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Title: Lives of the Queens of England of the House of Hanover, volume 1 (of 2)
Author: Dr. Doran
Release date: March 6, 2024 [eBook #73111]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Richard Bentley & Son, 1875
Credits: Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND OF THE HOUSE OF HANOVER, VOLUME 1 (OF 2) ***
Transcriber’s Note: Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. Additional
notes will be found near the end of this ebook.
THE
QUEENS OF ENGLAND
OF THE
HOUSE OF HANOVER
_VOL. I._
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. I.
[Illustration]
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty
1875
TO
HENRY HILL, ESQ., F.S.A.
ONE OF THE MOST ZEALOUS OF ANTIQUARIES
AND
MOST HOSPITABLE OF FRIENDS
This New and Revised Edition is Inscribed
BY
THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
_SOPHIA DOROTHEA, OF ZELL_,
WIFE OF GEORGE I.
CHAPTER I.
GEORGE OF BRUNSWICK-ZELL AND ELÉANORA D’OLBREUSE.
PAGE
Woden, the father of the line of Brunswick--The seven
brothers at dice, for a wife--D’Esmiers d’Olbreuse and
his daughter Eleanora--Love-passages, and a marriage--A
Bishop of Osnabrück--Birth of Sophia Dorothea 1
CHAPTER II.
WIVES AND FAVOURITES.
A ducal household--Elevation in rank of the mother of Sophia
Dorothea--Births and deaths--A lover for Sophia--The
Bishop of Osnaburgh an imitator of the _Grand Monarque_--Two
successful female adventurers at Osnaburgh 11
CHAPTER III.
THE BRUNSWICKER IN ENGLAND.
Prince Augustus of Wolfenbüttel, the accepted lover of Sophia
--Superstition of the Duke of Zell--Intrigues of Madame
von Platen--A rival lover--Prince George Louis: makes an
offer of marriage to Princess Anne--Policy of the Prince of
Orange--Prince George in England: festivities on account of
his visit--Execution of Lord Stafford--Illness of Prince
Rupert--The Bill of Exclusion, and the Duke of York at
Holyrood--Probable succession of the House of Brunswick--
Prince George recalled--Successful intrigues of Sophia,
wife of Ernest--A group for an artist--Ill-fated
marriage of Sophia--Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia--‘Goody
Palsgrave’--The Electress Sophia, and her intellectual
skirmishes 18
CHAPTER IV.
THE HOUSEHOLD OF GEORGE AND SOPHIA.
Reception of Sophia at the Court of Ernest Augustus--Similar
position of Marie Antoinette and Sophia--Misfortune of
the abigail Use--Compassionated by the Duchess of Zell
--Intrigues and revenge of Madame von Platen--A new
favourite, Mademoiselle Ermengarda von der Schulenburg--A
marriage _fête_, and intended insult to the Princess Sophia
--Gross vice of George Louis 33
CHAPTER V.
THE ELECTORATE OF HANOVER.
The House of Hanover ranges itself against France--Ernest
Augustus created Elector--Domestic rebellion of his son
Maximilian--His accomplice, Count von Moltke, beheaded--
The Electors of Germany 43
CHAPTER VI.
THE KÖNIGSMARKS.
Count Charles John Königsmark’s roving and adventurous life
--The great heiress--An intriguing countess--‘Tom of Ten
Thousand’--The murder of Lord John Thynne--The fate of the
count’s accomplices--Court influence shelters the guilty
count 49
CHAPTER VII.
KÖNIGSMARK AT COURT.
Various accomplishments of Count Philip Christopher Königsmark
--The early companion of Sophia Dorothea--Her friendship
for him--An interesting interview--Intrigues of Madame
von Platen--Foiled in her machinations--A dramatic
incident--The unlucky glove--Scandal against the honour
of the Princess--A mistress enraged on discovery of her
using rouge--Indiscretion of the Princess--Her visit to
Zell--The Elector’s criminal intimacy with Madame von der
Schulenburg--William the Norman’s brutality to his wife
--The elder Aymon--Brutality of the Austrian Empress to
‘Madame Royale’--Return of Sophia, and reception by her
husband 58
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CATASTROPHE.
The scheming mother foiled--Count Königsmark too garrulous
in his cups--An eaves-dropper--A forged note--A
mistress’s revenge--Murder of the count--The Countess
Aurora Königsmark’s account of her brother’s intimacy with
the Princess--Horror of the Princess on hearing of the
count’s death--Seizure and escape of Mademoiselle von
Knesebeck--A divorce mooted--The Princess’s declaration
of her innocence--Decision of the consistorial court--
The sages of the law foiled by the Princess--Condemned
to captivity in the castle of Ahlden--Decision procured
by bribery--Bribery universal in England--The Countess
Aurora Königsmark becomes the mistress of Augustus, King of
Poland--Her unsuccessful mission to Charles XII.--Exemplary
conduct in her latter years--Becomes prioress of the
nunnery of Quedlinburg 72
CHAPTER IX.
PRISON AND PALACE.
The prison of the captive Sophia Dorothea--Employment of
her time--The church of Ahlden repaired by her--Cut
off from her children--Sympathy of Ernest Augustus for
his daughter-in-law--Her father’s returning affection
for her--Opening prospects of the House of Hanover--
Lord Macclesfield’s embassy to Hanover, and his right-royal
reception--Description of the Electress--Toland’s
description of Prince George Louis--Magnificent present
to Lord Macclesfield--The Princess Sophia and the English
liturgy--Death of the Duke of Zell--Visit of Prince
George to his captive mother prevented 95
CHAPTER X.
THE SUCCESSION--DEATH OF THE ELECTRESS.
Marriage of Prince George to Princess Caroline of Anspach,
and of his sister to the Crown Prince of Prussia--Honours
conferred by Queen Anne on Prince George--Intention to
bring over to England the Princess Sophia--Opposed by
Queen Anne--Foundation of the kingdom of Prussia--The
establishment of this Protestant kingdom promoted by the
Jesuits--The Electress Sophia’s visit to Loo--The law
granting taxes on births, deaths, and marriages--Complaint
of Queen Anne against the Electress--Tom D’Urfey’s doggrel
verses on her--Death of the Electress--Character of her 112
CHAPTER XI.
AHLDEN AND ENGLAND.
The neglected captive of Ahlden--Unnoticed by her son-in-law,
except to secure her property--Madame von der Schulenburg
--The Queen of Prussia prohibited from corresponding with
her imprisoned mother--The captive betrayed by Count de
Bar--Death of Queen Anne--Anxiety felt for the arrival
of King George--The Duke of Marlborough’s entry--Funeral
of the Queen--Public entry of the King--Adulation of Dr.
Young--Madame Kielmansegge, the new royal favourite--
Horace Walpole’s account of her--‘A Hanover garland’--Ned
Ward, the Tory poet--Expression of the public opinion--
The Duchess of Kendal bribed by Lord Bolingbroke--Bribery
and corruption general--Abhorrence of parade by the King 119
CHAPTER XII.
CROWN AND GRAVE.
Arrival of Caroline, Princess of Wales--The King dines
at the Guildhall--Proclamation of the Pretender--
Counter-proclamations--Government prosecutions--A mutiny
among the troops--Impeachment of the Duke of Ormond
of high treason--Punishment of political offenders--
Failure of rebellion in Scotland--Punishment for wearing
oak-boughs--Riot at the mug-house in Salisbury Court, and
its fatal consequences--The Prince of Wales removed from
the palace--Dissensions between the King and the Prince--
Attempt on the life of King George--Marriage of the King’s
illegitimate daughter--The South-Sea Bubble--Birth of
Prince William (Duke of Cumberland)--Death of the Duchess of
Zell--Stricter imprisonment of the captive of Ahlden--Her
calm death--A new royal favourite, Mrs. Brett--Death of
the King--The alleged correspondence of Sophia Dorothea and
Königsmark 130
_CAROLINE WILHELMINA DOROTHEA_,
WIFE OF GEORGE II.
CHAPTER I.
BEFORE THE ACCESSION.
Birth of Princess Caroline--Her early married life--
Eulogised by the poets--Gaiety of the Court of the Prince
and Princess at Leicester House--Beauty of Miss Bellenden
--Mrs. Howard, the Prince’s favourite--Intolerable
grossness of the Court of George I.--Lord Chesterfield and
the Princess--The mad Duchess--Buckingham House--Rural
retreat of the Prince at Richmond; the resort of wit and
beauty--Swift’s pungent verses--The fortunes of the
young adventurers, Mr. and Mrs. Howard--The Queen at her
toilette--Mrs. Clayton, her influence with Queen Caroline
--The Prince ruled by his wife--Dr. Arbuthnot and Dean
Swift--The Princess’s regard for Newton and Halley--Lord
Macclesfield’s fall--His superstition, and that of the
Princess--Prince Frederick’s vices--Not permitted to
come to England--Severe rebuff to Lord Hardwicke--Dr.
Mead--Courage of the Prince and Princess--The Princess’s
friendship for Dr. Friend--Swift at Leicester House--
Royal visit to ‘Bartlemy Fair’ 153
CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST YEARS OF A REIGN.
Death of George I.--Adroitness of Sir Robert Walpole--The
first royal reception--Unceremonious treatment of the
late King’s will--The coronation--Magnificent dress of
Queen Caroline--Mrs. Oldfield, as Anne Boleyn, in ‘Henry
VIII.’--The King’s revenue and the Queen’s jointure, the
result of Walpole’s exertions--His success--Management
of the King by Queen Caroline--Unseemly dialogue between
Walpole and Lord Townshend--Gay’s ‘Beggars’ Opera,’ and
satire on Walpole--Origin of the opera--Its great success
--Gay’s cause espoused by the Duchess of Queensberry--Her
smart reply to a royal message--The tragedy of ‘Frederick,
Duke of Brunswick’--The Queen appointed Regent--Prince
Frederick becomes chief of the opposition--His silly
reflections on the King--Agitation about the repeal of the
Corporation and Test Acts--The Queen’s ineffectual efforts
to gain over Bishop Hoadly--Sir Robert extricates himself
--The Church made the scapegoat--Queen Caroline earnest
about trifles--Etiquette of the toilette--_Fracas_ between
Mr. Howard and the Queen--Modest request of Mrs. Howard--
Lord Chesterfield’s description of her 177
CHAPTER III.
THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS ANNE.
Violent opposition to the King by Prince Frederick--Readings
at Windsor Castle--The Queen’s patronage of Stephen Duck--
His melancholy end--Glance at passing events--Precipitate
flight of Dr. Nichols--Princess Anne’s determination to
get a husband--Louis XV. proposed as a suitor: negotiation
broken off--The Prince of Orange’s offer accepted--Ugly
and deformed--The King and Queen averse to the union--
Dowry settled on the Princess--Anecdote of the Duchess
of Marlborough--Illness of the bridegroom--Ceremonies
attendant on the marriage--Mortification of the Queen--
The public nuptial chamber--Offence given to the Irish
peers--The Queen and Lady Suffolk--Homage paid by the
Princess to her deformed husband--Discontent of Prince
Frederick--His anxiety not unnatural--Congratulatory
addresses by the Lords and Commons--Spirited conduct of
the Queen--Lord Chesterfield--Agitations on Walpole’s
celebrated Excise scheme--Lord Stair delegated to
remonstrate with the Queen--Awkward performance of his
mission--Sharply rebuked by the Queen--Details of the
interview--The Queen’s success in overcoming the King’s
antipathy to Walpole--Comments of the populace--Royal
interview with a bishop 200
CHAPTER IV.
FAMILY AND NATIONAL QUARRELS.
Retirement of Lady Suffolk--Tact of Queen Caroline--
Arrogance of Princess Anne--Private life of the royal
family--The Count de Roncy, the French refugee--German
predilections of the Queen--A scene at Court--Queen
Caroline’s declining health--Ambitious aspirations of
Princess Anne--Bishop Hoadly and the see of Winchester--
The Queen and the clergy--The Queen appointed Regent--The
King and Madame Walmoden--Lord Hervey’s imaginary post-obit
diary--The Queen’s farewell interview with Lady Suffolk
--Grief made fashionable--The temper of the King on his
return--A scene: _dramatis personæ_, the King, Queen,
and Lord Hervey--Lady Deloraine (Pope’s _Delia_) a royal
favourite--An angry scene; between the King and Queen--
The King’s opinion of Bishop Hoadly--Dissension between the
King and Prince--The royal libertine at Hanover--Court
revels--Lady Bolingbroke and the Queen 223
CHAPTER V.
THE MARRIAGE OF FREDERICK, PRINCE OF WALES.
The Queen’s cleverness--Princess Augusta of Saxe Gotha,
the selected bride of Prince Frederick--Spirited conduct
of Miss Vane, the Prince’s mistress--The King anxious
for a matrimonial alliance with the Court of Prussia--
Prussian intrigue to prevent this--The Prussian _mandats_
for entrapping recruits--Quarrels and challenge to duel,
between King George and the Prussian monarch--The silly
duel prevented--Arrival of the bride--The royal lovers
--Disgraceful squabbles of the Princes and Princesses
--The marriage--Brilliant assemblage in the bridal
chamber--Lady Diana Spencer proposed as a match for the
Prince--_Débût_ of Mr. Pitt, afterwards Lord Chatham, in the
House of Commons--Riot of the footmen at Drury Lane Theatre
--Ill-humour exhibited by the Prince towards the Queen 262
CHAPTER VI.
AT HOME AND OVER THE WATER.
The Queen and Walpole govern the kingdom--The bishops
reproved by the Queen--Good wishes for the bishops
entertained by the King--Anecdote of Bishop Hare--Riots
--An infernal machine--Wilson the smuggler and the
Porteous mob--General Moyle--Coldness of the Queen for
the King--Walpole advises her Majesty--Unworthy conduct
of Caroline and vice of her worthless husband--Questionable
fidelity of Madame Walmoden--Conduct of the Princess at the
Chapel Royal--The Princess and her doll--Pasquinades,
&c. on the King--Farewell royal supper at Hanover--
Dangerous voyage of the King--Anxiety of the Court about
him--Unjust blame thrown on Admiral Wager--The Queen
congratulates the King on his escape--The King’s warm reply
--Discussions about the Prince’s revenue--Investigation
into the affairs of the Porteous mob--The Queen and the
Bill for reduction of the National Debt--Vice in high
life universal--Represented on the stage, occasions the
censorship--Animosity of the Queen and Princess towards
Prince Frederick 282
CHAPTER VII.
THE BIRTH OF AN HEIRESS.
Russian invasion of the Crimea--Announcement of an heir
disbelieved by the Queen--The Princess of Wales convened to
St. James’s by the Prince in a state of labour--Birth of a
Princess--Hampton Court Palace on this night--The palace
in an uproar--Indignation of Caroline--Reception of the
Queen by the Prince--Minute particulars afforded her by
him--Explanatory notes between the royal family--Message
of the King--His severity to the Prince--The Princess
Amelia double-sided--Message of Princess Caroline to the
Prince--Unseemly conduct of the Prince--The Prince an
agreeable ‘rattle’--The Queen’s anger never subsided--The
Prince ejected from the palace--The Queen and Lord Carteret
--Reconciliation of the royal family attempted--Popularity
of the Prince--The Queen’s outspoken opinion of the Prince
--An interview between the King, Queen, and Lord Hervey--
Bishop Sherlock and the Queen--The King a purchaser of
lottery-tickets 316
CHAPTER VIII.
DEATH OF CAROLINE.
Indisposition of the Queen--Her anxiety to conceal the cause
--Walpole closeted with her--Her illness assumes a grave
character--Obliged to retire from the Drawing-room--
Affectionate attentions of Princess Caroline--Continued
bitter feeling towards the Prince--Discussions of the
physicians--The Queen takes leave of the Duke of Cumberland
--Parting scene with the King--Interview with Walpole--
The Prince denied the palace--Great patience of the Queen
--The Archbishop summoned to the palace--Eulogy on the
Queen pronounced by the King--His oddities--The Queen’s
exemplary conduct--Her death--Terror of Dr. Hulse--
Singular conduct of the King--Opposition to Sir R. Walpole
--Lord Chesterfield pays court to the Prince’s favourite 339
CHAPTER IX.
CAROLINE, HER TIMES AND CONTEMPORARIES.
Whiston patronised by Queen Caroline--His boldness and
reproof of the Queen--Vanity of the poet Young punished
--Dr. Potter, a high churchman--A benefice missed--
Masquerades denounced by the clergy--Anger of the Court--
Warburton, a favourite of the Queen--Butler’s ‘Analogy,’
her ordinary companion--Rise of Secker--The Queen’s
regard for Dr. Berkeley--Her fondness for witnessing
intellectual struggles between Clarke and Leibnitz--
Character of Queen Caroline by Lord Chesterfield--The
King encouraged in his wickedness by the Queen--General
grossness of manners--The King managed by the Queen--
Feeling exhibited by the King on sight of her portrait--The
Duchess of Brunswick’s daughters--Standard of morality low
--Ridicule of Marlborough by Peterborough--Morality of
General Cadogan--Anecdote of General Webb--Lord Cobham
--Dishonourable conduct of Lord Stair--General Hawley and
his singular will--Disgraceful state of the prisons, and
cruelty to prisoners--Roads bad and ill-lighted--Brutal
punishment--Insolent treatment of a British naval officer
by the Sultan--Brutality of a mob--Encroachment on Hyde
Park by Queen Caroline--Ambitious projects of Princess Anne
--Eulogy on the Queen--The children of King George and
Queen Caroline---Verses on the Queen’s death 359
CHAPTER X.
THE REIGN OF THE WIDOWER.
Success of Admiral Vernon--Royal visit to ‘Bartlemy Fair’--
Party-spirit runs high about the King and Prince--
Lady Pomfret--The mad Duchess of Buckingham--Anecdote of
Lady Sundon--Witty remark of Lady Mary Wortley--_Fracas_ at
Kensington Palace--The battle of Dettingen--A precocious
child--Marriage of Princess Mary--A new opposition--
Prince George--Lady Yarmouth installed at Kensington--
Death of Prince Frederick--Conduct of the King on heaving
of this event--Bubb Dodington’s extravagant grief--
The funeral scant--Conduct of the widowed Princess--
Opposition of the Prince to the King not undignified--
Jacobite epitaph on the Prince--The Prince’s rebuke for a
frivolous jeer on Lady Huntingdon--The Prince’s patronage
of literary men--Lady Archibald Hamilton, the Prince’s
favourite--The Prince and the Quakers--Anecdote of Prince
George--Princely appreciation of Lady Huntingdon 386
CHAPTER XI.
THE LAST YEARS OF A REIGN.
Princess Augusta named Regent in the event of a minority--
Cause of the Prince’s death--Death of the Prince of Orange
--The King’s fondness for the theatre--Allusion to the
King’s age--Death of the Queen of Denmark--Her married
life unhappy--Suffered from a similar cause with her mother
--Rage of Lady Suffolk at a sermon by Whitfield--Lady
Huntingdon insulted by her--War in Canada--Daily life of
the King--Establishments of the sons of Frederick--Death
of the truth-loving Princess Caroline--Deaths of Princess
Elizabeth and Princess Anne--Queen Caroline’s rebuke of her
--Death of the King--Dr. Porteous’s eulogistic epitaph on
him--The King’s personal property--The royal funeral--
The burlesque Duke of Newcastle 408
_CHARLOTTE SOPHIA_,
WIFE OF GEORGE III.
CHAPTER I.
THE COMING OF THE BRIDE.
Lady Sarah Lennox, the object of George III.’s early affections
--The fair Quaker--Matrimonial commission of Colonel
Græme--Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburgh--Her spirited
letter to the King of Prussia--Demanded in marriage by
George III.--Arrival in England--Her progress to London
--Colchester and its candied eringo-root--Entertained by
Lord Abercorn--Arrival in London, and reception--Claim
of the Irish peeresses advocated by Lord Charlemont--The
royal marriage--The first Drawing-room--A comic anecdote
--The King and Queen at the Chapel Royal--At the theatre;
accidents on the occasion--The coronation--Incidents and
anecdotes connected with it--The young Pretender said to
have been present--The coronation produced at the theatre 423
CHAPTER II.
COURT AND CITY.
The _levée_--The King goes to parliament--The first night
of the opera--Garrick grievously offended--The King
and Queen present on the Lord Mayor’s Day--Entertained
by Robert Barclay, the Quaker--Banquet at Guildhall to
the King and Queen--Popular enthusiasm for Mr. Pitt--
Buckingham House purchased by the King for Queen Charlotte--
Defoe’s account of it--The Duke of Buckingham’s description
of it--West and his pictures--The house demolished by
George IV.--First illness of the King--Domestic life of
the King and Queen--Royal carriage--Selwyn’s joke on the
royal frugality--Prince Charles of Strelitz--Costume--
Graceful action of the Queen--Birth of Prince George 462
CHAPTER III.
ANECDOTES AND INCIDENTS.
Scenes, and personal sketches of Queen Charlotte--Her
fondness for diamonds--Visit to Mrs. Garrick--Orphan
establishment at Bedford founded by the Queen--Her
benevolence on the breaking of the Windsor bank--Marriage
of Princess Caroline Matilda--Unfounded rumours about the
Queen--Hannah Lightfoot--The King’s illness--A Regency
recommended by the King--Discussions relative to it--
Birth of Prince Frederick--Failing Health of the Duke of
Cumberland 479
LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND.
_SOPHIA DOROTHEA, OF ZELL_,
WIFE OF GEORGE I.
Das Glänzende ist nicht immer das Bessere.
KOTZEBUE, _Bruder Moritz_.
CHAPTER I.
GEORGE OF BRUNSWICK-ZELL AND ELEANORE D’OLBREUSE.
