for several days. Her sympathy could at
no time, however, induce the King to grant her a favour, if he thought
it was against his sense of right. Thus, few persons more interested
themselves to rescue the Reverend Dr. Dodd, the forger, from the hands
of the executioner, than Queen Charlotte. Her respect for the sacred
office was so great that it seemed to be something shocking that a
clergyman should be hanged. But George III. remarked that Dodd’s
offence was rendered the more grievous from the fact of his being a
clergyman, and that the law must take its course.

During the year 1778 many royal ‘progresses’ were made to the fleet,
to the fortified towns on the coast, to the various camps, and to the
mansions of the nobility. A general air of festivity was exhibited
about the Queen and court, but there was nothing in the condition of
the affairs of the kingdom to warrant the apparent joy. By sea and
land our flag, though not dishonoured, was not triumphant; and for the
moment the most unpopular man in the kingdom was the King himself--
obstinate in his determination to govern as well as reign, and daily
verging towards that disturbed state of mind which ended at last in
hopeless insanity.

Meanwhile, however, the home enjoyments of the court were placid and
unexciting. In her ‘progresses’ with the King, Charlotte was not
reluctant to maintain the state of a Queen. Her ideas on this subject
seem strange to us now. Thus, when she held a court in the old royal
city of Winchester, her costume consisted of a scarlet riding-habit,
faced with blue, and covered with rich gold embroidery. In the same
dress, with the addition of a black hat and a large cockade, she
accompanied the King on his visits to the various camps established
in the south. Nothing, however, could be more simple than the way
of life of this royal pair when really ‘at home.’ Its simplicity
extracted from a foreigner who witnessed it the remark that such
citizen-like plainness was injurious to royalty, and an encouragement
to republicanism.

Adopting as far as possible the descriptions of eye-witnesses of scenes
in which the sovereigns enacted the principal part, we will now turn
to the gossiping Mrs. Delany’s letters for the report of a visit made
in 1779 by the Queen and her royal consort and family to the Duke of
Portland’s, at Bulstrode. ‘The royal family,’ says the writer, ‘ten
in all, came to Bulstrode at twelve o’clock. The King drove the Queen
in an open chaise, with a pair of white horses. The Prince of Wales
and Prince Frederick rode on horseback; all with proper attendants,
but no guards. Princess Royal and Lady Weymouth in a post-chaise.
Princess Augusta, Princess Elizabeth, Prince Adolphus (about seven
years old), and Lady Charlotte Finch, in a coach. Prince William,
Prince Edward, Duke of Montague, and the Bishop of Lichfield, in a
coach; another coach full of attendant gentlemen; among others, Mr.
Smelt, whose character sets him above most men and does great honour
to the King, who calls him his friend, and has drawn him out of his
solitude (the life he had chosen), to enjoy his conversation every
leisure moment. These, with all their attendants in rank and file,
made a splendid figure as they drove through the park and round the
court, up to the house. The day was as brilliant as could be wished,
the 12th of August, the Prince of Wales’s birthday. The Queen was in
a hat, and in an Italian night-gown of purple lustring, trimmed with
silver gauze. She is graceful and genteel. The dignity and sweetness
of her manner, the perfect propriety of everything she says or does,
satisfies everybody she honours with her instructions so much that
beauty is by no means wanting to make her perfectly agreeable; and
though awe and long retirement from court made me feel timid on my
being called to make my appearance, I soon found myself perfectly at
ease; for the King’s conversation and good humour took off all awe but
what one must have for so respectable a character, severely tried by
his enemies at home as well as abroad. The three princesses were all
in frocks. The King and all the men were in uniform, blue and gold.
They walked through the great apartments, which are in a line, and
attentively observed everything, the pictures in particular. I kept
back in the drawing-room, and took that opportunity of sitting down,
when the Princess Royal returned to me and said the Queen missed me
in the train. I immediately obeyed the summons with my best alacrity.
Her Majesty met me half-way, and seeing me hasten my steps, called
out to me, “Though I desired you to come, I did not desire you to run
and fatigue yourself.” They all returned to the great drawing-room,
where there were only two arm-chairs, placed in the middle of the
room for the King and Queen. The King placed the Duchess Dowager of
Portland in his chair, and walked about, admiring the beauties of the
place. Breakfast was offered, all prepared in a long gallery that
runs the length of the great apartments (a suite of eight rooms and
three closets). The King and all his royal children and the rest of
the train chose to go to the gallery, where the well-furnished tables
were set, one with tea, coffee, and chocolate, another with their
proper accompaniments of eatables, rolls, cakes, &c. Another table with
fruits and ices in their utmost perfection, which with a magical touch
had succeeded a cold repast. The Queen remained in the drawing-room.
I stood at the back of her chair, which, happening to be one of my
working, gave the Queen an opportunity to say many obliging things.
The Duchess Dowager of Portland brought Her Majesty a dish of tea on a
waiter, with biscuits, which was what she chose. After she had drunk
her tea, she would not return her cup to the Duchess, but got up and
would carry it to the gallery herself; and was much pleased to see with
what elegance everything was prepared. No servants but those out of
livery made their appearance. The gay and pleasant appearance they all
made, and the satisfaction all expressed, rewarded the attention and
politeness of the Duchess of Portland, who is never so happy as when
she gratifies those she esteems worthy of her attentions and favours.
The young royals seemed quite happy, from the eldest to the youngest,
and to inherit the gracious manners of their parents. I cannot enter
upon their particular address to me, which not only did me honour,
but showed their humane and benevolent respect for old age. The King
desired me to show the Queen one of my books of plants. She seated
herself in the gallery, a table and a book laid before her. I kept my
distance till she called me to ask some questions about the mosaic
paper work; and as I stood before Her Majesty, the King set a chair
behind me. I turned with some confusion and hesitation on receiving
so great an honour, when the Queen said, “Mrs. Delany, sit down, sit
down; it is not every lady that has a chair brought her by a King.” So
I obeyed. Amongst many gracious things, the Queen asked me why I was
not with the Duchess when she came, for I might be sure she would ask
for me. I was flattered, though I knew to whom I was obliged for this
distinction, and doubly flattered by that. I acknowledged it in as few
words as possible, and said I was particularly happy at that moment to
pay my duty to Her Majesty, as it gave me an opportunity to see so many
of the royal family, which age and obscurity had deprived me of. “Oh,
but,” said Her Majesty, “you have not seen all my children yet.” Upon
which the King came up and asked what we were talking about, which
was repeated, and the King replied to the Queen, “You may put Mrs.
Delany in the way of doing that by naming a day for her to drink tea at
Windsor Castle.” The Duchess of Portland was consulted, and the next
day fixed upon, as the Duchess had appointed the end of the week for
going to Weymouth.’

In 1779 was born the short-lived Prince Octavius. Before the death of
this happy little Prince, Strange, the engraver, consented to engrave
his portrait. The Queen did not like the politics of the artist, for he
was the most determined Jacobite in the kingdom--except his wife. He
was so successful, however, with his ‘plate’ of Octavius, that George
III. knighted him; and even his wife thought the better of the ‘Elector
and Electress of Hanover’ for having made her what ‘the King over the
water’ had never thought of doing--Lady Strange.

The following year was that of the riots of London. While that popular
tumult was raging the King behaved with courage and common sense; and
the Queen, left almost entirely alone at Buckingham House with her
children, with equal calmness and intrepidity. The ‘ladies’ who _ought_
to have been in attendance had hurried homeward with their jewels. The
Queen did not lose heart at this desertion, but was amply comforted by
the frequent yet brief visits of the King, who spent two entire nights,
holding council with the heads of the army, in the Queen’s Riding House.

In the September of this year another prince, Alfred--who shared with
his brother Octavius the advantages of dying early--was added to the
family of George and Charlotte. This increase, perhaps, inspired her
with increase of sympathy for others. In the fall of this year she
very warmly seconded the project of Mr. Raikes for the foundation of
Sunday Schools. The project was sneered at, snubbed, and satirised by
a public who, however, were ultimately wise enough to be grateful.

In 1780, Walpole affords us a glimpse of the alleged rival of Queen
Charlotte in company with the Queen’s son. ‘The Prince of Wales has
lately made a visit to Lady Cecilia Johnstone, where Lady Sarah Napier
was.’ She was the Lady Sarah Lennox who had touched the heart of the
King some twenty years before. ‘She did not appear, but he insisted on
seeing her, and said, “She was to have been there,” pointing to Windsor
Castle. When she came down he said he did not wonder at his father’s
admiring her, and was persuaded she had not been more beautiful then.’

In 1781, at the age of nineteen, the Prince of Wales became ‘lord of
himself.’ His mother had been his first governess; and at eight years
of age he had been delivered by his father to Dr. Markham and Cyril
Jackson, with the injunction to treat him as they would any private
gentleman’s son, and to flog him whenever he deserved it. Markham acted
up to his instructions. The Prince never bore any ill-will to either
preceptor or sub-preceptor for their severity; but he took the earliest
opportunity of showing his antagonism against his father. In 1772, when
the struggle was going on between Wilkes and the crown--for such were
the real adversaries--the young Prince made his sire’s ears tingle
indignantly with the popular cry of ‘Wilkes and “forty-five” for ever!’

The young Prince’s preceptors were changed in 1776. Lord Bruce
became governor in place of Lord Holdernesse; but he retired almost
immediately, vexed, it is said, at the Prince having detected him
in the commission of a false quantity. Bishop Hurd and the Rev. Mr.
Arnold, under the superintendence of the oatmeal-porridge-loving Duke
of Montague, were now entrusted to impart what instruction they might
to the Prince and his next brother Frederick. They adopted the old
plan of severity; but on endeavouring to carry it into effect, when
the high-spirited boys were considerably advanced in their teens, one
or both of the royal pupils turned on their preceptor, Arnold, who
was about most grossly to castigate them, tore the weapon from his
hand, and roughly administered to him the punishment with which they
themselves had been threatened.

Excess of restraint marred the education of the two elder sons of
Charlotte. Even when the Prince was considered of age, and was allowed
his own establishment at Kew, the system of seclusion was still
maintained. Such a system had its natural consequences. The Prince, ill
at ease with his parents, sought sympathy elsewhere; and he was not
yet out of his teens when Charlotte was horrified at hearing his name
coupled with that of the most bewitching actress of the day.

Had the father of Miss Darby, the maiden name of Mrs. Robinson, been
a man of less philanthropic principles, his daughter, probably, would
have been a more virtuous and a more happy woman. She was born at
Bristol in 1758, and was looked upon as a little heiress, till her
father lost the whole of a not inconsiderable fortune by speculating in
an attempt to civilise the Esquimaux Indians!

Miss Darby was, for some time, a pupil of Miss Hannah More; but was
herself compelled to turn instructress as early as in her fourteenth
year. She was, however, a precocious beauty; and the year previous she
had received an offer of marriage, which she had declined. The young
teacher worked hard and cheerfully, in order that she might be the
better enabled to support her mother. The proceeds of this labour also
enabled her to increase the number of her own accomplishments; among
others, dancing. Her master was a Covent Garden ballet-master, who
introduced her to Garrick, and Roscius brought her out on the stage, in
the character of Cordelia with success.

Before she had terminated her sixteenth year she married Mr. Robinson,
an articled clerk in an attorney’s office, with a good fortune, upon
which the youthful couple lived in splendour till it was gone, and
the husband was arrested. His wife then spent fifteen months with him
in prison, and then misery drove her again to Garrick, who gave her
some instruction, rehearsed Romeo to her Juliet, and, bringing her out
in the latter character, gave to the stage one of the handsomest and
youngest and most captivating of actresses who had ever charmed the
town.

Her Juliet was admirable, but her Perdita, in the ‘Winter’s Tale,’ set
the town mad. On the 3rd of December 1779 she played the character in
presence of George III., Queen Charlotte, the Prince of Wales, and
other members of the royal family, and a numerous audience. When she
entered the green-room, dressed for the part, she looked so bewitching
that Smith exclaimed, ‘By Jove! you will make a conquest of the Prince,
for you look handsomer than ever.’ Smith’s prediction was true; and
letters from the Prince, signed ‘Florizel,’ were delivered to Perdita
by no less noble a go-between than the Earl of Essex.

The position of Perdita Robinson at this time was peculiar: her
husband was living in profligacy upon the wages of her labour, and
she had refused the most brilliant offers made to her on condition of
separating from him. She refused them all; but lent too ready an ear to
the princely suitor, who now besieged her with indifferently-written
letters and promises of never-dying affection. An interview was
contrived, first in a boat moored off Kew, and afterwards in Kew
Gardens by moonlight, at which the Bishop of Osnaburgh was present--
by way of playing propriety, perhaps--and at which there appears to
have been little said, but much feared, lest the parties should be
found out.

The prince and Perdita became so attached to each other after a few
more interviews that _she_ declared she should never forget the
magic with which she was wooed, and _he_ presented her with a bond
for 20,000_l._, to be paid on his coming of age. When that period
arrived--it happened in a few months--‘Florizel’ would not pay the
money, and had grown weary of the lady. To modify her despair, he
granted a last interview, in which he declared that his affection
for her was as great as ever; and the poor lady, who trusted in the
declaration, was passed by on the following day, in the park, without
a sign of recognition on the part of her princely betrayer. The remark
which she made on this conduct was worthy of Talleyrand for its sting,
smartness, and application--but it is as well, perhaps, to leave it
unquoted.

She had quitted the stage to please him, and now, in her embarrassment,
sought refuge abroad, living in straitened circumstances in Paris,
till, by the intervention of Mr. Fox, an annuity was settled upon her
of 500_l._ a-year. With this she maintained some splendour, and she was
even noticed by Marie Antoinette as _La belle Anglaise_. The gift of a
purse netted by the royal hand of that unfortunate Queen, and conferred
by her on Perdita, showed at once the sovereign lady’s admiration and
lack of judgment and propriety.

For some time she resided alternately in England and France, but
ultimately, she settled at Brighton, about the time that Mrs.
Fitzherbert was there in the brightest of her beauty and the height
of her splendour. The ex-actress wrote pretty poetry, and was the
authoress of a dozen novels: poetry and romances are now forgotten;
but the former does not want for tenderness of sentiment and
expression, nor the latter for power and good sense. Finally, in 1799,
she undertook the poetical department of the _Morning Post_, retained
her office for a few months, and died in the year 1800.

Perdita was not without her grievous faults; but she had her virtues,
too. She was the loving and helping child of her mother, and she was
the loving and helping mother of her child. For her mother and her
daughter she worked at her literary occupations with unwearied fervour,
and even Hannah More may have refrained from casting reproach on her
erring and yet not worthless pupil.

In 1783 the Prince of Wales had allotted to him a separate
establishment. He could have none more appropriate than that old
Carlton House which had been the residence of his grandfather,
Frederick Prince of Wales--a man whom he resembled in many respects.
The old house was originally built on a part of the royal garden around
St. James’s Palace, a lease whereof was granted for that purpose by
Queen Anne to Henry Boyle, Lord Carlton. This was in 1709. Sixteen
years subsequently, on the death of Lord Carlton, the house was
occupied by his heir and nephew, Richard Boyle (Lord Burlington, the
architect), who seven years later (1732) gave it to his mother, the
Dowager Lady Burlington, by whom, in the same year, it was made over
to Frederick Prince of Wales, father of George III. The gardens, laid
out by Kent, like Pope’s grounds at Twickenham, extended westward as
far as Marlborough House. The first change that Frederick made was to
construct a bowling-green, the healthy exercise of bowls being then
fashionable; and he inaugurated his entry by a grand ball, given, as
the _Daily Post_ says, ‘to several persons of quality and distinction
of both sexes.’

George Prince of Wales found the old house rather antiquated as to
fashion and dilapidated as to condition, and he employed Holland, the
architect, to correct these defects. The artist did that, and more. He
added the Ionic screen, some of the pillars of which are now in Queen
Charlotte’s favourite gardens at Kew, and the Corinthian portico,
the columns of which, when the house was taken down in 1827, were
transferred to the National Gallery. On the two residences of the two
eldest sons of Queen Charlotte, Southey, in his ‘Espriella’s Letters,’
has a remark worth quoting. The Duke of York’s mansion (Melbourne
House, Whitehall), now known as Dover House, was distinguished by a
circular court, which served as a sort of entrance-hall. It still
remains, and may be seen from the street. The distinguishing feature
of Carlton House was the row of pillars in front. ‘These two buildings
being described to the late Lord North, who was blind in the latter
part of his life, he facetiously remarked, “Then the Duke of York, it
should seem, has been sent to the round-house, and the Prince of Wales
is put in the pillory.”’

Meanwhile, despite the Prince’s escapades, the least innocent of which
was his visiting a Quaker’s meeting disguised as a female Friend--
where he was betrayed by the appearance of his leather breeches,
seen through the pocket-hole of the gown--despite these and other
escapades, the Queen’s affection for her son was in no wise diminished.
In 1782 she had brought tambouring into fashion by embroidering for
him, with her own hands, a waistcoat, which he wore at the first ball
at which his sister, the princess royal, appeared in public. The Queen,
however, had more serious subjects for her consideration. She had
to mourn over the death of the infant Alfred, and for the loss of a
sister. We find also, this year, the first direct proof of her having
interfered in politics. It was in 1782 that Charlotte commissioned
Hutten, the Moravian, to enter into correspondence with Franklin, with
a view of conciliating matters with the United States.

The eldest son of Queen Charlotte began life very amply provided for;
Parliament gave him 100,000_l._ as an outfit, and 50,000_l._ annually
by way of income. Three months after the birth of his youngest sister,
Amelia, in November 1783, he took his seat in the House of Peers,
joined the opposition, gave himself up to the leading of the opposition
chiefs, whether in politics or vices, was praised by the people for his
spirit, and estranged from the King, who did not like the principles of
those who called themselves his son’s friends, and who held in horror
the vices and follies for which they were distinguished. He was as
often present under the gallery of the Commons as in his seat in the
Lords. Such a presence is never acceptable, in such a place, to the
representatives of the people. It perhaps influences the votes, and
certainly affects the liberty of debate. As much was hinted to the
Prince, when he used to watch the struggle in the Commons between the
Coalition and Pitt. He made the hint his excuse for being disgusted
with politics, and thereupon devoted himself to but one pursuit--the
love of pleasure. But if he had only one pursuit, it had many varieties
and objects. He hunted after what was called ‘pleasure’ in every form,
squandered fortunes in not finding it, and made what he called ‘love’
and extraordinary presents to two ladies at one and the same time. Mrs.
Crouch, the actress, and Mrs. Fitzherbert (whom he married), were the
Lucy and Polly to whom this light-of-heart prince gaily sang his ‘How
happy could I be with either!’

Walpole speaks very highly (in 1783) of the Prince’s brother, William
Henry, whom he met at Gunnersbury, the suburban seat of the old
Princess Amelia. ‘He had been with the Princess in the morning,’
writes Walpole, ‘and returned of his own accord to dinner. She
presented me to him, and I attempted, at the risk of tumbling on my
nose, to kiss his hand, but he would not let me. You may trust me,
madam, who am not apt to be intoxicated with royalty, that he is
charming. Lively, cheerful, talkative, manly, well-bred, sensible, and
exceedingly proper in all his replies. You may judge how good-humoured
he is, when I tell you that he was in great spirits all day, though
with us old women; perhaps he thought it preferable to Windsor.’

The Prince of Wales was already overwhelmed with debt. The domestic
comfort of the Queen was even more disturbed than that of her consort
by the solicitations made by the so-called friends of the Prince of
Wales to induce the King to pay the debts of his eldest son. Her
Majesty’s confidence is said to have been fully placed at this time
upon Mr Pitt. A conversation is spoken of as having passed between the
Queen and the minister, in which he is reported as having said, ‘I much
fear, your Majesty, that the Prince, in his wild moments, may allow
expressions to escape him that may be injurious to the crown.’ ‘There
is little fear of that,’ was the alleged reply of the Queen; ‘he is too
well aware of the consequences of such a course of conduct to himself.
As regards that point, therefore, I can rely upon him.’ Mr. Pitt
inquired if her Majesty was aware of the intimacy which then existed
between Mrs. Fitzherbert and the heir-apparent, and that reports of an
intended marriage were current? ‘He is now so much embarrassed,’ added
the minister, ‘that at the suggestion of his friend Sheridan he borrows
large amounts from a Jew who resides in town, and gives his bonds for
much larger amounts than he receives.’

In the family dissensions caused by this unhappy subject neither
sire nor son behaved with fairness and candour. In 1784, the Prince
had been required to send in an exact account of his debts, with a
view to their liquidation. The King had, at least, intimated that
he would discharge the Prince’s liabilities if this account was
rendered. The account _was_ rendered; but, after having been kept for
months, it was returned as not being exact. The inexactness of this
statement consisted of an item of 25,000_l._ being entered without
any explanation as to whom it was owing. The Prince refused to make
such explanation, on the ground that it was a secret of honour between
him and his noble creditor, in whom many persons affected to see the
famous, or infamous, Duke of Orleans. The King declared that, if the
Prince was ashamed to explain the nature of the debt, his father ought
not to be expected to pay it; and there the matter rested.

By the following year his debts amounted to 160,000_l._, and he could
see no chance of relief but by going abroad. His first idea was of
a residence in Holland, and he was ready to proceed thither as a
private individual, should the King refuse to consent to his leaving
England. All that he wished for, according to his own declarations,
was to economise, to live in retirement, and remain unknown, until
he could appear in a style suitable to his rank. He complained of
the unreasonableness of the King’s proposition, that he should lay
by 10,000_l._ a-year to pay his debts, at a time, he said, when his
expenses were twice as great as his income. Such complaint could
only come from a radically dishonest man; for it is only such a man
who, with an income on which he could very well afford to live--and
spare--could complacently talk of even allowing his expenses to exceed
his revenue.

The Prince affected to think that he might, perhaps, be able to live in
retirement at some of the small German courts, fancying that, under
the title of the Earl of Chester, his actions would not be judged of as
those of a Prince of Wales. At all events, he declared that to live in
England would be ruin and disgrace to him; for that the King hated him,
wished to set him at variance with his brothers, and would not even let
Parliament assist him till he should marry. The King’s hatred for his
son, according to the latter, had existed from the time he was seven
years old. Reconciliation was deemed by the Prince impossible; for
his father, he said, had not only deceived him, but made him deceive
others. The son could not trust the father, and the father had no
belief in the veracity of the son.

The ministry were not disinclined, at this time, to increase the
Prince’s allowance, provided only that he would appropriate some
portion of it to the payment of his debts, renounce his project of
going abroad, and consent to a reconciliation with the King, by ceasing
to be a man of political party in opposition to the government. The
sum proposed was 100,000_l._ per annum, the half of which was to be
reserved for the payment of his debts. The Prince describes the offer
as useless, inasmuch as that, though the ministry might sanction it,
the King would not hear of it, and Pitt could not carry such a measure
in Parliament. The Prince asserted his belief that so rooted was his
father’s hatred of him that he would turn out Pitt if he ventured to
propose such a measure. Further, the Prince refused to abandon Fox
and his other political friends. Lord Malmesbury was very anxious to
bring the Prince to terms; but the latter still dwelt upon the bitter
paternal hatred. In proof of this he exhibited to Lord Malmesbury
copies of the correspondence which had passed between himself and his
royal sire on the subject. Lord Malmesbury thus describes the letters,
and the spirit which animated the writers:--

‘The Prince’s letters were full of respect and deference, written with
great plainness of style and simplicity. Those of the King were also
well written, but hard and severe; constantly refusing every request
the Prince made, and reprobating in each of them his extravagance and
dissipated manner of living. They were void of every expression of
parental kindness or affection, and after both hearing them read and
perusing them myself, I was compelled to subscribe to the Prince’s
opinion, and to confess there was very little appearance of making any
impression upon His Majesty in favour of His Royal Highness.’

Lord Malmesbury suggested that, as the Queen must have much at heart
the bringing about a reconciliation between her son and his father,
such might surely be effected through her and his sisters. The Prince
thought it impracticable, and only wished that the public knew all
the truth and could judge between him and his sire, anticipating a
favourable verdict for himself, which, however, the public would not
have given even when in possession of all the facts.

Lord Malmesbury then suggested a means of escape from all difficulties
by a marriage which would at once reconcile the King and gratify the
nation. The Prince, however, emphatically declared that he would never
marry; that he had settled that subject with his brother Frederick;
and that his resolution was irrevocable. Lord Malmesbury combated such
a resolution, but the Prince remained unconvinced. He owed nothing,
he said, to the King. Frederick would marry, and his children would
inherit the crown. His adviser suggested that a bachelor King, as
he would be, would have less hold on the affections of the people
than a married heir and father of children, as his brother would
be. ‘The Prince was greatly struck with this observation. He walked
about the room apparently angry;’ but, after a few friendly words of
explanation, the interlocutors separated, and the scene was at an end.

At the time the Prince said he never would marry he had in his
mind that serious marriage which he already had formed with Mrs.
Fitzherbert. We may add, with respect to this union and the character
of the Prince as a lover, a few words on the authority of Lord Holland.

Never did swain make love so absurdly as the Prince of Wales. For the
‘first gentleman in Europe,’ he was the greatest simpleton, under the
influence of ‘passion,’ that ever existed. When he was not silly, he
was mean, and he sometimes was both, and heartless to boot, even when
he most prattled of the heart-anguish he endured. To Perdita Robinson
he was little better than a mere bilking knave. In presence of the
majestic Mrs. Fitzherbert he was an undignified coxcomb. He insulted
her virtue with proposals which even princes ought not to dare to make
without bringing personal chastisement upon themselves. Finding his
offers declined, and that the lady was going abroad, he acted, and
declared he felt, the utmost despair. But his despair was farcical.
He went down to his friends the Foxes, at St. Anne’s, where he ‘cried
by the hour, testified the sincerity and violence of his passion and
despair by the most extravagant expressions and actions, rolling on the
floor, striking his forehead, tearing his hair, falling into hysterics,
and swearing he would abandon the country, forego the crown, sell his
jewels and plate, and scrape together a competency, to fly with the
object of his affections to America.’

The lady proceeded to the continent, but returned in 1785. She came
more prepared to listen to the Prince’s wooing than when she left.
He now proposed a marriage, but she knew that, she being a Romanist,
such a marriage could not be legal. Indeed, it was illegal for any
prince of the blood to marry without the King’s consent, before he had
attained the age of twenty-five. After that time he was to notify his
intention to Parliament, and if that body did not move the King to
withhold his consent within a year, the marriage then might be entered
upon. Mrs. Fitzherbert, however, frankly enough said that the ceremony
would be all nonsense, and that she was ready to trust to his honour.
He insisted, however, and the ceremony was duly performed by an English
clergyman. After the solemnisation, the certificate was signed by the
clergyman and attested by two witnesses, said to have been Catholics.
Mrs. Fitzherbert retained the certificate; but out of a generous fear
that harm might come to the witnesses if they should become known she
tore off their names. The name of the clergyman (who died before George
IV. ascended the throne) remains affixed to the document.

Mr. Fox was _not_ present at this ceremony, but reports were so
current as to its being about to take place, or to its having taken
place, that he addressed to the Prince a very long, a very strong,
and a very sensible letter, of which a rough copy (from Fox’s MS.)
will be found in Lord Holland’s ‘Memoirs of the Whig Party.’ In this
manly letter the writer points out the madness of such a scheme,
the terrible consequences that might ensue, the illegality of the
manner, and the possibility, should the Prince enter subsequently
into a legal matrimonial union, and there being issue by both, of a
disputed succession. He advised, argued, did all that a bold man and
honest friend could do to warn the Prince against this union, which,
as we before mentioned, was currently reported to have taken place.
The Prince, in reply, declared that his ‘dear Charles’ might ‘make
himself easy, as there not only is, but never was, any grounds for
such reports.’ Armed with this authority, Fox denied in Parliament, on
the warrant of the Prince, the assertion of such a union having taken
place. The wretched liar who had driven him to assert unconsciously a
falsehood was now exposed to a double torment. Mrs. Fitzherbert was
angry at the public denial, supposing it to be unauthorised, and urged
the Prince to have it announced. The latter prevaricated and promised;
appealed to Grey, confessing his marriage, and, when Grey would have
nothing to do with it, appealing to Sheridan; the latter made a few
remarks in the House wide of the real object, and the marriage remained
denied, to the great annoyance of the lady, who continued to be
respectfully treated by the royal family. These, if they disbelieved
the existence of the connection, must have looked upon Mrs. Fitzherbert
as being less worthy of their respect than before. The truth, however,
is, that their respect was chiefly manifested when Mrs. Fitzherbert
separated herself from her most worthless husband. Documents proving
the marriage (long in the possession of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s family)
have been, since June 1833, actually deposited, by agreement between
the executors of George IV. (the Duke of Wellington and Sir William
Knighton) and the nominees of Mrs. Fitzherbert (Lord Albemarle
and Lord Stourton), at Coutts’s bank, in a sealed box, bearing a
superscription:--‘The property of the Earl of Albemarle; but not to be
opened by him without apprising the Duke of Wellington,’ or words to
that purport.[1]

The author of the Diary illustrative of the court of George IV.,
referring to the time when the eldest son of Queen Charlotte was
subdued by the fascinations of Mrs. Fitzherbert, says that the lady in
question ‘had a stronger hold over the Regent than any of the other
objects of his admiration, and that he always paid her the respect
which her conduct commanded.’ She was styled by those who knew her ‘the
most faultless and honourable mistress that ever a prince had the good
fortune to be attached to’--a judgment which abounds in a confusion
of terms, and exhibits mental perversion in him who pronounced it.
Of the Regent’s behaviour to the lady, it may be said that it was as
gallant and considerate at first as it was mean and censurable at last.
In the early days of their intimacy, when they appeared together at
the same parties and were on the point of leaving them, ‘the Prince
never forgot to go through the form of saying to Mrs. F., with a most
respectful bow, “Madam, may I be allowed the honour of seeing you
home in my carriage?”’ ‘It was impossible,’ says the same authority,
‘to be in his Royal Highness’s society and not be captivated by the
extreme fascination of his manners, which he inherits from his mother
the Queen; for his father has every virtue which can adorn a private
character as well as make a king respectable, but he does not excel in
courtly grace or refinement.’

It should be added, that the intelligence no sooner reached the ears of
the Queen than she commanded the attendance of her son, and insisted
on knowing the whole truth. The Prince is declared not only to have
acknowledged the fact of the marriage, but to have asserted that no
power on earth should separate him from his wife. He is reported to
have added, in reference to the King’s alleged marriage with Hannah
Lightfoot, that his father would have been a happier man had he
remained firm in standing by the legality of his own marriage. It would
be difficult to say who was at hand to take down the Prince’s speech
on this occasion; but, according to the author last named, it was
substantially as follows:--‘But I beg farther that my wife be received
at court, and proportionately as your Majesty receives her, and pays
her attention from this time, so shall I render my attentions to your
Majesty. The lady I have married is worthy of all homage, and my very
confidential friends, with some of my wife’s relations only, witnessed
our marriage. Have you not always taught me to consider myself heir to
the first sovereignty in the world? Where then will exist any risk of
obtaining a ready concurrence from the House in my marriage? I hope,
madam, a few hours’ reflection will satisfy you that I have done my
duty in following the impulse of my inclinations, and, therefore, I
await your Majesty’s commands, feeling assured you would not blast the
happiness of your favourite prince.’ The Queen is said to have been
softened by his rather illogical reasoning. It is certain that her
Majesty received Mrs. Fitzherbert at a drawing-room in the following
year with very marked courtesy.

Sixteen years later, and of course long after the marriage of the
Prince of Wales with Caroline of Brunswick, Mrs. Fitzherbert was still
so high in the Prince’s favour that we find the following record in
Lord Malmesbury’s Diary, under the date of May 25, 1803:--‘Duke of
York came to me at five, uneasy lest the Duchess should be forced to
sup at the same table as Mrs. Fitzherbert, at the ball to be given by
the Knights of the Bath, on the 1st of June. Talks it over with me--
says the King and Queen will not hear of it. On the other side, he
wishes to keep on terms with the Prince. I say, I will see Lord Henley,
who manages the _fête_, and try to manage it so that there shall be
two distinct tables, one for the Prince, to which _he_ is to invite,
another for the Duke and Duchess, to which _she_ is to invite her
company.’ The dislike of Mrs. Fitzherbert for the Duchess of York was
as determined as that entertained by the same lady against Fox, whom
she never forgave for denying the fact of her marriage with the Prince.

The Prince’s pecuniary embarrassments pressed more heavily upon
him than the troubles arising from his amours. The Prince, in his
difficulties, again had recourse to the Queen. He revealed to her the
amount of both his difficulties and debts, and reports credited him
with having uttered a menace to the effect that, if the King failed to
provide some means for the payment of those debts, there were State
secrets which he would certainly reveal, whatever the consequences
might be, as, suffering as he did from the treatment he met at his
father’s hands, he was an object of suspicion or contempt to half the
kingdom. The Queen would not engage herself by any promise, but she
sent for Mr. Pitt. After this last interview the minister repaired to
Carlton House, and the message he bore showed the amount of influence
possessed by the Queen. The Prince was assured that means would be
found for the discharge of his liabilities. The King promised an
additional 10,000_l._ a year out of the civil list, and Parliament
subsequently voted the sum of 161,000_l._ to discharge the debts of the
Prince, with an additional sum of 20,000_l._ to finish the repairs of
Carlton Palace. That mansion had been dull and silent, but it was soon
again brilliant, and gaily echoing with the most festive of sounds.

CHAPTER VI.

COURT FORMS AND COURT FREEDOMS.

Loss of the American Colonies--Political Struggle--The King’s
health unsatisfactory--Life of the Royal Family at Windsor--
Mrs. Delany--The Queen and the Widow--Early service in the
Chapel Royal at Windsor--Rev. Tom Twining and Miss Burney--
Miss Burney’s Reception by the Queen--Promenade of the Royal
Family on the terrace--The Queen’s ‘dressing’--The Queen’s
partiality for Snuff--Country life of the Royal Family at Kew
--Princess Amelia; the King’s great affection for her--Scene
on the birthday of the Princess--Margaret Nicholson’s attempt
to assassinate the King--The Queen’s dread--Her fondness for
Diamonds--Mrs. Warren Hastings--The present from the Nizam
of the Deccan--Unpopularity of the King and Queen--Their
affection for each other--The Queen’s tenderness to Mrs. Delany
--Reconciliation of the King and the Prince--A pleasant scene
--Another Court Incident.

The loss of the American Colonies, and the triumph of Lord North and
Fox, two men whom the King hated, and who forced an Administration upon
him, had, in various degrees, a serious effect upon his health. He
became dejected, but when Fox’s India Bill was thrown out by the Lords
he had the firmness--a firmness suggested by the Queen--to turn the
obnoxious Cabinet out. Pitt succeeded as prime minister, and no one saw
him in that post with greater pleasure than Charlotte.

She continued to support both King and Minister through the tremendous
political struggle which followed, and during which Pitt more than once
expressed his determination to resign. ‘In such case I must resign
too,’ said the King, adding that he would sooner retire with the
Queen to Hanover than submit to a ministry whose political principles
he detested. The public admired his firmness, and for a season he
was again popular--popular, but not safe. His health was in an
unsatisfactory state; and it was at a season when he required to be
kept in a state of composure that an attempt was made to stab him by an
insane woman named Nicholson, as he was leaving St. James’s Palace by
the garden entrance, on the 2nd of August, 1786. As he received a paper
which she presented, the woman stabbed at him, but with no worse result
than piercing his waistcoat.

Before we show how the news of this attempt was received at Windsor,
where the Queen was then sojourning, we may glance briefly at the
nature of the life passed there. It was generally of a pleasing aspect.

The benevolence of the Queen and her consort was well illustrated in
their conduct to Mrs. Delany. The lady in question was a Granville by
birth, and in the first flush of her youth and beauty had been married,
against her inclination, to a middle-aged squire, named Pendarves, who
was much like what middle-aged squires were in those not very refined
days. Mr. and Mrs. Pendarves passed much such a life as that described
by the young Widow Cheerly as having been that of herself and the
squire, her lord; and the lady, too, became a widow almost as early.
She was, however, of mature age when she married her old and esteemed
acquaintance, Dr. Delany, the friend of Swift. After being a second
time a widow, she found a home with the Dowager-duchess of Portland,
and when death deprived her of this friend also she found a new home
and new friends in Queen Charlotte and King George. They assigned to
her a house in Windsor Park, in the fitting-up of which both Queen and
King took great personal interest, and the former settled upon her an
annuity of 300_l._ When the good old lady went down to take possession
of her new habitation the King was there ready to receive her, like a
son establishing a mother in a new home. His courtesy was felt, and it
was of the right sort, for while it brought him there to welcome the
new guest, it would not allow him to stay there to embarrass her. With
similar delicacy, when the Queen came down to visit her new neighbour,
she put her at once at her ease by her own affability; and when, before
leaving, she placed in Mrs. Delany’s hands the paper signed by the
King, and authorising her to draw her first half-year of her little
revenue, it was done with a grace which prevented the object of it from
feeling that she was reduced to the condition of a pensioner.

These parties remained, as long as Mrs. Delany lived, on terms of as
much equality as could exist between persons so different in rank. In
Mrs. Delany’s little parlour the Queen would frequently take tea. It
was a social banquet in which she delighted; and years afterwards,
in her old age, she was as fond of going down to Datchet to take tea
with Lord James Murray (afterwards Lord Glenlyon, grandfather of the
present Duke of Athol) as she was at this early period of enjoying
the same ‘dish’ with the fine old ‘gentlewoman’ who was her most
grateful pensioner. Queen and widow corresponded with each other,
lived as ladies in the country who esteem each other are accustomed
to live; and when the doctor’s relict had not what was to her, good
old soul, the supreme bliss of entertaining the Queen, she enjoyed
the inexpressible felicity of receiving at tea the young princes and
princesses. A riotous, romping, good-natured group these made; and many
a sore headache they must have inflicted on the aged lady, who was too
loyal to be anything but proud of such an infliction incurred in such a
cause.

The letters of Queen Charlotte to her ‘dear friend’ are on small
subjects, expressed in a small way, and terminating with a mixture of
condescension and dignity, with good wishes from ‘your affectionate
Queen.’

Mrs. Delany speaks in her own letters with well-warranted praise of
one circumstance which marked the routine of royal life at Windsor.
Every morning throughout the year, at eight o’clock, the Queen, leaning
on the King’s arm, led her family procession to the Chapel Royal,
for the purpose of attending early morning prayer. One of the most
pleasing features in the Queen’s routine of daily life was to be found
in this exemplary practice of hers. The Queen never forced any one to
follow her example; she left it to the consciences of all. She was
independent, too, in her opinions, and though she joined fervently
with the King in the prayer, ‘Give peace in our time, O Lord!’ and
acknowledged (with more truth than the stereotyped expression itself
would seem to convey--so illogical is it with its impertinent
‘because’) that none other fought for us but God alone, yet would she
not remain silent, as the King invariably did, when the Athanasian
Creed was being repeated. That awful and overwhelming judicatory
denunciation at the close shocked the mind of the monarch whose own
penal laws, however, were the most sanguinary in Europe. The Queen, as
is the case with most ladies in church matters, had less mercy, and she
heartily joined in the sentence which so stringently winds up the creed
which, after all, was _not_ written by Athanasius.

When the Rev. Tom Twining heard that the celebrated Miss Burney was
about to be dresser and reader to the Queen, he exclaimed, ‘What a fine
opportunity you will have of studying the philosophy of human capacity
in the highest _sphere_ of life!’ ‘Goodness me! madam!’ he exclaims,
admiringly; ‘are you to take care of the robes yourself?’ Miss Burney
hardly knew what she would have to do or what her opportunities might
be, but she was not long in acquiring the knowledge in question.

Indeed, she picked up much acquaintance with court routine on the first
day of her arrival at the Queen’s lodge. She found a royal mistress
who was extremely anxious to calm the fluttering agitation of her
new attendant, and who received her, if not as a friend, yet in no
respect as a servant. Gracious as was the reception, the young lady was
not sorry to escape to the dinner-table of the ladies and gentlemen
in waiting. How graphically does she describe the German officer
there who was in waiting on the Queen’s brother, Prince Charles of
Mecklenburgh: ‘He could never finish a speech he had begun, if a new
dish made its appearance, without stopping to feast his eyes upon it,
exclaim something in German, and suck the inside of his mouth; but all
so openly, and with such perfect good-humour, that it was diverting
without being distasteful.’ The old ceremonious forms had not yet
become quite extinct at court. Men did not kneel on serving the Queen,
but they never sat down in her presence. How they contrived to dine
comfortably at the royal table defies conjecture, if the following
paragraph is to be taken literally: ‘I find it has always belonged
to Mrs. Swellenburgh and Mrs. Haggerdorn to receive at tea whatever
company the King or Queen invite to the lodge, as it is only a very
select few that can eat with their Majesties, and those few are only
ladies; no man, of what rank soever, being permitted to sit in the
Queen’s presence.’ The royal table must then have been the dullest
in the palace; and no wonder it is that bishops, peers, officers,
_and_ gentlemen enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, in less dignity and
more comfort, with the maids of honour and ladies of less official
greatness.

Nothing was, indeed, more homely and hearty than the promenades made
by the illustrious couple, their children all about them, on the
terrace, of an evening, or when they assembled in the concert-room,
where ‘nothing was played but Handel.’ The time was a transition
time; feudality was growing faint, and the best of kings were losing
their prestige of infallibility. Still there was much of ceremony
both at bed and board; that of the latter has been already mentioned.
That at bed-time was not so cumbersome as the ceremony observed at
the _coucher_ of Marie Antoinette, but it was still of a high and
ponderous, yet affectionate, formality. The Queen was handed into her
dressing-room by the King, followed by the Princess Royal and the
Princess Augusta. The King, on leaving the room, kissed his daughters,
who in their turn ceremoniously kissed their royal mother’s hand, and
bade her ‘good-night.’ This done, the Queen placed herself in the hands
of her ‘women,’ who, in as brief a time as was consistent with the
dignity of her whom they tended, fitted the royal lady for repose. The
Queen paid, with a formal curtsey, every sign of respect, by whomsoever
offered her, as she passed along.

It is said that Burnet introduced the fashion of high-partitioned
pews in the Chapel Royal to prevent the flirting that was constantly
going on between the officers and maids of honour. Upon some plea for
decorum, rather than because of offence, Queen Charlotte had appointed
separate tables for the ladies and gentlemen in waiting; but as she did
not forbid them to invite each other, or, as was very often the case
with the gentlemen, to invite themselves, the division of tables was
only nominally maintained.

The Queen’s ‘dressing,’ deprived as it was of some of the ceremonies
of an olden time, was nevertheless not without its formality. Her new
‘dresser,’ Miss Burney, was not always in time, disliked at first,
but wisely got over her dislike, being summoned by a bell, and was so
nervous as to mar her services. No maid was permitted to remain in the
apartment during the time the Queen was ‘tiring.’ One lady dresser
handed to the other the portions of dress required. ‘’Tis fortunate
for me,’ says Miss Burney, ‘I have not the handing of them. I should
never know which to take first, embarrassed as I am, and should run a
prodigious risk of giving the gown before the hoop, and the fan before
the neck-kerchief.’

The actual ‘dressing for the day’ took place at one o’clock, and
included the then elaborate matter of powdering. Till the hair-dresser
was admitted for the completion of this last matter, the Queen, while
being dressed, read the newspapers; but when the powderer came she
dismissed the attendants, who had previously covered her up in a
peignoir, and was then left alone with the artist, who must have looked
very ridiculous in casting, as the Queen must have looked in receiving,
the impenetrable clouds of powder which he continued to fling at and
about the royal head. But there was another sort of powder patronised
by the Queen--the mother of George IV. condescended to take snuff.
In the admixture and scent of this she was curiously learned; and Miss
Burney filled her boxes and damped the contents when they had got too
dry, to her great satisfaction.

There is a fashion in country-towns observed by ladies who go out in
chairs to parties, consisting in their carrying with them some portion
of their dress, to be adjusted at the locality where they are about to
spend the evening. This fashion, too, is a relic of the days of Queen
Charlotte. ‘On court days,’ says Miss Burney, ‘the Queen dresses her
head at Kew, and puts on her drawing-room apparel at St. James’s. Her
new attendant dresses all at Kew, except tippet and long ruffles,
which she carries in paper to save from dusty roads.’ It was the
etiquette at St. James’s that the finishing of the Queen’s dressing
there should be the work of the bedchamber-woman. It consisted of
little more than tying the necklace, handing the fan and gloves, and
bearing the Queen’s train as she left the room. This she did alone,
only as far as the anteroom; there the lady of the bedchamber became
the ‘first trainbearer,’ and the poor Queen had two annoyances to put
up with instead of one.

From the cumbrous ceremonies of St. James’s the Queen was glad enough
to escape to Kew. At the latter place, indeed, ceremony, as far as the
royal family was concerned, was left outside the gates. The sovereigns
were thoroughly ‘at home,’ and the Queen enjoyed a ‘country life,’ not
as Marie Antoinette did, a dairymaid in diamonds, at Trianon, but as a
simple English country lady. The foreigners who visited the court at
this time were disgusted by the republican look which it wore. It was
simple and plain enough, at Kew that is, to have pleased even Franklin.
The King was really there what he was popularly called everywhere,
‘Farmer George;’ the Queen was his true dame, the plainest of the
plain things around her. The children--that is, the younger portion
of them--were as unaffected as their parents, and the little Princess
Amelia was the fairy of the place, if one may speak of a fairy in
connection with farming. However grave the King might look, through
pressure of public events, the little hand of the Princess Amelia,
placed by the Queen in his, always touched his heart, and a look into
the child’s eyes ever brought a smile into his own. Never daughter more
closely nestled in a father’s heart than Amelia did in that of George
III. The Queen loved, but the King adored her. At Kew, father and child
appeared more unrestrained in the hearty demonstrations of their love
than elsewhere. Indeed, everything at Kew was free and unrestrained;
and it was no offence there if any of the attendants _did_ pass a room
the door of which was open and somebody royal within. In France, they
who desired to enter an apartment in which the Queen was, scratched,
but never knocked, at the door. In England, at least in Queen
Charlotte’s time, the etiquette was also not to knock at, but to shake
the handle of, the door. Another ceremony was observed in order to
_avoid_ ceremony. When royal birthdays occurred during the Queen’s stay
at Windsor the family walked on the terrace, which was crowded with
people of distinction, who took that mode of showing respect, to avoid
the trouble and fatigue of attending at the following drawing-room.
Here is a scene on the birthday of the Princess Amelia, drawn by one
who was present:--

‘It was really a mighty pretty procession. The little Princess, just
turned three years old, in a robe-coat covered with fine muslin, a
dressed closed cap, white gloves, and a fan, walked on alone and first,
highly delighted in the parade, and turning from side to side to see
everybody as she passed; for all the terracers stand up against the
walls to make a clear passage for the royal family the moment they come
in sight. Then follow the King and Queen, no less delighted themselves
with the joy of their little darling.’[2]

The Princess Royal, at this time, is said to have shown more respect
and humility to her parents than any of the other children of the
family. She passed on in this birthday procession, accompanied by
ladies, and her sisters, similarly accompanied, followed her. Happy
were they to whom Queen or King addressed a few words as they stopped
on their way; and astounded were the adorers of etiquette when they saw
the little Princess Amelia, on recognising Miss Burney, not only go up
to kiss her, but actually kissed by her. The Queen herself was probably
more surprised than pleased. But it was a birthday! At other seasons
etiquette was so rigidly observed (always excepting at Kew) that the
children of the royal family never spoke in the presence of the King
and Queen, except to answer observations made to them. The Queen, too,
as well as she was able, watched over the religious education of her
daughters, and always assembled them around her to listen to a course
of religious reading by herself. This she did with gravity and good
judgment, as became indeed a woman of ordinary good sense.

We have already, incidentally, noticed the attempt made upon the life
of the King by Margaret Nicholson. The attack was not known to the
Queen till it was announced to her by the King in person. As soon as
the poor mad woman had been arrested, the Spanish ambassador posted
down to Windsor, to be in readiness to inform her Majesty of the truth,
in case of any exaggerated reports reaching her ear. When the King
entered the Queen’s apartment at Windsor, on his return from London, he
wore a rather joyous air, and exclaimed, in a naturally joyous tone,
‘Well, here I am, safe and well, though I have had a very narrow escape
of being stabbed.’ The consternation in the family circle was great;
several of the ladies burst into tears, for every one was fond of
George III., albeit he was accused of Stuart fondness for the exercise
of kingly prerogative. The Queen alone did not at first weep, but pale
and agitated she turned round to those who did, and said that she
envied them. The relief of tears, however, soon comparatively restored
her, and she was enabled, with some outward show of calmness, to
listen to the King’s details of the occurrence. Into these he entered
with the hilarity of a man whose feelings are naturally not very finely
strung, but who is strongly persuaded that escape from assassination is
rather a matter to be jocund than solemn over. He did not want for a
sense of gratitude at his escape, but nothing could prevent his being
gay over it. He told the details, therefore, as though they partook
something of a joke. He noticed that the knife had slightly cut or
grazed his waistcoat; and said he, ‘It was great good luck that it did
not go further. There was nothing beneath it but some thin linen and a
good deal of fat.’

The matter, however, pressed heavily upon the spirits of the Queen. She
dreaded lest this attempt should be only a part of a great conspiracy,
and feared that the conspirators would not rest satisfied with the
mere attempt. The idea was natural at the time, for democracy then
was daily barking at, if not biting, kings; and so universally spread
was the feeling through one class throughout Europe that the King
of England had no cause to deem himself specially exempt from such
attempts. George III. had the courageous spirit common to most of the
princes of his house, and would not stand aloof from his people because
the princes of other houses were at issue with _their_ people. The
Queen felt greater distrust, but she was partially reassured by the
tone taken by the English papers. The pulpit and the press spoke out
in tones which showed that, however the country might be divided upon
questions connected with politics, it would not tolerate the idea of
regicide. These things were known to Queen Charlotte, and comforted the
poor lady, who, for a time, could not think of her husband being in
London without a spasmodic horror. She pored over the English papers,
in order to draw from them comfort and consolation; and it was when
reading one of the warmly loyal articles therein, beginning with the
words of the coronation anthem, ‘Long live the King! may the King live
for ever!’ that she shed the most copious tears that yet had fallen
from her, and drew comfort from what she read. Perhaps the words
brought back to her recollection the period, a quarter of a century
before, when she had listened to that anthem for the first time,
and, glancing back over the long period that had since then elapsed,
she perhaps dared to hope that the protection which had been so far
vouchsafed would be continued. Another quarter of a century indeed
was vouchsafed before the splendour of the reign began to wane in the
mental gloom which settled around the King; but already had begun those
domestic troubles which were inflicted upon her by the unfilial conduct
of her heartless eldest son.

At present, however, she could only think of, and be grateful for, the
escape of the King. Loyalty visited her somewhat oppressively in its
congratulations, and the next drawing-room was so crowded, and its
ceremonies so long, that the Queen was half dead with fatigue before
it was over. She found rest and welcome sympathy at ever-pleasant Kew.
There the inhabitants welcomed their royal patrons with a zeal, warmth,
beer-drinking, and fireworks such as had not been exceeded in any
part of the empire. But it was a sort of honour-festival in which the
Queen could partake without fatigue. She enjoyed it heartily; and more
emphatically than was her wont, even when most pleased, she exclaimed,
‘I shall love little Kew for this as long as I live!’

When Charlotte, on her first visit to the City, charmed even the eyes
of the fair Quakeresses who surrounded her at the Barclays’ by the
splendour of her diamonds, she already had the reputation of possessing
a desire for acquiring precious stones. Such desire was at one time a
mere fashion, like the mania which squandered thousands on a flower,
or the madness which at a later period prevailed to be possessed, at
whatever cost, of porcelain.

The people were reminded of the Queen’s fondness for diamonds at the
period when the name of Warren Hastings began to be unpleasantly
canvassed in England. The return of that remarkable personage from
India was preceded by that of his scarcely less remarkable wife.
Soon after her arrival Mrs. Hastings appeared at court, and nothing
could exceed the graciousness of the reception she met with from
Queen Charlotte. The popular tongue soon wagged audaciously, if
not veraciously, on this royal welcome to a lady who was commonly
said to have come to England with a lapful of diamonds. For such
glittering presents it was said that Queen Charlotte sold her favour
and protection. There was, no doubt, much exaggeration in the matter;
but the supposed protection of the court, and the alleged manner in
which it was said to have been purchased, were as injurious to Hastings
as any of the invectives thundered against him by Burke. At the time
that the monster impeachment was going on, a present from the Nizam of
the Deccan to the King arrived in England. It was a splendid diamond,
and was consigned, for presentation, to Warren Hastings, who handed
it over to Lord Sydney, but who was present himself at the time when
that nobleman duly offered the glittering gift to the King. Its ready
acceptance, at a time when Hastings was on his trial, was misconstrued;
and that popular voice which so often errs, notwithstanding the
assertion that when uttered it is divinely inspired, immediately
concluded that at least a bushelful of diamonds, presented to the
King and Queen, had bought impunity for the alleged great offender.
Ridicule, satire, caricature, violent prose, and execrable rhyme were
levelled at both their Majesties in consequence. According to those
who were about the person of the Queen, she had better jewels in her
virtues than in caskets of precious gems. Miss Burney, in her portrait
of the Queen, may be said to contemplate her through pink-coloured
spectacles. But, setting aside what predilection induces her to say,
enough remains to satisfy an unprejudiced person that there was much
amiability, penetration, and good sense in the character of Charlotte.
She was more dignified in her visits at the houses of subjects than any
of her predecessors had been. She preferred reading the ‘Spectator’ to
reading novels, and indeed had very little regard for novel-writers,
and none at all for Madame de Genlis, with whom she very wisely
counselled Miss Burney not to correspond.

Of the affection which existed between the Queen and her husband here
is a pretty incident:--‘The Queen had nobody but myself with her one
morning, when the King hastily entered the room with some letters in
his hand, and addressing her in German, which he spoke very fast, and
with much apparent interest in what he said, he brought the letters
up to her and put them into her hand. She received them with much
agitation, but evidently of a much pleased sort, and endeavoured to
kiss his hand as he held them. He would not let her, but made an
effort, with a countenance of the highest satisfaction, to kiss her.
I saw instantly in her eyes a forgetfulness at the moment that any
one was present, while, drawing away her hand, she presented him her
cheek. He accepted her kindness with the same frank affection that she
offered it, and the next moment they both spoke English, and talked
upon common and general subjects. What they said I am far enough from
knowing; but the whole was too rapid to give me time to quit the room,
and I could not but see with pleasure that the Queen had received some
favour with which she was sensibly delighted, and that the King, in
her acknowledgments, was happily and amply paid.’[3]

This sort of incident, it may be said, is of commonplace frequency in
private life, short of the hand-kissing; but it also serves to show
that there was an affection existing at this period which, happily,
is _not_ a rare one in common life. And Charlotte could condescend
to the level of that so-called common life, and to them who belonged
to it exhibit her natural goodness. Witness for her the directions
which she sent on a cold November morning to good old and parcel-blind
Mrs. Delany. ‘Tell her,’ said she, ‘that this morning is so very cold
and wet that I think she will suffer by going to church. Tell her,
therefore, that _Dr. Queen_ is of opinion she had better stay and say
her prayers at home.’ She showed her concern still more when, after
having lent to Miss Burney that abominable and absurd tragedy of Horace
Walpole’s, ‘The Mysterious Mother,’ she presented her with Ogden’s
Sermons, wherewith to sweeten her imagination. Perhaps Hurd, Bishop of
Worcester, on his visit to Windsor this year, rather underrated the
royal power to appreciate sermons. Mrs. Delany asked him for a copy of
one which he had preached before their Majesties. The prelate answered
that the sermon would not do at all for her. It was a mere plain
Christian sermon, he said, made for the King and Queen, but it wouldn’t
do for a _bel esprit_.

The royal household was sometimes disturbed by family dissensions; thus
in 1787 the Prince of Wales would not attend the birthday drawing-room
of the Queen, but he sent her written congratulations on the return
of the day. The coldness existing between mother and son kept the
latter from court. ‘I fear it was severely felt by his royal mother,’
says Miss Burney, ‘though she appeared composed and content.’ Of
party-spirit at this time, when party-spirit ran so high and was so
fierce and bitter in quality, the Diarist last named asserts that the
Queen had but little. She declares her Majesty to have been liberal
and nobly-minded, ‘beyond what I had conceived her rank and limited
connections could have left her, even with the fairest advancements
from her early nature; and many things dropped from her, in relation to
parties and their consequences, that showed a feeling so deep upon the
subject, joined to a lenity so noble towards the individuals composing
it, that she drew tears from my eyes in several instances.’

This year saw the reconciliation of the Prince with his parents, and a
public manifestation of this reconciliation of the heir-apparent with
his family took place on the terrace at Windsor Castle. The Prince
appeared there, chiefly that by his presence he might do honour to a
particular incident--the presentation of the Duchesse de Polignac
and her daughter, the Duchesse de Guiche, to the King and Queen. The
noble visitors themselves, to do honour to the occasion, repaired to
the terrace, attired, as they thought, in full English costume--‘plain
undress gowns, with close ordinary black silk bonnets.’ They were
startled at finding the Queen and the Princesses dressed with elaborate
splendour. For the spectators, however, the most interesting sight was
that of the heir-apparent conversing cordially with his illustrious
parents. The lookers-on fancied that all, henceforth, would be serene,
and that ‘Lovely Peace’ would reign undisturbedly.

But a pleasanter scene even than this was witnessed shortly after in
the Queen’s dressing-room. Her Majesty was under the hands of her
hair-dresser, and in the room, during the ceremony, were Mr. de Luc,
Mr. Turbulent (a pseudonym), and Miss Burney. The Queen conversed with
all three. But the sacrilegious and well-named Turbulent, instead of
fixing there his sole attention, contrived, ‘by standing behind her
chair and facing me, to address a language of signs to me the whole
time, casting up his eyes, clasping his hands, and placing himself
in various fine attitudes, and all with a humour so burlesque that
it was impossible to take it either ill or seriously.... How much
should I have been discountenanced had her Majesty turned about and
perceived him, yet by no means so much disconcerted as by a similar
Cerberic situation; since the Queen, who, when in spirits, is gay and
sportive herself, would be much farther removed from any hazard of
misconstruction.’[4] Nor was this the only ‘pleasant’ incident of the
year. It was not long after the above that Lady Effingham, at Windsor,
exclaimed to the Queen, ‘Oh, ma’am, I had the greatest fright this
morning. I saw a huge something on Sir George’s throat. “Why, Sir
George,” says I, “what’s that? a wen?” “Yes,” says he, “countess, I’ve
had it three-and-twenty years.” However, I hear it’s now going about--
so I hope your Majesty will be careful!’

One more court incident of this year will afford us a specimen of
playfulness as understood by the Prince of Wales. The latter was
at Windsor with the Duke of York, who had just returned from the
Continent, after an absence from England of seven years. His return
caused great joy both to the King and Queen; but it was not a joy of
long enduring.

‘At near one o’clock in the morning, while the wardrobe-woman was
pinning up the Queen’s hair, there was a sudden rap-tap at the
dressing-room door. Extremely surprised, I looked at the Queen, to
see what should be done; she did not speak. I had never heard such
a sound before, for at the royal doors there is always a particular
kind of scratch used, instead of tapping. I heard it, however, again,
and the Queen called out, “What is that?” I was really startled,
not conceiving who could take so strange a liberty as to come to the
Queen’s apartment without the announcing of a page; and no page, I was
very sure, would make such a noise. Again the sound was repeated, and
more smartly. I grew quite alarmed, imagining some serious evil at
hand, either regarding the King or some of the Princesses. The Queen,
however, bid me open the door. I did; and what was my surprise to see
there a large man, in an immense wrapping great-coat, buttoned up round
his chin, so that he was almost hid between cape and hat. I stood quite
motionless for a moment; but he, as if also surprised, drew back. I
felt quite sick with sudden terror--I really thought some ruffian had
broken into the house, or a madman. “Who is it?” cried the Queen. “I do
not know, ma’am,” I answered. “Who is it?” she called aloud; and then,
taking off his hat, entered the Prince of Wales. The Queen laughed
very much, and so did I too, happy in this unexpected explanation. He
told her eagerly that he only came to inform her there were the most
beautiful northern lights to be seen that could possibly be imagined,
and begged her to come to the gallery windows.’[5]

CHAPTER VII.

SHADOWS IN THE SUNSHINE.

The Princess Amelia--Her connection with the Duke of Grafton--
Beau Nash and the Princess--Her despotism as Ranger of Richmond
Park--Checked by Mr. Bird--A Scene at her Loo-table--Her
fondness for stables--Her eccentric Costume--Inordinate love
of Snuff--Her Death--Conduct of the Princes--The King’s
Illness--Graphic picture of the state of affairs--Lord
Thurlow’s treachery--Heartlessness of the Prince--Deplorable
condition of the Queen--The King delirious--Particulars
of his Illness--Dr. Warren--Melancholy scene--The King
wheedled away to Kew--Placed under Dr. Willis--The Prince and
Lord Lothian eavesdroppers--The King’s Recovery--The King
unexpectedly encounters Miss Burney.

One event of this year brings us back to the persons and memories of
the age of Caroline. Three-quarters of a century had passed away since
the day when the then little Princess Amelia Sophia, who was born in
Hanover, arrived in London, some three years old, at the period when
her parents ascended the throne of England. She was an accomplished
and a high-spirited girl, and grew into an attractive and ‘lovable’
woman. No prince, however, ever came to the feet of Amelia Sophia. She
did not, nevertheless, want for lovers of a lower dignity. Walpole, in
allusion to this, states of her that she was ‘as disposed to meddle’ in
State matters as her elder sister Anne; and that ‘she was confined to
receiving court from the Duke of Newcastle, who affected to be in love
with her; and from the Duke of Grafton, in whose connection with her
there was more reality.’

The latter connection is said to have been more romantic than platonic.
The Princess and the Duke were given to riding out in company,
conversing together in the recesses of windows, keeping together when
out hunting, and occasionally losing themselves together in Windsor
Forest and other places convenient for lovers to lose themselves in.
This last incident in the love passages of the Princess’s life afforded
great opportunity for good-natured gossips to indulge in joking, and
for ill-natured gossips to indulge in affectedly indignant reproof.
The Princess troubled herself very little with the remarks of others
on her conduct. It was only when Queen Caroline was worked upon by
the ill-natured gossips to notice and to censure the intimacy which
existed between the Princess and the Duke that Amelia took the matter
somewhat to heart, and wept as a young lady in such circumstances was
likely to do at finding a violent end put to her violent delights. The
Queen indeed threatened to lay the matter before the King, and it is
said that it was only through the good and urgent offices of Sir Robert
Walpole that so extreme a course was not taken.

Like her sister Anne, Amelia was rather imperious in disposition, and
she never found but one man who openly withstood her. That man was Beau
Nash. The Beau had fixed eleven o’clock at which dancing should cease
in the rooms at Bath, where he was despotic Master of the Ceremonies.
On one occasion, when the Princess was present, the hour had struck,
and Nash had raised his jewelled finger, in token that the music was
to stop, and the ladies were to ‘sit down and cool,’ as the Beau
delicately expressed it. The imperious daughter of Caroline was not
disposed to end the evening so early, and intimated to the _Master_
her gracious pleasure that there should be another country dance. Nash
looked at her with surprise. He laughed an agitated laugh, shook all
the powder out of his wig in signifying his decided refusal, and,
muttering something about the laws of the Medes and Persians, set down
the Princess as a rather ill-bred person.

In _her_ way she was as imperious as Nash; and as Ranger of Richmond
Park she was as despotic as the Beau within his more artificial
territory at Bath. She kept the park closed, sacred to the pleasure and
retirement of royalty and the favoured few. There were, however, some
dreadfully democratic persons at Richmond, who had a most obstinate
conviction that the public had a right of passage through the park,
and they demanded that the right should be allowed them. The royal
Ranger peremptorily refused. Democratic cobblers immediately went to
law with her, and proved that the right was with them. The Princess
yielded to the counsel of her own legal advisers, and, allowing the
right of passage, made a very notable concession; she planted rickety
ladders against the walls, and bade the ladies and gentlemen of the
vicinity pass through the park as they best could by such means. But
the persevering people maintained that if they had right of passage
the right must be construed in a common-sense way, and that passage
implied a _pass_ or gate by which such passage might be made. The royal
lady thought the world was coming to an end when the vulgar dared
thus to ‘keep standing on their rights’ in presence of a princess.
She was in some measure correct; for the age of feudal royalty was
coming to a close, and that great shaking-up of equality was beginning
from which royalty has never perfectly recovered. The troublesome
people, accordingly, kept most vexatiously to the point, and after a
fierce struggle they compelled their Ranger to set open a gate whereby
they might have free and constant access to their own park. Had this
daughter of Caroline been a wise woman, she would have cheerfully gone
through this gate with the people, and so, sharing in their triumph,
would have won their love. But ‘Emily,’ as she was often called, was of
quite another metal, and was so disgusted at the victory achieved by
the vulgar that she threw up her office in disgust, and declared that
the downfall of England commenced with the opening of Richmond Park.

The Princess offended more persons than the mere democracy by her
arrogance as Ranger. The evidence of Walpole is conclusive on this
subject, and is worth citing, often as I have had to quote from his
lively pages. In 1752, he writes: ‘Princess Emily, who succeeded my
brother in the Rangership of Richmond Park, has imitated her brother
William’s unpopularity, and disobliged the whole country, by refusal
of tickets and liberties that had always been allowed. They are at law
with her, and have printed in the ‘Evening Post’ a strong memorial,
which she had refused to receive. The high-sheriff of Surrey, to whom
she had denied a ticket, but on better thought had sent one, refused
it, and said he had taken his part. Lord Brooke, who had applied for
one, was told he couldn’t have one; and, to add to the affront, it was
signified that the Princess had refused one to my Lord Chancellor. Your
old nobility don’t understand such comparisons. But the most remarkable
event happened to her about three weeks ago. One Mr. Bird, a rich
gentleman near the palace, was applied to by the late Queen for a piece
of ground that lay convenient for a walk she was making. He replied
that it was not proper for him to pretend to make a queen a present,
but if she would do what she pleased with the ground he would be
content with the acknowledgment of a key and two bucks a year. This was
religiously observed till the era of her Royal Highness’s reign. The
bucks were denied, and he himself once shut out, on pretence it was
fence month (the breeding-time, when tickets used to be excluded, keys
never). The Princess was soon after going through his grounds to town.
She found a padlock on his gate. She ordered it to be broken open.
Mr. Shaw, her deputy, begged a respite till he could go for the key.
He found Mr. Bird at home. “Lord, sir, here is a strange mistake! The
Princess is at the gate, and it is padlocked.” “Mistake! no mistake at
all. I made the road; the ground is my own property. Her Royal Highness
has thought fit to break the agreement which her royal mother made
with me; nobody goes through my grounds but those I choose should.”
Translate this to your Florentines,’ adds Walpole to our legate in
Tuscany; ‘try if you can make them conceive how pleasant it is to treat
blood royal thus.’

George II., who was more liberal, in many respects, than any of his
children, save when these affected liberality for political purposes,
finally anticipated the award of law by ordering the park to be thrown
open to the public in the month of December 1752. But he could not have
kept it closed.

Walpole speaks of the Princess Amelia as if he had never forgotten
or forgiven this, or any other of her faults. According to his
description, she was for ever prying impertinently into the affairs
of other people; silly, garrulous, and importantly communicative of
trifles not worth the telling. He paints her as arrogant and insolent;
inexcusable, it would seem, in these last respects, simply because
she no longer possessed either power or beauty. But these were only
eccentricities; there was much of sterling goodness beneath them. She
was nobly generous and royally charitable. She was a steady friend and
an admirable mistress. In face of such virtues, mere human failings may
be forgiven.

Walpole graphically and dramatically describes a scene at her
loo-table. The year is 1762, the month December. ‘On Thursday,’ he
says, ‘I was summoned to the Princess Emily’s loo. _Loo_ she called
it; _politics_ it was. The second thing she said to me was: “How were
you the two long days?” “Madam, I was only there the first.” “And how
did you vote?” “Madam, I went away.” “Upon my word, that was carving
well!” Not a very pleasant apostrophe to one who certainly never was a
time-server. Well, we sat down. She said: “I hear Wilkinson is turned
out, and that Sir Edward Winnington is to have his place. Who is he?”
addressing herself to me, who sat over against her. “He is the late Mr.
Winnington’s heir, madam.” “Did you like that Winnington?” “I can’t
but say I did, madam.” She shrugged up her shoulders, and continued:
“Winnington was originally a great Tory. What do you think he was when
he died?” “Madam, I believe what all people are in place.” “Pray, Mr.
Montague, do you perceive anything rude or offensive in this?” Here
then she flew into the most outrageous passion, coloured like scarlet,
and said: “None of your wit. I don’t understand joking on these
subjects. What do you think your father would have said if he had heard
you say so? He would have murdered you, and you would have deserved
it.” I was quite confounded and amazed. It was impossible to explain
myself across a loo-table, as she is so deaf. There was no making a
reply to a woman and a princess, and particularly for me, who have made
it a rule, when I must converse with royalties, to treat them with
the greatest respect, since it is all the court they will ever have
from me. I said to those on each side of me: “What can I do? I cannot
explain myself now.” Well, I held my peace; and so did she, for a
quarter of an hour. Then she began with me again, examined me upon the
whole debate, and at last asked me directly which I thought the best
speaker, my father or Mr. Pitt? If possible, this was more distressing
than her anger. I replied, it was impossible to compare two men so
different; that I believed my father was more a man of business than
Mr. Pitt. “Well, but Mr. Pitt’s language?” “Madam, I have always been
remarkable for admiring Mr. Pitt’s language.” At last the unpleasant
scene ended; but as we were going away I went close to her and said:
“Madam, I must beg leave to explain myself. Your Royal Highness has
seemed to be very angry with me, and I am sure I did not mean to offend
you; all that I intended to say was, that I supposed Tories were Whigs
when they got places.” “Oh!” said she; “I am very much obliged to you.
Indeed, I was very angry.” Why she was angry, or what she thought I
meant, I do not know to this moment, unless she supposed that I would
have hinted that the Duke of Newcastle and the Opposition were not men
of consummate virtue, and had not lost their places out of principle.
The very reverse was at that time in my head, for I meant that the
Tories would be just as loyal as the Whigs when they got anything by
it.’

The Princess was not ladylike in her habits. She had a fondness for
loitering about her stables, and would spend hours there in attendance
upon her sick horses. She of course acquired the ways of those whose
lives pass in stables and stable matters. She was manly, too, in her
dress. Calamette would have liked to have painted her, as that artist
has painted the frock-coat portrait of Madame Dudevant (George Sand).
He would have picturesquely portrayed her in the round hat and German
riding-habit, ‘standing about’ at her breakfast, sipping her chocolate,
or taking spoonsful of snuff. Of this she was inordinately fond, but
she accounted her box sacred. A _Noli me tangere_ was engraven on it,
but the injunction was not always held sacred. Once, on one of the
card-tables in the Assembly Rooms at Bath, her box lay open, and an old
general officer standing near inconsiderately took a pinch from it.
The indignant Princess immediately called an attendant, who, by her
directions, flung the remainder of the contents of the box into the
fire.

In June 1786, Walpole, then nearly a septuagenarian, borrowed a
dress-coat and sword, in order to dine at Gunnersbury with the
Princess. The company comprised the Prince of Wales, the Prince of
Mecklenburgh, the Duke of Portland, Lord Clanbrassil, Lord and Lady
Clermont, Lord and Lady Southampton, Lord Pelham, and Mrs. Howe. Some
of the party retired early. Others, more dissipated, sat up playing
commerce till ten. ‘I am afraid I was tired,’ says Horace. The lively
old Princess asked him for some verses on Gunnersbury. ‘I pleaded being
superannuated. She would not excuse me. I promised she should have an
ode on her next birthday, which diverted the Prince; but all would not
do. So, as I came home, I made some stanzas not worth quoting, and sent
them to her by breakfast next morning.’

In the October following, the daughter of Caroline and George II. died
at her house in Cavendish Square, at the east corner of Harley Street.
Card-playing and charity were the beloved pursuits of her old age. Her
death took place on the last day of October 1786, in the 76th year of
her age. Her remains lie in Henry VII.’s chapel in Westminster Abbey.

But the decease of this aged princess appeared a minor calamity
compared with the illness which now threatened the King. In presence
of this the Queen forgot Mrs. Trimmer and her Sunday Schools;
Gainsborough, whom she patronised; public theatricals, and private
readings. The illness had been long threatening.

In the ‘Memoirs of the Court and Cabinet of George III.,’ by the Duke
of Buckingham and Chandos, the elder sons of Queen Charlotte are spoken
of, and particularly with reference to this period immediately previous
to the King’s illness, in a most unfavourable light. The Prince of
Wales, we are told, like his two predecessors in the same title, was
active in his opposition to the measures of the cabinet and crown. The
same spirit, with as little prudence to moderate and more ill-feeling
to embitter it, was as lively in the man as in the boy. The Prince was,
however, at least consistent in his opposition. ‘The Duke of York,’
says Lord Bulkeley, writing to the Marquis of Buckingham, ‘talks both
ways, and I think will end in opposition. His conduct is as bad as
possible. He plays very deep and loses, and his company is thought
_mauvais ton_. I am told that the King and Queen begin now to feel “how
much sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have an ingrate child.”
When the Duke of York is completely _done up_ in the public opinion, I
should not be surprised if the Prince of Wales assume a different style
of behaviour. Indeed, I am told, he already affects to see that his
brother’s style is too bad.’

Public business, as far as its transaction through ministers was
concerned, became greatly impeded through the illness which had
attacked the King. It had been brought on by his imprudence in
remaining a whole day in wet stockings, and it exhibited itself not
merely in spasmodic attacks of the stomach, but in an agitation and
flurry of spirits which caused great uneasiness to the Queen, and
which, both for domestic and political reasons, it was desirous should
not be known.

The very attempt at concealment gave rise to various alarming reports.
The best answer that could be devised for the latter was to allow the
King to appear at the levée at the end of October. The Queen suffered
much when this plan was resolved upon; and it had the result, which
she expected, of over-fatiguing the King and rendering him worse. At
the close of the levée, the King remarked to the Duke of Leeds and Lord
Thurlow, the latter of whom had advised him to take care of himself
and return to Windsor: ‘You then, too, my Lord Thurlow, forsake me,
and suppose me ill beyond recovery; but whatever you or Mr. Pitt may
think or feel, I, that am born a gentleman, shall never lay my head
on my last pillow in peace and quiet as long as I remember the loss
of my American Colonies.’ This loss appears to have weighed heavily
on his mind, and to have been one of the great causes by which it was
ultimately overthrown.

Early in November he became delirious, but the medical men, Warren,
Heberden, and Sir G. Baker, could not tell whether the malady would
turn, at a critical point, for life or death; or whether, if for the
former, the patient would be afflicted or not with permanent loss of
reason. The disease was now settled in the brain, with high fever. The
Princes of the Blood were all assembled at Windsor, in the room next to
that occupied by the sufferer, and a regency bestowing kingly power on
the Prince of Wales was already talked of.

When the fact of the King’s illness could no longer be with propriety
concealed, the alarm without the royal residence was great, and the
disorder scarcely less within. The most graphic picture of the state of
affairs is drawn by Lord Bulkeley. ‘The Queen,’ he says, ‘sees nobody
but Lady Constance, Lady Charlotte Finch, Miss Burney, and her two
sons, who, I am afraid, do not announce the state of the King’s health
with that caution and delicacy which should be observed to the wife and
the mother, and it is to them only that she looks up. I understand her
behaviour is very feeling, decent, and proper. The Prince has taken
the command at Windsor, in consequence of which there is no command
whatsoever; and it was not till yesterday that orders were given to
two grooms of the bedchamber to wait for the future, and receive the
inquiries of the numbers who inquire; nor would this have been done
if Pitt and Lord Sydney had not come down in person to beg that such
orders might be given. Unless it was done yesterday, no orders were
given for prayers in the churches, nor for the observance of other
forms, such as stopping the playhouses, &c., highly proper (?) at such
a juncture. What the consequence of this heavy misfortune will be to
government, you are more likely to know than I am; but I cannot help
thinking that the Prince will find a greater difficulty in making a
sweep of the present ministry in his character of Fiduciary Regent
than in that of King. The stocks are already fallen two per cent., and
the alarms of the people of London are very little flattering to the
Prince. I am told that message after message has been sent to Fox, who
is touring with Mrs. Armistead on the continent; but I have not heard
that the Prince has sent for him, or has given any orders to Fox’s
friends to that effect. The system of favouritism is much changed since
Lord Bute’s and the Princess Dowager’s time; for Jack Payne, Master
Leigh, an Eton schoolboy, and Master Barry, brother to Lord Barrymore,
and Mrs. Fitz, form the cabinet at Carlton House.’

The afflicted King, for a time, grew worse, then the Opposition
affected to believe that his case was by no means desperate. Their
insincerity was proved as symptoms of amelioration began to show
themselves. _Then_ they not only denied the fact of the King’s improved
health, but they detailed all the incidents they could pick up of
his period of imbecility, short madness, or longer delirium. But,
in justice to the Opposition, it must be remarked that the greatest
traitor was not on _that_ side, but on the King’s. The Lord Chancellor
Thurlow was intriguing with the Opposition when he was affecting to be
a faithful servant of the crown. His treachery, however, was well known
to both parties; but Pitt kept it from the knowledge of George III.,
lest it should too deeply pain or too dangerously excite him. When
Thurlow had, subsequently, the effrontery to exclaim in the House of
Lords, ‘When I forget my King, may my God forget me!’ a voice from one
behind him is said to have murmured, ‘Forget you! He will see you d--
d first.’

There was assuredly no decency in the conduct of the heir-apparent or
of his next brother. They were gaily flying from club to club, party to
party, and did not take the trouble even to assume the sentiment which
they could not feel. ‘If we were together,’ says Lord Grenville, in a
letter inserted in the ‘Memoirs,’ ‘I would tell you some particulars
of the Prince of Wales’s behaviour towards the King and Queen, within
these few days, that would make your blood run cold, but I dare not
admit them to paper because of my informant.’ It was said that if the
King could only recover sufficiently to learn and comprehend what had
been said and done during his illness, he would hear enough to drive
him again into insanity. The conduct of his elder sons was marked,
not only by its savage inhumanity, but by an indifference to public
and private opinion which distinguishes those fools who are not only
without wits, but who are also without hearts. When the Parliament was
divided by fierce party strife, as to whose hands should be confided
the power and responsibilities of the regency, the occasion should have
disposed those likely to be endowed with that supreme power to seek a
decent, if temporary, retirement from the gaze of the world. Not so the
Prince of Wales and the Duke of York. They kept open houses, and gaily
welcomed every new ally. They were constant guests at epicurean clubs
and convivial meetings. They both took to deep play, and both were as
fully plucked as they deserved. There was in them neither propriety of
feeling nor affectation of it.

The condition of the Queen was deplorable, and a succession of fits
almost prostrated her as low as her royal husband. The Prince of
Wales himself ‘seemed frightened,’ says Mr. Neville to the Marquis of
Buckingham, ‘and was blooded yesterday,’ November 6, the second day of
the King’s delirious condition; but as phlebotomy was a practice of
this princely person when in love, one cannot well determine whether
his pallor arose from filial or some less respectable affection.

Up to this time the King had grown worse, chiefly through total, or
nearly total, loss of sleep. He bewailed this with a hoarse, rapid, yet
kindly tone of voice; maintaining that he was well, or that to be so he
needed but the blessing of sleep. The Queen paced her apartment with a
painful demonstration of impatient despair in her manner; and if, by
way of solace, she attempted to read aloud to her children or ladies,
any passage that reminded her of her condition and prospects made her
burst into tears.

Previous to the first night of the King’s delirium he conducted, as
he had always been accustomed to do, the Queen to her dressing-room,
and there, a hundred times over, requested her not to disturb him if
she should find him asleep. The urgent repetition showed a mind nearly
overthrown, but the King calmly and affectionately remarked that he
needed not physicians, for the Queen was the best physician he could
have. ‘She is my best friend,’ said he; ‘where could I find a better?’

The alarm became greater when the fever left the King, after he had
three times taken James’s powders, but without producing any relief
to the brain. The Queen secluded herself from all persons save her
ladies and the two eldest Princes. These, as Lord Bulkeley said, did
not announce to her the state of the King’s health with the caution
and delicacy due to the wife and mother who now depended on them. This
dependence was so complete that the Prince of Wales, as before said,
took the command of everything at Windsor, one result of which was a
disappearance of everything like order. The Queen’s dependence on such
a son was rather compulsory than voluntary. When he first came down to
Windsor, from Brighton, the meeting was the very coldest possible, and
when he had stated whence he came her first question was when he meant
to return. However, it is said that when the King broke out, at dinner,
into his first fit of positive delirium, the Prince burst into tears.

The sufferer was occasionally better, but the relapses were frequent.
The Queen now slept in a bed-room adjoining that occupied by the King.
He once became possessed with the idea that she had been forcibly
removed from the bed, and in the middle of the night he came into the
Queen’s room with a candle in his hand, to satisfy himself that she
was still near him. He remained half-an-hour, talking incoherently,
hoarsely, but good-naturedly, and then went away. The Queen’s nights
were nights of sleeplessness and tears.

In the Queen’s room could be heard every expression uttered by the
King, and they were only such as could give pain to the listener. His
state was at length so bad that the Queen was counselled to change her
apartments, both for her sake and the King’s. She obeyed, reluctantly
and despairingly, and confined herself to a single and distant room.
In the meanwhile, Dr. Warren was sent for, but the King resolutely
refused to see him. He hated all physicians, declared that he himself
was only nervous, and that otherwise he was not ill. Dr. Warren,
however, contrived to be near enough to be able to give an opinion, and
the Queen waited impatiently in her apartment to hear what that opinion
might be. When she was told, after long waiting, that Dr. Warren had
left the castle, after communicating his opinion to the Prince of
Wales, she felt the full force of her altered position, and that she
was nor longer first in the castle next to the King.

The Prince of Wales, the Duke of York, some of the medical men, and
other gentlemen kept a sort of watch in the room adjacent to that
in which the King lay, and listened attentively to all he uttered.
He surprised them, one night, by suddenly appearing among them, and
roughly demanding what they were there for. They endeavoured to pacify
him, but in vain. He treated them all as enemies; but not happening
to see his second son, who had discreetly kept out of sight, but was
present, he said, touchingly, ‘Freddy is my friend; yes, _he_ is my
friend!’ Sir George Baker timidly persuaded the poor King to return
to his bed-room; but the latter forced the doctor into a corner, and
told him that he was an old woman, who could not distinguish between a
mere nervous malady and any other. The Prince, by sign and whispers,
endeavoured to induce the other gentlemen to lead his father away.
All were reluctant, and the King remained a considerable time, till
at last a ‘Mr. Fairly’ took him boldly by the arm, addressed him
respectfully but firmly, declaring that his life was in peril if he did
not go again to bed, and at length subdued the King, who gave himself
up like a wearied child. These details were eagerly made known to the
Queen by the Prince with ‘energetic violence.’ Her Majesty’s condition
was indeed melancholy, but at its worst she never forgot to perform
little acts of kindness to her daughters and others. The conduct of
the Princesses was such as became their situation. They, with their
mother, had fallen from their first greatness, and the Prince of Wales
was supreme master. Nothing was done but by his orders. The Queen
ceased to have any authority beyond the reach of her own ladies.
‘She spent the whole day,’ says Miss Burney, ‘in patient sorrow and
retirement with her daughters!’

The King expressed a very natural desire to see these daughters, but he
was not indulged. Indeed, the practice observed towards him appears,
if the accounts may be trusted, extremely injudicious. The public seem
to have thought so; for, on stopping Sir George Baker’s carriage,
and hearing from him that the King’s condition was very bad, they
exclaimed, ‘More shame for you!’

The Prince of Wales was extremely desirous to remove the King from
Windsor to Kew. The King was violently averse from such removal, and
the Queen opposed it until she was informed that it had the sanction
of the physicians. Kew was said to be quieter and more adapted for
an invalid. The difficulty was, how he was to get there. Of his own
will he would never go. The Prince and physicians contrived a plan.
The Queen and Princesses were to leave Windsor early, and, as soon
as the King should be told of their departure, his uneasiness would
be calmed by an assurance that he would find them at Kew. The Queen
yielded reluctantly, on being told that it would be for her consort’s
advantage; and she and her daughters proceeded, without state and in
profound grief, to Kew. Small accommodation did they find there; for
half the apartments were locked up, by the Prince’s orders, while on
the doors of the few allotted to the Queen and her slender retinue,
some illustrious groom of the chambers had scratched in chalk the
names of those by whom they were to be occupied! Night had set in
before the King arrived. He had been wheedled away from Windsor, on
promise of being allowed to see the Queen and their daughters at Kew.
He performed the journey in silent content; and, when he arrived--
the promise was broken! The Queen and children were again told that
it was all for the best; but a night, passed by the King in violence
and raving, showed how deeply he felt the cruel insult to which he had
been subjected. In the meantime, preparations to name the Prince regent
were going on, the King’s friends being extremely cautious that due
reserve should be made for their master’s rights, in case of what they
did not yet despair of--his recovery. His physicians were divided in
opinion upon the point; but they all agreed that the malady, which had
begun with a natural discharge of humour from the legs, had, by the
King’s imprudence, been driven to the bowels, and that thence it had
been repelled upon the brain. They endeavoured, without too sanguinely
hoping, to bring the malady again down to the legs.

Their efforts were fruitless. Addington and Sir Lucas Pepys were more
sanguine than their colleagues, of a recovery; but the condition of the
patient grew daily more serious, yet with intervals of calm lucidity.
It was at this juncture that Dr. Willis, of Lincoln, was called in.
This measure gave great relief to the Queen; for she knew that cases
of lunacy formed Dr. Willis’s _specialité_, and she entertained great
hopes from the treatment he should adopt. The doctor was accompanied
by his two sons. They were (and the father especially) fine men, full
of cheerfulness, firm in manner, entertaining respect for the personal
character of the King, but caring not a jot for his rank. They at once
took the royal patient into their care, and with such good success--
never unnecessarily opposing him, but winning, rather than compelling,
him to follow the course best suited for his health--that, on the
10th of December, the Queen had the gratification to see him, from the
window of her apartment, walking in the garden alone, the Willises
being in attendance at a little distance from him.

There was a party who desired least of all things the recovery of the
monarch. The Prince of Wales, during his father’s malady, took Lord
Lothian into a darkened room, adjacent to that of the King, in order
that the obsequious lord might hear the ravings of the sovereign, and
depose to the fact, if such deposition should be necessary!

The year 1789 opened propitiously. On its very first morning the poor
King was heard praying, aloud and fervently, for his own recovery.
A report of how he had passed the night was made to the Queen every
morning, and generally by Miss Burney. The state of the King varied so
much, and there was so much of painful detail that it was desirable
should be concealed, that the task allotted to Miss Burney was
sometimes one of great delicacy. On the worst occasions she appears to
have spared her royal mistress’s feelings with much tact and judgment,
and her face was the index of her message whenever she was the bearer
of favourable intelligence. The highest gratification experienced by
the Queen at the period when hopes revived of the King’s recovery, was
when she heard that her husband had remembered on the 18th of January
that it was her birthday, and had expressed a desire to see her. This
joy, however, was forbidden him for a time, and apparently not without
reason. A short period only had elapsed after the birthday when the
King suddenly encountered Miss Burney in Kew Gardens, where she had
ventured to take exercise, under the impression that the sick monarch
had been taken to Richmond. As it was the Queen’s desire, derived
from the physicians, that no one should attempt to come in the King’s
way, or address him if they did, Miss Burney no sooner became aware
of whom she had thus unexpectedly encountered, than she turned round
and fairly took to her heels. The King, calling to her by name, and
enraptured to see again the face of one whom he knew and esteemed,
pursued as swiftly as she fled. The Willises followed hard upon the
King, not without some alarm. Miss Burney kept the lead in breathless
affright. In vain was she called upon to stop: she ran on until a
peremptory order from Dr. Willis, and a brief assurance that the
agitation would be most injurious to the King, brought her at once to a
stand-still. She then turned and advanced to meet the King, as if she
had not before been aware of his presence. _He_ manifested his intense
delight by opening wide his arms, closing them around her, and kissing
her warmly on each cheek. Poor Miss Burney was overwhelmed, and the
Willises were delighted. They imagined that the King was doing nothing
unusual with him in the days of his ordinary health, and were pleased
to see him fulfilling, as they thought, an old observance.

The King would not relax his hold of his young friend. He entered
eagerly into conversation, if that may be deemed conversation in which
he alone spoke, or was only answered by words sparingly used and
soothingly intoned. He talked rapidly, hoarsely, but only occasionally
incoherently. His subjects of conversation took a wide range. Family
affairs, political business, Miss Burney’s domestic interests, foreign
matters, music,--these and many other topics made up the staple of
his discourse. He was at least rational on the subject of music,
for then he commenced singing from his favourite Handel, but with
voice so hoarse and ill-attuned that he frightened his audience. Dr.
Willis suggested that the interview should close; but this the King
energetically opposed, and his medical adviser thought it best to let
him have his way. He went on, then, wildly as before, but manifesting
much shrewdness; showed that he was aware of his condition, and
expressed more than suspicion of assaults made upon his authority
during his own incapacity. He talked of whom he would promote when
he was fully restored to health, and whom he would dismiss--made
allusion to a thousand projects which he intended to realise, and
attained a climax of threatening, with a serio-comic expression, that
when he should again be King he would rule with a rod of iron.

After various attempts at interruption, the Willises at length
succeeded in obtaining his consent to return to the house, and Miss
Burney hastened to the Queen’s apartment to inform her of all that had
passed. The Queen listened to her tale with breathless interest; made
her repeat every incident; and augured so well from all she heard, that
she readily forgave Miss Burney her involuntary infraction of a very
peremptory law. That the Queen’s augury was well founded may be seen
in the fact that, on the 12th of February following, King and Queen
together walked in Kew Gardens--he, happy and nervous; _she_, in
much the same condition; and both, as grateful as mortals could be for
inestimable blessings vouchsafed to them.

During the progress of the King’s illness, while all was sombre and
silent at Kew, political intrigue was loud and active elsewhere. The
voice of the Queen herself was not altogether mute in this intrigue.
She had rights to defend, she had spirit to assert them, and she had
friends to afford her aid in enabling her to establish them.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ‘FIRST GENTLEMAN’ AND HIS PRINCIPLES.

Inconsistency of the Whigs--The Tories become radical reformers
--Party spirit--A restricted Regency scorned by the Prince
--Compelled to accept it--The King’s rapid recovery--
Incredulity of the Princes in regard to the King’s recovery--
A family scene at Kew--Ball at White’s Club on the King’s
recovery, and unbecoming conduct of the Princes--Thanksgiving
at St. Paul’s--Indecent conduct of the Princes--Grief of the
King--Expectations of the Prince disappointed--Caricatures
and satires.

When the Queen first changed her apartments at Windsor, her
exclamation, as she entered her new abode, was an assertion of her
desolate helplessness, and a deploring hesitation as to what course she
was bound to take. She was soon stirred to action. Her eldest son was
active in the field against her, and her spirit was speedily aroused
to protect and further her own interests. The Parliament had been made
acquainted with the condition of the King, by a report from the privy
council. With this the legislature was not satisfied. Parliamentary
committees sat, before which bodies the King’s physicians made detailed
depositions, whereby the King’s existing incapacity to transact public
business was established beyond doubt. Upon this the Whigs, with Fox
at their head (he had hurried home from Italy, deplorably ill, to
perform this service for the Prince of Wales), declared that the royal
incapacity caused the government of the kingdom to fall, as a matter
of right, upon the heir-apparent. This assertion, which is a full
and complete embracing of the law of divine right, and a trampling
under foot of the authority of the parliament, was made in 1788, just
one hundred years after the grandfathers of these very Whigs had
established the authority of the people in parliament above that of the
crown, and made the King who reigned and did not govern, merely the
first magistrate of a free people.

On the other hand the Tories, with Pitt for their leader, declared
that thus to annihilate the sovereignty of the people in parliament
was treason against the constitution, which, in a juncture like the
present, bestowed on the people’s representatives the right of naming
by whom they would be governed. Thus the Tories were in truth radical
reformers; and, in truth, quite as serious, both parties being equally
insincere, fighting only for place, and caring little for aught beyond.

The whole country, upon this, became Tory in spirit--as Toryism had
now developed itself. Fox in vain explained that he meant that the
administration of the government belonged to the Prince of Wales, only
if Parliament sanctioned it. In vain the Prince of Wales, through his
brother the Duke of York, proclaimed in the House of Lords that he
made no claim whatever, but was, in fact, the very humble and obedient
servant of the people.

It was precisely because he did assert this claim that the Queen and
her friends were alarmed. Should the Prince be endowed with the powers
of regent, without restriction, the Queen would be reduced to a cypher,
Pitt would lose his place, the ministry would be overthrown with him,
and, should the King recover, difficulties might arise in the way of
the recovery also of his authority.

Party spirit ran high on this matter, but there was little patriotism
to give it dignity. Among the ministry, even, waverers were to be
found, who were on the Prince’s side when the King’s case seemed
desperate, and who veered round to the Sovereign’s party as soon as
there appeared a hope of his recovery.

A restricted regency the Prince of Wales affected to look upon with
ineffable scorn. His royal brothers manifested more fraternal sympathy
than filial affection, by pretending to think their brother’s scorn
well-founded. They all changed their minds as soon as they saw, by
Pitt’s parliamentary majorities, that they could not help themselves.
Ultimately, the Prince consented, with a very ill grace, to the terms
which Pitt and the Parliament were disposed to force upon him. Never
did man submit to terms which he loathed with such bitterness of
disappointed spirit as the Prince did to the following conditions;
namely:--

That the King’s person was to be entrusted to the Queen; her Majesty
was to be also invested with the control of the royal household,
and with the consequent patronage of the four hundred places
connected therewith, including the appointments of lord-steward,
lord-chamberlain, and master of the horse. The Prince, as regent, was
further to be debarred from granting any office, reversion, or pension,
except during the King’s pleasure; and the privilege of conferring the
peerage was not to be allowed to him at all.

With a fiercely savage heart did he accept these terms; and when the
Irish Parliament, in its eagerness to encourage dissension in England,
invited him to take upon himself the unrestricted administration of the
Irish government during the royal incapacity, the warmth and ardent
gratitude expressed by the Prince in his reply, showed how willingly he
would have accepted the invitation if he had only dared.

And now the day was appointed for bringing the Regency Bill regularly
before Parliament--the 3rd of February--and the clauses were
already under discussion when, a fortnight later, the lord chancellor
(Thurlow) announced to the house that the King was declared by his
medical attendants to be in a state of convalescence.

When Prince Henry was detected in taking the crown from the head of his
invalid and slumbering father, he met the reproof which ensued with
tender expressions of sorrow and respect. There was little of similar
depth of feeling when the Prince of Wales, with the Duke of York, saw
his father for the first time after his recovery. Queen Charlotte alone
was present with her husband and sons. The last entered the King’s
room, and issued therefrom, without a trace of emotion upon their faces
or in their bearing. The chagrin with which they saw the power which
they had coveted slip from them, might have taught them wisdom, but
it only drove them to wine, cards, masquerades, and the profligacy
which goes in company therewith. They were not as men rejoicing that
Heaven had been merciful to their father and King, but as men striving
to forget, amid a hurricane of vicious pleasures, that their sire
had really been the object of such mercy. The Prince had indeed some
misgivings as to what George III. might think of his conduct during
the King’s malady; but he affected to assert that it would meet with
approbation, while that of Mr. Pitt, he thought, would receive from the
monarch a strong reproof. The Duke of York was far less careful as to
the paternal, and as little to the public, opinion. He ran up scores in
open tennis-courts with well-known black-legs, and promised payment as
soon as he had received from his father certain arrears of revenue due
to him as Bishop of Osnaburg.

These princely sons were among the last to acquiesce in the opinion
that their father was sane, and competent again to exercise his
constitutional authority. Lord Grenville thus graphically describes a
family scene at Kew:--‘The two Princes were at Kew yesterday, and saw
the King in the Queen’s apartment. She was present the whole time,
a precaution for which, God knows, there was but too much reason.
They kept him waiting a considerable time before they arrived, and
after they left him drove immediately to Mrs. Armistead’s in Park
Street, in hopes of finding Fox there, to give him an account of what
had passed. He not being in town, they amused themselves yesterday
evening with spreading about a report that the King was still out of
his mind, and with quoting phrases of his to which they gave that
turn. It is certainly a decent and becoming thing, that when all the
King’s physicians, all his attendants, and his two principal ministers
agree in pronouncing him well, his two sons should deny it! And the
reflection that the Prince of Wales was to have had the government, and
the Duke of York the command of the army, during his illness, makes
this representation of his actual state, when coming from them, more
peculiarly proper and edifying! I bless God that it is some time before
these matured and ripened virtues will be visited upon us in the form
of a government.’[6]

In the meantime the monarch got so undeniably well and competent to
govern, that even his nearest and most expectant heirs could no longer
deny the, to them, most unwelcome truth. A ball was given by White’s
Club to celebrate this event, and the Princes of course were present
to show how they were gratified by it! The ball was announced to take
place at the Pantheon, and the Prince of Wales, who had engaged to
attend, previously did his wretched utmost to render the attendance of
others as thin as possible, by canvassing all his friends and admirers
to keep away. The club had transmitted to the Prince and the Duke of
York a large number of tickets for the accommodation of themselves and
the acquaintances to whom, it was presumed, they might be desirous to
pay the compliment of presenting them with admissions. The brothers
sent the whole of these tickets to Hookham’s in Bond Street for sale!
The club, on hearing of this insulting proceeding, and to prevent the
admission of improper persons at a _fête_ which had a private and
exclusive character, intimated by advertisement that no ticket would
entitle its holder to admittance which did not bear on it the signature
of a subscriber to the ball, or of the person to whom the committee had
sent such ticket. This did not teach the Duke decency. He affixed his
princely title to the tickets, to make them saleable and valid; and he
himself attended a ball given expressly in his honour, at the Horse
Guards.

The first, and graceful, feeling of the Monarch, that he was bound to
make a public expression of his thanks to Heaven for his recovery,
caused his ministers and friends, and particularly the Queen, much
embarrassment. They were afraid of the excitement and its probable
consequences. But George III. was now in the condition once noticed by
Hunter, the surgeon, in himself. ‘My mind,’ said the latter, ‘is still
inclined to odd thoughts, and I am tempted to talk foolishly; but I can
govern myself.’ The King was in better health than is here indicated,
and he bore himself throughout the day--the 25th of June, 1789--as
became a grateful man, abounding in piety, and not dispossessed of
wisdom. The disgraceful rivalry of his eldest son had almost marred
the day. The followers of the latter were posted along the first part
of the route between the palace and St. Paul’s, and their cheers,
associated with his name, put him in high good humour, which was
however converted into as high displeasure when the running fire of
cheers between Charing Cross and the cathedral was raised only in
honour of his father. His conduct, and indeed that of his brothers York
and Cumberland, as also of their cousin the Duke of Gloucester, in the
cathedral, during service, disgusted all who witnessed it. They talked
aloud to one another during the whole otherwise solemn proceeding; and
it is only to be regretted that no man was present, with courage equal
to his authority, to sternly reprove, or summarily remove, them.

The scene at St. Paul’s, as regarded the King himself, was at once
magnificent and touching. The internal arrangements were excellent,
and the King was composed and devout throughout the service; attentive
to the latter, and especially to the anthem, which he had himself
selected. His air of sincerity and gratitude was most marked. The Queen
was much affected at the solemnity of their first entrance; and the
King, who looked reduced, scarcely less so. Lady Uxbridge, who was in
attendance on the Queen, nearly fainted away. ‘As the King went out
of the church,’ writes Mr. Bernard to the Marquis of Rockingham, ‘he
seemed to be in good spirits, and talked much to the persons about
him; but he stared and laughed less than I ever knew him on a public
occasion.’ Mr. Fox and most of the Opposition party were there; and
while the Queen returned thanks for the King’s recovery, as she looked
upon the sons near her, who interrupted the solemnity of the scene by
their talking, she might have felt that she had other things to be
thankful for also. She must have known, by the conduct of the Prince
of Wales, that, had the King’s illness lasted much longer, he would
have accepted the invitation of the Irish Parliament, and assumed a
regency in Ireland, with sovereign power. He would have accomplished
then what O’Connell, so long after, failed in achieving--a government
altogether independent of, and in antagonism with, England.

After the return of the procession the Prince of Wales and Duke of
York entered Carlton House, where, having put on regimentals, they
proceeded to the ground in front of Buckingham House, at the windows
of which the royal family had stationed themselves, the King and
Queen being most prominent; and there, heading the whole brigade of
guards, fired a _feu-de-joie_ in honour of the occasion. The grave Lord
Bulkeley, a spectator of the scene, thus describes the remainder of the
proceedings: ‘The Prince, before the King got into his carriage--which
the whole line waited for before they filed off--went off on a sudden
with one hundred of the common people, with Mr. Weltje in the middle
of them, huzzaing him; and this was done evidently to lead if possible
a greater number and to make it penetrate into Buckingham House. The
breach,’ adds Lord Bulkeley, ‘is so very wide between the King and
Prince, that it seems to me to be a great weakness to allow him any
communication with him whatever; for, under the mask of attention to
their father and mother, the Prince and Duke of York commit every
possible outrage, and show every insult they can devise to them.... I
believe the King’s mind is torn to pieces by his sons,’ adds the noble
lord. And then, in allusion to the King’s expressed desire to visit
Hanover, the writer remarks thereon: ‘He expects to relieve himself by
a new scene, and by getting out of the way and hearing of the Prince
of Wales, with the hope of being able to detach the Duke of York, whom
he fondly and doatingly loves, and prevailing on him to marry on the
Continent; of which there is no chance, for in my opinion he is just
as bad as the Prince, and gives no hopes of any change or amendment
whatever in thought, word, or deed.’

A very short time after the King’s recovery the first remark made by
the sufferer, on growing convalescent, to Lord Thurlow, was--‘What
_has_ happened may happen again. For God’s sake! make some permanent
and immediate provision for such a regency as may prevent the country
from being involved in disputes and difficulties similar to those just
over.’ Thurlow and Pitt agreed on the expediency of the measure, but
were at issue relative to the details. When the measure _did_ come
before Parliament, Queen Charlotte was equally indignant against the
Prince of Wales and against those who advocated his claims. It may be
added here that the conduct of her three eldest sons continued to be of
the most insulting nature to the Queen. They could not forgive her for
allegedly standing between them and the power which they coveted. From
congratulatory balls, at which she had announced her intention to be
present, they kept away all persons over whom they had any influence;
and at a ball given by the French ambassador on the 30th of May the
Prince of Wales and the Dukes of York and Clarence would neither dance
nor remain to supper, lest they should have the appearance of paying
the smallest attention to her Majesty, who was present.

The assertion of the Prince of Wales that his royal father would
approve of what he had done, and censure Pitt, proved to be totally
unfounded. The King conveyed to the Parliament, through the lord
chancellor, his approval of the measures taken by ministers, and
expressed his gratitude that so much zeal had been manifested by them
and Parliament for the public good and for the honour and interest
of the crown. Following this came a sweep of all who held removeable
offices under the crown, and who had opposed the Queen’s interests
and the King’s cause by supporting the views of the Prince. Among the
ejected were the Duke of Queensberry, the Marquis of Lothian, Lord
Carteret, and Lord Malmesbury.

Mr. Wright, in his ‘History of England under the House of Hanover,
illustrated from the caricatures and satires of the day,’ states that
the popularity of the ministers did not increase in the same proportion
as that of the King; for the reason that though the people approved
of the constitutional measures they had adopted at the late crisis,
the same people very well knew that they were as little impelled
by patriotism as their adversaries. Mr. Wright notices ‘a rather
celebrated caricature,’ by Gillray, entitled ‘Minions of the Moon,’
published a little later. It is dated the 23rd of December 1791, but
is generally understood to refer to this affair. It is a parody on
Fuseli’s picture of ‘The Weird Sisters,’ who are represented with the
features of Dundas, Pitt, and Thurlow. They are contemplating the
disk of the moon, which represents, on the bright side, the face of
the Queen, and on the shrouded side that of the King, now overcast
with mental darkness. The three minions are evidently directing their
devotions to the brighter side.

CHAPTER IX.

ROYALTY UNDER VARIOUS PHASES.

Bishop Watson a partisan of the Prince--The bishop’s reception
by the Queen--The Prince’s patronage of the bishop--Bishop
Watson’s views on the Regency--Laid on the shelf--The Prince
and the bishop’s ‘Apology’--Ball given on the King’s recovery
by Brookes’s Club; Mrs. Siddons, as Britannia--The Queen’s
Drawing-room on the occasion--Mrs. Siddons’s readings at
Buckingham House--Gay life of the Duke of York--Popularity
of the Duke of Clarence--His boundless hospitality at the
Admiralty--Duel between the Duke of York and Colonel Lennox--
Littleness of spirit of the Princes--Royal visit to Lulworth
Castle--Assault on the King--Caricatures of the day--
Marriage of the Duke of York--Ceremonious royal visit to the
young couple--Caricatures of the Duchess of York--Unhappy in
her marriage--The Duchess and Monk Lewis--Alleged avarice
of the King and Queen--Dr. Johnson’s opinion of the King--
Etiquette at Court--The Sailor Prince ‘too far gone’ for a
minuet--The Royal family at Cheltenham--The mayor and the
master of the ceremonies--Questionable taste of the Queen
in regard to the drama--Moral degradation of England during
the reign of the first two Georges--Mrs. Hannah More’s ideas
on morality; and Rev. Sydney Smith’s witty remark on it--A
delicate hint by the Queen to Lady Charlotte Campbell--The
Prince’s pecuniary difficulties--The Prince and affairs of the
heart--_Mésalliance_ of the Duke of Sussex.

Among the few bishops who took the ‘unrestricted’ side on the Regency
Bill, Bishop Watson of Llandaff was the most active. No doubt his
activity was founded on conscientiousness, for many able men of the
period were to be found who were by no means violent partisans, yet
who were ready to maintain that, according to the constitutional law,
the right of exercising the power of regent in the case of incapacity
on the part of the reigning sovereign rested in the next heir, the
Prince of Wales. There is as little doubt as to the Queen’s having
looked with considerable disfavour on all who held such sentiments.
Among those who did was this Bishop of Llandaff. If Queen Charlotte
felt towards the prelate as Queen Caroline used to do towards those
who stood between her and her wishes, the fault, if fault there were,
was not attributable to _her_, but to the minister. _He_, right or
wrong--and most persons who knew what the conduct of the elder son
of Charlotte was will agree that he was at least morally right--_he_,
the minister, represented to her that all who supported the Prince and
opposed the ministerial measure which gave great power to the Queen
were enemies of the sovereign. Charlotte believed this, and perhaps the
Whig bishop is not wrong who says that the Queen lost, in the opinion
of many, the character she had hitherto maintained in this country by
falling in with the designs of the minister. These many were, however,
only the Whigs. It is nevertheless unfortunately true that the Queen
distinguished by different degrees of courtesy on the one hand, and by
meditated affronts on the other, those who had voted with and those who
had voted against the ministers, ‘inasmuch,’ says Bishop Watson, ‘that
the Duke of Northumberland one day said to me, “So, my lord, you and I
also are become traitors.”’

At the drawing-room held on the King’s recovery the Queen received
Bishop Watson with a degree of coldness which, he says, ‘would
have appeared to herself ridiculous and ill-placed could she have
imagined how little a mind such as mine regarded in its honourable
proceedings the displeasure of a woman, though that woman happened to
be a Queen.’ But it must not be forgotten that if the Queen had, as
it were, two faces for the two parties into which society at Court
was divided, her eldest son exhibited the same characteristic, and he
was accordingly eminently cordial with the prelate of Llandaff. When,
at the drawing-room above-named, the Queen looked displeased as the
bishop stood before her, the Prince of Wales, who was standing by her
side, immediately asked him to come and dine with him. A more unseemly
proceeding cannot well be imagined. ‘On my making some objection,’
says the bishop, ‘to dining at Carlton House, the Prince turned to
Sir Thomas Dundas and asked him to give us a dinner at his house on
the following Saturday.’ The party was arranged, the guests met, and,
while they were waiting for dinner, the Prince took the bishop by the
button-hole, and, says the prelate, ‘he explained to me the principle
on which he had acted during the whole of the King’s illness, and spoke
to me with an afflicted feeling of the manner in which the Queen had
treated himself. I must do him the justice to say that he spoke, _in
this conference_, in as sensible a manner as could possibly have been
expected from an heir-apparent to the throne and from a son of the best
principles towards both his parents.’

The especial words ‘in this conference’ would seem to imply that the
son of Charlotte did not always speak in so sensible a manner as could
have been expected from a royal heir-apparent. It would have been as
well, too, if the bishop had told his readers what the principle was
on which the Prince had grounded his conduct throughout the King’s
illness. When he simply talks of the Prince as a son imbued with the
best principles towards both his parents, he would have done well
if he had added whether he was considering that son politically or
morally. It must have been politically, for the right reverend prelate
did not impress upon his younger friend that a mother’s faults should
be invisible to the eyes of her children; but, on the other hand, he
rather emphatically charged her with ill-humour by advising the Prince
‘to persevere in dutifully bearing with his mother’s ill-humour till
time and her own good sense should disentangle her from the web which
ministerial cunning had thrown around her.’ Now to _persevere_ in a
line of conduct is to continue in that already entered upon, and the
line followed by the Prince was one of continual insult and provocation
against the Queen. The bishop confesses an inclination to think well of
her. ‘I was willing,’ he writes, ‘to attribute her conduct during the
agitation of the regency question to her apprehensions of the King’s
safety, to the misrepresentations of the King’s minister, to anything
rather than a fondness for power.’ There is something inexpressibly
ingenuous in the paragraph which follows:--‘Before we rose from table
at Sir Thomas Dundas’s, where the Duke of York and a large company
were assembled, the conversation turning on parties, I happened to say
I was sick of parties, and should retire from all public concerns.
“No,” said the Prince, “and mind _who it is that tells you so_, you
shall never retire--a man of your talents shall never be lost to
the public.”’ This testimony of himself was recorded by the bishop in
1814, and was published by his son in the Queen’s lifetime in 1817.
Like the passage touching the Queen, it gave offence to the principal
person concerned in it. The aged Queen was not pleased to have her
‘ill-humour’ registered before the world, nor was her son flattered by
the innuendo which was conveyed in the paragraph which chronicled his
promise of conferring preferment on the Bishop of Llandaff. Dr. Watson
died prelate of that small diocese.

The clergy of the diocese of Llandaff presented congratulatory
addresses to both their Majesties upon the King’s recovery. Those
addresses were written by Bishop Watson; and in that which he presented
to Queen Charlotte he inserted a paragraph which he avows, in his
memoirs, that he knew would be disagreeable to her. The address in
question, after expressing that the sympathy of every family had been
extended to the Queen in her late distress, complimenting her on the
sincerity of her piety, the amiableness and purity of her manners
as Queen, wife, and mother, and referring, in laudatory terms to
the concern which she had exhibited for the Monarch during his late
unhappy situation, thus proceeds:--‘We observed in the deliberations
of Parliament a great diversity of opinions as to the _constitutional
mode_ of protecting the rights of the Sovereign during the continuance
of his indisposition; but we observed no diversity whatever as to the
_necessity_ of protecting them in the most effectual manner. This
circumstance cannot fail of giving solid satisfaction to your Majesty;
for, next to the consolation of believing that in his recovery he has
been the especial object of God’s mercy, must be that of knowing that
during his illness he was the peculiar object of his people’s love;
that he rules over a free, a great, and an enlightened nation, not more
by the laws of the land than by the wishes of the people.’

Upon this text of his own constructing, the bishop makes the following
comment in his ‘Autobiography’:--‘The first part of this last paragraph
I _knew_ would be disagreeable to the Queen, as it contradicted the
principle she wished to be generally believed, and the truth of
which alone could justify her conduct--that the opposition to the
minister was an opposition to the King. Now, as there was not a word
of disaffection to the King in any of the debates in either House of
Parliament during the transaction of the regency, and as I verily
believe the hearts of the Opposition were as warm with the King, and
warmer with the constitution, than those of their competitors, I
thought fit to say what was, in my judgment, the plain truth.’ The
bishop, however, loses sight of the fact that Queen, ministers, and a
great majority of the people desired a restricted regency, in order
that the rights of the Sovereign should suffer nothing, in case of
recovery; and that Queen, ministers, and a great majority of the people
felt that the Prince of Wales had no divine right to the regency,
but had by his public and private conduct shown that he was entirely
unworthy of holding any powers but under constitutional limitation.

Previous to the King’s recovery, the Bishop of Llandaff had expressed
himself as having been miserably neglected by Mr. Pitt, and ‘I feel
the indignity as I ought.’ The bishop declares that he was overlooked,
for want of political pliancy. However, we have seen that, in the
allegedly offended Queen’s presence, the Prince of Wales ostentatiously
patronised the prelate, and subsequently made a post-prandial promise
touching preferment, which he never fulfilled. The bishop strongly
suspected that the Queen stood in his way. In 1805, the Duke of Grafton
wrote to him, to give him early intimation that the Archbishop of
Canterbury was not expected to live; but ‘I had no expectation of an
archbishopric,’ says Dr. Watson, ‘for the Duke of Clarence had once
said to me, (speaking in conversation no doubt the language of the
court), ‘they will never make _you_ an archbishop; they are afraid of
you.’ In the following year, the bishopric of St. Asaph became vacant,
and Dr. Watson applied for it to Lord Grenville, stating that it ‘would
be peculiarly acceptable to himself.’ ‘It was given to the Bishop of
Bangor; and the bishopric of Bangor was given to the Bishop of Oxford.’
Hereupon, the diocesan of Llandaff, suspecting that the Queen’s
influence was exercised against him over the King, addressed a letter
to the Duke of Clarence, begging him to lay the same, which contained
a statement of the writer’s wishes, before the Prince of Wales, whom
the bishop ‘most earnestly entreated to take some opportunity of doing
him justice with the King.’ Years, however, passed on; and, in 1810, we
find the right reverend prelate expressing himself in doubt ‘whether
it is by her or by his Majesty that I am laid on the shelf.’ In fact,
he was by far worse treated at the hands of the Prince of Wales, whose
cause he had supported against Queen, ministers, and a great majority
of the people, than he ever was by the Queen herself. The Prince had
intimated that such a champion should not go without his reward;
and that the Prince would not forget the prelate. His Highness did,
however, completely forget the right reverend father. We do him wrong:
he remembered him on one occasion. On the 3rd of May 1812 there was
a dinner party at Carlton House. At these parties it was no uncommon
thing for the Regent to tell stories which sent the Queen’s fan up
to her face, with a remonstrating ‘George! George!’ to induce him to
have some respect for decency. On the occasion in question, however,
the conversation turned on immorality and irreligion. Mr. Tyrrwhitt
thereupon told a story how he had been in society with a Sussex
baronet, who gave utterance to such profligate and atheistic opinions
that Mr. Tyrrwhitt was obliged to leave the room, after recommending
the blasphemer and libertine to look into Bishop Watson’s ‘Apology’ for
that Bible which the baronet so scoffed at. At the royal table ‘the
baronet’s answer was produced and read, expressive of the greatest
thankfulness for having had it put into his hands, as it not only had
decided and clearly proved the error and fallacy of every opinion he
had before entertained, but had afforded him a degree of secret comfort
and tranquillity that his mind had previously been a stranger to.’
The Regent thereupon bethought himself of his old friend of Llandaff,
and ordered Mr. Braddyll to communicate to him the highly gratifying
anecdote. Dr. Watson returned his best thanks for ‘this instance of
a Prince’s remembrance of a retired bishop;’ and therewith ended the
patronage of the Regent, which was not more profitable to the prelate
than the alleged opposition or indifference of the Queen.

The Prince’s party were somewhat ashamed, it would seem, at what
had taken place in connection with White’s Club ball; and the Club
at Brookes’s resolved to render themselves blameless in the eyes of
the Queen, who was supposed to be more indignant than her consort at
the measures of their elder sons and their followers. The club at
Brookes’s hired the Opera-house, and gave a festival to the ladies,
consisting of a concert, recitations, a ball, and a supper. At this
festival Mrs. Siddons was engaged to appear as Britannia, and recite
some silly verses, by silly Merry, in which laudation of the King was
qualified by political instructions to the people. ‘Long may he rule a
_willing_ land!’ was declaimed by the actress with solemn and melodious
dignity; and this line was followed by the hint to the people that
‘Oh, for ever may that land be free!’ A long roll of ‘infinite deal
of nothings’ followed, in which scant courtesy was paid to the Queen;
and Mrs. Siddons, having got to the end of her ‘lines,’ astonished
the spectators by an exhibition of the ‘pose plastique,’ assuming the
‘exact attitude of Britannia, as impressed upon our copper coin.’

Having noticed what took place at the King’s drawing-room, omission
must not be made of the Queen’s, held by her in March, especially to
receive congratulations upon the happy recovery of her consort. More
than usual splendour did honour to the occasion. The Queen sat on a
chair of state, under a canopy, and surrounded by the great officers of
her household. Eye-witnesses declare that the blaze of diamonds which
covered her Majesty was something more than the ordinary glory. Around
the Queen’s neck, too, was a double row of gold chain, supporting a
medallion. ‘Across her shoulders was another chain of pearls, in three
rows; but the portrait of the King was suspended from five rows of
diamonds, fastened loose upon the dress behind, and streaming over the
person with the most gorgeous effect. The tippet was of fine lace,
fastened with the letter G, in brilliants of immense value. In front of
her Majesty’s hair, in letters formed of diamonds, were easily legible
the words, “God save the King.” The Princesses were splendidly, but
not equally, adorned. The female nobility wore emblematical designs,
beautifully painted on the satin of their caps, and fancy teemed with
the inventions of loyalty and joy. At half-an-hour after six o’clock,
her Majesty quitted the drawing-room for duties still more interesting.’

What these duties were, after the long drawing-room, Mr. Boaden, from
whose ‘Life of Kemble’ the details are borrowed, does not inform us;
but he adds, in a burst of eloquence not unlike the tone of some of the
dramas of which he discourses so pleasantly, that he cannot forbear
from expressing the full conviction of his understanding and his heart,
that no more glorious being than the consort of George III. ever
existed. ‘I have lived,’ he says, ‘to see a miserable delusion withdraw
some part of the affection of the multitude for a time; but she was in
truth the idol of the people, and they paid to her that sort of homage
as if in her person they were reverencing the form of VIRTUE itself.’

The same unreserved panegyrist, describing her Majesty’s visit to
Covent Garden Theatre on the 15th of April 1789, states that she was
accompanied by three of the Princesses--the Princess Royal, most
unassuming of all Charlotte’s daughters; the Princess Augusta, so
careless as to what she was dressed in, provided only that she were
dressed; and the Princess Elizabeth, who was always anxious to be doing
little services for people about the court, as if she wished to forget
that she was burdened by being great, and by the formalities which
she must observe, to give greatness dignity. Mr. Boaden strikingly
describes the scene. ‘The Queen entered the royal box alone; the
Princesses not being, for a few minutes, ready. On the appearance
of the Queen, a shout arose, of transport, from the spectators; the
curtain ran up, and displayed a transparency which had the words, in
striking letters, _Long live the King!_ and _May the King live for
ever!_’ For all this no preparation could be sufficient; and tears
fortunately came to her relief. In this state she paid her compliments
to her people. On the entrance of the Princesses, the emotion somewhat
subsided--

It seemed she was a Queen
Over her passion, which, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o’er her.

The entertainments of the evening had no allusion whatever to the
event. They consisted of ‘He would be a Soldier,’ and ‘Aladdin.’ The
simple introduction, by Edwin, of giving the King’s health, was the
only allusion made to passing events. But the house cheered, and the
Queen smiled and nodded her gratification.

Whilst on the subject of theatricals, it may be noticed that the King
and Queen not only patronised Mrs. Siddons, but that the patronage
which they showed to this lady was not confined to witnessing and
applauding her performances on the stage. She was a frequent visitor
at Buckingham House and Windsor; and she was among the first to
discover that the King’s mind was affected. On occasion of one of her
visits, after her task was done of reading a play, at a high desk,
before which she stood, the King went up to her, and presented her
with a blank paper--blank, with the exception that his signature
was at the bottom of it. Such a gift intimated that the giver bound
himself to make any amount of pecuniary provision which the will of
the actress might choose to name, above the royal signature. The paper
was doubtless received with a graceful and grateful dignity, but with
equal propriety it was, on the earliest opportunity, presented blank,
as it was received, to the Queen. Her Majesty was very pointed in the
expression of her approbation at conduct so delicate and dignified; but
the virtue of Mrs. Siddons was left to be its own reward.

While the Duke of York was leading a ‘gay’ life, running in debt, and
falling asleep over his cards (his constant habit), to find himself a
great loser when he awoke, his next brother, Clarence, with some lively
propensities, too, contrived to maintain considerable popularity. He
was of a popular profession. At the age of thirteen the King sent him
as midshipman on board a man-of-war, and told him to fight his way.
He obeyed the injunction by having a _set-to_ with another ‘middy,’
soon after he was afloat, and secured, in this way, the respect of his
fellow-officers. He served under Keith, Hood, and Nelson. His sole
remark on first seeing the last-named gallant ‘shadow,’ was, that his
tail seemed more than he had strength to carry. The little Duke was
present in several actions, and shared in several victories. When the
Spanish commander, Don Juan de Langera, was brought prisoner on board
the ‘Prince George,’ and was told that the smart and active midshipman
whom he had observed on duty at the gangway was a prince of the blood,
and son of the reigning King, the brave but unlucky captain exclaimed,
‘Well may England be queen of the seas, when the son of her sovereign
is engaged in such a duty!’ The companions of the young Prince were not
the most suitable for a youth of his condition and prospects, as far
as refinement is concerned; they were rude, but I question if their
principles of conduct were not as good as any by which modern middies
and lieutenants are influenced. In some respects they were better, for
I do not imagine that if any one of the lieutenants of Keith, Hood,
or Nelson, had fallen into such a scrape as befel Lieutenant Royer of
the ‘Tiger,’ he would have expressed ‘satisfaction’ at being permitted,
at the theatre, to use the identical glass through which a hostile
commander had watched the destruction of a British ship. The rough and
ready manner of old days is better than the refinement which takes such
form and expression as this; and William Henry was little the worse for
the former, although Beau Brummell _did_ say of him that he was never
good for anything but to walk about a quarterdeck and cry ‘luff.’

Walpole writes of him, in 1789: ‘The Duke of Clarence, no wonder, at
his age, is already weary of a house in the middle of a village, with
nothing but a green short apron to the river, a situation only fit for
an old gentlewoman, who has put out her knee-pans and loves cards.’ The
writer adds, that were the Duke a commoner and a candidate, Richmond,
if it were a borough, would return him unanimously. ‘He pays his bills
regularly himself, locks up his doors that his servants may not stay
out late, and never drinks but a few glasses of wine.’ Miss Burney’s
report would lead us to a different conclusion. Walpole adds: ‘Though
the value of crowns is mightily fallen of late at market, it looks as
if his Royal Highness thought they were still worth waiting for. Nay,
it is said, he tells his brothers he shall be King before either. This
is fair, at least.’

William Henry was not always so blameless in his economy as Queen
Charlotte loved to see him. His hospitality at the Admiralty was
unbounded; but when it is remembered that the exercise of it during
fifteen months ran him in debt to the amount of not less than
three-and-twenty thousand pounds, such hospitality is rather to be
censured than eulogised. He was as profuse when King, until his
treasurer, Sir F. Watson, confessed his inability to go on.

The second son of Queen Charlotte delivered his maiden speech in the
House of Lords at the close of 1788. A few months after he made another
speech, in private society, which might have had a very fatal issue.
He stated that Colonel Lennox (afterwards Duke of Richmond) had been
addressed at Daubigny’s club in language to which no gentleman would
have quietly listened as the colonel had done. The latter, on parade,
asked for an explanation. The Duke refused, ordered him to his post,
and offered him ‘satisfaction’ if he felt himself aggrieved. The
colonel appealed to the club as to whether the members adopted the
Duke’s statement. They remained silent; and the result was a duel on
Wimbledon Common, on the 26th of May 1789. Lord Rawdon accompanied the
Duke, and the Earl of Winchilsea attended on the colonel. The duel
ended with no bloodier finale than the loss of a curl on the part of
the Duke. The latter, it was found, had not fired; he refused to fire,
bade the colonel fire again if he were not satisfied, and rejected
every inducement held out to him to make some explanation. On this the
parties separated.

Some littleness of spirit was exhibited in what followed. The colonel
was present at a court ball, at which the Queen presided, and formed
part in a country dance of which the Prince of Wales and other
members of the royal family were also a portion. The Prince, who was
remarkable for his gallantry, did not exhibit that quality on the
present occasion. He passed over the colonel, and the lady his partner,
without ‘turning’ the latter, as the laws of _contre-danse_ required.
The Prince’s conduct was imitated by both his brothers and sisters,
and the colonel’s partner was thus subjected to most unwarrantable
insult. The Queen, who had marked her opinion of the colonel’s conduct
by graciously speaking to him, remarking the chafed look of her son,
and addressing some inquiry to him, was answered that he was heated,
because he disliked the company. Upon this hint the Queen rose, and the
festive scene was brought to a disturbed and sudden conclusion.

The fall of the year was passed in the south of England, with Weymouth
for head-quarters. The King and Queen were not without peculiar
annoyances here, chiefly in the threats of assassination conveyed in
private letters. The Queen indeed, like the King, disregarded them, but
she feared the evil effect they might have on his excitable mind. Among
the visits paid by them to private individuals was one to the Roman
Catholic proprietor of Lulworth Castle, Mr. Weld, a relation, by her
first marriage, of Mrs. Fitzherbert. They were present in the chapel
attached to the castle during the celebration of divine service, and
remained while the anthem was sung,--without any ill effects resulting
to Protestantism.

In January 1790 the fears of the Queen were again excited for her
consort, at whom a stone was thrown by a mad Lieutenant Frick, as his
Majesty was on his way to the House of Lords. The muse was hardly more
sane or loyal than the lieutenant, for Peter Pindar wrote of this
incident:

Folks say it was lucky the stone missed the head,
When lately at Cæsar ’twas thrown;
I think, very different from thousands indeed,
’Twas a lucky escape for the stone.

The Queen, at the time of the King’s illness, was assailed with
unmeasured vituperation by the Opposition papers. Even her interviews
with Pitt were made base account of, in order to raise the public
odium against her. In the present year the ‘Hopes of the Party,’ a
caricature so named, by Gillray, served to show the supposed wishes of
the Opposition. The caricature represents many revolutionary horrors.
Among them is what is termed ‘a pair of pendants,’ showing the Queen
and prime minister each hanging from a lamp iron. ‘It is commonly
believed,’ says Mr. Wright, in the History from which a passage has
been already quoted, ‘that Pitt and Queen Charlotte were closely
leagued together to pillage and oppress the nation; and she was far
less popular than the King, whose infirmity produced general sympathy,
and who had many good qualities that endeared him to those with whom
he came in contact. In another part of Gillray’s picture the King is
brought to the block, held down by Sheridan, while Fox, masked, acts
as executioner. Priestley, with pious exhortations, is encouraging
the fallen monarch to submit to his hard fate.’ Later in the year, in
September, the Queen’s second son, Frederick Duke of York, married
Frederica, eldest daughter of the King of Prussia. The marriage was
solemnised on Michaelmas Day, at Berlin. The bride was then in her
twenty-fourth year, her husband in his twenty-eighth. She was fair,
virtuous, accomplished, and kindly-hearted,--by far too good a wife
for the profligate Prince to whom she was allied. The newly-married
pair travelled to England through France, where they met with but rough
treatment from the republican mob, some of whom very unceremoniously
scratched the royal arms off their carriages. The ceremony of marriage
was reperformed in England on the 23rd of November by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, in presence of the entire royal family. By an addition of
18,000_l._ to the Duke’s income, his revenue amounted to 35,000_l._ a
year; and an annual 30,000_l._ was settled on the Duchess, in case of
her surviving him.

The Queen, accompanied by the King and the elder branches of her
family, paid a visit of welcome to the young couple, which was the
most formal and ceremonious matter that can well be conceived. The
visit took the form of a tea-party; it ought, therefore, to have been
social and chatty, but it was as stiff and silent as much ceremony and
formal etiquette could make it. The King’s tea was solemnly handed to
him by the Prince of Wales, while the Duchess of York, receiving a cup
from the Duke, presented it, with much reverence, to the Queen. But in
the cups which cheer and not inebriate, ceremony _was_ soon dissolved;
and the King getting loquacious, the family party, before the night was
far gone, became as mirthful and pleasant as if it had been made up of
more mirthful and pleasant materials.

Despite the great popularity of the excellent Duchess, the
caricaturists spared neither her nor her royal father and
mother-in-law. In one of the satirical prints by Gillray, the King and
Queen--the latter most outrageously caricatured--are represented
in ridiculous attitudes of joy: the King is fairly ‘kicking up his
heels’ in ecstasy, offering eager welcome to the Duchess. The Queen is
holding out her apron to receive some of the wealth and jewels which
her daughter-in-law was popularly supposed to have brought with her.
The latter has _her_ apron full of money, and the Duke is introducing
her to his parents.

The poor Duchess was soon one of the unhappiest of wives. The
profligacy and shameless infidelity of her husband, to whom she had
been fondly attached, disgusted her. His extravagance involved him in a
ruin from which he could never relieve himself, and which his creditors
never forgot. It made many a hearth cold, and it brought misery to
that of the Duchess. For six years she bore with treatment from the
‘commander-in-chief’ such as no trooper under him would have inflicted
on a wife equally deserving. At the end of that time the ill-matched
pair separated, and the Duchess withdrew from the world; but in her
retirement she forgot none of the duties which it could fairly demand
of her. She was beloved by all, and was popularly and affectionately
mentioned by the popular voice as ‘the poor soldier’s friend.’

She was indeed the friend of all who needed her service, and did not
refuse even to give to poor ‘Monk’ Lewis the meed of admiration which
his little vanity required. He was once met coming in tears from the
Duchess’s drawing-room; and on intimating to his questioner that they
had their source in the very kind and flattering things the Duchess had
said to him, the weeper was roughly consoled by his acquaintance, with
the soothing advice, to ‘Never mind, as perhaps she did not mean it!’

Never was the alleged avarice of the King and Queen more bitterly
satirised than during this year (1791). The King, however, was a
cheerful giver, and the amount of property which the Queen left
at her death proves that she was no hoarder. The caricaturists,
nevertheless, smote them mercilessly. Peter Pindar assailed them in
coarse and witless lines, that had in them a certain rough humour, but
as ill-natured as rough. Gillray exhibited them as cheapening wares in
the streets of Windsor. In another print, the King, in the commonest of
garbs, was seen toasting his own muffins; and the Queen, with a hideous
twist given to her now plain features, and with pockets bursting with
the national money, was depicted busily engaged in frying sprats for
supper. In another, the Queen is sourly commanding her highly-disgusted
daughters to take their tea without sugar, as a saving to papa. There
were many of a similar cast, and not a few which exposed the vices
to which the Princes of the family--young men of great hopes and
with much kindliness of feeling, but with little principle--had
unfortunately surrendered themselves.

The King himself was ever depicted as slovenly both in dress and
gait--the Queen as mean in attire and sharply sour of visage. The
latter always wears a far more acute, but a less inquiring, air than
her husband. This was a true reflection. After Dr. Johnson had his
celebrated interview with the monarch at Buckingham Palace, he is said
to have declared that ‘His Majesty seems to be possessed of some good
nature and much curiosity; as for his _nous_, it is not contemptible.
His Majesty, indeed, was multifarious in his questions; but, thank God,
he answered them all himself.’

The public discontent and the general distress increased greatly at
this time, and had their effect in throwing a gloom over the court
circle. The old formality and not a very diminished festivity were
still, however, maintained there, and the republican fashions of France
were held in abhorrence at Windsor.

The sons of Queen Charlotte were not so formal in their behaviour
towards her, before witnesses, as the daughters were. The Duke of York
was now the most observant of ceremony, but he exhibited therewith
a show, perhaps a reality, of very tender feeling. Even on common
occasions the household of the Queen was encumbered by much stiffness
of observance of etiquette. It was not an uncommon occurrence for the
Duke of York to attend at his mother’s toilette, conversing with her
during its closing progress. When this was the case, and the dresser’s
task was done, that lady could not leave the room if the Duke happened
to stand between her and the door; to cross the Duke would have been a
terrible breach of good manners. Nor could the Queen help the dresser;
all that the illustrious lady could do was to watch till the Duke
changed his position, and then with a smile, and a ‘_Now_, I will let
you go,’ give freedom to the dresser, longing for liberty.

The Prince William (Duke of Clarence) was the least courteous of
the sons of Charlotte. But it must be remembered that he not only
went early to sea, but it was at a time when roughness of manner
was considered as more becoming to a naval officer than refinement;
to support the character, the young Prince probably assumed more
coarseness of style and speech than was really natural to him. The
Queen’s birthday drawing-room, in 1791, was followed by a ball, at
which the pretty Princess Mary was to dance her first minuet in public,
and her brother, the sailor Prince, had promised to be her partner.
But previous to the ball there was a dinner, and at a birthday dinner
more champagne was drunk by the Prince than on ordinary days. Under
its inspiration, the Duke found his way to the table of some of the
ladies and gentlemen in waiting. There he ruled as king, insisted upon
more champagne, compelled the not-unwilling gentlemen to drink with
him glass after glass, laughed at its effects upon them and himself,
smacked the servants on the shoulder, abused them good humouredly,
praised his sister Mary, had more champagne, kissed the hand of old
Madam Schwellenberg with infinite mock heroics, was always going and
never went, and ended all he said with the common oath of gentlemen, a
loudly-uttered ‘By G--!’ With a morning so spent, he was not likely to
be steady enough for the minuet at night. In fact, he was incapable of
appearing at the ball at all; much to the chagrin of the Queen; still
more to that of the Princess Mary, to whom, however, the offender made
less apology the next morning than confession, that on the Queen’s
birthday he had been ‘too far gone’ to think of dancing.

The Prince of Wales was not more temperate even on ordinary occasions;
and he was less heartily courteous to ladies than his brothers,
while perhaps he was more formally polite. Miss Burney describes him
as staring at her when she was in attendance upon the Queen, not
haughtily or impertinently, she says, but in an ‘extremely curious
manner’--probably as Don Juan may have looked upon Zerlina.

With all the Queen’s respect for the formality of court, she enjoyed
herself most when she was least observant of it. Reading the letters
of Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, she liked to talk them over with Miss
Burney, who could explain so many circumstances connected with them
which would, otherwise, have been incomprehensible to the Queen. She
loved to hear her dresser’s graphic account of Warren Hastings’ trial,
whither she had sent her with a reticule stuffed full of cakes from
the Queen’s own table. At Cheltenham, when she accompanied the King
thither previous to his late illness, the royal residence was of such
contracted dimensions, and so scant of accommodation, that her Majesty
dressed and undressed in the drawing-room. Many of her ladies would not
have submitted half so cheerfully as _she_ did to such an arrangement.
In the rural expeditions of the royal pair, there was indeed a comic
sort of mixture of formality and fun. At Weymouth, for instance, when
the King went to take his ‘dip,’ the royal machine was followed by
another full of fiddlers and other musical persons, who, as the monarch
plunged into the ocean, saluted him and the bold deed with ‘God save
the King,’ horribly out of tune!

It was when the royal pair were at Weymouth that, on one occasion, the
mayor of the borough, after presenting an address, and receiving the
stereotyped answer, boldly walked up to the Queen to kiss her hand.
‘You must kneel,’ whispered the master of the ceremonies. Mr. Mayor,
not heeding the court guide, continued standing, and in that position
kissed the royal hand. As he retired, the highly offended master of the
ceremonies remarked, angrily, ‘Sir, you ought to have knelt.’ ‘Sir,’
said the Mayor, ‘I can’t; don’t you see I have got a wooden leg?’

It is upon record that the Queen _once_ attempted to write some verses;
and having got to the third line gave the matter up in despair--
leaving her ‘reader’ to finish and perfect the rhymes. The occasion
was on presenting a pair of old-fashioned gloves to Lord Harcourt,
who had an affection for ancient gear, and cared more for old gloves
than new verses. Miss Burney acquitted herself, however, very well
with her _impromptu_; indeed, she may be said to have been the Queen’s
laureate during the five years she served that Sovereign. Her royal
mistress employed her to compose some congratulatory verses on the
King’s recovery from his serious indisposition; and of these it may be
said that if Warton, over whom paralysis was then pending, might have
written better, Henry James Pye, the succeeding laureate, could hardly
have written worse.

The taste of the Queen was itself not unimpeachable. With regard to the
drama, she would rather have seen little Quick in Tony Lumpkin, than
Mrs. Siddons in Lady Macbeth. So her ‘reader’ was not called upon to
exert her powers upon any great works. The first book she was required
to read aloud was Colman’s broad farce of ‘Polly Honeycomb.’ The young
lady must have had a difficult task with the novel-reading Polly,
whose heart beat for Mr. Scribble, and into whose head her sire could
not beat a favourable opinion for ‘the rich Jew’s wife’s nephew,’ Mr.
Ledger. The young Princesses were listeners, and it could hardly have
been edifying for them to hear the rollicking Polly say of her father,
‘Lord, lord! my stupid papa has no taste; he has no notion of humour
and character and the sensibility of delicate feeling.’ ‘A novel,’
says Miss Honeycomb, ‘is the only thing to teach a girl life;’ and she
adds, ‘Every girl elopes when her parents are obstinate and ill-natured
about marrying her.’ Her ridicule of the long-lived affection of her
parents is expressed in the coarsest manner; and she thinks it a good
joke that her father recommends her to read the ‘Practice of Piety;’
she runs away with a scamp, and her honest lover, rightly disenamoured,
declares of her that ‘he would not underwrite her for ninety per cent.’
What Miss Pope made of Polly and King of Scribble, when this farce
was first produced, in 1760, it is not worth inquiring. Miss Pope was
considered great in it; but it is worth noticing that when Miss Burney
was reading the piece to the Queen and her daughters, an actress whose
name can never be separated from that of the Queen’s third son was then
turning half the heads in town with her Polly. Mrs. Jordan was well
supported by Palmer in Scribble, and the piece seems to have found its
way to court, as the ‘Dragon of Wantley’ did in the preceding reign, on
the strength of its popularity.

The reader to the royal audience performed her vocation under great
disadvantages. She read on in mortal silence on the part of those
who listened; neither comment, applause, nor feeling of any sort was
ever exhibited; and when Miss Burney had to read other of the elder
Colman’s plays, and once ventured to relieve the voice, long fatigued
by reading, by making some remark on the construction of the piece, the
innovation was submitted to without being commended.

This scene of a Queen whose high moral character and purity of taste
have been long matters of eulogy, seated amid her daughters, listening
to a farce which would hardly now be tolerated, is not pleasant. But
society had not yet freed itself from the uncleanness with which it
had been overwhelmed during the two preceding reigns. The unspeakable
degradation into which the first two Georges dragged the country must
not be forgotten, though it may not be detailed. While detesting
the restrictions with which monarchy had been loaded in the great
revolution, they indulged unrestrainedly in the worst coarseness of
vice. Kept back from pressing despotically upon the people, they
yielded unbridled sway to their own passions, and their infamous
example corrupted three-fourths of society. Caroline herself would
listen to stories told her by Sir Robert Walpole, upon which the eye
of the student of history cannot rest without a blush of indignation
mantling in his cheek. If the Stuarts were vicious, they were, in a
certain degree, gentlemanlike in their vices. The first two Georges
were as vicious, but they had none of the refinement of the Stuarts,
and would have been to the full as tyrannical had the men of England
left them the power. Their conduct was enough to render monarchy
detested, and the name of Brunswick execrable. The domestic virtues
of George III. and Queen Charlotte insured respect for the first, and
surrounded the latter name with something like a halo of love. If there
be any yet among us who sing ‘Hail, Star of Brunswick!’ with any mental
reservation, the reason may probably be traced to impressions received
from the records of the first Georges. The tone of society had not yet
recovered itself fully when Queen Charlotte caused ‘Polly Honeycomb’
to be read aloud to herself and daughters. It is true that her Majesty
also listened in like company to the teaching of Mrs. Hannah More;
but even that high moralist hardly as yet understood how the work of
morality might best be sped. Even ten years later than the time when
Colman’s farces were deemed not unfitting to be read to an audience
of mother and children, Mrs. More, in ‘Cœlebs,’ was recommending the
observance of modesty on the part of ladies on very selfish grounds.
In allusion to the ‘naked style’ of dress which was then the fashion
with women, Mrs. More admonitorily and significantly exclaims: ‘Oh, if
women in general knew what was their real interest; if they could guess
with what a charm even the appearance of modesty invests its possessor,
they would dress decorously from mere self-love, if not from principle.
The designing would assume modesty as an artifice; the coquet would
adopt it as an allurement; the pure as her appropriate attraction;
and the voluptuous as the most infallible art of seduction.’ When the
Reverend Sydney Smith read this passage, he remarked that if there were
any truth in it, ‘nudity becomes a virtue, and no decent woman for the
future can be seen in garments.’ This is, perhaps, more smartly than
truly said. Queen Charlotte certainly abhorred the style of dress which
is censured in ‘Cœlebs.’ When the Lady Charlotte Campbell, famous for
her beauty and for her subsequent connection with Queen Caroline, first
went to court, she was attired in the scant costume of the period.
She was, in fact, in the very highest of the fashion, and as she was
passing before Queen Charlotte, the latter recommended her to ‘let out
a tuck in her petticoat!’

While on the subject of fashion, it may here be noticed that when the
marriage of the Princess Royal with the head of the House of Wurtemburg
had been determined on, her Majesty made the bridal dress, and helped
to deck her daughter with it. As a King’s eldest daughter, she had
a right to be attired in a dress of white and silver. The Princess,
however, was about to marry a widower, and it appears that custom,
consequently, required the bride to wear white and gold. And so the
robe was fashioned accordingly, and the preference of the Princess was
made to yield to etiquette. This marriage, however, did not take place
till 1797.

In 1792, the Prince’s pecuniary affairs were in a worse condition
than ever. Several executions had been in his house, from one of
which he had been saved by the benevolence of Lord Rawdon. His debts
now amounted to 400,000_l._ The Queen advised him to press the King,
through the lord chancellor, to apply for an increase of income. What
the Prince required was 100,000_l._ yearly, and if that were granted
he proposed to set aside 35,000_l._ per annum for the liquidation of
his debts. He had now abandoned racing, a silly pursuit which had cost
him yearly not less than 30,000_l._; and having done that, he feigned
to be shocked at his equally embarrassed brother, York, remaining on
the turf. He added, that if his request were not acceded to, he should
shut up Carlton House, go abroad, and live upon 10,000_l._ a year. It
was very properly suggested to him that he would do much better, if
the Queen’s wishes and his own could not be carried out, by staying in
England and showing the people that he could adapt his circumstances to
his revenue. This was a course, however, which he had never seriously
determined to follow. He was made up of contradictions; and although
he was at this period more than ever attached to Mrs. Fitzherbert,
it did not prevent him from maintaining the well-known actress, Mrs.
Crouch, in the post of ‘favourite.’ Mrs. Fitzherbert met this course by
ridiculing it, and by coquetting on her side. This hurt the Prince’s
vanity, and brought him again under her influence. What his homage was
worth may be judged of by the fact that it was paid to many deities,
and while he was maintaining Mrs. Crouch, forgetting poor Perdita
Robinson, making love to the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire (who
was separated from her husband, but did not on that account in the
slightest degree regard the Prince), he had also opened an intercourse
with Lady Jersey, who was not half such a prude as the Duchess, and
who was the most shameless of those to whom the heartless Prince had
pretended to surrender his heart. With many loves, or what were called
such, Mrs. Fitzherbert continued the married sultana. He built for
her a residence at Brighton, where she kept up the establishment of a
queen--really looked like one, for she was a superb woman--had as
brilliant diamonds as Queen Charlotte herself, and was greeted by all
the bathing women with the respectful appellation of ‘Mrs. Prince.’

But the Queen had soon to deplore another _mésalliance_. Her son Prince
Augustus (Sussex), when travelling in Italy, had become attached to
the Lady Augusta Murray, daughter of the Earl of Dunmore; and, after
a courtship during which the Prince wrote love-letters to the lady
that, with respect to style were neither sublime nor beautiful, and
with regard to grammar were calculated to make Lindley Murray die of
despair, the parties were married privately by an English clergyman,
and were re-married, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, on their return
to England. Of this union two children were born, of whom the daughter
(once known as Mademoiselle d’Este) became the wife of Lord Truro, who,
when Mr. Serjeant Wilde, endeavoured to establish the validity of her
father’s marriage, and acquired the lady’s hand by way of _honorarium_.
The moment the marriage of the Duke with Lady Augusta Murray was first
declared invalid by the ecclesiastical court, Lady Augusta separated
from her husband. The latter appears to have borne the separation very
philosophically, but he did not marry again during Lady Augusta’s life.
In his later days, when his brother, William IV., was King, he married
the lady who long survived him under the title of Duchess of Inverness.
But a marriage of more importance remains to be noticed.

CHAPTER X.

LENGTHENING SHADOWS.

The Prince of Wales’s marriage to the Princess Caroline of
Brunswick--Her character--The Prince’s behaviour at the
marriage ceremony--Lord Holland’s two accounts of the Princess
irreconcileable--The Prince’s hatred of the Princess--
Propriety of the Queen’s Court--Unpopularity of the King--
Pelted by the mob--Birth of the Princess Charlotte--Strict
observance of Court etiquette--Marriage of the Princess Royal
to the Prince of Wurtemburg--First book stereotyped in England
--The volunteer mania--Attempted assassination of the King--
Archbishop Cornwallis’s drums, and Lady Huntingdon’s efforts to
induce him to discontinue--Her hot reception by Mrs. Cornwallis
--Lady Huntingdon induces the King to aid her--The King’s
letter to the archbishop--Conduct of the clergy--Incident of
the Drawing-room--The Prince a Radical--The King’s illness
--His excitement--Feeling exhibited by the Duke of York--
The Prince of Wales incredulous of the recovery of the King--
Conversation between the King and Dr. Willis--The Queen’s
anxiety--Particulars of the King’s illness--Recovery of the
King--Home scene at Windsor Castle.

The subject of the marriage of the Prince of Wales will come more fully
under our notice in the Life of Caroline of Brunswick. Here it may be
mentioned that the period at which the question of the marriage of
the Prince was first moved, is not known with certainty. It was soon,
however, publicly ascertained that whenever that much-desired event
should take place the Prince’s debts were to be paid, on the condition
that after such settlement and the fixing of his establishment as a
married man, he was never to incur such liabilities again. The agreeing
to this condition debarred him from ever again applying to Parliament
for pecuniary relief.

There is little doubt as to the wish of Queen Charlotte that her
son should marry a Princess of Mecklenburg. It was sufficient for
the Prince that his mother had such desire that he should oppose it.
According to Lord Liverpool, the intimation of the Prince’s wish to
marry was abruptly made to the King, who received the information with
a cheerful complacency, and simply required that the lady chosen should
be a Protestant and a Princess. Mrs. Fitzherbert was neither.

The King offered to send a commissioner to the German courts on the
pleasant mission of reviewing the daughters of the sovereign dukes
there, and reporting on their eligibility. The Prince’s choice,
however, appears to have been made, if that can be called choice which
fixes on an object utterly unknown. He named his cousin, the daughter
of the Duke and Duchess of Brunswick. Her mother was Augusta, sister
of the King, whose birth had taken place at St. James’s Palace under
circumstances which gave such offence to Caroline and George II. The
King made no objection: and yet he must have known that if the object
selected was pretty, she was far less fair than the lady of Mecklenburg
whom Charlotte would fain have had for a daughter-in-law; and that
her reputation, even in Germany, where the best people then construed
liberally of female conduct, was none of the best. She was known as
a bold, dashing, careless girl, whose tongue was ever in advance of
reflection; who called the coarsest things by the coarsest names,
and who only needed temptation and opportunity to fall into any sin
which had a pleasant side to it. She was not worse than many of her
contemporaries with whose doings fame was less busy. Her great defect
was a want of self-control, if that be a great defect compared with a
want of cleanliness. But in this latter respect Caroline’s neglect was
not singular. In _her_ young days dirtiness had not yet quite gone out
of fashion.

It is credibly asserted that the Prince’s favourite, Lady Jersey, led
him to select the Princess of Brunswick for his wife. It was Lady
Jersey’s object that he should have a legal consort who must draw him
away from his (illegal) wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert; but it was also Lady
Jersey’s object that the wife should not possess attractions that
should prove more powerful than her own.

It will suffice to record here that the marriage took place on the 8th
of April, 1795, under unseemly auspices. The behaviour of the Prince
at the ceremony undoubtedly may be received as confirming the accounts
of his aversion to the bride. He confessed to the Duke of Bedford (one
of the two unmarried dukes who supported him at the marriage) that he
had taken several glasses of brandy before proceeding to it. He must
have taken many, for he was so drunk that the two dukes could scarcely
keep him from falling. The conduct of the Prince was, of course, the
subject of much remark, and it was set down, at the time, not to brandy
but remorse--remorse at the idea of that other marriage which he had
contracted with the woman whom he undoubtedly did love, if he ever
entertained for woman at all a sentiment worthy of that name. Very
few days passed after the solemnisation of the ceremony before ‘many
coarse and indelicate strictures on the bride’s person and behaviour
were currently reported as coming directly from the Prince in every
society in London.’ So says Lord Holland; and that noble writer, who
pronounces to be a bad and worthless woman--mad, at least, if not
bad--a princess whom his party, if not he himself, held up, in the
days of her persecution, as a martyr of virtue, goes on to say, that
the ill-usage to which the Princess of Wales was exposed at Brighton
and elsewhere from the Prince and his mistress, Lady Jersey, was
notorious, unpardonable, and so utterly disgraceful, ‘that persons
of rank (afterwards indebted to him for advancement in it) have
plumed themselves upon refusing to meet him at dinner at my house
[Holland House, Kensington], observing that he was not fit company for
gentlemen.’

The marriage began miserably, continued miserably, and ended miserably.
As Lord Holland observes, neither the Prince’s reconciliation with Mrs.
Fitzherbert nor his subsequent intimacies with Lady Hertford and others
(although such returns and changes of love were usually accompanied
by similar changes and returns of a train of favourites, friends, and
dependents), ever softened his hatred to the Princess. When, in 1820,
on the death of Napoleon, some officious courtier ran up to him to
apprise him of the news which he supposed would be welcome to him, in
these words, ‘Sir, your greatest enemy is dead!’--‘Is _she_, by G--?’
was the royal husband’s dignified and pious ejaculation.

‘Many seeds of discontent,’ says Lord Holland, ‘were imperceptibly
sown during the year 1795, among the supporters of the ministry, which
time brought to maturity. Among these may be reckoned the influence of
Carlton House. The Prince of Wales thought himself duped by Mr. Pitt
about the payment of his debts at the time of his marriage. He had been
treated superciliously, more than once, by Mr. Pitt, and he had never
liked him, though his own dread of revolutionary principles, quickened
by a recent quarrel with the Duke of Orleans, had rendered him eager,
and even vociferous, for the war. The last injury, real or supposed,
which he had received from Mr. Pitt, by the latter’s acquiescing in
devoting, on his marriage, the whole increase of his revenue to the
payment of his debts, sank into his weak and fretful mind deeper than
usual, because he was continually reminded of it by his connection with
a woman whom he loathed.’

Meanwhile, the Queen maintained the long-standing reputation of her
court with undiminished strictness. ‘The Queen’s public receptions,’
says Sir Jonah Barrington, ‘were the most gracious in the world. There
could not be a more engaging, kind, and condescending address than that
of the Queen of England. An illustration of her strictness is afforded
us by an anecdote told of her Majesty and an English duchess, who was
aunt to a niece of rather blemished reputation, but to which it was
hoped some lustre might be restored if she could only be made to pass
through a court atmosphere. The duchess, on asking the Queen to receive
her niece at the drawing-room, of course insisted that the young lady’s
fame had been unfairly attacked, and that she trusted to her Majesty’s
clemency and generosity to set it fair again with the world. The
Queen remained silent; whereupon the duchess, previous to retiring,
beseechingly inquired what she might be permitted to say to her niece.
‘Tell her,’ said Queen Charlotte, ‘that you did not dare to make such
a request to the Queen.’ The duchess, who held some post in the royal
household, felt that such a speech involved her own dismissal.

Never was the court so unpopular as at this time. In October 1795 the
King, on proceeding to the House of Lords, was not only assailed by
seditious cries, but was fired at by some assassin among the mob. On
his return from the House he was pelted with stones, and, later in the
day, when driving to the Queen’s House, in a private carriage, without
guards, the excited mob, with cries of ‘Bread--cheap bread!’ ‘No
war!’ and ‘No king!’ made an attempt to force open the door of the
vehicle in which he was riding. The same spirit was shown in 1796. On
the 1st of February the King and Queen went to Drury Lane to see ‘The
Fugitive.’ On their return a stone was thrown at the carriage, which
passed through one of the glass panels and struck the Queen in the
face. Soon after a female maniac was discovered in the palace, making
no secret of sanguinary designs against ‘Mrs. Guelph,’ her alleged
‘mother.’ Added to these private vexations, the negotiation entered
into, at the King’s express desire, to establish a peace with France,
entirely failed, and the difficulties of the situation were further
increased by Spain uniting with our other enemies against us in war.

In the month previous to that last mentioned the birth of the Princess
Charlotte, daughter of the Prince and Princess of Wales, was speedily
followed by the separation of the parents. We may cite here an incident
of the christening, as the Queen Charlotte is rather the heroine
thereof than the infant Princess.

Lady Townshend held the little Princess at the font. Some time elapsed
before the officiating prelate took her from Lady Townshend, whose
state of health at the time was such as to make her incapable of
standing long without some peril to her own future hopes. The Princess
of Wales pitied her, and asked the Queen, in a low voice, if she would
not command poor Lady Townshend to be seated. But Queen Charlotte
liked nothing so little as an interruption of established ceremony;
and, blowing the snuff from her fingers, she exclaimed, ‘No, no! she
may stand--she may stand!’ The Queen was nearly as strict in public
with her own children. They, on such occasions, never sat down in her
presence unless commanded; never spoke, unless first spoken to; and
once, it is said, when the Queen was playing at whist, one of the
Princesses, standing behind her chair, fell fast asleep from sheer
fatigue.

The domestic troubles of the Queen were now in great part connected
with the affairs of her eldest son and her daughter-in-law. They will
be found alluded to in the Life of the latter. Another marriage,
scarcely more promising, soon occupied her attention. The widowed
Prince of Wurtemburg proposed for the hand of the Princess Royal. His
first wife was the daughter of Augusta, and sister of the Caroline of
Brunswick for whom the Queen, her mother-in-law, had such small measure
of affection. This first marriage had been an unhappy one. The Prince
had taken his wife to Russia, where she is said to have become so
thoroughly corrupted as to have shocked the unclean Czarina, Catherine,
herself. From Russia she never returned; but how, when, or where she
died, no writer seems to be able to state with certainty. That she died
there in confinement cannot be doubted; and yet her sister Caroline
used to express her belief that she had been seen in Italy long after
the reported period of her death. Queen Charlotte had an especial
dislike to the projected match of this Prince with her daughter, nor
would the King consent until he had been satisfied that the Prince had
not been a cruel husband to his first wife, and that he had not become
a widower by unfair means. What the nature of this satisfaction was no
one knows. The marriage took place on the 18th of May. After a thirty
years’ residence in Wurtemburg, during which time that locality was
raised to the rank of a kingdom, and the daughter of our own Charlotte
was visited more than once by the first Napoleon, of whom her husband
was a very active ally, Charlotte Augusta, the ‘good Queen-dowager,’
and a childless widow, visited England once more, in order to obtain
medical relief for a dropsical complaint. On her voyage back, in worse
health than when she came hither, the vessel had nearly perished in
a storm. To her terrified attendants she calmly remarked, ‘We are as
surely under the protection of God here as upon the dry land--be not
afraid!’ She survived her mother ten years, dying in October, 1828. Her
letters addressed to the lady who superintended the education of the
Princess Charlotte of Wales are creditable alike to her head and her
heart.

The Princess Royal was married in 1797. Soon after she had set out
from St. James’s, early on a morning in June, in tears, and without a
relation to bid her adieu, all having gone through that ceremony the
night before, in order to be saved the trouble of early rising, the
mutiny in the navy broke out--a circumstance which hardly annoyed the
King more than the agitation for Parliamentary reform; for it was more
easily suppressed. There was some compensation for these vexations in
the visit to Duncan’s victorious North Sea fleet, and in the triumphs
of our other naval squadrons. The year ended appropriately with the
royal procession to St. Paul’s to render fervent thanksgiving for the
success of the arms of England.

It was early in 1798 that the first book was stereotyped in England,
and the Queen was the origin of this innovation--not that she had
any idea of innovation. The facts are simply these:--The press had
been teeming with productions offensive alike to virtue and religion.
To protect both was an anxious object with the Queen. According to
contemporary report, she procured from a German Lutheran divine
(Freylighausen) his ‘Abstract of the whole Doctrine of the Christian
Religion,’ and this she submitted to the judgment of Dr. Porteus,
Bishop of London. The prelate, well pleased to see the State thus
submissive or suggestive to the Church, read the pamphlet--not only
read it, but approved of, and (as it was said, erroneously) translated
it into English. He caused it to be printed in stereotype, and this
translated book was the first volume that was ever so printed in
England. With stereotyping, the name of Queen Charlotte should always
be mentioned in honourable connection.

The year 1798 was marked by the Irish rebellion, the national
subscription for the exigencies of the state, and for the uneasiness
felt at court at the standing toast of the Whigs--‘The sovereignty
of the people!’ That and the following year were _the_ years of the
Volunteer mania. The King and Queen were too happy to encourage this
sort of enthusiasm; and, even in their retirement at Weymouth, the
Volunteer reviews were among the most cherished of their amusements.
They hoped they had reconquered the love of a people on whom the burden
of war pressed heavily. They were at least not safe from popular
fanaticism. On the 15th of May, 1800, the royal family attended Drury
Lane Theatre, after a review in the morning. As the King entered the
box, and was in the act of bowing to the audience, he was fired at
from the pit. The Queen and her daughters were entering as the shot
was fired; and the King kept them back with his hand, lest, as he
said, ‘there might be another.’ After Hatfield, the assassin, had been
secured and carried off, the King and his family sat calmly down,
and witnessed the whole representation. This coolness was deservedly
admired. On the return to the palace the King replied to a sympathising
observation of the Queen, ‘I am going to bed with a confidence that I
shall sleep soundly; and my prayer is that the poor unhappy prisoner
who aimed at my life may rest as quietly as I shall.’

The other domestic incidents in the life of the Queen or King are not
of sufficient interest to be worth the detail. We may make exception
of one, however, which introduces us once more to the earnest and
indefatigable Lady Huntingdon.

Early in the present century we again meet with this lady, busy at,
with, and in defiance of courts. In her zeal as a reformer of manners
and morals, she was bold without being indiscreet; and she was never
more bold than when she attacked, courteously and courageously, no
less a person than Dr. Cornwallis, Archbishop of Canterbury. This right
reverend lord primate had given several grand routs at his palace. The
archbishop was an old-fashioned man; and what had been tolerated in
his father and mother must also be permitted to himself and wife, the
magnificent Mrs. Cornwallis--leader and slave of _ton_. Let the world
have justice done to it, the majority therein were sorely scandalised
at these irreverend proceedings. But Lady Huntingdon was the only
one bold enough to give expression to what she felt. With the energy
and tact natural to such a woman she contrived to obtain the grant
of an audience with the primate and his lady, and thither she went,
accompanied by the Marquis of Townshend.

The priests of the sacred cities of Anahuac were not more
horror-stricken when Cortez asked them to burn their gods, than
the primate of all England was when the good lady pressed upon him
sacrifices which would entail the necessity of spending very dull
evenings. As for Mrs. Cornwallis, she tarred and feathered Lady
Huntingdon, metaphorically, by flinging missiles which soiled her who
flung them, and by scattering light ridicule which was blown back upon
the face and reputation of the scatterer. Lady Huntingdon again and
again assaulted the archi-episcopal fortress, but she was driven back
by repeated discharges of ‘Methodist!’ and ‘Hypocrite!’

She could do nothing at Lambeth, and accordingly she turned her face
towards Kew. Nor had she long to wait before Queen Charlotte and her
royal consort admitted her to an interview, to which she was conducted
by Lord Dartmouth and the Duchess of Ancaster.

The sovereigns listened to the simple yet earnest story. The King was
especially warm in expressing his indignation, and the Queen took her
full share in such expression. ‘I had heard something of this before,’
said George III., ‘but I knew not if all was as bad as Lady Huntingdon
has detailed it. The archbishop has behaved very ill to the lady. I
will see if he dare refuse to listen to a King.’ The gay and orthodox
courtiers present began to think that the world was at an end. Here
was the State placing itself above the Church! Mentally, they no doubt
denied the royal supremacy.

In an after-conversation the honest King confessed that Lady Huntingdon
herself had been painted to him in very odd colours, and, in admitting
her to an interview, he was partly influenced by his curiosity to see
whether she was so strange a creature as she had been described by her
enemies. To his expressions of admiration for herself and her work the
Queen added similar assurances; and could the archbishop have seen two
sovereigns thus complimenting a ‘Methodist’ and a ‘Hypocrite,’ no doubt
the primate, zealous for nightly ‘drums,’ would have burst into tears,
and have declared that the sun of England was set for ever!

‘His Majesty,’ said Queen Charlotte, ‘had complaints made against
yourself, in part, Lady Huntingdon, but chiefly against your students
and ministers, whose preaching annoys one or two of our bishops who are
careless.’ The King nodded assent, adding, it was a pity that these
students and ministers could not be made bishops of, as then they would
cease to annoy anyone by preaching. It was objected that even the Lady
Huntingdon could not be made a bishop of, and so the evil would be as
rife as ever. ‘I wish we could make her one,’ said the Queen, with a
smile at the idea; ‘I am sure her ladyship would shame more than one
upon the bench!’