Woden, the father of the line of Brunswick--The seven brothers
at dice, for a wife--D’Esmiers d’Olbreuse and his daughter
Eleonora--Love-passages, and a marriage--A Bishop of
Osnaburgh--Birth of Sophia Dorothea.
When George I. ascended the throne of England, the heralds provided him
with an ancestry. They pretended that his Majesty, who had few god-like
virtues of his own, was descended from that deified hero Woden, whose
virtues, according to the bards, were all of a god-like quality. The
two had little in common, save lack of true-heartedness toward their
wives.
The more modest builders of ancestral pride, who ventured to water
genealogical trees for all the branches of Brunswick to bud upon, did
not dig deeper for a root, or go farther for a fountain head, than
into the Italian soil of the year 1028. Even then, they found nothing
more or less noble than a certain Azon d’Este, Marquis of Tuscany,
who having little of sovereign about him, except his will, joined the
banner of the Emperor Conrad, and hoped to make a fortune in Germany,
either by cutting throats, or by subduing hearts whose owners were
heiresses of unencumbered lands.
Azon espoused Cunegunda of Guelph, a lady who was not only wealthy,
but who was the last of her race. The household was a happy one; and
when an heir to its honours appeared in the person of Guelph d’Este the
Robust, the court-poet who foretold brilliant fortunes for his house
failed to see the culminating brilliancy which awaited it in Britain.
This same Prince ‘Robust,’ when he had come to man’s estate, wooed
no maiden heiress as his father had done, but won the widowed
sister-in-law of our great Harold, Judith, daughter of Baldwin de
Lisle, Count of Flanders, and widow of Tostic, Earl of Kent. He took
her by the hand while she was yet seated under the shadow of her great
sorrow, and, looking up at Guelph the Robust, she smiled and was
comforted.
Guelph was less satisfactorily provided with wealth than the comely
Judith; but Guelph and Judith found favour in the eyes of the Emperor
Henry IV., who forthwith ejected Otho of Saxony from his possessions
in Bavaria, and conferred the same, with a long list of rights and
appurtenances, on the newly-married couple.
These possessions were lost to the family by the rebellion of Guelph’s
great-grandson against Frederick Barbarossa. The disinherited prince,
however, found fortune again, by help of a marriage and an English
king. He had been previously united to Maud, the daughter of Henry
II., and his royal father-in-law took unwearied pains to find some one
who could afford him material assistance. He succeeded, and Guelph
received, from another emperor, the gift of the countships of Brunswick
and Luneburg. Otho IV. raised them to duchies, and William (Guelph) was
the first duke of the united possessions, about the year 1200.
The early dukes were for the most part warlike, but their bravery was
rather of a rash and excitable character than heroically, yet calmly
firm. Some of them were remarkable for their unhappy tempers, and they
acquired names which unpleasantly distinguish them in this respect.
Henry was not only called the ‘young,’ from his years, and ‘the
black,’ from his swarthiness, but ‘the dog,’ because of his snarling
propensities. So Magnus, who was surnamed ‘the collared,’ in allusion
to the gold chain which hung from his bull neck, was also known as the
‘insolent’ and the ‘violent,’ from the circumstance that he was ever
either insufferably haughty or insanely passionate.
The House of Brunswick has, at various times, been divided into the
branches of Brunswick-Luneburg, Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, Brunswick-Zell,
Brunswick-Danneberg, &c. These divisions have arisen from marriages,
transfers, and interchanges. The first duke who created a division was
Duke Bernard, who, early in the fifteenth century, exchanged with a
kinsman his duchy of Brunswick for that of Luneburg, and so founded the
branch which bears, or bore, that double name.
The sixteenth duke, Otho, was the first who is supposed to have
brought a blot upon the ducal scutcheon, by honestly marrying rather
according to his heart than his interests. His wife was a simple lady
of Brunswick, named Matilda de Campen. It became the common object
of all the dukes of the various Brunswick branches to increase the
importance of a house which had contributed something to the imperial
greatness of Germany. They endeavoured to accomplish this common object
by intermarriages; but the desired consummation was not achieved until
a comparatively recent period, when the branch of Brunswick-Luneburg
became Electors, and subsequently Kings of Hanover, and that of
Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, Sovereign Dukes of Brunswick.
The grandfather of our George I., William, Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg,
had seven sons, and all these were dukes, like their father. On the
decease of the latter, they affected to discover that if the seven
heirs, each with his little dukedom, were to marry, the greatness of
the house would suffer alarming diminution. They accordingly determined
that one alone of the brothers should form a legal matrimonial
connection, and that the naming of the lucky re-founder of the dignity
of Brunswick should be left to chance!
The seven brothers met in the hall of state in their deceased father’s
mansion, and there threw dice as to who should live on in single
blessedness, and which should gain the prize, not of a wife, but of
permission to find one. ‘Double sixes’ were thrown by George, the
sixth son. The lady whom he cavalierly wooed and readily won, was Anne
Eleanore, daughter of the Landgraf of Hesse-Darmstadt.
The heir-apparent of this marriage was Frederick Ernest Augustus, who,
in 1659, married Sophia, the daughter of Frederick and Elizabeth, the
short-lived King and Queen of Bohemia; the latter the daughter of
James I. The eldest child of this last marriage was George Louis, who
ultimately became King of Great Britain.
When Louis XIV. revoked the Edict of Nantes, the French Protestants
who refused to be converted were executed or imprisoned. Some found
safety, with suffering, in exile; and confiscation made beggars of
thousands. When towns, where the Protestants were in the majority,
exhibited tardiness in coming over to the king’s way of thinking,
dragoons were ordered thither, and this order was of such significance,
that when it was made known, the population, to escape massacre,
usually professed recantation of error in a mass. This daily accession
of thousands who made abjuration under the sword, and walked thence
to confession and reception of the Sacrament under an implied form in
which they had no faith, was described to the willingly duped king
by the _ultra-montane_ bishops as a miracle as astounding as any in
Scripture.
Of some few individuals, places at court for themselves, commissions
for their sons, or honours which sometimes little deserved the name,
for their daughters, made, if not converts, hypocrites. Far greater was
the number of the good and faithful servants who left all and followed
their Master. Alexander D’Esmiers, Seigneur D’Olbreuse, a gallant
Protestant gentleman of Poitou, preferred exile and loss of estate to
apostacy. When he crossed the frontier, a banished man, he brought
small worldly wealth with him, but therewith one child, a daughter, who
was to him above all wealth; and, to uphold his dignity, the memory of
being descended from the gallant Fulques D’Esmiers, the valiant and
courteous Lord of Lolbroire.
Father and daughter sojourned for a time beyond the northern frontier
of the kingdom, having their native country within sight. There they
tabernacled in much sorrow, perplexity, and poverty, but friends
ultimately supplied them with funds; and M. D’Esmiers, Seigneur
D’Olbreuse, found himself in a condition to appear in Brussels without
sacrifice of dignity. Into the gay circles of that gay city he led his
daughter Eleanora, who was met by warm homage from the gallants, and
much criticism at the hands of her intimate friends--the ladies.
The sharpest criticism could not deny her beauty; and her wit and
accomplishments won for her the respect and homage of those whose
allegiance was better worth having than that of mere _petits maîtres_
with their stereotyped flattery. Eleanora, like the lady in Göthe’s
tragedy, loved the society and the good opinion of wise men, while she
hardly thought herself worthy of either. She was a Frenchwoman, and
consequently she was not out of love with gaiety. She was the fairest
and the liveliest in the train of the brilliant Duchess of Tarento,
and she was following and eclipsing her noble patroness at a ball,
when she was first seen by George William, second son of George, Duke
of Brunswick-Luneburg, and heir to the pocket but sovereign dukedom of
Zell.
The heir of Zell became an honest wooer. He whose gallantry had been
hitherto remarkable for its dragooning tone, was now more subdued than
Cymon in the subduing presence of Iphigenia. He had hated conversation,
because he was incapable of sustaining it; but now love made him
eloquent. He had abhorred study, and knew little of any other language
than his own; but now he took to French vocabularies and dictionaries,
and long before he had got so far as to ask Eleanora to hear him
conjugate the verb _aimer_ ‘to love,’ he applied to her to interpret
the difficult passages he met with in books; and throughout long summer
days the graceful pair might have been seen sitting together, book in
hand, fully as happy and twice as hopeful as Paolo and Francesca.
George William was sorely puzzled as to his proceedings. To marriage he
could have condescended with alacrity, but unfortunately there was ‘a
promise in bar.’ With the view common to many co-heirs of the family,
he had entered into an engagement with his brother Ernest Augustus,
of Brunswick-Luneburg, and Bishop of Osnaburgh, never to marry. This
concession had been purchased at a certain cost, and the end in view
was the further enlargement of the dominions and influence of the House
of Brunswick. If George William should not only succeed to Zell, but
should leave the same to a legitimate heir, _that_ was a case which
Ernest Augustus would be disposed to look upon as a grievous wrong. A
price was paid, therefore, for the promised celibacy of his brother,
and that brother was now actively engaged in meditating as to how he
might, without disgrace, break a promise, and yet retain the money by
which it had been purchased. His heart leaped within him as he thought
how easily the whole matter might be arranged by a morganatic marriage
--a marriage, in other words, with the left hand; an union sanctioned
by the church but so far disallowed by the law that the children of
such wedlock were, in technical terms, _infantes nullius_, ‘children of
nobody,’ and could of course succeed to nobody’s inheritance.
George William waited on the Seigneur d’Olbreuse with his morganatic
offer; the poor refugee noble entertained the terms with much
complacency, but left his child to determine on a point which involved
such serious considerations for herself. They were accordingly placed
with much respect at Eleanora’s feet, but she mused angrily thereon.
She would not listen to the offer.
In the meantime, these love-passages of young George William were
productive of much unseemly mirth at Hanover, where the Bishop of
Osnaburgh was keeping a not very decorous court. He was much more of
a dragoon than a bishop, and indeed his flock were more to be pitied
than his soldiers. The diocese of Osnaburgh was supplied with bishops
by the most curious of rules; the rule was fixed at the period of the
peace which followed the religious wars of Germany, and this rule was,
that as Osnaburgh was very nearly divided as to the number of those
who followed either church, it should have alternately a Protestant
and a Romanist bishop. The result has been that Osnaburgh has had sad
scapegraces for her prelates, but yet, in spite thereof, has maintained
a religious respectability which might be envied by dioceses blessed
with two diverse bishops at once, for ever anathematising the flocks of
each other and their shepherds.
The Protestant Prince-Bishop of Osnaburgh made merry with his ladies
at the wooing of his honest and single-minded brother, whom he wounded
to the uttermost by scornfully speaking of Eleanora d’Olbreuse as the
duke’s ‘_Madame_.’ It was a sorry and unmanly joke, for it lacked
wit, and insulted a true-hearted woman. But it had the effect also of
arousing a true-hearted man.
George William had now succeeded to the little dukedom of Zell, not
indeed without difficulty, for as the ducal chair had become vacant
while the next heir was absent, paying homage at Brussels to a lady
rather than receiving it from his lieges in Zell, his younger brother,
John Frederick, had played his lord-suzeraine a shabby trick, by
seating himself in that chair, and fixing the ducal parcel-gilt coronet
on his own brows.
George William having toppled down the usurper from his ill-earned
elevation, and having bought off further treason by pensioning the
traitor, returned to Brussels with a renewal of his former offer. He
added weight thereto by the intimation, that if a morganatic marriage
were consented to now, he had hopes, by the favour of the emperor, to
consolidate it at a subsequent period by a legal public union, whereat
Eleanora d’Olbreuse should be recognised Duchess of Zell, without
chance of that proud title ever being disputed.
Thereupon a family council was holden. The poor father thought a
morganatic marriage might be entered upon without ‘derogation;’ _au
reste_, he left all to his daughter’s love, filial and otherwise.
Eleanora did not disappoint either sire or suitor by her decision.
She made the first happy by her obedience, her lover by her gentle
concession; and she espoused the ardent duke, with the left hand,
because her father advised it, her lover urged it, and the council and
the suit were agreeable to the lady, who professed to be influenced by
them to do that for which her own heart was guide and warrant.
The marriage was solemnised in the month of September, 1665, the bride
being then in the twenty-sixth year of her age. With her new position,
she assumed the name and style of Lady von Harburg, from an estate of
the duke’s so called. The Bishop of Osnaburgh was merrier than ever at
what he styled the mock marriage, and more unmanly than ever in the
coarse jokes he flung at the Lady of Harburg. But even this marriage
was not concluded without fresh concessions made by the duke to the
bishop, in order to secure to the latter an undivided inheritance of
Brunswick, Hanover, and Zell. His mirth was founded on the idea that
he had provided for himself and his heirs, and left the children of
his brother, should any be born, and these survive him, to nourish
their left-handed dignity on the smallest possible means. The first
heiress to such dignity, and to much heart-crushing and undeserved
sorrow, soon appeared to gladden for a brief season, to sadden for long
and weary years, the hearts of her parents. Sophia Dorothea was born
on the 15th of September, 1666. Her birth was hailed with more than
ordinary joy in the little court of her parents: at that of the bishop
it was productive of some mirth and a few bad epigrams. The bishop had
taken provident care that neither heir nor heiress should affect his
succession to what should have been their own inheritance, and, simply
looking upon Sophia Dorothea as a child whose existence did not menace
a diminution of the prospective greatness of his house, he tolerated
the same with an ineffable, gracious condescension.
CHAPTER II.
WIVES AND FAVOURITES.
A ducal household--Elevation in rank of the mother of Sophia
Dorothea--Births and deaths--A lover for Sophia--The Bishop of
Osnaburgh an imitator of the _Grand Monarque_--Two successful
female adventurers at Osnaburgh.
Such a household as the one maintained in sober happiness and freedom
from anxiety by the duke and his wife was a rare sight in German
courts. The duke was broadly ridiculed because of his faithful
affection for one who was worthy of all the truth and esteem which
a true-hearted wife could claim. The only fault ever brought by the
bitterest of the enemies of the wife of the Duke of Zell against that
unexceptionable lady was, that she was over-fond of nominating natives
of France to little places in her husband’s little court. Considering
that the Germans, who looked upon her as an intruder, would not
recognise her as having become naturalised by marriage, it is hardly to
be wondered at that she gathered as much of France around her as she
could assemble in another land.
Three other children were the fruit of this marriage, whose early
deaths were deplored as so many calamities. Their mother lived long
enough to deplore that Sophia Dorothea had survived them. The merits
of the mother won, as they deserved to do, increase of esteem and
affection on the part of the duke. His most natural wish was to
raise her to a rank equal to his own, as far as a mere name could
make assertion of such equality. It was thought a wonderful act of
condescension on the part of the emperor, that he gave his imperial
sanction to the elevation of the Lady of Harburg to the rank and title
of Countess of Wilhelmsburg.
The Bishop of Osnaburgh was harder to treat with than the emperor. He
bound down his brother by stringent engagements, solemnly engrossed in
lengthy phrases, guarding against all mistake by horribly technical
tautology, to agree that the encircling his wife with the coronet of
a countess bestowed upon her no legal rights, and conferred no shadow
of legitimacy, in the eye of the law, on the children of the marriage,
actual or prospective. For such children, modest yet sufficient
provision was secured; but they were never to dream of claiming
cousinship with the alleged better-born descendants of Henry the Dog,
or Magnus the Irascible.
Duke George William, however, was resolved not to rest until his wife
should also be his duchess. He appealed to the Estates of Germany.
The Estates thought long and adjourned often before they came to a
tardy and reluctant conclusion, by which the boon sought was at length
conceded. The emperor added his consent. The concession made by the
Estates, and the sanction superadded by the emperor, were, however,
only obtained upon the military bishop withholding all opposition.
The princely prelate was, in fact, bought off. Again his muniment-box
was unlocked; once more he and his staff of lawyers were deep in
parchments, and curious in the geography of territorial maps and plans.
The result of much dry labour and heavy speculation was an agreement
entered into by the two brothers. The Duke of Zell contracted that the
children of his marriage with the daughter of the Poitevin seigneur
should inherit only his private property, and the empty title of
Counts, or Countesses, of Wilhelmsburg. The territory of Zell with
other estates added to the sovereign dukedom were to pass to the
prince-bishop or his heirs. On these terms Eleanora of Olbreuse, Lady
of Harburg, and Countess of Wilhelmsburg, became Duchess of Zell.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the very apostolic bishop to the dissolute disciples
at his court, on the night that the family compact was made an
accomplished fact, ‘my brother’s French _Madame_ is not a jot the more
his wife for being duchess’--which was true, for married is married,
and there is no comparative degree of intensity which can be applied to
the circumstance. ‘But she has a dignity the more, and therewith may
_Madame_ rest content’--which was not true, for no new title could add
dignity to a woman like the wife of Duke George William.
When Sophia Dorothea was but seven years old, she had for an occasional
playfellow in the galleries and gardens of Zell and Calenberg, a
handsome lad, Swedish by birth, but German by descent, whose name was
Philip Christopher von Königsmark. He was a few years older than Sophia
Dorothea (some accounts say ten years older), and he was in Zell for
the purpose of education, and he fulfilled the office of page. Many of
his vacation hours were spent with the child of George William, who
was his father’s friend. When gossips saw the two handsome children,
buoyant of spirit, beaming with health, and ignorant of care, playing
hand in hand at sports natural to their age, those gossips prophesied
of future marriage. But their speculation had soon no food whereon to
live, for the young Königsmark was speedily withdrawn from Zell, and
Sophia bloomed on alone, or with other companions, good, graceful,
fair, accomplished, and supremely happy.
But, even daughter as she was of a left-handed marriage, there was
hanging to her name a dower sufficiently costly to dazzle and allure
even princely suitors. To one of these she was betrothed before she
was ten years old. The suitor was a soldier and a prince. Augustus
Frederick, Crown Prince of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, was allured by the
‘beaux yeux de la casette’ of the little heiress, which contained,
after all, only one hundred thousand thalers, fifteen thousand pounds
sterling; but an humble dower for a duke’s only daughter. In the
meantime the affianced lover had to prove himself, by force of arms,
worthy of his lady and her fortune. To the siege of Philipsburg, in the
year 1676, repaired the chivalrous Augustus of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel.
He bore himself with a dignity and daring which entitled him to
respect, but a fatal bullet slew him suddenly: a brief notice in a
despatch was his soldierly requiem, and when the affianced child-bride
was solemnly informed by circumstance of Hof-Marshal that her lord was
slain and her heart was free, she was too young to be sorry, and too
unconscious to be glad.
Meanwhile, the two courts of the Bishop of Osnaburgh and the Duke of
Zell continued to present a striking contrast. The bishop was one
of those men who think themselves nothing unless they are imitating
some greater man, not in his virtues but his vices. There was one man
in Europe whom Ernest Augustus described as a ‘paragon,’ and that
distinguished personage was Louis XIV. The vices, extravagance, the
pomposity of the great king, were the dear delights of the little
prince. As Louis neglected his wife, so Ernest Augustus disregarded
_his_. Fortunately, Sophia, the wife of the latter, had resources in
her mind, which made her consider with exemplary indifference the
faithlessness of her lord.
At this court of Hanover, two sisters, Catherine and Elizabeth von
Meisenbuch, had, for some time, set the fashion of a witchery of
costume, remarkable for its taste, and sometimes for outraging it.
They possessed, too, the great talent of Madame de Sillery Genlis,
and were inimitable in their ability and success in getting up little
_fêtes_, at home or abroad, in the _salon_ or _al fresco_--formal and
full-dressed, or rustic and easy--where major-generals were costumed as
agricultural swains, and ladies of honour as nymphs or dairymaids, with
costumes rural of fashioning, but as resplendent and costly as silkman
and jeweller could make them. At a sort of Masque, invented by the
sisters von Meisenbuch, one appeared as Diana, the other as Bellona,
and they captivated all hearts, from those of the prince-bishop and his
son to that of the humblest aspirant in the court circle.
These young ladies came to court to push their fortunes. They hoped
in some way to serve the sovereign bishop; or, failing him, to be
agreeable to his heir, George Louis (afterwards George I. of England).
But even this prince, a little and not an attractive person, to say
nothing of the bishop, seemed for a time a flight above them. They
could wait a new opportunity; for as for defeat in their aspirations,
they would not think of it. They had the immense power of those persons
who are possessed by one single idea, and who are under irresistible
compulsion to carry it out to reality. They could not all at once reach
the prince-bishop or his heir, and accordingly they directed the full
force of their enchantments at two very unromantic-looking personages,
the private tutors of the young princes of Hanover. The ladies were
soon mighty at Greek particles, learned in the aorists, fluent on the
digamma, and familiar with the mysteries of the differential calculus.
Catherine and Elizabeth von Meisenbuch opened a new grammar before
their learned pundits, the _Herrn_ von Busche and von Platen (the
latter was of a noble and ancient house); and truth to tell, the
philosophers were nothing loth to pursue the new study taught by such
professors. When this educational course had come to a close, the
public recognised at once its aim, quality, and effects, by learning
that the sage preceptors had actually married two of the liveliest and
lightest-footed of girls who had ever danced a _branle_ at the balls
in Brunswick. The wives, on first appearing in public after their
marriage, looked radiant with joy. The tutors wore about them an air
of constraint, as if they thought the world needed an apology, by way
of explaining how two Elders had permitted themselves to be vanquished
by a brace of Susannas. Their ideas were evidently confused, but they
took courage as people cheerfully laughed, though they may have lost
it again on discovering that they had been drawn into matrimony by two
gracefully-graceless nymphs, whose sole object was to use their spouses
as stepping-stones to a higher greatness.
There must have been many attendant advantages in connection with such
an object, or the two married philosophers would hardly have worn the
air of content which they put on as soon as they saw the aim of their
estimable wives, and felt the gain thence accruing.