The King then conversed with Lady Huntingdon, chiefly upon old times
and persons of his father’s court, at which she had for a while been a
frequent visitor. ‘We discussed a great many subjects,’ says the lady
herself, in her account of the interview, ‘for the conversation lasted
upwards of an hour, without intermission. The Queen,’ she adds, ‘spoke
a good deal, asked many questions, and, before I retired, insisted on
my taking some refreshments. On parting, I was permitted to kiss their
Majesties’ hands; and when I returned my humble and most grateful
acknowledgments for their very great condescension, their Majesties
immediately assured me they both felt gratified and pleased with the
interview, which they were so obliging as to wish might be renewed.’

The Queen repeatedly expressed her admiration of Lady Huntingdon’s
conduct on this occasion, one result of which was a stringent letter
addressed by the King to the primate. In this royal remonstrance and
reproof, the writer told the archbishop that he ‘held such levities
and vain dissipations as utterly inexpedient, if not unlawful, to pass
in a residence for many centuries devoted to divine studies, religious
retirement, and the extensive exercise of charity and benevolence ...
where so many have led their lives in such sanctity as has thrown
lustre on the pure religion they professed and adorned. From the
dissatisfaction,’ adds the King, ‘with which you must perceive I hold
these improprieties, not to speak in harsher terms, and on still more
pious principles, I trust that you will suppress them immediately,
so that I may not have occasion to show any further marks of my
displeasure, or to interpose in a different manner.’

When it was necessary to administer such a reproof as this to an
archbishop, we may readily believe that only a sorry sort of reputation
attached itself to the clergy generally. This had been the case for
many years. Speaking of the Queen’s drawing-room, held in January,
1777, Cumberland, who was present, says: ‘Sir George Warren had his
order snatched off his ribbon, encircled with diamonds to the value of
700_l._ Foote was there and lays it upon the parsons, having secured,
as he says, his gold snuff-box in his waistcoat pocket upon seeing so
many black gowns in the room.’

Foote’s remark was only in jest, but it shows the estimation in which
the clergy were held. They were for the most part, and yet with some
noble exceptions, but wretched teachers both by precept and example.
Where clerical instruction was thus doubly defective, lay practice
was not of a very pure character. Only two or three years before
Lady Huntingdon waited on Queen Charlotte and the King at Kew, an
incident illustrative of my remark occurred at one of her Majesty’s
drawing-rooms. A great crowd had assembled, and amid the throng--
while the Prince of Wales was conversing with the King--he felt a
sudden pull made at the hilt of his sword. He looked down and perceived
that the diamond guard of the weapon was broken off, but it remained
suspended by a small piece of wire, the elasticity of which had
prevented it from breaking, and so preserved the diamond-studded guard.
No discovery was made as to the author of this felonious attempt, and
the Prince did wisely in refusing to fix on the gentleman who stood
nearest to his side as the offender.

In 1801 the Prince of Wales was in full opposition against the crown
and Pitt. The opposition had a Jacobinical character, and affected
Jacobinical opinion without any reserve. Lord Malmesbury remarks of the
Prince that even ‘his language in the streets is such as would better
become a member of Opposition than the heir to these kingdoms.’ This
conduct was followed at a time when the state of the King’s health
began again to cause some anxiety. He had contracted a chill and severe
cramps by remaining too long in a cold church, on the 13th of February.
We find Lord Malmesbury recording on the 17th of February: ‘King got
a bad cold. Takes James’s powders. God forbid he-should be ill!’ And
the next day he writes: ‘King-better. Lord Radnor saw him yesterday
morning, and he clearly had _only_ a bad cold.’ One day later, on
occasion of an audience of the King being sought by Mr. Pelham, the
same writer says: ‘Pelham came back to me from court; he had seen and
consulted the Duke of Portland, who approved his seeing the King,
but said it would not be _to-day_, as the King was unwell, and on
such occasions it was not usual to disturb him but on great public
business.’ On the 21st matters appeared worse. ‘Bad accounts from
Queen’s House; the answer at the door is, the King is better: but it is
not so. He took a strong emetic on Thursday, and was requested to take
another to-day, which he resisted.’ It would seem that the progressive
seriousness of the symptoms produced no corresponding effects in the
heir-apparent. On Sunday, the 22nd of February, the diarist writes:
‘His Majesty still bilious; not getting better; apprehensions of
getting worse. Fatal consequence of Pitt’s hasty resignation. Princess
Amelia unwell. Queen not well. At Carlton House they dance and sing.’
As the King grew worse, the intrigues of the husband of Caroline
became more active. The regency was the object of these intrigues.
In the meantime the condition of the Sovereign grew daily more
unsatisfactory. On the 29th of February the King’s pulse was at 130
during the night. ‘This makes,’ says Lord Malmesbury, ‘in favour of the
mental derangement, and proves it to be only the effect of delirium in
consequence of fever, but it puts his life in very great danger.’

His mind had been extraordinarily excited at this period by an
agitation which was being carried on against the Church, and in favour
of the emancipation of the Romanists. The King had strong views of
what he was bound to by the coronation oath, and the idea became
the rooted torment of his mind. ‘The King, on Monday,’ writes Lord
Malmesbury, ‘after having remained many hours without speaking, at
last, towards the evening, came to himself, and said, “I am better
now, but will remain true to the Church.” This leaves little doubt as
to the idea uppermost in his mind. And the physicians do not scruple
to say that, although his Majesty certainly had a bad cold, and would
under all circumstances have been ill, yet that the hurry and vexation
of all that has past was the cause of his mental illness, which, if it
had shown itself at all, would certainly not have declared itself so
violently, or been of a nature to cause any alarm, had not these events
taken place.’ They were events which were weighing on the mind of
George III., just as the loss of the American colonies had done in the
preceding century.

The Duke of York at this juncture is said to have behaved with great
propriety towards Queen Charlotte and the Princesses. How his elder
brother behaved is thus recorded: ‘The Prince of Wales, on Sunday,
the 22nd of February, the second day of the King’s illness, and
when he was at his worst, went in the evening to a concert at Lady
Hamilton’s, and there told Calonne, the rascally French ex-minister,
“Savez vous, M. de Calonne, que mon père est aussi fou que jamais?”’
Later we have it recorded, that ‘the King at Windsor, about 6th or
7th instant (March), read his coronation oath to his family;--asked
them whether they understood it? and added, If I violate it I am no
longer legal sovereign of this country, but it falls to the house of
Savoy.’ Subsequently, Lord Malmesbury writes: ‘Lady Salisbury said the
King was quite well enough to have the Queen and Princesses at dinner.
_Qui prouve trop ne prouve rien._ Any degree of fever could render
this improper in anybody, and if you take away the fever, you have the
intellectual derangement without a cause or hopes of recovery. I fear
there is so much fever that his life is in imminent peril. The Duke of
York deeply affected, and worn out with his assiduous attentions at the
Queen’s House.’

Lord Vincent, the first lord of the admiralty, declared on the 2nd of
March that not only was his Majesty much better, but that, throughout
the present attack, he had never been so ill as he was at the moment
when, in his previous illness, he had been pronounced by Warren to
be convalescent. The King’s fever increased alarmingly that very
night. On Tuesday, the 3rd of March, Lord Malmesbury thus graphically
describes the crisis: ‘King so much worse last night that his life was
despaired of. About ten he fell into a profound sleep; and awoke in
about six hours quite refreshed and quite himself. His Majesty said he
was thirsty, and, on being asked what he wished to drink, said, “if
_allowed_, a glass of cold water.” This was given him. It put him into
a perspiration. He fell asleep again, and awoke in the morning with the
fever abated, and better in every respect. The crisis of his disorder.
Crowds of people round Queen’s House, and their expressions of joy very
great.’

The cure, however, was not yet complete. Much care was required. The
King was disposed to talk on that very subject which had temporarily
threatened to overthrow his intellect. And his anxiety for the Church,
joined to seeing and conversing with two of his daughters before he
was strong enough to argue the question connected with one, or to bear
the pleasant excitement of intercourse with his family, produced a
disagreeable, although not an enduring, relapse.

The Prince of Wales was the most reluctant of his family to believe
in the recovery of his father, whom he openly declared as being more
deranged than ever, although he might possibly be improving in bodily
health. He affected to complain of being kept in ignorance of what was
going on at the Queen’s House; but his ignorance arose from the little
care he gave himself to become wiser.

The recovery, however, was considered genuine. The illness itself had
been marked by one circumstance which distinguishes it from that under
which the King suffered so severely in 1788. In the earlier attack
sleep never relieved him. Not that he did not sleep well, but that it
did not compose his nervous system. He would sleep indeed, soundly,
but awake from it, like a giant refreshed by wine, more turbulent
than ever. In the illness from which he had just recovered his sleep
was healthy and refreshing, and he invariably woke from it quiet and
composed.

The first persons whom he saw after his recovery were the Queen and
Princesses and the Dukes of Kent and Cumberland. To the Duke of York,
whom he saw alone on the 7th of March, he said, after thanking him
for his kindness to his mother and sisters, ‘I saw them yesterday,
because I could send _them_ away at any time; but I wish to see you
_alone_, and for a long time, and therefore I put it off till to-day.’
In inquiring about the Queen’s health of the Duke of York, the King
expressed great solicitude for them; and the Duke acknowledged that
they had suffered greatly, but added, that their chief anxiety was lest
now, in getting well, he should be less careful about his health than
prudence would warrant. The King confessed to having presumed too much
on the strength of his constitution, but promised to be less neglectful
for the future. And the conversation turned to political affairs, to
the ministry, to what had been done during his malady, and at last to
that question of Romanist emancipation which had so shaken his mind,
as being connected with that ruin of the Church of England which he
thought must follow, and which church he had sworn he would protect.
Some weeks before his illness he had said to the Duke of Portland
that, ‘were he to agree to it, he should betray his trust and forfeit
his crown, that it might bring the framers of it the gibbet.’ He was
beginning to use language almost as strong to the Duke of York, at the
first introduction between father and son, after the recovery of the
former. The Duke of York, however, very judiciously stopped him, with
the assurance that Pitt had abandoned all idea of pressing the Catholic
question, that therefore it were wise to let the discussion of it
drop also; and that all political parties, who had behaved with great
propriety during his illness, had now but one common anxiety--that
to see him well again. ‘I am now _quite_ well; QUITE recovered from my
illness,’ remarked the King to Mr. Willis, on the occasion of directing
him to write to Pitt, ‘but what has _he_ not to answer for who has
been the cause of my having been ill at all?’ Pitt was much affected
by this reproach, and it is said to have influenced him to surrender
the question rather than press it to the peril of the King’s health.
Indeed, the King had so determinedly expressed himself on the subject
that the Duke of Portland had declared that his Majesty had rather
suffer martyrdom than submit to this measure.

The interview between the King and the Duke of York was followed by one
between the Sovereign and the Prince of Wales. Lord Malmesbury says of
the latter, that ‘his behaviour was right and proper. How unfortunate
that it is not sincere, or rather that he has so effeminate a mind as
to counteract all his own good qualities by having no control over his
weaknesses!’

The Queen continued in a great state of anxiety touching the King’s
health, notwithstanding his complete recovery having been declared.
He was at times very nervous and depressed--at others, still more
nervous and excited. There was less a fear of mental derangement
than that his faculties might never recover their former tone. He
occasionally behaved strangely in public; was too familiar with the
members of the cabinet which succeeded that of which Pitt had been at
the head; and, again, was too readily and profoundly affected--too
soon elated or cast down--by trifles. On Thursday, the 26th of March,
1801, Lord Malmesbury writes: ‘Drawing-room to-day very crowded. Queen
looking pale. Princesses as if they had been weeping. They insinuate
that the King is too ill for the Queen to appear in public, and to
censure her for it. Dukes of York and Cumberland there. The Prince of
Wales _was_ at the drawing-room, but behaved very rudely to the Queen.’
And yet just previously he had made an ostentatious manifestation of
his delicacy. Lords Carlisle, Lansdowne, and Fitzwilliam, with Mr. Fox,
informed his royal highness that they had formed a coalition, offered
him their services, and proposed to hold a conference at Carlton
House. The Prince is said to have pleaded, in excuse for declining all
they offered, the state of the King’s health; but out of respect to
his sire, he said that he should consider it his duty to inform Mr.
Addington, the minister, of the nature of their proposals. This he did;
and it was perhaps because he regretted the step he had taken that he
behaved rudely to his royal mother in her own public drawing-room!

The King’s condition still required care and watchfulness. Thus, on
the 25th of May, Dr. Thomas Willis writes to Lord Eldon:--‘The general
impression yesterday, from the King’s composure and quietness, was
that he was very well. There was an exception to this in the Duke of
Clarence, who dined here. “He pitied the family, for he saw something
in the King that convinced him he must soon be confined again.”

‘This morning I walked with his Majesty, who was in a perfectly
composed and quiet state. He told me, with great seeming satisfaction,
that he had had a most charming night, “he could sleep from eleven to
half after four,” when, alas! he had but three hours’ sleep in the
night, which upon the whole was passed in restlessness--in getting
out of bed, opening the shutters, in praying violently, and in making
such remarks as betray a consciousness of his own situation, but which
are evidently made for the purpose of concealing it from the Queen. He
frequently called out, “I am now perfectly well, and my Queen--my
Queen has saved me!” While I write these particulars to your lordship I
must beg to remind you how much afraid the Queen is lest she should be
committed to him; for the King has sworn he will never forgive her if
she relates anything that passes in the night.’

The Princess Elizabeth subsequently addressed a letter to Dr. Thomas
Willis, in which she states that she has the Queen’s commands to inform
him that ‘the subject of the Princess of Wales is still in the King’s
mind, to a degree that is distressing, from the unfortunate situation
of the family.’ The writer adds: ‘The Queen commands me to say, that
if you could see her heart, you would see that she is guided by every
principle of justice, and with a most fervent wish that the dear King
may do nothing to form a breach between him and the Prince. For she
really lives in dread of it; for, from the moment my brother comes
into the room till the instant he quits it, there is nothing that is
not kind that the King does not do by him. This is so different to his
manner when _well_, and his ideas concerning the child (the Princess
Charlotte) so extraordinary, that I am not astonished at mamma’s
uneasiness. She took courage, and told the King that now my brother was
quiet he had better leave him, as he (the Prince) had never forbid the
Princess seeing the child when she pleased. To which he answered, “That
doesn’t signify. The Princess shall have her child; and I will speak
to Mr. Wyatt about the building of the wing to her present house.” You
know full well how speedily every thing _is now ordered_ and done.’

‘The Princess spoke to me on the conversation the King had had with
her--expressed her distress; and I told her how right she was in
not answering, as I feared the King’s intentions, though most rightly
meant, might serve to hurt and injure her in the world.’ For a few days
the symptoms ameliorated; then, on the 12th of June, Dr. Thomas Willis
wrote to Lord Chancellor Eldon: ‘His Majesty still talks much of his
prudence, but shows none. His body, mind, and tongue are all upon the
stretch every minute; and the manner in which he is now expending money
in various ways, which is so unlike him when well, all evince that he
is not so right as he should be.’ The Queen, to use her own words,
built her faith upon the Chancellor, and doubted not of his succeeding
in everything with his Majesty. ‘He failed in some nevertheless. He
urgently requested the King to allow Dr. Robert Willis to remain in
attendance on him. The King hated all the Willises, and Dr. Robert not
less than any of them. He concludes a note to Lord Eldon on the 21st of
June by saying: ‘No person that has ever had a nervous disease can bear
to continue the physician employed on the occasion. This holds much
more so in the calamitous one which has so long confined the King, but
of which he is now completely recovered.’

The health of the Sovereign prevented him from attending the concerts
and other entertainments which he was accustomed to honour with his
patronage. He was, however, sufficiently recovered to enjoy a sojourn
at Weymouth, and, on his return to Kew, to ride over occasionally to
visit the Princess of Wales at Blackheath. The daughter of the latter,
the Princess Charlotte, was now four years of age, and the question of
her separation from her mother was a frequent subject of discussion.
In the meantime, the little Princess was very often a visitor at
St. James’s or Windsor, by command of the Queen, and, of course,
unaccompanied by her mother.

On the 29th of October, the King opened Parliament in person. The
pleasant announcement was made in the royal speech that the eight
years’ war had come to a conclusion. The gratification of the public
was, however, somewhat marred by finding that the cost of carrying it
on had doubled the national debt, and that the supplies required for
the year amounted to forty millions.

The royal family now repaired to Windsor; and for the description of a
home scene there we will again have recourse to one who describes what
he saw and of which he was a part. Lord Malmesbury was a guest at the
castle during the 26th, 27th, and 28th of November. ‘I went there,’ he
says, ‘to present to the King and Queen copies of the new edition of
my father’s works. I saw them both alone on the evening of the 26th,
and was with them that and the next evening at their card party at the
Lodge. Each evening the Queen named me of her party, and played at
cribbage with me. I was with the King alone near two hours. I had not
seen him since the end of October, 1800--of course, not since his last
illness. He appeared rather more of an old man, but not older than men
of his age commonly appear. He stoops rather more, and was apparently
less firm on his legs; but he did not look thinner, nor were there
any marks of sickness or decline in his countenance or manner. These
last were much as usual--somewhat less hurried and more conversable:
that is to say, allowing the person to whom he addressed himself more
time to answer and talk than he used to do when discussing on common
subjects, on public and grave ones. I at all times, for thirty years,
have found him very attentive, and full as ready to hear as to give an
opinion, though perhaps not always disposed to adopt it and forsake
his own. He was gracious even to kindness. He asked how I continued to
keep well; and on my saying, amongst other reasons, that I endeavoured
to _keep my mind quiet_, and dismiss all unpleasant subjects from
intruding themselves upon it, the King said, “’Tis a very wise maxim,
and one I am determined to follow; but how, at this particular moment,
can you avoid it?” And without waiting he went on, saying, “Do you know
what I call the peace? _An experimental peace_, for it is nothing else.
I am sure you think so, and perhaps do not give it so _gentle_ a name;
but it was _unavoidable_. I was abandoned by everybody--allies and
all. I have done, I conscientiously believe, for the best, because I
could not do otherwise: but had I found more opinions like mine, better
might have been done.”’

His Majesty continued, at greater length than it is necessary to
follow, to give his opinions upon the men and questions of the day; and
this he did with great calmness, discrimination, and foresight. He was
not one that believed Jacobinism was dead merely because it was quiet;
and he spoke of the policy of Prussia of that day, and of the King who
adopted it, as men speak of both in the present day--a mixture of
atrocity, treachery, and meanness. Lord Malmesbury says little of the
Queen, but enough to give an idea of her manner. ‘The Queen,’ he says,
‘kept me only a quarter of an hour. She said she should see me again
in the evening, as I must be tired of standing so long with the King.
Spoke kindly of my father and my dear children. Princess Mary was all
good-humour and pleasantness: her manners are perfect, and I never saw
or conversed with any princess so exactly what she ought to be.’

CHAPTER XI.

THE END OF GREATNESS.

Queen as an author--Domestic life of the Royal Family--Return
of the King’s illness--His continual agitation--Dr. Symonds
not the medical officer for the King--Capricious changes made
by the King in his household--His humorous eccentricities--
Contest between the King and the Prince--The Queen’s conduct
--Scant courtesy to the royal invalid--Errors committed by
the King--Wellesley and Nelson--Gradual decay of the King--
His eccentricity at the installation of Knights of the Garter
--Picture of the daily life of the Royal Family--Position of
the Queen--The King’s resignation on his blindness--Distress
of his mind--Renewal of the Regency question--Extraordinary
assertion by Lord Eldon--The King’s person confided to the
Queen--The Queen’s letters to Lord Eldon--Her merry letter
to him--A touching incident--The Queen’s unpopularity--
Marriage of the Princess Charlotte--Decline of the Queen’s
health--Disgraceful reception of her by the City--Her death
--Considered as a parent--Her political influence--The debts
of Prince of Strelitz--The Court on George III.’s ceasing to
exercise authority--Regal retinue about the old King dismissed
--The Queen’s funeral--Her will--Her diamonds--Death of
the Duke of Kent--Death of the King--Visit of the Emperor of
the French to the Duchess of Gloucester.

In the year 1804 Queen Charlotte became entitled to be enrolled among
royal and noble authors or translators. It was now discovered that
she, and not Bishop Porteus, had translated Freylighausen’s ‘Abstract
of the whole Doctrine of the Christian Religion.’ The Queen translated
it, for the use of her daughters, from a German manuscript in her
library. This book was the first that was stereotyped in England
according to the Stanhope process. It was familiarly known as ‘the
Queen’s book.’ ‘The Queen’s book has come out, with an introduction
by the Bishop of London;’ thus writes the Rev. Thomas Belsham to Mr.
Aspland, in September, 1804. The letter is printed in the ‘Memoirs of
the Rev. Thomas Aspland.’ The writer adds: ‘I have just dipped into
it. I presume it was the Catechism which she learned when she was a
child, and which she still faithfully adheres to. I have just glanced
over it as it lies in Johnson’s shop. It is a mass of absurdity.’ This
testimony, it must be remembered, is given by a disciple of the eminent
Dr. Priestley and by an Unitarian minister--the most illustrious of
the church which claimed to be Christian as well as Unitarian.

The utmost regularity marked the course of the royal life during the
short time which elapsed between the King’s last illness and that of
1804. It was the period when anecdotes were being constantly told, and
perhaps sometimes made, of his simplicity and gentle nature. The Queen,
with a great love for display, could readily adapt herself to the
circumstances required by the exigencies of the time; and she as much
enjoyed the quietness of their domestic life as she had done the most
brilliant days and episodes of her reign. Her eldest son, who, in spite
of his conduct, loved his mother as well as he could love anybody,
caused her continual anxiety; but this was little compared with the
trials which awaited her from another source.

The mental maladies of the King usually occurred after taking cold; but
this fact did not seem to render him in any way cautious and prudent.
Thus, early in the present year he caught a violent cold, followed
by gout, in consequence of remaining in wet clothes after returning
from a walk in the rain. The malady speedily assumed the appearance of
something more formidable than a mere attack on his bodily health. At
the evening assembly at the Queen’s House, held in celebration of her
Majesty’s birthday, the King was unusually incoherent in his style of
speaking. The Queen played at cards, as was her custom; but her anxiety
was very manifest, and she never kept her eyes off the King during the
entire time the assembly lasted.

In the course of a few weeks the King grew worse; and, in addition
to his ordinary physicians, the attendance was required of persons
accustomed to these peculiar cases. The royal dislike to the Willises
(father and son) was the cause of Dr. Symonds being called in. The
august patient was in extreme danger during the 12th and 13th of
January. He partially recovered; but the mania, in a modified form,
still continued. He remained in this condition till May--fanciful,
suspicious, and unsteady in his manners and conversation, particularly
with the Queen and royal family and his usual society. ‘He was
apparently quite himself,’ says Lord Malmesbury, ‘when talking on
business and to his ministers. He then collected and re-collected
himself.’ Dr. Symonds was by no means so efficient a man in these cases
as the Willises, against whom the monarch had taken a rooted antipathy.
In the King’s first illness, as Willis, the clergyman, once entered the
room to visit the patient, the latter asked him if he, a clergyman, was
not ashamed of himself for exercising such a profession. Willis gently
hinted that the Saviour himself went about healing the sick. ‘Ay, ay!’
said the King, ‘but he hadn’t 700_l._ a-year for it.’

The King’s illness proved temporary; but he had troubles enough to
keep his mind in a continual agitation. On the 26th of May, 1804, Lord
Malmesbury thus writes:--

‘The King calls the Grenvilles “the brotherhood;” says “they _must_
always either govern despotically or oppose government violently.” Duke
of Portland has little doubts of the King’s doing well; quiet will set
him right and nothing else; he has been fatigued by being too much
talked to on the new arrangements.... Lady Uxbridge, at half-past
two, very uneasy about the King; said his family were quite unhappy,
that his temper was altered. He had just dismissed his faithful and
favourite page (Brown), who had served him during his illness with the
greatest attention. Quiet and repose were the only chance. She said
the Chancellor was to go to Windsor with him, which she was glad of.
King has stipulated, before he went to Windsor, that he would not go to
chapel, nor on the terrace, nor take long rides. Lady Uxbridge thinks
Dr. Symonds an unfit man; that the Willises, and particularly the
clergyman Willis, was a more proper person to be about the King when he
was getting well; so thinks Mrs. Harcourt.’

The next day we find the following entry in the diary:--‘Sunday, May
27. Mrs. Harcourt confirms all that Lady Uxbridge had told me; that
the King was apparently quite well when speaking to his ministers or
those who kept him a little in awe, but that towards his family and
dependents his language was incoherent and harsh, quite unlike his
usual character. She said that Symonds did not possess in any degree
the talents required to lead the mind from wandering to steadiness;
that in the King’s two former illnesses this had been most ably managed
by the Willises, who had this faculty in a wonderful degree, and were
men of the world who saw ministers and knew what the King ought to
do; that the not suffering them to be called in was an unpardonable
proof of folly (not to say worse) in Addington, and that now it was
impossible, since the King’s aversion was rooted; that Pitt judged ill
in leaving the sole disposal of the household to the King; that this
sort of power in his present weak (and, of course, suspicious) state
of mind had been exercised by him most improperly; he had dismissed
and turned away and made capricious changes everywhere, from the
lord-chamberlain to the groom and footman; he had turned away the
Queen’s favourite coachman, made footmen grooms, and _vice versâ_, and
what was still worse, because more notorious, had removed lords of the
bedchamber without a shadow of reason; that all this afflicted the
royal family without measure; that the Queen was ill and _cross_; the
princesses low, depressed, and quite sinking under it; and that unless
means could be found to place some very strong-minded and temperate
persons about the King he would either commit some extravagance or he
would, by violent carelessness and exercise, injure his health and
bring on a deadly illness. I asked where such a man did exist or had
existed. She said none she knew of; that Smart, when alive, had some
authority over him; that John Willis, the clergyman, also had acquired
it, but in a very different way; the first obtained it from regard
and high opinion, the other from fear; that, as was always the case,
cunning and art kept pace in the King’s character with his suspicions
and misgivings, and that he was become so very acute that nothing
escaped him. Mrs. Harcourt ended her recital by great recommendations
of secrecy, and submitting it to me whether I would or would not state
it to Mr. Pitt. I asked her if the Chancellor knew it. She said _all_:
he is the only person who can in any degree control the King: he is
the best man possible, and when he is near, things go on well. I said
in that case Mr. Pitt _must_ know it; and if he knew it, would, if he
could, apply a remedy; and that if he did not I must suppose he was at
a loss what to do, and that the hearing what he already knew from me
would be useless to him and look like a pushing intrusion on my part.
After her Lord Pembroke came into my room, and asked me whether I was
aware of what was passing at the Queen’s House; and he then repeated,
but in a still stronger manner and with additional circumstances,
what I had before heard. We then both dwelt on the very serious and
dangerous consequences to which it might lead, and in vain sought
about for a remedy.’

And again, on the 1st of June, we find Lord Malmesbury recording as
follows:--‘General Harcourt, who came to me in the evening from the
Queen’s House, gave me a most comfortable account of the King. He had
seen him often and for a long time, and that he was, in looks, manner,
conduct, and conversation, quite different from what he had been since
his illness--very different indeed from what he was at Windsor; and
General Harcourt, who is not a sanguine man, really seemed to think
most favourably of the King.’

Some of the King’s acts smacked rather of a humorous eccentricity than
anything worse. Thus, early in this month, when Lord Pelham carried his
seals of office to the Queen’s House to deliver them up to the King,
the latter said, ‘Before I can allow you to empty _your_ hands you must
empty mine;’ and therewith he thrust upon him the _stick_ of captain of
the yeomen of the guard. Lord Pelham looked as much horrified as if his
Majesty had offered to knight him, and the poor sovereign, remarking
this, observed to him encouragingly, ‘It will be less a sinecure than
formerly, as I intend living more with my great officers.’ The noble
lord was too awkwardly placed and had too much respect for the King to
return the unwelcome stick. There was something additionally comical
in the circumstance in this: Pitt was hurt at his Majesty thinking
of conferring an office without previous communication with him; and
Pelham was hurt at Pitt’s having entrapped _him_, as he supposed, into
the not very exalted office of captain of the yeomen.

The poor monarch had in reality enough provocation at home, to say
nothing of the anxieties caused him by the aspect of foreign affairs,
to render irritable, if not to throw off its balance, a mind so
unhinged and ill at ease as his own. It was at this period that a
contest was going on between him and the Prince of Wales relative to
the residence and education of the Princess Charlotte. The Monarch,
with much reason, wished her to reside at Windsor, there to be educated
in the character of ‘a queen that is to be.’ The Prince opposed the
proposition for the opposition’s sake, being also moved thereto by
advisers who belonged to the party in Parliament adverse to the crown.
It was very much feared that if his wishes were really disregarded the
consequences to his health would be serious. The Prince himself hardly
knew his own mind, and perhaps had no well-grounded opinion upon the
matter at all.

‘The two factions,’ says Lord Malmesbury, ‘pulled different ways.
Ladies Moira, Hutchinson, and Mrs. Fitzherbert were for his ceding
the child to the King; the Duke of Clarence and Devonshire House most
violent against it, and the Prince was inclined to the faction he
saw last. In the Devonshire House cabal Lady Melbourne and Mrs. Fox
act conspicuous parts, so that the alternative for our future Queen
seems to be whether _Mrs. Fox_ or _Mrs. Fitzherbert_ shall have the
ascendancy.’

Father and son had an interview. After a whole year’s estrangement,
for _one day_ child and parent agreed tolerably well; but they did
not long continue to be of one mind. The conduct of the Prince was
insulting to the authority of the King and to his office as father. To
some extremely sensible remarks on the educational plan best calculated
to promote the welfare and happiness of the Princess, her father, the
Prince of Wales, returned an answer so improperly worded that the
Chancellor declined to present it to the King. The latter was made
irritable and ill at no answer having reached him from the Prince, and
he was only beguiled into patience by being misinformed that the Prince
had misconceived the King’s letter, and that it was necessary to set
him right on the misconceived points before a reply could be expected.

The Queen was rendered more anxious than any other member of the royal
family, of whom Lord Malmesbury simply records that ‘the sons behave
tolerably, the princesses most perfectly.’ At this time the Queen,
with all her natural anxiety, exhibited some strangeness of conduct.
‘She will never receive the King,’ says the noble diarist just quoted,
‘without one of the princesses being present; piques herself on this
discreet silence, and, when in London, locks the door of her _white
room_ (her _boudoir_) against him. The behaviour of the Queen alarms me
more than all the other of Mrs. Harcourt’s stories; for if the Queen
did not think the King likely to relapse she would not alter in her
manners towards him, and her having altered her manners proves that she
thinks he _may_ relapse.’

If the royal invalid thus met with scant courtesy at the hands even
of his consort, whose fears made her unkind, he received still less
at the hands of some of his servants. For instance, when Addington,
Lord Sidmouth, broke with Pitt, and repaired to the King to surrender
the key of the council-box (he had been president of the council), the
King told him, somewhat angrily, ‘You must not give it to me, but to
Lord Hawkesbury.’ The retiring statesman excused himself on the ground
that he and Lord Hawkesbury were not on speaking terms; to which George
wisely enough rejoined that _that_ was no affair of _his_. He would
thereupon have ended the audience, but Addington remained talking to
and at him for an hour, and so fatigued and displeased him, that when
the King returned to his family (the scene passed at Windsor), he said,
‘That ---- has been plaguing me to death!’ It was soon after this
occurrence that Pitt’s administration was broken up by the death of the
great statesman, and Lord Grenville and Fox came in as chiefs of the
cabinet of ‘All the Talents.’ The Prince of Wales is recorded as having
gone most heartily and unbecomingly with them; lowering his dignity
by soliciting offices and places for his dependents, and by degrading
himself to the ‘size of a common party-leader.’

The King himself occasionally committed errors that must have
considerably annoyed those of his family and cabinet who entertained
more correct views and opinions. Thus, it is pretty well known that
George III. was very reluctant to admit Sir Arthur Wellesley to act as
commander-in-chief. It is mentioned by Lord Holland, in his ‘Memoirs of
the Whig Party,’ that Nelson himself was looked coldly upon at court,
even when he made his first appearance there after the glorious victory
of the Nile. Incompetent and unsuccessful officers were there conversed
with, while scarcely a word of recognition was vouchsafed to the
diminutive conqueror. He had doubly offended. His connection with Lady
Hamilton was an offence to both King and Queen. He had besides accepted
an ‘order’ from the King of Naples, without first asking permission.
He had been told not to wear it _above_ the order of the Bath, but his
reply was that the latter order was in its right place; and as the King
of Naples had affixed his own on the spot which it then occupied on the
admiral’s coat, he would let it remain where the Neapolitan king had
graciously condescended to put it. This independent line of conduct was
not likely to gain favour either with the King or Queen; and though
they submitted to have victories gained for them by his head and hand,
they had very little esteem for him who won their battles. The King is
known to have been very averse to the public funeral with which honour,
poor enough, was done to the remains of the hero. He was nevertheless
sensitive touching the honour of the country, and fierce in his
remarks against the public men who seemed to disregard it.

The remaining years of the King’s life were years of gradual decay
on his part, and of watchfulness over him on the part of the Queen.
Apart from state occasions, the royal couple lived in a retired
manner, but with all the elegancies of refinement around them. The
most marked incident of 1805 was the visit of the Princess of Wales,
with the Princess Charlotte, to Windsor Castle, where the Queen paid
her daughter-in-law less attention than the King, who treated her
with a distinction that was offensive alike to Queen and Prince. With
something of like distaste the Queen acquiesced in the King’s wish to
make a permanent residence of Windsor, for which purpose nearly the
whole of the splendid library was removed from the Queen’s House to the
castle.

Queen Charlotte preserved her quiet dignity and self-possession on
all public occasions. Her bearing, according to Sir Jonah Barrington,
‘was not that of a heroine of romance, but she was the best bred and
most graceful lady of her age and figure I ever saw; so kind and
conciliating that one could scarcely believe her capable of anything
but benevolence. She appeared plain, old, and of dark complexion; but
she was unaffected, and commanded that respect which private virtues
ever will obtain for public character.’

The King, too, still enjoyed all occasions on which he could display
any magnificence. The retirement was rather a sanitary than a
voluntarily adopted measure; and exciting scenes injured himself and
alarmed his consort. Thus, at the gorgeous installation of the Knights
of the Order of the Garter, on St. George’s day, 1805, his conduct was
marked by the petulant vivacity of a boy rather than by the gravity of
a monarch who had occupied the throne for nearly half a century. The
Queen witnessed it with amazement. He was ostentatiously patronising
with the Princess of Wales, joking with some of the lords, solemnly
trifling with others; and he spoke of the spectacle with the sentiment
of a stage-manager who had ‘got up’ a showy piece with unqualified
success.

The following picture of the ‘economy of the royal family at Windsor,’
at this time, is quoted as interesting from its faithfulness, showing
the position of the Queen in her household, and being generally
‘germane to the matter.’

‘Our Sovereign’s sight is so much improved since last spring that he
can now clearly distinguish objects at the extent of twenty yards. The
King, in consequence of this favourable change, has discontinued the
use of the large flapped hat which he usually wore, and likewise the
silk shade.

‘His Majesty’s mode of living is now not quite so abstemious. He
now sleeps on the north side of the castle, next the terrace, in a
roomy apartment not carpeted, on the ground floor. The room is neatly
furnished, partly in a modern style, under the tasteful direction
of the Princess Elizabeth. The King’s private dining-room, and the
apartments _en suite_ appropriated to his Majesty’s use, are all on the
same side of the castle.

‘The Queen and the princesses occupy the eastern wing. When the King
rises, which is generally about half-past seven o’clock, he proceeds
immediately to the Queen’s saloon, where his Majesty is met by one of
the princesses--generally either Augusta, Sophia, or Amelia; for each
in turn attend their revered parent. From thence, the Sovereign and his
daughter, attended by the lady in waiting, proceed to the chapel in
the castle, where divine service is performed by the dean or sub-dean;
the ceremony occupies about an hour. Thus the time passes until nine
o’clock, when the King, instead of proceeding to his own apartment
and breakfasting alone, now takes that meal with the Queen and the
five princesses. The table is always set out in the Queen’s noble
breakfast-room, which has been recently decorated with very elegant
modern hangings; and, since the late improvement by Mr. Wyatt, commands
a most delightful and extensive prospect of the Little Park. The
breakfast does not occupy half-an-hour. The King and Queen sit at the
head of the table, and the princesses according to seniority. Etiquette
in every other respect is strictly adhered to. On entering the room the
usual forms are observed agreeably to rank.

‘After breakfast the King generally rides out, attended by his
equerries; three of the princesses, namely, Augusta, Sophia, and
Amelia, are usually of the party. Instead of only walking his
horse, his Majesty now generally proceeds at a good round trot.
When the weather is unfavourable, the King retires to his favourite
sitting-room, and sends for Generals Fitzroy or Manners, to play at
chess with him. His Majesty, who knows the game well, is highly pleased
when he beats the former, that gentleman being an excellent player.
The King dines regularly at two o’clock; the Queen and princesses at
four. His Majesty visits and takes a glass of wine and water with them
at five. After this period, public business is frequently transacted
by the King in his own study, where he is attended by his private
secretary, Colonel Taylor. The evening is, as usual, passed at cards
in the King’s drawing-room, where three tables are set out. To these
parties many of the principal nobility residing in the neighbourhood
are invited. When the castle clock strikes ten the visitors retire. The
supper is set out, but that is merely a matter of form, and of which
none of the family partake. These illustrious personages retire to rest
for the night at eleven o’clock. The journal of one day is the history
of a whole year.’ The history is not a lively one, perhaps, but it
shows agreeably the domestic simplicity of the court. He who was at the
head of the latter did not want for a certain religious heroism under
affliction. On his growing blindness being compassionately alluded to
by some one in his hearing the King remarked: ‘I am quite resigned, for
what have we in this world to do but to suffer and perform the will of
the Almighty!’ He was resigned, however, partly because he was not yet
deprived of hope. In 1809, the jubilee year of his reign, he was unable
to attend the grand _fête_ given by Queen Charlotte at Frogmore in
honour of the event; and though he rode out, his horse was now led by
a servant. On foot, he felt his way along the terrace by the help of a
stick. Stricken with such an infliction as rapidly advancing blindness,
his predilection for the ‘Total Eclipse’ of Handel was, at least,
singular. It affected him to tears, and the Queen could not listen to
the performance of this composition without being similarly affected.
And yet the King himself seemed mournfully attached to both the music
and the words. One morning, we are told, the Queen, or the Prince of
Wales--for each has been mentioned--but probably the former, on
entering the King’s apartment, found him pathetically reciting the
well-known lines from Milton--

Oh dark! dark! dark! amid the blaze of noon
Irrevocably dark! Total eclipse
Without all hope of day!
Oh first created beam, and thou great word,
Let there be light, and light was over all;
Why am I thus deprived thy prime decree!

Indeed, although a royal, it was a troubled household. Circumstances
in the lives of two of the sons of the King--York and Cumberland--
caused him great anxiety; but the death of his youngest, and perhaps
best-loved daughter, Amelia, in 1810, finished the ravage which care
and other causes had inflicted on his intellect. Walcheren and Amelia
were said to be ever in his thoughts, as long, at least, as he had
the power to think and the privilege to weep. The idea of the loss of
his royal authority, too, pressed heavily upon him. The time came, in
1811, when such deprivation was necessary, and that year commenced the
unbroken period of what may be termed his gentle insanity.

When the unquestionable presence of this calamity necessarily
introduced into Parliament the Regency question, ‘Scott (Eldon)
made one of the most extraordinary assertions that Parliament was
ever called upon to listen to.’ He affirmed that, when the King was
incapable, the sovereignty, for the time being, resided in the Great
Seal. He added that Parliament had a right to elect the Regent, the
principle of hereditary right not being here applicable. The right of
the Queen was spoken of; but it was intimated, as if from authority,
that the Queen was not likely to oppose the government of her son.

That government was established; but the care of the King’s person
remained with the Queen, who was assisted by a council. This rendered
an almost constant attendance at Windsor necessary; but the restraint
was compensated for by an additional ten thousand a-year.

The Queen’s letters to Lord Chancellor Eldon are all expressive of the
utmost gratitude for services rendered, and of suggestions touching
offices expected. She is anxious that at ‘_her_ council’ the great
officers of state should be present, to receive the reports of his
Majesty’s health made by the physicians who are in daily attendance
upon him. When a gleam of improvement manifests itself in the King’s
gloomy condition, she is anxious that too much should not be made of
nor expected from it. Of these promises of amelioration no one was
more readily sensible than the King himself; and his inclination to
believe that he was well, or on the point of becoming perfectly so, was
an inclination which she thought was by no means to be encouraged. Her
urgency on this point is remarkable, and is singularly at variance with
common sense; for a quiet acquiescence in the King’s often-expressed
conviction that he was convalescent would seem to have been less likely
to agitate him than as often a repeated assurance that he was entirely
mistaken. The Queen’s letters on this melancholy matter do not exhibit
much dignity, either of sentiment or expression; nor, indeed, was she
a woman to affect either. She cared as little for sentiment as she did
for grammar, and she is said at this time to have exhibited a disregard
for a consistent use of pronouns. In ‘Lord Eldon’s Life,’ by Horace
Twiss, is a note of hers, addressed to the Lord Chancellor, which
commences with ‘The _Queen_ feels,’ passes into an allusion touching
how severe ‘_our_’ trials have been, and ends with an ‘_I_ hope
Providence will bring _us_ through.’

But she could write merry little notes too, and to the same august
person. With the establishment of the Regency it seemed as if a great
burthen had been taken from her, and her sprightliness at and about
her son’s festivals was quite remarkable in an aged and so naturally
‘staid’ a lady. On occasion of the Regent’s birthday, in 1812, she
despatched a letter to the Lord Chancellor, in court. It commences
merrily with a sort of written laugh at the surprise the grand
dignitary will doubtless feel at seeing a lady’s letter penetrate into
his solemn court; and thus sportively it runs on with a gay invitation
to come down to Frogmore, to spend the Regent’s birthday. ‘You will
not be _learnedly_ occupied, perhaps,’ suggests the mirthful old lady,
‘but you will be, at least, legally engaged, in the lawful occupation
of dining.’ In 1814, the old monarch’s first love, Lady Sarah Lennox,
afterwards Lady Sarah Bunbury, and, lastly, Lady Sarah Napier, had
become a charming old lady; but she had not passed through life without
affliction. In the above year, the Dean of Canterbury preached at
St. James’s Church, for the benefit of the infirmary for the cure of
diseases of the eye. The Dean alluded to the miserable condition of
the monarch. George Tierney was present, and he wrote in a letter
now extant: ‘On the seat immediately before me was an elderly lady,
who appeared to be deeply affected by the whole of this part of the
discourse. She wept much, and I observed that she herself was quite
helpless from the entire loss of sight, and was obliged to be led out
of church. The tears which I saw thus shed in commiseration to the
sufferings of the King fell from the eyes of ----’, the once young and
beautiful Lady Sarah Lennox, the innocent rival of Queen Charlotte
herself.

The office held by the Queen was not a pleasant one, but she contrived
to reconcile it with a considerable amount of enjoyment. The events
of her life, which brought her in collision with her daughter-in-law,
will be found detailed in the story of the latter. Those of her office
as guardian of the King sometimes brought her in connection with
touching incidents. Thus, she one day found him singing a hymn to the
accompaniment of a harpsichord, played by himself. On concluding it,
he knelt down, prayed for his family, the nation, and finally that God
would restore to him the reason which he felt he had lost! At other
times he might be heard invoking death, and he even imagined himself
dead, and asked for a suit of black that he might go into mourning
for the old King! These incidents were great trials to the Queen, who
witnessed them, or had them reported to her. But she had trials also
from another source.

In 1816, the public distress was very great, and those in high places
were unpopular, often for no better reason than that they _were_ in
high places, and were supposed to be indifferent to the sufferings
of the more lowly and harder tried. The Queen came in for some share
of the popular ill-will, but she met the first expression of it with
uncommon spirit; a spirit indeed which gained for her the silent
respect of the mob, who had begun by insulting her. As her Majesty was
proceeding to hold her last drawing-room, in the year 1815, she was
sharply hissed, loudly reviled, and insultingly asked what she had
done with the Princess Charlotte. She was so poorly protected that the
mob actually stopped her chair. Whereupon, it is reported, she quietly
let down the glass, and calmly said to those nearest to her: ‘I am
above seventy years of age; I have been more than half a century Queen
of England; and I never was hissed by a mob before.’ The mob admired
the spirit of the undaunted old lady, and they allowed her to pass on
without further molestation.

Her son, the Prince Regent, sent several aides-de-camp to escort his
mother from St. James’s to Buckingham House, but she declined their
attendance. They told her that, having had the orders of the Regent
to escort her safely to her residence, they felt bound to perform the
office entrusted to them by the Prince. ‘You have left Carlton House
by his Royal Highness’s orders,’ said Queen Charlotte; ‘return there
by mine, or I will leave my chair and go home on foot.’ She was, of
course, carefully watched, in spite of her commands, but the cool
magnanimity she displayed was quite sufficient to procure respect for
her from the crowd.

Although the King had some lucid intervals, he never again became
perfectly conscious of the bearing of public events, and if he was
deprived of some enjoyment thereby, he was also spared much pain. He
was as little aware of what passed in his own family; and although he
could make pertinent questions, and sometimes argue correctly enough
from wrong premises, he was unable to comprehend the meaning of much
that was told to him. Thus the marriage of his grand-daughter, a
circumstance to which he used to allude playfully, was now to him a
perfect blank. This ceremony took place on the 2nd of May 1816. It will
be more fully alluded to hereafter. In this place it may, however, be
stated that the drawing-room in honour of the marriage of the Princess
Charlotte to Prince Leopold was held at Buckingham House. It was
brilliant, the Queen was gracious, and only the Regent exhibited a want
of his usual urbanity, by turning his back on a lady who was about to
enter the service of the Princess of Wales. The bride did not look her
best on this public occasion. She stood apart from the royal circle,
in a recess formed by a window, with her back to the light, and was
‘deadly pale.’ There was an expression of pleasure on her countenance,
but it was thought to be forced. ‘Prince Leopold,’ says a contemporary
writer, ‘was looking about him with a keen glance of inquiry, as if
he would like to know in what light people regarded him.’ The Queen
either was, or pretended to be, in the highest possible spirits, and
was very gracious to everybody. All the time I was in this courtly
scene, and especially as I looked at the Princess Charlotte, I could
not help thinking of the Princess of Wales, and feeling very sorry and
very angry at her cruel fate.... I dare say the Princess Charlotte was
thinking of the Princess of Wales when she stood in the gay scene of
to-day’s drawing-room, and that the remembrance of her mother, excluded
from all her rights and privileges in a foreign country, and left
almost without any attendants, made her feel very melancholy. I never
can understand how Queen Charlotte could dare refuse to receive the
Princess of Wales at the public drawing-room, any more than she would
any other lady of whom nothing has been publicly proved against her
character. Of one thing there can be no doubt--the Queen is the slave
of the Regent.’

Of this assertion, however, very grave doubt may be entertained. The
Regent, at this time, certainly loved the ‘old Queen,’ as she was
familiarly called, if a service of tender respect, deference, courtesy,
and apparent good-will may be taken as proofs of such a love existing.

Her own health was now beginning to give way, and she sought to restore
it by trying the efficacy of the Bath waters; but with only temporary
relief. She was at Bath when the news of the death of the Princess
Charlotte reached her, in November 1817, and her health grew visibly
worse under the shock. Her absence from the side of the young Princess
at this period, which was followed by such fatal consequences, was
at the request of the Princess herself, who knew that the Queen’s
good-will in this case was stronger than her ability. The popular
voice, however, blamed her, and it was unmistakably expressed on her
return to London.

The last visit paid by the Queen to the City differed in every respect
from that which she had paid it when a bride. Her first visit had
been one of form and ceremony; mingled, however, with a hearty lack
of formality in some of the occurrences of the day. She went amid the
citizens surrounded by guards; and this attendance was not as doubting
the loyalty of the Londoners, but that royalty might look respectable
in their eyes. On the occasion of the last visit her Majesty intimated
to the Lord Mayor, Alderman Christopher Smith, that she wished to
be received without ceremony; and this wish the corporate magnates
construed as meaning without protection; there was as little of that as
of civil politeness. The High Constable of Westminster attended near
her Majesty’s carriage as far as Temple Bar, the eastward limit of his
jurisdiction. On arriving there, however, he found no one in authority
to receive the Queen, and accordingly he continued to ride by the side
of the royal carriage until it reached the Mansion House. The mob was
a-foot, active, numerous, and rudely-tongued that day. As the Queen
passed through she was assailed by the most hideous yells, and many of
the populace thrust their heads into the carriage, and gave expression
to the most diabolical menaces. If it be true, as has been reported,
that the Queen minutely detailed in writing the memoirs of her own
life, the events of this day must have been penned by a trembling
but indignant hand. At the Mansion House, so little protection was
afforded her that the foremost of the people were almost thrust upon
her, their violence of speech shocked her ears, and they attempted,
but unsuccessfully, to disarm one of her footmen of his sword. In the
evening of this melancholy last visit she dined with the Duke of York,
and it was there that she first suffered from a violent spasmodic
attack, from the effects of which she never perfectly recovered. The
Lord Mayor stoutly maintained that the visit had very much improved
her Majesty’s health. He thought, perhaps, that excitement was a tonic
to age and infirmity. The Queen’s health really suffered materially
from the excitement; and it was not with her wonted calmness that she
could even listen, on the following Sunday, to the usual weekly sermon,
always read aloud to her by one of the princesses.

It is certain that from the early part of the year 1818 the aged Queen
may be said to have been in a rapidly declining state. Her condition,
however, was not highly dangerous till the autumn, when her spasmodic
attacks became more frequent and the progress of dropsical symptoms
more alarming. Her sufferings were very great, and if she experienced
temporary ease the slightest variation of position renewed her pain.
She continued in this condition until the 14th of November, when, by
a slight rupture in the skin of both ankles, from which there took
place a considerable effusion of water, the venerable lady experienced
some relief. Her condition, however, was not bettered thereby, for
mortification soon set in, and that portion of her family which was in
attendance upon her soon learned that all hope was abandoned; after
an interval of more than eighty years England was again about to lose
a Queen-consort; but no Queen-consort had for so long a period shared
the throne of the empire as Charlotte. For fifty-seven years she had
occupied the high place from which she was now about to descend. On
Tuesday, the 16th of November 1818, at one o’clock P.M., the Queen
calmly departed, at her suburban palace at Kew. Her last breath was
drawn in a low arm-chair, that cannot be called an _easy_ chair, and
which is still preserved at Kew. The Regent, the Duke of York, the
Princess Augusta, and the Duchess of Gloucester were present. The
Princess Elizabeth of Hesse Homburg was said to have been absent, on
account of some difference between herself and her royal mother, but
it was afterwards ascertained that a reconciliation had taken place
between mother and child before the Princess left the kingdom for her
own home. How far the Queen had acquitted herself as a parent towards
her children was made a ‘vexed question’ at the time of her death;
and an endeavour was made to connect the fact of the dispersion of
several of the princes and princesses in foreign countries with the
mother as an irritating cause thereof. The ‘Times,’ at the period of
which we are treating, entered largely upon this subject; and that
organ was evidently inclined to conclude that her Majesty had not
succeeded in attaching to her the hearts of her children. ‘The Duke of
Cumberland,’ said the ‘Times,’ ‘is out of the question. The inflexible,
but well-meant determination of the Queen to stigmatise her niece, by
shutting the doors of the royal palace against her, may excuse strong
feelings of estrangement or resentment on the part of the Duchess and
her kindred. But that the Dukes of Clarence, Kent, and Cambridge at
the same time should have quitted, as if by signal, their parent’s
death-bed, is a circumstance which, in lower life, would have at least
astonished the community.’ The ‘Times’ adds, that ‘the departure of the
Princess Elizabeth, the Queen’s favourite daughter, who married and
took leave of her in the midst of that illness which was pronounced
must shortly bring her to the grave, may, perhaps, have been owing to
the express injunctions of her Majesty. The Duke of Gloucester stands
in a more remote degree of relationship; Prince Leopold more distant
still; but they all quitted the scene of suffering at a period when its
fatal termination could not be doubted; and, as these have departed, it
is no less apparent to common observers that the Queen of Wurtemburg
might have approached the bed of a dying mother, from whom, by the
usual lot of princes, she has been so long separated, as that her royal
parent has not accepted from her the performance of that painful duty.’
The same authority, however, confesses that the leading members of the
royal family who remained in England were unwearied in their attendance
on their dying parent, and so far set an example to the people of
England, over whom they had been placed by Providence.

The influence of Queen Charlotte in political affairs, even had she
been as much inclined to exercise it as her enemies charged her with,
was but small. It could not be otherwise in a country with such a
constitution as ours--a limited monarchy, the ministers of which
are sure to be made responsible for grave consequences arising from
the surrender of their authority to a power unrecognised by the
constitution. That the influence, however, was not quite dormant was
seen in the fact of the government paying the debts of her Majesty’s
brother, the Prince of Strelitz, with 30,000_l._ of the public money;
and the same influence was suspected when the Queen’s friend, the Earl
of Suffolk, who had undertaken to arrange the embarrassed affairs of
the Prince of Strelitz, was appointed to the office of Secretary of
State.

If the Queen was not always a liberal recompenser, she, at least, was a
punctual payer. In this respect she excelled the King himself. On the
other hand, when the latter was at issue with his brothers or children,
because of objectionable marriages entered into by them, the Queen did
not aggravate the quarrel, although she felt keenly on the subject. She
was in many respects a ‘homely’ woman, but in matters of homeliness
the King set the example. He watched incessantly over the mental and
physical education of his children; ‘and the daily discipline of the
nursery itself did not escape his paternal solicitudes.’ But, says the
‘Times,’ ‘that her Majesty’s voluntary tastes were not exactly those
which had been inferred from the habits of her matrimonial life, may
be conjectured from the revolution which they seemed to undergo soon
after the period when her royal husband ceased to exercise the supreme
authority in this realm. At that period a transition was observed “from
grave to gay.” The sober dignity, the chastened grandeur, the national
character of the English court seemed to vanish with the afflicted
sovereign. A new species of grandeur now succeeded, in which there was
more of the exterior of royalty and less of its becoming spirit. A
long series of what was meant to be festivities--crowded balls and
elaborate suppers, glittering pomp, gaudy and gorgeous, yet fluttering
decoration--reckless, capricious, yet never-ending profusion--all
the apparatus of commonplace magnificence were introduced with the
Regency and countenanced, or apparently not discountenanced, by the
Queen.’ It must be remembered, however, that in these matters she
had no control over the Regent; indeed we have, in a former page,
seen her called his ‘slave.’ During her life she, at all events, had
influence enough to maintain a regal retinue about the person of her
afflicted husband. She had no sooner expired, however, when her son
dismissed immediately nearly the whole of this retinue, on the ground
of its uselessness to the unconscious King, and the very great expense
it was to the country. The country was not unwilling to see a few
thousands a-year economised by stripping the fine old monarch of some
of the superfluous grandeur by which he was surrounded. The country,
nevertheless, was sorely perplexed and bitterly indignant when it saw
that the thousands which had been paid to numerous officers in daily
service on the King were now to be paid to the Duke of York, who, for
ten thousand a-year, constrained his filial affection to the severe
labour of inquiring after his sick sire once a week.

The Queen’s funeral took place on the 2nd of December, at Windsor.
It was a public funeral, in the accepted sense of that term, but the
arrangements were inappropriate. The procession mainly consisted of
military, horse and foot, as if they had been escorting a warrior,
and not a woman, to the tomb. The members of the peerage did scant
honour to the Queen whom they had professed to reverence when alive.
Few, and those not of note, were present. The absence of peeresses
was especially noted. Indeed the public funeral of Charlotte was more
private than the private funeral of her predecessor Caroline.

The will of Queen Charlotte was that of a woman of foresight and
good memory rather than of feeling and affection. The document was
proved by Lord Arden and General Taylor, the executors. It was in the
General’s handwriting, and was witnessed by Sir Francis Millman and
Sir Henry Halford. The personal property was sworn to as being under
140,000_l._

The substance of the will was as follows:--The royal testatrix directed
that her debts and the legacies and annuities noticed in her will
should be paid out of the personalty, or sale of personals, if there
should not be wherewith in her Majesty’s treasury to provide for those
payments. The personal property was of various descriptions; part of it
comprised the real estate in New Windsor, which she had purchased of
the Duke of St. Albans, and which was known as the Lower Lodge (left
to the Princess Sophia); but the personalty of the greatest value may
be said to have been those splendid jewels which she cherished so
dearly, and for which she affected to have such little care. These
the systematic Sovereign divided into three parts--those presented
to her by the King on her marriage, worth 50,000_l._; those presented
to her by the Nabob of Arcot, for the acquisition of which she paid
by a temporary forfeiture of what she very little regarded--popular
favour; and those purchased by herself, or which she had received
as presents on birthday occasions. Such _souvenirs_ were to her the
most welcome gifts that could be made to her on that or any other
anniversary. Of these jewels she made the following disposal: She
directed that the diamonds given to her by the King on her marriage
should revert to him only on condition that with survivorship there
should be recovery of his mental faculties. If he were not restored to
reason, she then directed--what he never would have consented to had
his reason been restored to him--that they should be made over to the
Crown of Hanover, as an heir-loom. Such a disposal of property which
should have remained in England transferred the diamonds to Hanover
whenever that kingdom should be divided from England by the accession,
in the latter country, of a Queen--who, according to the law of
Hanover, could not reign in that continental kingdom.

The splendid tribute which the Nabob of Arcot had deposited at her feet
she divided among four of her daughters. The excepted daughter was the
Queen of Wurtemburg, whom she looked upon as exceedingly well provided
for. To the remaining four the careful mother did not bequeath the
glittering gems, but the value of them after they were sold, and after
certain debts were discharged from the produce of the sale. The four
princesses divided between them what remained. The jewels which she had
bought, or had received as birthday presents, were also to be divided
among the same four daughters, according to a valuation to be made of
them. The diamonds were valued at nearly a million. In ready money the
Queen left behind her only 4,000_l._

Frogmore was bequeathed to the Princess Augusta; and the plate,
linen, pictures, china, books, furniture, &c., were left to the four
princesses already named. Of her sons the testatrix made no mention,
nor to them left any legacy. There were other persons mentioned, but
who came off as badly as though they had never been named. Her Majesty
directed that certain bequests as set down in certain lists annexed to
her will, and to which due reference was made, should be paid to them;
but not only were no such lists so annexed, but it was ascertained that
her Majesty had never drawn any out herself nor directed any to be
drawn by others.

There _was_, however, another list, touching which the aged Queen had
been by no means so forgetful. This list contained a detail of property
which the testatrix declared she had brought with her, more than half
a century before, from Mecklenburgh Strelitz. Thither she ordered it
to be sent back--to the senior branch of her illustrious house. After
millions received from this country during her residence in it, she
would not testify her gratitude for such munificence by permitting it
or her family in England to profit by the handful of small valuables
she had brought with her from Strelitz. To the head of the house of
Mecklenburgh Strelitz reverted the few old-fashioned things brought
over here in the trunks of the bride; and, if they have been worth
preserving, the old-world finery of Sophia Charlotte of Strelitz and
England is now possessed by the Grand Duchess of Mecklenburgh, the
daughter of Charlotte’s son, Adolphus of Cambridge.

The will was dated only the day previous to her Majesty’s demise.
It had been put together at various periods since the 2nd of the
previous May, by an officer of her Majesty’s establishment--General
Taylor. About a fortnight previous to her Majesty’s decease she was
for the first time made acquainted with her dangerous condition by a
communication delicately conveyed to her by order of the Prince Regent,
and to the effect, ‘that if her Majesty had any affairs to settle it
would be advisable to do so while she had health and spirits to bear
the fatigue.’ The royal sufferer well comprehended what was meant
by such a message, and was very seriously affected by it. She had
entertained strong hopes, amounting almost to confidence, that by the
skill of her medical attendants she would be again restored to health.
This recommendation to set her ‘house in order’ was an announcement
that her case was hopeless. Affected as she was, she did not lose her
dignity or self-possession, but resigned herself to death, even while
regretting she was about to depart from life. This was natural; and
as there had never been any false sentiment about Queen Charlotte, so
was she above exhibiting any in her last moments. Her patience was
extreme, and in the acutest of her agony she never once suffered a
murmur of complaint to escape her.

It has been said that the Queen left no diamonds to her daughter, the
Dowager Queen of Wurtemburg. She left her, however, a superb set of
_garnets_. The reason assigned was, that garnets were the only precious
stones that could be worn with mourning, which the Dowager Queen had
announced her intention of wearing for life. Queen Charlotte had,
as ladies averred who spoke with _connaissance du fait_, the finest
wardrobe in Europe, the highly-consoled legatee of which was Madame
Beckendorff, the Queen’s chief-dresser. It may be noticed here that
the Queen’s debts--chiefly contracted, it was said, by allowing her
contributions to charitable objects to exceed her available income,
which is no excuse whatever for any one incurring debt--amounted to
9,000_l._ The debt was acquitted out of the produce of the sale of the
diamonds.

While on the subject of the will and the jewels, it may not be amiss
to mention that the Queen, after wearing her diamonds and other gems
on public occasions invariably consigned them to the care of Messrs.
Rundell, Bridge & Co., the well-known goldsmiths of Ludgate Hill. The
Queen herself put her diamonds into the hands of one of the partners of
that house, by whom they were conveyed to the Bank. The only exception
to this rule was after the last drawing-room was held by her, when her
Majesty was too ill to make her usual consignment, and retired rather
hurriedly to Kew. A few days subsequently, the diamonds were placed in
the ordinary London guardianship by the Princess Augusta, who carried
them up expressly from Kew. The Queen, however, held in her own keeping
the ‘George’ and the diamond-hilted sword worn on public occasions
by her consort. These were kept in a cabinet at Windsor Castle.
Immediately after the Queen’s death this cabinet was examined by the
Prince Regent, but neither ‘George’ nor diamond-hilted sword was to be
found therein; and the heir was not more astonished than perplexed,
for the Queen had left no intimation as to where the valuables were
deposited.

The inquiry set on foot was not at first encouraging. Suggestions
could only be made that the coveted property might have been deposited
by the late Queen in some of the cabinets, which would remain locked
until after the royal funeral. Some surmised that George III. himself
had stowed them away, and that his heirs might be extremely puzzled to
discover the place of deposit. This was considered the more likely,
as her Majesty had, on one occasion, missed from her room a gold ewer
and basin of exquisite workmanship, enriched with gems. They were
missed previous to the last mental indisposition of the King, who
professed that he knew nothing whatever about them, but greatly feared
that they had been stolen by a confidential servant. His Majesty was
strongly suspected of having been himself the thief. Many months after
his malady had set in, the ewer and basin were discovered behind some
books in his study, to which he alone had access. It is supposed that,
having concealed them by excess of caution, he totally forgot the
circumstance, through growing infirmity of intellect.

In a few days it was announced that all that was ‘now missing of the
late King’s jewels were his star and garter,’ valued at about seven
thousand pounds. How the diamond-hilted sword was discovered is not
stated in the current news of the day; but while that was recovered the
garter appears to have been lost, for no mention of such loss had been
previously made.

The consort of Queen Charlotte survived until January 1820. Her son,
Edward Duke of Kent, died a week previously. During the last years of
the old King--who seemed to grow in majesty as his end approached--
he lived in a world of his own, conversed with imaginary individuals,
ran his fingers ramblingly over his harpsichord, and was in every other
respect dead to all around him. He passed out of the world calmly and
unconsciously after a long reign--and perhaps a more troubled reign
than that of any other King of England. Of the children of Charlotte
four ascended thrones. George and William became successive Kings
of England, Ernest King of Hanover, and Charlotte Augusta Queen of
Wurtemburg. The married daughters, Charlotte, Elizabeth, and Mary, died
childless. Of her married sons only the King of Hanover and the Dukes
of Kent and Cambridge left heirs behind them--the first a son, the
second a daughter, our present Queen, the last a son and two daughters.

With the old royal family Kew is inseparably connected. Mr. Jesse, in
his ‘Memoirs of the Life and Reign of George III.,’ says that when,
many years since, ‘he wandered through the forsaken apartments at
the old palace at Kew, he found it apparently in precisely the same
condition as when George III. had made it his summer residence, and
when Queen Charlotte had expired within its walls. There were still to
be seen, distinguished by their simple furniture and bed-curtains of
white dimity, the different sleeping-rooms of the unmarried princesses,
with their several names inscribed on the doors of each. There were
still pointed out to him the easy chair in which Queen Charlotte had
breathed her last; the old harpsichord which had once belonged to
Handel, and on which George III. occasionally amused himself with
playing; his walking-stick, his accustomed chair, the backgammon board
on which he used to play with his equerries; and, lastly, the small
apartment in which the pious monarch used to offer up his prayers and
thanksgivings. In that apartment was formerly to be seen a relic of no
small interest, the private prayer-book of George III. In the prayer
which is used during the session of Parliament the King, with his
own hand, had obliterated the words “our most religious and gracious
King,” and had substituted for them “a most miserable sinner.”’ The old
‘palace’ still retains many interesting memorials of King George, Queen
Charlotte, and the princes and princesses during their happy days at
Kew.

_CAROLINE OF BRUNSWICK_,

WIFE OF GEORGE IV.

CHAPTER I.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Marriage of Princess Augusta to the Prince of Brunswick--His
reception at Harwich--Wedding performed with maimed rites--
The Prince at the opera--A scene--Odd mode of travelling of
the bride and bridegroom--Issue of this marriage--Dashing
replies of Princess Caroline--Her mother the Duchess a weak
and coarse-minded woman--Education of German princesses--
Infamous conduct of the Duke of York--Lord Malmesbury sent to
demand Princess Caroline in marriage for the Prince of Wales--
His account of the Princess--Eloquence of the Duchess on the
virtues of the Princess--The Duke’s mistress, and picture of
the Court of Brunswick--The Duchess’s stories of bygone times
--The marriage by proxy--Celebration of the wedding-day--
The marriage treaty--Eccentricity of the Duke--Education of
the Princess neglected--The courtesan champion of morality
--The Duke’s fears for the Princess--Lady Jersey and the
Queen--Lord Malmesbury’s advice to the Princess--Madame
do Hertzfeldt’s portraits of the Princess--The Princess’s
exuberant spirits at a court masquerade--More admonitions
by Lord Malmesbury--Madame de Waggenheim’s taunt, and Lord
Malmesbury’s thrust _en carte_.

On the 12th of January 1764, Charles William Frederick, the hereditary
Prince of Brunswick, landed at Harwich (then the portal by which royal
brides and bridegrooms had ingress to and egress from England), to take
the hand which had been already asked and not over-graciously granted
of the Princess Augusta, the sister of George III. This half-reluctance
was on the part of the King and Queen, but especially of the latter.
There was none on the part of the bride.

The young Prince was a knightly man, lacking a knightly aspect.
His manner was better than his looks. His reputation as a hero was,
however, so great that the people of Harwich, expecting to see an
Adonis, nearly pulled down the house in which he temporarily sojourned,
in order to obtain a better view of the illustrious stranger. When
the Prince did show himself they were rather disappointed. His renown
for courage, however, made amends for all shortcomings, and even the
Quakers of Harwich warmed into enthusiasm. One, more eager than the
rest, not only forced his way into the Prince’s apartment, but took
off his hat to him, called him ‘Noble friend!’ kissed his hand, and
protested that, though not a fighting man himself, he loved those who
_could_ fight well. ‘Thou art a valiant Prince,’ said he, ‘and art to
be married to a lovely Princess. Love her, make her a good husband, and
the Lord bless you both!’

The bridegroom got no such warm greeting from any other quarter as he
did from the Quaker, and it is to be regretted that he did not follow
the counsel which was offered him by his humble and hearty friend. He
loved his wife and made her such a husband as heroes are too wont to
do--who are accustomed to love their neighbours’ wives better than
their own.

The marriage took place on the 16th with something, if not of maimed
rites, at least of diminished ceremony. The ‘Lady Augusta’ was wedded
with as little formality as was observed--under the same roof too--at
her birth. The latter vexed Queen Caroline because so little etiquette
was followed at it. The wedding troubled Queen Charlotte lest there
should be too much and of too costly a sort. Not a gun was fired by
way of congratulatory salute, as had been done when Anne, the daughter
of Caroline, married the Prince of Orange. More trifling testimonies
of respect were denied on this occasion, even when the bride had
petitioned for them, on the ground that there was no precedent for
them in the ‘Orange marriage.’ The bride, fairly enough, complained at
quotation of precedent in one case which had been followed in no other.

The servants of the King and Queen were not even permitted to put on
their new attire, either for the wedding ceremony or the drawing-room
next day. They were ordered to keep their new suits for the Queen’s
birthday. The ceremony performed, the bridal pair betook themselves to
Leicester House, where they presided at a right royal supper; and this
was the last time that Kings, Queens, Princes, Princesses, and half the
peerage met together in Leicester Square to hold high festival.

Political party spirit ran very high in the early years of King
George’s reign; and such especial care was taken to keep the Prince
from encountering any of the Opposition that, as Walpole remarks, he
did nothing but take notice of them. He wrote to fidgety Newcastle, and
called on fiery Pitt, and dined twice with ‘_the_ Duke’--of Cumberland.
On the evening of the second dinner he was engaged to attend a concert
given in honour of himself and wife by the Queen. As he did not appear
inclined to leave the table when the hour was growing late, Fironce,
his secretary, pulled out his watch. The ducal host took the hint, and
expressed a fear, which sounded like a hope, that the hour had come
when his guest must leave him. ‘_N’importe!_’ said the Prince; and he
sat on, sipped his coffee, and did not get to the Queen’s concert until
after eight o’clock, at which hour, in those days, concerts were half
concluded.

Fironce, the Duke’s secretary, who sought to influence his master thus
early, long continued to aim at exercising the same power. In 1794
Fironce was the Duke of Brunswick’s prime minister, when the command of
the Austrian army against France was offered to the Duke. The latter
was inclined to accept, and Fironce had nothing to say against it; but
Fironce’s wife (who was a democrat) had, and she forbade her husband
furthering the object of Austria.

During the short sojourn between the bridal and the departure, the
whole of the royal family went to Covent Garden Theatre to see Murphy’s
decidedly dull and deservedly damned comedy, ‘No One’s Enemy but his
Own’--a comedy which even Woodward could not make endurable. The
feature of the night, however, was the difference which the public
made between their reception of the King and Queen and that given to
the newly-married pair. For the latter there was an ebullition of
enthusiasm; for the former, who were suspected of being more cold to
the bridegroom than his deserts warranted, little fervour was shown;
and the then young Queen Charlotte was not a woman to love either bride
or bridegroom the better for _that_.

On the following night the same august party appeared at the Opera
House. The multitude which endeavoured to gain access to the interior
would have filled three such houses as that in the Haymarket. Ladies,
hopeless of reaching the doors in their carriages, left them in
Piccadilly, and, gathering up their hoops, attempted to make their way
on foot or in sedans. So great were the concourse and confusion in the
Haymarket that the gentlemen, to force a passage for these adventurous
ladies and themselves, drew their swords and threatened direful things
to all who stood between them and their boxes!

In the meantime the house was overflowing; and Horace Walpole, who has
faithfully painted the scene--except, perhaps, where he presumes
to construe the politeness of the Prince into contempt for his royal
brother and sister-in-law--tells us: ‘The crowd could not be
described. The Duchess of Leeds, Lady Denbigh, Lady Scarborough, and
others, sat in chairs between the scenes; the doors of the front boxes
were thrown open, and the passages were all filled to the back of the
stoves. Nay, women of fashion stood in the very stairs till eight at
night. In the middle of the second act, the hereditary Prince, who sat
with his wife and her brothers in their box, got up, _turned his back_
to King and Queen, pretending to offer his place to Lady Tankerville,
and then to Lady Susan. You know enough of Germans and their stiffness
to etiquette to be sure this could not be done inadvertently,
especially as he repeated this, only without standing up, with one of
his own gentlemen in the third act.’

After a brief sojourn, the slender young Prince, who looked older
than his years (twenty-nine), left town with his bride for Harwich.
Bride and bridegroom travelled in different coaches, with three or
four silent and solemn attendants in each. Never did newly-married
couple travel so sillily unsociable. The farewell speech, too, of the
bridegroom, before he went on board, rang more of war than of love. He
had already, he said, bled in the cause of England, and would again.
In this he kept his word, for _he_ was the Duke of Brunswick who
fell gloriously at Jena, at the age of threescore years and eleven,
subsidised by Great Britain, and unthanked by ever-ungrateful Prussia,
so deservedly punished for her habitual double-dealing on that terrible
day.

As bride and bridegroom travelled from the court to the coast in two
coaches, so now did they traverse the seas in two separate yachts. No
wonder they were storm-tost. Their passage from Holland, where they
landed, to their home in Brunswick was quite an ovation. The little
courts in their route did them ample honour; there were splendid
receptions, and showy reviews, and monster _battues_ at which ten
thousand hares, and winged game in proportion, were slaughtered in one
morning; after which, in the evening, the slayers all appeared at the
opera in their hunting-dresses! Finally, the ‘happy couple’ arrived at
Brunswick, where the various members of the ducal family greeted their
arrival, and--no less a person than the Countess of Yarmouth, the
Walmoden of George II., the mistress of the bride’s grandfather, bade
them welcome!

Of this marriage were born two most unhappy women; Charlotte, in
December 1764, and Caroline, in May 1768. There were also four sons:
Charles, born in 1767; George in 1769; William in 1771; and Leopold in
the following year. Of these, two died gloriously; the first fell in
battle at the head of the Black Brunswickers, on the bloody field of
Quatre Bras; the last perished not less gloriously in an attempt to
save the lives of several persons, when the river Oder burst its banks,
in 1785. Of this family we have only especially to do with the second
daughter, Caroline Amelia Elizabeth, ultimately Queen-consort of our
George IV.

‘In what country is the lion to be found?’ asked her governess,
after a lesson in natural history. ‘Well,’ answered the little
Princess Caroline, ‘I should say, you may find him in the heart of a
Brunswicker!’ In these sort of dashing replies the girl delighted. She
was as much charmed with dashing games. In the sport of the ‘ring,’
in which the aimers at that small object are mounted on wooden horses
fixed on a circular frame, she was remarkably expert. On one occasion,
when she was flying round with something more than common rapidity,
one of her attendants expressed fear of the possible consequences.
‘A Brunswicker dares do anything,’ exclaimed the undaunted Caroline;
adding, ‘A Brunswicker does not know that thing fear.’

Accustomed to enjoy a place, even when very young, at her father’s
table, she early acquired a habit of self-possession, became as pert
as young Cyrus, and as forward as the juvenile Wharton. ‘How would you
define time and space?’ said her father once to Mirabeau. The Princess
Caroline, then twelve years old, anticipated the witty Frenchman’s
answer, by replying, ‘Space is in the mouth of Madame von L----, and
time is in her face.’ When told that it was not fitting for so young
a lady to have an opinion of her own, she observed, correctly enough,
‘People without opinions of their own are like barren tracts which
will not bear grass.’ As her mother seldom asked any other question
than ‘What is the news?’ and loved the small gossip which arises out
of such a query, the Princess was more frequently engaged in serious
discussions with her instructress than with the Duchess. The Countess
von Bade having remarked that she herself was wicked because an evil
spirit impelled her, and that she was by nature too feeble to resist,
‘If that be the case,’ observed the young lady, ‘you are simply a piece
of clay moulded by another’s will.’ The orthodox Lutheran lady was
about to explain, but the daughter of a mother who had brought ‘her
girls’ up to membership with no church in particular cut short the
controversy with an infallible air which would have done credit to Pope
Joan, ‘My dear, we are all bad--very bad; but we were all created
so, and it’s no fault of ours.’ The utterer of this speech was doubly
unfortunate: her intellect was fine, but it was ill-trained; she was
the daughter of a kind-hearted woman, incapable of fulfilling with
propriety the duty of a mother; and she became the wife of a prince who
was, as Sheridan remarked, ‘too much a lady’s man ever to become the
man of one lady.’

The Princess, at a very early period, discovered how to be mistress of
her weak mother. Therewith, however, she had a heart that readily felt
for the poor. She was terribly self-willed, and played the harpsichord
like St. Cecilia.

Her thoughtlessness was on a par with her sensibility; and it is said
that a very early seclusion from court, to which she was condemned by
parental command, was caused by a double want of discretion. She was
too fond, it was reported, of relieving young peasants in distress,
and of listening to young aides-de-camp who affected to be miserable.
She was taught that princesses were never their own almoners, and that
it did not become them to converse with officers of low degree. On
her return to court, an aged lady, whose years were warrant for her
boldness, recommended an exercise, in future, of more judgment than
had marked the past. ‘Gone is gone and will never return,’ was the
remark of the pretty, sententious, young lady; ‘and what is to come
will come of itself.’ It was the remark of a girl brought up like that
very Polly Honeycomb whose story Colman wrote and Miss Burney read
to Queen Charlotte. Like that heroine, the Princess Caroline had not
the wisest of parents. Like her, she was addicted to romance, and was
too ready to put in practice all that romances teach, and to enter
into correspondence at once pleasant and dangerous. Again and again
was forced seclusion adopted as the parental remedy to cure a wayward
daughter of too much warmth of heart and too little gravity of head.

Her heart, however, would not beat warmly at the bidding of every new
suitor. An offer was made to her, when very young, by a scion of the
house of Mecklenburgh, whose offer was supported by both the parents
of Caroline. That Princess ridiculed her lover, and flatly refused the
honour presented for her acceptance. She similarly declined the offers
of the Prince of Orange and the Prince George of Darmstadt. Her father
was now reigning Duke of Brunswick, burning with desire to destroy
the French Republic, and eager to obtain a consort for his daughter.
He cannot be said to have succeeded much more happily in the latter
than in the former. As for this daughter, she would herself have been
happier, in those days when her education--or no education--was
scrambled through, had she possessed any religious principles. But she
was like other German princesses, who, as it was not known into what
royal families they might have the good-luck to marry--Russo-Greek,
Roman Catholic, or Protestant--were taught morality (and that but
indifferently) in place of faith and a reason for holding it. One
consequence was, that they deferred believing anything convincedly
until they were espoused--and then they joined their husband’s
church, and remained precisely what they were before.

The Princess was in something like this state of suspense, and her sire
was in a state not very dissimilar with regard to the part he should
take in the war of Germany against France, when the Duke of York,
commander of the English force in Holland, destined to act bravely
inefficient against the French, visited the ducal court of Brunswick.
He is said to have been very favourably impressed with the person and
attainments of the Princess Caroline; and it has been supposed that his
favourable report of her first led the King, his father, to think of
the daughter of ‘the Lady Augusta’ as a wife for his son George.

If, however, Mrs. M. A. Clarke may be believed, the Princess had been
thought of as a wife for the Duke of York, who, on seeing her, did not
like her. In one respect he behaved infamously to her. The King had
entrusted to the Duke a splendid set of diamonds, intended as a present
for the Princess. The Duke, meanwhile, lent them to his favourite, Mrs.
Clarke, who appeared in them at the opera, and enjoyed the splendid
infamy.

The King was more than ordinarily anxious for the marriage of his son,
and the latter was made to perceive that, however his affections may
have been engaged, it was his interest to marry in obedience to the
King’s wishes. He was overwhelmed with debts, and the payment of these
was promised as the price of his consent. The wildest stories have
been told with regard to the share which the Prince took in furthering
his own marriage. Some say that he especially selected the Princess
Caroline of Brunswick as the lady he had resolved to marry; others
affirm that, while coldly consenting to espouse her, he wrote her a
letter expressive of his real feelings, and not at all flattering to
those of his proposed wife. The latter is said to have replied to this
apocryphal letter with spirit, and to have declared her readiness to
incur all risks, and her resolution to win the heart which now affected
to be careless of her. Due notice was given to Parliament of the coming
event, and a dutiful and congratulatory reply was made by that august
assembly.

The King knew nothing of his niece but by report; but he was resolved
that the union, upon which he had now determined, and to which he
was engaged by his message to Parliament, should take place, be the
Princess of what quality she might. He had himself married under
similar circumstances, and nothing had come of it but considerable
felicity and a very numerous family.

The able and renowned diplomatist, Lord Malmesbury, having received the
instructions of the King to demand the hand of the Princess Caroline of
Brunswick for the Prince of Wales, proceeded to the duchy--a lover by
proxy--to perform his mission. He had no discretionary powers allowed
him. That is, although little was known of the Princess at the English
court, he was not commissioned to give any information to that court
which might have ultimately saved two persons from being supremely
miserable. He was commissioned to fetch the Princess. The fitness of
the Princess was the last thing thought of. The bride herself used
often to say, in after life, to the attendants--who, while they
served, sneered at her--that, had she only been allowed to have paid
a visit to England, to have first made the acquaintance of the Prince,
what a world of misery they might both have been spared! The fact was,
no time was to be lost. All the marriageable princesses in Germany were
learning English, for the express purpose of bettering their chances
of becoming Princess of Wales. They all waited for an offer; and that
offer, after all, was made to a Princess who had not made the English
language her particular study.

The hymeneal envoy reached Brunswick on the 28th of November 1794. Nine
years before, namely, on the 21st of December 1785, the Prince whom
he represented was married to Mrs. Fitzherbert (a Roman Catholic, and
twice a widow) in her own drawing-room, by a Protestant clergyman, and
in presence of two of her relatives. The court of Brunswick thought
nothing of this matter. Lord Malmesbury was received with as hilarious
a welcome as that which was given to the Earl of Macclesfield at
Hanover, when he appeared there with the Act of Settlement which opened
the throne of England to the Electoral Family. There was the same
hospitality, the same offer of service; and the business was opened,
as so much earthly business is, with a grand banquet at court, on the
same night, at which Lord Malmesbury saw the future Queen of England
for the first time. She was embarrassed on being presented to him, but
the experienced diplomatist was not so. He looked at and studied the
appearance of the Princess, and saw ‘a pretty face--not expressive
of softness; her figure not graceful; fine eyes; good hair; tolerable
teeth, but going; fair hair, and light eyebrows; good bust; short; with
what the French call “des épaules impertinentes.” _Vastly happy with
her future expectations._’ She had got over an omission on the part
of the Prince which had for a moment pained her. With the offer or
demand in marriage there came no greeting from the suitor. The Princess
naturally felt disappointed, and she said in a plaintive little voice:
‘le Prince n’a donc rien écrit!’ She was at the time a pretty woman;
she had delicately-formed features, and her complexion was good. Those
who can only remember her as she appeared when on her last visit to
England, in the House of Peers, at Alderman Wood’s window, or at the
balcony of Brandenburgh House, with features swollen and disfigured by
sorrow and an irregular life, can have no idea of how she looked in her
youth. Her eyes were described then as being quick, penetrating, and
glancing; they were shaped _en amande_; and they were, moreover, not
merely beautiful, but expressive. Her mouth was delicately formed; she
could be noble and dignified when she chose, or occasion required it.
It might be said that her only defect, personally, consisted in her
head being rather too large and her neck too short. But, setting this
aside, there was a greater defect still, though it was one not uncommon
to the ladies of the time. There was, in fact, to use a Turkish phrase,
‘garlic amid the flowers.’ The pretty creature was not superfluously
clean. To say that she was so superficially would, perhaps, be even
more than truth would warrant. As for her mother, that Princess Augusta
at whose birth, at St. James’s Palace, such confusion occurred, and who
had been in her time so ‘parlous’ a child, Lord Malmesbury found her
full of nothing but her daughter’s marriage, and talking incessantly.
Her talk was not of the wisest, particularly if she indulged in it in
presence of her daughter, for part of it consisted in abuse of Queen
Charlotte, the future mother-in-law of Augusta’s child. The Duchess
spoke of Queen Charlotte as an envious and intriguing spirit; alleged
that she had exhibited that spirit as soon as she arrived in England,
and that she was an enemy of her mother, the Princess of Wales, as
well as of herself, Augusta. She added that the Queen had so little
feeling that while the Princess of Wales was dying her Majesty took
advantage of the moment to alter the rank of her Highness’s ladies of
the bedchamber. The Duchess’s judgment of King George, her brother,
was, that he was more kind-hearted than wise-headed, which was not far
from the truth.

But the Duchess was most eloquent upon the projected marriage, the
virtues of her daughter, and the care which had been taken, by precept
and example, to establish such virtues in Caroline. The Duchess had
very excellent ideas as to the duties of a mother-in-law, as appears
from her expressed resolution never to interfere in the household of
the newly-married royal couple. Indeed the idea of visiting England at
all was odious to her. If she were to repair thither, she was sure,
she said, that her visit would result in discomfort to herself, and
a jealousy and vexation excited against her in the hearts of others.
Poor lady, she did not foresee that a dozen years later she would be
a fugitive from Brunswick, seeking an asylum in England, after forty
years’ absence.

The Duchess affected to treat the marriage of her daughter with the
Prince of Wales as perfectly unexpected by her, but as she added that
‘she never could give the idea to Caroline’ we may fairly suppose that
the thought of such a thing being possible had really entered for a
moment into her own mind. George III., however, had been accustomed to
speak disapprovingly of the marriage of cousins-german, and with good
reason. It is only to be regretted that he did not act in accordance
with his own expressed opinions on this point. It may be noted as a
strange fact that the prelate who performed the marriage ceremony which
made of the two cousins, so closely akin by blood, man and wife, would
have been very much shocked had he been asked to do the same office for
a man about to marry the sister of his deceased wife, and with whom he
had not the slightest blood relationship.

The Duchess, as has already been remarked, spoke of her brother, George
III., as having more amiability than intellect. If amiability mean the
power of loving others, she very much qualified the remark by observing
that ‘he loved her very much, _as well as he could love anybody_;’
an equivocal phrase, which is made clear enough by the context; for
the Duchess added, that her long absence, and his thirty years of
intercourse with Queen Charlotte, had caused him to forget the sister
whom he loved as much as he could love anybody.

The court of this Duchess, who had been so anxious to make of virtue
a fixed possession for her daughter, was not a court where virtue
itself was a fixed resident. The mistress of the Duke was quite as
important a lady there as the Duchess; and yet the lady herself, or one
of those who held the post which was shared by many, had the sense to
be a trifle ashamed of her position. Her name was Hertzfeldt. She had
ennobled the name by putting a _de_ before it, but she had not dared
upon the prefix of the Teutonic _von_. Lord Malmesbury thus notices
her. ‘In the evening with Mademoiselle de Hertzfeldt--old Berlin
acquaintance, Duke’s mistress--much altered, but still clear and
agreeable; full of lamentations and fears; her apartments elegantly
furnished, and she herself with all the _appareil_ of her situation;
she was at first rather ashamed to see me, but she soon got over it.’

Mademoiselle de Hertzfeldt, too, was among those who were anxious
that the Princess Caroline should be worthy of the position now open
to her. This was a strange _entourage_ for the bride; and there were
both strange people and strange things at this ducal court. Some of
the names of the officials and residents call up memories of the past.
There was a Count von Schulemberg among the former. We hear also of a
Herr von Walmoden, the son of that ‘Master Louis’ whose mother was the
‘Walmoden’ of whom George II. made a Countess of Yarmouth, and whose
father was that royal sovereign himself. There was also an exemplary
couple in the court circle, Herr and Frau von Waggenheim, of whom
indeed little is said, save that the gentleman drank, and that the
lady thought the example worth following. This was but an indifferent
place from which to select a future Queen of England; but, depraved as
the court was, there were others more so, from which, nevertheless,
princesses had gone to be honoured wives and virtuous matrons in other
circles.

The ducal family were never so well pleased as when they could get
the envoy from the bridegroom in one of their own little _coteries_,
and there it was the delight of the Duchess to make much of him, and
inundate him with stories of bygone times. She was particularly pleased
to tell anything disparaging of Queen Charlotte. That her brother, King
George, had, on her marriage, presented her with a handsome diamond
ring as a wedding gift. This generosity rendered the Queen peevish
and jealous, and her Majesty is said to have actually wished that the
gift should be recalled and conferred upon herself. In such tales the
Duchess delighted, and she had an attentive listener.

To him she further told that the King had proposed to many one of his
daughters to her favourite son, Charles; requiring only that he should
first pay a visit to England, a course to which she strongly objected,
and apparently for very efficient reasons--‘she was quite sure, if he
was to show himself, none of the Princesses would have him.’

On the 3rd of December these very small matters were varied by the
arrival of Major Hislop, who brought with him the portrait of the royal
bridegroom, and a private letter to Lord Malmesbury, urging him ‘most
_vehemently_ to set out with the Princess Caroline _immediately_’.

And thereupon, on the 8th of December 1794, followed the marriage,
whereat the vehement lover appeared only by proxy. All parties behaved
with due decorum. The paternal and warrior Duke, a man infirm of
purpose, was rather embarrassed, but performed his office with dignity.
The Duchess was of course overcome, and shed tears. The bride herself
was affected, as maiden well might be, at a rite which took her from a
home where she had, latterly, enjoyed the highest freedom, and which
flung her on the bosom of a husband whose arms were scarcely opened to
receive than they were raised to reject her.

The wedding-day was spent in a remarkably comfortable style of
celebration. First, after the ceremony, there was an early and an
‘immense’ dinner. Then a grand court was held, at which felicitations
were made to the new Princess of Wales. This was followed by grave
whist for the older aristocrats, and gayer games for the younger
people, addicted to more liveliness. Last of all came a great supper,
but how the terrible meal was got through the court historians do
not say. We only learn that during the progress of the banquet Lord
Malmesbury informed the Duke of Brunswick of the nature of the contents
of the Prince’s letter, and the wish therein expressed so vehemently
for his instant departure with the impatiently-expected bride. He of
course supposed that the Duke would at once appoint a day for the
solemn departure. But the sovereign of Brunswick was not a man who
liked to compromise himself. He accordingly answered oracularly: ‘We
depend entirely on you, my lord; you cannot possibly decide in a wrong
way.’ It was leaving Lord Malmesbury ample powers, of which he was
anxious to avail himself; but he had much to do with and for the bride
before he led her safely to the asylum of her husband’s cold hearth.

The bride was, meantime, herself anxious to depart to her new home; her
mother, fussy, fond, and agitated, was desirous to accompany her a part
of the way; and Lord Malmesbury, who had been honoured with the gift
of a ‘snuff-box’ from the Duke and a diamond watch from the Princess,
was quite as willing to get to the end of his mission. There was the
impatient Prince, too, in London; but the diplomatist held his powers
from the King, and rather obeyed the precise and deliberate order of
the monarch than the urgently gallant appeals of his princely son.

In due form, therefore, the marriage treaty, drawn up in English
and Latin--French was prohibited, by royal order--was signed by
all the high contracting parties on the 4th of December. After the
pleasant labour a sumptuous banquet followed, and the envoy and Duchess
announced to the bridegroom at home that his bride would set out on the
11th, provided by that time intelligence was received of the sailing
from England of the fleet which was to serve for a wedding escort
across the sea.

The Duke of Brunswick was a man who, whenever he asserted that he
was going to speak to you with perfect frankness, was really about
to treat you with anything but candour. Even in his breast, however,
the feelings of the father were not always dormant; and occasionally
he manifested considerable perception with regard to the true nature
of his daughter’s position. ‘He was perfectly aware,’ says Lord
Malmesbury, ‘of the character of the Prince, and of the inconveniences
that would result with almost equal ill effect either from his liking
the Princess too much or too little.’ The Duke was as thoroughly
cognisant of the peculiar disposition of Queen Charlotte, and,
curiously enough, ‘he never mentioned the King.’ The paternal comment
on his own daughter was thoroughly impartial: ‘She is not a fool,’ said
he, ‘but she has no judgment; and she has been severely brought up, as
was very necessary with her.’ He knew well where peril lay, and, to
do him justice, he did his little best to save his daughter from the
danger.

The severity of the education of the Princess was only imaginary, or,
if it had existed, it had been entirely ineffective. We may judge of
this by remarking what the Duke begged of the envoy--to recommend
to the Princess discretion; to pray of her not to be curious, nor
free in giving her opinions aloud upon individuals and things--
a fault which this severely-trained young lady inherited from her
mother, who, throughout her life, had been given to ‘appeler un chat,
_un chat_!’ and who was excessively free, easy, and loud-tongued in
her dissertations upon both men and manners. The poor Duke probably
thought of the mother, too, when he asked Lord Malmesbury to advise
his daughter never to be jealous of her husband, and ‘if he had any
_gouts_, not to notice them.’ The Duke added that he had written all
this down _in German_ for his daughter’s benefit, but he thought it
would be none the worse for being repeated orally by Lord Malmesbury.
These audiences and consultations of the morning were succeeded by
dinners and operas in the evening, and the Princess Caroline was of
course the heroine of every festival.

A cynic might have laughed, a more religious philosopher would have
sighed, at the further illustration of the severity of manners at
the ducal court, and the ‘serene’ anxiety for the proper conduct of
the newly-married Princess. The Duke actually sent his mistress to
engage Lord Malmesbury to set the bride in a right path. Mademoiselle
de Hertzfeldt represented to the envoy the necessity of being very
_strict_ with the Princess. The courtesan champion of morality
represented the Duke’s daughter as not clever, neither was she
ill-disposed, ‘but of a temper easily wrought on, and had no _tact_.’
The good lady thought that the envoy’s advice would have more effect
than the paternal counsel, as, ‘although the Princess respected him,
she also feared him as a severe rather than an affectionate father;
that she had no respect for her mother, and was inattentive to her
when she dared.’ No more terrible testimony could be rendered against
a daughter than this. For if a girl love not her mother, whom shall
she ever love? and if she hide not her disregard from the mother whom
she cannot in her heart honour, whom will she ever truly regard? The
Princess was as anxious in imploring guidance and direction from Lord
Malmesbury as any of her relatives, and she was probably quite as
sincere in asking for counsel.

At dinner and supper, concert and opera, there was the same diet
and the same song. For hours of a morning the paternal admonitions
were poured into the bride’s ear, and for hours of an evening Lord
Malmesbury had to listen to what the Princess had been told. The
advice was good of its sort, but its constant repetition shows that
the Duke had great fears touching his daughter’s character. The Duke
wished to make her feel ‘that the high situation in which she was
going to be placed was not simply one of amusement and enjoyment; that
it had its duties, and those perhaps hard and difficult to fulfil.’
Lord Malmesbury was especially invoked not to desert the Princess in
England. The Duke was quite right in foreseeing that future peril,
and _what_ future peril for his daughter, lay in that direction. ‘He
dreaded the Prince’s habits.’ Well he might. They were not dissimilar
from his own. On the very evening that the Duke told the envoy that
he dreaded the Prince’s habits, Lady Eden, who had just arrived at
Brunswick from London, told Lord Malmesbury that ‘Lady ----,’ meaning,
doubtless, Lady Jersey, ‘was very well with the Queen; that she went
frequently to Windsor, and appeared as a sort of favourite.’ ‘This, if
true,’ says Lord Malmesbury, ‘is most strange, and bodes no good.’ The
intelligence seems to have strongly impressed the envoy; and when, in
the evening, he sat next the Princess Caroline at supper, he counselled
her ‘to avoid familiarity, to have no _confidants_, to avoid giving
any opinion, to approve but not to admire excessively, to be perfectly
silent on politics and party, to be very attentive and respectful to
the Queen--to endeavour, at all events, to be well with her.’ He was
evidently thinking of the rival that was already well with the Queen,
and still better with the Prince. This condition of things boded no
good. The Princess, whose eyes were red with tears--the consequence
of taking leave of some of the dear young friends of her heart--had
good cause to weep on. Never was bridal attended by prospect more
forlorn. The bride, however, was as variable as an April day. On the
evening following that just noticed, Lord Malmesbury records that he
sat ‘next to Princess Caroline at table; she improves very much on
closer acquaintance--cheerful, and loves laughing.’

The penalty of her new position came before her, too, in another
shape. She was beset with applications for her patronage, and she was
induced to seek for Lord Malmesbury’s aid to realise the expectations
of the petitioners. He at once counselled her to have nothing to do
with such matters, and to check or stop solicitation at once, by
intimating that she could not interfere in any way in England by asking
political or personal favours for others. Lord Malmesbury added that,
if she were sincerely desirous to further the fortunes of a really
deserving person, he would find means to enable her to accomplish what
she wished. But even then it were far better, he said, not to engage
herself by any promise. He added much more of excellent admonitory
advice, in all of which the Princess readily acquiesced. He especially
counselled her to be discreet in all her questions. She promised
solemnly that she would, and forthwith she began to put some queries
to him touching the Prince’s ‘favourite.’ Not that she knew Lady
Jersey to be the occupier of so bad an eminence. Still the question
was indiscreet. ‘She appeared to suppose her an _intriguante_, but not
to know of any partiality or connection between her and the Prince. I
said that, with regard to Lady ----, she and all her other ladies would
frame their conduct towards her by hers towards them; that I humbly
advised her this should not be too familiar or too easy; and that it
might be affable without forgetting she was Princess of Wales; that
she should never listen to them when they attempted anything like a
_commerage_, and never allow them to appear to influence her opinion by
theirs. She said she wished to be popular, and was afraid I recommended
her too much reserve; that probably I thought her too _proné à se
livrer_. I said I did; that it was an amiable quality, but one that in
her situation could not be given way to without great risk; that, as
to popularity, it never was retained by _familiarity_; that it could
only belong to respect, and was only to be acquired by a just mixture
of dignity and affability. I quoted the Queen as a model in this
respect.’[7]

Lord Malmesbury thoroughly understood the characters both of the
Princess Caroline and the Queen Charlotte. Of the latter the Princess
expressed great fear, and added a conviction that the Queen would
be jealous of her and do her harm. On that very account she was
advised to be scrupulously attentive in rendering to this terrible
mother-in-law, as she seemed, every mark of respect due to her; and
the Princess was further counselled to set a guard upon her too
prompt tongue in the Queen’s presence, and to be especially careful
not to drop any light remarks. The bride promised all she was asked,
and then observed, by way of illustration of her watchfulness, that
she was quite aware that the Prince was _leger_; that she had been
prepared on that point, and was determined never to appear jealous,
however much she might be provoked. Her monitor commended the wisdom
of a resolution which he said he believed (but it must have been in a
diplomatic sense) she would never be called upon to put in force. Still
more diplomatically, he added that if she ever _did_ ‘see any symptoms
of a _gout_ in the Prince, or if any of the women about her should,
under the love of fishing in troubled waters, endeavour to excite a
jealousy in her mind,’ he entreated her, ‘on no account to allow it to
manifest itself.’ Sourness and reproaches on the part of even a young
neglected wife, it was suggested, not only would not reclaim a husband
whose ‘tottering affections’ might be won back by patient endurance
and softness, but reproof and vexation would only survive to give
additional value to her rival and that rival’s charms. In short, my
Lord as good as intimated that, if she would only re-enact the part of
Griselda, she would please her husband; whereas, if she ran counter to
his wishes, ‘it would probably make him disagreeable and peevish, and
certainly force him to be false and dissembling.’

But if the English envoy enlightened the bride upon the character of
the Prince, her father’s mistress, Mdlle. de Hertzfeldt, was not less
liberal in affording to Lord Malmesbury portraits of the Princess,
drawn in all lights and with no lack of shadow. One lecture from
the ‘favourite,’ which the envoy set down in French, deserves to be
quoted, in spite of its length. ‘I conjure you’--thus began the anxious
lady--‘I conjure you to induce the Prince, from the very commencement,
to make the Princess lead a retired life. She has always been kept in
much constraint and narrowly watched, and not without cause. If she
suddenly finds herself in the world, unchecked by any restraint, she
will not walk steadily. She has not a depraved heart--has never done
anything wrong--but her words are ever preceding her thoughts. She
gives herself up unreservedly to whomsoever she happens to be speaking
with; and thence it follows, even in this little court, that a meaning
and an intention are given to her words which never belonged to them.
How then will it be in England, where she will be surrounded, so it
is said, by cunning and intriguing women, to whom she will deliver
herself body and soul, if the Prince allows her to lead a dissipated
life in London, and who will make her say just what they please, and
that the more easily as she will speak of her own accord, without being
conscious of what she has uttered? Besides, she has much vanity, and,
though not void of wit, she has but little principle. Her very head
will be turned if she be too much flattered or caressed, or if the
Prince spoil her; and it is quite as essential that she should fear
as that she should love him. It is of the utmost importance that he
should keep her closely curbed; that he should also compel her respect
for him. Without this, she will assuredly go astray! I know,’ added
she to the noble envoy, who wrote down her speech in his Diary as soon
as it was delivered, ‘I know that you will not compromise me, for I
speak as to an old friend. I am attached heart and soul to the Duke.
I have devoted myself to and lost myself for him. I have the welfare
of his family at heart. He will be the most wretched of men if his
daughter does not succeed better than her elder sister. I repeat, she
has never done anything that is bad; but she is without judgment, and
she has been judged of accordingly. I fear the Queen. The Duchess here,
who passes her entire life in thinking aloud or in never thinking at
all, does not like the Queen; and she has talked too much about her
to her daughter. Nevertheless, the happiness of the Princess depends
upon being well with the Queen; and for God’s sake,’ exclaimed the
Duke’s devoted mistress, who so airily satirised the Duke’s lawful
wife, ‘say as much to her as indeed you have done already. She heeds
you; she finds that you speak reason cheerfully; and you will make more
impression on her than her father, of whom she is too much afraid, or
than her mother, of whom she is not afraid at all.’

That night there was a masquerade at the court opera-house. Amid the
gay and festive throng the envoy never left the side of the bride, over
whom it was his mission to watch. He talked with her in a strain which
became so gay a scene, but on every jest hung counsel. _She_ was for
giving way to the temper of the entertainment; but as the Princess grew
more hilarious and ‘more mixing,’ he checked the rising spirit of fun,
and prevented its becoming ‘fast and furious,’ by treating her with a
vast outlay of increased seriousness and respect.

If there was something strange in this scene, what followed was
stranger still. Mentor and maiden retired to a box on the _Balcon_,
and there they discussed anew the chances of domestic happiness,
and the rules by which it might be accomplished. As minuets were
being statelily walked below, the envoy categorically laid down the
regulations observation of which might purchase connubial felicity.
He gave expression to an urgent wish that she would never miss going
to church on Sundays, as the King and Queen never failed being
present--although it must be added that, severe as Queen Charlotte
was in strictly and formally attending divine worship on the Sabbath,
the service itself was no sooner over than (at _that_ period of her
life) she proceeded to hold a drawing-room. It was one generally more
brilliantly attended than that held on the Thursdays.

The prospect of being compelled to attend church every Sunday was but a
gloomy view, it would seem, thus presented at the very gayest portion
of the masquerade. The Princess probably thought she saw a way of
escape, for she inquired if the Prince was thus strict in his weekly
attendance. Lord Malmesbury dexterously replied that if he were not
she would bring him to it; and if he would not go with her, she would
do well to set a good example and go without him. ‘You must, in such
case,’ added the bride-trainer, ‘tell him that the fulfilling regularly
and exactly this duty can alone enable you to perform exactly and
regularly those you owe him. This cannot but please him, and will in
the end induce him also to go to church.’

The Princess evidently liked this part of her prospect less and less.
We may fairly judge so by her observation, that my Lord had ‘made a
very serious remark for a masquerade.’

The envoy defended himself from the attack made under cover of this
insinuation, and he defended himself with gaiety and success. The
Princess herself acknowledged as much, and Lord Malmesbury rather
naïvely observes that, after descanting to the bride upon the necessity
of regular church-going when she got to England, he was glad he had
set her thinking on the _drawbacks_ as well as of the _agrémens_ of
her situation. The attendance at church was, in _his_ eyes, a rather
severe discipline; but, as he so forcibly impressed on the mind of
his charge, ‘in the order of society, those of a very high rank
have a price to pay for it. The life of a Princess of Wales is not
to be one of pleasure, dissipation, and enjoyment. The great and
conspicuous advantages belonging to it must necessarily be purchased
by considerable sacrifices, and can only be preserved and kept up by a
continual repetition of those sacrifices.’ The Princess probably sighed
as she weighed the pomp of her position against the piety by which she
was to formally illustrate it.

Lord Malmesbury could not play the mentor without the godless wits of
the court treating him to a little raillery. On the evening when he had
been expatiating on the uses of attendance at church, during the noise
and revelry of a masquerade, he encountered Madame de Waggenheim She
was the lady who ‘drank,’ and whom the noble diarist sets down upon
his tablets as ‘absurd, ridiculous, ill-mannered, and _méchante_.’
‘How did you find the little one?’ said she, alluding thereby to the
Princess. ‘Rather old as she is, her education is not yet _finished_.’
Lord Malmesbury felt the taunt, but parried it with the remark that ‘at
an age far beyond that of her Royal Highness persons might be found in
whom the education of which she spoke had not even begun.’

CHAPTER II.

THE NEW HOME.

The Princess desires to have Lord Malmesbury for her lord
chamberlain--The Duchess a coarse-minded woman--The Duke
of Clarence her bitter enemy--The Duke and Duchess’s caution
to Lord Malmesbury, and his dignified reply--The Abbess
of Gandersheim’s opinion of mankind--Difficult question
proposed by the Princess, and Lord Malmesbury’s gallant reply
--The Abbess without human sympathy--A state dinner, and a
mischievous anonymous letter--The Princess’s departure for
England--Her indifference to money--Instances--Ignorance
of the Duchess--Difficulties of the journey--The Princess’s
design to reform the Prince of Wales--Indefatigable care of
Lord Malmesbury--Story of the Princess at Hanover--Care as
to her toilette recommended--Presents given by the Princess--
Her arrival in England--Ridiculed by Lady Jersey--Reproof
administered to her ladyship by Lord Malmesbury--The first
interview of the Prince and Princess--Cold reception of the
bride--Flippant conduct of the Princess--Lord Malmesbury
reproached by the Prince of Wales.

It is to the credit of the Princess Caroline that she took in such
good part all that Lord Malmesbury told her, and that she was desirous
of having him appointed her lord chamberlain; a prematurely expressed
desire which did her honour, gratified the object of it, and was never
realised. She, no doubt, respected him, for the advice he gave her was
not only parental, but much of it might have come from a tender and
affectionate mother. But _her_ mother was a coarse-minded, weak-hearted
woman, who had little regard for propriety, was not affected by the
disregard of it in her husband, and who told stories at table, in her
daughter’s presence, that would have called up a blush of shame, if not
of indignation, on the cheek of a dragoon.

It was after such stories that Lord Malmesbury particularly enjoined
the Princess, if she cared to please, to commune much with herself, and
to think deeply before she spoke. Her family was a strange one, but
not stranger, in many respects, than that into which she was going.
Her admission there, indeed, at all, was perhaps a consequence of hate
rather than love. Prince William, Duke of Clarence, had been among
the first to speak of the Princess Caroline of Brunswick as a wife
for the Prince of Wales. He had been led to do this because he hated
the Duchess of York, knew that the Princess and Duchess hated each
other, and felt sure that the marriage of the former with the heir
to the throne would be wormwood to the Duchess. The Duke of Clarence
was, ultimately, one of the bitterest and the most unreasonable of
the enemies of this very Princess whom he had helped to drag up to
greatness.

With regard to the feelings of the Princess against the excellent
Duchess of York, the envoy endeavoured to turn them into a sentiment
of respect for one who was worthy of such homage. Indeed, he was so
indefatigable with his counsel that the ducal parents became fearful
lest there might be even too much of it for his own profit, if not for
their daughter’s good. It was suggested to him that the Princess, in a
moment of fondness, might communicate to the Prince all he had said to
her, and so he ‘would run the risk of getting into a scrape’ with his
Royal Highness on his return. Lord Malmesbury, who was the envoy of
the King and not of the Prince, replied with readiness, dignity, and
effect. ‘I replied,’ he said, ‘that luckily I was in a situation not to
want the Prince’s favour; that it was of infinitely more consequence
to the public, and even to me (in the rank I filled in its service),
that the Princess of Wales should honour and become her high situation,
recover the dignity and respect due to our princes and royal family,
which had, of late, been so much and so dangerously let down by their
mixing so indiscriminately with their inferiors, than that I should
have the emoluments and advantages of a favourite at Carlton House;
and that idea was so impressed on my mind that I should certainly say
to the Prince everything I had said to the Princess Caroline.’ He had
a difficult pupil in the latter lady. After a whole page of record
touching how important it was that she should practise reserve and
dignity, we remark the condemnatory entry: ‘Concert in the evening; the
Princess Caroline talks very much--quite at her ease--too much so.’

In another chapter of the family romance we find the aunt of the
Princess--the Abbess of Gandersheim--exhorting her niece to put
no trust in men at all; assuring her that her husband would deceive
her, that she would not be happy, ‘and all the nonsense of an envious
and a desiring old maid.’ The gaiety of the Princess was eclipsed, for
a moment, by the chill cloud thrown across it by the remarks of her
aunt. The envoy, however, restored the ordinary sunshine by requesting
the Princess, the next time the Abbess held similar discourse, to ask
her whether, if she proposed to give up the Prince to her aunt, and
take the Abbey of Gandersheim in place thereof, she would then ‘think
men to be such monsters, and whether she would not expose herself to
all the dangers and misfortunes of such a marriage?’ This sally, with
good counsel to garnish it, not only restored the good-humour of the
Princess, but made her more desirous than ever to attach the envoy
personally to her service as soon as her household as Princess of Wales
should be established. Lord Malmesbury avoided an explicit answer, but
entreated her not to solicit anything in his behalf. ‘I had,’ he says,
‘the Duke of Suffolk and Queen Margaret in my thoughts.’ He, further,
was more anxious than ever with reference to the results of this
marriage. With a _steady_ man, he thought, the impulsive bride might
have a chance of bliss; but with one that was not so he saw that her
risks were many and great indeed. In the meanwhile he poured counsel
into her mind--as Mr. Gradgrind used to pour facts into the juvenile
intellect at Coketown--by the imperial gallon. The Princess continued
to take it all well, but the giver of it was shrewd enough to see that
‘in the long run it must displease.’ He was right in his conclusion,
for the night after he expressed the conviction the Princess remarked,
on some grave monition of his, that she should never learn it all, and
that she was too light-minded ever to do so.

Ward and guardian had been running a parallel between the former and
her sister-in-law, younger than herself, the hereditary Princess of
Brunswick. The Princess Caroline had asked Lord Malmesbury which
he thought would make the better Princess of Wales, herself or her
sister-in-law? To this difficult question the envoy replied gallantly
that he knew which would be the Prince’s choice; that she possessed
by nature what the hereditary Princess neither had or could ever
acquire--beauty and grace. He added, in his character of mentor, ‘that
all the essential qualities the hereditary Princess has _she_ might
attain--prudence, discretion, attention, and tact.’ ‘Do I want them?’
‘You cannot have too much of them.’ ‘How comes my sister-in-law, who
is younger than myself, to have them more than I?’ ‘Because, at a very
early period of her life, her family was in danger; she was brought up
to exertion of the mind, and now she derives the benefit _d’avoir mangé
son pain bis le premier_!’ ‘I shall never learn this,’ was the remark
of the Princess, with some confession of her defects. Lord Malmesbury
encouraged her by saying that when she found herself in a different
situation she would be prepared for its exigencies if she questioned
and communed deeply with herself now. In short, he gave excellent
advice, and if counsel could have cured the radical defects of a
vicious education, Caroline would have crossed the seas to her new home
peerless among brides.

At length the hour approached for the departure of the bride, but
before it struck there had well-nigh been an angry scene. Lord
Malmesbury had faithfully narrated to the Prince all that his
commission allowed him to narrate touching his doings. His opinion
of the bride he of course kept to himself. The Prince wrote back a
complete approval of all he had done, but added a prohibition of the
Princess being accompanied to England by a Mademoiselle Rosenzweit,
who, as his Royal Highness understood, had been named as ‘a sort of
reader.’ The Prince, for what reason is not known, would not have her
in that or in any other character. The Duke and Duchess of Brunswick
were exceedingly annoyed by this exercise of authority on the part
of the royal husband, but they were, of course, compelled to submit.
The motive for the nomination of this lady deserves to be noticed,
particularly as the Duke, who kept a ‘favourite’ at the table where his
wife presided, and the Duchess, who told coarse and indelicate stories
there which disgusted the ‘favourite,’ had been particularly boastful
concerning the very severe education of the Princess.

When it was agreed that Mademoiselle Rosenzweit should not accompany
the Princess as ‘a sort of reader,’ the Duke of Brunswick took Lord
Malmesbury aside, and stated that the reason why he wished her to be
with the Princess was, that his daughter wrote very ill and spelt ill,
and he was desirous that this should not appear. The noble diarist
adds, ‘that his Serene Highness was not at all so serenely indifferent
on the matter as he pretended to be. He affected to be so, ‘“but at
the bottom was hurt and angry.”’

The last day the unhappy bride ever spent in a home which, considering
all things, had been a happy home to _her_, was one of mingled sighs,
tears, dignity, and meanness. The Duke rose into something like dignity
also, and exhibited a momentary touch of paternal feeling as the
hour of departure drew near, and his glory, as well as his paternal
affection, was concerned in the conduct and bearing of his daughter.

There was a dinner, which would have been cordial enough but for the
arrival of an anonymous letter, warning the Duchess and the Princess
of the dangers the latter would run from a profligate ‘Lady ----,’ the
blank of which may be filled up with the name of Jersey. The letter
had been addressed to the Duchess, but that extremely prudent lady
had informed her poor daughter of its contents, and discussed the
letter openly with all those who cared to take part in the discussion.
Lord Malmesbury suspected the epistle to come from the party of the
disappointed Mademoiselle de Rosenzweit. It was a vulgar epistle, the
chief point in which was the assertion that the ‘Lady ----’ would
certainly do her utmost to lead the Princess into some act of injury to
her own husband’s honour. The Princess was not herself much terrified
on this point, and for _that_ reason Lord Malmesbury told her very
gravely that it was _death_ for a man to approach the Princess of Wales
with any idea of winning her affections from her husband, and that no
man would be daring enough to think of it. The poor bride, something
startled, inquired if _that_ were really the law. Lord Malmesbury
answered, ‘that such was the law; that anybody who presumed to _love_
her would be guilty of _high_ treason, and punished with _death_, if
she were weak enough to listen to him; so also would _she_.’ This
startled her. Naturally so; between advice, evil prophecy, menace,
dark innuendoes, the necessity of going to church, and the possibility
of ending on a scaffold, the bride might well be startled.

Nor was the letter above alluded to the only one which was a source of
uneasiness to the Princess. George III. had written to the Duchess,
expressing his ‘hope that his niece would not indulge in too much
vivacity, but would lead a sedentary and retired life.’ This letter
also was exhibited by the injudicious mother to her daughter; and while
the latter was wondering what the conclusion of all this turmoil might
be, Mademoiselle de Hertzfeldt reiterated that the only way for the
Prince to manage her would be by fear. ‘Ay,’ said the virtuous lady,
‘even by terror; she will emancipate herself if care be not taken of
her. Watched narrowly and severely, she may conduct herself well!’

Amid such a confusion of scenes, incidents, things, and persons, the
Princess Caroline was variously affected. Her last banquet in her
father’s halls was an epitome of the sorrows, cares, mock-splendour,
and much misery of the time to come.

On Monday, December the 29th, 1795, the bride left Brunswick ‘for
good.’ It was two o’clock in the afternoon when the envoy departed
from the palace with his fair companion in his charge. To render her
safety less exposed to risk, Major Hislop had gone forward ‘to give
notice in case of danger from the enemy.’ The cannon from the ramparts
of the city thundered out to her their last farewell, and the citizens
assembled in crowds to see the Princess pass forth on her path--of
roses, as they good-naturedly hoped; but, in fact, on her way strewn
with thorns.

For three days the travellers pressed forward in something of long
file, making, however, short journeys, and not getting very rapidly
over them. On the third day the Princess, weary of being alone with
two ladies, invited Lord Malmesbury to ride in the same coach with
her. He ‘resisted it as impossible, from its being improper;’ and he
continued to discountenance the matter, and she to laugh at him for his
inviolable punctilio.

What with the impediments thrown in their way by the war then raging in
front of them, between the French on one side and the Dutch and English
on the other--and the alternating features of which now enabled them
to hurry on, now checked their course--what with the incidents of
these stirring times, and the hard frost during which they occurred,
cavaliers and ladies made but tardy way, were half-frozen, and not
inconsiderably dispirited. For a time they tarried at Osnaburg, where
Lord Malmesbury narrates an anecdote for the purpose of showing the
character of the Princess, and which is to this effect.

Many distressed French _émigrés_ were to be found at Osnaburg, some of
them ‘dying of hunger, and through want.’ The rest, the gallant leader
of our escort shall tell in his own words: ‘I persuaded the Princess
Caroline to be munificent towards them--she disposed to be, but not
knowing _how_ to set about it, I tell her liberality and generosity
is an enjoyment, not a sworn virtue. She gives a _louis_ for some
lottery tickets. _I_ give _ten_, and say the Princess ordered me--she
surprised. I said I was sure she did not mean to give for the ticket
its _prime_ value, and that I forestalled her intention. Next day a
French _émigré_ with a pretty child draws near the table. The Princess
Caroline immediately, of her own accord, puts the louis in a paper and
gives them to the child. The Duchess of Brunswick observes it, and
inquires of me (I was dining between them) what it was. I tell her _a
demand on her purse_. She embarrassed: “Je n’ai que mes beaux doubles
louis de Brunswick.” I answer: “Qu’ils deviendront plus beaux dans
les mains de cet enfant que dans sa poche.” She ashamed, and gives
three of them. In the evening the Princess Caroline, to whom this sort
of virtue was never preached, on my praising the coin of the money
at Brunswick, offers _me very seriously eight or ten double louis_,
saying: “Cela ne me fait rien--je ne m’en soucie pas--je vous prie de
les prendre.” I mention these facts to show her character: it could not
distinguish between giving as a benevolence and flinging away the money
like a child. She thought that the art of getting rid of the money,
and not seeming to care about it, constituted the merit. I took an
opportunity at supper of defining to her what real benevolence was, and
I recommended it to her as a quality that would, if rightly employed,
make her more admirers and give her more true satisfaction than any
that human nature could possess. The idea was, I am sorry to see, new
to her, but she felt the truth of it; and she certainly is not fond of
money, which both her parents are.’

This indifference to money was amply manifested throughout the
course of her after life. At a period of that life when she was most
distressed she might have earned a right royal revenue, had she cared
to sacrifice to it--her reputation. With all her faults, she had none
of the avarice of her mother especially. She had more of the ignorance
of the latter, but even she would not have been led into betraying
it as her mother did when looking at the Dusseldorff collection of
pictures, which at this time had been removed to Osnaburg, to save it
from the calamities of war. Her Serene Highness was shown a Gerard
Dow. ‘And who is Gerard Dow?’ said she; ‘was he of Dusseldorff?’
The severity of this lady’s education must have been something like
that given to the Princess. The mother had never heard of Dow! The
daughter wrote ill and spelt worse. She, some years subsequent to the
journey upon which we are now accompanying her, described the Princess
Charlotte in a letter as her ‘deer angle.’ She was indeed ever profuse
with epithets of endearment. The ladies whom she saw for the first time
during this her bridal progress to her husband’s house were addressed
by her as ‘Mon cœur, ma chère, ma petite.’ Lord Malmesbury again played
the monitor when these freedoms were indulged in, and his pupil began
to care less for both advice and adviser. The bride’s mother, too, got
weary of her journey--afraid of being taken prisoner by the enemy,
and was anxious to leave her daughter and return home. The envoy
resisted this as improper, until the moment she had placed the Princess
in the hands of her proper attendants. Lord Malmesbury not only made
‘her lady mother’ continue at her post, but, on leaving Osnaburg, he
induced her to give fifty louis to the servants--very much indeed
against her will. She neither loved to give money away herself, nor to
have the virtue of liberality impressed upon her daughter as one worth
observing. In most respects, however, the daughter was superior to the
mother. Thus, when at Benthem, they were waited on and complimented by
President Fonk and Count Benthem de Steinfort--two odd figures, and
still more oddly dressed--the Duchess burst into a fit of laughter at
beholding them. The Princess had the inclination to do as much, but she
contrived to enjoy her hilarity without hurting the feelings of the two
accomplished and oddly-dressed gentlemen who had come to do her honour.

The Princess was less delicate with regard to odd women. Thus, she
met Madame la Présidente Walmoden at Osnaburg, whom she asked to
play at cards at her table, and made giggling remarks about her, in
half-whispers, to the younger ladies of the party. The Princess
disliked the Présidente; the Duchess, on the other hand, had pleasure
in her society. Présidente and Duchess vied with each other in telling
stories, and the latter was comically indelicate to her heart’s content.

Great difficulties had still to be encountered in the way of their
progress towards the sea-coast, and more than one wide wave from
far-off battles drove them back, again and again, to cities of which
they had before taken, as they believed, a final farewell. In the midst
of it all there was much ‘fun,’ some frowning, a little bickering,
advice without end, and amendment always beginning. Still, as the
party proceeded, half-frozen to death on their way by the rigour of a
winter such as Lord Malmesbury had not felt since he was in Russia,
the Princess especially loved to talk of her future prospects and
intentions. Perhaps the most singular dream in which she indulged was
that of undertaking and accomplishing--for she had no doubt as to
the result--the reformation of the Prince. She felt, she said, that
she was to fill the _vide_ in the situation in which he stood, caused
by his isolation from the King and Queen. She would domesticate him,
she said, and give him a taste for all the private and home virtues.
His happiness would then be of a higher quality than it ever had been
before, and he would owe it all to her. This was the pleasant dream of
a young bride full of good intentions, and who was strangely called
upon to project the reformation of her husband, even before she had
seen him, or could have taken that interest in him which could only
arise from esteem founded on personal intercourse. This result, she
declared, the nation expected at her hands; and she would realise it,
for she felt herself capable of effecting it.

To all this agreeable devising Lord Malmesbury replied in encouraging
speeches, mingled with gravest counsel and solemn admonition as to her
bearing. This the Princess generally took in excellent part, while the
Duchess, her mother, was grumbling at the intense cold or slumbering
uneasily under it; and the servants outside the carriages were as
nearly frozen as people could be, but were kept from that absolute
catastrophe by generous liquor and the warmth of their indignation.

The bride ought to have been perfect in her character, for her mentor
lost no opportunity in endeavouring to so prepare her that she might
make a favourable impression upon the King and Queen. It must, too,
be said for her, that her amiability under this reiterated didactic
process was really very great. She felt nothing but respect for her
teacher, and that says much for the instruction given, as also for the
way in which it was conveyed. On one occasion, we are told, she ended,
on retiring for the night, by saying that she hoped the Prince would
let her see Lord Malmesbury, since she never could expect that any one
would ‘give her such good and such free advice as myself;’ and she
added, ‘I confess I could not bear it from any one but you.’

On Saturday, the 24th of January 1795, the travellers entered Hanover
blue with cold, of which the benumbed Duchess complained in no very
elegant terms. Lord Malmesbury was exceedingly anxious that the
Princess should be popular here, as according to the impression of
her reported hence to England would probably be that of the King and
Queen on her arrival. Lord Malmesbury told her that she was Zémire
and Hanover Azor; and that, if she behaved rightly, the monster would
be metamorphosed into a beauty; that Beulwitz (at the head of the
regency, the most ugly and most disagreeable man possible) would change
into the Prince of Wales; that the habit of proper princely behaviour
was _natural to her_--an assertion which was not true, as even the
diplomatist showed, by adding ‘that it would come of itself; that
_acquired_ by this (in that respect) fortunate delay in our journey,
it would belong to her, and become familiar to her on her coming to
England, where it would be of infinite advantage.’

And yet Hanover was not a very particular place; that is, it was not
inhabited--the court end of it, at least--by very particular,
strict, or strait-laced people. The Princess was particularly careful
of her conduct before persons, some of whom appear to have generally
got intoxicated before dinner was over. Nevertheless, Lord Malmesbury
did effect a very notable change for the better in the Princess’s
habits. He had been before addressing himself to the improvement of
principle; he now came to a personal matter, and, if one might be
pardoned for laughing at any incident in the life of a poor woman whose
life was anything rather than a matter to be laughed at, this is the
time when one might do so with least reproach.

The party had been three weeks at Hanover, and, during that time, Lord
Malmesbury had held frequent discussions with the Princess upon the
very delicate matter of the toilette. She prided, or to use the noble
lord’s own term, ‘she piqued herself on dressing quick.’ He disapproved
of this; for a quick dresser is a slovenly and unclean dresser. On this
point, however, she would not be convinced: probably she was the less
inclined to be so as the weather continued intensely cold, and the
next luxury to lying in bed was being quickly dressed when she got out
of it. He could not come to details with a young bride who despised
perfect ablutions; but he found a court lady, Madame Busche, through
whom he poured the necessary amount of information that should induce
the Princess to be more liberal towards her skin in the dispensation of
water. He desired Madame Busche to explain to her that the Prince was
very delicate, and that he expected a long and very careful _toilette
de propreté_, of which she had no idea. ‘On the contrary,’ he says,
‘she neglects it sadly, and is offensive from this neglect. Madame
Busche executes her commission well, and the Princess came out, the
next day, _well washed all over_!’

But still the envoy’s trouble in connection with his charge in no way
diminished. Now, he was gently reproving her for calling strange ladies
by very familiar terms; anon, he had to censure her for unasked-for
confidences touching past loves; and then, more seriously than all,
to reprimand her even, and with strong license of phrase, for her
undutiful and sneering conduct towards her mother, who, although
silly and undignified, yet deserved the respect of her own child. On
all these occasions there was some pouting, followed by acquiescence
in the reproof, and ardent promises of improvement, that were still
long a-coming. In the meantime, that delicate article of personal
cleanliness remained, upon which the Princess became as indifferent
as ever. We must again have recourse to the envoy’s own description
of what passed between him and the pretty, wayward girl he was
endeavouring to persuade out of dirtiness. On the 6th of March he
says: ‘I had two conversations with the Princess Caroline. One on the
toilette, on cleanliness, and on delicacy of speaking. On these points
I endeavoured, as far as it was possible for a _man_, to inculcate the
necessity of great and nice attention to every part of dress, as well
as to what was hid as what was seen. I knew she wore coarse petticoats,
coarse shifts, and thread stockings, and these never well washed or
changed often enough. I observed that a long toilette was necessary,
and gave her no credit for boasting that hers was a _short_ one. What
I could not say myself on this point I got said through women: through
Madame Busche, and afterwards through Mrs. Harcourt. It is remarkable
how amazingly on this point her education has been neglected, and how
much her mother, although an Englishwoman, was inattentive to it. My
other conversation was on the Princess’s speaking slightingly of the
Duchess, being peevish to her, and often laughing at her or about her.
On that point I talked _very seriously_ indeed; said that nothing was
so extremely improper, so _radically_ wrong; that it was impossible, if
she reflected for a moment, that she should not be sorry for everything
of the kind which escaped; and I assured her it was the more improper
from the tender affection the Duchess had for her. The Princess felt
all this, and it made a temporary impression. But on this, as on all
other subjects, I have had too many opportunities to observe that
her heart is very, _very_ light, unsusceptible of strong or lasting
feelings. In some respects this may make her happier, but certainly
not better. I must, however, say that on the idea being suggested to
her by her father that I should remain on business in Germany, and not
be allowed to attend her to England, she was most extremely affected,
even to tears, and spoke to me with a kindness and feeling I was highly
gratified to find in her.’

On the 24th of March the travelling bridal party quitted Hanover.
The bride made presents to the amount of 800 golden Fredericks--a
generosity which cost her little, for the money was supplied by Lord
Malmesbury, who took a receipt for it, like a man of business. It was
now that the mother and daughter parted--not again to meet till
the former was without a duchy and the latter without a spouse. The
Duchess was considerably affected. The Princess kept up her spirits,
and behaved with grace and propriety. After passing through Rottenberg
and Klosterseven, where they ‘slept at the curate’s,’ the wayfarers
reached Stade on Friday, the 27th of March. Early on the following
morning they embarked in Hanoverian boats upon the Schwinde; by nine
they reached the ‘Fly’ cutter, and in that, when the wind served, or
in boats when it slackened, they proceeded down the river, and at
seven o’clock were taken on board the ‘Jupiter,’ fifty-gun ship, amid
all the dreadful noise, confusion, and smoke which go towards doing
welcome to an illustrious traveller. As she was stepping on board a
young midshipman, named Doyle, handed her a rope, in order to assist
her. He was the first to help her, as it were, into England. Something
more than a quarter of a century later he who thus aided the bride was
charged with the mission of taking back her body. The fleet re-echoed
the thundering salute which burst from the sides of the ‘Jupiter,’
yards were manned, streamers flung out their silky lengths to the wind,
and as the Princess passed on to Cuxhaven all went as merrily as became
a marriage party.

The next day they cleared the Elbe, and on the following were off the
Texel. The Princess was cheerful, affable, good-humoured, not alarmed
by the terrors of the sea or the sight of French privateers, and a
favourite with both officers and seamen. She only made one ‘slip’ on
the passage, from a repetition of which the jealous Lord Malmesbury
guarded her by giving her a lesson in English, and counselling her not
to use a nasty word to express a nasty thing. While the royal bride
was conning her lesson her guardian was conferring with ‘Jack Payne,’
from whom he learned that the bridegroom at home was not behaving in
the most prudish way possible, and that his favourite was comporting
herself with the impudence natural to favourites before they fall.

On Good Friday morning, the 3rd of April, the ‘Jupiter’ passed Harwich,
and in the evening anchored at the Nore. On the following day the
bride ascended the Thames to Gravesend, whence, in a barge, on Easter
Sunday, and amidst thousands of welcoming spectators, she proceeded to
Greenwich, where she arrived at twelve, and found--not a soul from
St. James’s to receive her. She waited a full hour before the royal
carriages arrived, and the delay was attributed to the contrivance of
the Prince’s favourite. In the meantime the officers at the Hospital
did their honest best to welcome the poor stranger. At length the
carriages arrived, but with them no eager bridegroom. To represent
him came his mistress, with a bevy of lords and ladies. Lady Jersey
no sooner beheld the embarrassed Princess than she began to ridicule
her dress; and having done that till she was sharply reproved for her
effrontery by Lord Malmesbury, she made a sort of claim to be placed
by the side of the Princess in the carriage, on the ground that riding
backwards always made her sick. But Lord Malmesbury would listen to no
such claim, told her that she was unfit to be a lady of the bedchamber
if she were unable to ride with her back to the horses, and although
the favourite would have been glad now to ride even in that fashion
in the same carriage with the bride, the envoy would not permit it.
He placed there two ladies who were not addicted to qualms in such a
situation; and with the Princess occupying a seat alone, and sitting
forward, so as to be more easily seen, the _cortège_ set out for the
metropolis. The bride was but coldly received by the few spectators on
the road, and when she alighted at the Duke of Cumberland’s apartments,
in Cleveland Row, St. James’s, at half-past two, she must have half
wished herself back again in Brunswick.

On due notice of the arrival being made to the royal family the Prince
of Wales went immediately to visit his cousin and bride. What occurred
at the interview, of which Lord Malmesbury was the sole witness, he has
the best right to tell. ‘I, according to the established etiquette,
introduced (no one else being in the room) the Princess Caroline to
him. She very properly, in consequence of my saying to her it was the
right mode of proceeding, attempted to kneel to him. He raised her
(gracefully enough) and embraced her, said barely one word, turned
round, retired to a distant part of the apartment, and, calling me to
him, said: “Harris, I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy.” I
said: “Sir, had you not better have a glass of water?” Upon which he,
much out of humour, said with an oath: “_No_; I will go directly to the
Queen.” And away he went. The Princess, left during this short moment
alone, was in a state of astonishment, and on my joining her said: “Mon
Dieu, est-ce que le Prince est toujours comme cela? Je le trouve très
gros et nullement aussi beau que son portrait.”’

What could the bringer of the bride say to comfort her? He stammered
out that his Royal Highness was naturally much affected and
fluttered--poor bashful man and susceptible creature--at the interview;
but he would be better by dinner time!

The Princess, however, was not herself blameless. She had already
entirely forgotten, or entirely disregarded, the good advice given to
her by Lord Malmesbury, and, short as the time had been which she had
spent at Greenwich with Lady Jersey, she had been foolish enough to
communicate to that person the alleged fact of her heart having been
already preoccupied by a young German. The interesting intelligence was
speedily communicated to the Prince, and the knowledge so acquired--
although the fact itself may have been at first doubted--certainly
had great influence on the conduct observed by the bridegroom to the
bride.

Lord Malmesbury was exceedingly perplexed. He had been so careful of
his charge that when the chances of war had obstructed the progress of
their journey, sooner than take her back to a court, the ladies of
which, never expecting to see her raised to a more exalted station than
that in which she was born, had treated her with great familiarity,
he had conducted her to dull and decorous Hanover. So tender had he
been of her that he would not allow her to remain at Osnaburg, for the
simple reason that Count d’Artois was in the vicinity; and although
Lord Malmesbury was, as he says, very far from attributing, either to
him or to those who attended him, all those vices and dangerous follies
which it was said belonged to them in the days of prosperity, yet he
felt it highly improper that the Princess of Wales and a fugitive
French prince should remain in the same place. His charge could not
have had a colder welcome had such a meeting taken place, and all
the inconveniences resulted from it which the noble lord foresaw and
dreaded. The poor deserted lady was now upon the point of indulging in
some sharp criticism upon her welcome, when her troubled conductor,
feigning necessity to attend upon the King, left the room, and her
alone in it, or with no better company than her meditations.

The usual Sunday drawing-room had just come to a close, and Lord
Malmesbury found his Majesty at leisure to converse. The last thing,
however, thought about by the King was the subject of the Princess.
His whole conversation turned upon home and foreign politics. That
ended, he inquired if the Princess were good-humoured. Lord Malmesbury
reported favourably of her in this respect, and the King expressed his
gratification in such a tone as to induce his lordship to believe that
his Majesty had seen the Queen since she had seen the Prince, and heard
from him an unfavourable report of the Princess.

The after-conduct of the latter was not calculated to create a
favourable impression. At the dinner which took place that day the
Princess was ‘flippant, rattling, affecting raillery and wit,’ and
throwing out coarse, vulgar hints about Lady Jersey, who was present,
silent, and biding her time. The disgust of the bridegroom was now
permanently fixed; and the disgust raised by lightness of bearing and
language passed into hatred when the Princess began to indulge in
coarse sarcasm.

The Prince, heartily weary of his bargain, asked Lord Malmesbury, after
one of these dinners, what he thought of the manners exhibited at them
by the Princess. The envoy could not defend them; on the contrary,
he expressed his unqualified censure, and informed the Prince of the
paternal injunctions of the Duke of Brunswick, whereby he recommended
that a strict curb should be kept upon the Princess, or she would
certainly emancipate herself. The Prince declared that he saw it too
plainly, and half reproachfully asked ‘Harris’ why he had not told him
as much before. The envoy, thus appealed to, pleaded the strictness
of his commission, which was not discretionary, but which directed
him to ask for the hand of the Princess Caroline in marriage, and
nothing more; and that, had he presumed to give any opinion of his own
upon the lady, he would have been guilty of an impertinent disregard
of his instructions, which were at once limited and imperative. Lord
Malmesbury endeavoured to put the gentlest construction upon the
sentiments expressed by the Duke of Brunswick concerning his daughter,
and added that, for his own part, he had seen nothing but slight
defects of character, which he hoped might be amended; and that, had
he observed anything more serious, he should have considered it his
duty to communicate it, but only confidentially, to the King himself.
The Prince sighed, appeared to acquiesce, but was neither consoled nor
convinced.

The ceremonial of the unhappy marriage was celebrated on Wednesday, the
8th of April, in the Chapel Royal, St. James’s. The whole of the royal
family previously dined together at the Queen’s Palace, Buckingham
House, after which they proceeded to their several apartments at St.
James’s to dress. As the Princess passed through the hall of Buckingham
House the King saluted her in the heartiest fashion, and then shook as
heartily, by both hands, the Prince of Wales who had in vain sought to
raise his spirits by the adventitious aid of wine. The bridal party
assembled in the Queen’s apartment, and walked from thence to the state
drawing-rooms, which were not rendered less gloomy than usual by any
addition of festive light. They were ‘very dark,’ says Lord Malmesbury,
who walked in the procession, by command of his Majesty. The chapel
was very crowded. There is a picture of the interesting scene, which
is said to have been painted, at the King’s command, by Hugh Douglas
Hamilton, an Irish artist, whom both King and Queen had, formerly, much
patronised. All the royal sons and daughters--a beautiful family group
they were--are present in the Chapel Royal, St. James’s. The bride is
dressed in a white satin dress, worked down the front with pearls. She
wears a small crown, and from her shoulders falls a robe of rich red
crimson velvet, lined with ermine. The Prince of Wales wears a court
costume, knee breeches and buckles with pointed shoes. His coat, of
blue velvet, is richly ornamented somewhat after the fashion of the
ornaments on the dress of his bride. The ladies wear enormous hoops,
except the bride, who has no hoop. Their hair is powdered, and their
arms project from their bodies in rather a stiff attitude, rendered
necessary by the projection of the hoops. They all wear long, white
kid gloves, which extend nearly up to the elbow. Ostrich feathers bend
or bow on the ladies’ heads, rising from the forehead, and curling
gracefully at a considerable height. Near the bride are her ‘maids,’
Lady Mary Osborne, Lady Charlotte Legge, Lady Caroline Villiers, Lady
Charlotte Spencer, Lady Caroline Waldegrave. When Queen Charlotte heard
of this picture (she appears not to have sat for it) she is said to
have declared that if it was brought into Windsor Castle she would
go out of it. The King paid for but declined to receive this work,
which ultimately was disposed of by lottery, and is now in the Tussaud
Gallery, in Baker Street.

The ceremony which it represents was performed by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, Dr. Moore. The ‘Prince of Wales gave his hat, with a rich
diamond button and loop, to Lord Harcourt to hold, and made him a
present of it. After the marriage we returned to the Queen’s apartment.
The Prince very civil and gracious, but I thought I could perceive he
was not quite sincere, and certainly unhappy, and as a proof of it he
had manifestly had recourse to wine or spirits.’

Upon this point Lord Holland has afforded ample corroborative evidence.
The noble baron has stated that the Prince of Wales had had such
recourse to brandy that he with difficulty could be kept upright
between two dukes. The wedding was as melancholy a one as was ever
celebrated. The only hearty actor in it was the King, who advanced to
give the bride away with an eager alacrity. As for the bridegroom,
after having been got upon his knees, he rose, unconsciously, but
restlessly, before the proper time. The Archbishop paused, the service
was interrupted, and the Prince looked very much as if he were inclined
to run away. The King, however, had presence of mind for all. He rose
from his seat, crossed to where his son was standing with a bewildered
air, whispered to him, got him once more upon his knees, and so
happily, or unhappily, brought the ceremony to a conclusion.

The usual legal formalities followed; these were succeeded by a supper
at Buckingham House, and at midnight the luckless pair retired to their
own residence at Carlton House, quarrelling with each other, it is
said, by the way. Meanwhile the metropolis around them was rejoicing
and exhibiting its gladness by the usual manifestations of much
drunkenness and increased illumination to show it by. Asmodeus might
have startled the Spanish student that night with an exhibition such as
he had never seen beneath any of the unroofed houses of Madrid!

It sounds singular to hear that the young husband’s first serious
occupation, on thus beginning life, was the settlement of his debts.
These were enormous, and their amount only proved the reckless
dishonesty of him who had incurred them. Mr. Pitt proposed that the
income of the Prince should be 125,000_l._ a-year, exclusive of the
revenue of the Duchy of Cornwall, some 13,000_l._ more. This was
eventually agreed to. In addition, Parliament fixed the jointure of
the Princess of Wales at 50,000_l._ per annum; and the smaller but
pleasant items of 20,000_l._ for jewels and 26,000_l._ for furnishing
Carlton House were also agreed upon. Out of the above-named revenue,
however, a yearly deduction was to be made, in order that the debts
of the Prince should be discharged within nine years. This deduction
he denounced, and his brothers joined him in the denunciation, as a
breach of contract, he having married solely upon the promise that his
debts should be paid off at once. He immediately claimed the amount of
the accumulation of the receipts of the Duchy of Cornwall during his
minority. He was answered, on the part of the King, that the receipts
had been expended on his education and establishment. The consequent
debates were a scandal to the nation, a disgrace to royalty in the
person of the Prince, and cruelly insulting to the Princess, as they
betrayed to her the fact that the heir-apparent had accepted her as a
consort solely on condition that his debts should be paid off. When
the Romans made a bargain they confirmed it by breaking a bit of
straw between them. This straw was called ‘stipula,’ and the Princess
Caroline was the bit of straw that was broken--the stipulation, in
fact, whereby it was agreed that if the Prince married the woman whom
he already detested his creditors should have satisfaction in full of
all demands!

Some of these were found heavy. There was a bill of 40,000_l._ to his
farrier! Bills like these were allowed. Not so an annuity of 1,400_l._
to Mrs. Crouch, the actress. The Parliament took a commercial view of
the matter and disallowed the claim, on the ground that no valuable
consideration had been given for the liability which the Prince had
voluntarily incurred. For the allowed debts, debentures payable
with interest were given, and the Prince immediately withdrew into
comparative retirement, in order, as Lord Moira stated in the House
of Lords, that he might be able to save enough to discharge certain
claims upon his honour. These claims were supposed to exist on the part
of the Landgrave of Hesse Cassel and the Duke of Orleans, from whom
the Prince had borrowed money. Perhaps they included the 10,000_l._
per annum which he had engaged himself to pay to Mrs. Fitzherbert,
whom he had settled in a superb mansion in Park Lane, and comforted
with assurances that his attentions to her would be as devoted now as
before his marriage! All this was an outrage on the poor bride, whom
the Prince took down to Windsor on a visit to the King and Queen. That
persons might not suppose this was a commencement of positive domestic
and virtuous life, the husband took with him his mistress, Lady Jersey.

The usual formality, which George III. loved, of visiting the public at
the theatre, was observed on this occasion, and a short time after the
royal marriage the wedded couple were accompanied to Covent Garden by
the whole of the royal family. They were very dully entertained with
the very worst of O’Keefe’s comedies, ‘Life’s Vagaries,’ in which two
cousins fall in love and marry; and so perhaps the piece was thought
appropriate. It was followed by ‘Windsor Castle,’ a _pièce d’occasion_
by Pearce, who brought together in it Edward III., Peleus, the Prince
of Wales, Minerva, Thetis, and the Countess of Kent. The last lady is
represented as expected at the castle; she is detained on her way by
an overflow of the Thames which threatens to drown her, and from which
she is rescued by the Prince of Wales; whereupon all the heathen gods
and goddesses are as much delighted as if they formed an Olympian Royal
Humane Society, and exhibit their ecstasy by dancing and singing. In
such wise were our rulers entertained when George III. was king.

Queen Charlotte had looked grimly cold upon the Princess, but she
gave an entertainment in honour of the event which made Caroline of
Brunswick a Princess of Wales. The locality was Frogmore, and the scene
was brilliant, except that the hostess looked, as Lord Malmesbury once
described her, ‘civil, but stiff,’ and her daughter-in-law superbly
dressed, and black as midnight.

Meanwhile, the Prince’s first wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert, was in sorrow.
Their honeymoon had not lasted long. The Prince had met Lady Jersey at
Brighton, and a letter from him, which was put into Mrs. Fitzherbert’s
hands at a dinner at the Duke of Clarence’s, where she had expected
to meet the Prince, satisfied her that all intimacy between them had
come to an end. From that time, according to what appears to be an
erroneous statement in the ‘Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert,’ ‘she never
saw the Prince;’ and this interruption of their intimacy was followed
by his marriage with the Queen (Princess) Caroline, brought about, as
Mrs. Fitzherbert conceived, under the twofold influence of the pressure
of his debts on the mind of the Prince, and a wish on the part of Lady
Jersey to enlarge the royal establishment, in which she was to have an
important situation!

CHAPTER III.

THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIED LIFE.

The Princess’s letters to her family intercepted--Unkindness
exhibited to her--The Prince seeks a separation--Acceded
to by the Princess--She removes to Blackheath--Her income
settled--Merry hours spent by the Princess at Blackheath
--Intercourse between the Princess and her daughter--The
Princess’s unfortunate acquaintance with Lady Douglas--The boy
Austin--Lady Douglas’s communication to the Prince attacking
the Princess--The _delicate investigation_--Witnesses examined
--The Princess hardly dealt with--Her memorial to the King
--Delay in doing her justice--The Monarch’s decision--
Exculpated from the grave charges--Comparison of Caroline
Queen of George II. and Caroline of Brunswick--The Prince and
Lady Hertford--Miss Seymour, and the Prince’s subornation
of witnesses--Persecution of the Princess by her husband--
Her appeal to the King--Menace of publishing _The Book_--The
Princess received at the Queen’s drawing-room--Meeting of the
Prince and Princess--Death of the Duke of Brunswick at the
battle of Jena--The Duchess a fugitive--The Princess’s debts.

The Princess had cause then, and stronger reason soon after, for her
melancholy. She had written a number of letters to her family and
friends in Germany. These she intrusted to the Rev. Dr. Randolph, who
was about to proceed to Brunswick, for delivery. The illness of Mrs.
Randolph kept the doctor in England, and he returned the letters to the
Princess of Wales, under a cover addressed to Lady Jersey. The letters
fell into the Queen’s hands. This, however, was only discovered later;
and the discovery accounted for the cold reserve of Queen Charlotte
towards the Princess, for the letters contained some sarcastic remarks
upon the Queen’s appearance and manners. In the meantime, on the packet
failing to reach its proper owner, due inquiry was made, but nothing
further was discovered, except that the reverend doctor declared that
he had transmitted it to Lady Jersey, and that individual solemnly
protested she had never received it. That it reached Queen Charlotte,
was opened, and the contents read, was only ascertained at a later
period.

In whatever rudeness of expression the Princess may have indulged,
her fault was a venial one compared with those of her handsome and
worthless husband. While she was in almost solitary confinement at
Brighton he was in London, the most honoured guest at many a brilliant
party, with Mrs. Fitzherbert for a companion. On several occasions
these two were together, even when the Princess was present. The
latter, by this time, knew of the private marriage of her husband
with the lady, and that he had denied, through Fox, who was made the
mouthpiece of the lie, that his ‘friendship’ with Mrs. Fitzherbert
had ever gone to the extent of marriage. If we have to censure the
after-conduct of the Princess, let us not forget this abominable
provocation.

Except from the kindly-natured old King, Caroline experienced little
kindness, even during the time immediately previous to the birth of her
only child, the Princess Charlotte. This event took place at ten in the
morning of the 7th of January 1796, amid the usual solemn formalities
and the ordinary witnesses. Addresses of congratulation were not
lacking. Among them the city of London prepared one for the Prince,
but the conventionally ‘happy father,’ who had looked down upon his
legitimate child with the critical remark that ‘it was a fine girl,’
declined to receive the congratulations of the City, unless in private.
The pretext given was that a public reception was too expensive a
matter in the Prince’s reduced condition; and the pretext was so
insulting to the common sense of the corporation that the members very
properly refused to ‘go up’ at all.

The truth was that the Prince shrunk from being congratulated upon his
prospects as a husband, seeing that he was about to separate himself
for ever from the society of his wife. The latter had caused the
removal of Lady Jersey from her household. This was effected by the
hearty intervention of him whom the Scottish papers not inaptly called
that ‘decent man, the King.’

The intimation of the Prince’s desire for a separation was conveyed to
the Princess of Wales by Lady Cholmondeley. Her Royal Highness made
only two remarks--first, that her husband’s desire should be conveyed
to her directly from himself in writing; and that, if a separation
were now insisted on, the former intimacy should never under any
circumstances be resumed.

If his Royal Highness had acceded to all his consort’s wishes with
the alacrity with which he fulfilled this one in particular, there
would have been more happiness at their hearth. In his letter to her
he said: ‘Our inclinations are not in our power, nor should either of
us be answerable to the other, because nature has not made us suitable
to each other. Tranquillity and comfortable society are, however, in
our power; let our intercourse, therefore, be restricted to that.’
It is what Froissart might call ‘sadly amusing’ to find him offering
tranquillity when he was predisposed to persecute, and recommending
that their intercourse should take the character of a ‘comfortable
society,’ when he was about to turn her out of her home, and without
any greater fault laid to her charge than that she had outlived his
liking. With regard to the Princess’s expressed determination that, if
there were a separation now, it must be ‘once and for ever,’ he agreed
to it with alacrity; ‘even in the event,’ he said, ‘of any accident
happening to my daughter, which I trust Providence in its mercy will
avert, I will not infringe the terms of the restriction by proposing,
at any period, a connection of a more particular nature.’

Her Royal Highness, in her reply, acknowledged that his conduct during
the year of their married life saved her from being surprised by the
communication addressed to her. She does not complain, desires it only
to be publicly understood that the arrangement is not of her seeking,
and that ‘the honour of it belongs to you alone;’ and appeals to the
King, as her protector, whose approbation, if he can award as much to
her conduct, would in some degree console her. ‘I retain,’ she thus
concludes, ‘every sentiment of gratitude for the situation in which I
find myself enabled, as Princess of Wales, by your means, to surrender
myself unconstrainedly to the exercise of a virtue dear to my heart--
I mean charity. It will be my duty, also, to be influenced by another
motive--desire to give an example of patience and resignation under
every trial.’

In October 1804 Mr. George Rose entered in his diary that the Princess
of Wales had recently said to Mr. George Villiers: ‘I cannot say I
positively hate the Prince of Wales, but I certainly have a positive
horror of him.’ ‘They lived,’ adds Mr. Rose of the ill-matched pair,
‘in different houses, dined at different hours, and were never alone
together. The Princess said: “Nothing shall shake the determination I
have taken to live in no other way than the state of separation we are
now in.”’

Exactly after a year’s experience of married life the luckless pair
finally separated. The Princess’s allowance was at first fixed at
20,000_l._ per annum, but after some undignified haggling on both
sides touching money, the Princess declined the allowance proposed
and, throwing herself on the generosity of the Prince, rendered him
liable for any debts she might possibly contract. ‘It was settled that
the Princess should retain her apartments at Carlton House, with free
access to her child, who had a nursery establishment of her own, under
the superintendence of Lady Elgin. This lady did not live in Carlton
House, but was in attendance on the child at meals, ordered everything,
and was the medium of communication between her parents respecting
her. The Princess Caroline, naturally fond of children, doted on the
baby; the Prince cared little about her, though he jealously asserted
his authority, and was always on the watch to restrain interference
on the part of the mother. In the summer of 1797, a sub-governess
was appointed to reside in Carlton House, and act under the orders
of Lady Elgin. The office was confided to Miss Hayman, who seems by
her correspondence to have been a warm-hearted, devoted person. The
Princess took a great fancy to her, and drew her into an intimacy which
the Prince probably disapproved, for he dismissed her at the end of
three months.’[8] With a few ladies the Princess subsequently retired
to a small residence at Charlton, near Woolwich; but on being appointed
Ranger of Greenwich Park she removed to Montague House, on Blackheath,
where she had the care of her daughter, was very frequently visited
by the King, and never on any occasion by her Majesty. At this period
her income was settled. It was partly derived from the Prince, who
contributed to her, as ‘Princess of Wales,’ 12,000_l._ per annum. The
exchequer supplied another 5,000_l._; the _droits_ of the admiralty
added occasionally a few pecuniary grants; and altogether her revenue
amounted to about the same which she had previously declined to accept.
With it she appeared content, lived quietly, cultivated her garden,
looked after the poor, taught or superintended the teaching of several
poor children, and, without a court, had a very pleasant society about
her, with whom, however, she was alternately mirthful and melancholy.

If her residence at Blackheath was in many respects a sad one, it
was not without its sunny side. There were joyous parties there
occasionally, and the friends of the Princess, in spite of their
sorrows and indignation, contrived, with their illustrious _protégée_,
to pass a merry time of it between the lulls of the storm. The merriest
hours there were those passed in playing at blind-man’s buff, where
the Princess herself, that grave judge, Sir William Scott, and that
equally grave senator, George Canning, were the sprightliest at the
game. The company the Princess received there included some of the
foremost people, for rank and for intellect, from all quarters of
the world. Here is one of several entries relating to this subject,
taken from William Windham’s Diary, October the 20th, 1805:--‘Dined at
Princess’s: present Monsieur the Comte d’Artois (afterwards Charles
X.), Duc de Berri, Prince de Condé, Duc de Bourbon, M. de Rulhière,
Count de Escars, Lady Sheffield, Miss Cholmondeley, Mr. W. Lock, and
Mr. J. Angerstein. When the Prince left, the Princess made a sign
for us to stay, when a small supper was brought, which kept us till
twelve.’ The _petits soupers_ were hilarious and unceremonious. The
Princess of Wales had not been long a resident at Montague House before
her daughter, the Princess Charlotte, was removed to a mansion in the
vicinity, where, under the superintendence of Lady Elgin, her early
education was commenced with favourable auspices. It may, however, be
questioned whether that be a proper term to apply in a case where a
mother is deprived of the right to superintend the education of her own
child. But it must be allowed that, though the Princess of Wales had
a little taste, about the same amount of knowledge, and could stick
natural flowers on ground glass so as to deceive the most minutely
examining or the most courtly of Germans, she was as little capable
of being governess to her own daughter as her mother had of being
instructress to the Princess Caroline. The interviews between the
latter and the Princess Charlotte now occurred but once a-week; and,
under the circumstances, that was as frequent as interviews could be
permitted. The little Princess, meanwhile, did not fare badly, nor did
she lack wit, or lose opportunity of showing it. She delighted Dr.
Porteus, Bishop of London, who, during a visit, had told her that when
she repaired, as was intended, to Southend, for sea-bathing, she would
then be in his diocese, by at once going down on her knees and asking
his blessing.

Her poor mother was always as ready to make friends, but she wanted
judgment to balance her tenderness. She never had such cause to
repent at leisure for overhastiness of action as when she made the
acquaintance of Sir John and Lady Douglas. The former was an officer
lately returned from Egypt; the latter was the mother of an infant
whose reported beauty inspired the Princess with a desire to see it.
Without any previous intimation to Lady Douglas, with whom she was
totally unacquainted, the Princess, one winter morning, the snow lying
deep upon the ground, crossed the heath, ‘in a lilac-satin pelisse,
primrose-coloured half-boots, and a small lilac travelling-cap, furred
with sable,’ and presented herself at the gate of Lady Douglas’s house.
She was invited to enter, under the supposition that she wished to
rest. She did not see the infant; but there was an old Lady Stuart
there, quite as childish, and of her the lady in attendance upon the
Princess (during the hour the visit lasted) made some ‘fun;’ the same
old lady ‘being a singular character, and talking all kind of nonsense.’

It was in all respects an evil hour when this acquaintance was first
formed. It ripened, for a time, into intimacy; and when the mutual
intercourse was at its highest, in 1802, the Princess, who had a
strong inclination to patronise infants, and had several placed out
at nurse, at her charge, in a house upon the heath, ‘took a liking’
for the infant son of a poor couple named Austin. The boy was born in
Brownlow-street Lying-in Hospital, and Mrs. Austin was his mother.
These two important facts were established beyond all doubt. Why the
Princess should have resolved to take personal charge of so young an
infant, only a few months old, defies conjecture. It may, perhaps, be
accounted for by the fact that she knew she was narrowly watched by
enemies who felt an interest in accomplishing her ruin, and she was
elated with the idea of mystifying them by the presence of an infant at
Montague House.

However this may have been, the intercourse with the Douglases
continued with some degree of warmth on both sides. It was ultimately
broken off by the Princess, who had been warned to be on her guard
against Lady Douglas, as a dangerous and not very irreproachable
character; and thereon the Princess of Wales declined to receive any
more visits from her. The baronet and his lady, with Sir Sidney Smith,
a very intimate friend of both parties, so incessantly besieged the
Princess for some explanation of her conduct that she at length called
into her council her brother-in-law, the Duke of Kent.

The Duke consented to see Sir Sidney Smith upon the subject, and from
him his Royal Highness learned that Sir John was not so much aggrieved
at the refusal of the Princess to receive Lady Douglas as he was at an
anonymous letter accompanying a coarse drawing representing Sir Sidney
and Lady Douglas, which had been forwarded to him, and of which he
believed the Princess to be the author.

The Duke of Kent was a little too credulous, but he did not act
unwisely. Apparently afraid that there was ground for the charge
implied by Sir John, he was still more fearful of the effect the
knowledge of it would have upon the King, then in a highly nervous
condition, and he was more than all afraid of the evil consequences it
might have, if divulged, of exasperating the existing fierce quarrel
between the Prince of Wales and the King, whose visit to the Princess
excited the utmost wrath in the bosom of the Prince. Taking all these
circumstances into consideration, he succeeded in advising the parties
to ‘let the matter drop.’ Sir John consented to do so if he were left
unmolested. It must be added that Lord Cholmondeley, who was perfectly
acquainted with the Princess’s handwriting, pronounced the letter as
certainly not having been written by her. Of the drawing he could form
no opinion, except one not at all flattering to the artist.

It was not likely that the matter would rest as the Duke of Kent
desired. Sir John himself was not as quiescent as he had promised to
be, and the details already mentioned came to the ears of the Duke of
Sussex. The latter considered it his duty to make report thereof to
the Prince of Wales, and the heir-apparent, of course, called upon
Lady Douglas for a statement. His request was complied with, and a
deposition was taken down from the lady’s own lips. It is a document
of too great length to be inserted here, but its chief points may be
stated. It professed great admiration of the Prince of Wales, and the
exact reverse of his consort. It detailed the circumstances of the
origin of the acquaintance between the Princess and Lady Douglas, and
of the latter becoming one of the ladies-in-waiting to the former. The
Princess was described as coarse in character, loose in conversation,
and impure in action. Circumstances were detailed of her alleged
intrigues, of her attempt to corrupt the virtue of Lady Douglas
herself, of trying to seduce her into the commission of very serious
sin, and of her laughing at her for not yielding to the seduction.

The lady went on to describe the common talk of the Princess as being
such as to disgust the men, and to cause mothers to send away their
daughters if the latter happened to be listeners. The Queen was said
to be the especial object of the ridicule of the Princess, and she
hinted at an improper intercourse existing between her Majesty and Mr.
Addington! The whole royal family, it was further alleged, were the
objects of her satire; but all the statements in the deposition fade
into nothing before one respecting the Princess, in which the latter is
represented as confessing to Lady Douglas that she was about to become
a mother, laughing heartily at the confession itself, hinting that it
would not be difficult to fix the paternity on the Prince, and ending
by declaring that the matter would be settled satisfactorily by making
the world believe that she had adopted an infant belonging to some
other person. The deponent then says that she saw the Princess a short
time previous to her alleged adoption of the child (subsequently proved
to be the son of the Austins); that then her condition of health was
not to be mistaken; and that some time subsequently she saw the child
and Princess together, and that the latter laughingly acknowledged
it to be her own. The immediately succeeding details will not bear
telling; and this is the less necessary as they are excessively
improbable, and were proved to be untrue. They are followed by others
regarding the coolness which sprung up between the Princess and lady,
with consequent squabbles, and final separation at the end of 1803. In
conclusion, we hear of the return of the Douglases from Devonshire,
the refusal of the Princess to receive her former lady-in-waiting,
the receipt of the anonymous letters and drawings, the appeal to the
Duke of Kent, the temporary suspension of hostilities, and lastly, the
communication made to the Duke of Sussex, which the latter conveyed to
the Prince of Wales, and which was followed by the deposition of which
I have endeavoured, however imperfectly, to furnish a _resumé_ that may
be comprehended without giving offence. Those who are acquainted with
the original document will allow that this is no very easy task.

Upon this statement, made in 1805, a commission was formed, under which
various witnesses were examined. On the 11th of January 1806, William
Cole, page to the Princess (a discarded servant), averred that he had
been dismissed by the Princess of Wales, for no worse offence than
looking indignant at conduct between his mistress and Sir Sidney Smith
which shocked him, the page. He described various immoral proceedings
as having gone on during his residence, that he had heard of worse
after his departure from other servants, particularly from Fanny Lloyd,
who had kindly informed him of the very improper conduct of her Royal
Highness and Captain Manby of the Royal Navy, during the sojourn of the
Princess at Southend, in the year 1804; and Cole added that he himself
had witnessed conduct as infamous between the Princess and ‘Lawrence
the painter’ as early as 1801.

Another witness, Bidgood, who, after being in the service of the
Prince of Wales near a quarter of a century, was transferred to that
of the Princess in 1798, went further than his predecessors. The least
offensive part of his deposition was that in which he swore that he had
seen Captain Manby kiss the Princess, who was in tears at his leaving.
This witness spoke to alleged facts equally startling respecting her
Royal Highness and Captain Hood. The depositions of the female servants
were even more strong in their coarseness and weight of testimony
against the Princess. All these persons, it must be remembered,
were appointed to serve her, she herself having had no voice in the
selection. When they became witnesses against her she was not allowed
to know the nature of their evidence.

It was in consequence of their allegations having been submitted to his
Majesty that the King issued his warrant in May 1806 to Lords Erskine,
Grenville, Spencer, and Ellenborough, whereby they were directed to
inquire into the truth or falsehood of these allegations and report
accordingly.

The witnesses were all examined on oath; and it is due to Sir John
Douglas to say that he seemed to wish to make of his evidence a simple
account of hearsay communications from his wife. He knew nothing of
what had taken place between his wife and the Princess but what the
former had told him of long after the period of its occurrence. He
swore, however, to having been convinced that the Princess was about
to become a mother. The depositions of most of these witnesses varied
considerably from those previously made by them, and fresh witnesses,
called to prove the case against the Princess, did more harm than
good to their own side. Others, who were servants of the Princess,
distinctly denied that the allegations made against her were true.
The proof that young Austin was simply an adopted child was complete.
The commissioners were unanimous on this point, and therewith was
established the falsehood of the depositions made by the Douglases with
respect to it. The commissioners, however, did not feel so certain upon
the other items of evidence; and they gave it as their opinion, not
that the Princess should be held innocent until she could be proved
guilty, but that the allegations should be credited until they could be
satisfactorily disproved!