Elizabeth von Meisenbuch, the wife of von Platen, was the true mistress
of the situation. Von Platen, principally through her intrigues, had
been appointed prime-minister of the sovereign bishop. The time passed
by von Platen with his sovereign master afforded him ample leisure to
talk of his wife, praise her political abilities, and over-eulogise
her. The prince-bishop felt his curiosity excited to study more
nearly this phœnix of a woman. It was, therefore, the most natural of
consequences that von Platen should lead his lady to his master’s feet,
though it perhaps was not so natural that he should leave her there to
‘improve’ the position thus reached.
The lady lost no time in justifying all that her husband had advanced
in warranty of her talent, skill, and willingness to use them for the
advantage of the bishop and his dominions; the powerful prelate was
enchanted with her--enchanted with her in every sense. To sum up all,
Madame von Platen became the mistress of her husband’s master; and her
sister, who had given her hand to von Busche, gave herself body and
soul to the bishop’s son, George Louis. This arrangement seemed in
no way to disturb the equanimity of the bishop’s wife, the prince’s
mother.
CHAPTER III.
THE BRUNSWICKER IN ENGLAND.
Prince Augustus of Wolfenbüttel, the accepted lover of
Sophia--Superstition of the Duke of Zell--Intrigues of Madame
von Platen--A rival lover--Prince George Louis: makes an offer
of marriage to Princess Anne--Policy of the Prince of Orange
--Prince George in England: festivities on account of his visit
--Execution of Lord Stafford--Illness of Prince Rupert--The
Bill of Exclusion, and the Duke of York at Holyrood--Probable
succession of the House of Brunswick--Prince George recalled
--Successful intrigues of Sophia, wife of Ernest--A group for
an artist--Ill-fated marriage of Sophia--Elizabeth, Queen of
Bohemia--‘Goody Palsgrave’--The Electress Sophia, and her
intellectual skirmishes.
While all was loose and lively at the court of the bishop, the daily
routine of simple pleasures and duties alone marked the course of
events at the modest court of the Duke of Zell. The monotony of the
latter locality was, however, agreeably interrupted by the arrival
there of his Serene Highness Prince Augustus William of Wolfenbüttel.
He had just been edified by what he had witnessed during his brief
sojourn in the episcopal circle of Osnaburgh, where he had seen two
ladies exercising a double influence, Madame von Platen ruling her
husband and his master, while her sister Caroline von Busche was
equally obeyed by _her_ consort and his Highness George Louis, the
bishop’s son.
Prince Augustus of Wolfenbüttel was the brother of that early suitor
of the little Sophia Dorothea who had met a soldier’s death at the
siege of Philipsburg. He was, like his brother, not so rich in gold
pieces as in good qualities, and was more wealthy in virtues than in
acres. He was a bachelor prince, with a strong inclination to lay down
his bachelorship at the feet of a lady who would, by addition of her
dowry, increase the greatness and material comforts of both. Not that
Augustus of Wolfenbüttel was mercenary; he was simply prudent. A little
princely state in Germany costs a great deal to maintain, and when the
errant prince went forth in search of a lady with a dower, his last
thought was to offer himself to one who had no heart or could have no
place in his own. If there was some system, a little method, and an
air of business about the passion and principle of the puissant Prince
Augustus, something thereof must be laid to the charge of the times,
and a little to the princely matter-of-fact good sense: he is a wise
and merciful man who, before he comes to conclusions with a lady on the
chapter of matrimony, first weighs prospects, and establishes, as far
as in him lies, a security of sunshine.
Augustus Wolfenbüttel had long suspected that the sun of his future
home was to be found at Zell, and in the person of his young cousin
Sophia Dorothea. Even yet, tradition exists among Brunswick maidens as
to the love-passages of this accomplished and handsome young couple.
Those passages have been enlarged for the purposes of romance writers,
but divested of all exaggeration there remains enough to prove, as
touching this pair, that they were well assorted both as to mind and
person; that their inclinations were towards each other; and that they
were worthy of a better fate than that which fell upon the honest and
warm affection which reigned in the hearts of both.
The love of these cousins was not the less ardent for the fact of its
being partially discouraged. The Duke of Zell looked upon the purpose
of Prince Augustus with an unfavourable eye. The simple-minded duke
had an unfeigned superstitious awe of the new lover; and the idea
of consenting to a match under the circumstances as they presented
themselves, seemed to him tantamount to a species of sacrilege,
outraging the _manes_ and memory of the defunct brother. The duke
loved his daughter, and the daughter assuredly loved Augustus of
Wolfenbüttel; and, added thereto, the good Duchess Eleanora was quite
disposed to see the cherished union accomplished, and to bestow her
benediction upon the well-favoured pair. The father was influenced,
however, by his extensive reading in old legendary ballad-lore,
metrical and melancholy German romances, the commonest incident in
which is the interruption of a marriage ceremony by a spiritual
personage professing priority of right.
The opposition to the marriage was not, however, all surmounted when
the antagonism of the duke had been successfully overcome. Madame von
Platen has the credit of having carried out her opposition to the match
to a very successful issue.
It is asserted of this clever lady, that she was the first who caused
the Bishop of Osnaburgh thoroughly to comprehend that Sophia Dorothea
would form a very desirable match for his son George Louis. The
young lady had lands settled on her which might as well be added to
the territory of that electoral Hanover of which the prince-bishop
was soon to be the head. Every acre added to the possessions of the
chief of the family would be by so much an increase of dignity, and
little sacrifices were worth making to effect great and profitable
results. The worthy pair, bishop and female prime-minister, immediately
proceeded to employ every conceivable engine whereby they might
destroy the fortress of the hopes of Sophia Dorothea and Augustus of
Wolfenbüttel. They cared for nothing, save that the hand of the former
should be conferred upon the bishop’s eldest son, George Louis, who had
as little desire to be matched with his cousin, or his cousin with
him, as kinsfolk can have who cordially detest each other.
George Louis was not shaped for a lover. He was mean in person and
in character. George was brave indeed; to none of the princes of the
House of Brunswick can be denied the possession of bravery. In all the
bloody and useless wars of the period, he had distinguished himself by
his dauntless courage and his cool self-possession. He was not heroic,
but he really looked heroic at the head of his squadron, charging
across the battle-field, and carrying his sword and his fringed and
feathered hat into the very thickest of the fray. He did not fail, it
may be added, in one of the characteristics of bravery, humanity on the
field. For a wounded foe he had a thorough respect. Out of the field of
battle George Louis was an extremely ordinary personage, except in his
vices. He was coarsely minded and coarsely spoken, and his profligacy
was so extreme of character--it bore about it so little of what Lord
Chesterfield recommended when he said a man might be gentlemanlike
even in his vices--that the bishop, easy as he was both as parent and
prelate, and rich as he was himself in evil example to a son who needed
no such warrant to plunge headlong into sin--even the bishop felt
uncomfortable for awhile. He thought, however, that marriage would cure
profligacy.
George Louis was now in his twenty-second year. He was born in 1660,
and he had recently acquired increase of importance from the tact of
his sire having succeeded to the estates, grandeur, and expectations
of his predecessor, Duke John Frederick. The latter was on his way to
Rome, in 1679, a city which he much loved, holding in respect a good
portion of what is taught there. He was proceeding thither with a view
of a little more of pleasure and something therewith of instruction,
when a sudden attack of illness carried him off; and his death excited
as much grief in the bishop as it possibly could in one who had little
reverence for the duke, by whose death he profited largely.
When the bishop (now Duke Ernest Augustus, of Hanover), as a natural
consequence of this death, established a gayer court at Hanover than
had ever yet been seen there, and had raised George Louis to the rank
of a ‘Crown Prince’--a title given to many heirs who could inherit
nothing but coronets--the last-named individual began to consider
speculatively as to what royal lady he might, with greatest prospect of
advantage to himself, make offer of his hand.
At this time Charles II. was King in England. The King’s brother,
James, Duke of York, had a daughter, ‘Lady Anne,’ who is better
known to us all by her after-title of ‘good Queen Anne.’ In the year
1680, George of Hanover came over to England with matrimonial views
respecting that young princess. He had on his way visited William of
Orange, at the Hague; and when that calculating prince was made the
confidential depository of the views of George Louis respecting the
Princess Anne of England, he listened with much complacency, but is
suspected of having forthwith set on foot the series of intrigues
which, helped forward by Madame von Platen, ended in the recall of
George from England, and in his hapless marriage with the more hapless
Sophia Dorothea.
George of Hanover left the Hague with the conviction that he had
a friend in William; but William was no abettor of marriages with
the Princess Anne, and least of all could he wish success to the
hereditary prince of Hanover, whose union with one of the heiresses
of the British throne might, under certain contingencies, miserably
mar his own prospects. The Sidney Diary fixes the arrival of George
Louis at Greenwich on the 6th of December, 1680. On the 29th of the
month, Viscount Stafford was beheaded on Tower Hill, and at this
lively spectacle George of Hanover was probably present, for on the
30th of the month he sends a long letter to her Serene Highness, his
mother, stating that ‘they cut off the head of Lord Stafford yesterday,
and made no more ado about it than if they had chopped off the head
of a pullet.’ In this letter, the writer enters into details of the
incidents of his reception in England. The tenor of his epistle is,
that he remained one whole day at anchor at ‘_Grunnwitsch_’ (which is
his reading of Greenwich) while his secretary, Mr. Beck, went ashore to
look for a house for him, and find out his uncle Prince Rupert. Scant
ceremony was displayed, it would appear, to render hospitable welcome
to such a visitor. Hospitality, however, was not altogether lacking.
The zealous Beck found out ‘Uncle Robert,’ as the prince ungermanises
Rupert, and the uncle, having little of his own to offer to his nephew,
straightway announced to Charles II. the circumstance that the princely
lover of his niece was lying in the mud off _Grunnwitsch_. ‘His
Majesty,’ says George Louis, ‘immediately ordered them apartments at
_Writhall_’--and he then proceeds to state that he had not been there
above two hours when Lord Hamilton arrived to conduct him to the King,
who received him most obligingly. He then adds, ‘Prince _Robert_ had
preceded me, and was at Court when I saluted King Charles. In making my
obeisance to the King, I did not omit to give him the letter of your
Serene Highness; after which he spoke of your Highness, and said that
he “remembered you very well.” When he had talked with me some time, he
went to the Queen, and as soon as I arrived, he made me kiss the hem
of her Majesty’s petticoat. The next day I saw the Princess of York
(the Lady Anne), and I saluted her by kissing her, with the consent of
the King. The day after I went to visit Prince _Robert_, who received
me in bed, for he has a malady in his leg, which makes him very often
keep his bed. It appears that it is so, without any pretext, and he
has to take care of himself. He had not failed of coming to see me one
day. All the lords come to see me, _sans prétendre la main chez moi_’
(probably, rather meaning without ceremony, without kissing hands,
than, as has been suggested, that ‘they came without venturing to shake
hands with him’).
Cold and deaf did the Princess Anne remain to the suit of the
Hanoverian wooer. The suit, indeed, was not pressed by any sanction
of the lady’s father, who, during the three months’ sojourn of George
Louis in England, remained in rather secluded state at Holyrood.
Neither was the suit opposed by James. James was troubled but little
touching the suitor of his daughter. He had personal troubles enough of
his own wherewith to be concerned, and therewith sundry annoyances.
Among the ‘celebrations’ of the visit of George Louis to this country,
was the pomp of the ceremony which welcomed him to Cambridge. Never
had the groves or stream of Cam been made vocal by the echoes of
such laudation as was given and taken on this solemnly hilarious
occasion. There was much feasting, which included very much drinking,
and much expenditure of heavy compliment in very light Latin. George
and his trio of followers were made doctors of law by the scholastic
authorities. The honour, however, was hardly more appropriate than
when a similar one was conferred, in after years, upon Blucher and the
celebrated artillery officer, Gneisenau. ‘Ah!’ exclaimed the veteran
leader, ‘they are going to make me a doctor; but it was Gneisenau that
furnished all the pills.’
That parliament was convened at Oxford whereby there was, as Evelyn
remarks, ‘great expectation of his Royal Highness’s cause, as to the
succession against which the house was set,’ and therewith there was,
according to the same diarist, ‘an extraordinary sharp, cold spring,
not yet a leaf upon the trees, frost and snow lying while the whole
nation was in the greatest ferment.’ Such was the parliament, and such
the spring, when George Louis was suddenly called home. He was highly
interested in the bill, which was read a first time at that parliament,
as also in the ‘expedients’ which were proposed in lieu of such bill,
and rejected. The expedients proposed instead of the Bill of Exclusion
in this parliament, were that the whole government, upon the death of
Charles II., should be vested in a regent, the Princess of Orange, and
if she died without issue, then the Princess Anne should be regent.
But if James, Duke of York, should have a son educated a Protestant,
then the regency should last no longer than his minority, and that the
regent should govern in the name of the father while he lived; but that
the father should be obliged to reside five hundred miles from the
British dominions; and if the duke should return to these kingdoms, the
crown should immediately devolve on the regent, and the duke and his
adherents be deemed guilty of high treason.
Here was matter in which the Hanoverian suitor was doubly interested
both as man and as lover. Nor was there anything unnatural or
unbecoming in such concern. The possible inheritance of such a throne
as that of England was not to be contemplated without emotion. An
exclusive Protestant succession made such a heritage possible to
the House of Brunswick, and if ever the heads of that house, before
the object of their hopes was realised, ceased to be active for its
realisation, it was when assurance was made doubly sure, and action was
unnecessary.
It is not easy to determine what part William of Orange had in the
recall of George Louis from England, but the suddenness of that recall
was an object of some admiring perplexity to a lover, who left a lady
who was by no means inconsolable, and who, two years afterwards, was
gaily married at St. James’s to the Prince of Denmark, on the first
leisure day between the executions of Russell and of Sidney.
George Louis, however, obeyed the summons of his sovereign and father,
but it was not until his arrival in Hanover that he found himself
called upon to transfer the prosecution of his matrimonial suit from
one object to another. The riding idea in the mind of Ernest Augustus
was, that however he might have provided to secure his succession to
the dominion of Zell, the marriage of his son with the duke’s only
child would add many broad acres to his possessions in Hanover.
Sophia Dorothea was still little more than a child; but that very
circumstance was made use of in order to procure the postponement of
her marriage with Augustus of Wolfenbüttel. The Duke of Zell did not
stand in need of much argument from his brother to understand that the
union of the young lovers might more properly be celebrated when the
bride was sixteen than a year earlier. The duke was ready to accept any
reasoning, the object of which was to enable him to retain his daughter
another year at his side.
The sixteenth birthday of Sophia Dorothea had arrived, and George Louis
had made no impression on her heart--the image of the absent Augustus
still lived there; and the whole plot would have failed, but for the
sudden, and active, and efficient energy of one who seemed as if she
had allowed matters to proceed to extremity, in order to exhibit the
better her own powers when she condescended to interfere personally
and remedy the ill-success of others by a triumph of her own. That
person was Sophia, the wife of Ernest, a lady who rivalled Griselda
in one point of her patience--that which she felt for her husband’s
infidelities. In other respects she was crafty, philosophical, and
free-thinking; but she was as ambitious as any of her family, and as
she had resolved on the marriage of her son, George Louis, with Sophia
Dorothea, she at once proceeded to accomplish that upon which she had
resolved.
It had suddenly come to her knowledge that Augustus of Wolfenbüttel
had made his reappearance at the Court of Zell. Coupling the knowledge
of this fact with the remembrance that Sophia Dorothea was now sixteen
years of age, and that at such a period her marriage had been fixed,
the mother of George Louis addressed herself at once to the task of
putting her son in the place of the favoured lover. She ordered out the
heavy coach and heavier Mecklenburg horses, by which German potentates
were wont to travel stately and leisurely by post some two centuries
ago. It was night when she left Hanover; and although she had not
further to travel than an ordinary train could now accomplish in an
hour, it was broad daylight before this match-making and match-breaking
lady reached the portals of the ducal palace of Zell.
There was something delightfully primitive in the method of her
proceeding. She did not despise state, except on occasions when
serious business was on hand. The present was such an occasion, and
she therefore waited for no usher to marshal her way and announce her
coming to the duke. She descended from her ponderous coach, pushed
aside the sleepy sentinel, who appeared disposed to question her before
he made way, and, entering the hall of the mansion, loudly demanded of
the few servants who came hurrying to meet her, to be conducted to the
duke. It was intimated to her that he was then dressing, but that his
Highness would soon be in a condition to descend and wait upon her.
Too impatient to tarry, and too eager to care for ceremony, she
mounted the stairs, bade a groom of the chamber point out to her
the door of the duke’s room; and, her order having been obeyed, she
forthwith pushed open the door, entered the apartment, and discovered
the dismayed duke in the most _negligé_ of _déshabilles_. She neither
made apology nor would receive any; but, intimating that she came upon
business, at once asked, ‘Where is your wife?’ The flurried Duke of
Zell pointed through an open door to a capacious bed in the adjacent
room, wherein lay the wondering duchess, lost in eider-down and deep
amazement.
The ‘old Sophia’ could have wished, it would seem, that she had
been further off. She was not quite rude enough to close the door,
and so cut off all communication and listening; but, remembering
that the Duchess of Zell was but very indifferently acquainted with
German, she ceased to speak in the language then common to the German
courts--French--and immediately addressed the duke in hard Teutonic
phrase, which was unintelligible to the vexed and suspecting duchess.
Half undressed, the duke occupied a chair close to his toilet-table,
while the astute wife of Ernest Augustus, seated near him, unfolded
a narrative to which he listened with every moment an increase of
complacency and conviction. The Duchess Eleanora, from her bed in the
adjacent room, could see the actors, but could not comprehend the
dialogue. But, if the narrative was unintelligible to her, she could
understand the drift of the argument, as the names of her daughter and
lover were being constantly pronounced with that of George Louis.
The case was forcibly put by the mother of George. She showed how union
makes strength, how little profit could arise from a match between
Sophia Dorothea and Augustus of Wolfenbüttel, and how advantageous must
be an union between the heir of Hanover and the heiress of the domains
which her provident father had added to Zell, and had bequeathed to his
daughter. She spoke of the certainty of Ernest Augustus being created
arch-standard-bearer of the empire of Germany, and therewith Elector
of Hanover. She hinted at the possibility even of Sophia Dorothea one
day sharing with her son the throne of Great Britain. The hint was
something premature, but the astute lady _may_ have strengthened her
case by reminding her hearer that the crown of England would most
probably be reserved only for a Protestant succession, and that her son
was, if a distant, yet not a very distant, and certainly a possible
heir.
The obsequious Duke of Zell was bewildered by the visions of greatness
presented to his mind by his clever sister-in-law. With ready lack of
honesty he consented to break off the match between Sophia Dorothea
and her lover, and to bestow her hand upon the careless prince for
whom it was now demanded by his mother. The latter returned to Hanover
perfectly satisfied with the work of that night and morning.
The same satisfaction was not experienced by the Duchess Eleanora. When
she came to learn the facts, she burst forth in expressions of grief
and indignation. The marriage which had now been definitely broken, had
been with her an affair of a mother’s heart. It had not been less an
affair of a young girl’s heart with Sophia Dorothea. Duke Anton Ulrich
of Wolfenbüttel came in person to Zell, to ask the fulfilment of the
promise of her hand to his son. On learning that the alleged promise
had been broken, he left Zell with the utmost indignation; and romance,
at least, says of Königsmark, that he too, had left it with a feeling
of sorrow that Sophia Dorothea was to be sacrificed to such an unworthy
person as George Louis. It was a pitiable case! There were three
persons who were to be rendered irretrievably wretched, in order, not
that any one might be rendered happy, but that a man without a heart
might be made a little more rich in the possession of dirt. The acres
of Zell were to bring misery on their heiress, and every acre was to
purchase its season of sorrow.
No entreaty could move the duke.[1] In his dignity he forgot the
father: and the prayers and tears of his child failed to touch the
parent, who really loved her well, but whose affection was dissolved
beneath the fiery heat of his ambition. He was singularly ambitious;
for the possible effect of a marriage with George Louis was merely to
add his own independent duchy of Luneburg to the dominions of Hanover.
His daughter, moreover, detested her cousin, and his wife detested her
sister-in-law; above all, the newly accepted bridegroom, if he did not
detest, had no shadow, nor affected to have any shadow of respect,
regard, or affection for the poor young victim who was to be flung
to him with indecent and unnatural disregard of all her feelings as
daughter and maiden. Sophia Dorothea’s especial distaste for George
Louis was grounded not only in her knowledge of his character, but
also of his want of respect for her mother, of whom he always spoke in
contemptuous terms. Sophia Dorothea’s inclinations, her father said, he
would never constrain; but when this seemed to give her some hope of
release, her father observed that a good daughter’s inclinations were
always identical with those of her parents. She had a heart to listen
to, she thought. She had a father whom she was bound to obey, he said
--and said it with terrible iteration. Her aversion is reported to have
been so determined that, when the portrait of her future lord was
presented to her, she flung it against the wall with such violence that
the glass was smashed, and the dismounted diamonds were scattered over
the room.
The matter, however, was urged onward by Sophia of Hanover; and in
formal testimony of the freedom of inclination with which Sophia
Dorothea acted, she was brought to address a formal letter to the
mother of her proposed husband, expressive of her obedience to the will
of her father, and promissory of the same obedience to the requirements
of her future mother-in-law. It is a mere formal document, proving
nothing but that it was penned for the assumed writer by a cold-hearted
inventor, and that the heart of the copier, subdued by sickness, was
far away from her words. This document is in the British Museum. During
the time that intervened before George Louis arrived at Zell to take
his bride to Hanover, Sophia Dorothea seemed to have passed years
instead of weeks. It was only when her mother looked sadly at her that
she contrived painfully to smile. She even professed a sort of joyful
obedience; but when the bridegroom dismounted at her father’s gate,
Sophia Dorothea fainted in her mother’s arms.
After a world of misery and mock wooing, crowded into a few months,
the hateful and ill-omened marriage took place at Zell on the 21st
of November, 1682. The bride was sixteen, the bridegroom twenty-two.
Of the splendour which attended the ceremony court historiographers
wrote in loyal ecstasy and large folios, describing every character
and dress, every incident and dish, every tableau and trait, with a
minuteness almost inconceivable, and a weariness saddening even to
think of. They thought of everything but the heart of the principal
personage in the ceremony--that of the bride. They could describe the
superb lace which veiled it, and prate of its value and workmanship;
but of the worth and woe of the heart which beat beneath it, these
courtly historians knew no more than they did of honesty. Their
flattery was of the grossest, but they had no comprehension of ‘the
situation.’ To them all mortals were but as ballet-dancers and
pantomimists; and if they were but bravely dressed and picturesquely
grouped, the describers thereof thought of nothing beyond. The bride
preserved her mournful dignity on that dark and fierce November day.
Tradition says that there was a storm without as well as sorrow within;
and that the moaning of the wind and strange noises in the old castle
seemed as if the elements and the very home of the bride’s youth
sympathised with her present and her future destiny.
CHAPTER IV.
THE HOUSEHOLD OF GEORGE AND SOPHIA.
Reception of Sophia at the Court of Ernest Augustus--Similar
position of Marie Antoinette and Sophia--Misfortune of the
abigail Use--Compassionated by the Duchess of Zell--Intrigues
and revenge of Madame von Platen--A new favourite, Mademoiselle
Ermengarda von der Schulenburg--A marriage fête, and intended
insult to the Princess Sophia--Gross vice of George Louis.
It is said that a certain becomingness of compliment was paid to the
bride in an order given to Katharine von Busche to absent herself
from the palace when the bride was brought home. The mistress, it is
alleged, deferred her departure till it was too late, and from a window
of Madame von Platen’s bedchamber the sisters witnessed the sight of
George Louis dismounting from his horse, and hastening to help his wife
to descend from the carriage.
Madame von Platen, as she gazed, may have thought that her sister’s
influence was over. If she did, Madame von Busche felt convinced of
the contrary. The latter took her departure, for a season. The other
prepared herself to join in the splendid court festivities held in
honour of the event by the command of Ernest Augustus. Sophia Dorothea,
subdued by past suffering, was so gentle that even Madame von Platen
would have found it difficult to have felt offended with her sister’s
rival.
For a few months after Sophia Dorothea’s husband had taken her to
Hanover, she experienced, perhaps, a less degree of unhappiness than
was ever her lot subsequently. Her open and gentle nature won the
regard even of Ernest Augustus. That is, he paid her as much regard as
a man so coarsely minded as he was _could_ feel for one of such true
womanly dignity as his daughter-in-law.
His respect for her, however, may be best appreciated by the
companionship to which he sometimes subjected her. He more frequently
saw her in society with the immoral Madame von Platen than in the
society of his own wife. Ernest looked gratefully upon her as the
pledge of the future union of the two duchies under one duke. On this
account, even if she had possessed less attractive qualities, he would
have held Sophia Dorothea in great esteem. A certain measure of esteem
Ernest experienced for all who had in any way furthered his scheme. His
mistress, Madame von Platen, had always pretended to think favourably
of the scheme, and admiringly of the wisdom of the schemer; in return
for which, Ernest made his mistress’s husband a baron, and afterwards
a count. Let us employ the higher dignity. In the beginning, George
Louis seemed fairly in love with his wife; there appeared a promise of
increased felicity when the first child of this marriage was born at
Hanover, on the 30th of October 1683; his father conferred on him the
names of George Augustus, he expressed pleasure at having an heir, and
he even added some words of regard for the mother. The second child
of this marriage was a daughter, born in 1687. She was that Sophia
Dorothea who subsequently married the King of Prussia. In tending these
two children the mother found all the happiness she ever experienced
during her married life. Soon after the birth of the daughter, George
Louis openly neglected and openly exhibited his hatred of his wife. He
lost no opportunity of irritating and outraging her, and she could not
even walk through the rooms of the palace which she called her home
without encountering the abandoned female favourites of her husband,
whose presence beneath such a roof was the most flagrant of outrages.
Her very sense of helplessness was a great grief to her. All that her
own mother could do when her daughter complained to her of the presence
near her of her husband’s mistress, was to advise her to imitate, on
this point, the indifference of her mother-in-law, and make the best of
it!
The Countess von Platen kept greater state in Hanover than Sophia
Dorothea herself. In her own palatial mansion two dozen servants
helped her helplessness. Every morning she had ‘a circle,’ as if she
were a royal lady holding a court. Her dinners were costly banquets;
her ‘evenings’ were renowned for the brilliancy of her fêtes and the
reckless fury of gambling. Sophia Dorothea, whose talent for listening
and for putting apt and sympathetic questions when the conversation
required it, gave considerable satisfaction to her clever, but somewhat
pedantic mother-in-law, failed to at all satisfy the Countess von
Platen. This lady had tried to bring the princess into something like
sympathy with herself, but she found only antipathy. She detested
Sophia Dorothea accordingly, and she obtained permission to invite her
sister, Madame von Busche, to return to Hanover.
The prime mover of the hatred of George Louis for his consort was the
Countess von Platen, and this fact was hardly known to George Louis
himself. There was one thing in which that individual had a fixed
belief: his own sagacity and, it may be added, his own imaginary
independence of outward influences. He _was_ profound in some things;
but, as frequently happens with persons who fancy themselves deep in
all, he was very shallow in many. It was often impossible to guess his
purpose, but quite as often his thoughts were as clearly discernible
as the pebbles in the bed of a transparent brook. The Countess von
Platen saw through him thoroughly, and she employed her discernment for
the furtherance of her own detestable objects.
Sophia Dorothea had, however, contrived to win the good opinion of her
mother-in-law, and also the warm favour of Ernest Augustus. The latter
took her with him on a journey he made to Switzerland and Italy. It
was on this journey that her portrait was taken, at Venice, by Gascar,
who, when in England, had painted, among others, that of Louise de
Querouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth. This portrait of Sophia Dorothea is
still in existence in Germany. The beauty of the lady represented is
so remarkable, it is said, as to justify the admiration she generally
excited. This admiration sometimes went beyond decent bounds. One
French adorer, the celebrated and eccentric Marquis de Lassay, was
impudent enough, not only to address declarations of love to her, but
subsequently, in his ‘Memoirs,’ to publish his letters. It has not yet
occurred to the ever-busy autograph fabricators on the continent to
forge the supposed replies of the princess.
After the return of Ernest Augustus and his daughter-in-law to Hanover,
the praise of Sophia Dorothea was ever the theme which hung on the
lips of the former, and such eulogy was as poison poured in the ears
of Madame von Platen. She dreaded the loss of her own influence over
the father of George Louis, and she fancied she might preserve it by
destroying the happiness of the wife of his son. Her hatred of that
poor lady had been increased by a circumstance with which she could not
be connected, but which nearly concerned the Duchess of Zell.
Ernest Augustus used occasionally to visit Madame von Platen at her
own residence, with more than enough of publicity. He was more inclined
to conversation with her than with his prime-minister, her husband; and
she had wit enough, if not worth, to give warrant for such preference.
Now and then, however, the ducal sovereign would repair to pay his
homage to the lady without previous notice being forwarded of his
coming; and it was on one of these occasions that, on arriving at the
mansion, or in the gardens of the mansion of his minister’s spouse, he
found, not the lady of the house, who was absent, but her bright-eyed,
ordinary-featured, and quick-witted handmaid, who bore a name which
might have been given to such an official in Elizabethan plays by Ford
or Fletcher. Her name was ‘Use.’
Ernest Augustus found the wit of Use much to his taste; and the
delighted abigail was perfectly self-possessed, and more brilliant than
common in the converse which she sustained for the pleasure of the
sovereign, and her own expected profit. She had just, it is supposed,
come to the point of some exquisitely epigrammatic tale, for the prince
was laughing with his full heart, and her hand in his, and the ’tiring
maiden was as radiant as successful wit and endeavour could make her,
when Madame von Platen interrupted the sparkling colloquy by her more
fiery presence. She affected to be overcome with indignation at the
boldness of a menial who dared to make merry with a sovereign duke; and
when poor Use had been rudely dismissed from the two presences--the
one august and the other angry--the Countess von Platen probably
remonstrated with Ernest Augustus, respectfully or otherwise, upon his
deplorable want of dignity and good taste.
Revenge certainly followed, whether remonstrance may or may not have
been offered. Ernest Augustus went to sojourn for a time at one of his
rural palaces, and he had no sooner left his capital than the countess
committed the terrified Use to close imprisonment in the common gaol.
The history of little German courts assures us that this exercise
and abuse of power were not at all uncommon with the ‘favourites’ of
German princes. Their word was ‘all potential as the duke’s,’ and
doubtless the Countess von Platen’s authority was as good warrant for
a Hanoverian gaoler to hold Use in custody as if he had shut up that
maid, who offended by her wit, under the sign manual of Ernest Augustus
himself.
Use was kept captive, and very shabbily treated, until the Countess
von Platen had resolved as to the further course which should be
ultimately adopted towards her. She could bring no charge against her,
save a pretended accusation of lightness of conduct and immorality
scandalous to Hanoverian decorum. Under this charge she had her old
handmaid drummed out of the town; and if the elder Sophia heard the
tap of the drums which accompanied the alleged culprit to the gates,
we can only suppose that she would have expelled the countess to the
same music. But, in the first place, the wives of princes were by no
means so powerful as their favourites; and secondly, the friend of the
philosophical Leibnitz was too much occupied with the sage to trouble
herself with the affairs which gave concern to the Countess von Platen.
Use found herself outside the city walls, friendless, penniless, with
a damaged character, and nothing to cover it but the light costume
which she had worn in the process of her march of expulsion to the roll
of ‘dry drums.’ When she had found a refuge, her first course was to
apply to Ernest Augustus for redress. The prince, however, was at once
oblivious, ungrateful, and powerless; and, confining himself to sending
to the poor petitioner a paltry eleemosynary half-dozen of gold pieces,
he forbade her return to Hanover, counselled her to settle elsewhere,
and congratulated her that she had not received even rougher treatment.
Use next made full statement of her case to the Duchess of Zell; and
that lady, deeming the case one of peculiar hardship, and the penalty
inflicted on a giddy girl too unmeasured for the pardonable offence
of amusing an old prince who encouraged her to the task, after much
consideration, due weighing of the statement, and befitting inquiry,
took the offender into her own service, and gave to the exiled
Hanoverian a refuge, asylum, and employment in Zell.
These are but small politics, but they illustrate the nature of things
as they then existed at little German courts. They had, moreover, no
small influence on the happiness of Sophia Dorothea. The Countess
von Platen was enraged that the mother of that princess should have
dared to give a home to one whom she had condemned to be homeless; and
she in consequence is suspected of having been fired with the more
satanic zeal to make desolate the home of the young wife. She adopted
the most efficient means to arrive at such an end. Her wicked zeal
was stimulated by the undisguised contempt with which Sophia Dorothea
treated her on all public occasions. She urged her sister, Madame von
Busche, to recover her power over George Louis. Madame von Busche
embraced with alacrity the mission with which she was charged, again
to throw such meshes of fascination as she was possessed of around the
heart of the not over-susceptible prince. But George Louis stolidly
refused to be charmed, and Madame von Busche gave up the attempt in
a sort of offended despair. Her sister, like a true genius, fertile
in expedients, and prepared for every emergency, bethought herself
of a simple circumstance, whereby she hoped to attain her ends. She
remembered that George Louis, though short himself of stature, had
a predilection for tall women. At the next fête at which he was
present at the mansion of Madame von Platen, he was enchanted by a
majestic young lady, with a name almost as long as her person--it was
Ermengarda Melusina von der Schulenburg.
She was more shrewd than witty, this ‘tall mawkin,’ as the Electress
Sophia once called the lofty Ermengarda; and, as George Louis was
neither witty himself, nor much cared for wit in others, she was the
better enabled to establish herself in the most worthless of hearts.
This was the work of the countess, who saw in the tender blue eyes,
the really fine features, the imposing figure, and the nineteen years
of Ermengarda, means to an end. When the countess hinted at the
distinction that was within reach of her, the tall beauty is said to
have blushed and hesitated, and then to have yielded herself with
alacrity to the glittering circumstance. She and the prince first met
on his return from a campaign in Hungary. He was at once subjected to
her magic influences. She was an inimitable flatterer, and in this way
she fooled her victim to ‘the very top of his bent.’ She exquisitely
cajoled him, and with exquisite carelessness did he surrender himself
to be cajoled. Gradually, by watching his inclinations, anticipating
his wishes, admiring even his coarseness, and lauding it as candour,
she so won upon the lazily excited feelings of George Louis that he
began to think her presence indispensable to his well-being. If he
hunted, she was in the field, the nearest to his saddle-bow. If he went
out to walk alone, he invariably fell in with Ermengarda. At the court
theatre, when _he_ was present, the next conspicuous object was the
towering von der Schulenburg, ‘in all her diamonds,’ beneath the glare
of which, and the blazing impudence of their wearer, the modest Sophia
Dorothea was almost extinguished. Ermengarda was speedily established
at Hanover, as hof-dame, or lady-in-waiting.
Madame von Platen had announced a festival, to be celebrated at her
mansion, which was to surpass in splendour anything that had ever
been witnessed by the existing generation. The occasion was the
second marriage of her sister, Madame von Busche, who had worried the
poor ex-tutor of George Louis into the grave, with General Weyhe, a
gallant soldier, equal, it would seem, to any feat of daring. Whenever
the Countess von Platen designed to appear with more than ordinary
brilliancy in her own person, she was accustomed to indulge in the
extravagant luxury of a milk bath; and it _was_ added by the satirical
or the scandalous, that the milk which had just lent softness to her
skin was charitably distributed among the poor of the district wherein
she occasionally affected to play the character of Dorcas.
The fête and the giver of it were not only to be of a splendour that
had never been equalled, but George Louis had promised to grace it with
his presence, and had even pledged himself to ‘walk a measure’ with the
irresistible Ermengarda Melusina von der Schulenburg. Madame von Platen
thought that her cup of joy and pride and revenge would be complete
and full to the brim if she could succeed in bringing Sophia Dorothea
to the misery of witnessing a spectacle, the only true significance of
which was, that the faithless George Louis publicly acknowledged the
gigantic Ermengarda for his ‘favourite.’
More activity was employed to encompass the desired end than if the aim
in view had been one of good purpose. It so far succeeded that Sophia
Dorothea intimated her intention of being present at the festival given
by the Countess von Platen; and when the latter lady received the
desired and welcome intelligence she was conscious of an enjoyment that
seemed to her an antepast of Paradise.
The eventful night at length arrived. The bride had exchanged rings
with the bridegroom, congratulations had been duly paid, the floor
was ready for the dancers, and nothing lacked but the presence of
Sophia Dorothea. There walked the proudly eminent von der Schulenburg,
looking blandly down upon George Louis, who held her by the hand; and
there stood the impatient von Platen, eager that the wife of that
light-o’-love cavalier should arrive and be crushed by the spectacle.
Still she came not; and finally her lady of honour, Fräulein von
Knesebeck, arrived, not as her attendant but her representative,
with excuses for the non-appearance of her mistress, whom unfeigned
indisposition detained at her own hearth.
The course of the festival was no longer delayed; in it the bride and
bridegroom were forgotten, and George and Ermengarda were the hero
and heroine of the hour. After that hour no one doubted as to the bad
eminence achieved by that lady--unworthy daughter of an ancient and
honourable race. So narrowly and sharply observant was the lynx-eyed
von Knesebeck of all that passed between her mistress’s husband and
that husband’s mistress, that when she returned to her duties of _dame
d’atours_, she unfolded a narrative that inflicted a stab in every
phrase and tore the heart of the despairing listener.
CHAPTER V.
THE ELECTORATE OF HANOVER.
The House of Hanover ranges itself against France--Ernest Augustus
created Elector--Domestic rebellion of his son Maximilian--His
accomplice, Count von Moltke, beheaded--The Electors of Germany.
While Sophia Dorothea was daily growing more unhappy, her father-in-law
was growing more ambitious and the prospects of her husband more
brilliant. The younger branch of Brunswick was outstripping the elder
in dignity, and not merely an electoral but a kingly crown seemed the
prize it was destined to attain.
When Ernest’s elder brother, John Frederick, died childless, and left
him the principalities of Calemberg and Grubenberg, with Hanover or a
‘residenz,’ he hailed an increase of influence which he hoped to see
heightened by securing the Duchy of Zell also to his family. He had
determined that George Louis should succeed to Hanover and Zell united.
In other words, he established primogeniture, recognised his eldest son
as heir to all his land, and only awarded to his other sons moderate
appanages whereby to support a dignity which he considered sufficiently
splendid by the glory which it would receive, by reflection, from the
head of the house.
This arrangement by no means suited the views of one of Ernest’s
sons, Maximilian. He had no inclination whatever to borrow glory from
the better fortune of his brother, and was resolved, if it might be,
to achieve splendour by his own. He protested loudly against the
accumulation of the family territorial estates upon the eldest heir;
claimed his own share; and even raised a species of domestic rebellion
against his sire, to which weight, without peril, was given by the
alleged adhesion of a couple of confederates, Count von Moltke and a
conspirator of burgher degree.
Ernest Augustus treated ‘Max’ like a rude child. He put him under
arrest in the paternal palace, and confined the filial rebel to the
mild imprisonment of his own room. Maximilian was as obstinate as
either Henry the Dog or Magnus the Violent, and he not only opposed his
sire’s wishes with respect to the aggrandisement of the family by the
enriching of the heir-apparent, but went counter to him in matters of
religion. In after-years he was not only a good Jacobite, but he also
conformed to the faith of the Stuarts, and Maximilian ultimately died,
a tolerable Roman Catholic, in the service of the Emperor.
In the meanwhile, his domestic antagonism against his father was not
productive of much inconvenience to himself. His arrest was soon
raised, and he was restored to freedom, though not to favour or
affection. It went harder, however, with his friend and confederate
Count von Moltke, against whom, as nothing could be proved, much
was invented. An absurd story was coined to the effect, that at the
time when Maximilian was opposing his father’s projects, Count von
Moltke, at a court entertainment, had presented his snuff-box to
Ernest Augustus. This illustrious individual having taken therefrom
the pungent tribute respectfully offered, presented the same to an
Italian greyhound which lay at his feet, who thereon suddenly sneezed
and swiftly died. The count was sent into close arrest, and the courtly
gossips forged the story to account for the result. The unfortunate
von Moltke was, indeed, as severely punished as though he had been a
murderer. He was judged in something of the old Jedburgh fashion,
whereby execution preceded judgment; and the head of Count von Moltke
had fallen before men could well guess why he had forfeited it. The
fact was that this penalty had been enacted as a vicarious infliction
on Prince Maximilian. The more ignoble plotter was only banished, and
in the death of a friend and the exile of a follower, Maximilian,
it was hoped, would see a double suggestion from which he would
draw a healthy conclusion. This course had its desired effect. The
disinherited heir accepted his ill-fortune with a humour of the same
quality, and, openly at least, he ceased to be a trouble to his more
ambitious than affectionate father.
The next important public circumstance was the raising Hanover to
an Electorate; and this was not effected without much bribery and
intrigue. In those warlike times, when France and the German empire
were in antagonism, the attitude assumed by such a state as Hanover
was matter of interest to the adverse powers. It is said that the last
argument which decided the Emperor’s course was a hint from De Groot,
the Hanoverian minister, that Ernest Augustus might cast in his lot
with France. A prince who had so often well served the empire was not
to be allowed to assist France for lack of flinging to him the title of
Elector. This title was granted, but under heavy stipulations. The two
Dukes of Hanover and Zell bound themselves, as long as the war lasted,
on the side of the Emperor against the French and against the Turks,
to pay annually 500,000 thalers, to furnish a contingent amounting to
9,000 men, to uphold the claim of the Arch-Duke Charles on the Spanish
throne, and at any election of a new Emperor to vote invariably for the
eldest heir of the House of Hapsburg. The 19th of December 1692 was the
joyful day on which Ernest Augustus was nominated Elector of Hanover.
The day, however, was anything but one of joy to the branch of
Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. That elder branch felt itself dishonoured by
the august dignity which had been conferred upon the younger scion of
the family. The elder branch, and the Sacred College with it, affirmed
that the Emperor was invested with no prerogative by which he could,
of his own spontaneous act, add a ninth Elector to the eight already
existing. Originally there were but seven, and the accession of one
more to that time-honoured number was pronounced to be an innovation
by which ill-fortune must ensue. Something still more deplorable was
vaticinated as the terrible consequence of a step so peremptorily taken
by the Emperor, in despite of the other Electors.
It was said by the supporters of the Emperor and Hanover that the
addition of a ninth and Protestant Elector was the more necessary, that
there were only two Electors on the sacred roll who now followed the
faith of the Reformed Church, and that the sincerity of one, at least,
of these was very questionable. The reformed states of Germany had a
right to be properly represented, and the Emperor was worthy of all
praise for respecting this right. With regard to the nomination, it was
stated that, though it had been made spontaneously by the Emperor, it
had been confirmed by the Electoral College--a majority of the number
of which had carried the election of the Emperor’s candidate.