Never was accused woman more hardly used than the Princess in this
matter. For a long time she knew nothing of the nature of the evidence
tendered against her, and every obstacle was put in her way to
rendering the satisfactory answer, wanting which the commissioners,
though they acquitted her of high treason, thought she must be held
_quasi_ convicted of immorality. She was equal, however, to every
difficulty, and she did not lack assistance. Mr. Perceval wrote, in
her name, a memorial to the King, which is a masterpiece of ability,
so searchingly does it sift the evidence, crush what was unfavourable
to her, point out where she had a triumph, even without a witness,
indignantly deny the charges laid against her, and which she had not
hitherto been permitted to disprove, and touchingly appeal to her
only protector, the King himself, for a continuance of his favour to
one not unworthy of that for which she so ardently petitions. The
memorial would almost occupy this volume entirely; it is only possible,
therefore, thus to describe and refer to it. A passage or two from the
conclusion will give, however, some idea of its spirit:--

‘In happier days of my life, before my spirit had been yet at all
lowered by my misfortunes, I should have been disposed to have met such
a charge with the contempt which, I trust by this time, your Majesty
thinks due to it. I should have been disposed to have defied my enemies
to the utmost, and to have scorned to answer to anything but a legal
charge before a competent tribunal. But in my present misfortunes such
force of mind is gone. I ought, perhaps, so far to be thankful to them
for their wholesome lessons of humility. I have therefore entered
into this long detail to endeavour to remove at the first possible
opportunity any unfavourable impressions, to rescue myself from the
dangers which the continuance of these suspicions might occasion, and
to preserve to me your Majesty’s good opinion, in whose kindness,
hitherto, I have found infinite consolation, and to whose justice,
under all circumstances, I can confidently appeal.’

The memorial, however, would have been of very little worth but for
the depositions by which it was accompanied. These were sworn to, not
by discarded servants, but by men of character--men, that is, of
reputation. Thus Captain Manby, on oath, replies to the allegation of
Bidgood that he had seen the Captain kiss the Princess of Wales:--‘It
is a vile and wicked invention, wholly and absolutely false; it is
impossible that he could ever have seen any such thing, as I never
upon any occasion, or in any situation, had the presumption to salute
her Royal Highness in any such manner, or to take any such liberty as
to offer any such insult to her person.’ To Bidgood’s allegation that
the Captain’s frequent sleeping in the house was a subject of constant
conversation with the servants, Captain Manby again declares upon oath
that he never in his life slept in any house anywhere that had ever
been occupied by her Royal Highness. ‘Never,’ he adds, ‘did anything
pass between her Royal Highness and myself that I should be in any
degree unwilling that all the world should have seen.’

This was conclusive; the deposition of Lawrence, the great artist,
was not less crushing. In answer to a strongly-worded deposition of
Cole, the page, Lawrence declares on oath that during the time he was
painting the portrait of the Princess at Montague House he never was
alone with her but upon one occasion, and then simply to answer a
question put to him at a moment he was about to retire with the rest of
the company. Like Captain Manby, he solemnly swears that nothing ever
passed between her Royal Highness and himself which he would have the
least objection that all the world should see and hear.

One of the female servants had accused Mr. Edmondes, the surgeon to
her Royal Highness’s household, of having acknowledged circumstances
touching the Princess which, if true, would have proved her to have
been the very basest of women. Mr. Edmondes was said to have made this
statement to a menial servant, after having bled her Royal Highness.
That gentleman, however, denied on oath that he had ever made such
a statement as the one in question; and perhaps the animus of the
inquisitors was betrayed, on the reiterated denial of Mr. Edmondes, by
a remark to him of Lord Moira. ‘Lord Moira,’ says the surgeon, ‘with
his hands behind him, his head over his shoulder, his eye directed
towards me, with a sort of smile, observed, “that he could not help
thinking there must be _something_ in the servant’s deposition,” as if
he did not give perfect credence to what I said.’

Mr. Mills, another medical man attached to the Princess’s household,
and also accused by a female servant of having intimated, in 1802, that
her Royal Highness was in a fair way of becoming a mother, proved that
he had not been in the house since 1801, and declared the accusation
to be a most infamous falsehood. Finally, two of the menservants
at Montague House swore to having seen Lady Douglas and Bidgood
in communication with each other, that is, meeting and conversing
together--a short time previous to the commission of inquiry being
opened.

With respect to the alleged familiarities said to have taken place
between the Princess and Sir Sidney Smith, the Princess herself remarks
upon them, in the memorial addressed by her to the King, to the effect
that ‘if his visiting frequently at Montague House, both with Sir John
and Lady Douglas, and without them; at luncheon, dinner, and supper;
and staying with the rest of the company till twelve or one o’clock, or
even later; if these were some of the facts which must give occasion
to unfavourable interpretations, they were facts which she could never
contradict, for they were perfectly true.’ She further admits that Sir
Sidney had paid her morning visits, and that they had frequently on
such occasions been alone. ‘But,’ said the memorial, ‘if suffering a
man to be so alone is evidence of guilt from whence the commissioners
can draw any unfavourable inference, I must leave them to draw it, for
I cannot deny that it has happened frequently, not only with Sir Sidney
Smith, but with many others--gentlemen who have visited me--tradesmen
who have come for orders--masters whom I have had to instruct me in
painting, music, and English--that I have received them without any one
being by. I never had any idea that it was wrong thus to receive men
of a morning. There can have been nothing immoral in the thing itself,
and I have understood that it was quite usual for ladies of rank and
character to receive the visits of gentlemen in the morning, though
they might be themselves alone at the time. But if this is thought
improper in England, I hope every candid mind will make allowance for
the different notions which my foreign education and habits may have
given me.’

Nine weeks elapsed since the Princess had addressed the above memorial
and depositions to the King, and still no reply reached her, except
an intimation through the Lord Chancellor that his Majesty had read
the documents in question, and had ordered them to be submitted to the
commissioners. She complained, justly enough, at being left nine weeks
without knowledge as to what judgment the commissioners had formed of
the report drawn up in reply to their sentence, which acquitted her of
gross guilt, yet left her under the weight of an accusation of having
acted in a manner unbecoming her high station, or, indeed, unbecoming
a woman in any station. From such delay, she said, the world began to
infer her guilt, in total ignorance, as they were, of the real state of
the facts. ‘I feel myself,’ she then said, ‘sinking in the estimation
of your Majesty’s subjects, as well as what remains to me of my own
family, into (a state intolerable to a mind conscious of its own purity
and innocence) a state in which my honour appears at least equivocal,
and my virtue is suspected. From this state I humbly entreat your
Majesty to perceive that I can have no hope of being restored until
either your Majesty’s favourable opinion shall be graciously notified
to the world, by receiving me again into the royal presence, or until
the false disclosures of the facts shall expose the malice of my
accusers, and do away every possible ground for unfavourable inference
and conjecture.’

The Princess then alluded to the fact that the occasion of assembling
the royal family and the King’s subjects ‘in dutiful and happy
commemoration of her Majesty’s birthday’ was then at hand; and she
intimated that if the commissioners were prevented from presenting
their final report before that time, and that consequently, at such a
period, she should be without any knowledge of the King’s pleasure, the
world would inevitably conclude that her answers to the charges must
have proved altogether unsatisfactory, and the really infamous charges
would be accounted of as too true.

Some months longer, notwithstanding this urgent appeal, was the
Princess kept in suspense. There seemed a determination existing
somewhere that, if her accusers could not prove her guilt, she should
at least not be permitted to substantiate her innocence. At length, on
the 25th of January 1807, the King having referred the entire matter,
with her Royal Highness’s letters, to the cabinet ministers, the latter
delivered themselves of their lengthily gestated resolution.

The ministers modestly declared themselves an incompetent tribunal
to pronounce judicially a verdict of _guilty_ or _not guilty_ upon
any person, of whatever rank. Their office was, indeed, more that
of grand jurymen called upon to pronounce whether a charge is based
upon such grounds, however slight, as to justify further proceedings
against the person accused. They acquitted the Princess by their
judgment that further proceedings were not called for, but, having been
requested by the King to counsel him as to the reply he should render
to his daughter-in-law, the nature of such counsel may be seen in the
royal answer to the Princess’s memorial. The King exculpated her from
the most infamous portion of the charge brought against her by Lady
Douglas, and declared that no further legal proceedings would be taken
except with a view of punishing that appalling slanderer. Of the other
allegations stated in the preliminary examinations, the King declared
that none of them would be considered as legally or conclusively
established. _But_, said the King, and severely imperative as was this
sovereign _but_, it was not uncalled for--‘In these examinations, and
even in the answer drawn in the name of the Princess by her legal
advisers, there have appeared circumstances of conduct on the part of
the Princess which his Majesty never could regard but with serious
concern. The elevated rank which the Princess holds in this country,
and the relation in which she stands to his Majesty and the royal
family, must always deeply involve both the interests of the state and
the personal feelings of his Majesty in the propriety and correctness
of her conduct. And his Majesty cannot, therefore, forbear to express,
in the conclusion of the business, his desire and expectation that, in
future, such a conduct may be observed by the Princess as may fully
justify those marks of paternal regard and affection which the King
always wishes to show to every part of the royal family.’

There is no doubt that this admonition was seriously called for. The
conduct of the Princess had been that of an indiscreet, rash, and
over-bold woman. At the court of the two preceding Georges such conduct
would only have been called lively; but the example of Charlotte had
put an end to such vivacity. The Queen Caroline of the former reign
had, in her conversations with Sir Robert Walpole especially, gone far
beyond the gaiety of the dialogues maintained by the Princess Caroline
and Sir Sidney Smith under George III. But the Princess was as yet
‘without blemish,’ only in the degree that Queen Caroline was. She was
not delicately minded, and was defiant of the Court-world when she had
been cast out from it unjustly. The two Carolines were wronged in much
the same degree, but the husband of the one respected the virtue of
the wife whom he insulted; the husband of the other had no respect for
either virtue or wife; nay, he would have been glad to prove that there
had been a divorce between the two. He had failed to do so, and the
King’s intimation to the Princess that ‘his Majesty was convinced that
it was no longer necessary for him to decline receiving the Princess
into the royal presence,’ while it was the triumphant justification
of the wife, was the unqualified condemnation of the husband, beneath
whose roof the slander was first uttered by Sir John Douglas to the
Duke of Sussex. And so ended the ‘delicate investigation.’ A history of
it was actually printed, but the copies were bought up and suppressed.
A writer in ‘Notes and Queries’ (No. 128, 1852), says:--

‘Several years ago I was present when the sum of 500_l._ was paid for a
copy of “The Delicate Investigation” by an officer high in the service
of the then government.--H. B.’

The husband of Caroline was at this time suffering from a double
anguish. He was snubbed by his political friends, and he was what is
called deeply in love with Lady Hertford. The ‘passion’ for this lady
was contracted during some negotiations with her family, entered upon
for the purpose of placing Miss Seymour (a niece of Lady Hertford’s)
under the care of Mrs. Fitzherbert. When this passion was in progress
the Prince aimed at bringing it to a successful issue by the strangest
of love-processes. He was accustomed, if not actually ill, to make
himself so, in order that he might appear interesting, and have a claim
upon the compassion of the ‘fair,’ who might otherwise have proved
obdurate. With this end in view he would submit to be bled several
times in the night, and by several operators, when in fact ‘there was
so little necessity for it that different surgeons were introduced
for the purpose unknown to each other, lest they should object to so
unusual a loss of blood.’[9] It was reported that, after the rupture
with his second wife, the Prince sought to renew his intimacy with his
first, but that Mrs. Fitzherbert would not consent till a brief arrived
from Rome assuring her, in answer to a statement of her case expressly
laid before the Court, that the wishes of the Prince were quite
legitimate. This is intended to imply that the Papal Court actually
looked upon a marriage ceremony performed by a Protestant minister,
and uniting a Roman Catholic with a Protestant, as a valid ceremony!
The assurance was enough for the lady. The old intimacy was renewed,
and inaugurated by a public breakfast, at her own house, to all the
fashionable world, with the Prince at the head of it! The ‘next eight
years’ of her connections with the Prince she described as supremely
happy years. They were extremely poor, she said, but ‘as merry as
crickets,’ and ‘joyously proud, on once returning to Brighton from
London, that they could not raise 5_l._ between them.’ So runs this
Idyll.

If he was ridiculous in this, he was criminal in other respects.
The pretty child, Miss Seymour, was placed with Mrs. Fitzherbert,
and the Prince became greatly attached to her. The guardians of the
young lady, rightly or wrongly, thought that a person in the position
which Mrs. Fitzherbert occupied was not exactly a fitting guide for a
motherless girl. The law was had recourse to in order to obtain the
removal of the latter, and ultimately the matter was brought before
the supreme tribunal of the peers. It is a well-known fact that when
this was the case the Prince, in whose heart there had been lit up a
flame of genuine affection warmer than anything he had ever felt for
his own daughter, became alarmed at the idea of losing Miss Seymour.
He therefore actually stooped to canvass for the votes of peers in
this, a purely judicial question, which they were called upon to
decide according to law and their consciences. An heir-apparent to a
throne, and so engaged, presented no edifying spectacle. And it must
be remembered that at the time he was thus suborning witnesses (for
to canvass the vote of a judicial peer was subornation of those whose
office it was to enforce the due administration of the law) he had set
his small affections upon a child, and was living in open disregard of
the seventh commandment, and of that portion of the tenth which relates
to our neighbour’s wife. He was accusing, through suborned testimony,
his own wife of crimes and sentiments of a similar nature, and with
no better result than to make patent his own infamy, and to establish
nothing worse than thoughtless indiscretion on the part of the consort
whom he had abandoned.

The Princess, who was still suffering from debility consequent upon an
attack of measles, was naturally elated at the result of the protracted
inquiry, and respectfully requested to be permitted to ‘throw herself
at his Majesty’s feet on the following Monday.’ The monarch reminded
her of her debility, bade her take patience, and promised to name a day
for receiving her, when he was assured of her being fully restored to
health. She waited patiently for the expression of the King’s pleasure
upon the matter, and was preparing once more for the enjoyment of again
being received by him, when all her hopes were suddenly annihilated
by an intimation from the King that--the Prince of Wales having
stated that he was not satisfied with the result of the late inquiry--
the Prince had placed the matter in the hands of his legal advisers,
and had requested his Majesty to refrain from taking further steps
in the business for the present; the King consequently ‘considered
it incumbent on him to defer naming a day to the Princess of Wales
until the further result of the Prince’s intention shall have been
made known to him.’ This note was dated ‘Windsor Castle, the 10th of
February, 1807.’ From that day the Princess looked upon her husband as
assuming the office of public accuser against her. The Blackheath plot
had failed, and the Prince was now appealing against the decision of
judges to whose arbitrament he had committed the responsible duty of
examination and sentence. What he required was a judgment unfavourable
to his wife; not having succeeded, he sought for another tribunal, and
virtually requested the monarch and the nation to hold his consort
guilty until he might have the luck or leisure to prove her to be so.
Had she been twice the imprudent woman she was, such conduct as this
on the part of the Prince was sure to make a popular favourite of the
Princess.

The courage of the latter rose, however, as persecution waxed hotter;
and the advisers who now stood by her, of whom Mr. Perceval was
the chief, were doubly stimulated by political as well as personal
feelings. The Princess continued to address vigorous appeals to the
King, whose intellect was beginning to be too weak to comprehend, and
his eyesight too feeble for him to be able to read them. Their cry was
still for justice; they claimed for her a public reception at court,
and apartments in some one of the royal palaces, as more befitting her
condition. Intimation, too, was made that if the justice demanded were
not awarded her, a full detail of the whole affair, taken from the
view held of it by the advisers of the Princess, would be forthwith
published. It is said that the menace touched even Queen Charlotte
herself, who had a dread of ‘THE BOOK,’ as it was emphatically called,
upon which Mr. Perceval was known to be busily engaged, and which it
was feared he was about to publish. But the temporary triumph of the
Princess was at hand. In March 1807 the Grenville administration,
the members of which were known to be favourites with the Queen and
enemies of the Princess of Wales, retired from office, and within a
month the new ministry advised the King that the complete innocence of
the Princess had been established, and that it would be well for him
to receive her at court in a manner suitable to her rank and station.
The ministers present at the meeting of council when this advice was
rendered were Lord Chancellor Eldon, Lord President Camden, Lord Privy
Seal Westmoreland, the Duke of Portland, the Earl of Chatham, the Earl
of Bathurst, Viscount Castlereagh, Lord Mulgrave, Mr. Canning, and Lord
Hawkesbury.

In May 1807 the Princess was accordingly received at court, at a
drawing-room held by Queen Charlotte. The latter illustrious lady
exhibited no demeanour by which it could be construed that she was
happy to see her daughter-in-law. The utmost honour paid her was a
cold and rigid courtesy. The Queen was again ‘civil, but stiff.’ The
nobility and gentry present were more expansive in the warmth of their
welcome. From them the Princess received a homage of apparently cordial
respect. Sir Jonah Barrington, in his ‘Personal Sketches of his own
Times,’ gives a rather different description of the scene, at which he
was present. From this account we collect that the Princess, leaning
on the arm of the Duke of Cumberland, appeared in deep mourning--for
her father. She ‘tottered’ up to the Queen, as if fearing a repulsive
welcome. The reception of her was ‘kind’ on the Queen’s part, ‘and a
paroxysm of spirits seemed to succeed, and mark a strange contrast to
the manner of her entry. I thought it was too sudden and too decisive.
She spoke much and loud, and rather bold. Her circle was crowded,
the presentations numerous, but on the whole she lost ground in my
estimation.’

On the occasion of the King’s birthday on the following month the
Princess again repaired to court. The welcome resembled that which she
had received at her last visit, but there was an incident at this which
rendered it more interesting, at all events to lookers-on. It was at
this drawing-room that the Prince and Princess of Wales encountered
each other for the last time. They met in the very centre of the
apartment--they bowed, stood face to face for a moment, exchanged
a few words which no one heard, and then passed on; _he_, stately as
an iceberg, and as cold--_she_, with a smile, half mirthful, half
melancholy, as though she rejoiced that she was there in spite of him,
and yet regretted that her visit was not under happier auspices. The
triumph, however, was complete as far as it went, for she assuredly was
present that day contrary to the inclination of both her husband and
her mother-in-law.

There was one being upon earth whom this Princess unreservedly loved,
and of whom she was deprived this year--her father, the Duke of
Brunswick. He had been but an indifferent husband and father, but his
wife did not complain, and his daughter Caroline feared and adored him.

The father of the Princess of Wales, at the age of seventy-one,
perished on the fatal field of Jena, on that day on which Prussia was
made to pay the penalty of mingled treachery and imbecility. It had
been her policy, throughout the troubles of the time, to save herself
at any other nation’s cost. Such a policy caused her to fall into the
ruin which overcame her at Jena, without securing the sympathy even
of those nations which then fought against the then common enemy. In
this battle the father of Caroline had done his utmost to win victory
for Prussia, but in vain, and he lost his own life in the attempt. His
ability and courage were all cast away. He had with him in the camp a
very unseemly companion, in the person of a French actress, who was
the friend of his aide-de-camp, Montjoy. This officer was close to him
when, in the midst of his staff, and at a distance altogether from
where the battle was raging, the old Duke was shot by a man on foot,
‘who presented his carabine so close that the ball went in under the
left eye (the Duke was on horseback) and came out above the right,
quite through the upper part of the nose.’ It is Lord Malmesbury who
suggests, without pretending to assert, that ‘Montjoy’s brother, the
Grand Veneur to Prince Max, the pretended King of Bavaria, and who was
with Bonaparte, knew exactly where the Duke of Brunswick was to be
found, and by a connivance with Montjoy produced the event.’

After the death of the Duke, the Duchess became a fugitive, for the
Duchy of Brunswick was in the possession of the French. And accordingly
the poor Augusta, at whose birth in St. James’s Palace there had been
such scant ceremony and excess of commotion, came now in her old age,
and after an absence of forty years, to ask a home at the hearth of the
brother who loved her, as she used to say equivocally, as warmly as
he _could_ love anything, and of the sister-in-law who, as the poor
Duchess knew, regarded her with some dislike, and who was met with
the same amount and quality of affection on the part of Augusta of
Brunswick.

She had, however, little cause to complain, as far as these relatives
were concerned. They received her cordially; and, though they gave her
no home in the palace in which she was born, they helped her to an
humbler home elsewhere, and occasionally lent it cheerfulness by paying
her a visit. In the meantime the widowed mother sat at the hearth of
her deserted daughter, and though neither of them had sufficient depth
of sentiment to bring her affliction touchingly home to the other, each
was sufficiently stricken by severity of real sorrow to render her
eloquent upon her own misery, if not attentive to the twice-told tale
of her companion.

Meanwhile, there was pressure of another sort upon the Princess--a
pressure of debt, incurred principally by the uncertainty with which
she had hitherto been supplied with pecuniary means, and also the
want of a controlling treasurer to give warning when expenditure was
exceeding probable income. Prudent people find such an officer in
themselves; but then the Princess was not a prudent person, and among
the things she least understood was the management or the worth of
money. She was, however, in 1809, in so embarrassed a situation as
to render an application to the King’s ministers necessary, when it
was found that her debts exceeded 50,000_l._ A final arrangement was
then come to. The Prince and Princess signed a deed of separation.
The former consented to pay the debts to the amount of 49,000_l._ on
condition of being held non-responsible for any future liabilities
incurred by his consort. Her fixed income was settled at 22,000_l._
per annum, under the control of a treasurer, who was to discharge the
remaining liabilities out of the present year’s income, and to guard
against any other occurring in years to come, if he could.

As wide a separation as possible was made between mother and child.
They were happy Saturday afternoons that the Princess Charlotte was
allowed to spend at Blackheath, where she met the Hon. Miss Wellesley
(afterwards Countess of Westmoreland) and other children, and partook
of childish delights. Under her grandmother the Queen, at Windsor, she
was stiffly disciplined. Once expressing a wish to be allowed to go and
say ‘good-bye’ to a young friend who was about to leave England, Queen
Charlotte remarked ‘it was contrary to princely dignity to seek after
any one.’ Some young girls who had been allowed to come to Windsor,
and were the companions of the Princess for an occasional day, were
not allowed to grow into familiarity or intimacy. The old Queen’s sour
notice of them to her grand-daughter was: ‘I cannot _taste_ these
young ladies!’ In this cruel way were all the warm sympathies of a
warm-hearted child set at naught.

The relations into which the Prince entered with Lady Hertford, while
the question of the guardianship of Miss Seymour was pending, led to
the ascendency of that lady, and brought to a final close the intimacy
which had existed between the Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert. At a dinner
given to Louis XVIII., to which she was invited, the Prince replied to
her inquiry as to where she was to sit, ‘You know, Madam, you have no
place.’ ‘None, sir,’ she rejoined, ‘but what you are pleased to give
me.’ He assigned none, and she kept away. The last morning she ever
saw the Prince was at a soirée at Devonshire House. The Duchess was
conducting her to the Duke’s apartments, where he was confined with
the gout, but where he received a few old friends. As the two ladies
passed through one of the rooms, Mrs. Fitzherbert saw the Prince and
Lady Hertford in a tête-à-tête conversation, and nearly fainted under
all the impressions which then rushed upon her mind, but, taking a
glass of water, she recovered and passed on.[10]

CHAPTER IV.

MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS.

Imbecility finally settled on the mind of George III.--Intercourse
between the Princess and her daughter obstructed--The Whigs
betrayed by the Prince--Sketch of the Duchess of Brunswick--
The Princess’s Court at Kensington diminished--Her pleasant
dinners there--Lively outbreaks of the Princess--Her sketches
of character--Her indiscretion--An adventure--Description
of the Princess Charlotte--The Princess of Wales’s demeanour
to her mother--Thoughtlessness of the Duchess of Brunswick--
Popularity of the Princess on the wane--Her determination to
bring her wrongs before the public--She becomes more melancholy
--An incident--Continued agitation of the Princess--She
becomes querulous--The poet Campbell presented to her--A
humorous fault of orthography--The Prince and John Kemble.

By the exertions chiefly of Mr. Perceval the Princess had been declared
innocent of the charges brought against her, had been received at
court, and had apartments assigned her in Kensington Palace, which she
occupied conjointly with her house at Blackheath. The clever friend
of the Princess was high in the popular esteem for these things, and
the public awaited at his hands that banquet of scandal which he had
promised them in the volume to be called ‘The Book.’ When, however,
they found the work suppressed by its author, and that he was soon
after made Chancellor of the Exchequer, the public professed to discern
here both cause and effect. They looked upon the elevation of Perceval
as the reward of his literary self-denial. The honourable gentleman
cared little for what the public thought, nor can it be said that,
either as friend of the Princess or servant of the Prince, he served
either of these illustrious persons, or even the public, unfaithfully.

In 1810, when imbecility settled upon the mind of George III., Perceval
proposed a restricted regency, but there was less cause for restriction
now than there had been before, and the restriction was only maintained
during one year. It was a period of great distress at home, and abroad
of such costly triumphs as made victory itself a glory not to be glad
over. At this juncture the Regent acquired some degree of public
esteem, and it was not ill-earned, by declining to receive an increase
of revenue when the people were taxed to an extent such as no nation
had ever before experienced. The public, however, would fain have seen
the Princess of Wales raised also in a corresponding degree with the
Regent, by some distinctive mark to show that she was the Regent’s wife.

It was rather an unreasonable expectation, and Mr. Perceval was rather
unreasonably censured for not realising it. The deed of separation
was, if not a cause, at least an apology or authority, for keeping
the Princess in the condition of a private person. She could claim no
higher title till the period that should make her husband a king. But
this was no reason that she should be irritated by obstructions thrown
in the way of her seeing her daughter. These obstructions were unworthy
of their author, and failed in their object. They were excused on the
ground that the manners of the mother were not edifying to the child,
but when the two did meet there was ample evidence of an affection
existing between them stronger than might have been expected at the
hands of a daughter who had certainly not been educated in the holy
faith that her mother was worthy of all the filial reverence that child
could pay her.

In the meantime the Regent had his difficulties. He who betrayed
the Whigs, by whose advice he had been guided during the time of his
father’s sanity, but who had cast them off after the death of Fox
in 1806, now sought to strengthen his government by the accession
of some of his old friends. The Whigs, however, would not act with
Perceval, and after the assassination of that minister in 1812 they
lost, by their arrogance, the opportunity of forming an independent
administration. The boast of Grey and Grenville that they would ride
rough-shod through Carlton Palace led to the formation of the Liverpool
Tory Ministry, which began its long tenure of office in June 1812.

During these changes and negotiations the Princess of Wales remained
at Kensington or Blackheath, while her mother was very indifferently
lodged in New Street, Spring Gardens, in half-furnished, dirty, and
comfortless apartments. Amid filthy lamps on a sideboard, and common
chairs ranged along dingy walls, sat the aged Duchess, ‘a melancholy
spectacle of decayed royalty.’ She is described as having good-nature
impressed upon her features, frankness in her manners, with a rough,
abrupt style of conversation, that rendered her remarkable. She loved
to dwell upon the past, though it was full of melancholy remembrances;
and she is said to have been charitable to the frailties of the
period of her own early days, but a strict censurer of those of the
contemporaries of her old age.

Up to the period of the King’s illness the Princess of Wales did not
want for friends to attend her dinners and evening parties. When the
only advocate she had among the royal family virtually died, and the
Prince of Wales became really King, under the title of Regent, the
number of her allies seriously diminished. They had to choose, as in
the days of the first and second George, between two courts. They
declared for that which was most likely to bring them most profit in
galas and gaieties. Still the diminished court at Kensington was not
so dull as that made up of a few venerable dowagers at the Duchess of
Brunswick’s. The Princess called her mother’s court a ‘Dullification,’
and yawned when she attended it, with more sincerity than good manners.
But freedom from restraint was ever a delight to her, and she has been
known on a birthday, kept at Kensington, to receive her congratulating
visitors wrapped up in a pink dressing-gown. It was at a birthday
reception that her brother, the Duke of Brunswick, who afterwards
fell at Quatre Bras, presented her with a splendid compliment and
a worthless ring. It was as much as duchyless duke could afford.
On the other hand, on the same natal day, Queen Charlotte showed a
good-natured memory of the festival by sending the Princess a very
handsome aigrette. The young Princess Charlotte was with her mother on
that day, and she observed, rather flippantly, that the present was
‘really pretty well, considering who sent it!’[11] The Princess was at
this time a fine girl, somewhat given to romping, but with the power of
assuming a fine air of dignity when occasion required.

At the pleasant dinners at Kensington, when the servants were out of
the room, and a dumb waiter (all the better, as Sir Sidney Smith used
to say, for being a deaf waiter also) was at the elbow of every guest,
the Princess would seem to take delight in going over the history of
the past. What little there was good in her, she once remarked to Count
Munster, was owing to the count’s mother, who had been her governess.
She acknowledged that the natural petulance of her character was rather
active at the period of her marriage. ‘One of the civil things his
Highness said just at first was to find fault with my shoes; and as
I was very young and lively in those days, I told him to make me a
better pair and send them to me. I brought letters from all the princes
and princesses to him from all the petty courts, and I tossed them to
him and said: “There ----, that’s to prove I’m not an impostor.”’ She
married, she said, entirely to please her father, for whom she would
have made any sacrifice. She regretted that the union was determined on
before the parties had been introduced to each other. ‘Had I come over
here as a Princess, with my father, on a visit, as Mr. Pitt once wanted
my father to have done, things might have been very different; but what
is done cannot be undone.’[12] Her own condition at home, however, was,
at the time, but melancholy. She had there but a sorry life, between
her father’s mistress and her own mother. Civility to the one always
procured her a scolding from the other. No wonder that she was, as she
asserted, ‘tired of it.’

Her spirit, depressed as it often was during her presence at
Kensington, except on the few occasions when her daughter was permitted
to see her, sometimes experienced the very liveliest of outbreaks. She
thought nothing, for instance, of slipping through the gardens, with
a single lady-in-waiting, both of them attired, perhaps, in evening
costume, and, crossing Bayswater, stroll through the fields, and along
by the Paddington Canal, at the great risk of being insulted, or
followed by a mob, if recognised. She thought as little of entering
houses that were to let, and inquiring about the terms. These are but
small, yet they are significant, traits. One of more importance is her
study and perception of character. At Kensington she kept a book, in
which she wrote down, in indifferent English, but with great boldness
and spirit, the characters of many of the leading persons in England.
It is doubtful whether this book was destroyed, as the writer, when
dying, ordered it to be. If it could be recovered, with the diary of
Queen Charlotte and that kept by poor Sophia Dorothea, something from
them might be culled of more interest than anything that is yet to be
found in the histories of these three Queens.

The indiscretions of the Princess of Wales were attributed by her
mother to a touch of insanity. On an occasion when Lord and Lady
Redesdale were invited to meet the Duchess of Brunswick at dinner at
the Princess’s house at Blackheath, they found themselves there long
before any of the rest of the company. For half an hour the Duchess
was alone with them. She had known Lord Redesdale from her childhood,
and she talked with him unreservedly. Alluding to the eccentricity
and imprudence of her daughter, she added: ‘But her excuse is, poor
thing, that she is not right here,’ putting her hand to her forehead.
Lord Redesdale told this story to Miss Wynn in 1828, and that lady has
recorded it in her ‘Diaries of a Lady of Quality.’

The indiscretion of the Princess was very strongly marked by her
selecting Sundays as the days for her greatest dinner-parties and
her evening concerts. Queen Charlotte, before her, used to hold
drawing-rooms on Sundays, without any idea of wrong. Since her time,
too, the Countess St. Antonio, and indeed other English ladies, were
accustomed to hold highest festival on this holiest day. In the case
of the Princess, no doubt much prejudice was excited against her, in
consequence of such proceedings. Yet she was not insensible to public
opinion; and she not only wished to know what was said of her, but
wished to hear it from the lips of the people.

‘One day,’ says the author of the ‘Diary of the Court and Times of
George IV.,’ ‘the Princess set out to walk, accompanied by myself and
one of her ladies, round Kensington Gardens. At last, being wearied,
her Royal Highness sat down on a bench occupied by two old persons,
and she conversed with them, to my infinite amusement, they being
perfectly ignorant who she was. She asked them all manner of questions
about herself, to which they replied favourably. Her lady, I observed,
was considerably alarmed, and was obliged to draw her veil over her
face to prevent her betraying herself, and every moment I was myself
afraid that something not so favourable might be expressed by these
good people. Fortunately, this was not the case, and her Royal Highness
walked away undiscovered, having informed them that if they would
be at such a door, at such an hour, at the palace, on any day, they
would meet with the Princess of Wales, to see whom they expressed the
strongest desire.’ These off-hand adventures she delighted in, as she
did in off-hand expressions. One day, when the Princess was ready to
set out on a visit to the British Museum, and three of her gentlemen,
Keppel Craven, Gell, and Mercer, stood awaiting her orders, ‘Now,’ said
she, as she stepped into her carriage, ‘toss up a guinea to know which
shall be the happy two to come with me!’ The trio had not a guinea
amongst them, and the Princess named Mercer and Keppel Craven.

Except in reading aloud, the Princess does not appear to have had
any intellectual pursuits at Kensington. Her health too was at times
indifferent, but her constitution was not undermined, mentally and
physically, as the Regent’s was at this period; and she had one joy,
which, however, she seemed to appreciate less than at its true worth,
in the occasional society of the Princess Charlotte. The daughter is
described as having been at this time ‘extremely spread for her age;
her bosom full, but finely shaped; her shoulders large, and her whole
person voluptuous.’ There was thus early a prospect of that obese
development which so soon despoiled the attractions of her mother, and
which very early marred the grace and beauty of the Princess Charlotte.

‘Her skin is white,’ says Lady Charlotte Campbell, ‘but not a
transparent white; there is little or no shade in her face, but her
features are very fine. Their expression, like that of her general
demeanour, is noble. Her feet are rather small, and her hands and arms
are finely moulded. She has a hesitation in her speech, amounting
almost to a stammer--an additional proof, if any were wanting, of
her being her father’s own child; but in everything she is his own
image. Her voice is flexible and her tones dulcet, except when she
laughs; then it becomes too loud, but is never unmusical.’ Her Royal
Highness exhibited to this observer traits of disposition which seemed
to certify to an existence in her character of self-will, some caprice,
and also obstinacy; but in a person so kind-hearted, clever, and
enthusiastic as this young Princess these symptoms were susceptible of
being converted into positive virtues; for a sensible, kindly-natured,
and ardent character can sooner be taught to bend its own will to
the liking of others--caprice becomes fixedness of principle,
and obstinacy gives way to resolution, which is only determinedly
maintained on conviction of its being rightly grounded. The young
heiress to the throne was more gentle in her demeanour to her mother
than the latter was to _her_ parent, the old Duchess of Brunswick. To
_her_ the Princess of Wales was harder in her demeanour than she was
to others. The Duchess was certainly a mother who had never won her
daughter’s respect, and who did not now know how to properly estimate
her daughter’s sorrows. The Duchess was not only visited by Queen
Charlotte, but she was invited to dinner by the Regent; and of this
last honour she triumphantly boasted in the presence of that daughter
who was ejected from the Regent’s house. But the poor ‘Lady Augusta’
was as awkward in her remarks in her old days as she had been in the
days of her youth. When the dismayed circle amid which the invitation
was boasted of observed a silence, which a sensible old lady would have
taken for as severe a comment as could be passed, she broke the silence
by abruptly asking the daughter, ‘Do you think I shall be carried up
stairs on my cushion?’ To which the Princess coolly replied: ‘There
is no upstairs, I believe: the apartments are all on one floor.’ ‘Oh
charming! that is delightful!’ rejoined the Duchess; and with a few
more queries, to which the Princess always replied with the greatest
self-possession and _sang-froid_, as though she were not in the least
hurt, this strange royal farce ended.

The brother of the Princess of Wales, if he had not an unbounded regard
for his sister, at least knew what was due to her and propriety better
than his mother. By his directions the Princess represented to the
Duchess that if she accepted the Prince’s invitation she would tacitly
acknowledge that he was justified in his treatment of his wife. The old
lady, as obstinate as her own grandfather, George II., was not to be
moved. She saw the matter, she said, in quite another light. She loved
her daughter, would do anything in the world for her, but certainly she
would not give up going to Carlton House. And in this determination
she remained fixed, till, meditating upon the matter, and conceiving
that the invitation _may_ have been less out of compliment to herself
than intended to draw her into a tacit condemnation of her daughter,
she suddenly declined to go, and with mingled womanly and especially
matronly feeling she invited the Princess to dine with her, instead.

The Princess of Wales was, undoubtedly, fast losing the small remnant
of popularity among the higher classes which had hitherto sustained
her. As her more noble friends silently cast her off she filled the
void left by them with persons of inferior birth, and sometimes of
indifferent reputation. Her own immediate attendants laughed at her,
her ways, her pronunciation, and her opinions. She was indeed a puzzle
to them. Sometimes they found in her a tone of exalted sentiment; at
others she was coarse or frivolous: the ‘tissue of her character’ was
made up of the most variegated web that ever went to the dressing of a
woman. Perhaps one of the most foolish, if not the most unnecessary,
of her acts, was an attempt which she made to sell a portion of her
jewels. It was doubtless intended by way of proof that an application
to parliament for an increased allowance was a necessity on her part.

She was, however, most intent on bringing forward the story of her
wrongs before the public; and she was doubtless encouraged in this by
a party, some members of which, without any of the sympathy which they
affected to feel, looked upon her as an admirable tool wherewith to
shape their particular and political ends. In the meantime the dinner
parties at Kensington were of a joyous and unrestrained character.
The Princess had poets and philosophers at her table when the royal
fugitives from France invented maladies as an excuse for not visiting
her, and she gained by the exchange; but, strange to say, with a very
liberal income, irregularly paid, perhaps, she was as poor as the
poets, and had not the consolation of philosophy. The house of Drummond
and Co. declined to advance her the poor sum of 500_l._, although she
is said to have offered to pay _cent. per cent._ for the loan. Probably
the stupendous liberality promised by the would-be borrower rendered
the bankers suspicious.

As she failed to acquire all the public sympathy which she thought
herself entitled to by her condition, she became at once more
melancholy and more recklessly mirthful. The dinner-parties, beginning
late, continued to sit till dawn. On one of these heavily entertaining
occasions, one of the guests, weary of his amusement, ventured to hint
that morning was at hand. ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the Princess, ‘God, he knows
when we may meet again.’ And then, using her favourite expression, she
added, ‘_To tell you God’s truth_, when I am happy and comfortable I
would sit on for ever.’ The describer of this scene says: ‘There was
heaviness in the mirth, and every one seemed to feel it; so they sat
on. At last one rose from the table, many of the guests went away, some
few lingered in the drawing-room, amongst whom I was one. I was left
the last of all. Scarcely had Sir H. Englefield, Sir William Gell,
and Mr. Craven reached the drawing-room, when a long and protracted
roll of thunder echoed all around, and shook the palace to the very
foundations; a bright light shone into the room, brighter than the
beams of the sun; a violent hissing noise followed, and some ball of
electric fluid, very like that which is represented on the stage,
seemed to fall close to the window where we were standing. Scarcely
had we recovered the shock, when all the gentlemen, who had gone out,
returned, and Sir H. Englefield informed us that the sentinel at the
door was knocked down, a great portion of the gravel walk torn up,
and every servant and soldier was terrified. “Oh!” said the Princess,
undismayed, but solemnly, “this forbodes my downfall,” and she shook
her head; then rallying, she desired Sir H. Englefield to take especial
notice of this meteoric phenomenon, and give an account of it in the
“Philosophical Transactions;” which he did.’[13]

So passed away her life up to the period when restrictions were taken
off the Regency, and the Prince of Wales became virtually King. The
friends of the Princess in the House of Commons served her cause with
some dexterity, and seldom made a statement in reference to her without
temporarily reviving some of the half-extinct sympathy of the general
public. Others of her ‘faction,’ as her friends were called, kept her
in a state of irritability and excitement by speaking of publishing
her memoirs in full detail. Some persons, with less pretence to the
name of friends, injured her extremely by statements affectedly put
forward in her behalf. Her agitated condition of life was still further
aggravated by the obstacles put in her way so as to prevent her seeing
her daughter as often as she desired. She was even bold enough, and
justifiably bold enough under the circumstances, to go down to Windsor
to see the Princess. This audacious step, as it was considered, was
met by a message from the Regent, through Lord Liverpool, requesting
her never to repeat so uncalled-for an expedition. She promised
obedience, on condition that she should be permitted to see the
Princess once a-week; but otherwise she threatened a repetition of the
visit. Such menaces gratified those who provoked them. The more they
could goad the Princess of Wales into demonstrations of violent and
vulgar indignation, the more, as they well knew, would she lose the
public esteem. Her nature was too prone thus to lose sight of dignity
and self-possession on being provoked. The grandeur of endurance was
a flight beyond her ken. She mourned the loss of a wise friend in
Perceval, who was partly lost to her, however, before his death, as
soon as he became minister. There were reports, too, at this time,
probably ill-founded, that she was to be removed to Hampton Court,
the apartments at Kensington Palace being required for the Princess
Charlotte. This, and the abandonment of her by some of her old
partisans among the nobility, rendered her naturally querulous. ‘No,
no!’ she said, ‘there is no more society for me in England; for do
you think, if Lady Harrowby and the Duchess of Beaufort, and all of
that set, were to come round to me now, that I would invite them to my
intimacy? Never! They left me without a reason, as time-servers, and I
never can wish for them back again.’[14] She felt that she could hold
no court in presence of that of the Regent, and that as long as he
lived she must be patient, and ‘nothing.’ Could she only have been the
former, she perhaps would not have come to be of such small esteem as
that which she ultimately experienced.

The Princess, however, still had some good taste. She patronised poets
in other fashion than that followed by Sophia Dorothea, who gave them
rings; or by Caroline, who made poor parsons out of poetic ploughmen,
like Duck; or by Charlotte, who gave to the sons of the Muses little
beyond empty praises and smiles that would not nourish. The Princess of
Wales was a great admirer of Campbell, and in 1812 he was presented to
her by his own ‘chieftain’s fair daughter,’ Lady Charlotte Campbell--
a lady who has etched the doings of her royal mistress in aqua fortis.
The Princess showed her esteem for the Scottish poet by dancing reels
with him in her drawing-room at Blackheath. Campbell has left his
opinion of her at this time in a letter addressed to a friend. ‘To say
what I think of her, without being bribed by the smiles of royalty--
she is certainly what you would call in Scotch a fine body; not _fine_
in the English sense of the word, but she is good-humoured, appears
to be very kind-hearted, is very acute, naïve, and entertaining; the
accent makes her, perhaps, comic.... I heard that she was coarse and
indelicate. I have spent many hours with her and Lady Charlotte alone,
and I can safely say she showed us no symptoms of that vulgarity
attributed to her.’ An instance of the mistakes, rather than the
peculiarity of pronunciation, which distinguished her, is given by Dr.
Wm. Beattic. He relates that, one day, the Princess was showing her
pleasantly-arranged house to a noble peer of great celebrity. They were
both in the gallery, where the Princess had recently hung some new
pictures, and to one of these she directed the attention of her guest.
It was his own portrait, and he acknowledged the honour by a very
profound bow. The Princess, to enhance the value of the compliment,
said, ‘You see, my lord, that I do consider you one of my great
household dogs.’ She meant ‘gods,’ poor lady; but she did terribly
abuse the divinities, and her daughter was ever her very dear ‘angle.’
These faults of orthography and errors in pronunciation bring less
blame upon her than upon her mother. That the child of an Englishwoman
born should have been so ignorant was the fault of the Englishwoman,
and not of her child. The sister-in-law of Queen Charlotte was
incapable of instructing her children as that Queen did, but she
might have taught her daughter English by conversing with her in that
language. The latter knew, however, less of it than she did of French
and German; and when she conversed in these, it was not upon subjects
that were edifying to the future Queen of England or creditable to
herself. Queen Charlotte was far more particular on the question of
correct delivery. In the case of her husband, Quin had ‘taught the boy
to speak;’ and it was the exact propriety of the utterance of Mrs.
Siddons that led to her appointment as reading preceptress of Queen
Charlotte’s daughters.

CHAPTER V.

HARSH TRIALS AND PETTY TRIUMPHS.

The Princess again in public--Restricted intercourse between
the Princess and her daughter--Sealed letter addressed by the
Princess to the Prince--Published--The Princess’s appeal
to Parliament--Bitterness on both sides--Meeting of the
Princess and her daughter--The Princess at Vauxhall--Death of
the Duchess of Brunswick--Last interview between the Duke of
Brunswick and the Princess--Her depressed spirits--Unnoticed
during the festivities of 1814--Sacrifice made by the Princess--
Unnoticed by the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia--The
Princess at the opera--A scene--Not invited to the great city
banquet--Mr. Whitbread’s advice to the Princess--A freak--
Reception of the Regent in the city--The Princess excluded from
the drawing-rooms--Correspondence between the Queen and the
Princess--Her letter to the Regent--Discussed in the House of
Commons.

From the comparative retirement in which the Princess had lived for a
few years she was now, in 1813, again to issue and appear before the
public more like an athlete on the arena than a suppliant with wrongs
to be redressed.

Her retirement had given, however, much subject for comment on the
part of the public, for censure on the part of her enemies. The latter
still pointed to her habits of life as forming apology enough for the
restrictions set upon her intercourse with her daughter. The fashion
of opening _all_ her apartments to her visitors at Kensington was
considered indecorous; and the popular tongue dealt unmeasuredly with
her cottage at Bayswater, at which she was _said_ to have presided at
scenes of at least consummate folly--and folly in such a woman was
but next to serious guilt, and almost as sure to accomplish her utter
ruin.

It is difficult to say positively in what light the Princess Charlotte
looked upon the restrictions which kept her mother and herself
apart. Report accredited her with being a thorn in the side of Queen
Charlotte, and a continual trouble to the Regent. She is said to have
paid to neither an over-heaped measure of respect, and she seriously
offended both by marring the splendour of her first ‘drawing-room,’ at
which she was to be presented by the Duchess of York, and which was
postponed because she insisted upon being presented by her mother.

Early in January a sealed letter was addressed to the Prince Regent
by the Princess of Wales, and forwarded by Lady Charlotte Campbell,
through Lord Liverpool and Lord Eldon. It was immediately returned
unopened. The letter was sent back as before. It was again returned,
with an intimation that the Prince would not depart from his
determination not to enter into any correspondence. Under legal advice,
it was once more transmitted, with a demand that the ministers should
submit it to the Prince. Finally, intimation was conveyed to the
Princess that the Regent had become acquainted with the contents of
the letter, but had no reply to make to it. Upon this the letter was
published in a morning paper. Though addressed to the Regent, it was
evidently intended for the public solely; and its appearance in the
papers excited a wrath in the Prince which brought upon the Princess
much of her subsequent persecution, and exposed her to considerable
present animadversion, even at the hands of many of her friends.

The letter was long, but it may be substantially described as
containing a protest of the supposed writer’s innocence; a remonstrance
against the restrictions, now more stringent than ever, which kept
her apart from her daughter; an assertion that such restrictions were
injurious to the latter, and a fatal blow against the honour of the
mother; and finally a stinging criticism upon the secluded system of
education by which her daughter was _not_ educated, and which was
not calculated to develop the character of the future Queen of Great
Britain.

A bomb in the palace could not have created more excitement than was
caused by the appearance of this letter in the papers. It was met by
a refusal to allow any meeting at all, for the present, between the
Princess Charlotte and her mother, and by an assembling of the Privy
Council, the members of which speedily showed why they had been called
together, by making a report to the Regent, in which it was stated that
the lords of the council, having read the letter of the Princess, and
having examined the documents connected with the investigation into
the conduct of the Princess in 1806, were decidedly of opinion that
any intercourse between the mother and daughter should continue to be
subject to regulations and restraint. This report, which was tantamount
to a mortal stab to the reputation of the Princess of Wales, and not
altogether unprovoked by her, was signed by the two archbishops and all
the ministers. The stab was dealt back as fiercely as it could be by
an appeal to the people through parliament. To this body the Princess,
in March, addressed a letter asserting her innocence, denouncing the
system which pronounced her guilty without letting her know on what
evidence the verdict was founded, and without allowing her to produce
testimony to rebut it; and, finally, requiring that parliament would
authorise a full and strict investigation, from which she felt that her
honour would issue pre-eminently triumphant. This request brought on an
animated debate upon a motion for the production of papers connected
with the inquiry of 1806, and the evidence adduced thereon. The motion
was lost; but ministers were compelled to acknowledge that the Princess
stood fully acquitted of the charges then and there brought against
her. The assertion made by Lord Castlereagh, that government had not
proceeded against the degraded and infamous Sir John and Lady Douglas,
because they were reluctant to trouble the world with the indelicate
matters that must be raked up again, excited shouts of derision. Mr.
Whitbread stoutly asserted that never had woman been so falsely accused
or so fully triumphant; and Mr. Wortley, despite all his respect for
the house of Brunswick, could not help lamenting that the royal family
was the only one in the kingdom that seemed careless about its own
welfare and respectability.

The subject was frequently brought before parliament, but with no other
effect than to show that there was much exaggerated bitterness of
feeling on both sides, and that the best friends of the Princess were
those who were of no party. Parliament was, at last, but too happy to
let the matter drop. Meanwhile, the publication of the ‘Spirit of The
Book’ did the Princess no good, and was, perhaps, not intended to have
that result. The daughter was now established at Warwick House, and the
Duchess of Leeds had succeeded as governess to Lady de Clifford, much
to the dissatisfaction of the Princess Charlotte herself, who asserted
that she was old enough to live without such superintendence. She could
not be frightened into a conviction of the contrary by rude remarks
from Lord Eldon, who also sought to terrify the Princess of Wales into
absolute silence, on the ground that such a course would more entirely
conduce to her own safety; to which that spirited lady replied that she
was under the safeguard of the British constitution, and had no fears
for her own safety whatever.

That she saw her daughter ‘in spite of them’ was to her a matter of
legitimate triumph. She had been forbidden to call at Warwick House,
but she could not fail to encounter the Princess Charlotte on the
public highways. This meeting first occurred early in the spring;
the mother espied the daughter’s carriage at a distance, and ordered
her own to be driven rapidly after it. She was then on Constitution
Hill--the Princess was near Hyde Park--and the pursuer came up with the
pursued near the Serpentine. Each leaned forward from her own carriage
to kiss the other and for several minutes they remained in deep and,
apparently, affectionate conversation--a crowd the while surrounding
them with ever-ready sympathy.

It was said, however, that in the rarely-permitted meetings which
subsequently took place between the mother and daughter the former
occasionally complained of the coldness of manner of the latter.
The Princess of Wales was, in fact, not satisfied with an ordinary
demonstration of attachment from any one. She required enthusiasm--
sought and bid for it. When the Regent was rising into something like
popularity by the splendid entertainments which he gave--partly for
the benefit of trade, and partly because he was pleased to the very top
of his bent when playing the magnificent Amphitryon--the Princess
appeared in public at a _fête_ at Vauxhall, whither she was escorted by
the Duke of Gloucester, on whose arm she leaned as she passed along,
soliciting, as it were, signs of sympathy at a festival patronised and
presided over by the Duke of York.

In these public scenes she assumed a dignity which well became
her, but which she was as well pleased to lay aside as soon as the
occasion which called for it had passed. Nothing gave her more
gratification, for instance, after receiving congratulatory addresses
from corporations and other similar bodies, which she did with mingled
stateliness and courtesy, than to not only change her dress of
ceremony for a more ordinary one, but to take off her stays! The latter
odd fashion was not favourable to a figure which was now far removed
from the grace which had distinguished the Princess in her earlier
years.

It can be scarcely said that in this year she lost one friend more by
the death of her mother. The declining years of the aged Duchess of
Brunswick had been years of sorrow. She had long been a sufferer from
confirmed asthma, and in March 1813 she was attacked by an epidemic
which was fatally prevalent throughout the metropolis. It was attended
by, or rather consisted of, cough and difficulty of breathing. This
attack aggravated her other sufferings; but, though confined to her
bed, she was not considered in danger when her daughter saw her for the
last time, on the 22nd of March 1813. The Princess remained with the
Duchess several hours, and took leave without suspecting that she was
never again to see her mother alive. At nine that night the Duchess was
seized with violent spasmodic attacks, under which she rapidly sunk;
and, at seventy-six years of age, the ‘Lady Augusta,’ who was born in
St. James’s Palace, died in a modest lodging-house, and was quietly
interred in Westminster Abbey.

It is due to the Prince Regent to say that on the occasion of the
death of the Duchess of Brunswick he exhibited becoming and courteous
feeling, by suggesting to the Princess Charlotte that she should pay a
visit to her mother, to condole with her on this bereavement. It was
suggested that after the funeral would be the most appropriate season
for such a visit; but the Princess, with quicker wit or more ready
sympathy, repaired at once to her mother’s residence, and thus afforded
her a gratification which was probably the more appreciated as it was
the less expected. This was more sympathy than she received at the
hands of some persons, who probably conceived that by behaving rudely
to her they should be paying court to a higher power. Thus, in the
course of the summer the Princess went to sup at Mr. Angerstein’s. Lord
and Lady Buckinghamshire were there. ‘The latter behaved very rudely,
and went away immediately after the Princess arrived. Whatever her
principles, political or moral, may be, I think,’ says Lady Charlotte
Campbell, who tells the anecdote, ‘that making a curtsy to the person
invested with the rank of Princess of Wales would be much better taste
and more like a lady than turning her back and hurrying out of the
room.’

In addition to her mother, the Princess may be said to have also lost
her brother this year; for though the gallant Duke of Brunswick did
not fall at Quatre Bras till 1815, she never saw him again but for a
brief moment on his departure from this country, two years previously.
The Duke was simply a soldier and nothing more, except that he was
a gallant one. He had a few relics with him in this country of the
treasures of Brunswick, such as old books and antique gems, the value
of neither of which did he in the least understand. His habits were of
the simplest, except in the fashionable dissipation of the times; but
if he was the slave of some pleasures, he was by no means the servant
of luxury. He slept on a thin mattress placed on an iron frame, and
covered by a single sheet. He had enjoyed sweeter sleep on it, he used
to say, than many who lay upon the softest down.

When he went to take leave of his sister he was in the highest spirits,
from having at last the prospect of an active career in arms. The actor
and the scene are well-described by the author of ‘The Diary:’--‘There
never was a man so altered by the hope of glory. His stature seemed
to dilate, and his eyes were animated with a fire and an expression of
grandeur and delight which astonished me. I could not help thinking
the Princess did not receive him with the warmth she ought to have
done. He detailed to her the whole of the conversation he had with
the ministers, the Prince Regent, &c. He mimicked them all admirably,
particularly Lord Castlereagh--so well as to make us all laugh; and
he gave the substance of what had passed between himself and those
persons with admirable precision, in a kind of question and answer
colloquy that was quite dramatic. I was astonished, for I had never
seen any person so changed by circumstance. He really looked a hero.
The Princess heard all that he said in a kind of sullen silence, while
the tears were in several of the bystanders’ eyes. At length the Duke
of Brunswick said: “The ministers refused me all assistance; they
would promise me neither money nor arms. But I care not. I will go to
Hamburg. I hear that there are some brave young men there, who await
my coming, and if I have only my orders from the Prince Regent to act,
I will go without either money or arms, and gain both.” “Perfectly
right!” replied the Princess, with something like enthusiasm in her
voice and manners. “How did Bonaparte conquer the greater part of
Europe?” the Duke continued: “he had neither money nor arms, but he
_took_ them; and if _he_ did that, why should not _I_, who have so much
more just a cause to defend?” The Duke then proceeded to state how the
Regent and the ministers were all at variance, and how he had obtained
from the former an order he could not obtain from the ministers.
After some further conversation, he took leave of his sister. She
did not embrace him. He held out his hand to me kindly, and named me
familiarly. I felt a wish to express something of the kindly feeling
I felt towards him: but, I know not why, in her presence, who ought
to have felt so much more and who seemed to feel so little, I felt
chilled, and remained silent. I have often thought of that moment since
with regret. When the Duke was fairly gone, however, she shed a few
tears, and said emphatically, “I shall never see him more!”’

The early part of 1814 was spent by the Princess in lowness of
spirit and littleness of pursuits. Miss Berry speaks of the mournful
‘house-warming’ by which the Princess inaugurated her tenancy some time
before:--On the 1st of December she writes, ‘We both of us (the two
sisters) dined with the Princess in Connaught Place, the first time she
had given a dinner in her new home, which is still all upside down.
The company consisted only of Gell and Craven, who arrived in town
to-day, Lady C. Campbell and Lady C. Lindsay in waiting. The Princess
was particularly melancholy; wept when speaking to me of herself,
confessed herself entirely overwhelmed with her situation and her
prospects for the future. On the 30th the aspect was not gay. Dined
at the Princess’s. There were only Mr. Craven, Little Willy (Austin)
and a young playfellow of his, and Lady Orme. These dinners become
insupportable. The dulness makes me almost ill in the course of a long
evening, only interrupted by the Princess’s singing with Mr. Craven,
which is a screeching of which no idea can be formed without hearing
it.’ The Princess was now established in Connaught Place, near the
Edgeware Road; the mansion is that now numbered ‘7’ Connaught Place.
She seldom saw her daughter, and did not consult her own dignity by
taking ‘strolls’ across the fields in the direction of the canal, or
by ridiculing the Regent at her own dinner-table. It was this sort of
conduct which made people account of her as being worse than she really
was. For London, it was a year of triumphs and congratulations, but
she shared in neither; it was the year of sovereigns, when European
potentates crowded our streets, and passed by the house of the Princess
without inquiring for her. In June, mortification was heaped upon her.
She had an undoubted right to be present at the drawing-rooms held by
the Queen; but her Majesty, who had announced her intention to hold
two in honour of the foreign monarchs then in England, announced to
the Princess that she would not be permitted to be present at either.
No other ground for this expulsion was alleged than the Regent’s will.
His Royal Highness had declared that never again would he meet her,
either in public or in private, and consequently her appearance on
the occasions in question could not be permitted for a moment. She
had prepared a letter of indignant remonstrance, but Mr. Whitbread
counselled her not to forward it, but rather to write one in a
submissive tone, accepting with humility the ill-treatment to which she
was thus subjected. This counsel is said to have given considerable
discontent to Mr. Brougham, who was inclined to make assertion of her
right to be present, and to go even further, if that were necessary.

She made, however, greater sacrifices than that of refraining from
appearing at court on a gala day. Her finances had become embarrassed,
in spite of the presence of a controlling treasurer, and her friends
made application to parliament on her behalf. The Regent had caused it
to be understood that he did not wish to curtail her personal comforts
or cause her any pecuniary embarrassment, and Lord Castlereagh came
down to the house with a proposition of settling on her 50,000_l._ per
annum. Of her own will she surrendered 15,000_l._ of this sum, and it
was agreed that the revenue of 35,000_l._ per annum should be awarded
to the ‘Princess of Wales.’ The sacrifice made by the Princess was
gracefully noticed in the House by Mr. Whitbread, at whose suggestion
it is said to have been cordially entered into, the Princess having,
as he said, a full sense of the burthens that lay heavy on the nation.
Such conduct ought to have won for her a little regard, and a visit
from that King of Prussia in defence of whose dominions her father had
not long before laid down his life, a stout old soldier, dying in his
harness, like a knight of the olden time.

She sent her chamberlain to welcome the King of Prussia on his
arrival in this country, and the King acknowledged the courtesy by
sending _his_ chamberlain to return thanks for it. The same stiff
intercourse passed with the other sovereigns and princes; but it is
said that Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt was especially charged by the Prince
to request the Russian Emperor Alexander to abstain from visiting
the Princess of Wales! They saw each other, nevertheless, though
under different circumstances from those which the Princess herself
could have desired. The incidents of this eventful evening are thus
described by one of the ladies-in-waiting on the Princess:--‘There
came a note from Mr. Whitbread advising her at _what_ hour she should
go to the opera, and telling her that the Emperor was to be at eleven
o’clock at the Institution, which was to be lighted up for him to
see the pictures. All this advice tormented the Princess, and I do
not wonder that she sometimes loses patience. No child was ever more
thwarted and controlled than she is; and yet she often contrives to do
herself mischief, in spite of all the care that is taken of her. When
we arrived at the opera, to the Princess’s and all her attendants’
infinite surprise, we saw the Regent placed between the Emperor and
the King of Prussia, and all the minor princes in a box to the right.
‘God save the King’ was performing when the Princess entered; and,
consequently, she did not sit down. I was behind, and of course I
could not see the house very distinctly, but I saw the Regent was at
that time standing, applauding the Grassini. As soon as the air was
over, the whole pit turned round to the Princess’s box and applauded
_her_. We who were in attendance on her Royal Highness entreated her
to rise and make a curtsy, but she sat _immoveable_; and, at last,
turning round, she said to Lady ----: “My dear, Punch’s wife is nobody
when Punch is present.” We all laughed, but still thought it wrong
not to acknowledge the compliment paid her; but she was right, as
the sequel will prove. “We shall be hissed,” said Sir W. Gell. “No,
no,” again replied the Princess, with infinite good humour; “I know
my business better than to take the morsel out of my husband’s mouth.
I am not to seem to know that the applause is meant for me till they
call my name.” The Prince seemed to verify her words, for he got
up and bowed to the audience. This was construed into a bow to the
Princess, most unfortunately; I say most unfortunately, because she
has been blamed for not returning it. But I, who was an eye-witness of
the circumstance, knew that the Princess acted just as she ought to
have done. The fact was that the Prince took the applause to himself,
and his friends, to save him from the imputation of this ridiculous
vanity, chose to say that he did the most beautiful and elegant thing
in the world, and bowed to his wife! When the opera was finished, the
Prince and his supporters were applauded, but not enthusiastically,
and scarcely had his Royal Highness left the box when the people
called for the Princess, and gave her a very warm applause. She then
went forward and made three curtsies, and hastily withdrew.’[15] The
semi-ovation in the house was followed by a demonstration something
more noisy in the streets. The Princess’s charioteer was unable to
drive through the crowd of vehicles in Charles Street. The carriage
was therefore, ‘backed’ and driven round by Carlton House. In front of
this royal residence the mob surrounded her Royal Highness, saluting
her with loud and reiterated shouts. The ladies who were accompanying
her were more alarmed at the popular demonstration than _she_ was. The
people opened the carriage door, insisted on shaking hands with her,
and asked if they should burn Carlton House. ‘No, my good people,’ was
her reply; ‘be quite quiet, let me pass, and go home to your beds.’
They then allowed the carriage to pass on its way, as she desired, but
they continued following it as long as they had strength, swiftness,
and breath enough, shouting the while the favourite cry, ‘The Princess
of Wales for ever!’ She was pleased, says the original narrator of
this scene, at this demonstration of feeling in her favour, and she
never showed so much dignity or looked so well, we are told, as she
did under this excitement. She was depressed in spirits, however, the
next day, for the same people crowded the parks, and flung those strong
salutes which so offended the delicate Casca, at the company of foreign
sovereigns and princes who were riding in the ring, and who refused to
pay her the scant courtesy of a visit in the house from which she could
hear the loud huzzas that greeted them as they passed by it.

She lived on, feverishly, and in continually disappointed hope that
the Emperor of Russia would yet offer her the poor homage of a morning
call. In this hope she was encouraged by some of her ladies-in-waiting,
who told her that they had heard, from good authority, it was the
imperial intention to pay a formal visit to Kensington on a day named.
With no better official authority than this to trust to she sat up
dressed, ready for the reception of the potentate whose presence, she
hoped, would lend her some of the prestige of respectability which she
fancied herself losing by his prolonged absence. And still he came
not. On the other hand, she met with disappointment even more bitter.
Her city friends did not even render her the courtesy of forwarding
an invitation to the grand banquet at which they were about to regale
the sovereigns and the retinue of princes in their train. Not that
they entirely forgot her, but then their remembrance of her was rather
insulting than flattering. Alderman Wood, for instance, was absurd
enough to offer her a window in Cheapside, from which she might view
the procession of monarchs and minor potentates on their way to dine
with the city king! This vexed her sorely, as so emphatically ‘rude’
a proceeding was likely to do. The Princess would have less felt her
exclusion from an entertainment in the city where her friends abounded
had it been a festival from which ladies were altogether excluded. Her
‘sensibility’ was wounded at hearing that the Duchess of Oldenburg,
the sister of the Emperor Alexander, was to be present, with four
other ladies. ‘This was galling,’ says Lady Charlotte Campbell in her
‘Diary,’ and the Princess felt her own particular exclusion from this
_fête_ given by the city very hard to bear, as she had considered
the city folks her friends. They, however, were not to blame, as
these royal ladies were self-invited or invited by the Regent, and
the Princess’s friends had not time to call a council and discuss
the matter. Immediately after this bitter pill came another from Mr.
Whitbread, recommending her, _upon no account_, to go to Drury Lane on
Thursday evening, after having, a few days before, desired her to go.
‘You see,’ said the Princess to one of her ladies; ‘you see, my dear,
how I am plagued;’ and, although she mastered her resentment, the tears
came into her eyes. ‘It is not,’ she said, ‘the loss of the amusement
which I regret, but being treated like a child and made the puppet of
a party. What does it signify whether I come in before or after the
Regent, or whether I am applauded in his hearing or not; that is all
for the gratification of _the party_, not for _my_ gratification; ’tis
of no consequence to the Princess, but to Mr. Whitbread; and that’s the
way things go, and always will till I can leave this vile country.’

Wonderfully elastic, however, were the spirits of the Princess, and at
dinner, on the day when her disappointment drew tears from her eyes,
she entertained a large party with some grace and more gaiety. The
question of her being present at the theatre on the following Thursday
was discussed, and a baronet present, whom the authoress of the ‘Diary’
partially veils under the initials of Sir J-- B--, insisted that,
unless Mr. Whitbread gave some very strong reasons to the contrary,
the Princess would do right in going. ‘But I fancy,’ said Sir John,
‘he has some good reasons, and then she must yield. Gad!’ he added to
a neighbour at table, ‘if I were she, and Whitbread didn’t please me,
I would send for Castlereagh, and every one of them, till I found one
that did. To tell you the truth, I am sorry the Princess ever threw
herself into the hands of Whitbread--it is not the staff on which the
royalties should lean.’--‘Ah!’ replied the baronet’s neighbour, ‘but at
the moment he stepped forth her champion and deliverer, who was there
that would have done as much?’

The sequel is too characteristic and singular to be passed over. The
Princess was sometimes more vigorous than refined in her expressions,
and this less from coarseness than ignorance of the value and sound of
English terms. Thus, when a letter arrived from Mr. Whitbread, during
this very dinner, intimating to her that there was a box reserved for
her if she strongly desired to be present at the theatre when the
foreign potentates were to appear there, but at the same time strongly
urging her to refrain from being present, she exclaimed, after
despatching a lady to request Mr. Whitbread to come to her immediately,
‘If he gives me good reasons I will submit; but if he does not, _d--
n me, den I go_!’ ‘Those were her words, at which I could not help
smiling,’ says the authoress of the ‘Diary,’ ‘but she was in no mind to
smile, so I concealed the impulse I felt to laugh.’

When Mr. Whitbread waited on the Princess she received him rather
coolly, and listened silently to his enumeration of the persons whose
opinion it was that she should not appear at Drury Lane. He said that
Mr. Tierney, Mr. Brougham, and Lord Sefton were of opinion that,
however much the Princess might be applauded, the public would say it
was at the instigation of Mr. Whitbread, and was not the spontaneous
feeling of the people; that the more she was applauded, the more they
would say so, and that if, on the contrary, a strong party of the
Prince Regent’s friends and paid hirelings were there, and that one
voice of disapprobation were heard, it might do her considerable harm.
‘Besides,’ continued Mr. Whitbread, ‘as the great question about an
establishment for your Royal Highness comes on to-morrow, I think it
is of the utmost importance that no one should be able to cast any
invidious observation about your forcing yourself on the public, or
seeming to defy your Royal Highness’s husband.’ In fine, the Princess
was overruled.

In the midst of her disappointments she was enlivened by renewed hopes
of a visit from the Emperor of Russia, whose expressed intention to
that effect was said to have given considerable uneasiness to the
Regent. Meanwhile, the Princess found solace in various ways--and not
always in the most commendable, if we are to put implicit truth in the
following account of a freak, which seems more like a ‘freedom’ of
the ladies at the Court of Charles II. than a frolic of more modern
and less lively times. Such a story is best told in the words of a
witness--Lady Charlotte Campbell.

‘To amuse herself is as necessary to her Royal Highness as meat and
drink, and she made Mr. Craven and Sir W. Gell and myself promise to
go with her to the masquerade. She is to go out at her back door, on
the Uxbridge (Bayswater) road, of which “no person _under Heaven_”
(her curious phraseology) has a key but her royal self, and we are to
be in readiness to escort her Royal Highness in a hackney-coach to the
Albany, where we are to dress. What a mad scheme at such a moment,
and without any strong motive either to run the risk! I looked grave
when she proposed this amusement; but I knew I had only to obey. I
thought of it all night with fear and trembling.’ In the supplementary
matter to the ‘Diary’ we have the following detail as the ‘curious
story respecting this masquerade’:--‘The Princess,’ says the editor,
apparently, ‘it was related to me by undoubted authority, would go to
the masquerade, and, with a kind of girlish folly, she enjoyed the
idea of making a grand mystery about it, which was quite unnecessary.
The Duchess of York frequently went to similar amusements _incognita_,
attended only by a friend or two, and nobody found fault with her Royal
Highness. The Princess might have done the same; but no!--the fun, in
her estimation, consisted in doing the thing in the most ridiculous
way possible. So she made two of the ladies privy to her schemes; and
the programme of the revel was that her Royal Highness should go down
her back staircase with one of her ladies, while the cavaliers waited
at a private door which led into the street, and then the _partie
quarée_ was to proceed on foot to the Albany, where more ladies met
her Royal Highness, and where the change of dress was to be made. All
of this actually took place; and Lady ---- told me she never was so
frightened in her life as when she found herself at the bottom of
Oxford Street, at twelve at night, on her cavalier’s arm, and seeing
her Royal Highness rolling on before her. It was a sensation, she told
me, betwixt laughing and crying, that she should never forget. The
idea that the Princess might be recognised, and of course mobbed, and
then the subsequent consequences, which would have been so fatal to
her Royal Highness, were all so distressing that the party of pleasure
was one of real pain to her. This mad prank, Lady ---- told me, passed
off without discovery, and certainly without any impropriety whatever,
except that which existed in the folly of the thing itself. It was
similar imprudences to this which were so fatal to the Princess’s
reputation.’ And no wonder, if indeed these stories, as alleged, are
true in their details, or are founded on truth.

It was a time when the mob was accustomed to speak pretty plainly.
What a contrast is this pedestrian ramble by night, to dress for Mrs.
Chichester’s masquerade, to the state procession of the Regent into
the city, where he twice dined--once at an entertainment given by
the merchants, and once at a banquet given by the lord mayor and
corporation! On the latter occasion especially his passage from
Temple Bar nearly to the dinner-table itself was assailed by most
uncomplimentary vociferations on the part of the populace. Their
most general cry was, ‘Where’s your wife?’--and that portion of the
mob which apparently consisted of women was loudest in its unsavoury
exclamations against the Vicegerent of the kingdom. He dined with what
appetite he might, and he made the Lord Mayor (Domville), according
to ancient custom when kings sat at the board of a first magistrate,
a baronet; but he registered a vow, which he never broke, that never
again would he condescend to be a guest among citizens to whose table
he could not pass without running the gauntlet through the scourge of
vile tongues that attacked him on his way. His mother, Queen Charlotte,
did subsequently honour a lord mayor with her presence; but at her,
too, the loud popular tongue wagged so insolently that the royal lady,
although she courageously concealed her alarm, became indisposed on
her return home, where she was first seized with those cruel spasmodic
attacks which ultimately overcame her strength and surrendered her to
death.

But the way in which the populace resented on the head of the Prince
his conduct to his wife was but small consolation to the latter for the
disappointment and insults which she experienced at the hands of her
persecutors. She may be said to have been literally ejected from court.
She was not allowed to present her own daughter, although that daughter
had declared she would be presented by her mother or by nobody. It was
not enough either that the foreign sovereigns and great captains for or
with whom her father had fought and shed his blood--it was not enough
that these should be induced to turn away from the house where dwelt a
lady who, through her father, at all events, had some claims upon such
small courtesy--but the determination that she should not meet them
at court was more insulting still. The Queen thought she had skilfully
provided against every possible emergency, when the _two_ drawing-rooms
were announced as about to be held in 1814. It was doubtless intended,
at first, not to exclude the Princess from both, but simply to prevent
her from being present at the one to be graced by the Regent and his
imperial and royal guests. But the Regent himself was determined that
his consort should not be permitted to appear at either. He addressed
a letter to his mother, in which he modestly intimated that her court
would be no court without him; that he should attend both drawing-rooms
to lend them greater lustre (almost as much was expressed in words);
and that, as he had resolved never to encounter his wife, it was of
course necessary that she should stay away. The Queen accepted the
conclusion as logically arrived at; and to the dignified letters
addressed to her by the Princess--letters which would have been as
touching as they were dignified had they been of her own inditing, and
not the vicarious sentiments of her friends--the Queen addressed now
taunting, now contemptuous replies. The spirit of them was, in a bitter
insinuation, that though the commission which had examined into her
conduct had pronounced her free from guilt, her husband would account
of her as still guilty, and the court would hold her as one convicted.
In this correspondence ‘Caroline P.’ shines with more lustre than
‘Charlotte R.’ The latter appears so to have hated the former as to be
glad of the opportunity to insinuate that she was infamous.

But ‘Caroline’ turned from exchanging sharp notes with ‘Charlotte’
to addressing her husband. He might, she said, possibly refuse to
read the letter, but the world must know that she had written it. In
this communication she states she would have exercised her right of
appearing at the drawing-room had she not been ‘restrained by motives
of personal consideration towards her Majesty.’ She protests against
the insult, appeals to her acquittal, to her restoration thereupon by
the King to the full enjoyment of her rank in his court, and she adds:
‘Since his Majesty’s lamented illness, I have demanded, in the face
of parliament and the country, to be proved guilty, or to be treated
as innocent. I will not submit to be treated as guilty.’ There is
something, too, of the taunting style which the Queen could manage with
so much effect in the succeeding passage. The Prince had vowed that
never again would he meet her, either in public or in private. ‘Can
your Royal Highness,’ she asks, ‘have contemplated the full extent
of your declaration?... Occasions may arrive (one, I trust, is far
distant) when I must appear in public, and your Royal Highness must
be present also.... Has your Royal Highness forgotten the approaching
marriage of our daughter, and the possibility of our coronation.’...
The illustrious heir of the House of Orange had announced himself to
her, she said, as her future son-in-law; and then she adds, coupling
the presence of the Orange Prince with that of the illustrious
strangers in the metropolis: ‘_This_ season your Royal Highness has
chosen for treating me with fresh and unprovoked indignity; and of all
his Majesty’s subjects I alone am prevented, by your Royal Highness,
from appearing in my place to partake of the general joy, and am
deprived of the indulgence in those feelings of pride and affection
permitted to every mother but me.’ It was possible, as the writer
remarked, that this letter was never read to the exalted individual
to whom it was addressed. It is certain that the letter was not
thought worthy of notice. But the presumed writer was determined that,
escaping the courteous notice of her husband, it should not escape the
more general notice of the world. She accordingly sent copies of her
correspondence with the Queen and one of the correspondence of the
latter with the Prince to the House of Commons, with an expression
of her fears that there were ‘ultimate objects in view pregnant with
danger to the security of the succession and the domestic peace of the
realm.’

This communication raised a discussion, and Mr. Methuen proposed an
address to the Prince, requesting him to acquaint the house by whose
advice he had determined never to meet the Princess. The proposition,
however, was withdrawn. Mr. Bathurst, the only government advocate,
stated that no imputation was intended against the character of the
Princess. ‘The charges of guilt,’ he admitted, ‘had been irresistibly
refuted at a former period.’ The so-called exclusion from court, he
said, simply resolved itself into the non-invitation of the Princess to
a court festival--nothing more. But, as Mr. Whitbread subsequently
remarked, ‘such non-invitation was an infliction worse than loss of
life: it is loss of reputation, blasting to her character, fatal to
her fame.’ The government thought to pacify the Princess by holding
out to her the prospect of an increase of income; but her friends in
parliament asserted that she would scorn to barter her rights for an
increased income, or to allow her silence to be purchased in exchange
for an adequate provision.

CHAPTER VI.

A DOUBLE FLIGHT.

The Prince of Orange proposes to the Princess Charlotte--His
suit declined--Dr. Parr--A new household appointed for the
Princess Charlotte--Her astonishment and immediate flight--
Alarm and pursuit--Princess Charlotte removed to Cranbourne
Lodge--The Princess of Wales determines to leave England--Her
departure from Worthing--The Regent’s continued hatred of her.

Among the refugees of exalted rank whom revolution and the fortunes of
war had driven to seek an asylum in England, the members of the family
of the Stadtholder of Holland were the most conspicuous. The eldest
son of this noble family became almost an Englishman by education and
habit, and Oxford yet reckons him with pride among the honoured of her
_alumni_.

As revolution and the fortunes of war had brought the family hither,
so a happy turn in the same took them home, and restored them to a
country which had now become for them a kingdom. At the peace of 1814
the Prince of Orange once more came to England, not as a refugee,
but a visitor and suitor. The heir to a Dutch throne came to sue for
the hand of the heiress to the Crown of Great Britain, and his suit
was powerfully backed by the sanction of the heiress’s father. Her
mother gave no such sanction, nor was she, indeed, asked for any. Most
important of all, the young lady thus wooed did not at all sanction
the proceeding. Of all the episodes of the season there was none more
stirring than this.

It was said that the Regent himself had procured the previous admission
of the suitor into Warwick House, under the feigned name of the
Chevalier de St. George, but that the Princess would not receive him.
In this refusal she was supposed to be supported by her mother, and to
act under the advice of the Duchess of Oldenburgh, who already had in
view a humbler and, as it turned out, a luckier aspirant for the hand
of the heiress. Meanwhile, all England agreed to approve of the match,
and chose to look upon the union as a thing settled. The ballad-singers
made the streets re-echo with singing ‘Orange Boven,’ and Irish wits
accused her Royal Highness of holding an Orange Lodge.

The Regent had hated and thwarted the Princess from her birth. Her
death would have been no grief to him, if he could have divorced her
mother. The next best thing was to be rid of the daughter. Accordingly
her father had this match at heart, and longed to see it concluded.
The Princess allowed herself to be handed to her carriage by the
princely wooer from the dykes, and granted him more than one interview.
It soon became evident that they were not agreed. The Princess
pleaded her youth, her love of her country, and her desire to be more
intimately acquainted with the latter and with its laws, history, and
constitution, before she should surrender herself to the cares and
duties of the married state. The Prince of Orange insisted, as far as
lover dared, that his wife must necessarily reside with him in Holland.
The prospect made the Princess shudder; but it remarkably suited the
wishes of her sire, whose most ardent desire was to place as wide a
distance as possible between the daughter and her mother. The Prince
of Orange had made no secret of his desire that, in the event of his
marriage with the Princess, her mother should take up no permanent
residence in Holland. This desire--not over mildly expressed--
had, perhaps, the most to do with rendering the union impossible. The
Princess, indeed, was not inclined towards the Prince, and would not
willingly have left the country of her birth; but to her warm friends,
at least, she declared that, in the present critical situation of
the Princess of Wales, she would not abandon her mother. The latter
was touched; but it was just the moment when she was most strongly
possessed by a desire to go abroad, and she thought that this desire
might be more speedily realised if her daughter were married than if
she remained single. She was on the whole rather disappointed than
otherwise--except that the breaking off of the match was an annoyance
to the Regent, and _that_ was some consolation, at all events. How the
match was broken off is thus told in the ‘Brief Memoirs of the Princess
Charlotte’:--

‘The Princess Charlotte resented as a great mark of neglect that she
was not invited to any of the entertainments given to the Allied
Sovereigns, and was the more sore because the Prince of Orange went
everywhere and would make no effort to vindicate her claims. The Regent
had lost none of his anxiety to keep her out of sight, and the Prince
did not choose to provoke the displeasure of the father by fighting
the battles of the daughter. The same divergence in their views broke
out when she spoke of her mother, and said that on her account it
would be inexpedient that she should leave England for some time after
her marriage, that when she had a house of her own it must be open
equally to both her parents, and that as the child of both she must
ignore all differences between them. The Prince of Orange feared the
Regent and cared nothing for the Princess of Wales, who had always
been hostile to the marriage, and the reasons urged by the Princess
Charlotte for stopping in England were arguments to him for getting
away from disagreeable complications. He combated her resolution,
and said that he had been willing to stand by her in getting the
article which secured her freedom inserted in the marriage treaty, but
did not suppose that she would refuse altogether to go abroad with
him, and that if this was her intention their respective duties were
irreconcilable and their marriage impossible. A discussion ensued, and
common every-day squabbles occurred to exasperate the dispute. The
Princess Charlotte wanted the Prince of Orange to ride with her in the
riding-house. He started objections, and she reproached him, till,
annoyed at her vehemence and pertinacity, he left her to recover her
temper. The climax had come, and in the evening she wrote peremptorily
to say that their engagement must cease. Her first note was dashed off
in a fit of temper, and a friend who was with her, and whom she asked
to light the candle for her to seal it, said, ‘I will not hold the
candle to any such thing.’ The Princess consented to pause before she
despatched her note, and the result of her reflection was the following
decisive dismissal:--

‘_Princess Charlotte to the Prince of Orange._

‘June 16, 1814: Warwick House.

‘After reconsidering, according to your wishes, the conversation
that passed between us this morning, I am still of opinion the
duties and affection that naturally bind us to our respective
countries render our marriage incompatible, not only from motives
of policy but domestic happiness. From recent circumstances that
have occurred, I am fully convinced that my interest is materially
connected with that of my mother, and that my residence out of this
kingdom would be equally prejudicial to her interest as to my own.
As I can never forget the maternal claims she has upon my duty and
attachment, I am equally aware of the claims your country has
on you. It was this consideration, added to the design I had of
complying with your wishes, that induced me some time ago to agree
to accompany you to Holland, if I obtained satisfactory securities
of having it in my power to return. Since that time the many
unforeseen events that have occurred, particularly those regarding
the Princess, make me feel it impossible to quit England at
present, or to enter into any engagements leading to it at a future
time. After what has passed upon this subject this morning between
us (which was much too conclusive to require further explanation),
I must consider our engagement from this moment to be _totally and
for ever at an end_. I leave the explanation of this affair to be
made by you to the Prince in whatever manner is most agreeable to
you, trusting it entirely to your honour, of which I have never for
a moment doubted. I cannot conclude without expressing the sincere
concern I feel in being the cause of giving you pain, which feeling
is, however, lessened in a degree by the hope I stand acquitted in
your eyes of having acted dishonourably by you in the case of this
business, or of having ever raised false hopes in your mind with
respect to my consenting to a residence abroad. You must recollect
in a letter from me, in answer to yours of May 3, that I told you
it was impossible for me to give any promise on that subject, as
it must totally depend upon circumstances. It only remains for me
to entreat you to accept my sincerest and best wishes for your
happiness, and to express the kindness and interest I shall always
feel towards you.

‘CHARLOTTE.’

Meanwhile, the dinners at Connaught House and the little parties
at Blackheath continued as usual. If a great deal of frivolity
were present at them, it cannot be said that grave wisdom was
always lacking; for by the side of a public singer would sometimes
be seated no less a person than Dr. Parr. Of personal intercourse
between the mother and daughter there was now scarcely any, but their
correspondence was still kept up; and it was not the less sincere
on the poor mother’s side from the circumstance of her occasionally
forgetting orthography in the ardour of her affection.

The Regent, soured by his defeat with respect to the union of his
daughter and the Prince of Orange, was more than commonly irritated
by the knowledge that his wife and child were engaged in a frequent
epistolary correspondence, and that he had, hitherto, been unable to
prevent it. He was satisfied that such correspondence could not be
maintained without the connivance of the ladies of his daughter’s
household, and he determined to meet the evil by dissolving the
establishment.

Before this resolution had been arrived at the Princess Charlotte was
subjected to much petty persecution, rendered the more annoying by
being continual, and which made up in enduring length what it wanted
in intensity. It was said at the time that even the letters in her
writing-desk found their way into her father’s hands; and there was so
much done at this time that was degrading to the doers that the report
is recommended at least by its probability. At all events, ‘wearied
out by a series of acts all proceeding from the spirit of petty
tyranny, and each more vexatious than another, though none of them very
important in itself,’ the Princess was driven to a very extreme measure
by the uncalled-for and undignified severity of her irritated sire.
Lord Stourton (referring indeed to an earlier time) states, in his
‘Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert’:--‘On one occasion Mrs. Fitzherbert told
me she was much affected by the Princess Charlotte throwing her arms
round her neck and beseeching her to speak to her father that he would
receive her with greater marks of his affection; and she told me that
she could not help weeping with this interesting child.’

On the 16th of July, 1814, the Prince Regent, who had previously
secured Cranbourne Lodge, in Windsor Forest, as a residence for his
daughter, and had even, equally unknown to her, but in concert with
Queen Charlotte, nominated the new ladies of the Princess’s household,
repaired to Warwick House, accompanied by the ladies so named. The
party had only to traverse the gardens of Carlton House to arrive at
their destination. The ladies were the Duchess-dowager of Rosslyn and
the Countess of Ilchester, the two Misses Coates, and Miss Campbell,
formerly sub-governess to the Princess. They were placed in an
apartment adjacent to that into which the Regent entered, as soon as he
knew that it was occupied by the Princess.

Without ceremony he announced to the astonished Princess that her
establishment in that house was from that moment dismissed; that she
must instantly repair to the seclusion of Cranbourne Lodge; and that
the newly-appointed ladies of her household were in the next apartment,
ready to wait upon and accompany her.

The Princess was astonished, but she was wonderfully self-possessed,
and her presence of mind, helped by her love for a little romantic
adventure, admirably served her on this occasion. She requested a
few minutes’ respite, that she might retire, take leave of her now
dismissed ladies, and superintend some preparations for departure.
The Prince acquiesced, and leaving the new ladies in charge of the
Princess, returned to Carlton House to dress for a dinner _en ville_.

He was hardly gone when the Princess was gone too. Silently and swiftly
descending the stairs, she issued from the doors, and in half a minute
stood alone upon the pavement of Cockspur Street. Lord Brougham says:
‘It was a fine evening in July, about the hour of seven, when’--he
adds with a sort of contempt for people of the lower order, and indeed
with much inaccuracy to boot--‘when the streets were deserted by
_all persons of condition_.’ From the old stand at the bottom of the
Haymarket she called a coach, whose lucky driver (Higgins) obeyed the
summons, and having handed the heiress of England into the damp straw
of his dirty and rickety vehicle, listened to the order to drive to the
Princess of Wales’s in Connaught Place--to be quick, and he should
not have to regret it. The guileless Higgins concluded that he was
taking a lady’s lady out to tea, and that the maid of one establishment
was going to make an evening of it with the maids of another.
Unconscious that he was contributing in his own person to the history
of England on that eventful summer’s evening, Higgins in due course of
time reached Connaught Place, and when he heard, to the inquiry of his
‘fare’ whether her mother was at home, that the page answered, ‘No,
your Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales is at Blackheath,’ he became
proudly sagacious of _largesse_ to come, and was convinced that he had
been a right royal coachman that night, by token that he received three
guineas for his honorarium.

A messenger was despatched to Blackheath with a request to the Princess
to return immediately to her. She was met by the bearer of the
message on her way, and with ready good sense drove to either house
of parliament, in search first of Mr. Whitbread, then of Lord Grey,
but without success in either case. Meanwhile, another messenger had
been despatched for Mr. Brougham, the law-adviser of the Princess of
Wales, and a third for Miss Mercer Elphinstone, the young bosom friend
of the Princess Charlotte. Mr. Brougham arrived first, and soon after
Miss Elphinstone had reached the house the Princess of Wales also
arrived, accompanied by Lady Charlotte Lindsey. ‘It was found,’ said
Mr. Brougham, ‘that the Princess Charlotte’s fixed resolution was
to leave her father’s house and that which he had appointed for her
residence, and thenceforward to live with her mother.’ But Mr. Brougham
is understood to have placed himself under the painful necessity of
explaining to her that by the law, as all the twelve judges but one
had laid it down in George I.’s reign, and as it was now admitted to
be settled, the King or the Regent had the absolute power to dispose
of all the royal family while under age. Another account states that
the Princess met this announcement by the declaration, made amid many
tears and much sobbing, that she would rather toil for her daily bread
at five shillings a week than continue to endure the persecution to
which she had of late been subjected. The Princess of Wales was very
much affected by this demonstration of her daughter’s affection and
confidence, but she united with Mr. Brougham in urging her to submit
to her father’s will. The Princess Charlotte continued to show fixed
reluctance to adopt such a course, and was expressing her determination
not to follow it when the Archbishop of Canterbury arrived; but the
page refused to give him admission, and he remained at the door seated
in a hackney coach. The first great official from the Regent’s side who
was admitted into the house was Lord Eldon. He had been despatched from
the Duke of York’s, where the Regent was dining, when the intelligence
of his daughter’s flight had been conveyed to him by the ladies to
whose care he had committed her. ‘The Lord Chancellor Eldon,’ says
Lord Brougham, ‘first arrived, but not in any particular imposing
state, regard being had to his eminent station, for indeed he came
in a hackney coach. Whether it was that the example of the Princess
Charlotte herself had for the day brought this simple and economical
mode of conveyance into fashion, or that concealment was much studied,
or that despatch was deemed more essential than ceremony and pomp,
certain it is, that all who came, including the Duke of York, arrived
in similar vehicles, and that some remained enclosed in them, without
entering the royal mansion.’ Lord Eldon appears to have treated the
Princess with some roughness, adding threats to the entreaties of
others, and menacing her with being closely shut up if she did not
obey. In his own account of this evening and its incidents he says that
the Princess, in answer to his observations, only ‘kicked and bounced,’
and protested that she positively would not go back. The chancellor
declared as positively that he would not leave the house without her.
‘At length,’ Lord Brougham concludes his narrative, ‘after much pains
and many entreaties used by the Duke of Sussex and the Princess of
Wales herself, as well as Miss Mercer Elphinstone and Lady Charlotte
Lindsey (whom she always honoured with a just regard), to enforce the
advice given by Mr. Brougham, that she should return without delay
to her own residence and submit to the Regent, the young Princess,
accompanied by the Duke of York and her governess, who had now been
sent for and arrived in a royal carriage, returned to Warwick House
between four and five o’clock in the morning.’

Soon after this occurrence the Princess was removed to Cranbourne
Lodge, where she bore the secluded life she was constrained to lead
with more of a calm than a cheerful resignation. She was not, however,
there forgotten by her friends. The Duke of Sussex rose in his place in
parliament to inquire if his royal niece was or was not in a sort of
‘durance,’ and whether she were permitted to see her friends. Ministers
replied to these queries in that official way which answers without
enlightening, and further measures were spoken of; but the Duke of
Sussex was seized with an attack of asthma, which popular report
attributed to a sharp communication made to him by the Regent, and
therewith no further mention was made of the royal recluse in Windsor
Forest.

But there was another recluse anxious to emancipate herself and fly
from the restrictions and conventionalities of English living to
the greater liberty allowed on the Continent. There were very few
persons who thought the Princess of Wales well advised in this desire
except Mr. Canning. Into his hands the wife of the Regent committed a
letter, which Lord Liverpool was requested to submit to the Prince. It
contained a brief description of her unmerited condition, expressed a
wish of being allowed to withdraw to the Continent, chiefly for the
purpose of visiting her brother, and finally made offer of resigning
the Rangership of Greenwich Park in favour of her daughter, and also to
make over to her the residence (Montague House) which her mother had
occupied at Blackheath. The principal reason assigned for her wishing
to withdraw was that she had nothing now to bind her to England but her
daughter, and from _her_ society she was now entirely and most unjustly
excluded.

Through Lord Liverpool the Regent returned for answer that she was
entirely free to go or stay; that no restraint whatever would be put
upon her in that respect; that, as regarded the Rangership, on her
resignation of that office, the Regent would see to its being filled
up by a properly qualified person; with respect to Montague House, the
daughter of the Prince Regent could never be permitted by him to reside
in a house which had ever been the dwelling-place of the Princess of
Wales.

This reply--the Princess’s comment on which was ‘end well, all
well’--reached her at Worthing, whither, after a brief interview
with her daughter, she had already repaired. She remained in the
neighbourhood but a few days after she received the desired missive,
and the ‘Jason’ frigate, commanded by Captain King, lay in the offing,
waiting her pleasure and convenience to embark. She lingered during
those few days as if reluctant, after all, to leave the land where she
had not known an hour’s happiness since she had first set her foot
upon its shore. She would linger on the beach at night, regardless of
the admonitions of her attendants, sitting dreamily and despondingly,
gazing over the waters or at the moon by which they were illumined, and
once breaking from her reverie with the ejaculation: ‘Well, grief is
unavailing when fate impels me.’

On the 9th of August, she for the last time appeared on Worthing
beach, with Lady Charlotte Lindsey and Lady Elizabeth Forbes. It was
her intention to embark from thence, but fearful of the crowd that
was then collecting, she quietly withdrew to South Lancing, about two
miles off, whither the captain’s barge proceeded to meet her. She was
followed, however, by nearly all the persons, in carriages, mounted
or on foot, whose curiosity, it may be added, was especially aroused
by the appearance of a large tin-case among the luggage, on which was
painted in white letters, ‘Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales,
to be always with her.’ It seemed as if she for ever wished to have
some mystery attached to her, or that she desired the mystification of
others. Her domestics had gone on board at Worthing. On South Lancing
beach she appeared dressed in ‘a dark cloth pelisse with large gold
clasps, and a cap of velvet and green satin, of the Prussian hussar
costume, with a green feather.’ She was, with her ladies, driven down
to the beach, in a pony chaise, by her own coachman.

On taking her seat in the barge she turned round and kissed her hand
to the assembled people, by way of farewell. To the mute greeting the
people returned as mute reply. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs,
the men uncovered. She probably construed this silent _adieu_ as
intended to denote respect and regret, and she was so overcome that she
fainted on her way to the ship. On the deck she was received by Captain
King, to whom one of the Regent’s brothers had previously remarked:
‘You are going to convey the Princess of Wales to the Continent. You
are a great fool if you don’t make love to her.’

Greatly as her spirits were depressed at starting, their natural
elasticity soon brought her round again to her ordinary condition of
cheerfulness. On the 12th of August, the Regent’s birthday, as the ship
was passing the Texel, a royal salute was fired, by her order, it is
said, in honour of the day. The salute would, probably, have been fired
without any such command. What were, without doubt, her own spontaneous
acts were the birthday banquet at which she presided; the health of
her husband, which she gave with a spirit that might have been taken
for sincerity; and the ball at which she danced as joyously as though
she had been a youthful bride being borne to the bridegroom she loved,
and not a mature and child-deprived matron cast out by her husband,
between whom and herself there reigned as bitter a hatred as ever raged
in the bosom of any pair of mortal beings. The hatred on his part is
illustrated by an anecdote which was in circulation at this unhappy
period. According to this story, ‘On the evening previous to the
Princess of Wales’s departure from England, the Regent had a party and
made merry on the joyful occasion. It is even said that he proposed a
toast: “To the Princess of Wales’s d----n, and may she never return to
England!” It seems scarcely possible that any one should have allowed
his tongue to utter such a horrible imprecation; but it may be believed
the Regent did, so great was his aversion to his wife. Besides, he was
not, probably, very well aware what he was saying at that moment.’

CHAPTER VII.

THE ERRANT ARIADNE.

The Princess arrives at Hamburgh--Assumes the title of Countess
of Wolfenbüttel--Travels in Switzerland--Meeting of the
Princess with the ex-Empress Maria Louisa, and the divorced
wife of the Grand Duke Constantine--The Princess at Milan--
Her English attendants fall off--Her reception by the Pope--
At a masked ball at Naples--Her imprudence--Her festivals
at Como--The Princess at Palermo--Bergami her chamberlain
--The Princess at Genoa--Corresponds with Murat--Personal
vanity of Queen Charlotte--The Pope visits the Princess--
Surrounded by Italians--Her roving life--Proceeds to Syracuse
--At Jericho--Lands at Tunis and visits the Bey--Liberates
European slaves--The Princess at Athens--At Troy--At
Constantinople--At Ephesus--At Acre--Stopped at Jaffa--
Enters Jerusalem--Her reception by the Capuchin Friars--
Institutes a new order of chivalry--Life on board the polacca
--The Princess and Countess Oldi at Como--Private theatricals
a favourite pastime--Agents and spies--Innocent incidents
converted into crimes--Bergami divested of his knighthood--
The Princess at Carlsruhe--Contemptuously neglected at Vienna
--The chamberlain her only attendant--The Princess in public
--Deeply affected by the death of Princess Charlotte--As
uncircumspect as ever.

The early period of the travels of the Princess on the Continent calls
for nothing more than simple record. She left the ‘Jason’ under all
the customary honours; and when she entered Hamburgh on the 16th she
dropped her English to assume a German title, that of the Countess of
Wolfenbüttel. Her suite consisted of the two ladies we have already
named, with Mr. St. Leger and Sir William Gell. Mr. Keppel Craven
subsequently joined her at Brunswick. Dr. Holland accompanied her as
physician, and Captain Hesse as equerry. Thus attended she appeared
at the theatre at Hamburgh, where she was received with a storm of
applause, and entered Brunswick, where she was welcomed by her brother
the Duke, and with a loud-tongued cordiality by the inhabitants.

The reception touched her, but not deeply enough to induce her to
profit by it. Within a fortnight she brushed the tears from her eyes,
left Brunswick behind her, and was on the high-road of Europe, as
self-willed and as obstinate a Princess as ever destroyed a reputation
and rushed blindfold upon ruin.

She now travelled under the appellation of Countess of Cornwall, and
had one English gentleman less in her train, Mr. St Leger having
withdrawn from the honour of waiting on her at Brunswick. The time had
not yet arrived when the _mot d’ordre_ had been given to treat her
with disrespect. The governors of German cities were courteous to her
as she passed, and the Marshal Duke de Valmy, with all the authorities
of Strasburg, offered her the expression of their homage when she
traversed that portion of France. After spending the greater portion
of September in a tour through Switzerland, she finally sojourned for
a while at Geneva, where she met with the ex-Empress of France, Maria
Louisa, and became for a time on intimate terms with an imperial lady
who, like herself, was separated from her husband. Like her, she was
stripped of her old dignity, and, like her, she was accompanied by a
young boy. But those boys were not more different in their rank than
the two women were in their position, similar as this was in many
respects. The boys were Napoleon Francis, ex-King of Rome, and William
Austin, son of the Blackheath labourer.

The two women, illustrious by rank rather than character, lived much
in each other’s society. They dined together, sang together, together
listened to the discussions of the philosophers whom they assembled
around them, and when together they attended a fancy dress ball one at
least astonished the other--the Princess surprising the ex-Empress by
appearing in what was called the costume of Venus, and waltzing with a
lack of grace that might have won laughter from the goddess of whom the
waltzer was the over-fat representative.

Maria Louisa was not the only unhusbanded wife whom the wandering
Princess encountered in Switzerland. The divorced wife of the Grand
Duke Constantine was of this illustrious society. This lady was the
Juliana of Saxe-Coburg who, on marrying the Russian Prince, took
for her new appellation the name of Anna Feodorowna, and who was so
rejoiced to lay that name down again after she had escaped from the
brutalities of her husband. The Countess of Cornwall looked upon her
with more than ordinary interest, for she was the sister of that
Prince Leopold who ultimately married the Princess Charlotte, and
whose aspiring hopes were known to, and sanctioned by, the wandering
‘Countess’ herself. The presence in one spot of three princesses, all
separated from their then living husbands, had something as singular in
it as the meeting of Voltaire’s unsceptred kings at the _table-d’hôte_
at Venice. The ex-Empress was separated from _her_ husband because she
did not care to share his fallen fortunes; the Grand Duchess was living
alone because the Grand Duke did not care for his wife; and the other
lady and her husband had the ocean between them because they heartily
hated each other--three sufficient reasons to unite the triad of
wanderers within the territories of the Swiss republic.

In October, the Countess of Cornwall, or Princess of Wales, as it will
be more convenient to call her, had passed into the imperial city of
Milan. Her passage had something of a triumphant aspect; she reviewed
the troops drawn up in honour of her visit, smiled at the shouts of
welcome, mingled with cries for the liberty of Italy, which greeted
her, and endured the noisy homage uttered by a dozen _bouches à feu_.
She had now but one English lady in her suite, Lady Charlotte Lindsey
having resigned her office when in Germany.

It was at Milan that her suite first began to assume a foreign aspect.
The Princess was about to enter on a wide course of travel, and it
was said that she needed the services of those who had had experience
in that way. The first and most celebrated official engaged to help
her with his service was a Bartholomew Bergami, a handsome man, of an
impoverished family, who had served in the army as private courier to
General Count Pino (bearer of his despatches, it is to be presumed),
had received the decoration of some ‘order,’ and--whether by right
of an acre or two of land belonging to his family, or because of his
merits--bore the high-sounding name, but not very exalted dignity, of
‘Il Signor Barone.’ He had three sisters, all of whom were respectably
married; the eldest and best known was a Countess Oldi, a true Italian
lady, who loved and hated with equal intensity.

At Milan, as at Geneva, the Princess, undoubtedly, failed to leave
a favourable impression of her character. At the latter place the
sight of herself and the great Sismondi, both stout, and the former
attired as the Queen of Love, waltzing together, was a spectacle quite
sufficient to make the beholders what, it is said, the Princess herself
would have called, ‘all over shock.’ Then she insisted on undue homage
from her attendants, and made such confusion in the geographical
programme of her travels ‘that it was enough,’ as she herself used to
say on other occasions, ‘to die for laugh.’

On the progress of the Princess through Italy her English attendants
fell off, one by one, till she was finally left without a single member
of her suite with whom she had originally set out. They probably
ventured to give her some good advice, for she complained of their
tyranny. They certainly counselled her to return and live quietly in
England; but this counsel was always under consideration, yet never
followed by the result desired. She was rendered peevish, too, by
receiving no letters from her daughter, of whom she had taken but brief
and hurried leave previous to her departure from England.

Meanwhile, she traversed Italy from Milan to Naples, and was everywhere
received with great distinction. In the little states the minor
potentates did their poor but hearty best to exhibit their sympathy.
The crownless sovereigns, like those of Spain and Etruria, condoled
with her. At Rome the very head of the faithful stooped to imprint a
kiss or whisper a word of welcome to the wandering lady. After a week
of lionising at Rome she proceeded to Naples, where Murat received her
with the splendour and ostentation which marked all his acts. He had
a guest who was quite as demonstrative as her host. Court and visitor
seemed to vie with each other in extravagance of display. _Fêtes_ and
festivals succeeded each other with confusing rapidity, and never had
Parthenope seen a lady so given to gaiety, or so closely surrounded
by spies, so narrowly watched, and so abundantly reported, as this
indiscreet Princess. It was at Naples that she appeared at a masked
ball attired as the Genius of History, and accompanied, it is said, by
Bergami. She changed her dress as often as Mr. Ducrow in one of his
‘daring acts;’ and, finally, she enacted a sort of _pose plastique_,
and crowned the bust of Joachim Murat with laurel.

It seemed as if she wished to bury memory of the past and to destroy
the hopes of the future in the dissipation of the present. To say the
least of her conduct, her imprudence and indiscretion were great and
gross enough to have destroyed any reputation; and yet she herself
described her course of life as _sedentary_, when she often retired
to bed ‘dead beat’ with fatigue from sight-seeing by day and vigorous
dancing by night. It was here that she made the longest sojourn, and
enjoyed herself, as she understood enjoyment, the most. The purchase of
the villa on the Lake of Como was also now effected; and Bergami was
soon after raised to the dignity of chamberlain, and to the privilege
of a seat at her own table. She claimed a right to bestow honours,
and to distinguish those on whom she bestowed them; but her want of
judgment in both regards amounted to almost a want of intellect, or a
want of respect for herself, or for the opinions of those whose good
opinion was worth having.

At one of her festivals at Como she indulged in some freedoms with
a guest whom she strongly suspected of being a spy upon her. Her
conversation was of a light and thoughtless nature, well calculated
to give him abundance of matter to be conveyed to the ears of his
employers. A friend present suggested to her that caution, on her part,
was not unnecessary, as within a fortnight everything she said or did
was known at Carlton House. ‘I know it,’ was her reply, ‘and therefore
do I speak and act as you hear and see. The wasp leaves his sting in
the wound, and so do I. The Regent will hear it? I hope he will; I love
to mortify him.’ And to satisfy this peevish love she courted infamy;
for even if she did not practise it, her self-imposed conduct made it
appear as if she and infamy were exceedingly familiar.

Still errant, she wandered from Como to Palermo, visiting the court
there, and receiving a welcome which could not have been more hearty
had she been really of as indifferent character as she seemed to be. At
this court she presented Bergami, on his appointment of chamberlain,
and shortly after she proceeded to Genoa, where she intended to sojourn
for a considerable time. She was conveyed thither in the ‘Clorinde’
frigate, the captain of which spoke to those around him in no measured
terms of her conduct and course of life, particularly at Naples.
She was well-lodged at Genoa. The scene, and she who figured on it
so strangely, are thus described by the writer of a letter in the
‘Diary’--‘The Princess of Wales’s palace is composed of red and white
marble. Two large gardens, in the dressed formal style, extend some
way on either side of the wings of the building, and conduct to the
principal entrance by a rising terrace of grass, ill-kept, indeed, but
which in careful hands would be beautiful. The hall and staircase are
of fine dimensions, although there is no beauty in the architecture,
which is plain even to heaviness; but a look of lavish magnificence
dazzles the eyes. The large apartments, decorated with gilding, painted
ceilings, and fine, though somewhat faded, furniture, have a very
royal appearance. The doors and windows open to a beautiful view of
the bay, and the balmy air they admit combines with the scene around
to captivate the senses. I should think this palace, the climate, and
the customs must suit the Princess, if anything can suit her. Poor
woman! she is ill at peace with herself; and when that is the case
what can please?’... Referring more directly to the Princess, the
writer says: ‘The Princess received me in one of the drawing-rooms
opening on the hanging terraces, covered with flowers in full bloom.
Her Royal Highness received Lady Charlotte Campbell (who came in soon
after me) with open arms and evident pleasure, and without any flurry.
She had no rouge on, wore tidy shoes, was grown rather thinner, and
looked altogether uncommonly well. The first person who opened the
door to me was the one whom it was impossible to mistake, hearing
what is reported--six feet high, a magnificent head of black hair,
pale complexion, mustachios which reach from _here to London_. Such
is _the stork_. But, of course, I only appeared to take him for an
under-servant. The Princess immediately took me aside and told me all
that was true, and a great deal that was not.... Her Royal Highness
said that Gell and Craven had behaved very ill to her, and I am tempted
to believe that they did not behave well; but then how did she behave
towards them?... It made me tremble to think what anger would induce
a woman to do, when she abused three of her best friends for their
cavalier manner of treating her.... “Well, when I left Naples, you see,
my dear,” continued the Princess, “those gentlemen refused to go with
me, unless I returned immediately to England. They supposed I should be
so miserable without them that I would do anything they desired me, and
when they found I was too glad to _get rid of ’em_ (as she called it)
they wrote the most humble letters, and thought I would take them back
again, whereas they were very much mistaken. I had _got rid of them_,
and I would remain so.”’

The Princess appears to have corresponded with Murat. The soldier-king
is said to have addressed to her a very flattering note, beginning
‘Madame, ma chere, chere sœur,’ as if she had already been a queen,
and that he were treating with her on a footing of equality. Her reply
is described as clever but flippant, beneath her dignity, and so
wild and strange as to be entitled to be considered one of the most
extraordinary specimens of royal letter-writing that had ever been seen.

There was yet no inconsiderable number of English guests who gathered
round the table of the Princess, and some of the former ladies of
her suite here rejoined her. Among the guests is noticed a ‘Lord
B----,’ who had been a great favourite with the Prince of Wales, and
was equally esteemed by the Princess. He had been a witness of the
marriage of Mrs. Fitzherbert with the Prince, and was now the most
welcome visitor of the Princess. The illustrious pair, it has been
often observed, had ‘a strange sympathy in their loves and habits.’
Alluding to the style of the Princess’s conversation with her guests,
the ‘Diary’ affords us another illustration. ‘Sometimes Monsieur ----
opened his eyes wide at the Princess’s declarations, and her Royal
Highness enjoys making people stare, so she gave free vent to her
tongue, and said a number of odd things, some of which she thinks, and
some she does not; but it amuses her to astonish an innocent-minded
being, and really such did this old man appear to be. He won her heart,
upon the whole, however, by paying a compliment to her fine arm and
asking for her glove. Obtaining it, he placed it next his heart; and,
declaring it should be found in his tomb, he swore he was of the old
school in all things.’ The little vanity of being proud of a fine
arm was one as strong in Queen Charlotte as in her daughter-in-law.
The former had as fine an arm as, and perhaps not a better temper
than, the latter, but she could better control that temper, and had
the additional advantage of being possessed of a more refined taste.
This was not, perhaps, always shown when she sat and listened to
rather loose talk from the Regent, with no more of reproof than her
gently-uttered ‘George, George!’ by way of remonstrance. She, however,
never erred so grossly as the Princess of Wales, who not only would
listen unabashed to conversation coarse in character, but was not at
all nice herself in either story or epithet. In Italy such things
were then accounted of but as being small foibles; and when the Pope
visited her at Genoa he probably thought none the worse of her, nor
bated no jot in his courtesy towards her, because of her reputation in
this respect. She certainly loved to mystify people, and took an almost
insane pleasure in exciting converse against herself. Her adoption of
Victorine, a daughter of Bergami, was a proof that she had acquired no
profitable experience from the consequences which followed her adoption
of young Austin.

During 1815 the Princess was ever restless and on the move. She was
now entirely surrounded by Italians. Mr. St. Leger refused to be of
her household, nor would he allow his daughter to be of it. Many
others were applied to, but with similar success. Sir Humphrey and
Lady Davy also declined the honour offered them. Mr. William Rose,
Mr. Davenport, and Mr. Hartup pleaded other engagements. Dr. Holland,
Mr. North, and Mrs. Falconet were no longer with her. Lord Malpas
begged to be excused, and Lady Charlotte Campbell withdrew, after her
Royal Highness’s second arrival at Milan. The Princess, however, had
no difficulty in forming an Italian Court. Some of her appointments
were unexceptionable. Such were those of Dr. Machetti, her physician,
and of the Chevalier Chiavini, her first equerry. Many of the Italian
nobility now took the place of former English visitors at her ‘court,’
and two of the brothers of Bergami held respectable offices in her
household, while the Countess of Oldi, sister of the chamberlain, was
appointed sole lady of honour to the lady, her mistress. On several of
the excursions made by her Royal Highness from her villa on the Lake of
Como to Milan, Venice, and other parts of Italy, she was accompanied
by Mr. Burrell, a son of Lord Gwydyr. This gentleman ultimately took
his leave of her in August, to return to England. He was sojourning
at Brussels, on his way, when his servant, White, narrated to his
fellows some accounts of what he described as the very loose way of
life of the Princess at Milan. These stories, all infamous, but few,
perhaps, which could not be traced back to some indiscretion of this
most unhappy lady, and marvellously amplified and exaggerated, came
to the ears of the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland, then sojourning
at the same hotel; and it is declared that on the report made by the
former to his brother, the Regent, was founded the famous ‘Milan
Commission,’ which was one of investigation, appointed to sit at Milan,
to inquire into the conduct of the Princess, and to report accordingly.
The commissioners sat and took evidence without making the Princess
aware of the fact; and to an indignant remonstrance addressed to the
Regent, wherein she demanded to know the object of the commission, no
answer was returned. It was soon known, however, that the report was
of a most condemnatory character, but no proceedings were immediately
instituted. Meanwhile, the Princess continued her roving life, now
on sea, now on land; now on board the ‘Leviathan,’ and sometimes on
the backs of horses or mules. Her familiarity on all these occasions
with her chamberlain was offensive to persons of strict ideas and good
principles, and those were precisely the persons whose prejudices she
loved, perhaps out of mere mischief, to startle. He dined with her at
her table, and she leant upon his arm in their walks.

Early in January 1816, she again embarked on board the ‘Clorinde,’
Captain Pechell, with the intention of proceeding to Syracuse. The
captain, having previously seen Bergami occupying a menial state about
her Royal Highness, declined to admit him to his table, at which he
entertained the Princess--who refused such entertainment, however,
on the captain persisting on the ejection of the chamberlain. The
desired port was reached only with difficulty, and for some months
the Princess resided in Sicily, with no one near her but this Italian
household. To her chamberlain she certainly was some such a mistress
as Queen Guinever to Sir Lancelot. In liberality of sunny smiles and
largesses there can be no doubt of this; and perhaps the quality of
her favour is best illustrated by the fact of her having bestowed
her picture upon him, for which she had sat in the character of a
‘Magdalen.’ She professed to have procured for him also his elevation
to be a Knight of Malta, and she did obtain for him the dignity of
Baron de la Francino, to heighten the imaginary grandeur.

The next seven months were spent in continual travelling and change
of scene. The limit of her wandering was Jericho, whither she went
actually, and also in the popular sense of the word, which describes
a person as having gone thither when ruin has overtaken him on his
journey through life.

She embarked, with her Italian followers, on the 26th of March, and
nine days subsequently, after being beaten about by equinoctial
storms till the little ‘Royal Charlotte’ had scarcely a sound plank
about her, she reached Tunis, and struck up a very warm acquaintance
with the Bey. He lodged and partially fed her, introduced her to his
seraglio, perfumed her with incense till she was nearly suffocated,
and then as nearly choked her with laughter by causing to play before
her his famous female band, consisting of six women who knew nothing
of music, every one of whom laboured under some unsightly defect, and
of whom the youngest confessed to an honest threescore years. For
this entertainment she made a really noble return, by purchasing the
freedom of several European slaves. A greater liberator than she,
however, was at hand, in Exmouth and his fleet. It was in obedience to
the advice of the Admiral, who expected to have to demolish Tunis,
as the Bey seemed disinclined to ransom the Christian slaves he held
in durance, that the Princess, after a hasty glance at the sites of
Utica and Carthage, re-embarked, after a month’s sojourn with the most
splendidly hospitable of barbarians, and, passing through the saluting
English fleet, directed the prow of her vessel to be turned towards
Greece. She went on her way accompanied by storms, which prevented her
from landing until, with infinite difficulty, she reached the Piræus,
early in May, and proceeded to Athens, where she took up her residence
in the house of the gallant French consul. Since the days of Aspasia,
Athens had seen no such lively times as marked the period of the
residence there of the Princess. Her balls were brilliant festivities.
In return for them she was permitted to witness the piously ecstatic
dancing of the Dervises (for the city of Minerva was under the
Crescent then), who have plagiarised a maxim of St. Augustine, only
altering it to suit their purpose, as ecstatic persons will do with
sacred texts, and proclaiming _orat qui saltat_. The Princess had
some nerve, and was by no means a fastidious woman, but she saw here
more than she had reckoned upon, and was glad to escape from the
exhibition of uncleanness and ferocity. Athens, however, afforded more
interesting spectacles than this; she exhausted them all, according
to the guide-books and the cicerones; and she gratefully expressed
her pleasure by liberating three hundred captives, whom she found
languishing in the debtors’ prison. The fame of the deed travelled
as swiftly as if it had been a deed disgraceful to the actor, and at
Corinth she was subsequently entertained, during two whole days, with a
profusion and a gaiety that would have gladdened the heart of Laïs, who
was herself so often and so splendidly ‘at home’ in this ancient city.

From Hellas to the Troad was a natural sequence She went thither, as
before, storm-tost--stood on the plain where infidels assert that
Troy had never stood, and, leaning on the arm of the noble and bearded
Bergami, twice crossed the Scamander. With the first day of June she
was in Constantinople, making her entry with Mdlle. Dumont and another
lady, in the springless cart or carriage of the country, drawn by a
pair of lusty bulls. She resided in the house belonging to the British
embassy. It was the last time in the course of her travels that she
found rest and protection beneath our flag. The plague, however, being
then in the city, she quitted it for a residence some fifteen miles
distant, from which she made excursions into the Black Sea, till,
growing weary of the amusement, she once more embarked and spent a week
at sea, on a frail boat, tossed by storms and watched by corsairs; and
at length reaching Scio, sought repose, and indulged in contemplation,
or may be supposed to have done so, in the school of Homer. By the end
of the month she was amid the ruins of Ephesus. Beneath the ruined
vestibule of an ancient church she pitched her tent. The heat was
great even at night, the errant lady was sleepless, and the Baron di
Francino, ever assiduous, watched near his mistress till dawn, and
performed all faithful service required of him.

From the locality once jealously guarded by chaste Diana she passed to
the spot where her old Blackheath friend, Sir Sidney Smith, had gained
imperishable fame by gallantly vanquishing a foe ever bravely reluctant
to confess that he had met his conqueror. Even this place might have
interested the Princess by the association of ideas which it may have
furnished her as matter for meditation. She did not, however, lose
much time in contrasting the gossiping Sir Sidney, who made Montague
House ring with his laughter, with the stern warrior who here turned
back Napoleon from his way toward India. She was longing to find rest
within the Holy City, and this she accomplished at last, but not till
many an obstacle which lay in her way had been surmounted.

Her progress was suddenly checked at Jaffa. The party, which consisted
of more than two dozen persons, had no written permission to pass on
to Jerusalem, and the Pacha could give his consent only to five of the
number to visit the city. After some negotiations with the governor
of St. Jean d’Acre, the difficulty was removed, a large armed escort
was provided, with tents, guides, and other necessary appendages.
Surrounded by these, the Princess and her attendants had very much the
air of a strolling party of equestrians on a summer tour. They had a
worn, yet ‘rollicking’ look. There was a loose air about the men and
a rompish aspect about the ladies, while the sorry steeds, mules and
donkeys, on which they were mounted, seemed denizens of the circus and
saw-dust, with the sun-bronzed Princess as manageress of the concern.
The similitude was not lessened by the circumstance that, more than
once on the road, the Princess, from sheer fatigue and want of sleep,
rolled off her donkey to the ground.

The journey was performed beneath one of the very fiercest of suns,
and the travellers, light of heart as they were, groaned beneath the
hot infliction and the blisters raised by it. They passed many an
interesting spot on the way, but were too listless or weary to heed
the objects as they passed. Her Royal Highness bore the perils and
minor troubles of the way better than any of her followers, but she too
became almost vanquished by fatigue; and when she entered Jerusalem, on
the 12th of July, seated on an ass, Mdlle. Dumont impiously contrasted
her virtues, sufferings, equipage, and person with those of the
Saviour. This lady was subsequently the very first who, with eager
alacrity, swore away the reputation of her mistress, and heaping her
indiscretions together, gave them the bearing of crimes, and did her
unblushing utmost to destroy what she had professed to reverence.

The Capuchin friars gave her Royal Highness a cordial reception, and
within their sacred precincts even allowed her and some of her French
attendants to sleep. In return for this knightly rather than saintly
courtesy, she instituted an order of chivalry, and, after looking about
for a saint by way of godmother to the new institution, she fixed upon
St. Caroline. In vain was it suggested to her that there was no such
saint in the Calendar. She had a precedent by way of authorisation.
Napoleon had compelled St. Roch to make way for St. Napoleon, and why
should not Caroline have ‘Saint’ prefixed to it, and shine as the
patroness of the new order? She, of course, had her way, created poor
young Austin a knight, and solemnly instituted Baron Bergami as grand
master. They looked more like strolling players than ever; the Baron
none the less so when his royal mistress placed on his breast the
insignia of the order of ‘St. Sepulchre’ by the side of the star of the
newly-appointed St. Caroline.

With these new dignitaries the party proceeded to view all the spots
where there is nothing to be seen, but where much that is false may
be heard if the guides be listened to. For miles round there was not
a scene that had been the stage of some great event, or was hallowed
by the memory of some solemn deed or saintly man, that the Princess
did not visit. Having spent upon them all the emotion she had on hand,
she trotted off to Jericho, her panting attendants following her;
and, having found the place uninhabitable from the fierce heat which
prevailed there, the strolling Princess and her fellow-players rushed
back to the sea, and, scarcely pausing at Jaffa, embarked hurriedly
on board the polacca there awaiting them, and set sail in hopes of
speedily encountering refreshing gales and recovering the vigour they
had lost.

Their singing ‘Veni Aura’ brought not the gale they invoked. The sun
darted his rays down upon them with greater intensity than ever, and
accordingly the Princess raised a gay tent upon the deck, beneath its
folds sat by day, took all needful refreshment, and slept by night; the
Grand Master of the Order of St. Caroline fulfilling during all that
time the office of chamberlain.

The weary and feverish hours were further enlivened by a grand festival
held on board on St. Bartholomew’s day, in honour of Bartholomew
Bergami and the saint of the former name, who was supposed to be the
patron and protector of all who bore it. The Princess drank to the
Baron, and the latter drank to the Princess, and mirth and good humour,
not to say jollity, abounded; and perhaps by the time the incident is
as old as the descent of the Nile by Cleopatra is now it may appear
as picturesque and poetical as that does. It certainly lacks the
picturesque and poetical elements at present.

It is the maxim of sailors that they who whistle for a breath of air
will bring a storm. Our travellers only longed for the former, but
they were soon enveloped by the latter, through which they contrived
to struggle till, on the 20th of September, they made Syracuse, and
were inexorably condemned to a quarantine of the legitimate forty days’
duration. At the end of this time an Austrian vessel conveyed them to
Rome. After a brief but by no means a dull sojourn in that city, the
Princess led the way to her home in the Villa d’Este, on the Lake of
Como, where she and the Countess Oldi exhibited the proficiency they
had acquired as travellers by cooking their own dinners and performing
other little feats of amiable independency.

And now, as if to authorise the simile made with respect to the
illustrious party, and their resemblance to a strolling company of
players, private theatricals became the most frequent pastime of the
lady of the villa and her friends. If she enacted the heroine, the
Baron was sure to be the lover. Marie Antoinette, it was said, used to
act in plays on the little stage at Trianon. The case was not to be
denied; but then the wife of Louis XVI. did not exchange mock heroics
with an ex-courier. On the other hand, the dukes and counts she played
with were often less respectable than the loosest of menials.

The agents, whose employers were to be found in England, had not been
idle during the Princess’s period of travel. They had been helped
by none so effectually as by herself. She had courted infamy by her
heedless conduct, and, cruelly as she was used, the blame does not
rest wholly with her persecutors. Her indiscretions seemed indulged
in expressly to give warrant for suspicion that she was more than
indiscreet, and therewith even the most innocent incidents were twisted
by the ingenuity of spies and their agents into crimes. The Baron
d’Ompteda had been the most assiduous and the best paid of the spies
who hovered incessantly about her, to misrepresent all he was permitted
to see. He was banished from the Austrian territory at the request of
the Princess, whose champion, the gallant Lieutenant Hownam, sought in
vain to bring him to battle and punish him for his treachery towards
a lady. On the other hand, the Austrian authorities commanded Bergami
to divest himself of the Cross of Malta, which he was wearing without
legal authorisation--a disgrace which his rash and imprudent mistress
thought she had effaced by purchasing for the disknighted chevalier an
estate, and putting him in full possession of the rights and dignity of
lord of the manor.

Early in 1817 the Princess repaired to Carlsruhe, on a visit to the
Grand Duke of Baden. She was received courteously, but not warmly
enough to induce her to make a long sojourn. This Duke was not anxious
to detain a guest so eccentric. Lord Redesdale told Miss Wynn, who set
the story down in her ‘Diaries,’ that ‘when the Princess was at Baden,
and the Grand Duke made a _partie de chasse_ for her, she appeared
on horseback with a half pumpkin on her head. Upon the Grand Duke’s
expressing astonishment, and recommending a _coiffeur_ rather less
extraordinary, she only replied that the weather was hot, and that
nothing kept the head so cool and comfortable as a pumpkin. Her next
point was Vienna, from which city she had frightened Lord Stewart, the
British ambassador, by an intimation that she was coming to take up her
residence with him, and to demand satisfaction for the insults to which
she had been subjected by persons who were spies upon her conduct.
She experienced nothing but what she might have expected in Vienna--
a contemptuous neglect; and soon quitting that city she repaired to
Trieste, and tarried long enough there to compel the least scrupulous
to think that, if she possessed the most handsome of chamberlains,
she was herself the weakest and least wise of ladies. He was now her
constant and almost only attendant in public. English families had
long ceased to show her any respect. They could not manifest it for a
woman who, by courting an evil reputation, evidently did not respect
herself. What was her being innocent, if she always so acted as to make
herself appear guilty? She might as well have asserted that her openly
attending Mass with Bergami was not to be taken as proof of her being a
very indifferent Protestant.

She became in every sense of the word a mere wanderer, apparently
without object, save flying from the memories which she could not
cast off. She was constantly changing her residence--so constantly
as to make her career somewhat difficult to follow; but we know that
she was residing at Pescaro when she received intelligence which she
least expected, and which deeply affected her. During her absence from
England her daughter had married Prince Leopold, and the mother had
hoped to find friends at least in this pair, if not now, at some future
period. But now she had heard that her child and her child’s child were
dead. ‘I have not only,’ she wrote to a friend in England, ‘to lament
an ever-beloved child, but one most warmly attached friend, and the
only one I have had in England; but she is only gone before--I have
not lost her, and I now trust we shall soon meet in a much better world
than the present one. For ever your truly sincere friend, C. P.’

This calamity, however, had no effect in rendering the writer more
circumspect. Her course of life, without being one of the gross guilt
it was described, was certainly one not creditable to her. Exaggerated
reports, which grew as they were circulated, startled the ears of
her friends and gladdened the hearts of her enemies. They were at
their very worst when, in 1820, George III. ended his long reign, and
Caroline Princess of Wales became Queen-consort of England.

As a sample of the effect produced by the above-named reports the
following, from a letter by Lady Charleville to Lady Morgan, in
February 1820, may be quoted:--‘The report of all travellers who have
had any knowledge of the Princess of Wales renders it imperative that
such a woman should not preside in Great Britain over its honest and
virtuous daughters, and something is to be done to prevent it.’ In
April of the same year Lady Morgan was in Rome, and she wrote thence
to Lady Clarke more favourably: ‘We have Queen Caroline here; at first
this made a great fuss, whether she was or was not to be visited by
her subjects, when, lo! she refused to see any of them, and leads the
most perfectly retired life! We met her one day driving out in a state
truly royal; I never saw her so splendid. Young Austin followed in an
open carriage; he is an interesting-looking young man. She happened
to arrive at an inn near Rome when Lord and Lady Leitrim were there.
She sent for them, and invited them to tea. Lady Leitrim told me her
manner was perfect, and altogether she was a most improved woman. The
Baron attended her at tea, but merely as a chamberlain, and was not
introduced. Before you receive this; if accounts be true, her Majesty
will be in England.’

The Roman authorities treated her with scant courtesy. As soon as the
death of almost the only friend she ever had in England, George III.,
was certified, Cardinal Gonzalvi, refusing to recognise in her person a
Queen of Great Britain, sent her passport to her as Princess Caroline
of Brunswick.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

Report of the Milan Commissioners--The Princess’s determination
to return to England--Studied neglect of her by Louis
XVIII.--Lord Hutchinson’s proposal to her to remain abroad--
Her indignant refusal--Bergami’s anger on the refusal of the
proposition--Discourtesy of the French authorities to the
Princess--Her reception in England--The Regent’s message
to Parliament--The green bag--Sympathy for the Queen--
Desire for a compromise evinced; meeting for the purpose at Lord
Castlereagh’s--The contending parties in Parliament--Mr.
Wilberforce as Mr. Harmony--Mr. Brougham the Queen’s especial
advocate--The Queen’s name in the Liturgy demanded--Mr.
Denman’s argument for it--Address of the House of Commons to
the Queen--Her reply, and appeal to the nation--A secret
inquiry protested against--The Queen at Waithman’s shop--
Violence of party spirit.

The report rendered by the gentlemen who formed the Milan Commission
to inquire secretly into the conduct of the Princess of Wales was so
unfavourable to the latter that the Regent would have taken immediate
steps to have procured a divorce, but for the assurance of his legal
advisers that, even in the case of the Princess becoming Queen-consort,
she would never return to this country, provided only that the income
assigned to her by parliament as Princess of Wales were secured to her
after she was Queen. There had been some negotiation to this effect in
1819, when it was understood that the title of Queen would never be
assumed by the Princess if the payment of the annuity was punctually
observed. Her most intimate friends, therefore, did not reckon upon
her appearance in this country after the accession of her husband to
the throne.

Lord Liverpool addressed a letter to Mr. Brougham, adverting to this
arrangement as having been originally proposed by Queen Caroline--
a conclusion against which she protested with great indignation. Her
first step was to pass through France to St. Omer, where she awaited
the arrival of her legal advisers. The then reigning French monarch
had in the time of his own adversity received substantial aid and
continual courtesy from the Queen’s father; but now, in the hour of the
distresses of his former benefactor’s daughter, he beset her passage
through France with difficulties, and commanded her to be treated with
studied neglect. However mortified, she was a woman of too much spirit
to allow her mortification to be visible, and for the lack of official
honours she found consolation in the sympathy of the people. On the
first intimation of the omission of her name from the Liturgy, the
Queen wrote thus, without consulting any one: ‘The Queen of this Relams
wishes to be informed, through the medium of Lord Liverpool, First
Minister to the King of this Relams, for which reason or motife the
Queen name has been left out of the general Prayer-books in England,
and especially to prevent all her subjects to pay her such respect
which is due to the Queen. It is equally a great omittance towards the
King that his Consort Queen should be obliged to soummit to such great
neglect, or rather araisin from a perfect ignorance of the Archbishops
of the real existence of the Queen Caroline of England.’ It was
finely remarked by Mr. Denman, after he became the Solicitor-General
(at Brougham’s recommendation), that the Queen _was_ included in the
Liturgy, in the prayer ‘for all who are desolate and oppressed.’

At the inn of St. Omer she was met by Mr. Brougham and Lord
Hutchinson. The latter came as the representative of the ministry, with
no credentials, however, nor even with the ministerial proposition
reduced to writing. The Queen refused to receive it in any other form.
Lord Hutchinson obeyed, and made a written proposal to the effect that,
as she was now without income by the demise of George III., the King
would grant her 50,000_l._ per annum, on the special condition that she
remained on the continent, surrendered the title of Queen, adopted no
title belonging to the royal family of England, and never even visited
the latter country under any pretext. It was further stated that, if
she set foot in England, the negotiation would be at an end, the terms
violated, and proceedings be commenced against her Majesty forthwith.

It has been said that the Queen’s immediate and decided rejection of
these proposals, and her resolution to proceed to England at once,
were undoubted proofs of her innocence. The truth, however, is, that
the acceptance of such terms would have been a tacit confession of
her guilt, and, had she been as criminal as her accusers endeavoured
to prove her, her safest course would have been that which she so
spiritedly adopted. The infamy here was undoubtedly on the part of the
ministry. Here was a woman in whom they asserted was to be found the
most profligate of her sex, and to her they made an offer of 50,000_l._
per annum, on condition that she laid down the title of Queen of
England, of which they said she was entirely unworthy; and this sum was
to be paid to her out of the taxes of a people the majority of whom
believed that she had been ‘more sinned against than sinning.’

It has been believed, or at least has been reported, that the Queen
was counselled to the refusal of the compromise annuity of 50,000_l._
by Alderman Wood. The city dignitary, in such case, got little thanks
for his advice at the hands of Baron Bergami. The latter individual,
on hearing that Queen Caroline had declined to accept the offer, and
that the alderman was her adviser on the occasion, declared that if
he ever encountered the ex-mayor in Italy he would kill him. The
courier-baron’s ground of offence was, that, had the Queen received the
money, a great portion of it would have fallen to his share, and that
he considered himself as robbed by the alderman, whom he would punish
accordingly.

Caroline refused the proposals with scorn. In one of her characteristic
letters she said: ‘The 30th of April I shall be at Calais for
certain; my health is good, and my spirit is perfect. I have seen no
_personnes_ of any kind who could give me any advice different to my
feelings and my sentiments of duty relatif of my present situation
and rank of life.’ Fearful of further obstacle on the part of the
French government, she proceeded at once to Calais, dismissed her
Italian court, and with Alderman Wood and Lady Anne Hamilton she
went on board the ‘Leopold’ sailing packet, then lying in the mud in
the harbour. No facilities were afforded her by the authorities; the
English inhabitants of Calais were even menaced with penalties if
they infringed the orders which had been given, and no compliment was
paid her, except by the master of the packet, who hoisted the royal
standard as soon as her Majesty set foot upon the humble deck of his
little vessel. She sat there as evening closed in, without an attendant
saving the lady already named and the alderman, who not only gave her
his escort now but offered her a home. She had solicited from the
government that a house might be provided for her, but the application
had been received with silent contempt.

Her progress from Dover to London was a perfect ovation. Mr. Brougham
had given her good advice at St. Omer. ‘If,’ he said, ‘your Majesty
shall determine to go to England before any new offer can be made,
I earnestly implore your Majesty to proceed in the most private and
secret manner possible. It may be very well for a candidate at an
election to be drawn into towns by the population, and they will mean
nothing but good in showing this attention to your Majesty; but a Queen
of England may well dispense with such marks of popular favour, and my
duty to your Majesty binds me to say very plainly that I shall consider
any such exhibition as both hurtful to your Majesty’s real dignity
and full of danger in its probable consequences.’ ‘That Brougham is
afraid,’ said the Queen; and so he was--afraid of her, afraid of
some scandal, unknown to him then, coming out after her arrival. If he
could have had his way he would not have consented to her coming to
England at all. The people saw in her a victim of persecution, and for
such there is generally a ready sympathy. They were convinced, too,
that she was a woman of spirit, and for such there is ever abundant
admiration. There was not a town through which she passed upon her
way that did not give her a hearty welcome, and wish her well through
the fiery ordeal which awaited her. She reached London on the evening
of the 7th of June, 1820, and the popular procession of which she was
the chief portion passed Carlton House on its route to the residence
of Alderman Wood, in South Audley Street. There Alderman Wood used
to spread a rug for her Majesty to tread upon, when, to satisfy the
loud-tongued mob, she appeared twenty times a day on the little
balcony. The Attorney-General would not allow his wife to call on her;
and Mrs. Denman received a similar prohibition from Mr. Denman, who,
subsequently, regretted the course he had taken.

The Queen had scarcely found refuge beneath the alderman’s hospitable
roof when Lord Liverpool in the House of Peers, and Lord Castlereagh
in the House of Commons, conveyed a message from the King to the
parliament, the subject of which was that, her Majesty having thought
proper to come to this country, some information would be laid before
them, on which they would have to come to an ulterior decision, of
vast importance to the peace and well-being of the United Kingdom.
Each minister bore a ‘green bag,’ which was supposed and perhaps did
contain minutes of the report made by the Milan commissioners touching
her Majesty’s conduct abroad. The ministerial communications were made
in the spirit and tone of men who, if not ashamed of the message which
they bore, were very uncertain and infinitely afraid as to its ultimate
consequences.

Not that they were wanting in an outward show of boldness. The soldiers
quartered at the King’s Mews, Charing Cross, had been so disorderly
some days previous, allegedly because they had not sufficient
accommodation, that they were drafted in two divisions to Portsmouth.
When the Queen was approaching London a mob assembled in front of the
guard-house, and called upon the soldiers still remaining there to join
them in a demonstration in favour of the Queen. Lord Sidmouth, who was
passing on his way to the House of Lords, seeing what was going on,
proceeded to the Horse Guards, called out the troops there, and stood
by while they roughly dispersed the people. It was called putting
a bold face upon the matter, but less provocation on the part of a
government has been followed by revolution.

A desire to compromise the unhappy dispute was no doubt sincerely
entertained by ministers, and all hope was not abandoned, even after
the arrival of the Queen. Mr. Rush, the United States ambassador
to England at this period, permits us to see, in his journal, when
this attempt at compromise or amicable arrangement of the affair was
first entered upon by the respective parties. On the 15th of June
that gentleman dined at Lord Castlereagh’s with all the foreign
ambassadors. ‘A very few minutes,’ he says, ‘after the last course,
Lord Castlereagh, looking to his chief guest for acquiescence, made
the signal for rising, and the company all went to the drawing-room.
So early a move was unusual: it seemed to cut short, unexpectedly,
the time generally given to conversation at English dinners after
the dinner ends. It was soon observed that his lordship had left the
drawing-room. This was still more unusual; and now it came to be
whispered that an extraordinary cause had produced this unusual scene.
It was whispered by one or another of the corps that his lordship had
retired into one of his own apartments to meet the Duke of Wellington,
as his colleague in the administration, and also Mr. Brougham and
Mr. Denman, as counsel for the Queen in the disputes pending between
the King and Queen.’ Mr. Rush, after mentioning that the proceedings
in parliament were arrested for the moment by members purporting to
be common friends of both King and Queen, proceeds to state that
‘the dinner at Lord Castlereagh’s was during this state of things,
which explains the incident at its close, the disputes having pressed
with anxiety on the King’s ministers. That his lordship did separate
himself from his guests for the purpose of holding a conference in
another part of his own house, in which the Duke of Wellington joined
him as representing the King, with Mr. Brougham and Mr. Denman as
representing the Queen, was known from the former protocol, afterwards
published, of what took place on that very evening. It was the first
of the conferences held with a view to a compromise between the royal
disputants.’ On the 28th of June the American ambassador was at the
levée at Carlton House, where he learns that ‘the sensibilities of
the King are intense, and nothing can ever reconcile him.’ The same
diplomatist then presents to us the following graphic picture: ‘The
day was hot, excessively so for England. The King seemed to suffer.
He remarked upon the heat to me and others. It is possible that other
heat may have aggravated in him that of the weather. Before he came
into the entrée room, from his closet, ---- of the diplomatic corps,
taking me gently by the arm, led me a few steps with him, which brought
us into the recess of a window. “Look!” said he. I looked, and saw
nothing but the velvet lawn covered by trees in the palace gardens.
“Look again!” said he. I did; and still my eye only took in another
part of the same scene. “_Try once more_,” said he, cautiously raising
a finger in the right direction. ---- had a vein of drollery in him. I
now for the first time beheld a peacock displaying his plumage. At one
moment he was in full pride, and displayed it gloriously; at another
he would halt, letting it drop, as if dejected. “Of what does that
remind you?” said ----. “Of nothing,” said I; “_Honi soit qui mal y
pense!_” for I threw the King’s motto at him, and then added that _I_
was a republican, _he_ a monarchist, and that if he dreamt of unholy
comparisons where royalty was concerned I would certainly tell upon
him, that it might be reported at his court. He quietly drew off from
me, smiling, and I afterwards saw him slyly take another member of the
corps to the same spot, to show him the same sight.’

Meanwhile, the contending parties in parliament wore about them the
air of men who were called upon to do battle, and who, while resolved
to accomplish their best, would have been glad to have effected a
compromise which, at least, should save the honour of their principal.
As Mr. Wilberforce remarked, there was a mutual desire to ‘avoid that
fatal green bag.’ There were many difficulties in the way. The Queen,
naturally enough, insisted on her name being restored in the Liturgy;
and none of her friends would have consented for her, nor would she
have done so for herself, that she should reside abroad without being
introduced by the British ambassador to the court of the country in
which she might take up her residence. The government manifested too
clearly an intention not to help her in this respect, for they remarked
that, though they might request the ambassador to present, they could
not compel the court to receive her. They wanted her out of the way,
bribed splendidly to endure an indelible disgrace. She was wise enough,
at least, to perceive that to consent to such a course would be to
strip her of every friend, and to shut against her the door of every
court in Europe.

Mr. Wilberforce hoped to act the ‘Mr. Harmony’ of the crisis, by
bringing forward a motion expressive of the regret of parliament that
the two illustrious adversaries had not been able to complete an
amicable arrangement of their difficulties, and declaring that the
Queen would sacrifice nothing of her good name nor of the righteousness
of her cause, nor be held as shrinking from inquiry, by consenting to
accept the counsel of parliament, and forbearing to press further the
adoption of those propositions on which any material difference of
opinion is yet remaining. The Queen’s especial advocate, Mr. Brougham,
felicitously contrasted the eager desire of ministers to get rid of
her Majesty, by sending her out of the country with all the pomp,
splendour, and ceremonies connected with royalty, with their meanness
in allowing her to come over in a common packet, and to seek shelter
in the house of a private individual. He added that the only basis
on which any satisfactory negotiation could be carried on with her
Majesty was the restoration of her name to the Liturgy. Mr. Denman,
in alluding to the case of Sophia Dorothea, which had been cited by
ministers as precedent wherein they found authority for omitting the
Queen’s name from the Liturgy, remarked that, ‘As to the case of the
Queen of George I., to which allusions had been made, it was not at all
in point. She had been guilty of certain practices in Hanover which
compromised her character, and was never considered Queen of England.
On the continent she lived under the designation of Princess of Halle;
and though the Prince of Wales had afterwards called her to this
country for the purpose of embarrassing the government of his father,
to which he happened to be opposed, still she was never recognised in
any other character than Electress of Hanover.’ In this statement it
will be seen that the speaker calls her Queen whom he denies to have
been accounted as such, and he adds that the Prince of Wales called
her to this country in his father’s lifetime, when he had no power to
do so; whereas he simply expressed to his friends his determination to
invite her over if she survived his father as Queen-dowager of England.
This invitation he never had the power of making, for his mother’s
demise preceded the decease of his father. Mr. Denman was far happier
in his allusion to a ministerial assertion that the omission of the
Queen’s name from the Liturgy was the act of the King in his closet.
This assertion was at once a meanness and a falsehood, for, as Mr.
Denman remarked, no one knew of any such thing in this country as ‘the
King in his closet.’ Indeed the ministers were peculiarly unlucky in
all they did; for while they asserted that the omission was never made
out of disrespect towards the Queen, they acknowledged that it never
would have been thought of but for the revelations contained in the
fatal green bag as to her Majesty’s alleged conduct. Finally, the House
agreed to Mr. Wilberforce’s motion.

The announcement of the resolution to which the House of Commons had
come was made to her Majesty, now residing in Portman Street, in an
address conveyed to her by Mr. Wilberforce and three other members
of the Lower House. On this occasion all the forms of a court were
observed. The bearers of the address appeared in full court dress.
The Queen, in a dress of black satin, with a wreath of laurel shaded
with emeralds around her head, surmounted by a ‘plume of feathers,’
stood in one portion of the little drawing-room; behind her stood all
the ladies of her household, in the person of Lady Anne Hamilton,
and on either side of her Mr. Brougham and Mr. Denman, her Majesty’s
Attorney and Solicitor Generals, in full-bottomed wigs and silk gowns.
As the deputation approached, the folding doors which divided the
members in the back drawing-room from the Queen and her court in the
front apartment were then thrown open, and the four gentlemen from
the House of Commons knelt on one knee and kissed her Majesty’s hand.
Having communicated to her the resolutions of the House, the Queen,
through the attorney-general, returned an answer of some length,
the substance of which, however, was, that with all her respect for
the House of Commons she could not bind herself to be governed by
its counsel until she knew the purport of the advice. In short, she
yielded nothing, but appealed to the nation. When the assembled crowd
learned the character of the royal reply its delight was intense, and
certainly public opinion was generally in favour of the Queen and of
the course now adopted by her. There was one thing she and the public
too supremely hated, and that was the formation of a secret committee,
formed principally too of ministerial adherents, and charged with
prosecuting the inquiry against her, without letting her know who were
her accusers or of what crimes she was accused, and without affording
her opportunity to procure evidence to rebut the testimony brought
against her. Against such a proceeding she drew up a petition, which
she requested the Lord Chancellor to present. That eminent official,
however, asserting that he meant no disrespect, excused himself on
the ground that he did not know how to present such a document to the
House, and that there was nothing in the journals which could tend to
enlighten him.

The petition, however, the chief prayer in which was that the Queen’s
counsel might be heard at the bar of the House against an inquiry
by secret committee, was presented by Lord Dacre, and the prayer in
question was agreed to.

The request of Mr. Brougham was for a delay of two months, previous to
the inquiry being further prosecuted, in order to leave time for the
assembling of witnesses for the defence--witnesses whom the Queen was
too poor to purchase, and too powerless to compel to repair to England.
Her Majesty’s Attorney-General asked this the more earnestly as some of
the witnesses on the King’s side were of tainted character, and one of
them was an ex-domestic of the Queen’s, discharged from her service for
robbing her of four hundred napoleons. The learned advocate concluded
by expressing his confidence that the delay of two months would not
be considered too great an indulgence for the purpose of furthering
the ends of justice, and providing that a legal murder should not be
committed on the character of the first subject of the realm. The best
point in Mr. Denman’s speech in support of the request made by his
leader was in the quotation from a judgment delivered by a former lord
chancellor, and which was to this effect--it was delivered with the
eyes of the speaker keenly fixed on those of Lord Eldon--‘A judge ought
to prepare the way to a just sentence, as God useth to prepare His way,
by raising valleys and taking down hills, so when there appeareth
on either side a high hand, violent prosecutions, cunning advantages
taken, combination, power, great counsel, then is the virtue of a judge
seen to make inequality equal, that he may plant his judgment as upon
an even ground.’

While the Lords were deliberating on the request for postponement,
Lord Castlereagh was inveighing in the Commons against the Queen
herself, for daring to refuse to yield to the wishes of parliament,
and rejecting the advice to be guided by its counsel. Such rejection
he interpreted as being a sort of insult which no other member of the
House of Brunswick would have ventured to commit. ‘That illustrious
individual,’ he said, ‘might repent the step she had taken.’ Meanwhile,
the Commons suspended proceedings till the course to be decided upon
by the Lords was finally taken. In the latter assembly Earl Grey made
a last effort to stay the proceedings altogether, by moving that the
order for the meeting of the secret committee to consider the papers
in the ‘green bag’ should be discharged. The motion was lost, but an
incident in the debate which arose upon it deserves to be noticed. The
omission of the Queen’s name from the Liturgy had been described as the
act of the King in his closet. Lord Holland now charged the Archbishop
of Canterbury as the adviser of the act; but Lord Liverpool accepted
the responsibility of it for himself and colleagues, as having been
adopted by the King in council, at the ministerial suggestion.

The Lords having resolved to commence proceedings by a preliminary
secret inquiry, the Queen protested against such a course, but no reply
was made to her protest. With the exception of appearing to return
answers to the addresses forwarded to her from various parts of the
country, she withdrew, as much as possible, from all publicity. Her
personal friends, however, were busier than she required in drawing
up projects for her which she could not sanction. One of these busy
advocates thought that she might fittingly compromise the matter by
gaining the restoration of her name in the Liturgy, being crowned,
holding one drawing-room, yearly, at Kensington Palace, and having her
permanent residence at Hampton Court, with 55,000_l._ a year to uphold
her dignity. The terms were not illiberal; but if the Queen rejected
them, it was, probably, because she knew they would never be offered.
Her own remark upon them is said to have been, that she did not want
a victory without a battle, but a victory after showing that she had
deserved it.

She was the more eager for battle from the fact that the contents of
the green bag were by no means unknown to her. At least, it has been
asserted that she had long held duplicates of some of the evidence,
if not of the report made by the Milan commissioners, and she was
satisfied she could rebut both. She possessed one, and it was her
solitary, advantage in this case. The ministers, if not in so many
words, yet by their proceedings, had stigmatised her as utterly
infamous, and yet they had considered it not beneath them to desire to
enter into negotiations with one whom they considered guilty of all the
implied infamy. The Queen’s rejection of the proposals to compound ‘the
stupendous felony’ raised up for her many a friend in circles where she
had been looked upon, if not as guilty, yet, at best, as open to very
grave suspicion.

The Queen’s health required her not to confine herself within the
narrow limits of her residence in Portman Street. She accordingly paid
one public visit to Guildhall, and occasionally repaired to Blackheath.
It was on her way back from one of these latter excursions that she
honoured Alderman Waithman’s shop with a visit. The incident is
perhaps as well worth noticing as that which tells of the trip made by
the young Queen Mary to the shop of Lady Gresham, the lady mayoress,
who appears to have dealt in millinery. The city progresses of the
Queen did her infinite injury. The very lowest of the populace, who
cared little more for her than as giving opportunity for a little
excitement, were wont on these occasions to take the horses from her
carriage, harness themselves to the vehicle, and literally drag the
Queen of England through the mud of the metropolis. She could only
suffer degradation and ridicule from such a proceeding, which a little
spirit might have prevented. Her enemies bitterly derided her through
their organs in the press. They expressed an eagerness to get rid
of her, and added their indifference as to whether ‘the alien’ was
finally disposed of as a martyr or as a criminal. On the other hand,
her over-zealous partisans gave utterance to their convictions that
there was a project on foot to murder the Queen. Party spirit never
wore so assassin-like an aspect as it did at this moment. Caroline, it
must be added, was not displeased with these popular ovations. ‘I have
derived,’ she remarked in her reply to the City address, ‘unspeakable
consolations from the zealous and constant attachment of this
warm-hearted, just, and generous people, to live at home with and to
cherish whom will be the chief happiness of the remainder of my days.’
But her chief occupation now was to look to her defence, for the time
had arrived when her accusers were to speak openly.

CHAPTER IX.

QUEEN, PEERS, AND PEOPLE.

The secret committee on the Queen’s conduct--Encounter between
the Queen and Princess Sophia--Bill of Pains and Penalties
brought into the House of Lords--The Queen demands to know the
charges against her--Her demand refused--The Queen again
petitions--Lord Liverpool’s speech--The Queen’s indignant
message to the Lords--Money spent to procure witnesses against
her--Public feeling against the Italian witnesses--Dr.
Parr’s advice to the Queen--His zealous advocacy of her cause
--Lord Erskine’s efforts in her favour--Her hearty protest
against legal oppression--Gross attack on her in a provincial
paper--Cruel persecution of her--Her sharp philippic against
Ministers--Lord John Russell’s letter to Mr. Wilberforce, and
petition to the King--The Queen at Brandenburgh House--Death
of the Duchess of York--Her eccentricities--Her character--
Addresses to the Queen, and her replies.

The secret committee charged with examining the documents in the sealed
bags made their report early in July. This report was to the effect
that the documents contained allegations, supported by the concurrent
testimony of witnesses of various grades in life, which deeply affected
the honour of the Queen, charging her, as they did, with a ‘continued
series of conduct highly unbecoming her Majesty’s rank and station,
and of the most licentious character.’ The committee reluctantly
recommended that the matter should become the subject of solemn inquiry
by legislative proceeding.

The ministers postponed any explanation as to the course to be
adopted by them upon this report until the following day. The Queen
exhibited no symptoms of being daunted by it. She appeared in public
on the evening of the day on which the report was delivered, and, if
cheers could attest her innocence, the _vox populi_ would have done
it that night. As the Queen’s carriage was passing in the vicinity of
Kensington Gate it encountered that bearing the Princess Sophia. The
two cousins passed each other without exchanging a sign of recognition,
and the doughty livery servants of the Princess showed that they had
adopted the prejudices or convictions of _their_ portion of the royal
family by refusing obedience to the commands of the mob, which had
ordered them to uncover as they passed in presence of the Queen.

On Wednesday, the 5th of July, Lord Liverpool brought in the
ever-famous Bill of Pains and Penalties, a bill of degradation and
divorce. Lord Liverpool had previously protested against a divorce.
Why he now turned to a still more dangerous expedient he explains in a
letter inserted in his Memoirs. ‘In the case of a private individual
the question of divorce is a question of personal relief. The law of
man, not the law of God, says properly in this case, we will not give
you the relief unless by your conduct you are entitled to it. But the
King does not, and cannot, apply for relief as an individual; his
accusation is a public accusation, resting on public grounds. Adultery
in a Queen is a crime against the State. The private offence is merged
in the public crime, and must follow the effect of it. How is it
possible to entertain a charge of recrimination against a King, who in
the eye of the law can do no wrong?’

The Queen demanded, by petition, to be furnished with the specific
charges brought against her, and to be heard by her counsel in support
of that demand. The House refused, and Lord Liverpool went on with his
Bill.

The Queen again interfered by petition, requesting to have the nature
of the charges against her distinctly stated, and to be heard in
support of her request by counsel. These requests were negatived. Lord
Liverpool then, in introducing the bill, did his utmost to save the
King from being unfavourably contrasted in his character of complainant
with the Queen in that of defendant. He alleged that their Majesties
were not before the House as individuals. The parties concerned were
the Queen as accused party and the State! The question to be considered
was whether, supposing the allegations to be substantiated, impunity
was to be extended to guilt, or justice be permitted to triumph. The
bill he thus introduced noticed the various acts of indiscretion which
have been already recorded. These were the familiarity which existed
between herself and her courier, whom she had ennobled, and in honour
of whom she had unauthorisedly founded an order of chivalry, of which
he had been appointed grand master. The bill further accused her of
most scandalous, vicious, and disgraceful conduct ‘with the said
Bergami,’ but was silent as to time and place. The document concluded
by proposing that Caroline Amelia Elizabeth should be ‘deprived of her
rank, rights, and privileges as Queen, and that her marriage with the
King be dissolved and disannulled to all intents and purposes.’ The
bill, in short, pronounced her infamous. It was the penalty which she
paid for the exercise of much indiscretion. Earl Grey complained of the
want of specification, and asserted her Majesty’s right to be furnished
with the names of witnesses. Lord Liverpool, however, treated the
assertion as folly, and the claim made as unprecedented and inexpedient.

A copy of the bill was delivered to the Queen by Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt.
She received it not without emotion, and this was sufficiently great
to give a confused tone to her observations on this occasion. Had the
bill, she said, been presented to her a quarter of a century earlier,
it might have served the King’s purpose better. She added that, as she
should never meet her husband again in this world, she hoped, at least,
to do so in the next, where certainly justice would be rendered her.

To the Lords she sent a message expressive of her indignant surprise
that the bill should assume her as guilty simply upon the report of
a committee before whom not a single witness had been examined. Her
friends continued to harass the government. In the Commons, Sir Ronald
Ferguson attempted, though unsuccessfully, to obtain information
as to the authority for the organising of the Milan commission for
examining spies. That commission, he intimated, originated with the
vice-chancellor, Sir John Leach, and had cost the country between
thirty and forty thousand pounds, for one half of which sum, he added,
Italian witnesses might be procured who would blast the character of
every man and woman in England.

The feeling against Italians did not require to be excited. Those
who arrived at Dover to furnish evidence against the Queen were very
roughly treated; and so fearful were the ministers that something
worse might happen to them, that they were, after various changes of
residence in London, transferred to Holland, much to the disgust of the
Dutch, before they were finally cloistered up in Cotton Garden, at hand
to furnish the testimony, for the bringing of which they received very
liberal recompense.

Meanwhile, Dr. Parr, in ponderous sermons, exhorted her Majesty not to
despise the chastening of the Lord; and the Queen’s devout deportment
at divine service was cited by zealous advocates as evidence in favour
of her general propriety.

Indeed the Queen had no more zealous champion than the almost
octogenarian Parr. On the fly-leaf of the Prayer-book in the
reading-desk of his parish church at Hatton he entered (and one
can hardly say of Dr. Parr’s act on this occasion _dispar sibi_)
a stringent protest against the oppression to which she had been
subjected; adding a conviction entertained by him of her complete
innocence, and expressing a determination, although forbidden to pray
for her by name, to add a prayer for her mentally, after uttering
the words in the Liturgy, ‘_all_ the Royal family.’ In his heart the
stout old man prayed fervently; nor did he confine himself to such
service. A friend, knowing his opinions, his admiration of the Queen,
and the friendly feelings which had long mutually existed between
them, earnestly begged of him not to interfere in her affairs at this
conjuncture. Dr. Parr answered the request by immediately ordering his
trunk to be packed, and by proceeding to London, where he entered on
the office of her Majesty’s chaplain, procured the nomination of the
Rev. M. Fellowes to the same office, and in conjunction with him, and
often alone, wrote those royal replies to popular addresses which are
remarkable for their force, and for the ability with which they are
made to metaphorically scourge the King, without appearing to treat him
with discourtesy.

There was as much zeal, and perhaps more discretion, in those impartial
peers who, on occasion of Lord Liverpool moving the second reading of
the Bill for the 17th of August, insisted on the undoubted right of the
Queen, as an accused party, to be made acquainted with the names of the
witnesses who had come over to charge her with infamy. Lord Erskine
was particularly urgent and impressive on this point, but all to no
purpose, except the extracting an assurance from Lord Chancellor Eldon
that the accused should have, at a fitting season, a proper opportunity
to sift the character of every witness as far as possible. Lord Erskine
repeatedly endeavoured to obtain the full measure of justice for the
accused which he demanded. The Queen herself entered a hearty protest
against the legal oppression, and further begged by petition that,
as the names of the witnesses against her were withheld, she might
at least be furnished with a specification of the times and places,
when and where she was said to have acted improperly. The request
was characterised by Lord Eldon as ‘perfectly absurd,’ seeing that
the Queen could make no use of the information, if she intended, as
declared by her, to defend her case at the early period named, of the
17th of August. The reply was harsh, insulting, and illogical.

But to harshness and insult she became inured by daily experience. It
may be safely said that, if such a drama had to be enacted in our own
days, the press would certainly not distinguish itself now exactly
as it did then. Party spirit might be as strong, but there would be
more refinement in the expression of it. And assuredly, not even a
provincial paper would say of a person before trial as a Western
journal said of the Queen--that she was as much given to drunkenness
as to other vices, and that it was ridiculous to hold up as an innocent
victim a woman who, ‘if found on our pavement, would be committed to
Bridewell and whipped.’

But ministers themselves were not on a bed of roses. They were
exceedingly embarrassed by the Queen’s announcement that she intended
to be present every day in the House of Lords during the progress of
what was now properly called ‘The Queen’s Trial.’ Their anger, too,
was excited at the sharp philippics against them inserted in her
Majesty’s replies to the addresses presented to her. In those replies
the passages complained of wounded more than those against whom they
were pointed; and the authors of them had, no doubt, some mirth over
sentences intended to spoil it in the breasts of ministers charged
with rebelliously seeking to dethrone their lawful Queen. The royal
replies, too, were equally, but not so directly, severe against those
former counsellors and advocates of her Majesty who were now arrayed
on the side of her Majesty’s enemy. These replies were, of course, not
censured by the ministerial opponents in either House of Parliament.
The addresses which called them forth, however, did not escape reproach
from this quarter. Lord John Russell, in a letter to Mr. Wilberforce,
does not indeed go so far as reproach. He says: ‘I regret, though I
cannot severely blame, the language of many of the addresses that have
been presented to the Queen.’

Lord John acknowledged the political nullity of the Whigs at this
time, but he held that the Wilberforce party in the Commons were
sufficiently powerful to have successfully resisted the scandal which
the Government had brought upon the kingdom. ‘In your hands, sir,’ he
says, ‘is perhaps the fate of this country. The future historian will
ask whether it was right to risk the welfare of England--her boasted
constitution, her national power--on the event of an inquiry into the
conduct of the Princess of Wales in her villa upon the Lake of Como?
From the majority which followed you in the House of Commons, he will
conclude you had the power to prevent the die being thrown. He will ask
if you wanted the inclination.’

To this letter Lord John Russell appended a form of petition to
the King, which may not uncourteously be termed the petition of
the powerless Whig statesman. This petition smartly and smartingly
complimented his Majesty upon his liberality in offering to allow his
Queen fifty thousand a year, and to introduce her to a foreign court,
at a time when he pretended to know that she was, allegedly, perfectly
worthless, as woman, wife, and mother. With the domestic broils of King
and Queen Lord John would not interfere; but, the King having made of
them an affair of state, the ‘humble petition’ informs his Majesty
that he has been exceedingly ill-advised. With excellent spirit does
Lord John place upon record his abhorrence of enacting laws to suit
a solitary case--laws ‘which at once create the offence, regulate
the proof, decide upon the evidence, and invent the punishment.’
He asks if the Queen will escape from justice in the event of the
bill not passing? Are the ministers afraid lest she may so defraud
justice?--why, ‘that the Queen has _not_ fled from justice is not only
the admission, but forms one of the chief charges, of her prosecutors.’
Her prosecution, then, will not serve the State. Can the revelation
of her alleged iniquity at Como or Athens serve or influence public
morals in England? What is the situation of the Queen? asks Lord John,
who thus replies to his own query: ‘Separated from her husband during
the first year of her marriage, she has been forced out of that circle
of domestic affections which alone are able to keep a wife holy and
safe from evil. For the period to which the accusation extends she
has been also removed from the control of public opinion--the next
remaining check the world can afford on female behaviour.’ Lord John
perhaps makes a low estimate of female virtue when he thus concludes
that women cease to be ‘holy and safe from evil’ when they cease to
have a share in domestic affections or to be controlled by public
opinion. There is more sly humour in what follows than there is of
correctness in the noble lord’s estimation of female virtue. The
drawer-up of the petition reminds the King that what most distresses
him is ‘the uncrowning a royal head without necessity. We see much
to alarm us in the example, nothing to console us in the immediate
benefit.’ Not, says the petitioner, slyly, that we do not recognise
the right of parliament to alter the succession to the crown. ‘None
respect more than we do the Act of Settlement which took away the crown
from its hereditary successors and gave it to the House of Brunswick;’
and, as the writer alludes to the possibility of the new subject of
strife bringing the country to the verge of a civil war, he of course
intimates that parliament may again be called upon to regulate the
succession. The sum of the petition is to let the Queen alone. ‘From
her future conduct your Majesty and the nation will be enabled to
judge whether the reports from Milan were well founded, or whether
they were the offspring of curiosity and malice.’ The prayer of the
petition, therefore, is that parliament be prorogued, and ‘thus end all
proceedings against the Queen.’

Of course this petition was really a political pamphlet, introduced for
no other purpose but the exposition of certain opinions. The Queen’s
replies to the popular addresses borrowed something of the tone of this
document, and were partly sarcastic, partly serious, in regretting that
an impartial tribunal was not to be found on this occasion in the House
of Lords.

Her Majesty now once more changed her residence from Portman Street to
Brandenburgh House, the old suburban residence of the Margravine of
Anspach, on the banks of the Thames, near Hammersmith, where watch and
ward were nightly kept by volunteer sentinels from among some of the
more enthusiastic inhabitants of the vicinity. The distance, however,
was too great to enable her Majesty to repair conveniently to the
House of Lords when her trial should be in progress. The widow of Sir
Philip Francis had compassion upon her, and made her an offer, promptly
accepted, of the widow’s mansion in St. James’s Square. It was next to
that of her great enemy, Lord Castlereagh; and to reach the House of
Lords she would daily have to pass Carlton House, the residence of the
husband who was so blindly bent upon consigning her to infamy.