Now, this last point was the weak point of the Hanoverians; for it was
asserted by many adversaries, and not denied by many supporters, that
in such a case as this no vote of the Electoral College was good unless
it were an unanimous vote. To this objection, strongly urged by the
elder branch of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, no answer was made, except,
indeed, by praising the new Elector, of whom it was correctly stated
that he had introduced into his states such a taste for masquerades,
operas, and ballets as had never been known before; and that he had
made a merry and a prosperous people of what had been previously but a
dull nation, as regarded both manners and commerce. The Emperor only
thought of the good service which Ernest Augustus had rendered him in
the field, and he stood by the ‘accomplished fact’ of which he was the
chief author.
The College was to the full as obstinate, and would not recognise any
vote tendered by the Elector of Hanover, or of Brunswick, as he was
at first called. For nearly sixteen years was this opposition carried
on. At length, on the 30th of June 1708, this affair of the ninth
electorate was adjusted, and the three colleges of the empire resolved
to admit the Elector of Hanover to sit _and_ vote in the Electoral
College. In the same month, he was made general of the imperial troops,
then assembled in the vicinity of the Upper Rhine.
His original selection by the Emperor had much reference to his
military services. The efforts of Louis XIV. to get possession of the
Palatinate, after the death of the Palatine Louis, had caused the
formation of the German Confederacy to resist the aggression of France
--an aggression not checked till the day when Marlborough defeated
Tallard, at Blenheim. Louis was hurried into the war by his minister,
Louvois, who was annoyed by his interference at home in matters
connected with Louvois’s department. It was to make the confederation
more firm and united that Ernest Augustus was created, rather than
elected, a ninth Elector. The three Protestant Electors were those of
Saxony, Brandenburg, and Hanover; the three Roman Catholic, Bohemia,
Bavaria, and the Palatinate; and the three spiritual Electors, the
Prince-Archbishops of Metz, Trèves, and Cologne.
The history of the creation of the ninth Electorate would not be
complete without citing what is said in respect thereof by the author
of a pamphlet suppressed by the Hanoverian government, and entitled
‘Impeachment of the Ministry of Count Munster.’ It is to this effect:
‘During the war between Leopold I. and France, at the close of the
17th century, Ernest Augustus, Duke of Brunswick, and administrator
of Osnabrück, father of George I., had been paid a considerable sum
of money on condition of aiding the French monarch with ten thousand
troops. The Emperor, aware of the engagement, and anxious to prevent
the junction of these forces with the enemy, proposed to create a ninth
electorate, in favour of the Duke, provided he brought his levies to
the imperial banner. The degrading offer was accepted, and the envoys
of Brunswick-Luneberg received the electoral cap, the symbol of their
master’s dishonour, at Vienna, on the 19th of December 1692. From the
opposition of the college and princes, Ernest was never more than
nominally an Elector, and even his son’s nomination was with difficulty
accomplished in 1710. It was in connection with this new dignity that
Hanover, a name till then applied only to a principal and almost
independent city of the Dukedom of Brunswick, became known in the list
of European sovereignties.’
But while the Court of Hanover was engaged in the important or trivial
circumstances which have been already narrated, a notable individual
had been pursuing fortune in various countries of Europe, and had made
his appearance on the scene at Hanover, to play a part in a drama which
had a tragical catastrophe--namely, Count Königsmark.
CHAPTER VI.
THE KÖNIGSMARKS.
Count Charles John Königsmark’s roving and adventurous life--The
great heiress--An intriguing countess--‘Tom of Ten Thousand’--The
murder of Lord John Thynne--The fate of the count’s
accomplices--Court influence shelters the guilty count.
The circumstance of the sojourn of a Count Königsmark at Zell, during
the childhood of Sophia Dorothea, has been before noticed. Originally
the family of the Königsmarks was of the Mark of Brandenburgh, but a
chief of the family settled in Sweden, and the name carried lustre
with it into more than one country. In the army, the cabinet, and the
church, the Königsmarks had representatives of whom they might be
proud; and generals, statesmen, and prince-bishops, all labouring with
glory in their respective departments, sustained the high reputation of
this once celebrated name. From the period, early in the seventeenth
century, that the first Königsmark (Count John Christopher) withdrew
from the imperial service and joined that of Sweden, the men of that
house devoted themselves, almost exclusively, to the profession of
arms. This Count John is famous as the subduer of Prague, in 1648, at
the end of the Thirty Years’ War. Of all the costly booty which he
carried with him from that city, none has continued to be so well cared
for by the Swedes as the silver book containing the Mœso-Gothic Gospels
of Bishop Ulphilas, still preserved with pride at learned Upsal.
John Christopher was the father of two sons. Otho William, a marshal
of France, a valued friend of Charles XII., and a gallant servant
of the state of Venice, whose government honoured his tomb with an
inscription, _Semper Victori_, was the younger. He was pious as well
as brave, and he enriched German literature with a collection of
very fervid and spiritual hymns. The elder son, Conrad Christopher,
was killed in the year 1673, when fighting on the Dutch and imperial
side, at the siege of Bonn. He left four children, three of whom
became famous. His sons were Charles John, and Philip Christopher. His
daughters were Maria Aurora (mother of the famous Maurice of Saxony)
and Amelia Wilhelmina. The latter was fortunate enough to achieve
happiness without being celebrated. If she has not been talked of
beyond her own Swedish fireside, she passed there a life of as calm
felicity as she and her husband, Charles von Loewenhaupt, could enjoy
when they had relations so celebrated, and so troublesome, as Counts
Charles John and Philip Christopher, and the Countess Maria Aurora,
the ‘favourite’ of Augustus of Poland, and the only royal concubine,
perhaps, who almost deserved as much respect as though she had won
greatness by a legitimate process.
It was this Philip Christopher who was for a brief season the
playfellow or companion of Sophia Dorothea, in the young days of both,
in the quiet gardens and galleries of Zell. It is only told of him
that, after his departure from Zell, he sojourned with various members
of his family, travelled with them, and returned at intervals to reside
with his mother, Maria Christina, of the German family of Wrangel, who
unhappily survived long enough to be acquainted with the crimes as well
as misfortunes of three of her children.
In the year 1682, Philip Christopher was in England. The elder
brother, who had more than once been a visitor to this country, and a
welcome, because a witty, one at the Court of Charles II., had brought
his younger brother hither, in order (so it was said) to have him
instructed more completely in the tenets of the Protestant religion,
and ultimately to place him at Oxford. In the meantime Charles John
lodged Philip with a ‘governor,’ at the riding academy, near the
Haymarket, of that Major Foubert, whose second establishment (where he
taught ‘noble horsemanship’) is still commemorated by the passage out
of Regent Street, which bears the name of the French Protestant refugee
and professor of equestrianism.
The elder brother of these two Königsmarks was a superb scoundrel. He
had led a roving and adventurous life, and was in England when not more
that fifteen years of age, in the year 1674. During the next half-dozen
years he had rendered the ladies of the Court of France ecstatic at
his impudence, and had won golden opinions from the ‘marine knights’
of Malta, whom he had accompanied on a ‘caravane,’ or cruise, against
the Turks, wherein he took hard blows cheerfully, and had well-nigh
been drowned by his impetuous gallantry. At some of the courts of
southern Europe he appeared with an éclat which made the men hate and
envy him; but nowhere did he produce more effect than at Madrid, where
he appeared at the period of the festivities held to celebrate the
marriage of Charles II. with Maria Louisa of Orleans. The marriage of
the last-named august pair was followed by the fiercest and the finest
bull-fights which had ever been witnessed in Spain. At one of these
Charles John made himself the champion of a lady, fought in her honour
in the arena, with the wildest bull of the company, and got dreadfully
mauled for his pains. His horse was slain, and he himself, staggering
and faint, and blind with loss of blood, and with deep wounds, had
finally only strength enough left to pass his sword into the neck of
the other brute, his antagonist, and to be carried half-dead and quite
senseless out of the arena, amid the approbation of the gentle ladies,
who purred applause upon the unconscious hero, like satisfied tigresses.
In 1681, at the age of twenty-two, master of all manly vices, and ready
for any adventure, he was once more in England, where he seized the
opportunity afforded him by the times and their events, and hastened
to join the expedition against Tangier. On the conclusion of the warm
affair at Tangier, he went as an amateur against the Algerines, and
without commission inflicted on them and their ‘uncle’ (as the word
_dey_ implies) as much injury as though he had been chartered general
at the head of a destroying host. When he returned to England, he was
received with enthusiasm. His handsome face, his long flaxen hair, his
stupendous periwig for state occasions, and his ineffable impudence,
made him the delight of the impudent people of those impudent times.
Now, of all those people, the supercilious Charles John cared but for
one, and she, there is reason to believe, knew little and cared less
for this presuming scion of the House of Königsmark.
Joscelyn, eleventh Earl of Northumberland, who died in the year
1670--the last of the male line of his house--left an only daughter,
four years of age, named Elizabeth. Her father’s death made her the
possessor--awaiting her majority--of vast wealth, to which increase was
made by succession to other inheritances. Her widowed mother married
Ralph Montague, English ambassador in Paris. When the widow of Joscelyn
espoused Montague, her daughter Elizabeth went to reside with the
mother of Joscelyn, Dowager Countess of Northumberland, and co-heiress
to the Suffolk estate, destined to be added to the possessions of the
little Elizabeth. She was an intriguing, indelicate, self-willed, and
worthless old woman; and with respect to the poor little girl of whom
she was the unworthy guardian, she made her the subject of constant
intrigues with men of power who wished for wealth, and with rich men
who wished for rank and power. Before the unhappy little heiress had
attained the age of thirteen, her grandmother had bound her in marriage
with Henry Cavendish, Earl Ogle. Though the ceremony was performed, the
parties did not, of course, reside together. The dowager countess and
the earl were satisfied that the fortune of the heiress was secured,
and they were further content to wait for what might follow.
That which followed was what they least expected--death; the bridegroom
died within a year of his union with Elizabeth Percy; and this child,
wife, and widow was again at the disposal of her wretched grandmother.
The heiress of countless thousands was anything but the mistress of
herself.
At this period the proprietor of the house and domain of Longleat, in
Wiltshire, was that Thomas Thynne, whom Dryden has celebrated as the
Issachar of his ‘Absalom and Achitophel.’ He was the friend of the
Duke of Monmouth, was spoken of as ‘Tom of Ten Thousand,’ and was a
very unworthy fellow, although the member of a worthy house. Tom’s
Ten Thousand virtues were of that metal which the Dowager Countess of
Northumberland most approved; and her grand-daughter had not been many
months the widow of Lord Ogle, when her precious guardian united her
by private marriage to Thynne. The newly-married couple were at once
separated. The marriage was the result of an infamous intrigue between
infamous people, some of whom, subsequently to Thynne’s death, sued
his executors for money which he had bound himself to pay for services
rendered to further the marriage.
When Charles John Königsmark returned to England, in January 1682, all
England was talking of the match wherein a poor child had been sold,
although the purchaser had not yet possession of either his victim or
her fortune. The common talk must have had deep influence on the count,
who appears to have been impressed with the idea that if Thynne were
dead, Count Charles John Königsmark might succeed to his place and
expectations.
On the evening of Sunday, the 12th of February 1682, Thynne was in
his coach, from which the Duke of Monmouth had only just previously
alighted, and was riding along that part of Pall-Mall which abuts
upon Cockspur Street, when the carriage was stopped by three men on
horseback, one of whom discharged a carbine into it, whereby Tom of Ten
Thousand was so desperately wounded that he died in a few hours.
The persons charged with this murder were chiefly discovered by means
of individuals of ill repute with whom they associated. By such means
were arrested a German, Captain Vratz, Borosky a Pole, and a fellow,
half knave, half enthusiast, described as Lieutenant Stern. Vratz had
accompanied Königsmark to England. They lodged together, first in the
Haymarket, next in Rupert Street, and finally in St. Martin’s Lane.
Borosky had been clothed and armed at the count’s expense; and Stern
was employed as a likely tool to help them in this enterprise. It was
proved on the trial, that, after the deed was committed, these men
were at the count’s lodgings, that a sudden separation took place,
and that the count himself, upon some sudden fear, took flight to
the water-side; there he lay hid for a while, and then dodged about
the river, in various disguises, in order to elude pursuit, until he
finally landed at Gravesend, where he was pounced upon by two expert
thief-catchers.
The confession of the accomplices, save Vratz, did not affect the
count. _His_ defence took a high Protestant turn--made allusion to
his Protestant ancestors and their deeds in behalf of Protestantism,
lauded Protestant England, alluded to his younger brother, brought
expressly here to be educated in Protestant principles, and altogether
was exceedingly clever, but in no wise convincing. It was known that
the King would learn with pleasure that the count had been acquitted.
As this knowledge was possessed by judges who were removable at the
King’s pleasure, it had a strong influence; and the arch-murderer, the
most cowardly of the infamous company, was acquitted accordingly. In
his case, the verdict, as regarded him, was given in, last. The other
three persons were indicted for the actual commission of the fact,
Königsmark as accessory before the fact, hiring them, and instigating
them to the crime. Thrice he had heard the word ‘Guilty’ pronounced,
and, despite his recklessness, was somewhat moved when the jury were
asked as to their verdict respecting _him_. ‘Not Guilty,’ murmured
the foreman; and then the noble count, mindful only of himself, and
forgetful of the three unhappy men whom he had dragged to death,
exclaimed in his unmanly joy, ‘God bless the King, and this honourable
bench!’ The meaner assassins were flung to the gallows. Vratz went to
his fate, like Pierre; declared that the murder was the result of a
mistake, that he had no hand in it, and that as he was a gentleman, God
would assuredly deal with him _as_ such! This ‘gentleman’ accounted
for his presence at the murder as having arisen by his entertaining a
quarrel with Mr. Thynne, whom he was about to challenge, when the Pole,
mistaking his orders and inclinations, discharged his carbine into the
carriage, and slew the occupant. The other two confessed to the murder,
as the hired instruments of Vratz. Count Charles John repaired to the
Court of France, where he was received in that sort of gentlemanly
fashion which Vratz looked for in Paradise. His sword gleamed in many
an action fought in various battle-fields of Europe during the next
few years, at the head of a French regiment, of which he was colonel.
Finally, in 1686, he was in the service of the Venetians in the Morea.
On the 29th of August he was before Argos, when a sortie was made by
the garrison, and in the bloody struggle which ensued he was mortally
wounded. For Thynne’s monument in Westminster Abbey a Latin inscription
was prepared, which more than merely hinted that Königsmark was the
murderer of Tom of Ten Thousand. ‘Small, servile, Spratt,’ then Dean
of Westminster, would not allow the inscription to be set up; and his
apologists, who advance in his behalf that he would have done wrong had
he allowed a man, cleared by a jury from the charge of murder, to be
permanently set down in hard record of marble as an assassin, have much
reason in what they advance.
The youthful maid, wife, and widow, Lady Ogle, remained at Amsterdam
(whither she had gone, some persons said _fled_), after her marriage
with Thynne, until the three of his murderers, who had been executed,
had expiated their crime, as far as human justice was concerned, upon
the scaffold. She then returned to England; but the young lady did not
‘appear public,’ as the phrase went, for six or seven weeks, and when
she did so, it was found that she had just married Charles Seymour,
third Duke of Somerset--a match which made one of two silly persons and
a couple of colossal fortunes.
This red-haired lady died in the fifty-sixth year of her age, A.D.
1722; and the duke, then sixty-four, found speedy consolation for his
loss in a marriage with the youthful Lady Charlotte Finch, who was at
once his wife, nurse, and secretary. It is said of her, that she one
day, in the course of conversation, tapped her husband familiarly on
the shoulder with her fan; whereupon that amiable gentleman indignantly
cried out: ‘Madam, my first wife was a Percy, and she never took such a
liberty!’
Königsmark, whose fate was so bound up with that of Sophia Dorothea,
left England with his brother, and like his brother, he led an
adventurous and roving life, never betraying any symptom of the
Christian spirit of the religion of the Church of England, of which
he first tasted what little could be found in Major Foubert’s
riding-school. A portion of his time was spent at Hamburg with his
mother and two sisters. His renown was sufficient for a cavalier who
loved to live splendidly; and when he appeared at the Court of Hanover,
in search of military employment, he was welcomed as cavaliers are
who are so comfortably endowed. In 1688 we first hear of him in the
electoral capital, bearing arms under the Elector and a guest at the
table of George Louis and Sophia Dorothea. This was a year after the
birth of the second and last child of that ill-matched couple.
CHAPTER VII.
KÖNIGSMARK AT COURT.
Various accomplishments of Count Philip Christopher Königsmark--The
early companion of Sophia Dorothea--Her friendship for him--An
interesting interview--Intrigues of Madame von Platen--Foiled in
her machinations--A dramatic incident--The unlucky glove--Scandal
against the honour of the princess--A mistress enraged on
discovery of her using rouge--Indiscretion of the princess--Her
visit to Zell--The Elector’s criminal intimacy with Madame von
der Schulenburg--William the Norman’s brutality to his wife--The
elder Aymon--Brutality of the Austrian Empress to ‘Madame
Royale’--Return of Sophia, and reception by her husband.
The estimation in which Count Philip Christopher von Königsmark was
held at the Court of Hanover was soon manifested, by his elevation to
the post of Colonel of the Guards. He was the handsomest colonel in
the small electoral army, and passed for the richest. His household,
when thoroughly established, in 1690, consisted of nine-and-twenty
servants; and about half a hundred horses and mules were stalled in
his stables. His way of life was warrant for the opinion entertained
of his wealth, but more flimsy warrant could hardly have existed, for
the depth of a purse is not to be discovered by the manner of life of
him who owns it. He continued withal to enchant every one with whom he
came in contact. The spendthrifts reverenced him, for he was royally
extravagant; the few people of taste spoke of him encouragingly, for
at an era when little taste was shown, he exhibited much both in his
dress and his equipages. These were splendid without being gaudy. The
scholars even could speak with and of him without a sneer expressed or
reserved, for Philip Christopher was intellectually endowed, had read
more than most of the mere cavaliers of his day, and had a good memory,
with an understanding whose digestive powers a philosopher might have
envied. He spelt, however, and he wrote little better than his grooms.
He was not less welcome to the soldier than the scholar, for he had had
experience in ‘the tented field,’ and had earned in the ‘imminently
deadly breach’ much reputation, without having been himself, in the
slightest degree, ‘illustriously maimed.’ Königsmark was as daring in
speech as in arms. It is said of him that when George Louis in crowded
court once asked him why he had quitted the Saxon service, Königsmark
replied, ‘It moved me to anger to see a prince poison the life and
happiness of his lovable young wife, by his connection with an impudent
and worthless mistress!’ The whole audience gaped with astonishment,
and the speech was reported in many a ball-room. But ball-rooms also
re-echoed with the ringing eulogiums of his gracefulness, and his witty
sayings are reported as having been in general circulation; but they
have not been strong enough to travel by the rough paths of time down
to these later days. He is praised, too, as having been satirical,
without any samples of his satire having been offered for our opinion.
He was daringly irreligious, for which free-thinkers applauded him as
a man of liberal sentiments, believing little, and fearing less. He
was pre-eminently gay, which, in modern and honest English, means that
he was terribly licentious; and such was the temper of the times, that
probably he was as popular for this characteristic as for all the other
qualities by which he was distinguished, put together.
There was nothing remarkable in the fact that he speedily attracted
the notice of Sophia Dorothea. She may, without fault, have remembered
with pleasure the companion of her romping youth; and have ‘wished him
well and no harm done,’ as Pierre says. He was not a mere stranger;
and the two met, just as the husband of Sophia Dorothea had publicly
insulted her by ostentatiously parading his attachment and his bad
taste for women, no more to be compared with her in worth and virtue
than Lais with Lucretia. Up to this time, the only confidantes of her
secret sorrows were her mother and her faithful von Knesebeck. She had
repulsed the affected sympathy of the Countess von Platen; and had
concealed her feelings, when her jealousy was stirred by allusions
to the countess’s sister and to Ermengarda von der Schulenburg. The
Countess von Platen, mature of age, cast admiring eyes on Königsmark.
It is asserted, that the count had scarcely been made Colonel of the
Guards when the Countess von Platen fixed upon him as one of the
instruments by which she would ruin Sophia Dorothea, and relieve George
Louis of a wife whose virtues were a continual reproach to him.
The princess had been taking some exercise in the gardens of the
palace, returning from which she met her little son, George Augustus,
whom she took from his attendant, and with him in her arms began to
ascend the stairs which led to her apartments. Her good will was
greater than her strength, and Count Königsmark happened to see
her at the moment when she was exhibiting symptoms of weakness and
irresolution, embarrassed by her burthen, and not knowing how to
proceed with it. The count at once, with ready gallantry, not merely
proffered, but gave his aid. He took the young prince from his mother,
ascended the stairs, holding the future King of England in his arms,
and at the door of the apartment of Sophia Dorothea again consigned him
to maternal keeping. They tarried for a few brief moments at the door,
exchanging a few conventional terms of thanks and civility, when they
were seen by the ubiquitous von Platen, and out of this simple fact she
is supposed to have gradually worked the subsequent terrible calamity
which may be said to have slain both victims, for Sophia Dorothea was
only for years slowly accomplishing death, which fell upon the cavalier
so surely and so swiftly.
This incident was reported to Ernest Augustus (Mon Sieur, as the
countess used to call him) with much exaggeration of detail, and
liberal suggestion not warranted by the facts. The conduct of the
princess was mildly censured as indiscretion, that of the count as
disloyal impertinence; and, thereto, a mountain of comment seems to
have been added, and a misty world of hints, which annoyed the duke
without convincing him.
Foiled in her first attempt to ruin Sophia Dorothea, von Platen
addressed herself to the task of cementing strict friendship with the
count; and he, a gallant cavalier, was nothing loth, nought suspecting.
Of the terms of this friendly alliance little is known. They were only
to be judged of by the conduct of the parties whom that alliance bound.
A perfect understanding appeared to have been established between them;
and the Countess von Platen was often heard to rally the count upon
the love-passages in his life, and even upon his alleged admiration of
Sophia Dorothea. What was said jokingly, or was intended to seem as if
said jokingly, was soon accepted by casual hearers as a sober, and a
sad as sober, truth. The countess referred often to his visits paid to
Sophia Dorothea as ‘rendezvous’; but at these, Fräulein von Knesebeck
was (as she subsequently affirmed) present from first to last; and two
other ladies-in-waiting, pages, women, and George Louis’ own servant,
Soliman (a Turk), had free and frequent ingress and egress.
This first step having been made, no time was lost in pursuing the
object for which it had been accomplished. At one of those splendid
masquerades, in which Ernest Augustus especially delighted, Königsmark
distinguished himself above all the other guests by the variety, as
well as richness, of his costume, and by the sparkling talent with
which he supported each assumed character. He excited a universal
admiration, and--so it was said by the Countess von Platen--in none
more than in Sophia Dorothea. This may have been true, and the poor
princess may possibly have found some oblivion for her domestic trials
in allowing herself to be amused with the exercise of the count’s
dramatic talent. She honestly complimented him on his ability, and on
the advantages which the fête derived from his presence, his talent,
and his good-nature. Out of this compliment the countess forged another
link of the chain whereby she intended to bind the princess to a ruin
from which she should not escape. At this time the countess is said
to have hated the handsome Königsmark as much as she had previously
admired him. He had met her liberal advances with disregard, or had
disregarded her after reciprocating them. In either case, the offence
was deadly.
The next incident told is more dramatic of character, perhaps, than
any of the others. The countess had engaged the count in conversation
in a pavilion of the gardens in the Electoral Palace, when, making
the approach of two gentlemen an excuse for retiring, they withdrew
together. The gentlemen alluded to were George Louis and the Count von
Platen; and these entering the pavilion which had just been vacated,
the former picked up a glove which had been dropped by the countess.
The prince recognised it by the embroidery, and perhaps by a crest,
or some mark impressed upon it, as being a glove belonging to his
consort. He was musingly examining it, when a servant entered the
place, professedly in search of a glove which the princess had lost. On
some explanation ensuing, it was subsequently discovered that Madame
von Weyhe, the sister of the Countess von Platen, had succeeded in
persuading Prince Maximilian to procure for her this glove, on pretext
that she wished to copy the pattern of the embroidery upon it, and
that the prince had thoughtlessly done so, leaving the glove of Madame
von Weyhe in its place. But this, which might have accounted for its
appearance in the pavilion, was not known to George Louis, who would
probably in such case have ceased to think more of the matter, but that
he was obligingly informed that Count Königsmark had been before him in
the pavilion where the glove was found; been there, indeed, with the
excellent Countess von Platen, who acknowledged the fact, adding, that
no glove was on the ground when she was there, and that the one found
could not have been hers, inasmuch as she never wore Netherland gloves
--as the one in question was--but gloves altogether of different make
and quality. Königsmark had been there, and the glove of the Princess
Sophia Dorothea had been found there, and this German specimen of _Mrs.
Candour_ knew nothing beyond.
Thenceforth, George Louis was not merely rude and faithless to his
wife, but cruel in the extreme--the degrading blow, so it was alleged,
following the harsh word. The Elector of Hanover was more just than his
rash and worthless son: he disbelieved the insinuations made against
his daughter-in-law. The Electress was less reasonable, less merciful,
less just, to her son’s wife. She treated her with a coolness which
interpreted a belief in the slander uttered against her; and when
Sophia Dorothea expressed a wish to visit her mother, the electoral
permission was given with an alacrity which testified to the pleasure
with which the Electress of Hanover would witness the departure of
Sophia Dorothea from her court.
Sophia Dorothea, as soon as she descended at the gates of her father’s
residence, found a mother there, indeed, ready to receive her with
the arms of a mother’s love, and to feel that the love was showered
upon a daughter worthy of it. Not of like quality were the old duke’s
feelings. Communications had been made to him from Hanover, to the
effect that his daughter was obstinate, disobedient, disrespectful to
the Elector and Electress, neglectful of her children, and faithless
in heart, if not in fact, to their father. The Duke of Zell had been,
as he thought, slow to believe the charges brought against his child’s
good name, and had applied to the Elector for some further explanation.
But poor Ernest Augustus was just then perplexed by another domestic
quarrel. His son, the ever troublesome Prince Maximilian, having long
entertained a suspicion that the Countess von Platen’s denial of the
light offence laid to her charge, of wearing _rouge_, was also a
playful denial, mischievously proved the fact one day, by not very
gallantly ‘flicking’ from his finger a little water in which peas had
been boiled, and which was then a popularly mischievous test to try the
presence of _rouge_, as, if the latter were there, the pea-water left
an indelible _fleck_ or stain upon it. At this indignity, the Countess
von Platen was the more enraged as her denial had been disproved.
She rushed to the feet of the Elector, and told her complaint with
an energy as if the whole state were in peril. The Elector listened,
threatened Prince Maximilian with arrest, and wished his family were as
easy to govern as his electoral dominions. He had scarcely relieved
himself of this particular source of trouble, by binding Prince
Maximilian to his good behaviour, when he was applied to by the Duke of
Zell on the subject of his daughter. He angrily referred the duke to
three of his ministers, who, he said, were acquainted with the facts.
Now these ministers were the men who had expressly distorted them.
These worthy persons, if report may be trusted, performed their wicked
office with as wicked an alacrity. However the result was reached, its
existence cannot be denied, and its consequences were fatal to Sophia
Dorothea. The Electress Sophia is said to have at last so thoroughly
hated her daughter-in-law, as to have entered partly into these
misrepresentations, which acquired for her the temporary wrath of her
father. But of this enmity of her mother-in-law the younger Sophia
does not appear to have suspected anything. Sophia Dorothea, at all
events, bore her father’s temporary aversion with a wondering patience,
satisfied that ‘time and the hour’ would at length do her justice.
The duke’s prejudice, however, was rather stubborn of character,
and he was guilty of many absurdities to show, as he thought, that
his obstinacy of ill-merited feeling against his own child was not
ill-founded. He refused to listen to her own statement of her wrongs,
in order to show how he guarded himself against being unduly biassed.
The mother of the princess remained her firmest friend and truest
champion. If misrepresentations had shaken her confidence for a moment,
it was _only_ for a moment. She knew the disposition of Sophia Dorothea
too well to lend credit to false representations which depicted her
as a wife, compared with whom Petruchio’s Katherine would have been
the gentlest of Griseldas. As little did she believe--and to the
expression of her disbelief she gave much indignant force of phrase--as
little did she believe in the suggestions of the ministers of the
Elector that the familiar terms which, as they alleged, existed between
the Electoral Princess and Count Königsmark were such as did wrong to
her husband George Louis. Those judges of morality had jumped to the
conclusion that youth and good looks were incompatible with propriety
of conduct.
The worst that could have been alleged against Sophia Dorothea
at this period was, that some letters had passed between her and
Count Königsmark, and that the latter had once or twice had private
audience of the Electoral Princess. Whatever may be thought of such
things here in England, and in the present age, they have never been
accounted of in Germany but as common-place circumstances, involving
neither blame nor injury. A correspondence between two persons of the
respective ranks of the Electoral Princess and the count was not an
uncommon occurrence; save that it was not often that two such persons
had either the taste or capacity to maintain such intercourse. As to
an occasional interview, such a favour, granted by ladies of rank to
clever conversational men, was as common an event as any throughout
the empire; and as harmless as the interviews of Leonora and that very
selfish personage, the poet Tasso. The simple fact appears to have
been that, out of a very small imprudence--if imprudence it may be
called--the enemies of Sophia Dorothea contrived to rear a structure
which should threaten her with ruin. Her exemplary husband, who
affected to hold himself wronged by the alleged course adopted by his
consort, had abandoned her, in the worst sense of that word. He had
never, in absence, made her hours glad by letters, whose every word
is dew to a soul athirst for assurances of even simple esteem. In his
own household his conversation was seldom or never addressed to his
wife; and, when it was, never to enlighten, raise, or cheer her. She
_may_ have conversed and corresponded with Königsmark, but no society
_then_ construed such conversation and correspondence as crimes; and
even had they approached in this case to a limit which would have
merited censure, the last man who should have stooped to pick up a
stone to cast at the reputation of his consort was that George Louis,
whose affected indignation was expressed from a couch with Mademoiselle
von der Schulenburg at his side, and their very old-fashioned (as to
look, but not less illegitimate as to fact) baby, playing, in much
unconsciousness of her future distinction, between them.
It was because Sophia Dorothea had not been altogether tamely silent
touching her own wrongs, that she had found enemies trumpet-tongued
publishing a forged record of her transgressions. When Count von Moltke
had become implicated in the little domestic rebellion of Prince
Maximilian, some intimation was conveyed to him that, if he would
contrive, in his defence, to mingle the name of Sophia Dorothea in the
details of the trumpery conspiracy, so as to attach suspicion to such
name, his own acquittal would be secured. The count was a gallant man,
refused to injure an unoffending lady, and was beheaded; as though he
had conspired to overthrow a state, instead of having tried to help a
discontented heir in the disputed settlement of some family accounts.
The contempt of Sophia Dorothea, on discovering to what lengths the
intimacy of George Louis and Ermengarda von der Schulenburg had gone,
found bitter and eloquent expression. Where an angry contest was to be
maintained, George Louis could be eloquent too; and in these domestic
quarrels, not only is he said to have been as coarse as any of his own
grooms, but, at least on one occasion, to have proceeded to blows. His
hand was on her throat, and the wife and mother of a King of England
would have been strangled by her exasperated lord, had it not been for
the intervention of the courtiers, who rushed in, and, presumedly,
prevented murder. To such a story wide currency was given; and, if not
exact to the letter, neither can it be said to be without foundation.
The circumstances which led Sophia Dorothea to formally complain of
the treatment she experienced at her husband’s hands were these. One
evening, after being one of a group in the open air, witnessing an
eclipse of the moon, and listening to Leibnitz’s explanations, Sophia
Dorothea (attended by Fräulein Knesebeck and Madame Sassdorf) returned
towards the castle. The ladies missed their way in the dark, but they
found themselves at last at the door of a newly-erected building, which
Sophia Dorothea entered, despite Frau Sassdorf’s entreaties to the
contrary. She equally disregarded the same lady’s urgent entreaties not
to enter a room at the end of the ante-chamber where the ladies were
standing together. Sophia Dorothea opened the door of the room, and
there beheld Mademoiselle von der Schulenburg on a couch; one hand in
that of George Louis, who with the other was rocking a sleeping baby
(the future Countess of Chesterfield) in a cradle.
After the scene of unseemly violence which followed, and after Sophia
Dorothea’s recovery from a consequent illness, she made her indignant
complaint to her husband’s parents. ‘Old Sophia’ censured her son, and
found fault with Sophia Dorothea’s rashness. Ernest Augustus intimated
that all princes had their little weaknesses, and that it was her duty
to condone her husband’s.
This treatment drove Sophia Dorothea to Zell; but the wrath of her
husband and the intrigues of von Platen made of that residence anything
but a refuge. The duke refused to give permission to his daughter to
remain longer in his palace than was consistent with the limit of an
ordinary visit. She petitioned most urgently, and her mother seconded
her prayer with energy as warm, that for the present she might make of
Zell a temporary home. Her angry father would not listen to the request
of either petitioner; on the contrary, he intimated to his daughter,
that if she did not return to Hanover by a stated period, she would
be permanently separated from her children. On the expression of this
threat, she ceased to press for leave to remain longer absent from
Hanover; and when the day named for her departure arrived, she set out
once more for the scene of her old miseries, anticipation of misery yet
greater in her heart, and with nothing to strengthen her but a mother’s
love, and to guide her but a mother’s counsel. Neither was able to save
her from the ruin under which she was so soon overwhelmed.
Her return had been duly announced to the Court of Hanover, and so much
show of outward respect was vouchsafed her as consisted in a portion of
the Electoral family repairing to the country residence of Herrnhausen
to meet her on her way, and accompany her to the capital. Of this
attention, however, she was unaware, or was scornfully unappreciative,
and she passed Herrnhausen at as much speed as could then be shown by
Electoral post-horses. It is said that her first intention was to have
stopped at the country mansion, where the Electoral party was waiting
to do her honour; that she was aware of the latter fact, but that she
hurried on her way for the reason that she saw the Countess von Platen
seated at one of the windows looking on to the road, and that, rather
than encounter _her_, she offended nearly a whole family, who were more
nice touching matters of etiquette than they were touching matters of
morality. The members of this family, in waiting to receive a young
lady, against whom they considered that they were not without grounds
of complaint, were lost in a sense of horror which was farcical, and of
indignation at violated proprieties which must have been as comical to
look at as it no doubt was intense. The farcical nature of the scene is
to be found in the fact, that these good people, by piling their agony
beyond measure, made it ridiculous. There was no warrant for their
horror, no cause for their indignation; and when they all returned to
Hanover, following on the track of a young princess, whose contempt
of ceremony tended to give them strange suspicions as to whether she
possessed any remnant of virtue at all, these very serene princes and
princesses were as supremely ridiculous as any of the smaller people
worshipping ceremony in that never-to-be-forgotten city of Kotzebue’s
painting, called Krähwinkel.
When Sophia Dorothea passed by Herrnhausen, regardless of the company
who awaited her there, she left the persons of a complicated drama
standing in utter amazement on one of the prettiest of theatres.
Herrnhausen was a name given to trim gardens, as well as to the edifice
surrounded by them. At the period of which we are treating the grounds
were a scene of delight; the fountains tasteful, the basins large,
and the water abundant. The maze, or wilderness, was the wonder of
Germany, and the orangery the pride of Europe. There was also, what
may still be seen in some of the pleasure-grounds of German princes,
a perfectly rustic theatre, complete in itself, with but little help
from any hand but that of nature. The seats were cut out of the turf,
the verdure resembled green velvet, and the chances of rheumatism must
have been many. There was no roof but the sky, and the dressing-rooms
of the actors were lofty bowers constructed near the stage; the whole
was adorned with a profusion of gilded statues, and kept continually
damp by an incessant play of spray-scattering water-works. The
_grand tableau_ of rage in this locality, as Sophia Dorothea passed
unheedingly by, must have been a spectacle worth the contemplating.
Perhaps she had passed the more scornfully as George Louis was there,
who, of all men, must at this time have been to her the most hateful.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CATASTROPHE.
The scheming mother foiled--Count Königsmark too garrulous
in his cups--An eaves-dropper--A forged note--A mistress’s
revenge--Murder of the count--The Countess Aurora Königsmark’s
account of her brother’s intimacy with the princess--Horror of
the princess on hearing of the count’s death--Seizure and escape
of Mademoiselle von Knesebeck--A divorce mooted--The princess’s
declaration of her innocence--Decision of the consistorial
court--The sages of the law foiled by the princess--Condemned
to captivity in the castle of Ahlden--Decision procured by
bribery--Bribery universal in England--The Countess Aurora
Königsmark becomes the mistress of Augustus, King of Poland--Her
unsuccessful mission to Charles XII.--Exemplary conduct in her
latter years--Becomes prioress of the nunnery of Quedlinburg.
With the return of Sophia Dorothea to Hanover, her enemies appear to
have commenced more actively their operations against her. George Louis
was languidly amusing himself with Ermengarda von der Schulenburg and
their little daughter Petronilla Melusina. The Countess von Platen
was in a state of irritability at the presence of Sophia Dorothea
and the absence of Königsmark. The last-mentioned person had, in his
wide-spread adoration, offered a portion of his homage to both the
countess and her daughter. The elder lady, while accepting as much of
the incense for herself as was safe to inhale, endeavoured to secure
the count as a husband for her daughter. Her failure only increased her
bitterness against the count, and by no means lent less asperity to the
sentiment with which she viewed Sophia Dorothea. She was, no doubt,
the chief cause, primarily and approximate, of the ruin which fell upon
both.
It was not merely the absence of Königsmark, who was on a visit to
the riotous court of Augustus of Saxony, which had scared her spirit;
the reports which were made to her of his conversation there gave
fierceness to her resentment, and called into existence that desire
of vengeance which she accomplished, but without profiting by the
wickedness.
There was no more welcome guest at Dresden than Königsmark. An
individual, so gallant of bearing, handsome of feature, easy of
principle, and lively of speech, was sure to be warmly welcomed at that
dissolute court. He played deeply, and whatever sums he might lose, he
never lost his temper. He drank as deeply as he played, and he then
became as loquacious as Cassio, but more given to slander. He spoke ill
of others out of mere thoughtlessness, or at times out of mere vanity.
He possessed not what Swift calls the ‘lower prudence’ of discretion.
His vanity, and the stories to which it prompted him, seemed to amuse
and interest the idle and scandalous court where he was so welcome a
guest.
He kept the illustriously wicked company there in an uninterrupted
ecstacy by the tales he told, and the point he gave to them, of the
chief personages of the Court of Hanover. He retailed anecdotes of the
Elector and his son, George Louis, and warmly-tinted stories of the
shameless mistresses of that exemplary parent, and no less exemplary
child. He did not spare even the Electress Sophia; but she was, after
all, too respectable for Königsmark to be able to make of her a subject
of ridicule. This subject he found in ladies of smaller virtue and less
merit generally. But every word he uttered, in sarcastic description of
the life, character, and behaviour of the favourites of the Elector of
Hanover and his son, found its way, with no loss of pungency on the
road, to the ears of those persons whom the report was most likely to
offend. His warm advocacy of Sophia Dorothea, expressed at the table of
Augustus of Saxony, was only an additional offence; and George Louis
was taught to think that Count Königsmark had no right to ask, with
Pierre, ‘May not a man wish his friend’s wife well, and no harm done?’
The count returned to Hanover soon after Sophia Dorothea had arrived
there, subsequent to her painful visit to the little court of her
ducal parents at Zell. Königsmark, who had entered the Saxon service,
returned to Hanover to complete the form of withdrawal from service
in the Hanoverian army. It is alleged that Sophia Dorothea, otherwise
friendless, entreated him to procure her an asylum, or to protect
her in her flight to the court of her kinsman, Duke Anton Ulrich, at
Wolfenbüttel. The duke is reported to have been willing to receive
her. Other reports state that the princess was more than willing to
fly with Königsmark to Paris! Out of all such rumours there is this
certainty, that on Sunday, the 1st of July 1694 (George Louis being
then in Berlin), Königsmark found a letter in pencil on a table in the
sitting-room of his house in Hanover. It was to this effect: ‘To-night,
after ten o’clock, the Princess Sophia Dorothea will expect Count
Königsmark.’ He recognised the hand of the princess. All that afternoon
he was busy writing. His secretary and servants thought his manner
strange. He went out soon after ten, unattended. He was in a light,
simple, summer-dress. He went on his way to the palace, crossed the
threshold, and never was seen outside it again.
The note was a forged document, confessedly by the Countess von Platen,
when confession came too late for the repair of evil which could not be
undone. Nevertheless, the count, on presenting himself to Mademoiselle
Knesebeck, the lady of honour to the princess, was admitted to the
presence of the latter. This indiscreet step was productive of
terrible consequences to all the three who were present. The count,
on being asked to explain the reason of his seeking an interview
with the princess at an advanced hour of the evening, produced the
note of invitation, which Sophia Dorothea at once pronounced to be a
forgery. Had they then separated little of ill consequence might have
followed. The most discreet of the three, and the most perplexed at the
‘situation,’ was the lady of honour. The ‘Memoirs’ which bear her name,
and which describe this scene, present to us a woman of some weakness,
yet one not wanting in discernment.
Sophia Dorothea, it would seem, could dwell upon no subject but that of
her domestic troubles, the cruel neglect of her husband, and her desire
to find somewhere the refuge from persecution which had been denied
to her in her old home at Zell. More dangerous topics could not have
been treated by two such persons. The count, it is affirmed, was the
first to suggest that Paris would afford her such a refuge, and that
he should be but too happy to be permitted to give her such protection
as she could derive from his escort thither. This was probably rather
hinted than suggested; but however that may be, only one course should
have followed even a distant hint leading to so unwarrantable an
end. The interview should have been brought to a close. It was still
continued, nevertheless, to the annoyance, if not scandal, of the
faithful Knesebeck, whose fears may have received some little solace on
hearing her mistress reiterate her desire to find at least a temporary
home at the court of her cousin, Duke Anton Ulrich of Wolfenbüttel.
While this discussion was proceeding, the Countess von Platen was
by no means idle. She had watched the count to the bower into which
she had sent him by the employment of a false lure, and she thereupon
hastened to the Elector to communicate what she termed her discovery.
Ernest Augustus, albeit waxing old, was by no means infirm of judgment.
If Königsmark was then in the chamber of his daughter-in-law, he
refused to see in the fact anything more serious than its own
impropriety. _That_, however, was crime enough to warrant the arrest
which the countess solicited. The old Elector yielded to all she asked,
except credence of her assurance that Sophia Dorothea must be as guilty
as Königsmark was presuming. He would consent to nothing further than
the arrest of him who was guilty of the presumption; and the method
of this arrest he left to the conduct of the countess, who urgently
solicited it as a favour, and with solicitation of such earnestness
that the old Elector affected to be jealous of the interest she took in
such a case, and added playfully the expression of his opinion, that,
angry as she seemed to be with the count, he was too handsome a man to
be likely to meet with ill-treatment at her hands.