In the midst of these preparations for a great event died a princess
as unfortunate as Caroline, but one who bore her trials with more
wisdom. The Duchess of York, the wife of the second son of Queen
Charlotte, died on Friday, the 6th of August. Her married life had
been unhappy, and every day of it was a disgrace to her profligate,
unprincipled, and good-tempered husband. She endured the sorrows which
were of his inflicting with a silent dignity and some eccentricity.
In her seclusion at Oatlands this amiable, patient, and much-loved
lady passed a brief career, marked by active beneficence. Her blue
eyes, fair hair, and light complexion are still favourite themes of
admiration with those who have reason to gratefully remember her. A
great portion of her income was expended in founding and maintaining
schools, encouraging benefit societies, and relieving the poor and
distressed. But her benevolence had an eccentric side, and the
indulgence of it was the only indulgence she allowed herself. She loved
the brute creation, and had an especial admiration for dogs. Of these
she supported a perfect colony; and daily might her canine friends,
of every species and in considerable numbers, be seen taking their
airing in the park, often with their benevolent hostess leading the
way and taking delight in witnessing their gambols. She, perhaps, was
the more attached to them because she had been so harshly used by man;
and a touch of misanthropy was probably the basis of her regard for
animals. The progeny of her established favourites were boarded out
among the villagers, and in the park was a cemetery solely devoted as
the burial-ground of her quadruped friends. They rested beneath small
tombstones, which bore the names, age, and characters of the canine
departed. In these things may be seen the weak side of her character;
but it was a weakness that might be easily pardoned. Her character had
its firm, and perhaps humorous, side. She had patronised a party of
strolling actors, and sent her foreign servants, who could comprehend
little, to listen to the moan of Shakspeare murdered in a barn. Shortly
after, an earnest and itinerant Wesleyan hired the same locality,
and the Duchess ordered the household down to listen to the sermon.
The foreigners among them pleaded their ignorance of the language as
an excuse for not going. ‘No, no,’ said the Duchess; ‘you were ready
enough to go to the play, and you shall also go to the preaching. I am
going myself;’--and in the barn at Weybridge the official successor of
John Wesley expounded Scripture to the lineal successor of Frederick
the Great.

She had not the spirit of Caroline, and was all the happier for it. The
latter, indeed, was more harshly tried, but she in some degree provoked
the trial, and was now suffering the consequences of the provocation.
The Queen gave a few days to retirement, in consequence of the death of
the Duchess; and, this duty performed, she was again in public, working
with energy and determination to accomplish the restoration of a name
which had been tarnished by her own indiscretion. And indiscretion
is perhaps one of the most ruinous ingredients in a character. It is
a torch in the hand of the careless, firing the very garments of the
bearer.

The addresses to the Queen now became greater in number and stronger
in language. The replies to them also became more energetic and
menacing in expression. They were still popularly ascribed to Dr.
Parr, and, from whomsoever proceeding, the author very well kept in
view the personage for whom and the circumstances under which he was
speaking. Thus, to the deputation from Canterbury, one paragraph of
the royal reply was in these words: ‘When my accusers offered to load
me with wealth, on condition of depriving me of honour, my habitual
disinterestedness and my conscious integrity made me spurn the golden
lure. My enemies have not yet taught me that wealth is desirable when
it is coupled with infamy.’ This was something of self-laudation; but
in answer to the Norwich address the Queen directed attention from
herself to the perils which menaced the State through her prosecution.
The manner of that prosecution was described by her as ultimately
threatening the vital interests of individual and general liberty. ‘The
question at this moment is not merely whether the Queen shall have her
rights, but whether the rights of any individual in the kingdom shall
be free from violation.’ There was more dignity in this sentiment
and language than in the Queen’s letter addressed to the King. Of
course this epistle was not the Queen’s, but a mere manufacture, which
the King, naturally enough, would not read, or at least would not
acknowledge that he _had_ read. ‘Your court became much less a scene of
polished manners and of refined intercourse than of low intrigue and
scurrility. Spies, bacchanalians, tale-bearers, and foul conspirators
swarmed in those places which had before been the resort of sobriety,
virtue, and honour.’ But the object of the letter was less to contrast
the Regent’s court with that of the Queen Charlotte than to protest
against the constitution of the court before which she was to be tried.
In that court, she said, her accusers were her judges; the ministers
who had precondemned her commanded the majority; and the husband who
sought to destroy her exercised an influence there perilous to the fair
award of justice. She demanded to be tried according to law: ‘You have
left me nothing but my innocence,’ she remarked, ‘and you would now, by
a mockery of justice, deprive me of the reputation of possessing even
that.’

In the reply to the Middlesex address occurs the sole admission
of blame attaching to her through indiscretion. ‘My frank and
unreserved disposition may, at times, have laid my conduct open to the
misrepresentations of my adversaries.’ But ‘I am what I seem, and seem
what I am. I feel no fear, except it be the fear that my character be
not sufficiently investigated. I challenge every inquiry. I deprecate
not the most vigilant scrutiny.’ Against the method of carrying on
the scrutiny she continued to protest most heartily. ‘In the bill of
Pains and Penalties,’ she replied to the address from Shoreditch,
‘my adversaries first condemn me without proof, and then, with a
sort of novel refinement in legislative science, proceed to inquire
whether there is any proof to justify the condemnation.’ To the more
directly popular mind, to the address of the artisans, for instance,
she delivered an answer in which there is the following passage:
‘Who does not see that it is not owing to the wisdom of the Deity,
but to the hard-heartedness of the oppressors, when the sweat of the
brow during the day is followed by the tear at its close?’ This was
stirring up popular opinion against the King, of whom she invariably
spoke as her ‘oppressor.’ She, however, as significantly directed
the public wrath against the peers in her reply to the Hammersmith
address, wherein she says: ‘To have been one of the peers who, after
accusing and condemning, affected to sit in judgment on Queen Caroline,
will be a sure passport to the splendid notoriety of everlasting
shame.’ The married ladies of London went up to her with an address
of encouragement and sympathy. Her answer to this document contained
an asseveration that she was not unworthy of the sympathy of English
matrons. ‘I shall never sacrifice that honour,’ she observed, ‘which
is the glory of a woman.... I can never be debased while I observe
the great maxim of respecting myself.’ An eye-witness well remembers
seeing several of these ladies (principally wives of small shopkeepers)
descend from the hackney coaches in which they were conveyed to
Brandenburgh House. They descended the steps as a man comes down a
ladder! The Queen’s answer to them was, however, full of dignity. But
her reply to the inhabitants of Greenwich had even more of the matter
in it that would sink deep in the bosoms of mothers. After alluding to
the period when she was living happily with her daughter, among those
who were now addressing her, she added: ‘Can I ever be unmindful that
it was a period when I could behold that countenance which I never
beheld without vivid delight, and to hear that voice which to my fond
ear was like music breathing over violets? Can I forget? No; my soul
will never suffer me to forget that, when the cold remains of the
beloved object were deposited in the tomb, the malice of my persecutors
would not even suffer the name of the mother to be inscribed upon
the coffin of her child. Of all the indignities I have experienced,
this is one which, minute as it may seem, has affected me as much as
all the rest. But if it were minute, it was not so to my agonising
sensibility.’ But she observed in her reply to the Barnard Castle
address: ‘My conscience is without a pang--and what have I to fear?’
Her Majesty at the same time seldom allowed an opportunity to escape
of placing the King in, if the phrase may be allowed, a metaphorical
pillory. ‘To pretend,’ she thus spoke to the Bethnal Green deputation,
‘that his Majesty is not a party, and the sole complaining party, in
this great question, is to render the whole business a mere mockery.
His Majesty either does or does not desire the divorce which the bill
of Pains and Penalties proposes to accomplish. If his Majesty does
not desire the divorce, it is certain that the State does not desire
it in his stead; and if the divorce is the desire of his Majesty,
his Majesty ought to seek it on the same terms as his subjects; for
in a limited monarchy the law is one and the same for all.’ In the
answer to the people of Sheffield the same spirit is manifested. ‘It
would have been well for me,’ she exclaims, ‘and perhaps not ill for
the country, if my oppressor had been as far from malice as myself;
for what is it but malice of the most unmixed nature and the most
unrelenting character which has infested my path and waylaid my steps
during a long period of twenty-five years?’ Her complaint was, that
during that quarter of a century her adversaries had treated her as
if she had been insensible to the value of character. ‘For why else,’
she asks, in addressing the Reading deputation, ‘why else should they
have invited me to bring it to market, and let it be estimated by gold?
But--a good name is better than riches. I do not dread poverty, but I
loathe turpitude, and I think death preferable to shame.’ Finally, she
flattered the popular ear by placing all the authorities in the realm
below that of the sovereign people. In her reply to one of the City
Ward addresses occurs the assertion that, ‘If the power of king, lords,
and commons is limited by the fundamental laws of the realm, their acts
are not binding when they exceed those limitations. If it be asked:
“What then?--are kings, lords, and commons answerable to any higher
authority?” I distinctly answer, _yes_. “To what higher authority?” “To
that of God and of the people.”’ Lord John Russell, too, told the King
that the crown was held at the will and pleasure of the parliament;
and the Queen, speaking on that hint, now maintained that crown and
parliament were, under certain contingencies, beneath the heel of the
_peuple souverain_.

It perplexed many of the clergy that the Princess of Wales should be
continued to be prayed for up to the period of George III.’s death,
but that Queen Caroline should not be named in the Liturgy after the
decease of the only true friend she ever had in the royal family. One
military chaplain, a Mr. Gillespie, of a Scotch Yeomanry regiment,
was put under arrest for daring to invoke a blessing upon her in his
extemporary prayer for the royal family; but this was the only penalty
inflicted for the so-called offence.

CHAPTER X.

THE QUEEN’S TRIAL.

The Queen’s reception by the House of Lords--Royal progress to
the House--The Queen’s enthusiastic reception by the populace
--Their treatment of the King’s party--Marquis of Anglesea--
The Duke of Wellington’s reply to them--The Attorney-General’s
opening speech--Examination of Theodore Majocchi--The Queen
overcome at the ingratitude of this knowing rogue--Disgusting
nature of the evidence--Other witnesses examined--Mr.
Brougham’s fearless defence of the Queen--Mr. Denman’s advocacy
not less bold--His denunciation of the Duke of Clarence--
Question of throwing up the bill entertained by Ministers--
Stormy debates--Lords Grey and Grosvenor in favour of the Queen
--Duke of Montrose against her--Ministerial majority--The
Queen protests against the proceedings--The Ministers in a
minority--The bill surrendered by Lord Liverpool--Reception
of the news by the Queen--Her unspeakable grief.

The Queen’s trial, as the proceedings in the House of Lords were
called, commenced on the 17th of August. ‘Now we are in for it, Mr.
Denman,’ said her Majesty’s Attorney-General to her Solicitor-General.
With what spirit Brougham went in for it has been left on record by
Lord Denman himself, in the ‘Memoir’ edited by Sir Joseph Arnould.

‘Let me here state, once for all, that from this moment I am sure that
Brougham thought of nothing but serving and saving his client. I, who
saw him more nearly than any man, can bear witness that from the period
in question his whole powers were devoted to her safety and welfare. He
felt that the battle must be fought, and resolved to fight it manfully
and “to the utterance.”’

The Queen had signified her intention of attending daily in the House
during the proceedings, and suitable accommodation and attendance
were provided for her. In the House, at all events, she was treated
as Queen-consort, and she more than once adverted to the fact when
about to take her seat on the throne-like chair and cushion placed
at her disposal, near her counsel. Her usual course was to come up
from Brandenburgh House early in the morning to the residence of Lady
Francis in St. James’s Square. From the latter place she proceeded,
in as much ‘state’ as could be got up with her diminished means,
to the House of Lords. On these occasions she was attended by Lady
Anne Hamilton, her chamberlains, Sir W. Gell and Mr. Keppel Craven,
and Alderman Wood, who invariably endeavoured to have the honour of
escorting the Queen into the House, but was as invariably forbidden to
pass in that way by the local authorities. The alderman, being a member
of parliament, was compelled to pass through the entrance allotted to
the ‘Commons;’ and the Queen, who was received with military honours,
was usually led into the House, or to the apartment assigned to her
use, by Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt and Mr. Brougham, each holding her by a
hand.

The royal progress from St. James’s Square to the House of Peers and
the return were daily witnessed by a dense multitude, and hailed with
acclamations. The Queen thought the popular sympathy for her far
stronger than it really was. It did not indeed want for earnestness,
intensity, or honesty, but it did not go deep enough to urge the
multitude to make any serious demonstration in her favour. They
cheered her as she passed, cheered the soldiers who saluted her, and
hissed those who failed to show her that mark of respect. They hissed
or cheered the peers on their arrival according as they knew that
they were opponents or supporters of the Queen. They were especially
delighted when they succeeded in compelling a lordly adversary to
shout, or seem to shout, for the Queen. They strove mightily to bring
the Marquis of Anglesea to this; but on his assertion that rather than
do a thing against his inclination they might run him through the body,
they laughed, cheered, and let him pass on. The Duke of Wellington
served those who assailed him quite as characteristically: he was
violently hissed on his way to the House on the first day of the trial;
he checked his horse for a moment, looked round with a half-smile, as
if the people had been guilty of some absurd mistake, and then quietly
walked his horse onward. On another occasion, as he was returning from
the House, the mob insisted upon his crying ‘The Queen! the Queen!’
‘Yes, yes!’ was his reply; but his persecutors were not content
therewith, and continued to assail him as he rode slowly forward. At
length, wearied with their importunity, he is said to have turned to
his assailants and exclaimed, ‘Very well; the Queen then, and may all
your wives be like her!’

Caroline was early in her attendance on the 17th of August. She entered
the House at ten o’clock, while the names of the peers were being
called over. She wore a black satin dress, with a white veil over a
plain laced cap. The whole body of peers rose to receive her, and
she acknowledged the courtesy with that dignity which she could well
assume, and which she could so readily throw off.

It was not till the 19th of August that the case was actually opened by
the Attorney-General. The preliminary proceedings were not, however,
of much interest, save on the part of the Duke of Leinster, who
attempted by motion to get rid of the bill at once, in which he failed,
all parties being nearly agreed that there was now no possibility of
retrocession. The second incident of interest was in the speech of Mr.
Brougham against the bill, and the method by which it sought to crush
his illustrious client. While praising her self-denying generosity,
which induced her to refrain from all recrimination, he ably adverted
to the anomaly of the accused person in a case of divorce being
prevented from showing the guilt of her accuser.

On the 19th the Attorney-General opened his case. He professed his
conviction that he should state nothing which he could not substantiate
on proof, and, reviewing the general course of the Queen’s life abroad,
he deduced from it that she had been guilty of conduct which stamped
her with shame as Princess and as woman. Caroline entered the House
towards the conclusion of his speech, shortly after which he introduced
the first of the batch of Italian witnesses lodged near the House, in
Cotton Garden, and whose presence there was sufficient to render uneasy
the spirit of the philosopher who gave his name to the spot, and the
wreck of whose library is among the richest treasures of the British
Museum.

The entrance of the first witness gave rise to an incident dramatic in
its effect. He was the celebrated Theodore Majocchi, and he no sooner
appeared at the bar than the Queen, overcome, as it would seem, at
seeing one who owed her much gratitude arrayed against her, exclaimed
‘_Oh, traditore!_ (oh, traitor!)’ and, hurrying from the scene, took
refuge in her apartment, from which she did not again issue except
to return home. The chief points supposed to have been established
by Majocchi were that on the deck of the polacca Bergami slept at
night beneath the tent wherein the Princess also slept, and that the
same individual attended her when she was in the bath. The tent was
partially open in the hot climate beneath which the wayfarers were
travelling, and in the bath the Princess wore a bathing dress, so that,
if the indiscretion was undoubtedly great, indecorum was not (it was
suggested) very seriously injured. Of the remainder of Majocchi’s
evidence it has been well remarked, by one who heard it, that ‘all his
subsequent assertions did not, in consequence of what he implied by
this statement, weigh the worth of two straws with me, for it was of
the nature of inference, and deduced by the imagination. Besides, I do
think he was a knowing rogue, who forgot to remember many things which
perhaps might have changed the hue of his insinuations. I do not say
that what he did say was not sufficient to induce a strong suspicion of
guilt itself in the members of an English society; but this is the very
thing complained of. The Queen was in _foreign_ society, in peculiar
circumstances, and yet our state Solomons judge of her conduct as if
she had been among the English.’[16] The remark is worth something,
for even at so short a distance from town as Ramsgate Sands the law
of modesty does not appear to be the same as it is in other parts of
England; and as for the incident of the bath, our grandfathers and
grandmothers, in the heyday of their youth, used to walk in couples
in the ‘Baths of Bath,’ and no one presumed to take offence at the
proceeding. The writer last quoted further remarks, as a matter worthy
of observation, that Majocchi did not appear to be ‘at all shocked or
shamefaced at what he said.’ The inference deduced is that the witness
had been ‘taught to dwell so particularly on uncomely things by one who
did know how much they would revolt the English.’

It would indeed be revolting to go through all the evidence: it must
suffice to tread our way through it as lightly and as quickly as
possible. All the government witnesses deposed to an ostentation of
criminality in parties who, if guilty, must have been most deeply
interested in concealing all evidences of guilt, and one of whom at
least knew that she was constantly watched and daily reported of.
This contradiction very soon struck Lord Eldon himself, who intimated
that some measures should be taken to punish perjury, if it could be
proved to have been committed. It is certain that the King’s case was
materially damaged at a very early stage of the proceedings, not only
by discrepancy in the evidence, but by the suspicious alacrity of the
witnesses in tendering it.

A close watcher of Majocchi, when giving his evidence, says: ‘I cannot
understand why so much importance is attached to the evidence of
Majocchi. He did not state any one thing that indicated a remembrance
of his having put a sense of indecorum on the conduct of the Queen
at the time to which he referred; and in this, I think, the want of
tact in those who arranged the case is glaringly obvious. As men they
could not but have often seen that it is the nature of recollected
transactions to affect the expression of the physiognomy, and
particularly of those kinds of transactions which the _traditore_ knew
he was called to prove; yet in no one instance did Majocchi show that
there was an image in his mind, even while uttering what were thought
the most sensual demonstrations. In all the most particular instances
that pointed to guilt he was as abstract as Euclid; a logarithmic
transcendent could not have been more bodiless than the memory of his
recollections. I do not say that he was taught by others, but I affirm
that he spoke by rote.’[17]

Many of the servants examined swore positively to much unseemliness
of demeanour between Bergami and the Princess, and some went very
much further than this. Of these, several confessed to being hostile
to the courier; some were jealous of him; but they all, despite some
discrepancy of detail, kept to the leading points of their evidence,
which was destructive to the reputation of the Princess.

Captain Briggs and Captain Pechell, with whom she had sailed, deposed
to some folly, but no positive guilt. Something was attempted to be
made out of the arrangement of the respective berths on board the ship
commanded by the first officer, but with no remarkable success. The
captain of the polacca gave evidence that was much more damaging, with
reference to the unseemliness of sleeping on deck, beneath a tent--
for which the heat of the atmosphere and the horses and mules that
were below deck hardly offered sufficient authority. Again, there was
testimony of such disgraceful conduct at inns that, if it be accepted,
no other conclusion can be arrived at than that those guilty of it must
not only have been lost to all sense of shame, but eager that their
iniquity should be a spectacle to all beholders. ‘As the whole case now
is,’ says a contemporary writer, ‘by making it more gross than in all
human probability it could be, the evidence, where it might otherwise
be trusted, is rendered unworthy of credit.’

But there were incidents in the drama that were not all for the
audience. ‘Nature,’ says the writer of the ‘Supplementary Letters’
annexed to the ‘Diary Illustrative of the Court of George IV.,’ ‘often
mixes up the sublime and the ridiculous helplessly, as it would seem;
and I met to-day with a curious instance of her indifference. I forget
how it happened, but I was driven accidentally against a curtain, and
saw, in consequence, behind it Lord Castlereagh, sitting on a stair by
himself, holding his hand to his ear, to _keep_ the sound and words of
the evidence which the witness under examination at the bar was giving.
Notwithstanding the moody wrath of my ruminations, I could not help
laughing at the discovery, and his lordship looked equally amused, and
was quite as much discomposed. He smiled, and I withdrew. I met him
afterwards in the lobby of the House of Commons, when he again smiled.’

Masons, painters, whitewashers, and waiters vied, or seemed to vie,
with each other in the dirty character of their depositions. Rastelli,
a groom, but discarded as a thief, did not go further, but both sides
evidently considered him as an unmitigated scoundrel, and he was
somehow permitted to disappear, as if either side was anxious to be rid
of him. Scarcely more respectable was the woman Dumont, who dwelt on
the abominations to which she swore as if she loved thinking of them.
She was worse than the boatmen, bakers, and others with aliases to
their names, who, however, deposed to circumstances sufficiently gross
in character, and drew dreadfully strong inferences from generally
slender but occasionally very suspicious premises.

The loathsome mass was got through by the 7th of September, when the
House adjourned till the 3rd of October. The members needed breathing
time, and all parties, the public included, stood in urgent need of
that peculiar civet whose virtue, according to the poet, lies in its
power to sweeten the imagination.

The course of the trial exhibited more than one trait illustrative of
the English Bar, and also of individuals. Thus, in the interim between
the closing of the King’s case and the opening of the Queen’s defence
by Mr. Brougham, the last-named gentleman went down to Yorkshire to
attend the assizes there. The chief advocate of one Sovereign against
another was there engaged in a cause on behalf of an old woman upon
whose _pig-cot_ a trespass had been committed. The tenement in question
was on the border of a common of one hundred acres, upon five yards
of which it was alleged to have unduly encroached, and was therefore
pulled down by the landlord. The poor woman sought for damages, she
having held occupation by a yearly rental of sixpence, and sixpence
on entering. The learned counsel pleaded his poor client’s cause
successfully, and, having procured for her the value of her levelled
pig-cot, some forty shillings, he returned to town to endeavour to
plead as successfully the cause of the Queen. The re-opening of the
case took place on the 3rd of October. Before Mr. Brougham rose to
speak, Lord Liverpool made severe introductory remarks, for the purpose
of disavowing all improper dealing with the witnesses on the part of
Government. He also expressed his readiness to exhibit an account of
all moneys paid to the witnesses in support of the bill.

Mr. Brougham then entered on the Queen’s defence in a speech of great
boldness and power. The sentiments put forth in that oration were
probably not endorsed by _Lord_ Brougham. He declared, too, that
nothing should prevent him from fulfilling his duty, and that he would
recriminate upon the King if he found it necessary to do so. The threat
gave some uneasiness to ministers, but they trusted, nevertheless,
to the learned counsel’s discretion. He would have been justified in
the public mind if he had realised his promise. The popular opinion,
however, hardly supported him in what followed, when he declared that
an English advocate could look to nothing but the rights of his client,
and that, even if the country itself should suffer, his feelings as a
patriot must give way to his professional obligations. This was only
one of many instances of the abuse of the very extensively abused and
widely misunderstood maxim of _Fiat justitia ruat cœlum_.

Denman’s famous speech, which many peers thought superior to
Brougham’s, was partly prepared, as to some of its points, at one of
the ‘Sundays’ he used to spend at Holland House. There, Denman, after
suggestions from Dr. Parr, resolved to draw a parallel between Caroline
and Octavia, George and Nero. And this he did with such effect as
regards George IV. that, veiled as the most personal allusion was, the
King never forgot him who made it.

Mr. Denman, the Queen’s solicitor-general, was not less legally
audacious, if one may so speak, than his great leader. In a voice of
thunder, and in presence of the assembled peerage of the realm, he
denounced one of the King’s brothers as a calumniator. Mr. Rush, who
was present on the occasion, says, ‘the words were, “Come forth, THOU
SLANDERER!”--a denunciation,’ he goes on to say, ‘the more severe from
the sarcasm with which it was done, and the turn of his eye towards
its object.’ That object was the Duke of Clarence; and in reference to
the exclamation, and the fierce spirit of the hour generally, Mr. Rush
says: ‘Even after the whole trial had ended, Sir Francis Burdett, just
out of prison for one libel, proclaimed aloud to his constituents, and
had it printed in all the papers, that the ministers ALL DESERVED TO BE
HANGED. This tempest of abuse, incessantly directed against the King
and all who stood by him, was borne during several months, without the
slightest attempt to check or punish it; and it is too prominent a fact
to be left unnoticed that the same advocate who so fearlessly uttered
the above denunciation was made attorney-general when the prince
of the blood who was the OBJECT OF IT sat upon the throne, and was
subsequently raised to the still higher dignity of lord chief justice.’

By the end of the third day of the defence the testimony had assumed so
favourable an aspect for the Queen that ministers began to deliberate
upon the question of throwing up the bill altogether. During the
following fortnight, however, the subsequent testimony was not so
decidedly contradictory of what the witnesses on the other side had
sworn to, and the government then decided that the bill should take
its course. The first witness was a Mr. Lemann, clerk to the Queen’s
solicitor. His deposition was to the effect that he had been sent
to Baden to solicit the attendance of Baron Dante, the Grand Duke’s
chamberlain. The baron, who was proprietor of an estate in Hanover,
and who consulted his memoranda before answering the solicitation,
finally, and under sanction, if not order, of his ducal master, refused
to attend as a witness. Colonel St. Leger simply proved that he did not
resign his appointment in the Queen’s household from any knowledge of
her having conducted herself improperly, but on account of ill health.
The Earl of Guildford spoke to the general propriety of the Queen’s
conduct abroad while under his observation; and Lord Glenbervie showed
that the royal reputation had not been dimmed, in his eyes at least,
during his residence in Italy, or otherwise he would not have permitted
Lady Glenbervie to act, even for a brief time, as lady-in-waiting to
the Princess. Lady Charlotte Lindsay deposed to having heard reports
unfavourably affecting that reputation, but she had never seen anything
to confirm them. Persons of inferior rank, in attendance on the
Princess, deposed to the same effect. The testimony of Dr. Holland and
Mr. Mills was of a highly favourable character, exact and decisive. The
evidence of other witnesses was equally favourable to the character
and conduct of the courier chamberlain; and, partly in answer to the
evidence which spoke of her Royal Highness receiving strangers in her
sleeping apartments, the Earl of Llandaff, who had resided in Italy
with his lady and family, showed that such a circumstance was a part
of the custom of Italy. Mr. Keppel Craven, who had originally engaged
Bergami for the service of the Princess, declared that the individual
in question brought excellent testimonials with him, and that he was of
respectable family and behaved with propriety. Mr. Craven added that
he had heard much about spies, and that he had admonished the Princess
touching the being seen with Bergami in attendance as a servant. This
evidence was corroborated by that of Sir W. Gell. A writer, commenting
upon the testimony of these witnesses and that given on the other
side, remarks: that the witnesses on the King’s side ‘told improbable
stories, and none of them had the look of speaking from recollection
... there is a visible difference between the expression of the
countenance in telling a recollection and an imagination, especially
such stories as they told.’[18]

It was further proved that, if Bergami kissed the Princess’s hand, he
did no more than what was commonly done by respectable Italian servants
by way of homage to their mistress.

This ‘plain sailing’ was, however, somewhat marred by the contradictory
evidence of Lieutenant Flynn; and even that of Lieutenant Hownam was
sufficient to show that the Princess, if not the most gross, was
certainly the most indiscreet, of ladies. Other witnesses spoke to
dresses and dances, which had been described as disgraceful in their
character, being really harmless; and others again showed that certain
unedifying sights could not have been seen by the witnesses who had
sworn to having been spectators of them from the place in which they
stood. Again, the evidence did not lack which proved the purchasing
of testimony on the other side, and some excitement was raised when,
on the presence of Rastelli being required, it was found that he had
been permitted to leave the country. In the opinion of some, he had
been conveyed away by the prosecuting party. A few thought he had
disappeared with the connivance of both sides.

The entire evidence was closed on the 30th of October. Allusion has
been already made to Mr. Denman’s speech, which was ably made, now, in
summing up the evidence for the defence. It closed rather unaptly in
terms, the remembrance of which embittered many years of the speaker’s
life--for it seemed to undo all that had been previously said and
done: ‘This, my Lords, is the highest tribunal on earth; it can only be
exceeded by that where all the world shall be judged, and the secrets
of all hearts laid open. I invoke you, my Lords, therefore, to imitate
the wisdom, justice, and beneficence of that high and sacred Authority
who said to the woman brought before him: “If no accuser come forward,
neither will I condemn thee. Go in peace, and sin no more.”’

The Lords adjourned to the 2nd of November, from which day to the 6th
the peers were engaged in debates upon the evidence, almost every
member assigning reasons for the vote he intended to give. Mr. Rush
describes the character of the debates as the case approached its
close. It was ‘stormy’ in the extreme. ‘Earl Grey declared that, if
their lordships passed the bill, it would prove the most disastrous
step the House had ever taken. Earl Grosvenor said that, feeling as he
did the evils which the erasure of the Queen’s name from the Liturgy
(a measure taken before her trial came on) was likely to entail upon
the nation, as well as its repugnance to law and justice, he would, had
he been Archbishop of Canterbury, have thrown the Prayer-book in the
King’s face sooner than have consented to it. On the other hand, the
Duke of Montrose said, even after the ministers had abandoned the bill,
that, so convinced was he of her guilt, whatever others might think to
do, he, for one, would never acknowledge her as his Queen.’

The bill, however, was not yet abandoned. The House divided on the
6th of the month, on the second reading, which was carried by 123 to
95, giving ministers a majority of 28. The Queen immediately signed a
protest against the nature of the proceeding. The document terminated
with these words: ‘She now most deliberately, and before God, asserts
that she is wholly innocent of the crime laid to her charge, and she
awaits with unabated confidence the final result of this unparalleled
investigation’--and as she signed the protest she exclaimed, with a
dash of her pen, ‘there, “Caroline _regina_,” in spite of them.’

By a clever manœuvre of her friends the ministers were next cast into a
minority. The House had gone into committee on the divorce clause. The
clause was distasteful to some of the bishops. Dr. Howley, indeed, is
said to have held that the King could do no wrong, even if he broke the
seventh commandment. Others, however, thought that a man so notoriously
guilty in that respect was not justified in seeking to destroy his
wife, even if she were as guilty as _he_ was. The clause was objected
to by many peers, and _popularly_ it was distasteful for something of
the same reasons. The ministers, thinking to gain a point by abandoning
a clause, moved the omission of this very clause of divorce. But the
Queen’s friends immediately saw that, by the retaining of the clause,
the bishops and others who preferred the bill without it would be less
likely to vote for the passing of the bill itself. They accordingly
voted that the divorce clause should be retained, and the ministers,
in a minority on this point, proposed the third reading of the bill
with the clause in question in the body of it. One hundred and eight
voted for it, and ninety-nine against it. The ministry were thus only
in a majority of nine--exactly the number of the peers who were
members of the cabinet--and after a short delay Lord Liverpool made
a merit of surrendering the measure as an offering to popular feeling,
although they had carried the bill--with too small a majority, as he
confessed, to enable ministers to act upon it.

The Queen was in her own apartment in the House of Lords when the
intelligence was brought her by her excited counsel that the bill of
Pains and Penalties had been abandoned. She received the intimation
in perfect silence, hardly seeming to comprehend the fact, or perhaps
scarcely knowing how it should be appreciated. The ministers had
carried their bill, but even their withdrawing of it would not prove
her guiltless. ‘I shall never forget,’ says one present, ‘what was
my emotion when it was announced to me that the bill of Pains and
Penalties was to be abandoned. I was walking towards the west end
of the long corridor of the House of Lords, wrapt in reverie, when
one of the door-keepers touched me on the shoulder and told me the
news. I turned instantly to go back into the House, when I met the
Queen coming out alone from her waiting-room, preceded by an usher.
She had been there unknown to me. I stopped involuntarily. I could
not, indeed, proceed, for she had a _dazed_ look, more tragical than
consternation: she passed me. The usher pushed open the folding
doors of the great staircase; she began to descend, and I followed
instinctively two or three steps behind her. She was evidently all
shuddering, and she took hold of the bannisters, pausing for a moment.
Oh, that sudden clutch with which she caught the railing! Never say
again to me that any actor can feel like a principal. It was a visible
manifestation of unspeakable grief--an echoing of the voice of the
soul. Four or five persons came in from below before she reached the
bottom of the stairs. I think Alderman Wood was one of them, but I
was in indescribable confusion.... I rushed past, and out into the
hastily-assembling crowd.... I knew not where I was; but in a moment a
shouting in the balcony above, on which a number of gentlemen from the
interior of the House were gathering, roused me. The multitude then
began to cheer, but at first there was a kind of stupor. The sympathy,
however, soon became general, and, winged by the voice, soon spread up
the street. Every one instantly, between Charing Cross and Whitehall,
turned and came rushing down, filling Old and New Palace Yards as if a
deluge was unsluiced.’[19]

It was asked by many why Bergami himself had not been summoned to
deny upon oath any charge of guilt with the Queen, but Mr. Denman
had given sufficient reason in his speech. ‘If,’ he said, ‘any _man_
guilty of the charge was examined he would deny it. I firmly believe
the feeling among mankind in such a case would triumph over morality.
It would be found better to violate the oath than betray the victim.’
This is, doubtless, true; but like the concluding sentence of Denman’s
speech, already quoted, it seemed to some persons to damage as much
as defend. The Queen had said, in her fear of her attorney-general,
‘If my head is placed on Temple Bar, it will be through Mr. Brougham.’
She stood in greater peril from the studied words of Denman than from
the unpremeditated and impetuous utterances of Brougham. The Queen’s
own utterances did not want for boldness. It is reported of her having
said at the time of the trial that she was, perhaps, not altogether
blameless, since she had certainly lived with Mrs. Fitzherbert’s
husband!

CHAPTER XI.

‘TRISTIS GLORIA.’

The result of the Queen’s trial advantageous to neither party--
The Queen’s application to Parliament for a residence--Lord
Liverpool’s reply--Royal message from the Queen to Parliament,
and its discourteous reception--The Queen goes to St. Paul’s
to return thanks--Uncharitable conduct of the Cathedral
authorities--Their unseemly behaviour rebuked by the Lord Mayor
--Revenue for the Queen recommended by the King--Accepted by
her--The Coronation of George IV.--The Queen claims a right to
take part in the ceremony--Her right discussed--Not allowed
--Determines to be present--The Queen appears at the Abbey,
and is refused admittance--With a broken spirit retires--
Her sense of degradation--The King labours to give _éclat_
to his Coronation--The Coronation-festival in Westminster
Hall described--Appearance of the Duke of Wellington--His
banquet to the King--The King’s speech on the occasion--True
greatness of the Duke--Anecdote of Louis XIV. and Lord Stair--
Regal banquet to the foreign ministers--The Duke of Wellington
appears as an Austrian general--Incident of the Coronation--
Lord Londonderry’s banquet to the minister of Louis Napoleon.

The Queen was in tears when the ‘people’ were rejoicing, less certainly
for her sake than for the popular victory which had been achieved.
There was nothing in the issue of the trial for any party to rejoice
at. The ministry could not exult, for although they had carried the
bill which declared the Queen worthy of degradation from her rights and
privileges, rank and station, yet they refrained from acting upon it,
because the popular voice was hoarse with menace, so unfairly had the
case of the two antagonists been tried before the august tribunal of
the peers.

The popular voice had been heeded, and was satisfied with the triumph.
Caroline must have felt that she was really of but secondary account
in the matter, that the victory was not for her, and that, righteously
or unrighteously, her reputation had been irretrievably shaken into
ruins.

Her great spirit, however, was as yet undaunted. The bill was no
sooner withdrawn than she formally applied to Lord Liverpool to be
furnished with a fitting place of residence and a suitable provision.
The premier’s reply informed her Majesty that the King was by no means
disposed to permit her to reside in any of the royal palaces, but
that the pecuniary allowance which she had hitherto enjoyed would be
continued to her until parliament should again meet for the regular
despatch of business. Caroline, determined to harass her husband, next
sent the following note to the prime minister:--‘The Queen requests
Lord Liverpool to inform his Majesty of the Queen’s intention to
present herself next Thursday in person at the King’s Drawing-room,
to have the opportunity of presenting a petition to his Majesty for
obtaining her rights.’

The following humiliating minute was accordingly made to guide the
King:--‘If the Queen should decline delivering her petition into any
hands but the King’s, the King should not be advised to permit her to
come up to the Drawing-room, but should himself go down to the room
where the Queen is, attended by such of his household and his ministers
as may be there, and receive the petition.’

The then present parliament was about to be prorogued, and the Queen
was resolved that, if possible, that body should not separate until it
had granted her what, as Queen-consort, she had a right to demand. Her
solicitor-general, accordingly, went down to the Commons with a royal
message, which he was not permitted to deliver. The House probably
never presented such a scene as that disgraceful one of the night
of the 23rd of November. Mr. Denman stood with the Queen’s letter in
his hand; he was perfectly in order, but the Speaker chose rather to
obey that brought by the usher of the black rod, summoning the members
to attend at the bar of the Lords and listen to the prorogation. The
Speaker hurried out of the House, and the Queen’s message was virtually
flung into the street. The public, however, knew that its chief object
was to announce the Queen’s refusal of any allowance or accommodation
made to her as by ministerial bounty. She still claimed the restoration
of her name to the Liturgy, and a revenue becoming her recognised rank
as Queen-consort.

In the meantime she publicly partook of the Holy Communion at the
parish church of Hammersmith, a proceeding which many persons
considered as a new protestation of her innocence. The admirers of
coincidences affected to have found a remarkable one in the first
lesson for the day, on this occasion (Isaiah lix.); and particularly in
the verse which declares that ‘Judgment is turned away backward, and
justice standeth afar off, for truth is fallen into the street, and
equity cannot enter.’ This was considered as applicable to the Queen’s
case, but, as its applicability presented itself in a double sense,
every one construed it as he thought best.

Caroline’s next step was to proceed to St. Paul’s in solemn, public
array, to return thanks for her escape from the meshes constructed for
her by her enemies. Due notice was given of her Majesty’s intention
and object to the Cathedral authorities, and the day appointed by her
was the 29th of November. The intimation excited in those authorities
neither admiration nor respect. Even the dean, the mild and virtuous
Van Mildert, seemed to think that it was highly unbecoming in the Queen
to be grateful for the dispensations of Heaven. The whole chapter
thought, or were taught to think, that there was no greater nuisance
upon earth than for this woman to come to St. Paul’s and thank God that
he had not allowed her enemies to prevail over her. Those who may have
any doubt as to these being the capitular sentiments are referred to
the ‘Life of Lord Sidmouth,’ by Dean Pellew, who records with emphatic
approval what the good, but mistaken, Van Mildert very uncharitably
said and did upon the occasion.

The Corporation of London were anxious to facilitate the Queen’s
object; the Chapter of St. Paul’s, under pressure from very high
authority without, resolved to do all they could to impede it. They
determined that nothing should be changed in the ordinary service; that
the Queen’s presence or purpose should in no way be recognised; that
the doors should be thrown open to the rush of Queen and _canaille_
indiscriminately; and that the mayor and corporation should be held
responsible for the safety of the Cathedral.

The chief magistrate and his council soon, however, brought the chapter
to a more proper sense of seemliness. The latter body indeed would not
yield on any really ecclesiastical point; but they agreed that certain
arrangements might be made by the mayor and his corporate brothers for
the better maintenance of the decorum, dignity, and decency becoming so
solemn an occasion.

The dean was satisfied that the unwashed artisans--the unclean
public generally--would make of the day a ‘saturnalia,’ a festival
of obscene desecration. The public, it is to be hoped, pleasingly
surprised him. It generally comports itself with propriety when it
descends in countless masses into the streets to form a portion of the
solemnity, partly actors, partly spectators, on great occasions. The
people never behaved with more decency than they did on this day.

The circumstance was really solemn, but there were matters about it
that robbed it of some of its solemnity. It was solemn to see a Queen
proceeding alone, as it may be said, but through myriads of people,
to acknowledge publicly the mercies of Heaven. Lady Anne Hamilton was
her solitary female English attendant; but every woman who witnessed
her progress either praised or pitied her that day. Her ‘procession’
was made up of very slender material, though all her court followed
her in the person of Mr. Vice-Chamberlain Craven. This little company,
however, was swollen by numerous additions on the way; members of
parliament, among others, Sir Robert Wilson, Mr. Hume, and Mr. John
Cam Hobhouse, lent some dignity by their presence. Horsemen fell
into the line, vehicles of every degree took up their following, and
the ‘trades’ marshalled themselves, either in joining the march or
drawing up to greet the pious Queen as she passed upon her way. Among
these, perhaps, the solemnity most suffered. Some very ill-favoured
individuals shouted for her Majesty beneath banners which declared,
‘Thus shall it be done to the woman whom the people delight to honour.’
The braziers added a joke to the occasion by raising a flag over their
position at the end of Bridge Street, on which it was recorded that
‘The Queen’s Guards are Men of Metal.’

With the addition of the ordinary civic pomp the Queen arrived at
the Cathedral, where she was received with affectionate respect by
her friends, and with some show of courtesy by the ecclesiastical
authorities, who had wiled away the time previous to her arrival by
squabbling rather too loudly for the place and occasion with the
corporation present.

The usual service was then proceeded with, and again the coincidence
hunters sought for their favourite spoil. They found abundance of what
they desired in the hundred-and-fortieth and the following psalms. But
of these the phrases cut both ways, and perhaps there was no passage
more personally applicable to the Queen, and some of those friends less
in deed than in word, than where it is written, ‘Oh let not my heart be
inclined to _any_ evil thing; let me not be occupied in ungodly works
with the men that work wickedness, lest I eat such things as please
them. Let the righteous rather smite me friendly, and reprove me. _But_
let not their precious balsam break my head; yea, I will pray yet
against their wickedness.’ No especial form of thanksgiving was made
use of in her Majesty’s name, but this was not needed. It was, however,
imperative upon the clergy officiating to read the parenthetical clause
in the General Thanksgiving prayer, which has immediate reference to
the individual who desires to make an offering of human gratitude to
God. This clause, however, was omitted! The Queen-consort of England
was upon her knees upon the floor of the Cathedral, but the officiating
minister virtually looked up to Him, and standing between Caroline
and her Creator, exclaimed, ‘Lord, she is not here!’ The omission of
the clause was tantamount to this. The people behaved better than the
priests on that day; and yet it was one on which the priests might have
found occasion to give valuable instruction to the people. Those of St.
Paul’s mistook their mission on the day in question.

This spiritual matter ended, the temporal welfare of the Queen had to
be looked to. If she could have existed upon good wishes, she would
have been wealthy, for never did congratulatory addresses pour in
upon her as at the end of this year and the beginning of that which
followed. But she needed something more substantial than good wishes,
and the King himself acknowledged as much in a speech from the throne,
delivered on the re-opening of parliament in January, 1821. His
Majesty recommended that a separate provision should be made for the
Queen-consort. She instantly declared her refusal of any provision that
was not accompanied by the restoration of her name in the Liturgy. The
condition was peremptorily declined by the government, and the income
of 50,000_l._ a year was then accepted by the Queen. In this step
she disappointed numberless friends, who would not have contributed
a farthing to her maintenance. But stern necessity broke the pride
of the poor lady, who was beginning to feel that a banker without
‘effects’ for her use was a worse thing than a Liturgy without her
name. Her increased revenue enabled her to bear the expenses of a town
establishment, which she now formed at Cambridge House, South Audley
Street, but her favourite residence was still that on the banks of the
Thames.

Early in May, 1821, the ceremony of the King’s coronation began to
be spoken of as an event that was about to take place. Caroline did
not forget that she was Queen-consort. She immediately addressed
Lord Liverpool, claiming to take part in the ceremony. The claim
was made literally in these words:--‘The Queen, from circumstances,
being obliged to remain in England, she requests of the King will be
pleased to command those ladies of the first rank his Majesty may think
the most proper in the realm to attend the Queen on the day of the
Coronation, of which her Majesty is informed is now fixed, and also to
name such ladies which will be required to bear her Majesty’s train
on that day. The Queen, being particularly anxious to submit to the
good taste of his Majesty, most earnestly entreats the King to inform
the Queen in what dress the King wishes the Queen to appear in on that
day at the Coronation.’ The premier replied that, as his Majesty had
determined that the Queen should form no part of the ceremonial of the
coronation, it was his royal pleasure that she should not even attend
the ceremony itself. Ever active when she could inflict annoyance on
the King by claiming what she very well knew he would never concede,
she succeeded in obtaining a hearing for her legal advisers in her
behalf before the Privy Council. They served her to the best of their
ability, but in truth they had no right upon their side, and the
arguments which they raised to prove what could not be demonstrated
fell down as rapidly as they were constructed. Mr. Brougham deduced a
presumed right from a curious fact, from a circumstance of a law being
passed in the year 784 _excluding_ Queen Adelberga from the ceremony
of being crowned Queen of the West Saxons, because she had murdered a
former husband. The most early instance in which the title of Queen
is given to a wife of a King of Wessex in any contemporary document
occurs in the reign of Edmund, A.D. 945. The West Saxons, it will be
remembered, had well-nigh dethroned Ethelwolf for crowning his wife
Judith, on the ground that by so doing he had violated the laws of
the West Saxons, made by them on the death of their King Bertric. ‘It
has been supposed,’ says Lingard, in his History of the Anglo-Saxon
Church, ‘that Queens were crowned, because in some MSS. the order
for the coronation of a Queen follows that for the coronation of a
King; but this proves only that both orders were contained in the
original from which the copy was made.’ The same writer also states
that the little Queen Judith was so beloved that the people ultimately
acquiesced in her coronation without a murmur. Mr. Brougham never
pleaded a cause more unsuccessfully than on this day. Mr. Denman,
the Queen’s solicitor-general, was, if not more successful, at least
infinitely more reasonable. He grounded his application upon the
simple and incontrovertible fact, that the Queen was in so unfortunate
a position as to be unable to waive any right she considered she
possessed without being exposed to the most injurious imputations. ‘He
begged to impress upon their lordships, as well as upon the country,
that the claim of his illustrious client was put forth in self-defence,
because her Majesty could not forego that claim without hazarding her
reputation or sacrificing her honour, which, to her, was dearer than
life itself.’

The King’s attorney-general showed that, if claim there were, it
rested solely on usage, and that here the law of usage was without
application, as a coronation of a Queen-consort was not a right, but
a mere favour conferred by the King. The Queen, in short, could no
more _demand_ her own coronation than she could that of the King. The
Privy Council made a report accordingly; it was approved by the King,
and a copy was transmitted to Viscount Hood. The purport of it was--
that, as the queens consort of this realm are not entitled of right to
be crowned at any time, it followed that her Majesty Queen Caroline
was not entitled as of right to be crowned at the time specified in
her Majesty’s memorial. The conclusion was disagreeable, but it was
inevitable. They who thought, however, that it would silence the
Queen for ever, were much mistaken. If she could not form a part of
the ceremony, she could mar it by her presence; and this she resolved
to effect. An announcement was made to Lord Sidmouth of the Queen’s
intention to be present at the coronation on the 19th of July, and she
demanded that a suitable place might be appointed for her accordingly.
The noble lord, in a letter commencing ‘Madam,’ and terminating without
the signature of the writer, informs the Queen that it was not his
Majesty’s intention to comply with the application contained in her
letter.

The Queen was none the less bent upon appearing in the Abbey, and due
notification of the fact was made to the Duke of Norfolk, as earl
marshal of England, with the request added that his grace would order
persons to be in attendance to conduct the Queen to her seat. The earl
marshal transmitted the letter containing the notification and request
to Lord Howard of Effingham, who was the ‘acting earl marshal’ on the
day in question, and that official ‘made his humble representations
to her Majesty of the impossibility, under existing circumstances, of
his having the honour of obeying her Majesty’s commands.’ Her Majesty,
however, was not so easily got rid of. She now addressed a note to the
Archbishop of Canterbury, informing him of her desire to be crowned,
some day after the King, and before the arrangements for the previous
ceremony had been done away with. The lord primate humbly replied that
he was the King’s servant, and was ready to obey any commands that he
might receive from his royal master. Thus foiled once more, the Queen
issued a protest against the proceedings. This document was drawn up
by the law-advisers of her Majesty. It re-asserted that the Queen
could claim as of right to be crowned, and yet it admitted that there
had been cases in which the exercise of the right ‘was from necessity
suspended, or from motives of policy checked;’ and though perhaps not
in the sense in which it was understood by the Queen’s council, the
King now saw that there was a ‘necessity’ for the suspension of the
right claimed, and that there were ‘motives of policy,’ as well as of
personal feeling, for declining to authorise the exercise of it. The
protest was addressed to the King, from whom, says the royal protester,
‘the Queen has experienced only the bitter disappointment of every hope
she had indulged;’ but--and it was in such phrases she was made to
represent the nation as hostile against the King--‘in the attachment of
the people she has found that powerful and decided protection which has
ever been her ready support and unfailing consolation.’

Her Majesty’s legal advisers supposed, at least they hoped, that she
had now done enough for her dignity, and that with this protest would
end all further prosecution of a matter which could not be carried
further without much peril to that dignity and to her self-respect. But
even _they_ did not know of what metal she was made. On the coronation
day she was up with the dawn, determined to penetrate into the Abbey,
or resolved to test the popular attachment, the powerful and decided
protection of the people, the ready support of the public, of which
she boasted in her last protest, and see if, upon one or other of
these visionary essences, she could not be borne to the end which she
ardently desired. Her health had already begun to suffer from the
effects of the unsettled and agitated career through which she had
passed, but her resolution was above all thoughts of health. She was
like the sick gladiator, determined to stand in the arena, trusting to
the chance of striking an effective blow and yet almost assured that
defeat was certain.

At six o’clock in the morning, the poor Queen, in a carriage drawn
by six horses, and with Lord and Lady Hood and Lady Anne Hamilton in
attendance upon her, proceeded down to Westminster. The acclamations
of the people hailed her on her way, and she reached the front of
Westminster Hall without obstruction. If many a shout here welcomed
her as she descended from her carriage, there was something like fear,
too, in many a breast, lest the incident, peaceful as it seemed, should
not end peacefully. After some hesitation, Caroline, attended as above
mentioned, advanced to the doors of the Hall, amid much confusion, both
of people and soldiery--the first were eager to witness the result,
the second were uncertain how to act, and their leaders appeared
as uncertain how to direct them. The officer on guard respectfully
declined allowing her to pass, even though she were, as she said,
Queen of England. He could only obey his orders, and they were to this
effect: to give passage to no one whatever who was not the bearer of a
ticket. The Queen turned away, disappointed, proceeded on foot to other
doors, and encountered only similar results. It was a pitiable sight to
see her, hurrying along the platform by which her husband was presently
to march in gorgeous array, seeking for permission to pass the way she
would go, ejected alike wherever she made the application, forced back
in one direction by officers in authority, and turned off the platform,
not roughly, but yet turned off, by the common men; and not an arm of
the multitude, upon whose aid she reckoned, was raised to help her to
her end. They pitied her, perhaps, but as her presence there promised
to mar the splendour of which they hoped to be spectators, they wished
she were gone, and rather tolerated than encouraged her.

Never was Queen cast so low as she, when, flurried, fevered, now in
tears and now hysterically laughing, she stood at the door of the Abbey
haggling with the official who acted as porter, and striving to force
or win her way into the interior. The chief of the ‘door-keepers’
demanded to see her ticket, but Lord Hood claimed exemption for her on
account of her recognised rank: the door-keeper would not recognise the
claim. ‘This is your Queen!’ said Lord Hood. ‘Yes, I am your Queen;
will you admit me?’ The assertion and the request were repeatedly made,
but always with the same effect. No passage could be given without
the indispensable ticket. Lord Hood possessed one, and the Queen
appeared for a moment inclined to pass in with that. But her heart
failed her, and, half-laughing, to hide perhaps what she could not
conceal, her half-crying, she declined to go in without her ladies.
Finally, a superior officer appeared, and respectfully intimated that
no preparations whatever had been made for the accommodation of her
Majesty; upon which, after looking around her, as if searching for
suggestions or help from the people, and finding no encouragement, she
assented to Lord Hood’s proposition, that it were better for her to
enter her carriage and return home.

She had dared the hazard of the die: the cast had been unfortunate.
She, for the first time, felt degraded, and she withdrew, still, like
the gladiator from the arena, conscious of bearing the wound of which
death must ultimately and speedily come.

Meanwhile, let us tarry for a moment at the Hall and the Abbey. It
is not likely that England will ever again behold such a scene of
coronation splendour as that of George IV., and it is quite certain
that England would not care to do so. The national taste does not
merely regulate itself by the national purse, but by general principle;
and it is an incontrovertible fact, that the outlay of millions for the
crowning of one man involves the violation of a principle which the
nation desires to see respected.

Never did sovereign labour as George IV. laboured to give _éclat_
to the entire ceremony. He passed days and nights with his familiar
friends in discussing questions of dress, colours, fashions, and
effects. His own costume was to him a subject of intense anxiety,
and when his costly habits were completed, so desirous was he to
witness their effect that, according to the gossip of the day, a
court-gossip which was not groundless, his Majesty had one of his own
servants attired in the royal garments, and the King contemplated with
considerable satisfaction the sight of a menial pacing up and down the
room in the monarch’s garb. The man did his office with as much mock
gravity as the dramatic King, Mr. Elliston, when he showered tipsy
benedictions upon the public as he crossed the platform over the pit of
Drury Lane.

But it is true in real things as it is in tragedies, that ‘the King’
is not necessarily the principal character. Even in a ballet the
sovereign is less cared for than the chief dancer who cuts _entrechats_
in his presence. So at the coronation festival of George IV., although
he was first in rank and as princely as any in bearing, he was very
far from being the first in consequence or the foremost man in the
people’s love. This matter is admirably put by Mr. Rush, the American
ambassador to our court, who witnessed the ceremony, and made a very
nice distinction as to the true position of the principal actors in it.
In his account of the scene the amiable and accomplished diplomatist
remarks that the chief splendour of the day, where all wore an air
of joy and animation, was in the Hall. ‘The table for the King’s
banquet,’ he remarks, ‘was spread on the royal platform; the foreign
ambassadors and ministers had theirs in the painted chamber of the
house of lords, a communicating apartment under the same roof--but we
ran from it soon to come into the hall, the centre of all attraction.
The peeresses, peers, and others associated with them had theirs in
the body of the hall. Here six long tables were laid, three on each
side, leaving a vista, or aisle, open in the middle, which directly
fronted the royal platform. The platform and all the seats were covered
with crimson, which, with the peeresses richly dressed, and the plate
on the banqueting-tables, and the company all seated, with the King
at the head of his sumptuous table, shaped as a crescent, so that he
and a few seated on his right and left faced the whole company, made
the spectacle extremely magnificent. The comptroller and clerk of the
kitchen, and purveyor of wines, had not, as may be imagined, overlooked
their duties. But when the Champion appeared at the opposite extremity
of the hall, directly in front of the King, nothing seen at first but
tufts of plumes waving from his horse’s head and his own helmet,
startling emotions arose in every bosom. Curiosity was breathless to
see what was coming. He was attended by Howard of Effingham, and by
Anglesea, and by another greater than all--the DUKE OF WELLINGTON;
and as these, all on horseback, entered abreast, the Champion heralding
his challenge, and the horses seeming almost in contact with the
outward line of peeresses at the table, yet obedient to the bit which
they kept champing--as this equestrian train slowly advanced in
martial grace and strength up the aisle towards the King, all eyes
were seen turned upon one man in it. In vain did the declining sun
through the vast old Gothic edifice throw beams upon the bright and
heavy armour of the Champion; in vain was it, when the horses reaching
by slow, impatient steps the top of the aisle, and proudly halting at
the steps of the royal platform, that the stout-clad Champion again
put forth his challenge, threw down his glove, received the cup _from_
his sovereign, and drank _to_ his sovereign--in vain all this; the
beauty and chivalry at the banqueting-tables still looked at the Duke
of Wellington; still kept their eyes on the man whose person and horse
recalled, not war in romance, but its stern and recent realities. All
were at gaze--fixed, silent. He was habited only as a peer, had only
his staff as Lord High Constable, yet was he the observed of all.
Nowhere was he more intently eyed than from the box where sat the
assembled ambassadors of the potentates of Europe. Judging from opinion
in that box, there was nothing in the elaborate grandeur of the day
to rival the scene. It was the inherent pre-eminence of a great man
exalting moral admiration above the show of the whole kingdom.’ This
was the imperative fact. The King was the great figure of the hour,
but the Duke was the great hero of the age; and the truth was not lost
sight of in the gorgeous splendour of the spectacle.

To do the King justice, it must be confessed that he was among the
first to acknowledge the pre-eminence of the Duke as regarded his
services and merits. At the dinner given by the Duke of Wellington, a
few days after the coronation, in honour of the new sovereign, and with
that monarch as chief guest, this acknowledgment was very gracefully
made. At this splendid banquet, after the noble host had proposed the
health of his royal guest--a toast that was drunk all standing and
all silent, the King himself merely rising to bow his thanks to the
company--George IV. in turn proposed, in a brief speech, the health
of the Duke. ‘The purport of his remarks,’ says Mr. Rush, who was
present at this interesting festival, was, ‘that, had it not been for
the exertions of his friend upon the left (it was so that he spoke of
the Duke), he, the King, might not have had the happiness of meeting
those whom he now saw around him at that table; it was, therefore,
with particular pleasure that he proposed his health. The King spoke
his words with emphasis and great apparent pleasure. The Duke made no
reply, but took in respectful silence what was said. The King continued
sitting while he spoke, as did the company, in profound silence under
his words.’

The silence of the host was true courtesy. It has not escaped Mr.
Rush’s discernment. ‘I thought,’ he says, ‘of Johnson, when George III.
complimented him: the innate dignity of great minds is the same. In
Johnson it was that of the rough, virtuous recluse--whose greatness
was that of the author. In Wellington it was externally moulded into
the will which armies and courts, and long association with the _élite_
of mankind, may be supposed to give. Johnson did not bandy civilities
with his Sovereign, whom he had never seen before; nor did Wellington,
who saw him every day!’ It is ever the same with true gentlemen.

It would seem, however, that all the nobles who shone at the coronation
festivities of George IV. were not so perfect in politeness as the
warrior-duke. King George IV. gave a banquet to the ambassadors
specially sent to grace the high solemnity of the coronation. To this
banquet the foreign ministers generally and the members of the cabinet
were invited and were present. The American Ambassador sat next to
Lord Londonderry, and the two discussed between themselves the power,
pretensions, and infamy of Russia, Lord Londonderry affecting to trust
to the moderation of the Muscovite--a moderation which has been more
truly described by Lord John Russell as more menacing than the ambition
of other powers. The conversation then fell upon English society; and
while on this theme Lord Londonderry remarked, ‘that the higher the
rank and education, the better bred, as a general rule, their people
in England--so he believed it was considered.’ Setting aside the
fact that this is only partially true, it was at the same time a most
uncourteous remark to be made by one who was high in rank and education
to a commoner. But the Stewart-Castlereaghs have ever been unlucky in
their civilities, and with their precious balsams they have too often
bruised the heads they would only have anointed. Witness the fact of
the banquet given by the late Marquis of Londonderry to the ambassador
of Louis Napoleon. Everything was well done but one, and that one
thing, ill done, marred all besides that was well. The room in which
the English host welcomed his French guest was decorated with pierced
and battered French cuirasses, which had covered the breasts of gallant
French enemies at Waterloo. The man who is fortunate enough to kill an
adversary in a duel may, possibly, in after years, be reconciled with
that adversary’s brother, and perhaps entertain him at dinner; but he
would hardly think of hanging up the dead man’s clothes (purchased as
a trophy from his valet) in his dining-room.

The grand banquet at Carlton House was given on the 26th July. The
special and ordinary ambassadors and the ministers were present. The
monarch’s brothers were also among the guests--always excepting
the Duke of Sussex, whose sympathies for Queen Caroline had been too
markedly and publicly expressed.

‘We were invited,’ says Mr. Rush, ‘at seven o’clock. As my carriage
turned into Pall Mall from the foot of St. James’s Street, the old
clock at St. James’s struck seven, and before I reached Carlton Palace
all the carriages appeared to be entering or coming out through the
double gates of the Ionic screen in front of the palace. Mine was among
the last that drove up to the portico, and by a very few minutes past
seven all the guests, save one, were assembled in the reception rooms.
I had never before witnessed such punctuality at any dinner in England.

‘The King entered a minute or two afterwards, and saluted his guests
generally, then went the rounds, speaking to each individually. With
the special ambassadors he paused longest. Time had now run on to
more than a quarter past seven, still one of the guests had not yet
arrived, and that one was the Duke of Wellington. The man not apt
to be behind time when his Majesty’s enemies were to be met was, it
seems, in meeting his friends. Five minutes more went by, and still
no Duke of Wellington; critical moments when each one seemed to count
two. At length, in one of the rooms at a distance, the Duke was seen;
he was dressed in the uniform of an Austrian field-marshal, a plain
round-about jacket of white cloth and white under-dress to suit,
relieved by scarcely anything but his sword. The dress, being tight
and simple, gave to his person a thinner look than usual; and as he
kept advancing with easy step, quite alone, and a general silence
prevailing, the King separated himself from the group of ambassadors
where he was standing, and when he got near enough stepped forward
to meet him. With both hands he shook the Duke by both with great
cordiality, saying something which the company could not hear, but
which, from the manner, we took to be a good-natured rally upon
his late arrival. The Duke received it with placid composure, made
no reply, but bowed. When liberated from the friendly grasp of the
King, he approached a circle of which I happened to be one. One of
the ministers composing it said to him, “We hope you will forgive
our little treason, my Lord Duke, but we have just been determining
that, as some one of the company was to be too late, it was best to
have fallen to your Grace’s lot, who can so well bear it.” With a
half whisper and an arch smile, the Duke replied, “The King knows I
could have been here sooner but for attending to some of his Majesty’s
business.” This, considering the Duke as a cabinet minister and privy
councillor, had doubtless been sufficient to excuse his delinquency,
and secure for him the very cordial reception all had witnessed....
The entire dinner-service was of gold. Each of the salt-cellars, as
well as I could catch the design, represented a small rock in dead
gold, on which reclined a sea-nymph holding in her hand a shell, which
held the salt. One of these was before every two guests; so it was,
as to number, with the gold coolers down the sides, containing wine.
The whole table, sideboard, and room had an air of chaste and solid
grandeur, not, however, interfering with the restrained enjoyments of a
good dinner, of which the King seemed desirous that his foreign guests
should in no wise be abridged, for we sat till past ten o’clock.’
Contrasting this banquet with the one given by the Duke of Wellington,
the same writer and guest remarks that the Duke’s table-service was
not only brilliant, but that it lighted-up better than the King’s;
for being entirely of silver, and very profuse, the whole aspect was
of pure, glittering white, unlike the slightly-shaded tinges which
candles seem to cast from gold plate. The dessert-service at the
Duke’s was of china, a present from the King of Prussia, and made
emblematical of the life of the Duke, commencing with a view of Dangan
Castle, the (supposed) birth-place of Arthur Wellesley, and going
through a course of views of all the places rendered interesting by his
presence or remarkable by his deeds, down to the porcelained pictorial
representation of the crowning glory at Waterloo.

While all these matters were in progress, people who nursed
superstition were prophesying some calamity to come; and certainly,
among the incidents of the coronation of George IV., was one which
would have been counted ominous in earlier days. The gallant Marquis
of Anglesea was Lord High Steward on that occasion, and it was part of
his office to carry the crown up to the altar before the Archbishop
placed it on the King’s head. It was heavier than the gallant Lord High
Steward had reckoned upon, and the glittering crown, ponderous with
gold, diamonds, and other precious stones, slipped from his hands.
He dexterously recovered it, however, before it reached the ground.
Among the medallic records of the time one was the work of an enemy
of Caroline of Brunswick. A bronze medal of the time is extant which
has the Queen’s head, on the obverse, with the inscription: ‘CAROLINE,
D. G. BRITT. REGINA.’ On the reverse is the head of Bergami, with the
inscription: ‘COUNT B. BERGAMI.’

CHAPTER XII.

A CROWN LOST, AND A GRAVE WON.

The Queen’s agitation--Her illness--Her sufferings--Desires
her diary may be destroyed--Her death--Sketch of her life--
Her mother a foolish woman--Every sense of justice outraged by
the King--Inconsistency of the Whigs--The Queen persecuted
even after death--Disrespect shown to her remains by the
Government--Protest against a disgraceful haste to remove
her remains--Course of the funeral procession interrupted by
the people--Collision between the military and the populace
--Effort to force a way through the people ineffectual--The
procession compelled to pass through the City--The plate on
the Queen’s coffin removed--The funeral reaches Harwich--The
Queen’s remains taken to Brunswick--Funeral oration--Tombs of
the illustrious dead there.

The coronation-day killed the Queen. The agitations and sufferings of
that eventful day called into deadly action the germs of the disease
under which she ultimately succumbed. Once only, between that day and
her death, did she appear in public, at Drury Lane Theatre, and even
then she may be said to have been dying.

On August the 2nd, the first bulletin issued from Brandenburgh House,
by ‘W. G. Maten, P. Warren, and H. Holland,’ announced that her
Majesty was suffering from internal inflammation and obstruction. Her
sufferings were considerable, but they were borne with resignation;
and she even expressed a cheerful readiness to be gone from a world in
which she had endured more than she had enjoyed. Her own conviction,
from the first, was that her malady would prove fatal. No whisper of
hope appeared to deceive or to cheer her. She was determined, as it
were, that she must die, and she prepared for the worst. Her feelings
were natural to a woman of her disposition and character. She felt
that, despite all solemn protestation, notwithstanding all as solemn
assertion, she had failed in re-establishing the reputation which she
enjoyed during the early years of her residence in this country. The
abandonment of the Bill of Pains and Penalties had not rescued her from
degradation; and the people, who were ready to offer her consolation
as a woman who had been most deeply wronged and outraged, were by
no means so ready to espouse her cause further than this. She had
herself confessed to indiscretions, and when the confession applies
to constant repetition of the offence, the public judgment, even with
nothing more to warrant its exercise, will never be slow to hold her
who acknowledges so much as being guilty of more. In her position, with
a reputation so soiled, and torn, and trodden upon; which could not
be made bright by any declaration (poor indeed) that she was not so
debased as she was declared to be by her adversaries; for a woman so
placed, to die is the sole joy left her, if she has made the peace with
God which can never again exist between her and man. Her few friends
were accustomed to say that in after years her good fame would be
substantiated. After years--alas! Of what use to the drowned sailor
is the favourable wind _after_ shipwreck? Assuredly, her own character
perished more by her own suicidal acts than by the assaults made upon
it by those who were interested in damning it; just as ‘Tom Paine’
himself has said that a writer may destroy his own reputation, which
cannot be affected by the pens of other writers.

To die then was now in the very fitness of things, and death made but
brief work with his new victim. Between the second and the seventh of
August the suffering never ceased sufficiently to warrant serious hope
of amelioration. During the intervening time she continued to express
her willingness to depart. She signed her will, gave with calmness all
necessary orders which she wished to be observed, spoke charitably of
all, and little of herself. Among her last acts was one of sacrifice,
and perhaps posterity will regret it. She ordered the diary, which she
had long kept, and in which she had entered the characters of the most
prominent persons with whom she had come in contact, to be burned. This
is said to have been done in her presence; but so many things only seem
to be done in a dying presence that our successors may not despair,
hereafter, of becoming more intimate with Caroline, her thoughts and
feelings, than she ever permitted her contemporaries to be. The great
chance against posterity being allowed to read the scandalous chronicle
or the justifying confessions of Caroline lies in the fact that the
series of journals were burned by a foreign female servant, who knew
nothing of their value. Such, at least, was the accredited report.

After nearly five days of intense suffering, the Queen sank into a
stupor from which she never awoke. At half-past ten o’clock on the
morning of the seventh of August, 1821, ‘after an entire absence of
sense and faculty for more than two hours,’ Caroline Amelia Elizabeth
of Brunswick, Queen Consort of George IV., expired almost without a
struggle. In her supreme hour only her faithful friends, Lord and Lady
Hood and Lady Anne Hamilton, were with her. Her legal and medical
advisers, with Alderman Wood and one of his sons, were also near her
person. She had completed fifty-three years and three months; of these
she passed by far the happier and the more innocent half--happier
because the more innocent--in Brunswick. Of the following nineteen
years spent in England, eighteen of them were passed in separation
from, and most of them in quarrelling with, her husband. For the first
nine or ten years of this period she lived without offence and free
from suspicion; during the remainder she was struggling to re-establish
a fame which had been wrongfully assailed; but this was accompanied by
such eccentricity and indiscretion that she seemed almost to justify
the suspicion under which she had suffered. Then came the half-dozen
years of her residence abroad, when she too often shaped her conduct
as though she had alacrity in furnishing matter condemnatory against
herself to the spies by whom she was surrounded. To say that they
exaggerated her offences does not, unfortunately, prove her guiltless
of great crime. Her return to England was a bold step, but it was one
she was compelled to take. It failed, however, in its great purpose.
She did not triumph. Justice, indeed, was not rendered her, for she
was condemned before she was tried; and though the trial was not
carried to its intended conclusion, he who would now stand forth as the
champion of Caroline of Brunswick would be necessarily accounted of as
possessing more generosity than judgment.

Nevertheless, for this poor woman there is something to be said.
She was ill-educated; religiously educated, not at all; and never
had religious principles as expounded by any particular church. Her
mother was a foolish, frivolous woman, and her father, whom she
ardently loved, a brave, handsome, vicious man, who made his wife and
daughters sit down in company with his mistresses. With such an example
before her, what could be expected from an ardent, spirited, idle,
and careless girl? Much--if she had been blessed with a husband of
principle, a man who would have tempered the ardour to useful ends,
guided the spirit to profitable purpose, and taught the careless girl
to learn and love the cares, or duties, rather, which belonged to her
position. But by whom, and what, was that Princess encountered in
England, whither she had come to marry a Prince who had condescended
to have her inflicted on him, and bringing with her the memories of
pleasant communings with more courteous wooers in Brunswick? She met
a husband who consigned her to companionship with women more infamous
than ever she herself became, and whose interest and business it was to
render the wife disgusting to the husband. They speedily accomplished
the end they had in view, and when they had driven the wife from the
palace they endeavoured to prove her to be guilty of vices which she
had not then, in common with themselves and her husband. If he ever
justly complained of wrong, he at least took infinite pains to merit
all that was inflicted on him. He outraged every sense of justice when,
steeped to the very lips in uncleanness, he demanded that his consort
should be rendered for ever infamous, for the alleged commission of
acts for which he claimed impunity on his own account. She was not,
perhaps, betrayed by the Whigs, but these rather took up her cause
for the reason that it served them politically than put credence in
its righteousness. They were, however, the voluntary champions of
her virtue. Lord Holland was among the first of them, and yet in
his contemporary Diary he says of her, ‘She was at best a strange
woman, and a very sorry and uninteresting heroine. She had, they say,
some talent, some pleasantry, some good-humour, and great spirit
and courage. But she was utterly destitute of all female delicacy,
and exhibited, in the whole course of the transactions relating to
herself, very little feeling for anybody, and very little regard for
honour and truth, or even for the interests of those who were devoted
to her, whether the people in the aggregate, or the individuals who
enthusiastically espoused her cause. She avowed her dislike for many,
_scarcely concealed her contempt for all_’ (no wonder); ‘in short, to
speak plainly, if not mad, she was a very worthless woman.’ So wrote
one who had asserted directly the contrary.

But it was the lot of this unhappy Queen to be persecuted even after
death. Her will, in which she bequeathed the little she had to leave to
William Austin, the protégé, who did not long survive her, contained
a clause to this effect: ‘I desire and direct that my body be not
opened, and that three days after my death it be carried to Brunswick
for interment, and that the inscription on my coffin be, “Here lies
Caroline of Brunswick, the injured Queen of England.”’

The government, acting under alleged orders from the King, but
influenced, no doubt, by a wish not to mar the festivities attendant
upon the visit of George IV. to Ireland, by allowing the Queen’s body
to remain longer than needful in England, announced their intention
to pay every sort of respect to the orders and wishes of her late
Majesty, and to despatch the body to Harwich at once, for embarkation.
The personal friends of Caroline protested against this unseemly
readiness, on the part of the ministers, to obey the wishes of one
who, when alive, never had a wish that was not thwarted. Lady Hood
addressed a letter to Lord Liverpool, not so much, indeed, as she said
to _him_, as to his heart. The letter pleaded for delay, on the ground
of the Queen’s ladies being unprepared; and it expressly protested
against the intended military escort, as being an honour never allowed
to the Queen when living, and one not certainly desired by her, who
was sufficiently guarded by the people’s love. Reply was made that
the arrangements already resolved upon were irrevocable, and that,
if the ladies were not provided with the necessary mourning, there
would be nothing disrespectful in waiting behind till they had been
furnished with what was necessary, and then joining in the procession
anywhere on its route. There was a singular want of courtesy in all the
communications made by the ministry to the friends of the Queen. The
latter could not even learn by what route the body would be conveyed
to Harwich. The most direct road was through the City of London, and
the mayor and corporation had announced their intention to attend on
the royal remains on the passage through the City. The government
curtly intimated that the funeral _cortège_ would not be allowed to
pass through the City at all. From the same source it was subsequently
learned that the coffin would be carried by the circuitous route of
the New Road to Romford, and then by the direct road to Harwich. The
popular disgust was justifiably great. Lord Liverpool asserted that
he and his colleagues were influenced only by feelings which prompted
them to show full respect to the wishes of the deceased Queen. How very
little the noble lord was really influenced by the feelings in question
may be seen in Dean Pellew’s Life of Lord Sidmouth. In that work there
is a letter from Lord Liverpool, in which the writer says that he would
have despatched the body the whole way by water to Harwich, had he not
been afraid of the passage at London Bridge! In other words, he would
have paid it as much disrespect as was in his power, only that he
feared a popular demonstration of unwelcome character at the bridge.

On the 14th of August, the government authorised the persons employed
by them to remove the body from Hammersmith. There had been very scant
ceremony displayed in a ‘lying in state,’ and the preparations now
were but of a meagre description. A few tawdry escutcheons, a tinsel
coronet, heralds in private dresses, and a military escort, looking
mournful rather because of the rain, which fell in torrents, than for
any other reason.

When Sir George Naylor, in his official tabard, and Mr. Bailey, the
undertaker, authorised by government to carry out the prescribed
arrangements, entered the room where the body lay, in order to remove
it, they were met by Dr. Lushington, who stood at the head of a small
group of her Majesty’s friends, and protested against the intended
removal, on account of over-haste, and also against the attendance
of the soldiery. ‘I enter my solemn protest,’ said the doctor, ‘in
right of the legal power which is vested in me by her late Majesty, as
executor. I command that the body be not removed till the arrangements
suitable to the rank and dignity of the deceased are made.’ Mr.
Bailey declared that, with the authority he held, the body must be
removed. ‘Touch it not, at your peril,’ exclaimed Dr. Lushington.
Mr. Bailey asked if he intended to use or to recommend violence. The
legal executor answered that he would neither assist in nor recommend
violence. Whereupon the government officer declared that he should
discharge his duty firmly and, he hoped, properly.

But he had to encounter a second duel of words with the other executor,
Mr. Wilde, who protested as Dr. Lushington had done, and to as little
purpose. Mr. Bailey said that his orders were imperative, and he would
take upon himself the responsibility and peril of removing the body.

The procession then set out, and never had Queen a funeral of such
strange ceremony and circumstance. The mourners comprised those friends
and legal advisers who have been so often named: some of them were not
in the mourning coaches, but in their own private carriages. It was
a strictly government funeral (the King, it was said, paid all the
expenses); but there was a multitude who descended into the streets
on that day. There were many among them who deemed that the funeral
charges would, after all, be defrayed out of the public pocket.
They were accordingly determined that their own programme should be
followed, and that the body of the Queen should be carried through
the City of London. The ministers, unwisely, were as obstinately bent
in dragging the dead Queen through the outskirts, and getting her to
Harwich in as unceremonious a manner as possible. They professed great
respect, but it is certain that they meant none, and it was because the
people were convinced of this that they occupied the highways on that
stormy morning, resolute to bear the inanimate Caroline, as it were,
and as she had desired, on the popular shoulders, through the very
centre of the great metropolis.

It was between seven and eight o’clock when the funeral procession,
escorted by or rather partly made up of, cavalry, passed through
Hammersmith. It met with no obstruction until it reached Kensington
Church. At this point the first attempt to turn out of the direct road
leading to the City, by conducting the _cortège_ up Church Street into
the Bayswater Road, was met by a hoarse cry of execration on the part
of the people. They went further than protest. In a brief space of time
the road was dug up, rendered impassable, and obstructed by a barricade
that would have won the approval of a Parisian professor of tumults.
The military escort kept their places and their tempers; but the Life
Guards, with the chief magistrate of Bow Street, Sir Richard Baker,
speedily appeared. They saw the uselessness of attempting to force a
passage; and when the order was given to proceed in the direct route
to London, there broke forth a thundering shout of victory about the
hearse of the unconscious Queen, as though expressly raised to give her
assurance that the people had compelled respect to her will.

In the Park the multitude had spent many of the morning hours in
rushing from the south to the north side, from the north to the south;
and again and again repeating the same movement, according as report
reached them that the funeral would pass by one or the other line.
The issue of the struggle at Kensington having been announced in the
Park, the great body of the people there had now moved once more to the
south side, and were pouring into the Knightsbridge Road. Meanwhile,
orders had been received from ministers, by Sir Richard Baker and
the commander of the Life Guards, to lead the procession through the
Kensington Gate of Hyde Park into the Edgeware Road. But at the gate
the scene which had been enacted at Church Street was replayed with
some additions. The people forcibly held the gates closed, placed every
impediment in the way which they could collect, and were so fiercely
demonstrative with their cry of ‘The City! the City!’ that magistrate
and military again yielded to the popular will, and the body, which had
halted amid the tumult, was once again carried forward amid shouts of
triumph.

The delay had afforded time to Sir Richard Baker to apply to ministers
for fresh instructions. These were forwarded to him in a peremptory
order to see that the procession was conducted into the Edgeware Road,
either by the east side of the Park or through Park Lane. At both
points the suspicious and exasperated populace were ready for the
expected contest. It was here that the matter assumed a more serious
aspect than it had yet worn. The soldiery began to grow chafed at an
opposition which, in its turn, began to be emphasised by the employment
of missiles. The attempt to pass up the Park was made in vain; that to
force Park Lane was equally ineffectual. But while the struggle was
raging at the latter point the line of procession was broken, and that
part of it near the gate turned into the Park, carrying the hearse with
it. The military at Park Lane turned back, followed the successful Mr.
Bailey and his followers, and closing the gates upon the public, the
body of the Queen was borne, at an unseemly pace, onwards to Cumberland
Gate. But the increasingly-excited people were light of foot, and
when the head of the funeral line reached Cumberland Gate, with the
intention to proceed, not down Oxford Street to the City, but up the
Edgeware and, subsequently, the New Road, there was a compact mass
resolved to give no passage, and determined to carry the royal corpse
through the metropolis. It was here that Sir Robert Wilson endeavoured
to mediate between the multitude and the military. The commander of the
latter had no discretionary power, and could only obey his orders. His
men, hitherto, had exhibited great forbearance, but their patience was
overcome when they found themselves fairly attacked by the populace
at this point. Neither mob nor soldiers were really culpable. The
blame rested entirely with the ministry, whose folly and obstinacy had
provoked the conflict, and made victims on both sides. The military (by
which is to be understood the Life Guards, and not the ‘Blues,’ who
formed part of the procession, and were quiescent throughout the day)
at last fired a volley, by which several persons were severely injured,
and two men, Francis and Honey, were slain. Not a few of the military
were seriously wounded by the missiles flung at them in return, but the
hitherto victors were vanquished. They gave way, and across the blood
that had been spilt, and among the wounded lying around, the people’s
Queen, as they called her, was once more carried on the way which the
respectful feelings of the ministry taught them it was best for her to
go.

The defeat and the victory seemed respectively accepted by the
different parties. The individuals having the body in charge, and the
escort, pushed hurriedly forward with the hearse towards the New Road.
But several of the mourners here left a procession to form part of
which was attended with peril to life. The multitude looked moodily
on; but suddenly, as if by common impulse, perhaps at suggestion of
some shout, they, too, rushed forward, determined to make one more
attempt at achieving a victory for themselves and the unconscious Queen.

They who were conducting the body along the New Road towards Romford
did not dream of further opposition, and their astonishment was great
when, on arriving at Tottenham Court Road, they found all progress,
east or northward, completely obstructed, and no way open for them but
southward, towards the City. In this direction they were compelled
to turn, hailed by the popular exultation, and met with shouts of
execration and menace, as they sought, but vainly, at each outlet down
the east side of Tottenham Court Road, to find a passage back into the
suburban line. In the same way the procession was forced down Drury
Lane, into the Strand. Sir Richard Baker did not yield to anything
but compulsion, yet he lost his office, as Sir Robert Wilson did his
commission, for endeavouring to do his duty under most trying and
difficult circumstances. Once in the Strand, the people felt that their
victory had been fairly and irrevocably achieved. When the royal body
was carried under Temple Bar, its advent there was hailed with such a
wild ‘hurrah’ as had never met the ears of living sovereign. For seven
hours that body had been dragged through wind, and rain, and mud--the
King’s will drawing it in one direction, the people in another. How
much or how little the latter were influenced by earnest attachment to
her for whom, dead, they made their demonstration, even to the shedding
of blood, it is not easy to say. There is less difficulty in coming
to the decision that they who professed to be carrying out the King’s
commands served him ill, and even perilled his crown on that day. The
King himself, however, is known to have been exceedingly wroth against
the government for not having employed more stringent measures in order
to fulfil his commands. The triumph of a dead wife embittered more than
one joyous banquet in the Irish capital.

The civil authorities of the City, hurriedly collected for the
occasion, accompanied the royal remains as far as the eastern limit
of the City’s ‘liberty,’ Whitechapel. Thence to Romford the funeral
train proceeded at a very varied pace, sometimes as slowly as became
the solemnity of a funeral, at others the pace would have been counted
lively enough for a wedding. At Romford, the mourners who had rejoined
the _cortège_ passed the night, but the royal corpse was carried on to
Colchester, where it rested for the night, in St. Peter’s Church.