Armed with this permission, she proceeded to the body of soldiers
or watch for the night, and exhibiting her written warrant for what
she demanded, requested that a guard might be given to her, for a
purpose which she would explain to them. Some four or five men of this
household body were told off, and these were conducted by her to a
large apartment, called the Hall of Knights, through which Königsmark
must pass, as he had not yet quitted the princess’s chamber.
They were then informed that their office was to arrest a criminal,
whose person was described to them, of whose safe custody the Elector
was so desirous that he would rather that such criminal should be
slain than that he should escape. They were accordingly instructed
to use their weapons if he should resist; and as their courage had
been heightened by the double bribe of much wine and a shower of gold
pieces, they expressed their willingness to execute her bidding, and
only too well showed by their subsequent act the sincerity of their
expression.
At length Königsmark appeared, coming from the princess’s apartment.
It was now midnight. He entered the Ritter Hall, unsuspecting the fate
before him. In this hall was a huge, square, ponderous stove, looking
like a mausoleum, silent and cold. It reached from floor to roof, and,
hidden by one of its sides, the guard awaited the coming of the count.
He approached the spot, passed it, was seized from behind, and he
immediately drew his sword to defend himself from attack. His enemies
gave him but scant opportunity to assail them in his own defence, and
after a few wild passes with his weapon, he was struck down by the
spear, or old-fashioned battle-axe, of one of the guards, and when he
fell there were three wounds in him, out of any one of which life might
find passage.
On feeling himself grow faint, he--and in this case, like a true and
gallant man--thought of the lady and her reputation. The last words
he uttered were, ‘Spare the innocent princess!’ soon after which he
expired; but not before, as is reported by those who love to dwell
minutely on subjects of horror, not before the Countess von Platen had
set her foot triumphantly upon his bloody face.
Such is the German detail of this assassination. It is added, that
it gave extreme annoyance to the Elector, to whom it was immediately
communicated; that the body was forthwith consigned to a secure
resting-place, and covered with lime; and that the whole bloody drama
was enacted without any one being aware of what was going on, save the
actors themselves.
In Cramer’s ‘Memoirs of the Countess of Königsmark,’ the fate of the
count is told upon the alleged evidence of a so-called eye-witness.
It differs in several respects from other accounts, but is clear and
simple in its details. It is to the following effect:--
‘Bernhard Zayer, a native of Heidelberg, in the Palatinate, a wax-image
maker and artist in lacquer-work, was engaged by the Electoral Princess
to teach her his art. Being, on this account, continually in the
princess’s apartment, he had frequently seen Count Königsmark there,
who looked on while the princess worked. He once learned in confidence,
from the Electoral Princess’s groom of the chambers, that the Electoral
Prince was displeased about the count, and had sworn to break his
neck, which Bernhard revealed to the princess, who answered:--“Let
them attack Königsmark: he knows how to defend himself.” Some time
afterwards there was an opera, but the princess was unwell and kept
her bed. The opera began, and as the count was absent as well as the
princess, first a page and then the hoff-fourier were sent out for
intelligence. The hoff-fourier came back running, and whispered to
the Electoral Prince, and then to his highness the Elector. But the
Electoral Prince went away from the opera with the hoff-fourier. Now
Bernhard saw all this and knew what it meant, and as he knew the count
was with the princess, he left the opera secretly, to warn her; and
as he went in at the door, the other door was opened, and two masked
persons rushed in, one exclaiming, “So! then I find you!” The count,
who was sitting on the bed, with his back to the door by which the two
entered, started up, and whipped out his sword, saying, “Who can say
anything unbecoming of me?” The princess, clasping her hands, said “I,
a princess, am I not allowed to converse with a gentleman?” But the
masks, without listening to reason, slashed and stabbed away at the
count. But he pressed so upon both, that the Electoral Prince unmasked,
and begged for his life, while the hoff-fourier came behind the count,
and run him through between the ribs with his sword, so that he fell,
saying, “You are murderers, before God and man, who do me wrong!”
But they both of them gave him more wounds, so that he lay as dead.
Bernhard, seeing all this, hid himself behind the door of the other
room.’
Bernhard was subsequently sent by the princess to spy out what they
would do with Königsmark.
‘When the count was in the vault, he came a little to himself, and
spoke:--“You take a guiltless man’s life. On that I’ll die, but do not
let me perish like a dog, in my blood and my sins. Grant me a priest,
for my soul’s sake.” Then the _Electoral Prince went out_, and the
fourier remained alone with him. Then was a strange parson fetched,
and a strange executioner, and the fourier fetched a great chair. And
when the count had confessed, he was so weak that three or four of them
lifted him into the chair; and there _in the prince’s presence_ was
his head laid at his feet. And they had tools with them, and they dug
a hole in the right corner of the vault, and there they laid him, and
there he must be to be found. When all was over, this Bernhard slipped
away from the castle; and indeed Counsellor Lucius, who was a friend
of the princess’s, sent him some of his livery to save him; for they
sought him in all corners, because they had seen him in the room during
the affray.... And what Bernhard Zayer saw in the vault, he saw through
a crack.’
Clear as this narrative is in its details, it is contradictory and
rests on small basis of truth. The Electoral Prince was undoubtedly
absent on the night Königsmark was murdered.
The Countess Aurora of Königsmark has left a statement of her brother’s
intimacy with the princess, in which the innocence of the latter is
maintained, but _his_ imprudence acknowledged. The statement referred
to explains the guilty nature of the intercourse kept up between
Königsmark and the Countess von Platen. It is written in terms of
extreme indelicacy. We may add that the faithful von Knesebeck, on
whose character no one ever cast an imputation, in her examination
before the judges, argued the innocence of her accused mistress upon
grounds the nature of which cannot even be alluded to. The princess, it
is clear, had urged Königsmark to renew his interrupted intrigue with
von Platen, out of dread that the latter, taking the princess as the
cause of the intercourse having been broken off, should work a revenge,
which she did not hesitate to menace, upon the princess herself.
The details of all the stories are marked by great improbability, and
they have not been substantiated by the alleged death-bed confessions
of the Countess von Platen, and Baumain, one of the guards--the two
criminals having, without so intending it, confessed to the same
clergyman, a minister named Kramer! Though these confessions are spoken
of, and are even cited by German authors, their authenticity cannot be
warranted. At all events, there is an English version of the details of
this murder given by Horace Walpole; and as that lively writer founded
his lugubrious details upon authority which he deemed could not be
gainsaid, they may fairly find a place, by way of supplement to the
foreign version.
‘Königsmark’s vanity,’ says Walpole, ‘the beauty of the Electoral
Princess, and the neglect under which he found her, encouraged his
presumptions to make his addresses to her, not covertly, and she,
though believed not to have transgressed her duty, did receive them too
indiscreetly. The old Elector flamed at the insolence of so stigmatised
a pretender, and ordered him to quit his dominions the next day. This
princess, surrounded by women too closely connected with her husband
and consequently enemies of the lady they injured, was persuaded by
them to suffer the count to kiss her hand, before his abrupt departure;
and he was actually introduced by them into her bedchamber the next
morning before she rose. From that moment he disappeared, nor was it
known what became of him, till on the death of George I., on his son,
the new King’s first journey to Hanover, some alterations in the palace
being ordered by him, the body of Königsmark was discovered under the
floor of the Electoral Princess’s dressing-room--the count having
probably been strangled there, the instant he left her, and his body
secreted. The discovery was hushed up. George II. (the son of Sophia
Dorothea) entrusted the secret to his wife, Queen Caroline, who told it
to my father; but the King was too tender of the honour of his mother
to utter it to his mistress; nor did Lady Suffolk ever hear of it, till
I informed her of it several years afterwards. The disappearance of the
count made his murder suspected, and various reports of the discovery
of his body have of late years been spread, but not with the authentic
circumstances.’
To turn to the German sources of information: we are told by these,
that after the departure of Königsmark from the chamber of the
princess, she was engaged in arranging her papers, and in securing her
jewels, preparatory, as she hoped, to her anticipated removal to the
Court of Wolfenbüttel. Königsmark must have been murdered and the body
made away with silently and swiftly, for not a dweller in the palace
was disturbed by the doing of this bloody deed. All signs of its having
been done had been so effaced that no trace of it was left to attract
notice in the early morning. On that next morning the count’s servants
were not troubled at his absence; such an occurrence was not unusual.
When it was prolonged and enquiry became necessary, nothing could be
learnt of him. Every soul in the palace was silent, designedly or
through ignorance. Rumour, of course, was busy and full of confidence
in what it put forth. George Louis himself said that the gay count
would reappear, perhaps, when least expected. The tremendous secret was
faithfully kept by the few who knew the truth; and when speculation was
busiest as to the count’s whereabout, there was probably no atom of his
body left, if it be true that it had been cast into a drain and had
been consumed in slack-lime.
The princess was, for a time, kept in ignorance of the count’s
assassination; but she was perplexed by his disappearance, and alarmed
when she heard that all his papers had been seized and conveyed to
the Elector for his examination. Some notes had passed between them:
and, innocent as they were, she felt annoyed at the thought that their
existence should be known, still more that they should be perused. To
their most innocent expressions the Countess von Platen, who examined
them with the Elector, gave a most guilty interpretation; and she so
wrought upon Ernest Augustus, that he commissioned no less a person
than the Count von Platen to interrogate the princess on the subject.
She did not lack spirit; and when the coarse-minded count began to put
coarse questions to her, as to the degree of intercourse which had
existed between herself and the count, she spiritedly remarked that he
appeared to imagine that he was examining into the conduct of his own
wife; a thrust which he repaid by bluntly informing her that whatever
intercourse may have existed, it would never be renewed, seeing that
sure intelligence had been received of Königsmark’s death.
Sophia Dorothea, shocked at this information, and at the manner
in which it was conveyed, had no friend in whom she could repose
confidence but her faithful lady-in-waiting, Fräulein von Knesebeck.
The princess could have had no more ardent defender than this worthy
attendant. But the assertions made by the latter, in favour of the
mistress whom she loved, were not at all to the taste of the enemies of
that mistress, and the speedy result was, that Fräulein von Knesebeck
was arrested and carried away to the castle of Schartzfeld in the
Hartz. She was there kept in confinement many years; but she ultimately
escaped so cleverly through the roof, by the help of a tiler, or a
friend in the likeness of a tiler, that the credit of the success of
the attempt was given by the governor of the gaol to the demons of the
adjacent mountains. She subsequently became lady-in-waiting to Sophia
Dorothea’s daughter.
Sophia Dorothea had now but one immediate earnest wish, namely, to
retire from Hanover. Already the subject of a divorce had been mooted,
but the Elector being somewhat fearful that a divorce might affect
his son’s succession to his wife’s inheritance, and even obstruct the
union of Zell with Hanover, an endeavour was made to reconcile the
antagonistic spouses, and to bury past dissensions in oblivion.
It was previous to this attempt being entered upon, and perhaps because
it was contemplated, that the princess voluntarily underwent a very
solemn ordeal. The ceremony was as public as it could be rendered by
the presence of part of the Electoral family and the great official
dignitaries of the church and government. Before them Sophia Dorothea
partook of the sacrament, and then made solemn protestation of her
innocence, and of her unspotted faith towards the Electoral Prince,
her husband. At the termination of this ceremony she was insulted by
an incredulous smile which she saw upon the face of Count von Platen;
whereat the natural woman was moved within her to ask him if his own
excellent wife could take the same oath, in attestation of her unbroken
faithfulness to _him_!
The strange essay at reconciliation was marred by an attempt made to
induce the Electoral Princess to confess that she had been guilty of
sins of disobedience towards the expressed will of her consort. All
endeavour in this direction was fruitless; and though grave men made
it, it shows how very little they comprehended their delicate mission.
The princess remained fixed in her desire to withdraw from Hanover; but
when she was informed of the wound this would be to the feelings of
the Elector and Electress, and that George Louis himself was heartily
averse to it, she began to waver, and applied to her friends at Zell,
among others to Bernstorf, the Hanoverian minister there, asking for
counsel in this her great need.
Bernstorf, an ally of the von Platens, secretly advised her to insist
upon leaving Hanover. He assured her, pledging his word for what he
said, that she would find a happy asylum at Zell; that even her father,
so long estranged from her, would receive her with open arms; and that
in the adoption of such a step alone could she hope for happiness and
peace during the remainder of her life.
She was as untruthfully served by some of the ladies of her circle,
who, while professing friendship and fidelity, were really the spies
of her husband and her husband’s mistress. They were of that class
of women who were especially bred for courts and court intrigues,
and whose hopes of fortune rested upon their doing credit to their
education.
As the princess not merely insisted upon quitting Hanover, but firmly
refused to acknowledge that she had been guilty of any wrong to her
most guilty husband, a course was adopted by her enemies which, they
considered, would not merely punish her, but would transfer her
possessions to her consort, without affecting the long projected union
of Zell, after the duke’s death, with the territory of Hanover. An
accusation of adultery, even if it could be sustained, of which there
was not the shadow of a chance, might, if carried out and followed by
a divorce, in some way affect the transfer of a dominion to Hanover,
which transfer rested partly on the rights of the wife of the Electoral
Prince. A divorce might destroy the ex-husband’s claims; but he was
well-provided with lawyers to watch and guard the case to an ultimate
conclusion in his favour.
A Consistorial Court was formed, of a strangely mixed character,
for it consisted of four ecclesiastical lawyers and four civil
authorities of Hanover and Zell. It had no other authority to warrant
its proceedings than the command or sanction of the Elector, and the
consent of the Duke of Zell, whose ill-feeling towards his child seemed
to increase daily. The only charge laid against the princess before
this anomalous court was one of incompatibility of temper, added to
some little failings of character; not the most distant allusion to
serious guilt with Königsmark, or any one else, was made. His name was
never once mentioned. Her consent to live again in Hanover and let
by-gones be by-gones was indignantly refused by her. She would never,
she protested, live again among people who had murdered the only man
in the world who loved her well enough to be a friend to her who was
otherwise friendless. Her passionate tears flowed abundantly; Fräulein
von Knesebeck states that whenever the mysterious fate of Königsmark
was referred to, the princess’s grief was so violent that it might
almost lead those who witnessed it to suspect that she took too great
an interest in the man made away with almost at her chamber-door.
The court affected to attempt an adjustment of the matter; but as
the attempt was always based on another to drag from the princess a
confession of her having, wittingly or unwittingly, given cause of
offence to her husband, she continued firmly to refuse to place her
consort in the right by doing herself and her cause extremest wrong.
In the meantime, during an adjournment of the court, she withdrew
to Lauenau. She was prohibited from repairing to Zell, but there
was no longer any opposition made to her leaving the capital of the
Electorate. She was, however, strictly prohibited from taking her
children with her. Her parting from these was as painful a scene as can
well be imagined, for she is said to have felt that she would never
again be united with them. Her son, George Augustus, was then ten years
of age; her daughter, Sophia, was still younger. The homage of these
children was rendered to their mother long after their hearts had
ceased to pay any to their father beyond a mere conventional respect.
In her temporary retirement at Lauenau, she was permitted to enjoy
very little repose. The friends of the Electoral Prince seem to have
been anxious lest she should publish more than was yet known of the
details of his private life. This fear alone can account for their
anxiety, or professed anxiety, for a reconciliation. The lawyers,
singly or in couples, and now and then a leash of them together,
went down to Lauenau to hold conference with her. They assailed her
socially, scripturally, legally; they pointed out how salubrious was
the discipline which subjected a wife to confess her faults. They
read to her whole chapters from Corinthians, on the duties of married
ladies, and asked her if she could be so obstinate and unorthodox as
to disregard the injunctions of St. Paul. Finally, they quoted codes
and pandects, to prove that a sentence might be pronounced against
her under contumacy, and concluded by recommending her to trust to
the mercy of the Crown Prince, if she would but cast herself upon his
honour.
They were grave men; sage, learned, experienced men; crafty, cunning,
far-seeing men; in all the circles of the empire men were not to be
found more skilled in surmounting difficulties than these indefatigable
men, who were all foiled by the simplicity and firmness of a mere
child. ‘If I am guilty,’ said she, ‘I am unworthy of the prince: if I
am innocent, he is unworthy of me!’
Here was a conclusion with which she utterly confounded the sages. They
could not gainsay it, nor refute the logic by which it was arrived at,
and which gave it force. They were ‘perplexed in the extreme,’ but
neither social experience, nor scriptural reading, nor legal knowledge
afforded them weapons wherewith to beat down the simple defences behind
which the princess had entrenched herself. They tried repeatedly,
but tried in vain. At the end of every trial she slowly and calmly
enunciated the same reply:--‘If I am guilty I am unworthy of him: if I
am innocent, he is unworthy of me!’
From this text she would not depart; nor could all the chicanery of
all the courts of Germany move her. ‘At least,’ said the luminaries
of the law, as they took their way homewards, _re infecta_, ‘at least
this woman may, of a surety, be convicted of obstinacy.’ We always
stigmatise as obstinate those whom we cannot convince. It is the only,
and the poor, triumph of the vanquished.
This triumph was achieved by the Consistory Court, the members of
which, unable to prove the princess guilty of crime, were angry because
she would not even confess to the commission of a fault; that is,
of such a fault as should authorise her husband, covered with guilt
triple-piled, to separate from her person, yet maintain present and
future property over her estates.
In point of fact, George Louis did not wish to be separated from his
wife. His counsel, Rath Livius, accused her, in her husband’s name,
of lack of both love and obedience towards him; of having falsely
charged him with infidelity, to his parents and her own; and of
having repeatedly refused to again live with him; for this act of
disobedience, and for no other reason, he asked the judgment of the
court. Sophia Dorothea’s own counsellors, Rudolph Thies and Joachin von
Bulow, put it to her whether she would return to her husband or abide
judgment for disobeying his repeated desire. Nothing could move her.
She despised her husband, and would never again live under the same
roof with him. Her own desire was to live, henceforward, in seclusion
--to pass the remainder of her unhappy life in peace and humiliation.
The court came to a decision on the 28th of December, 1694. Their
judgment was, that as she refused to live with her husband, she was
guilty of desertion, and on that ground alone a decree of separation,
or divorce, was recorded. When told that she had a right to appeal,
she contemptuously refused to avail herself of it. The terms of the
sentence were extraordinary, for they amounted to a decree of divorce
without expressly mentioning the fact. The judgment, wherein nothing
was judged, conferred on the prince, George Louis, the right of
marrying again, if he should be so minded and could find a lady willing
to be won. It, however, explicitly debarred his wife from entering
into a second union. Not a word was written down against her, alleging
that she was criminal. The name of Königsmark was not even alluded
to. Notwithstanding these facts, and that the husband was the really
guilty party, while the utmost which can be said against the princess
was that she may have been indiscreet--notwithstanding this, not only
was he declared to be an exceedingly injured individual, but the poor
lady, whom he held in his heart’s hottest hate, was deprived of her
property, possession of which was transferred to George Louis, in trust
for the children; and the princess, endowed with an annual pension of
some eight or ten thousand thalers, was condemned to close captivity
in the castle of Ahlden, near Zell, with a retinue of domestics, whose
office was to watch her actions, and a body of armed gaolers, whose
only duty was to keep the captive secure in her bonds.
Sophia Dorothea entered on her imprisonment with a calm, if not with
a cheerful heart: certainly with more placidity and true joy than
George Louis felt, surrounded by his mistresses and all the pomp of the
Electoral State. All Germany is said to have been scandalised by the
judgment delivered by the court. The illegality and the incompetency
of the court from which it emanated, were so manifest, that the
sentence was looked upon as a mere wanton cruelty, carrying with
it neither conviction nor lawful consequence. So satisfied was the
princess’s advocate on this point that he requested her to give him a
letter declaring him non-responsible for having so far recognised the
authority of the court as to have pleaded her cause before it! What is
perhaps more singular still is the doubt which long existed whether
this court ever sat at all; and whether decree of separation or divorce
was ever pronounced in the cause of Sophia Dorothea of Zell and George
Louis, Electoral Prince of Hanover.
Horace Walpole says, on this subject: ‘I am not acquainted with the
laws of Germany relative to divorce or separation, nor do I know or
suppose that despotism and pride allow the law to insist on much
formality when a sovereign has reason or mind to get rid of his wife.
Perhaps too much difficulty in untying the Gordian knot of matrimony,
thrown in the way of an absolute prince, would be no kindness to
the ladies, but might prompt him to use a sharper weapon, like that
butchering husband, our Henry VIII. Sovereigns who narrow or let out
the law of God according to their prejudices and passions mould their
own laws, no doubt, to the standard of their convenience. Genealogic
purity of blood is the predominant folly of Germany; and the Code of
Malta seems to have more force in the empire than the Ten Commandments.
Thence was introduced that most absurd evasion of the indissolubility
of marriage, espousals with the left hand, as if the Almighty had
restrained his ordinance to one half of a man’s person, and allowed a
greater latitude to his left side than to his right, or pronounced the
former more ignoble than the latter. The consciences both of princely
and noble persons in Germany are quieted if the more plebeian side is
married to one who would degrade the more illustrious moiety; but, as
if the laws of matrimony had no reference to the children to be thence
propagated, the children of a left-handed alliance are not entitled to
inherit. Shocking consequence of a senseless equivocation, which only
satisfies pride, not justice, and is calculated for an acquittal at the
herald’s office, not at the last tribunal.
‘Separated the Princess (Sophia) Dorothea certainly was, and never
admitted even to the nominal honours of her rank, being thenceforward
always styled the Duchess of Halle (Ahlden). Whether divorced is
problematic, at least to me; nor can I pronounce--as, though it was
generally believed, I am not certain--that George espoused the Duchess
of Kendal (Mdlle. von der Schulenburg) with his left hand. But though
German casuistry might allow a husband to take another wife with his
left hand because his legal wife had suffered her right hand to be
kissed by a gallant, even Westphalian or Aulic counsellors could not
have pronounced that such a momentary adieu constituted adultery;
and, therefore, of a formal divorce I must doubt; and there I must
leave that case of conscience undecided until future search into the
Hanoverian Chancery shall clear up a point of little real importance.’