It was during this night that the silver plate announcing the occupant
of the coffin as ‘the injured,’ or, according to some, ‘the murdered,
Queen of England,’ was affixed to the lid. Whenever this was done
the plate was not allowed to remain. It was removed and replaced by
another, inscribed simply with the deceased’s name and titles and
dates, in the usual form. They who have visited the vaults beneath the
Church of St. Blaize, the patron of Brunswick, may remember that the
marks of the nails which fastened the original plate are still visible.

The journey to Harwich was unmarked by any particular incident, save
that everywhere along the route the feeling of curiosity to see the
remains of Caroline pass to their last resting-place was accompanied by
manifest evidences of respect. Off Harwich were awaiting the _Glasgow_
frigate, two sloops of war, three brigs, and the _Pioneer_ schooner.
The coffin was conveyed to the latter, after being unceremoniously
swung into a barge, and from the schooner it was transferred to the
_Glasgow_. The little group of mourners followed. They consisted of
Lord and Lady Hood, Lady Anne Hamilton, Mr. Austin, Dr. and Mrs.
Lushington, and Count Vassali. Her Majesty’s remains were now in charge
of Captain Doyle, who, when a midshipman, more than a quarter of a
century before, had handed the rope to the royal bride, whereby to
help her on board the _Jupiter_. The squadron set sail, under a salute
from Languard fort, and at two o’clock p.m., on Sunday, the 19th, it
anchored in the harbour of Cuxhaven.

The _Gannet_ sloop of war conveyed the body up the Elbe to the mouth of
the Schwinde, and up the latter it was carried, with a guard of marines
and the mourners, by the boats belonging to the _Wye_ sloop, as far as
Stade. From this place to Brunswick the body of the unhappy Caroline
was borne, by slow journeys, and amid profuse respectful demonstrations
on the part of the people. One of its resting-places by the way was at
Zell, in the church of which place the body lay for a night upon the
tomb of the unfortunate sister of George III., Caroline Matilda Queen
of Denmark.

At midnight on Friday, August 24, the last rites were performed over
the deceased consort of George IV. The body had been removed from the
hearse to a funeral car, which was drawn by some hundred Brunswickers
to the cathedral gates. No extraordinary service was allowed to
be celebrated at the side of the vault. The Duke of Brunswick was
then a minor and an absentee, and the government of the country was
administered by the King of England. But though the service was of the
most ordinary character, the sexagenarian pastor, Woolf, pronounced an
oration above the remains of the Queen. He thanked God for adorning
her with high advantages of mind and body, for bestowing upon her a
heart full of clemency and benignity, and for placing her where she
could, and was resolved to, accomplish much good. But ‘unsearchable, O
Eternal, are thy ways!’ was the perplexed pastor’s cry as he adverted
to her subsequent career--for terminating which the wisdom of the
Almighty was again to be revered.

Among the range of coffins in the vault beneath the cathedral of St.
Blaize, at Brunswick, Caroline rests between two which contain two
heroic but far from faultless men--her father, who fell at Jena, and
her brother, who, at the head of his Black Brunswickers, also fell in
avenging him at Waterloo. Speaking of the latter, ‘two small black
flags,’ says Russell, ‘the one an offering from the matrons, the other
from the maidens of Brunswick, are suspended above his coffin, and its
gaudy gold and crimson are still mixed with the brown and withering
leaves of the garlands which the love of his people scattered on his
bier, when at midnight he was laid among so many of his race who had
fought and fell like himself.’ Between the coffins of these two lies
that of Caroline of Brunswick, between father and brother slain.
Her mother died in exile, yet in her own land; and the grave of her
murdered sister Charlotte, the first wife of the Prince of Wurtemburg,
would be sought for in vain. Surely here was a household sternly dealt
with.

On the Sunday following the funeral the venerable pastor, Woolf,
preached a sermon appropriate to the event, and which ended in a
panegyric on the character of the Queen. The old man, with singular
tenacity, clung to the assertion, that in early life ‘her quick
understanding eagerly received every ray of divine truth, and her warm
heart and lively feelings were excited and elevated by piety.’ He
declared that her sense of religion increased to a confirmed faith,
and that pious occupations were dear to her heart. ‘I knew her,’ said
the aged advocate, ‘as an enlightened Christian, before she left the
country of her birth. She first received from my hands, with pious
emotion, the holy Supper of our Lord, and the solemnity of her manner
was like her precious devotions, an unsuspected proof of her sincere
faith and pious feeling.’ The panegyric would have been, like most
articles of the kind, far above the merit of the subject, were it not
for the strong qualifying sentence in which the preacher acknowledged
that ‘the sense of religion, it was true, did not always preserve her
from infirmities and errors;’ but, as he asked after the admission,
‘Where is the mortal, where has there been a saint, who has been always
perfect? And,’ said he, aptly and truly enough, whether addressed to
the friends or the foes of the poor, ill-used, and erring Caroline
of Brunswick--‘And he who erred less may conscientiously ask himself
whether he owes that to himself or to his more fortunate situation and
the undeserved grace of God?’ It is a query which we are all bound to
make when viewing a brother or a sister of the human family who is
reputed guilty of offence towards God or man. The latter is ever ready
to condemn his neighbour, but never ready to pass sentence on himself.
Happy for all that with God there is not only judgment but mercy.

There has been some discussion as to whether Caroline of Brunswick was
legally married to the Prince of Wales. There is no doubt, however,
to be entertained on the matter. Her husband had, unquestionably,
previously married a Roman Catholic lady, and that lady was living when
the Prince married Caroline of Brunswick.

By the well-known statute of William and Mary, marrying a Roman
Catholic entails exclusion from, and incapability ever to inherit, the
crown of this realm.

The Prince clearly forfeited his right to the Crown by his marriage
with a Papist.

But he married the lady (with the King’s connivance, he said) without
the King’s consent; and, wanting that consent, the marriage (according
to the 12th of George III.) was null and void.

This would set aside the marriage, but it would not release the Prince
from the consequence of having entered into such a marriage. Horne
Tooke was not justified in sneering at the 12th of George III., nor in
writing ‘legally, really, worthily, and happily for the country, Mrs.
Fitzherbert is Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales.’

The Roman See, it is said, satisfied Mrs. Fitzherbert’s scruples by
considering the marriage legal. That See never considered any other
marriage between such (religious) parties, so celebrated, legal. Had
there been issue of such an union, grave peril might have arisen. There
was, indeed, a claimant to such honour, but he disappeared. He lacked
the power of lying since manifested by Orton and some of the Orton
gang. The monument to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s memory at Brighton asserts
the legality of her marriage with the Prince by the three rings on her
finger. That she was as much respected as if her last marriage was as
legal as the preceding two there is no shadow of doubt. As little doubt
is there that the Prince of Wales was never legally married except to
his wayward and unhappy cousin--Caroline of Brunswick.

_ADELAIDE OF SAXE-MEINENGEN_,

WIFE OF WILLIAM IV.

The pocket Duchy--Old customs--Early training--The Father
of the Princess Adelaide--Social life at the ducal court--
Training of the Princess Adelaide--Marriage Preliminaries--
English parliament--The Duke of Clarence--Arrival in London
of the Princess--Quaint royal weddings--At home and abroad
--Duke and Duchess of Clarence at Bushey--‘State and Dirt’ at
St. James’s--William IV. and Queen Adelaide--Course of life
of the new Queen Consort--King’s gallantry to an old love--
Royal simplicity--The Sovereigns and the Sovereign people--
Court anecdotes--Drawing-rooms--Princess Victoria--The
coronation--Incidents of the day--Coronation finery of George
IV.--Princess Victoria not present--Revolutionary period--
Reform question--Unpopularity of the Queen--Attacks against
her on the part of the press--Violence of party-spirit--
Friends and foes--Bearing of the King and Queen--Duchess
of Angoulême--King a republican--His indiscretion--Want
of temper--Continental press adverse to the Queen--King’s
declining health--Conduct of Queen Adelaide--King William’s
death--Declining health of the Queen--Her travels in search
of health--Her last illness--Her will--Death--And funeral.

The little Duchy of Saxe-Meinengen was once a portion of the
inheritance of the princely Franconian house of Henneberg. The failure
of the male line transferred it in 1583 to the family of reigning Saxon
princes. In 1680 it fell to the third son of the Saxon Duke, Ernest the
Pious. The name of this son was Bernard. This Duke is looked upon as
the founder of the House of Meinengen. He was much devoted to the study
of Alchemy, and was of a pious turn, like his father, as far as may be
judged by the volumes of manuscript notes he left behind him--which
he had made on the sermons of his various court-preachers.

The law of primogeniture was not yet in force when Duke Bernard died,
in 1706. One consequence was, that Bernard’s three sons, with Bernard’s
brother, ruled the little domain in common. In 1746 the sole surviving
brother, Antony Ulrich, the luckiest of this ducal Tontine, was monarch
of all he surveyed within a limited space. The conglomerate ducal
sovereigns were plain men, formal, much given to ceremony, and not much
embarrassed by intellect. There was one man, however, who had enough
for them all: namely, George Spanginburg, brother of the Moravian
bishop of the latter name, and who was for some time _the_ Secretary of
State at the court of Saxe-Meinengen.

Antony Ulrich reigned alone from 1746 to 1763. He was of a more
enlightened character than any of the preceding princes, had a taste
for the arts when he could procure pictures cheaply, and strong
inclination towards pretty living pictures, which led to lively rather
than pleasant controversies at court. His own marriage with Madame
Scharmann disgusted the young ladies of princely houses in Germany, and
especially exasperated the aristocracy of Meinengen. They were scarcely
pacified by the fact that the issue of the marriage was declared
incapable of succeeding to the inheritance.

The latter fell in 1763 to two young brothers, kinsfolk of Antony, and
sons of the late Duke of Gotha, who reigned for some years together.
The elder, Charles, died in 1782. From that period till 1803 the other
brother, George, reigned alone. He had no sooner become sole sovereign
than he married the Princess Louisa of Hohenlohe Langenburg. At the
end of ten years the first child of this marriage was born, namely
Adelaide, the future Queen of England.

Eight years later, in the last year of the last century, A.D. 1800, a
male heir to the pocket-duchy was born, and then was introduced into
Meinengen the law which fixed the succession in the eldest male heir
only. Saxe-Meinengen was the last country in Europe in which this law
was established.

The father of the Princess Adelaide, like his brother Charles, was a
man of no mean powers. Both were condescending enough to visit even the
burgher families of Saxe-Meinengen; and Charles had so little respect
for vice in high places that when a German prince acted contrary to the
rights of his people the offender found himself soundly lashed in paper
and pamphlet, the pseudonymous signature to which could not conceal the
person of the writer--the hasty Duke Charles. If this sometimes made
him unpopular over the frontier, he was beloved within it. How could
the people but love a sovereign Duke who, when a child was born to him,
asked citizens of good repute rather than of high rank to come and be
gossips?

In the revolutionary war Duke George fought like a hero. At home he
afforded refuge to bold but honest writers driven from more mighty
states. He beautified his city, improved the country; and, without
being of great mental cultivation himself, he loved to collect around
him scholars, philosophers, artists, authors, gentlemen. With these
he lived on the most familiar terms, and when I say that Schiller and
John Paul Richter were of the number, I afford some idea of the society
which Duke George cared chiefly to cultivate. He buried his own mother
in the common churchyard, because she was worthy, he said, of lying
among her own subjects. The majority of these were country folk, but
George esteemed the country folk, and at rustic festivals he was not
unwilling to share a jug of beer with any of them. Perhaps the rustics
loved him more truly than the sages, to whom he proved, occasionally,
something wearisome. But these were often hard to please. All, however,
felt a honest grief when, on the Christmas night of 1803, Duke George
died, after a brief illness, caused, it is said, by a neglected cold,
and by rage at an urgent demand from the Kaiser of 60,000 florins,
fine-money for knightly orders ducally declined.

The Duke left a young family, Adelaide, Ida, and his son and successor,
Bernard, then only three years of age. The mother of these fatherless
children took upon herself the office of guardian, with that of Regent
of the duchy. The duties of both were performed with rare judgment and
firmness, during a time of much trouble and peril, especially when the
French armies were overrunning and devastating Germany.

On the young ladies, gently and wisely reared in this little court,
Queen Charlotte had begun to look with the foresight of a mother who
had elderly and wayward sons to marry. When the death of the Princess
Charlotte of Wales threatened to interrupt the direct succession of
the crown, the unmatched brothers of the Regent thought of taking unto
themselves wives. Cumberland had married according to his, but to no
other person’s, liking, hardly even that of his wife. The Dukes of
Kent and Cambridge made better choice, and there then remained but
the sailor-prince to be converted into a Benedick. The Queen selected
his bride for him, and he approved or acquiesced in the selection.
He might, as far as age goes, have been her father, but that was of
small account; and when Adelaide of Saxe-Meinengen was spoken of, men
conversant with contemporary history knew her to be the good daughter
of an accomplished and an exemplary mother.

The preliminaries of the marriage were carried out amid so much
opposition that at one moment the accomplishment of the marriage
itself wore a very doubtful aspect. The difficulty was of a pecuniary
nature. The Dukes of Kent and Cambridge were content, on the occasion
of their respective marriages, to accept an addition to their income
of 6,000_l._ The Duke of Cumberland was compelled to rest content,
or otherwise, without any addition at all--save the expenses of a
wife. With the Duke of Clarence it was different. He already possessed
18,000_l._ per annum, and ministers resolved, after a private meeting
with their supporters, to request the Parliament to allow him an
increase of 10,000_l._ On the 13th of April, 1818, a message from the
Prince Regent to that effect was submitted to either House by Lord
Castlereagh and the Earl of Liverpool. In the Commons the first-named
Lord hinted at the dependence of our Princes on the liberality of
Parliament since the time when the crown had surrendered its long
uncontrolled disposal of revenues. But the House was not to be
‘suggested’ into a generosity which might be beyond justice. Tierney,
the gadfly of his period, complained of the previous meeting of the
friends of ministers, and the communication to them, before it was
made to the House, of the amount to be applied for. Methuen insisted
that before the Commons would grant a farthing they must be made
acquainted with all the sources from which the King’s sons derived
their present revenue, as well as the amount of the revenue itself.
Finally, Holme Sumner met the proposal of an additional 10,000_l._ by a
counter-proposal of 6,000_l._ This was carried by a narrow majority of
one hundred and ninety-three to one hundred and eighty-four, and when
this sum was offered to the Duke he peremptorily declined to accept it.

Things did not progress more in tune with marriage-bells in the House
of Lords. There, when Lord Liverpool stated what his royal client would
be contented to receive, Lord King started to his legs and exclaimed,
‘That the question was not what it might please the Duke of Clarence
to take, but what it might please the people to give him!’ They
were not willing to give what he expected, and for a time it seemed
as if there would consequently be no marriage with the Princess of
Saxe-Meinengen. But only for a time.

‘The Duke of Clarence is going to be married, after all,’ was a common
phrase launched by the newspapers, and taken up by the people, in 1818.
If the phrase had but one meaning, it had a double application. In the
former sense it had reference to the disinclination of Parliament to
increase his income, without which he had expressed his determination
not to marry. It was further applied, however, to the old course of
his old loves. There were the years spent with Dora Bland, then ‘Mrs.
Jordan,’ the actress--years of an intercourse which had much of the
quiet, happy character of a modest English home--the breaking-up of
which brought such great grief to the mother in that home that even
every service subsequently rendered to her seemed to partake of the
quality of offence. It has been registered as such by those who heard
more of the wailing of the Ariadne than they knew of the groundlessness
of it, when vented in reproaches for leaving her unprovided for as well
as deserted.

Then the public remembered how this light-of-heart Duke had been a
suitor to other ladies. He was the rival of Wellesley Pole for the
favour and the fortune of the great heiress, Miss Tilney Long. That
ill-fated lady conferred on this wooer of humbler degree the office of
slaying her happiness, sapping her life, and ruining her estate. The
other lady, who declined the Duke’s offer of his hand or petition for
her own, was Miss Sophia Wykeham, of Thame Park, daughter and _sole
heiress_ of an Oxfordshire ’squire. Each lady had merits of her own,
and other attractions besides those which lay in the _beaux yeux de
sa cassette_; but perhaps each remembered the clauses of the Royal
Marriage Act; however this may have been, Miss Tilney chose between her
two suitors, while Miss Wykeham, after turning from the prayer of the
Duke, never stooped to listen to a lowlier wooer.

These were the ‘antecedents’ of the lover who, in mature age, took
rather than asked for the hand of Adelaide of Saxe-Meinengen. Of all
the actions of his life it was the one which brought him the most
happiness; and with that true woman he had better fortune than is
altogether merited by a man who, after a long bachelorship of no great
repute, settles down in middle-life to respectability and content,
under the influences of a virtuous woman, gifted with an excellent
degree of common-sense.

In the dusk of a July evening, in the year 1818, this unwooed bride
quietly arrived, with her mother, at Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street.
She had but cool reception for a lady on such mission as her own.
There was no one to bid her welcome; the Regent was at Carlton House
at dinner, and the Duke of Clarence was out of town on a visit. Except
the worthy Mr. Grillon himself, no person seemed the gladder for her
coming. In the course of the evening, however, the Regent drove down to
Albemarle Street; and at a later hour the more tardy future husband was
carried up to the door in a carriage drawn by four horses with as much
rapidity as became a presumed lover of his age, in whom a certain show
of zeal was becoming.

The strangers became at once acquainted, and acquaintance is said
to have developed itself speedily into friendship. The family-party
remained together till near upon the ‘wee sma’ hours; there was
much indulgence there, we are told, of good, honest, informal
hilarity; and when the illustrious and joyous circle broke up, the
easy grace, frankness, and courtesy of the Regent, and the freedom
and light-heartedness of the Duke, are said to have left favourable
impressions on both the mother and the daughter.

Quaintest of royal weddings was that which now took place in old Kew
Palace. Indeed, there were two, for the Duke of Kent, who had gallantly
fetched his wife from abroad, where he had married her according to
Lutheran rites, was now re-married to his bride according to the forms
of the Church of England. Early in the day there was a dinner, at which
the most important personages in that day’s proceedings were present.
The old house at Kew seemed blushing in its reddest of bricks, out
of pure enjoyment. The Regent gave the bride away; and, the ceremony
concluded, the wedded couples paid a visit to the old Queen in her
private apartment. She was too ill then to do more than congratulate
her sons, and wish happiness to the married. The Duke and Duchess
of Kent thereupon departed, but the Duke and Duchess of Clarence
remained--guests at a joyous tea party at which the Regent presided,
and which was prepared _al fresco_ in the vicinity of the Pagoda.
It must have been a thousand times a merrier matter than wedding
state-dinners of the olden times, at which brides were wearied into
suffering and sulkiness. A more joyous party of noble men and women
never met in mirthful greenwood; and when the princely pair took their
leave for St. James’s, the Regent led the hilarious cheer, and sped
them on their way with a ‘hurrah!’ worthy of his bright and younger
days.

The Regent, undoubtedly, manifested a clearer sense of the fitness of
things on this occasion than either of the managers of the theatres
honoured by the presence of the newly-married couple soon after the
union.

At Drury Lane was given the ‘Marriage of Figaro,’ and Covent Garden
complimented the Duke and Duchess with the ‘Provoked Husband.’

It cannot be said that the public looked with much enthusiasm on
any of the royal marriages. Such unions, with rare exceptions, are
unpleasantly free from sentiment or romance; and in the present
instances there was such a matter-of-fact air of mere ‘business’
about these contracts and ceremonies, such an absence of youth and
the impulses and the dignity of youth, that the indifferent public,
even remembering the importance of securing a lineal succession to
the throne, was slow to offer either congratulation or sympathy. The
caricaturists, on the other hand, were busy with a heavy and not very
delicate wit; and fashionable papers, uniting implied censure with
faint praise, observed that ‘the Duchesses of Kent, Clarence, and
Cambridge are very deficient in the English language. They can scarcely
speak a sentence. They possess most amiable dispositions.’ They also
possessed true womanly qualities, which won for them the esteem of
their husbands.

After a brief residence at St. James’s, and as brief a sojourn at the
Duke’s residence in Bushey Park, the Duke and Duchess of Clarence
repaired to Hanover, and remained there about a year--no incident
marking the time is worthy of observation. The issue of this marriage
scarcely survived the birth. In March 1819, a daughter was born, but to
survive only a few hours. In December 1820, another princess gladdened
the hearts of her parents, only to quench the newly-raised joy by her
death in March of the following year. The loss was the keener felt
because of the hopes that had been raised; and the grief experienced by
the Duke and Duchess was tenderly nourished, rather than relieved, by
the exquisite art of Chantrey, which, at the command of the parents,
reproduced the lost child in marble--sleeping for ever where it lay.

The household at Bushey was admirably regulated by the Duchess, who
had been taught the duties as well as the privileges of greatness. The
fixed rule was, never to allow expenditure to exceed income. It is a
golden rule which, when observed, renders men, in good truth, as rich
as Crœsus. It is a rule which, if universally observed, would render
the world prosperous and pauperism a legend. It was a rule the more
required to be honoured in this case as the Duke had large calls upon
his income. When those were provided for, old liabilities effaced, and
current expenses defrayed, the surplus was surrendered to charity.
There was no saving for the sake of increase of income--economy was
practised for justice-sake, and the Duke and Duchess were so just that
they found themselves able to be largely generous. With the increased
means placed at their disposal by the death of the Duke of York, there
was but trifling increase of expenditure. If something was added to
their comforts, _they_ benefitted who were employed to procure them;
and, if there was some little additional luxury in the rural palace
of Bushey, the neighbouring poor were never forgotten in a selfish
enjoyment of it.

In 1824, the Duke and Duchess of Clarence had apartments in St. James’s
Palace, where, however, they seem to have been as roughly accommodated,
considering their condition, as any mediæval Prince and Princess in
the days of stone walls thinly tapestried and stone floors scantily
strewn with rushes. The Duke cared little about the matter himself, but
he gallantly supported the claims of his wife. In a letter addressed
to Sir William Knighton, the King’s privy purse, in 1824, he thus
expresses himself--from St. James’s Palace:--

‘His Majesty having so graciously pleased to listen to my suggestion
respecting the alteration for the Hanoverian office at the palace,
I venture once more to trouble you on the point of the building
intended for that purpose. To the accommodation of the Duchess this
additional slip at the back of the present apartments would be most to
be wished and desired, and never can make a complete Hanoverian office
without our kitchen, which the King has so kindly allowed us to keep.
Under this perfect conviction, I venture to apply for this slip of
building which was intended for the Hanoverian office. I am confident
his Majesty is fully aware of the inconvenience and unfitness of our
present apartments here. They were arranged for me in 1809, when I was
a bachelor, and without an idea at that time of my ever being married,
since which, now fifteen years, nothing has been done to them, and
you well know the dirt and unfitness for the Duchess of our present
abode. Under these circumstances, I earnestly request, for the sake of
the amiable and excellent Duchess, you will, when the King is quite
recovered, represent the wretched state and dirt of our apartments, and
the infinite advantage this slip would produce to the convenience and
comfort of the Duchess.... God bless the King and yourself, and ever
believe me, &c.--WILLIAM.’

Though often as ungrammatical and inelegant, it was seldom the Duke
was so explicit in his correspondence as he is in the above letter.
Generally, he wrote in ambiguous phrases, very puzzling to the
uninitiated; but when his Duchess Adelaide was in question, and her
comfort was concerned, he became quite graphic on the ‘state and dirt’
in which they passed their London days, in the old, dingy, leper-house
palace of St. James’s.

With the exception of the period during which the Duke held the office
of Lord High Admiral, 1827–28--an office which may be said to have been
conferred on him by Canning, and of which he was deprived by the Duke
of Wellington--with the exception above noted, this royal couple
lived in comparative retirement till the 26th of June, 1830, on which
day the demise of George IV. summoned them to ascend the throne. During
his fatal illness, Mrs. Fitzherbert addressed a letter of sympathy to
her old lover, if not husband. She affectionately tendered any service
which might be of use to him in his extreme necessity. To this letter
no reply ever reached her; but some vestige of human affection was
nevertheless evinced by the King on his death-bed. ‘He more than once
expressed his anxiety,’ the ‘Memoirs’ tell us, ‘that a particular
picture should be hung round his neck, and deposited with him in the
grave.’ It seemed to be the opinion of the Duke of Wellington that this
portrait was one which had been taken of Mrs. Fitzherbert in early
life, and was set round with brilliants. It appeared the more likely,
as this portrait was afterwards missing when the others were returned
to her. Mrs. Fitzherbert was possessed of an annuity of 6,000_l._,
settled on her by George the Fourth, which she enjoyed to the year of
her death, 1833.

It is said that when the news of the death of George IV. was announced
to the Duchess of Clarence the new Queen burst into tears. The
prayer-book she held in her hand at the moment she conferred on the
noble messenger, as a memorial of the incident and of her regret. The
messenger looked, perhaps, for a more costly guerdon; but she was
thinking only of her higher and stranger duties. If Queen Adelaide
really regretted that these now had claims upon her, not less was their
advent regretted by certain of the labouring poor of Bushey, whose
harvest-homes had never been so joyous as since the Duke and Duchess of
Clarence had been living among them.

The course of life of the new Queen was only changed in degree. Her
income was larger, so also were her charities. Her time had more calls
upon it, but her cheerfulness was not diminished. Her evenings were
generally given up to tapestry work, and as she bent over the frame
many of the circle around her already sorrowingly remarked that the new
Queen, though not old in years, seemed descending into the vale of life.

The esteem of her husband for her was equal to her merits. His
affection and respect were boundless; and when the senate granted her,
on the motion of Lord Althorpe, 100,000_l._ per annum, with Marlborough
House and Bushey Park, in case she survived the King, the good old
monarch was the first to congratulate her, and was pleased to put her
in office himself, by appointing her Perpetual Ranger of the Park,
which was to become her own at his decease.

William IV. was not forgetful of his old loves, and Queen Adelaide
was not jealous of such memories. She looked more indulgently than
the general public did on the ennobling of his children of the Jordan
family. If that step could have been met by objections in these
later days, it was at least supported by that amazingly powerful but
sometimes perilous engine, precedent. Though indeed there was precedent
for the contrary; and perhaps the husband of Queen Adelaide would
have manifested a greater sense of propriety on this occasion had he
rather followed the decent example, in a like matter, of the scrupulous
Richard the Third than that of Henry the Eighth or the Second Charles.

There was another ennobling, however, which the public as warmly
approved as the Queen heartily sanctioned. In 1834, her husband raised
to the dignity of a Baroness the lady who had declined to share with
him whatever of higher or more equivocal honour he could have conferred
by marrying her. In that year Miss Wykeham became, by the grateful
memory and good taste of her old royal lover, Baroness Wenman of Thame
Park, Oxon. This testimony of the memory of an old affection was an
act to be honoured by a Queen, and to it that royal homage was freely
tendered. Inquirers, on turning over the peerage books, may discover
many honours conferred on women too ready to listen to the suit of
a monarch; but here, for the first time, was a title of nobility
presented to a lady who had declined to give ear to royal suit, paid
in honesty and honour. Baroness Wenman bore her honours with grace and
dignity till her death, in 1870.

There was something chivalrous in the bearing of the King towards
ladies; hearty, but a courteous heartiness. This sort of tribute he
loved to render to his wife; and there was nothing so pleasant to
hear, in his replies to addresses after his accession, as the gallant
allusions to the qualities of the Queen, who stood at his side serenely
satisfied. This heartiness was not an affectation in him. It was of
his nature; and another phase of his character was manifested by King
William at the first dinner after he ascended the throne, at which his
relations only were present. On that pleasant occasion, although it
was a family dinner, he gave as a toast, ‘Family peace and affection;’
it was the hearty sentiment of a citizen King who loved quiet and
simple ways, who walked the streets with his intimate friends, and
often occupied the box-seat of his open carriage, turning round to
converse with the Queen inside. King William took much interest in the
first lady whom his brother, George IV., had married. Mrs. Fitzherbert
resided some part of the year at Brighton. The King visited her, and
invited her to the Pavilion. He authorised her to put her servants
in the royal livery, and to wear widow’s weeds for his late brother.
On Mrs. Fitzherbert paying her first homage to Queen Adelaide, the
King went down to her carriage to meet her, took her by the hand,
and introduced her to his consort and all the members of his family
who were present. Mrs. Fitzherbert told Lord Stourton that ‘she was
herself much surprised at the great composure with which she was
able to sustain a trial of fortitude which appeared so alarming at a
distance.’ After this she was frequently a guest. Queen Adelaide was a
gentle hostess, and the royal Sunday dinners were as elegant as they
were comfortable. Mrs. Fitzherbert very decidedly declined being made a
Duchess.

When Adelaide became Queen-consort some persons who would not have been
ill-pleased to see her fail affected to fear that the homely Duchess
would prove to be unequal to the exigencies of the queenly character.
One exalted person hinted that, in this matter, she would not do ill
were she to take counsel of the Princess Elizabeth of Hesse Homburg,
‘than whom none could better record to her Majesty the forms and
usages and _prescriptions_ of the court of Queen Charlotte.’ But Queen
Adelaide needed no such instruction as the good daughter of George III.
could give her. She observed the forms and usages that were worthy of
observance; and as for _prescriptions_, she could prescribe readily
enough when duty demanded the service, as the Church felt, with mingled
feelings, when she declined to invite clergymen to her state balls or
her dancing _soirées_. The dancing clergy had their opportunity for
censure when the King and Queen gave dinner-parties on the Sunday.

The court was essentially a homely court. The two sovereigns fed
thousands of the poor in Windsor Park, and looked on at the feasting.
The Queen went shopping to Brighton fancy fairs, and when on one
occasion she bent to pick up the ‘reticule’ which an infirm old lady
had dropped, as much was made of it as of the incident of King Francis,
who picked up (or did not pick up) Titian’s pencil, and handed it to
that sovereign gentleman among artists.

Then the new sovereigns paid more private visits than any pair who had
hitherto occupied the British throne. While the Queen called on Sir
David and Lady Scott at Brighton, her royal husband, with whom she had
just previously been walking on the Esplanade, would suddenly appear
at the door of some happy but disconcerted old admiral, and invite the
veteran and his wife to dinner. To the hearty ‘Come along, directly,’
if there was a glance from the lady at her toilet, the citizen King
would encourage her by an intimation never to mind it, for he and his
wife were quiet people; ‘and, indeed,’ as he once remarked, ‘the Queen
does nothing after dinner but embroider flowers.’ Which, indeed, was
true enough, and, to tell the truth, very dull did the finer people
find it.

The consequence of this familiarity of the sovereigns with their
humbler friends was a rather audacious familiarity ventured upon by
people who left their queer names in the book at the King’s door, and
more than once successfully passed it, and penetrated to the Queen’s
drawing-room. This evil, however, was soon remedied. There were other
matters Queen Adelaide was bold enough to, at least, attempt to remedy.
Indecorousness of dress in a lady she would censure as sharply as
Queen Charlotte; and if, when Mrs. Blomfield appeared at her first
drawing-room in a ‘train of rich immortal velvet,’ as the fashionable
chroniclers of the day called it, she did not even hint surprise, it
was, perhaps, out of respect for the successor of the Apostles, of whom
that good but richly velvetted lady was the honoured wife.

The letter-writers who dealt with court incidents at the period of the
accession of this domestic couple tell of various illustrations of the
simplicity of the new sovereigns. When the Duke of Norfolk had an
interview with William IV. at Bushey, on the affair which had brought
him thither being concluded, the King declared he must not leave the
house without seeing the Queen; and, thereupon ringing the bell, he
bade the official who answered the summons to ‘tell the Queen I want
her.’

This lady, at the time when her husband was Duke of Clarence and Lord
High Admiral, had been accustomed, on her visits to Chatham, to be
received and entertained by the daughters of the then Commissioner,
Cunningham. As soon as the Duchess became Queen, among her first
invited visitors to Bushey were these ladies. At the meeting they
offered to kiss her Majesty’s hand, but ‘No, no,’ said Queen Adelaide,
‘that is not the way I receive my friends. I am not changed;’ and
therewith ensued a greeting less dignified, but not less sincere.

Queen Adelaide and King William kept a ‘state’ at Brighton which had a
burlesque element in it. They were the last sovereigns who held a court
or entertained friends at the Pavilion--that place of big and little
domes, which made Lord Alvanley say of it that it looked ‘as if St.
Paul’s had come down to the sea-side and pupped.’ It was not etiquette
for any guest (of an evening) to stir till Queen and King retired,
which was at midnight. On one occasion, when Captain and Mrs. Marryat
were present, and anxious to go to a second party, the King remarked
that the lady often looked at the clock. Being asked the reason, she
frankly told him. ‘Why don’t you go then?’ said his Majesty. ‘Sir,’
answered the lady, ‘we cannot move till her Majesty and yourself have
departed.’ ‘Oh, d--n it!’ rejoined the royal sailor, ‘take my arm;
I’ll smuggle you out.’ At the Pavilion balls, after the ladies had
kissed the Queen’s hand, the King kissed the ladies, who then passed
into the ball-room, where one of the Fitzclarences used to greet them
with: ‘Well, has Dad bussed you yet?’

There are other stories told of incidents at Windsor which indicate the
difference of the court going out from that of the court coming in.
This change required the removal from the palace of a little household,
the head lady of which reluctantly gave way to the new Queen. People
generally rejoiced in seeing a ‘wife’ installed where ‘queans’ used to
rule it; and, when William IV. was seen walking arm-in-arm with Watson
Taylor or some other happy courtier, they added one incident to the
other, and, comparing the new court with the old, exclaimed, ‘Here is
a change indeed!’ No one ever dreamed at that moment that the time
would come when party-spirit would stir up the ‘mobile’ against the
sovereigns; that the Queen would be accused of plotting with the Duke
of Wellington against reform; that stones would be cast at the royal
carriage as it bore the King and his Consort from the theatre; and
that, when matters went adversely to the humour of the ultra-chiefs of
the popular movement, the first lady in the land should be marked out
for vengeance by the famous cry in the _Times_, ‘The Queen has done it
all!’

The drawing-room at which good Mrs. Blomfield appeared in ‘immortal
velvet’ was remarkable for another incident, related in ‘Frazer’s
Magazine,’ by John Wilkes, ex-M.P. for Sudbury, in his ‘Regina’s
Regina’:--‘The drawing-room of her Majesty Queen Adelaide, held in
February, 1831, was the most magnificent which had been seen since that
which had taken place on the presentation of the Princess Charlotte
of Wales, upon the occasion of her marriage. No drawing-room excited
such an interest when compared with that as the one held by Queen
Adelaide, at which the Princess Victoria was presented on attaining her
twelfth year. It was on this occasion that the Duchess of Kent and
her illustrious daughter arrived in state, attended by the Duchess of
Northumberland, Lady Charlotte St. Maur, Lady Catherine Parkinson, the
Hon. Mrs. Cust, Lady Conroy, La Baronne Letzen, Sir John Conroy, and
General Wetheral. This was the first public appearance of the Princess
Victoria at court. Her dress was made entirely of articles manufactured
in the United Kingdom. Victoria wore a frock of English blonde, simple,
modest, and becoming. She was the object of interest and admiration on
the part of all assembled, as she stood on the left of her Majesty on
the throne. The scene was one of the most splendid ever remembered,
and the future Queen of England contemplated all that passed with much
dignity, but with evident interest.’

Nearly three-quarters of a century had elapsed since a Queen-consort
had been crowned in Great Britain. On the present occasion, such small
pomp as there was was confined to the religious part of the ceremony.
The procession to and from Westminster Hall, the banquet there, and
the dramatic episode of the entry of the Champion were all dispensed
with. There was an idea prevalent that the cost would be too great,
and that the popular voice would be given to grumble--others thought
that money spent in the country, and made to circulate rapidly through
many hands, would be a public benefit rather than a public injury.
The ministry, however, would only sanction the maimed rites which
were actually observed; the privileged people were deprived of many
a coveted perquisite which might have dipped deeply into the public
purse, and the heir of Marmion and the owner of Scrivelsby kept his
horse and his defiance at home in the domain of the Dymokes. The
public, cheated of their show, called it a ‘half-crownation.’

There was only one incident at this ceremony which is worth narrating.
The Queen-consort’s crown was a rich little toy, sparkling but
small. It would hardly fit a baby’s head, and, accordingly, Queen
Adelaide’s hair was turned up in a knot, in order that on this knot
the little crown might safely rest. The Archbishop of Canterbury, in
place of fitting the crown down upon this knot of hair, only lightly
placed the glittering toy on the top of it. Had the Queen moved
she would have been discrowned in an instant, and all the foolish
people whose footsteps go wandering on the borders of another world,
instead of going honestly straightforward in this, would have had a
fine opportunity of discussing the value of omens. But, in a case
of adornment, the ladies had their wits about them, and were worth
the whole episcopal bench when the matter at issue was surmounting a
head of hair with its supreme adornment of a crown. Some of those in
attendance stepped forward, saved their embarrassed mistress from an
annoyance, and Queen Adelaide was crowned in Westminster Abbey by a
couple of ladies-in-waiting!

It may be that the Archbishop was not so much to blame on this
occasion. The little crown was made up at the Queen’s expense for the
occasion, by Rundell, out of her own jewels, and it may not have fitted
easily. She had a dread of unnecessary outlay, and, perhaps, remembered
that at George the Fourth’s coronation the sum charged by Rundell
merely for the hire of jewels by the King amounted to 16,000_l._, as
interest on their value. The whole expense of the double coronation of
William and Adelaide did not amount to much more than twice that sum.

The Queen herself was not ill-dressed on this occasion, as will be seen
by the record made by those who have registered the millinery portion
of the ceremony:--‘Her Majesty wore a gold gauze over a white satin
petticoat, with a diamond stomacher, and a purple velvet train, lined
with white satin, and a rich border of gold and ermine. The coronet
worn by Her Majesty, both to and from the Abbey, was most beautiful. It
was composed entirely of diamonds and pearls, and in shape very similar
to a mural crown.’

When the modest coronation of William and Adelaide was yet a subject
of general conversation, the expensive finery of that which preceded
it was actually in the market, and was subsequently sold by public
auction. Out of the hundred and twenty lots ‘submitted’ by Mr.
Phillips, the new King and Queen might have been tempted to secure a
_souvenir_ of their predecessor; but they had no taste for ‘bargains,’
perhaps small regard for their defunct kinsman. Nevertheless, so
thrifty a lady as the Queen may have sighed at the thought of the
coronation ruff of Mechlin lace going ‘dirt cheap’ at two pounds; and
she may have regretted the crimson velvet coronation mantle, with
its star and gold embroidery, which, originally costing five hundred
pounds, fetched, when yet as good as new, only a poor seven-and-forty
guineas. There was the same depreciation in other articles of
originally costly value. The second coronation mantle of purple velvet
fell from three hundred to fifty-five pounds; and the green velvet
mantle, lined with ermine, which had cost the Czar, who presented it
to the late King, a thousand guineas, was ‘knocked down’ at a trifle
over a hundred pounds. Sashes, highland-dresses, aigrette-plumes--
rich gifts received, or purchases dearly acquired--went for nothing;
and, after all, seeing into what base hands coronation bravery is apt
to fall, the economical King and Queen were not without justification
in setting an example of prudence, which was followed at the next great
crowning.

Perhaps not the least remarkable incident in connection with this
coronation was the absence of the heiress-presumptive to the crown,
the Princess Victoria. No place had been assigned to her, nor any
preparation made in expectation of her gracing or witnessing the
ceremony. It has been said that Earl Grey, the prime minister,
obstinately opposed all idea of inviting the Princess to be present.
But the grounds for such opposition are so unapparent that it is
difficult to give credit to them at all. By others it has been asserted
that the Duchess of Northumberland, the governess of the Princess,
in the exercise of a superior and enlightened judgment, and in
consideration of the then alleged delicate health of her young charge,
advised that her pupil should not be present at the coronation of King
William and Queen Adelaide. This reason seems hardly to account for the
fact. In the absence of a better, it was accepted by those at least who
did not throw the blame of that ‘conspicuous absence’ on Queen Adelaide
herself and her royal consort; but, as an anonymous writer remarked,
‘Who that knew the good King William and his incomparable Queen would
believe that any slight was put by them on their well-beloved niece and
the heiress-presumptive to the throne?’ The same enemies also stated
that ‘the Duchess of Northumberland was seeking to give a political
bias to the education of the Princess, and some uneasiness was
therefore created in the palace.’ The ‘Times’ asserted, with iteration,
that the Duchess of Kent had ‘refused to attend, yes, refused to
attend,’ and reproved Her Royal Highness, in the harsh terms which
illustrated many of the controversies of the day, for the impertinence
of the widow of a mediatized German Prince, in withholding her daughter
from a ceremony at which she could never, at one time, have expected to
see daughter of hers, as heiress-presumptive to the crown of England!
Other papers made this alleged refusal rest on the course taken by
Lord A. Fitzclarence, who, in marshalling the coronation procession on
paper, had assigned a place to the Princess Victoria after the other
members of the royal family, instead of next to the King and Queen.
Finally, the ‘Globe,’ on authority, declared that the Duchess, having
pleaded the delicate state of her daughter’s health, had obtained the
King’s sanction to her absence--a version of the end of a story which
began, nevertheless, more like the current report of it than would
seem here to be indicated. As marked an instance of absence as that of
the Princess was that of the whole of such members of the preceding
administration as happened to be members of the House of Commons. This,
however, little affected the King, who, at the subsequent dinner at St.
James’s Palace, gave, as a toast, ‘the land we live in,’ and declared
that, except as a formality and memorial, the coronation was a useless
affair, as far as he was concerned, for no oath he had there taken
could bind him more stringently to fulfil his duty towards the people
than he felt himself to be bound by as soon as the responsibility of
his position had fallen upon him.

The land he now lived in speedily became agitated by that wave of
revolution which was shaking many of the monarchies of Europe. England
endured as great revolution as any of them, but with this difference,
that here it was effected according to law, and, albeit not exempt from
very vast perils, was carried through to its natural consequences, to
the mutual advantage of the government and the governed.

When the first rumours began to spread of an opposition establishing
itself at court against the progress of reform, the press manifested
particular desire to exonerate the Queen from the charge of
participating in or heading such a course. The ‘Times’ at first
interfered to protect that lady from similar aspersions. Papers of
less influence, but of like principles, had openly named Queen
Adelaide, the two daughters of George III., Elizabeth (Princess of
Hesse Homburg), and Mary (Duchess of Gloucester) as mischievously
active in impeding the popular will. In answer to such accusations,
the ‘Times’ (April 9, 1831), in a brief but spirited and courteous
leader, denounced the falsehood, and showed the improbability and
the unfairness of such allegations. On a like occasion, that paper
fairly urged that, whatever opinions might be expressed by members
of the household, they were not to be attributed to the mistress of
that household. At the same time, on these members and on the fair
frequenters of drawing-rooms who there gave utterance to sentiments
which they carried into action elsewhere against the great consummation
sought by the people, the pro-reform paper thundered its bolts and
showered its sarcasm with unsparing hands. On most occasions, however,
so much was made of the apparent heartiness of the King, that excess of
praise in that direction took the form of censure on the lukewarmness,
if not the hostility, of the Queen. Contrasts rather than parallels
were the favourite medium for turning the public attention to the two
sovereigns. The Ex-Chancellor Eldon was said to have assured Queen
Adelaide that, if reform was carried, the days of her drawing-rooms
were numbered, and that royalty would do well to follow a counsel
which was given by Earl Grey to the bishops--namely, set its house
in order. On the other hand, we hear of the new Chancellor Brougham
attending the court with his huge official purse so full of petitions
in favour of parliamentary reform that, as he continued to extract and
present them, he apologized to King William for troubling him with such
piles of the public prayers or demands. Whereupon the King is said to
have remarked, in the hearing of the Queen, ‘My Lord Chancellor, I am
willing to receive anything from that purse, except the seals!’ The
wit was small, but the suggestiveness was considered important, and
gossips, on both sides, jumped to conclusions which had questionable
affinity with the premises.

While the Queen was thus treated with a certain degree of moderation by
the press, she is said to have been seriously coerced by the liberal
ministry of the day. The charge was distinctly made, after the Queen’s
death, in a funeral sermon, preached by the Rev. Mr. Browne, Vicar
of Atwick. The occasion was so solemn that an honest man was not
likely to be led even into exaggeration, much less into deliberate
misrepresentation. These are the preacher’s own words:--

‘The Queen-consort had witnessed in her father-land some of the
dreadful effects of the French revolutionary movements; and she was
known to disapprove, out of womanly feeling and fear for her husband’s
safety, of popular tumults and agitations. With the narrow-minded and
impure suspicion is proof, and is followed by resentment. This pure
being was a sufferer by the machinations and exactions of the ephemeral
favourites of the misguided populace. Her influence over her royal
husband was too great to be trusted, and she was forbidden--I speak
advisedly, and mean nothing less than “forbidden”--to have a kindred
spirit near her during the agitation and intimidation by which the
measure called the Reform Bill was supported and carried.’

It was when that bill was in jeopardy, when the King--who had made
so many knights that the very pages called them the ‘Arabians,’ the
‘Thousand and One’--hesitated to create a sufficient number of new
lords to secure the passing of the bill in the Upper House; it was then
that the press began to admonish the King and to menace the Queen. On
one occasion, when they attended at the opening of the new Staines
Bridge, where, by the way, they were so closely pressed upon by the
mob that maids of honour and gentlemen-in-waiting had their pockets
picked, the Conservative wits remarked that the King might make new
bridges, but that he must leave the _peers_ alone. The Whig party at
once assumed that Queen Adelaide was at the head of a faction whose
object was to give reality to such jokes, and thenceforward the Queen
was little spared. The ‘Times’ asserted that it was by ‘domestic
importunity’ alone that the free action of the King’s mind was impeded.
The Queen was compared to Queen Amata, in the ‘Æneid,’ cajoling or
raging at her older consort, Latinus, because the latter preferred
Æneas to Turnus as a husband for their daughter Lavinia. There was not
much alike in the two cases, for Amata was a staunch Conservative,
who detested the idea of a foreign prince obtaining the hand of her
daughter, and exercising influence within the limits of Latium. But
there were strong terms in the original which suited the purpose of the
hour, and the Queen was pelted with them most unmercifully.

Occasionally, there was a truth mixed up with the harder words, which
even ultra-Tories could not gainsay, as when the ‘Times’ remarked that
‘a foreigner was no very competent judge of English liberties, and
politics are not the proper field for female enterprise or exertion.’
When this strong hint was taken to have failed, and Queen Adelaide was
still supposed to be conspiring with the daughters of George III. to
turn King William from his liberal views, this was the tone with which
the royal lady was lectured by the press:--‘There is a lady of high
rank who must be taught a salutary, though a very painful, lesson. She
may be bold as an amazon, be troublesome, importunate, or overbearing,
but her present course is one from which can follow naught but final
wretchedness. Why has she so eagerly, within these few hours, bidden
her gossips _not to despair_? Why such haste to tell them, _all will be
well? The King will do without the Whigs._ Yes, madam, but England will
not. Still less will England do without the unmutilated Bill.’

At another time Queen Adelaide was reminded that if a female influence
drove Necker from the court of Louis XVI., one of the consequences was
the destruction of the most influential lady; another, the ruin of
the country. The influence being assumed to be still active, allusion
was made to the ‘foreign woman whom the nation may have too easily
adopted.’ Reports were rife that intrigues were on foot, the object of
which was to induce liberal peers to betray their party, and then the
public censor showered imprecations on ‘blandishments and entreaties,
urged with a force and pertinacity which, coming from a monarch, are
difficult to be refused.’

On the other hand, the Conservative press drew its own inferences
and made its own accusations. When the cholera was raging, during
the reform fever, Queen Adelaide’s drawing-room happened to be very
thinly attended. The real cause was lost sight of, and her Majesty was
respectfully assured that the scanty attendance was entirely owing to
Lord Grey’s revolutionary government, beneath which all old English
energy, vitality, and spirit had become so extinct that it was unequal
to the exertion of even manifesting respect for an English Queen. As
much injury was inflicted on Queen Adelaide by the Tories who blazoned
her name on their banners and boasted of having her on their side
as by the Whigs and Radicals who, by their calumny, exposed her to
popular insult. When Lord Chancellor Brougham coerced the King to go
and dismiss the unreformed and unreforming Parliament, one part of the
royal remonstrance took the form of: ‘What! Would you have me dismiss
in this summary manner, a Parliament which has granted me so splendid
a Civil List, and given my Queen so liberal an annuity, in case she
survives me?’ Lord Brougham answered that he would, and that he had
taken upon himself to order out the Horse Guards to escort the King
down to the House.

Old English qualities manifested themselves at a Conservative festival
in Gloucestershire, where the health of ‘the Queen’ was ‘received with
great applause.’ Upon which announcement the ‘Times’ significantly
asked, ‘Is that meant as a compliment to her Majesty, or will it sound
as such in the ears of the unanimous people?’ Then, when reiteration
was made of the alleged co-operation of the sisters of William IV. with
Queen Adelaide in efforts to overthrow the Reform Bill, the ‘Times’
stepped forward with the following testimony in favour of those ladies
and their mother, with the accompanying admonition to the Queen:--‘No
one will be persuaded that any daughter of George III. could so mistake
her position in this country or so disregard her duty. Queen Charlotte
was advised by her mother, before she ever touched the shores of
England, to make entire and religious abstinence from politics the
rule of her life as a British Princess; and for twenty-eight years,
till the question of the first Regency forced Queen Charlotte upon the
stage as a reluctant actress, she had satisfied herself with being a
modest spectatress, living in strict observance of maternal counsel;
and what was the consequence? Down to the above-mentioned period of
her wedded life, her Majesty enjoyed, in a degree not experienced by
any Queen-consort for centuries past, the respect and good-will of the
whole community. Is it then to be supposed that the leading maxim of
her own mother was not impressed by that judicious and estimable woman
upon the minds of her daughters, the six Princesses, two of whom still
adorn the court of England with their constant presence? The Princess
Augusta and the Duchess of Gloucester owe little to the gossips who
thus abuse the delicacy of their illustrious names.’

Party-spirit was, doubtless, aggravated on either side by the tone of
the press. Influential cities announced their refusal to pay taxes,
and tavern-clubs possessing pictures of King and Queen turned them
heels uppermost, with an intimation that they should be righted as
soon as the originals had made themselves right with the people. If
Tories of eminence talked of coercing the King, Whigs equally exalted
hinted at the possibility of sending his Consort to Germany, and of
rousing the men of the provinces in order to make an impression upon
people in high places. One well-known ‘man about town,’ presiding at
a public dinner, refused to propose the Queen’s health, and among the
lower caricature-shops she might be seen pictured wending her way, the
ejected of England, to a dull, dreary, and unwelcoming Germany.

Publicly, however, she had her champions too. Mr. Baring, from his
place in parliament, protested against the language of the Whig papers
generally. His own description of it, as applicable to the Queen, was,
that it comprised foul slander against the highest personage of a
sex, from insulting which every manly mind would recoil. The gallant
champion added, with less discretion, perhaps, that the full measure of
scornful indifference and silent contempt with which the Queen repaid
all the insults heaped upon her had elevated her in the hearts of those
whose homage was a worthy tribute. Mr. Hume, ultra-reformer as he was,
exhibited very excellent taste on this occasion, and pointed out in a
few words marked by good common sense that the name of the exalted lady
in question should never be dragged into the debates, the discussions,
and the dissensions of that house.

Less, perhaps, by way of championship than in the character of
consolers, did the bishops, or a certain number of them, with the
Archbishop of Canterbury at their head, address Queen Adelaide. They
had, previously, ‘been up’ to the King, who was just then being
counselled in various ways by everybody, from wary old politicians to
the ’prentice-boys of Derry. They brought to his Consort the usual
complimentary phrases--but, in the present instance, they carried
weight with the Queen, for amid the din of abuse with which she
was assailed a few words of assurance and encouragement, of trust,
counsel, and consolation, must have fallen pleasantly upon her ear. She
said as much, at least, in a brief phrase or two, indicative of the
satisfaction she experienced at hearing such words from such men, at a
period when she was the object of so much undeserved calumny and insult.

The scene was, undoubtedly, made the most of by those who rejoiced most
in its occurrence; perhaps too much was made of it; and this induced
the ridicule of the opposite side. The ‘Times’ courageously denied
its existence. The presentation of the prelates was admitted, but the
Queen’s speech was defined as a hoax. There was nobody by, it was said,
but the knot of diocesans and a body of maids of honour--and, of
course, any report emanating from such a source was to be received with
more than ordinary suspicion.

Long before the press had commenced directing an undesired notice upon
the Queen private circles were canvassing her conduct with regard,
especially, to this matter of reform. ‘By-the-bye,’ says Moore in his
diary, ‘the Queen being, as is well known, adverse to the measure which
is giving such popularity to her royal husband, reminds me a little
of the story of the King of Sparta, who first gave his assent to the
establishment of the Ephori. His wife, it is said, reproached him with
this step, and told him that he was delivering down the royal power to
his children _less_ than he had received it. “Greater,” he answered,
“because more durable.” This is just such an answer as William IV.
would be likely to give to _his_ wife. But the event proved the Spartan
Queen to have been right, for the Ephori extinguished the royal power;
and if Queen Adelaide’s bodings are of the same description, they are
but too likely to be _in the same manner realized_’--a curious avowal
from Lord Lansdowne’s Whig friend.

There are few things which more forcibly strike a student of the
political literature of this period than its wide difference from that
which now generally prevails. It seemed, in those days, as if no public
writer could command or control his temper. The worst things were
expressed in the worst forms, and writers had not reached, or did not
care to practise, the better style by which a man may censure sharply
without doing undue wrong to the object of his censure, without losing
his own self-respect or forfeiting that of his readers.

Taken altogether, the year 1832 may be said to have been the most
eventful and the least felicitous in the life of Queen Adelaide. It
was a year which opened gloomily for the court, both politically and
personally. At one of the small festivities held at the Pavilion, the
King’s old friend, Mr. Greenwood, of the firm of Cox and Greenwood,
Army Agents, was playing whist, after dinner, with the Queen for a
partner, and the King and Sir Herbert Taylor for adversaries. During
the progress of the game he was taken ill, became insensible, and, on
being removed from the room by Sir Herbert and Lord Erroll, died in
an adjoining apartment, within a quarter of an hour. The Queen was
very much shocked at this incident, and the elder ladies about court,
who thought it ominous of a fatal year--for already were movements
hostile to monarchy becoming active--considered the next month’s omen
of unpleasant significance too, when the fog in London, on the night
of the anniversary of the Queen’s birthday, was so dense that not a
lamp of illuminations was visible through the mist. Then ensued, in the
subsequent spring, the unpleasant feud with the Sefton family, in which
Queen Adelaide’s name was so prominent.

Soon after the temporary resignation of the Grey ministry, King William
invited the Jockey Club to dinner at St. James’s Palace. Among the
invited was old Lord Sefton, who was a Whig _and something more_,
and who was resolved to avenge on the King the wrongs inflicted, as
he assumed, by that dissembling monarch on his friends of the late
administration. Lord Sefton accordingly withdrew from the club. The
unsuspicious King at once invited him as a friend, but Lord Sefton was
ungracious enough to absent himself, and did not condescend to restore
the sovereign to favour till Lord Grey was once more at the helm of the
national ship--steersman and captain too. His lordship and family
appeared at the ball given by the Queen in May, to which, of course,
they had been all invited. Meanwhile, however, the King had learned how
he stood in the estimation of the Earl, meeting whom in the Queen’s
ball-room, he turned his royal back upon him, publicly. Thence arose
embittered feelings on the part of the offended peer. _Vivere sat,
vincere_, ‘to conquer is to live enough,’ is the Sefton motto, and the
bearers of it seem to have been determined to have this taste of life,
by putting down the royal offenders, and appearing before them to enjoy
their humiliation. ‘Lord Molyneux’ (Lord Sefton’s son, says Mr. Raikes,
in his _Diary_) ‘has attended a public meeting at Liverpool, where he
made a speech, and, actuated by his father’s feelings, alluded very
bitterly to the conduct of both the King and Queen. He afterwards came
to town, and appeared, with his family, at the ball. On the following
day, the King commanded Mr. W. Ashley, as vice-chamberlain to the
Queen, to write to Lord Molyneux, and request he would not appear
at court again. Nothing could be more just. This is only a slight
instance,’ adds the Tory Diarist, ‘of Whig insolence and ingratitude.
Sefton has been made a peer, and treated with the most marked courtesy
and attention by the present King.’

In the following June, Lord Lichfield, master of the buckhounds,
prepared a list of guests invited by him to meet the King, at the
conclusion of Ascot races, at dinner, at Lord Lichfield’s house,
Fern Hill. The King expressly ordered that Lord Sefton should not
be invited. Considering the offence, it was singular that any one
should have thought of winning the Queen over to use her interest
in influencing her husband to withdraw the command. Lady Lichfield,
however, did so, intimating to her Majesty that, if the King had been
moved by what was reported to have passed at the Jockey Club, she was
enabled to say how that matter had been much misrepresented. The Queen
confined all reply and comment to the words, coldly uttered, that she
hoped it was so.

It certainly was not a period when Queens could expect to be cordial
with people who insulted them, and whose speeches in public were
exercising a very unwholesome influence on the more ignorant of the
lower orders. At the above very Ascot races the King was grievously
assaulted, in the Queen’s presence, by a ruffian in the crowd. Their
Majesties had just taken their seats in the grand stand, and the
King had then risen to salute the people in view, when the ruffian
in question flung a stone at him, which struck the King on the
forehead, but did not inflict any serious mischief. The assailant was
let cheaply off; but Queen Adelaide was much distressed by his act,
and the impression it made upon her was only increased, a week later,
when she appeared with the King at the review in Hyde Park. There she
was treated with such incivility and rudeness that at the fête at the
Duke of Wellington’s, in the evening, where they held a little court,
the Queen wore a spiritless and sorrowing aspect, while King William,
his buoyant spirits all quenched, looked aged and infirm, weary of his
vocation and vexations.

The season, certainly, was not one for monarchs to be abroad in with
joyous exterior. In the summer of this year there passed through London
a princess whose story bore with it a great moral to the wearers of
crowns--the Duchess of Angoulême, the daughter of Louis XVI. She had
experienced the widest extremes of fortune, but had been longest and
most intimately acquainted with misfortune. She was again a fugitive
and an exile--one never destined to behold her country again.
The Queen visited her at her modest apartments in Charles Street,
Grosvenor Square, and she took leave of that illustrious victim of
many revolutions with evil forebodings of the issue of the spirit of
the then present time. Her Majesty did not, indeed, lack a certain
spirit of her own wherewith to meet the other and revolutionary spirit.
Thus, when her friend and faithful servant, Lord Howe, was compelled
to give up his office of chamberlain to the Queen, his mistress would
never accept the nomination of any other person to the same post. Lord
Howe remained in attendance upon his mistress unofficially; but he
positively refused to be reinstated by Lord Grey, to whom his reply
was, ‘That he had been wantonly dismissed by him, and would receive no
favour at his hands.’ The act of Lord Grey was, probably, far more
keenly felt at court than that of the two new radical members (Messrs.
Wigney and Faithful) returned for the royal borough of Brighton, and
who, ‘under the very nose of the court,’ as it was said, ‘talked
openly of reducing the allowance made to the King and Queen.’ This
was a foolish speech; but there was an even more indiscreet tongue
within the Pavilion than those of the new radical senators without.
In 1833, the King himself declared in favour of a republican form of
government! What must the feelings of Queen Adelaide have been--she
who had a horror of revolutions and a hatred for republicanism--on
that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday evening, the 6th of January, 1833?
The American Minister was a guest at the dinner table that evening. At
the _dessert_, the King, instead of wisely going to sleep, as he was
accustomed to do after his second glass of wine, _would_ be lively and
talkative. When he was in this vein he was addicted to make speeches,
and on this occasion, before the ladies had retired, he delivered
himself of a very notable one, considering the times and the speaker,
in which he expressed his great regret that he had not been born a
free, independent American, seeing that he entertained deep respect for
the United States, and considered Washington to be the greatest man
that ever lived. Queen Adelaide must have been astounded when listening
to this profession of political faith, and to this eulogy of a man who
had struck the brightest jewel out of the crown of his panegyrist’s
royal father!

To old royalists such a speech as the above savoured of that period
which is called ‘the end of the world.’ Speculative individuals who
heard of it were amazed. ‘The aristocracy are hourly going down in the
scale; royalty is become a mere cypher.’ Well might Mr. Raikes make
this entry in his journal, when a King of England manifested a liking
for ‘rowdyism.’ The influences of these passing events, even on men of
intellect, are well marked by a contemporary passage in the diary of
the merchant, whose commercial affairs were going the way he fancied
the monarchy was tending. ‘I was walking the other day,’ he writes, in
February 1833, ‘round the Royal Exchange, the _enceinte_ of which is
adorned with the statues of all our Kings. Only two niches now remain
vacant; one is destined to our present ruler, and that reserved for
his successor is the _last_. Some people might say it was ominous.’
So, indeed, it proved to be; half-a-year after the accession of Queen
Victoria, when there were as many niches as there had been sovereigns,
and room for no more, destruction ensued, but it was the Royal Exchange
that fell (by fire), and not the monarchy. _That_ has grown stronger.
May it ever so flourish!

Meanwhile, it is to be observed that Queen Adelaide after this time
began to re-conquer the popular esteem. When, in July 1834, she
embarked at Woolwich as Countess of Lancaster, on board the royal
yacht, for Rotterdam, in order to visit her relations in Germany, the
spectators of the scene received her with demonstrations of great
respect, and on her return, in the following month, she landed at the
same place amid acclamations of loyalty and welcome.

It was after her return that the King began to bear symptoms of
restlessness and fatigue, which betokened that decay which gradually
made progress, and was ultimately accelerated in 1837, when his
daughter, Lady de Lisle, died, to the grief of many, but especially to
the heart of her father.

As the King’s health began to give way, so also did his temper more
easily yield before such provocations, and more freely did he indulge
in that early acquired habit of using strong expletives which has
been noted, in her diary, by Fanny Burney. William the Conqueror, it
is said, used to ungallantly beat his wife, Matilda, of whom he was
otherwise so fond. William the Fourth was guilty of an offence only
next to it in criminality--by swearing in presence of his consort,
Adelaide. There is a well-known instance of this told in connection
with a visit to the Royal Academy, in 1834. The occasion was that of a
private view, with a very large public attendance at Somerset House.
The President of the Royal Academy received the illustrious visitors,
and accompanied them through the rooms. In the course of their progress
he pointed out to the King the portrait of Admiral Napier, who had
recently been in command of the Portuguese fleet for Don Pedro. The
King’s political wrath was too strong for his infirmity, and, without
forgetting the presence of his wife, nay, making such presence an
excuse for not breaking forth into greater unseemliness, he exclaimed:
‘Captain Napier may be d----d, sir! and _you_ may be d----d, sir! and
if the Queen was not here, sir, I would kick you down stairs, sir.’
Such a scene indicated as much infirmity as bad taste on the part of
the chief actor, and must have sorely tried the patience and shaken
the dignity of the Queen. She now, perhaps, as much or more than ever,
required the support of those nearest to her. The old prejudices of the
reform time against her had not yet died out, and to these was to be
added certain malignity in foreign papers; a malignity which culminated
in 1835 in the ‘Gazette de France,’ which paper seriously asserted
that England was endeavouring to revolutionize Spain and Portugal,
with ulterior purposes of pursuing the same course in Germany and
Italy as she had done in Belgium and in Greece; and that at the head
of this conspiracy for reconstructing Europe were William the Fourth,
the Duke of Wellington, and _Queen Adelaide_! Thus, the lady who had
seldom during her life desired more than to be permitted to enjoy it
tranquilly, and who had but little perplexed herself touching the
ways of others, was held up, after being accused of being a political
meddler at home, as being a political conspirator abroad.

When her royal consort’s indisposition assumed an appearance of
increased gravity, Queen Adelaide at once took her place by his couch,
and never left but when compelled by gentle restraint put upon her by
those who loved her, and who feared for her own health. ‘Les reines’
(says a French writer) ‘ont été vues pleurantes comme de simples
femmes,’ and she was one of them. Her constancy only gave way, and
she broke into profuse but silent tears, on the eve of the old King’s
death, as the Archbishop of Canterbury concluded the service of the
sick, by pronouncing the solemn words of the benediction as contained
in the Liturgy of the Church. The good old monarch looked with
affection upon his sorrowing Queen, and with as cheerful a voice as he
could put on, and almost in nautical phrase, begged her to be of good
heart and to ‘bear up! bear up!’

The Rev. Mr. Browne, Vicar of Atwick, rendering testimony to her
conduct on this occasion, said in a funeral sermon: ‘She was by the
King’s bedside, a being so full of devoted love and pious resignation,
of such meekness, gentleness, and goodness, and sweetness, that an
angel might have beheld her with satisfaction and delight, and _almost
with advantage_.’ She did her duty like a true wife and tender woman;
and Mr. Browne thought that, altogether, Queen Adelaide might have
afforded an useful hint or two even to angels! It is more than the good
Queen ever dreamed of.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was in close attendance upon the King
during the last days of his life, in 1837, and in the course of his
ministrations saw more of Queen Adelaide than any other individual
there present had the opportunity of doing. At a meeting of the
Metropolitan Churches’ Fund Society, the primate went fully, but
tenderly and sensibly, into this solemn matter; and after rendering
due, but not over-piled, measure of justice to the King, spoke in
these words of his consort:--‘For three weeks prior to his dissolution
the Queen sat by his bedside, performing for him every office which a
sick man could require, and depriving herself of all manner of rest
and refection. She underwent labours which I thought no ordinary woman
could endure. No language can do justice to the meekness and to the
calmness of mind which she sought to keep up before the King, while
sorrow was preying on her heart. Such constancy of affection, I think,
was one of the most interesting spectacles that could be presented to a
mind desirous of being gratified with the sight of human excellence.’

The spectacle at the close was one most touching of all, for old King
William, threescore and twelve, died at last in a gentle sleep, as he
sat up on his couch, his hand resting, where it had lain undisturbed
for hours, on the shoulder of the Queen. Such had been her office at
various times, daily, for the preceding fortnight; and when it shall
have been a little more hallowed by time, it will be a fitting subject
to be limned by some future artist competent to treat it.

Since the death of Charles II. no King of England had died under the
same roof with his wife; and _then_ there was no such touching scene
as the above, but only a few words of decent reconciliation before the
royal pair parted for ever, and the wife (leaving the husband to die at
leisure and commend worthless women to his brother’s protection) went
to her chamber to receive the formal news of his death, and finally
to receive the condolence of visitors, lying the while on a state
bed of mourning, in a chamber lighted with tapers, the walls, floor,
and ceiling covered with black cloth. Queen Adelaide stayed by _her_
husband to the last, then laid his unconscious head upon the pillow,
and, quietly withdrawing to her chamber, looked for consolation to
other sources than the visits of courtiers shaping their faces to the
humour of the hour.

The respect of the royal widow for the deceased King did not cease
here. On Saturday night, the 8th of July, she attended the funeral
ceremony, at Windsor, being present in the royal closet during the
whole ceremony. She is the only Queen of England who saw a King, her
consort, deposited in the tomb.

In the following month the Dowager Queen left Windsor Castle, to which
the shouts of a joyous people welcomed her successor. From that time
she may be said to have commenced her own course of dying. Her story is
really, henceforward, but the diary of an invalid. The nation, through
the legislature, condoled with her upon her bereavement, and as she
descended the steps of the throne to resume her old unostentatious
privacy there was not a man in the realm who failed, in some wise, to
greet her, or who did not acknowledge that she had borne greatness with
honour, and had won the hearts of a people who had been once forward to
censure her.

From this period her life was one of suffering, but it was a suffering
that never rendered her selfish. In her worst hours of anguish her ear
was open, her heart touched, her hand ready to relieve her sisters in
affliction, and to remedy the distresses of all who really stood in
need of the royal succour. For nearly twelve years she may be said to
have been dying. The sunniest and most sheltered spots in this country
were visited by her, but without resulting in permanent relief. The
winter of 1837–8 was spent at St. Leonard’s. An attack of bronchitis,
in the autumn of the latter year, drove her for refuge and remedy to
Malta, where the church raised by her at Valetta--the cathedral
church of the diocese of Gibraltar--at an expense of 10,000_l._, will
long serve to perpetuate her memory. On her return in May 1839, she
became, for a time, the guest of various noble hosts in England. In
1840 she visited the lakes, and established her home, subsequently and
for a brief period, at Sudbury. Her next homes--the frequent changes
indicating increased virulence of disease--were at Canford Hall,
Dorset; Witley Court, Worcester; and Cashiobury, near Watford: thence
she departed on one short and last visit to her native home, from which
she returned so ill that, in 1847, she repaired, as a last resource, to
Madeira, whither she was conveyed in a royal frigate.

The progress of the sick Queen over water was not without its
stateliness and solemnity, mixed with a certain joyousness, acceptable
to, though not to be shared in by, the royal invalid. Before the
squadron departed from Spithead, on Sunday, the 10th of October, full
divine service was celebrated on board the _Howe_, the ship’s chaplain
reading the prayers, the Queen Dowager’s preaching the sermon, on a
text altogether foreign to so rare and interesting an occasion:--‘But
now the righteousness of God without the law is manifested, being
witnessed by the law and the prophets’ (Rom. iii. 21). After service,
the squadron stood forth to sea, no incident marking its way till
the following Tuesday. On that day, a bird winging from the Bay of
Biscay fluttered on to the _Howe_, perched on the yards, and then flew
from one point to another and back again, as if he had made of the
gallant steamer a home. A sailor named Ward attempted to capture the
little guest, in pursuing which into the chains, being more eager than
considerate, he fell headlong over into the waves, while the _Howe_
pursued her forward way. In an instant after alarm was given, however,
the life-buoy was floating on the waters, a boat was pulling lustily
towards the seaman, and the _Howe_ slipped her tow ropes, and made a
circuit astern to pick up rescued and rescuers. Ward, meanwhile, had
by skilful swimming gained fast hold of the buoy, and was brought on
board little the worse for his plunge and his temporary peril. Queen
Adelaide was more moved by this accident than the man was himself. On
the following Sunday, the Queen was better able than she had previously
been to turn the accident to some account for Ward’s own benefit. Her
Majesty had attended the usual service on board, and had listened to
another sermon from the ship’s chaplain, this time on a subject as
unappropriate as that of the preceding Sunday:--‘And almost all things
are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is
no remission’ (Heb. ix. 22)--the ship’s company were repairing to
their respective quarters, when Ward was told that the Queen Dowager
requested to see him. If this message disconcerted him more than his
fall into the Bay of Biscay, he soon recovered that self-possession
which no man loses long who has a proper feeling of self-respect.
Besides, the widowed Queen, in her intercourse with persons of humble
station, wore habitually that air--

---- which sets you at your ease,
Without implying your perplexities.

She spoke to the listening sailor kindly on his late peril, and the
position in which it suddenly placed him near to impending death. A few
words like these, wisely and tenderly offered, were likely to be more
beneficial to a man like Ward than a whole course of the chaplain’s
sermons on doctrinal points in the Epistle to the Hebrews; and I cannot
but hope that the artists of the next generation, when Time shall
have poetized the _costume_ of the incident, will not forget this
picturesque passage in the life of the Queen and the man-of-war’s-man.

And now, as they glided by the coast of Portugal, on the evening of
Monday, the 18th of October, there was dancing on board, and again on
the Wednesday evening. Princesses waltzed with commanders, the Grand
Duchess tripped it on the poop with a knight, and the midshipmen went
dashingly at it with the maids of honour, while the gun-room officers
stood by awaiting their turn. On the fore part of the quarterdeck as
many of the ship’s company as were so minded got up a dance among
themselves; and the suffering Queen below heard the echoes of the
general gladness, and was content.

On the following Friday, the _Howe_ was close to Belem Castle, and was
towed into the Tagus by the steam-frigate _Terrible_. The King Consort
of Portugal came down in a state barge to receive the Queen, whom he
escorted to the palace of the Necessidades, landing amid a roar of
artillery, and welcomed by loyal demonstrations as the illustrious
traveller passed on her way to the Queen regnant, Donna Maria.

By such progress did Queen Adelaide make her way towards Madeira, the
climate of which could not arrest the progress of her malady, and she
returned to England--for a time to Bushey, finally to Bentley Priory,
near Stanmore, where she occupied herself in preparation for the
inevitable end. There, on the 8th of May, 1849, the Queen Dowager may
be said to have ‘done a foolish thing,’ in altering her will without
legal assistance in the method of alteration. On that day, alone and
unadvised, her Majesty took out her old and duly attested will of the
14th August, 1837, and inscribed on the back thereof this remarkable
endorsement:--‘This will is cancelled, 8th May, 1849. My heirs are my
brother and sister, and their heirs after them. My executors, Lord
Howe and the Hon. W. A. Cooper, are requested to pay off all that I
directed in my codicil, and then to divide my property equally between
my brother and sister. This is my last will and request.’

It was the will of a Queen, but it stood for nothing in the eye of the
law. The endorsement was brought under notice of the Prerogative Court;
the Judge, Sir Herbert Jenner Fust, declared it to be of no effect.
It was a mere unattested memorandum, and he pronounced, as the legal
phrase is, for the original will. Of greater interest is the subjoined
document, which pleasantly contrasts with the wills of many of her lady
predecessors, whose minds were engaged on the disposal of their state
beds, their mantles, and their jewellery, to the exclusion of all other
subjects. Thus wrote the dying Queen Adelaide:--

‘I die in all humility, knowing well that we are all alike before the
throne of God; and I request, therefore, that my mortal remains be
conveyed to the grave without any pomp or state. They are to be removed
to St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, where I request to have as private and
quiet a funeral as possible. I particularly desire not to be laid out
in state, and the funeral to take place by daylight; no procession; the
coffin to be carried by sailors to the chapel. All those of my friends
and relations, to a limited number, who wish to attend may do so. My
nephew, Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar, Lords Howe and Denbigh, the Hon.
William Ashley, Mr. Wood, Sir Andrew Barnard, and Sir D. Davies, with
my dressers, and those of my ladies who may wish to attend. I die in
peace, and wish to be carried to the tomb in peace, and far from the
vanities and pomp of this world. I request not to be dissected nor
embalmed, and desire to give as little trouble as possible.

‘ADELAIDE R.’

The end soon came, and it was met with dignity. On the 22nd of November
1849, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited the Dowager Queen for
the last time. On the last day of the month she calmly passed away.
The above document was then produced, and it rendered kings-of-arms,
heralds, gold sticks, and upholsterers powerless to exercise their
absurd dignity in connection with death when so intelligible and
sensible a protest as the above was in existence. Accordingly, on a
fine December morning of 1849, there issued from the gates of Bentley
Priory an ordinary hearse with a pall emblazoned with the Queen’s
arms, preceded by three mourning coaches. A scanty escort of cavalry
accompanied them, more for use than show, their office being to see
that no obstruction impeded the funeral march from Stanmore to Windsor.
On its way the attitude of the spectators exhibited more of sympathy
than curiosity.

The Harrow boys turned out in testimony of respect, and the country
people at large _looked_ like mourners, wearing more or less, but
wearing _some_, outward manifestation of sorrow.

The Queen’s body reached the Chapel at Windsor at one o’clock. In the
south aisle, close to the porch, there had been standing, grouped
together, silent and motionless, a group of seamen,--grave, bronzed,
athletic sailors. Their demeanour showed them worthy of the office
which the now dead Queen had asked at their hands. When all the royal,
and great, and noble personages were in their respective places--while
some indispensable officials effected a little more of their foolish
calling in the presence of death than Queen Adelaide herself would have
sanctioned--while princes, peers, and prelates, ladies-in-waiting,
clergy, and choristers, proceeded passively or actively with their
parts in the ceremony of the day--then those ten sailors advanced to
accomplish the duty assigned them, and, standing by the platform on
which the body was placed, gently propelled it to a position over
the subterranean passage into which it was lowered, after one of the
simplest services that was ever said or sung for departed Queen had
been accomplished--most simple, save when Garter stepped forward to
announce, what all men knew, that it ‘had pleased Almighty God to
take out of this life to His divine mercy’ the departed Queen; and to
assert, what that royal lady would assuredly have gainsaid, that she
was a ‘Most High, Most Mighty, and Most Excellent Princess.’ With this,
and one or two other formalities of that pomp and state from which
she had asked to be spared, Queen Adelaide passed to the tomb--a tomb
capacious enough to contain whole generations of kings and queens,
princes and princesses yet unborn.

This event was followed by an unusual amount of execrable elegiac
verse, which was powerless, however, to throw ridicule on what it
affected to solemnize. It was painful to read an inconceivable amount
of this trash, which, intended to be serious, was often irresistibly
comic. Out of the reams written in professed honour of a most exemplary
Queen there was not an appropriate line worth citing. One sample of the
solemnly absurd Pegasuses set restive on this occasion will assuredly
satisfy curiosity. The writer affects to see at the royal funeral the
ghosts of departed great ones, who assemble to do visionary homage to
their new sister in death. Among them is the incautious Bishop who died
from the effects of a cold caught at the funeral of the Duke of York:--

Lo! see the shade of a prelate pass by
Who came to a night-burial to die;
Standing too long expos’d to the chill air,
Death aim’d his dart, and struck the mitre there.

Poor Queen Adelaide! A wish could save her from some of the empty pomps
and vanities that linger about the open grave, but nothing could save
her from the villainous poetasters. All the rhymers who rung metrical
knells at her death deserved the fate, and for like reasons, invoked in
Julius Cæsar on the so-called poet who made ‘bad verses.’

The preachers, if honest chronicling is to be observed, did not on
this occasion very much excel the poets. Very ‘tolerable’ indeed, and
not at all to be endured, were most of the funeral sermons which have
come under my notice. One clergyman, who had been the Queen’s chaplain
too, and who had composed a funeral sermon on William IV. reproduced
not merely the substance, but in many parts, identical passages from
the discourse on the dead King, and made them do duty in illustrating
the demise of that sovereign’s royal widow. Others were illogical, or
were painfully simple or amusingly trite. In one I find an intimation
that, ‘after deducting the more needful expenses of her household, she
gave away _all_ she had, and died _poor_;’ which seems an inevitable
consequence of such liberality. None of these who took a dead Queen for
the subject of a lesson on vanity, or for an example to be followed,
wore the mantle of a Bossuet--grand and instructive when consigning
La Vallière to the cloister, or Henrietta of Orleans to a tomb. They
might at least have found something suggestive in the sermon on the
latter occasion, by the ‘Eagle of Meaux,’ where he exclaims, after
apt reflection on birth, rank, and their responsibilities: ‘No! after
what we have just seen, we must feel that health exists only in name,
life is a dream, glory a deception, favours and pleasures dangerous
amusements, everything about us vanity. She was as gentle towards death
as she had been to all the world.... She will sleep with the great
ones of the earth, with princes and kings, whose power is at an end,
amongst whom there is hardly room to be found, so closely do they lie
together, and so prompt is death to fill the vacant places. _Can we
build our hopes on ruins such as these?_’

From beyond sea there did come echoes something like these, and fitting
homage to the virtues of the deceased lady was rendered from many a
church pulpit among a foreign people. In another hemisphere, at the
Cape of Good Hope, a funeral sermon was preached in St. George’s
Cathedral, Cape Town, on the 24th February, 1850, by the Rev. W. A.
Newman, at that time Senior Colonial Chaplain and Rural Dean, in which
that learned and eloquent divine rendered a graceful tribute to the
memory of the deceased Queen, of which the following paragraph is a
portion:--‘Of this excellent lady’s large charities I can speak from
evidence, and can, therefore, speak with a full heart. I have lived
near to the neighbourhood where her less public bounty diffused itself.
I know that the sick-room of the poor has been visited by her in
person; I know that from her own table a portion has been sent, to call
forth the coy appetite of disease; and I know that wherever she went
many a heartfelt _God bless her_ would follow.’

Such was Queen Adelaide, some seven years Queen Consort of Great
Britain; a lady who will be remembered, if not as a great Queen, yet
as one of the truly good women who have shared with a King regnant the
throne of these islands--one who lived down calumny, and who, being
dead, is remembered with respect and affection.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Lord Holland’s ‘Memoirs of the Whig Party.’

[2] Miss Burney’s Diary.

[3] Miss Burney’s Diary.

[4] Miss Burney’s Diary.

[5] Miss Burney’s Diary.

[6] ‘Memoirs,’ &c., by the Duke of Buckingham.

[7] Lord Malmesbury’s Diary.

[8] ‘Brief Memoir of the Princes Charlotte of Wales.’

[9] Lord Holland.

[10] ‘Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert.’

[11] ‘Diary illustrative of the Times of George IV.’

[12] ‘Diary illustrative of the Times of George IV.’

[13] ‘Diary illustrative of the Times of George IV.’

[14] ‘Diary illustrative of the Times of George IV.’

[15] ‘Diary illustrative of the Times of George IV.’

[16] Letter in ‘Diary illustrative of the Court, &c., of George IV.’

[17] ‘Diary,’ &c.

[18] The ‘Diary,’ &c.

[19] ‘Diary of Court, &c., of George IV.’

THE END.

_Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.

Footnotes, originally at the bottoms of the pages that referenced them,
have been collected, sequentially renumbered, and placed at the end of
the book.

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