Coxe, in his Memoirs of Walpole, says, on the other hand, very
decidedly:--‘George I., who never loved his wife, gave implicit credit
to the account of her infidelity, as related by his father; consented
to her imprisonment, and obtained from the ecclesiastical consistory a
divorce, which was passed on the 20th of December 1694.’
The researches into the Chancery of Hanover, which Walpole left to
posterity, appear to have been made, and the decree of the Consistorial
Court which condemned Sophia Dorothea has been copied and published. It
is quoted in the ‘Life of the Princess,’ published anonymously in 1845,
and it is inserted below for the benefit of those who like to read
history by the light of documents.
It has been said that such a decree could only have been purchased by
rank bribery, which is likely enough; for the courts of Germany were
so utterly corrupt that nothing could equal them in infamy--except the
corruption which prevailed in England.
‘In the matrimonial suit of the illustrious Prince George Louis, Crown
Prince of Hanover, against his consort, the illustrious Princess Sophia
Dorothea, we, constituted president and judges of the Matrimonial
Court of the Electorate and Duchy of Brunswick-Lunenberg, declare and
pronounce judgment, after attempts have been tried and have failed, _to
settle the matter amicably_, and, in accordance with the documents and
verbal declarations of the Princess, and other detailed circumstances,
we agree that her continued denial of matrimonial duty and cohabitation
is well founded, and consequently that it is to be considered as an
intentional desertion. In consequence whereof, we consider, sentence,
and declare the ties of matrimony to be entirely dissolved and
annulled. Since, in similar cases of desertion, it has been permitted
to the innocent party to re-marry, which the other is forbidden, the
same judicial power will be exercised in the present instance in favour
of his Serene Highness the Crown Prince.
‘Published in the Consistorial Court at Hanover, December 28th, 1694.
(Signed) ‘PHILLIP VON BUSCHE.
FRANCIS EICHFELD (Pastor).
ANTHONY GEORGE HILDBERG.
GERHARDT ART.
GUSTAVUS MOLAN.
BERNHARD SPILKEN.
ERYTHROPAL.
DAVID RUPERTUS.
H. L. HATTORF.’
The work from which the above document is extracted furnishes also
the following, as a copy of the letter written by the princess at
the request of the legal conductor of her case, as ‘security from
proceedings in relation to his connexion with her affairs:’--
‘As we have now, after being made acquainted with the sentence, given
it proper consideration, and resolved not to offer any opposition to
it, our solicitor must act accordingly, and is not to act or proceed
any further in this matter. For the rest, we hereby declare that we
are gratefully content with the conduct of our aforesaid solicitor of
the Court, Thies, and that by this we free him from all responsibility
regarding these transactions.
(Signed) ‘SOPHIA DOROTHEA.
‘Lauenau, December 31, 1694.’
By this last document it would seem that the Hof-Rath Thies would have
denied the competency of the court had he been permitted to do so; and
that he was so convinced of its illegality as to require a written
prohibition from asserting the same, and acknowledgment of exemption
from all responsibility, before he would feel satisfied that he had
accomplished his duty towards his illustrious client.
Long before the case was heard, and four months previous to the
publication of the sentence of the Consistorial Court, the two
brothers, the Elector of Hanover and the Duke of Zell, had actually
agreed by an enactment that the unhappy marriage between the cousins
should be dissolved. The enactment provided for the means whereby this
end was to be achieved, and for the disposal of the princess during
the progress of the case. The anonymous author of the biography of
1845 then proceeds to state that ‘It was therein specified that her
domestics should take a particular oath, and that the princess should
enjoy an annual income of eight thousand thalers (exclusive of the
wages of her household), to be increased one-half on the death of
her father, with a further increase of six thousand thalers on her
attaining the age of forty years. It was provided that the castle of
Ahlden should be her permanent residence, where she was to remain well
guarded. The domain of Wilhelmsburg, near Hamburg, was, at the death of
the Duke of Zell, to descend to the prince, son of the Princess Sophia
Dorothea--the Crown Prince, however, during his own life retaining
the revenues; but should the grandson die before his father, the
property would then, on payment of a stipulated sum, be inherited by
the successor in the government of the son of the Elector. By a further
arrangement, the mother of the princess was to possess Wienhausen, with
an annual income of twelve thousand thalers, secured on the estates
of Schernebeck, Garze, and Bluettingen; the castle at Lunenburg to be
allowed as her residence from the commencement of her widowhood.’
Never was so much care taken to secure property on one side, and the
person on the other. The contracting parties appear to have been afraid
lest the prisoner should ever have an opportunity of appealing against
the wrong of which she was made the victim; and her strait imprisonment
was but the effect of that fear. That nothing might be neglected to
make assurance doubly sure, and to deprive her of any help she might
hope hereafter to receive at the hands of a father, whose heart might
possibly be made to feel his own injustice and his daughter’s sorrows,
the Duke of Zell was induced to promise that he would neither see nor
hold communication with the daughter he had repudiated.
During the so-called trial, at Lauenau, the princess resided in the
chief official residence in that place. At the close of the inquiry she
took a really final leave of her children--George Augustus and Sophia
Dorothea--with bitter tears, which would have been more bitter still
if she had thought that she was never again to look upon them. She had
concluded that she would have liberty to live with her mother in Zell.
She had no idea that her father had already agreed to his brother the
Elector’s desire that she should be shut up in the castle of Ahlden.
She found herself a state prisoner.
The oath to be taken by her appointed household, or rather by the
personal attendants--counts and countesses in waiting and persons of
similar rank--was stringent and illustrative of the importance attached
to the safe-keeping of the prisoner. It was to the effect ‘that
nothing should be wanting to prevent anticipated intrigues; or for the
perfect security of the place fixed as a residence for the Princess
Sophia Dorothea, in order to maintain tranquility, and to prevent any
opportunity occurring to an enemy for undertaking or imagining anything
which might cause a division in the illustrious family.’
CHAPTER IX.
PRISON AND PALACE.
The prison of the captive Sophia Dorothea--Employment of her
time--The church of Ahlden repaired by her--Cut off from her
children--Sympathy of Ernest Augustus for his daughter-in-law
--Her father’s returning affection for her--Opening prospects of
the House of Hanover--Lord Macclesfield’s embassy to Hanover,
and his right-royal reception--Description of the Electress--
Toland’s description of Prince George Louis--Magnificent present
to Lord Macclesfield--The Princess Sophia and the English liturgy
--Death of the Duke of Zell--Visit of Prince George to his
captive mother prevented.
The castle of Ahlden is situated on the small and sluggish stream, the
Aller; and seems to guard, as it once oppressed, the little village
sloping at its feet. This edifice was appointed as the prison-place
of Sophia Dorothea; and from the territory she acquired a title, that
of Duchess of Ahlden. She was mockingly called sovereign lady of a
locality where all were free but herself!
On looking over the list of the household which was formed for the
service, if the phrase be one that may be admitted, of her captivity,
the first thing which strikes us as singular is the presence of ‘three
cooks’--a triad of ‘ministers of the mouth’ for one poor imprisoned
lady!
The singularity vanishes when we find that around this encaged duchess
there circled a really extensive household, and there lived a world
of ceremony, of which no one was so much the slave as she was. Her
captivity in its commencement was decked with a certain sort of
splendour, about which _she_, who was its object, cared by far the
least. There was a military governor of the castle, gentlemen and
ladies in waiting--spies all. Among the honester servants of the house
were a brace of pages and as many valets, a dozen female domestics, and
fourteen footmen, who had to undergo the intense labour of doing very
little in a very lengthened space of time. To supply the material wants
of these, the three cooks, one confectioner, a baker, and a butler,
were provided. There was, besides, a military force, consisting of
infantry and artillery. Altogether, there must have been work enough
for the three cooks.
The forms of a court were long maintained, although only on a small
scale. The duchess held her little levées, and the local authorities,
clergy, and neighbouring nobility and gentry offered her such respect
as could be manifested by paying her visits on certain appointed days.
These visits, however, were always narrowly watched by the officials,
whose office lay in such service and was hid beneath a show of duty.
The successive governors of the castle were men of note, and their
presence betokened the importance attached to the person and
safe keeping of the captive. During the first three years of her
imprisonment, the post of governor was held by the Hof Grand-Marshal
von Bothmar. He was succeeded by the Count Bergest, who enjoyed his
equivocal dignity of gaoler-governor about a quarter of a century.
During the concluding years of the imprisonment of Sophia, her
seneschal was a relative of one of her judges, Georg von Busche.
These men behaved to their prisoner with as much courtesy as they
dared to show; nor was her captivity severe in anything but the
actual deprivation of liberty, and of all intercourse with those she
best loved, until after the first few years. The escape of Fräulein
Knesebeck from her place of confinement appears to have given the
husband of Sophia Dorothea an affectionate uneasiness, which he
evidenced by giving orders that his wife’s safe-keeping should be
maintained with greater stringency.
From the day of the issuing of that order, she was never allowed to
walk, even in the garden of the castle, without a guard. She never rode
out, or drove through the neighbouring woods, without a strong escort.
Even parts of the castle were prohibited from being intruded upon by
her; and so much severity was shown in this respect, that when, on one
occasion, a fire broke out in the edifice, to escape from which she
must have traversed a gallery which she was forbidden to pass, she
stood short of the proscribed limit, her jewel-box in her arms, and
herself in almost speechless terror, but refusing to advance beyond the
prohibited line until permission reached her from the proper authority.
On such a prisoner time must have hung especially heavy. She had,
however, many resources, and every hour, with her, had its occupation.
She was the land-steward of her little ducal estate, and performed all
the duties of that office. She kept a diary of her thoughts as well
as actions; and if this be extant it would be well worthy of being
published. The one which has been put forth as hers is a poor work of
fancy by some writer unknown, set in dramatic scenes, and altogether to
be rejected. Her correspondence, during the period she was permitted
to write, was extensive. Every day she had interviews with, and gave
instructions to, each of her servants, from the chief of the three
cooks downwards. With this, she was personally active in charity.
Finally, she was the Lady Bountiful of the district, laying out half
her income in charitable uses for the good of her neighbours, and, as
Boniface said of the good lady of Lichfield, ‘curing more people in
and about the place within ten years, than the doctors had killed in
twenty; and that’s a bold word.’
There was a church in the village, which was in rather ruinous
condition when her captivity commenced; but this she put in thorough
repair, decorated it handsomely, presented it with an organ, and was
refused permission to attend there after it had been reopened for
public service. For her religious consolation a chaplain had been
provided, and she was never trusted, even under guard, to join with
the villagers in common worship in the church of the village below.
In this respect a somewhat royal etiquette was observed. The chaplain
read prayers to the garrison and household in one room, to which the
princess and her ladies listened rather than therewith joined, placed
as they were in an adjacent room, where they could hear without being
seen.
With no relative was she allowed to hold never so brief an interview;
and at last even her mother was not permitted to soften by her presence
for an hour the rigid and ceremonious captivity of her luckless
daughter. Mother and child were allowed to correspond at stated
periods, their letters passing open. The princess herself was as much
cut off from her own children as if these had been dead and entombed.
The little prince and princess were expressly ordered to utterly forget
that they had a mother--her very name on their lips would have been
condemned as a grievous fault. The boy, George Augustus, was in many
points of character similar to his father, and, accordingly, being
commanded to forget his mother, he obstinately bore her in memory; and
when he was told that he would never have an opportunity afforded him
to see her, mentally resolved to make one for himself.
It is but justice to the old Elector to say that in his advanced years,
when pleasant sins were no longer profitable to him, he gave them up;
and when the youngest of his mistresses had ceased to be attractive,
he began to think such appendages little worth the hanging on to his
Electoral dignity. For, ceasing to love and live with his ‘favourites,’
he did not the more respect, or hold closer intercourse with, his wife
--a course about which the Electress Sophia troubled herself very
little.
Ernest Augustus, when he ceased to be under the influence of the
disgraced Countess von Platen, began to be sensible of some sympathy
for his daughter-in-law, Sophia. He softened in some degree the
rigour of her imprisonment and corresponded with her by letter; a
correspondence which inspired her with hope that her freedom might
result from it. This hope was, however, frustrated by the death of
Ernest Augustus, on the 20th of January 1698. From that time the rigour
of her imprisonment was increased fourfold.
If the heart of her old father-in-law began to incline towards her
as he increased in years, it is not to be wondered at that the heart
of her aged father melted towards her as time began to press heavily
upon him. But it was the weakest of hearts allied to the weakest
of minds. In the comfortlessness of his great age he sought to be
comforted by loving her whom he had insanely and unnaturally oppressed
--the sole child of his heart and house. In his weakness he addressed
himself to that tool of Hanover at Zell, the minister Bernstorf; and
that individual so terrified the poor old man by details of the ill
consequences which might ensue if the wrath of the new Elector, George
Louis, were aroused by the interference of the Duke of Zell in matters
which concerned the Elector and his wife, that the old man, feeble in
mind and body, yielded, and for a time at least left his daughter to
her fate. He thought to compensate for the wrong which he inflicted
on her under the impulse of his evil genius, Bernstorf, by adding a
codicil to his will.
By this codicil he bequeathed to the daughter whom he had wronged all
that it was in his power to leave, in jewels, moneys, and lands; but
liberty he could _not_ give her, and so his love could do little more
than try to lighten the fetters which he had aided to put on. But there
was a short-lived joy in store, both for child and parents. The fetters
were to be cast aside for a brief season, and the poor captive was to
enjoy an hour of home, of love, and of liberty.
The last year of the seventeenth century (1700) brought with it an
accession of greatness to the Electoral family of Hanover, inasmuch as
in that year a bill was introduced into parliament, and accepted by
that body, which fixed the succession to the crown of England after
the Princess Anne, and in default of such princess dying without heirs
of her own body, in the person of Sophia of Hanover. William III. had
been very desirous for the introduction of this bill; but under various
pretexts it had been deferred, the commonest business being allowed
to take precedence of it, until the century had nearly expired. The
limitations to the royal action, which formed a part of the bill as
recommended in the report of the committee, were little to the King’s
taste; for they not only affected his employment of foreign troops in
England, but shackled his own free and frequent departures from the
kingdom. It was imagined by many that these limitations were designed
by the leaders in the cabinet, in order to raise disputes between the
two houses, by which the bill might be lost. Such is Burnet’s report;
and he sarcastically adds thereto, that when much time had been spent
in preliminaries, and it was necessary to come to the nomination of
the person who should be named presumptive heir next to Queen Anne,
the office of doing so was confided to ‘Sir John Bowles, who was then
disordered in his senses, and soon after quite lost them.’ ‘He was,’
says Burnet, ‘set on by the party to be the first that should name
the Electress-dowager of Brunswick, which seemed done to make it less
serious when moved by such a person.’ So that the solemn question of
naming the heir to a throne was entrusted to an idiot, who, by the
forms of the house, was appointed chairman of the committee for the
conduct of the bill. Burnet adds, that the ‘thing,’ as he calls it, was
‘still put off for many weeks at every time that it was called for;
the motion was entertained with coldness, which served to heighten
the jealousy; the committee once or twice sat upon it, but all the
members ran out of the house with so much indecency that the contrivers
seemed ashamed of this management; there were seldom fifty or sixty
at the committee, yet in conclusion it passed, and was sent up to the
Lords.’ Great opposition was expected from the peers, and many of their
lordships designedly absented themselves from the discussion. The
opposition was slight, and confined to the Marquis of Normanby, who
spoke, and the Lords Huntingdon, Plymouth, Guildford, and Jefferies,
who protested, against the bill. Burnet affirms, that those who wished
well to the Act were glad to have it passed any way, and so would not
examine the limitations that were in it, and which they thought might
be considered afterwards. ‘We reckoned it,’ says Burnet, ‘a great point
carried that we had now a law on our side for a Protestant successor.’
The law was stoutly protested against by the Duchess of Savoy,
grand-daughter of Charles I. The protest did not trouble the King, who
despatched the Act to the Electress-dowager, and the Garter to her son,
by the hands of the Earl of Macclesfield.
The earl was a fitting bearer of so costly and significant a present.
He had been attached to the service of the mother of Sophia, and was
highly esteemed by the Electress-dowager herself. The earl had no
especial commission beyond that which enjoined him to deliver the
Act, nor was he dignified by any official appellation. He was neither
ambassador, legate, plenipotentiary, nor envoy. He had with him,
however, a most splendid suite; which was in some respects strangely
constituted, for among its members was the famous Toland, whose book in
support of rationality as applied to religion had been publicly burnt
by the hangman, in Ireland.
The welcome to this body of gentlemen was right royal. It may be
said that the Electoral family had neither cared for the dignity now
rendered probable for them, nor in any way toiled or intrigued to bring
it within their grasp; but it is certain that their joy was great when
the Earl of Macclesfield appeared on the frontier of the Electorate
with the Act in one hand and the Garter in the other. He and his suite
were met there with a welcome of extraordinary magnificence, betokening
ample appreciation of the double gift he brought with him. He himself
seemed elevated by his mission, for he was in his general deportment
little distinguished by courtly manners or by ceremonious bearing;
but it was observed that, on this occasion, nothing could have been
more becoming than the way in which he acquitted himself of an office
which brought a whole family within view of succession to a royal and
powerful throne.
On reaching the confines of the Electorate, the members of the
deputation from England were received by personages of the highest
official rank, who not only escorted them to the capital, but treated
them on the way with a liberality so profuse as to be the wonder of all
beholders. They were not allowed to disburse a farthing from their own
purses; all they thought fit to order was paid for by the Electoral
government, by whose orders they were lodged in the most commodious
palace in Hanover, where as much homage was paid them as if each man
had been a Kaiser in his own person. The Hanoverian gratitude went so
far, that not only were the ambassador and suite treated as favoured
guests, and those not alone of the princess but of the people--the
latter being commanded to refrain from taking payment from any of them
for any article of refreshment they required--but for many days all
English travellers visiting the city were made equally free of its
caravansaries, and were permitted to enjoy all that the inns could
afford without being required to pay for the enjoyment.
The delicate treatment of the Electoral government extended even
to the servants of the earl and his suite. It was thought that to
require them to dine upon the fragments of their master’s banquets
would be derogatory to the splendour of the hospitality of the House
of Hanover and an insult to the domestics who followed in the train
of the earl. The government accordingly disbursed half-a-crown a day
to each liveried follower, and considered such a ‘composition’ as
glorious to the reputation of the Electoral house. The menials were
even emancipated from service during the sojourn of the deputation in
Hanover, and the Elector’s numerous servants waited upon the English
visitors zealously throughout the day, but with most splendour in the
morning; then, they were to be seen hurrying to the bed-rooms of the
different members of the suite, bearing with them silver coffee and tea
pots, and other requisites for breakfast, which meal appears to have
been lazily indulged in--as if the legation had been habitually wont
to ‘make a night of it’--in bed. And there _was_ a good deal of hard
drinking on these occasions, but all at the expense of the husband of
Sophia Dorothea, who, in her castle of Ahlden, was not even aware of
that increase of honour which had fallen upon her consort, and in which
she had a right to share.
For those who were, the next day, ill or indolent, there were the
ponderous state coaches to carry them whithersoever they would go.
The most gorgeous of the fêtes given on this occasion was on the
evening of the day on which the Act was solemnly presented to the
Electress-dowager. Hanover, famous as it was for its balls, had never
seen so glorious a Terpsichorean festival as marked this particular
night. At the balls in the old Elector’s time Sophia Dorothea used
to shine, first in beauty and in grace; but now her place was ill
supplied by the not fair and quite graceless Mademoiselle von der
Schulenburg. The supper which followed was Olympian in its profusion,
wit, and magnificence. This was at a time when to be sober was to
be respectable, but when to be drunk was not to be ungentlemanly.
Consequently we find Toland, who wrote an account of the achievements
of the day, congratulating himself and readers by stating that,
although it was to be expected that in so large and so jovial a party
some would be found even more ecstatic than the occasion and the
company warranted, yet that, in truth, the number of those who were
guilty of excess was but small. Even Lord Mohun kept himself sober, and
to the end was able to converse as clearly and intelligibly as Lord
Saye and Sele, and his friend ‘my Lord Tunbridge.’
This day of presentation of the Act, and of the festival in honour of
it, was one of the greatest days which Hanover had ever seen. Speaking
of the mother-in-law of Sophia Dorothea, Toland says:--‘The Electress
is three-and-seventy years old, which she bears so wonderfully well,
that, had I not many vouchers, I should scarce dare venture to relate
it. She has ever enjoyed extraordinary health, which keeps her still
very vigorous, of a cheerful countenance, and a merry disposition. She
steps as firm and erect as any young lady, has not one wrinkle in her
face, which is still very agreeable, nor one tooth out of her head,
and reads without spectacles, as I have often seen her do, letters of a
small character, in the dusk of the evening. She is as great a writer
as our late queen (Mary), and you cannot turn yourself in the palace
without meeting some monument of her industry, all the chairs of the
presence-chamber being wrought with her own hands. The ornaments of
the altar in the electoral chapel are all of her work. She bestowed
the same favour on the Protestant abbey, or college, of Lockurn, with
a thousand other instances, fitter for your lady to know than for
yourself. She is the most constant and greatest walker I ever knew,
never missing a day, if it proves fair, for one or two hours, and often
more, in the fine garden at Herrnhausen. She perfectly tires all
those of her court who attend her in that exercise but such as have
the honour to be entertained by her in discourse. She has been long
admired by all the learned world as a woman of incomparable knowledge
in divinity, philosophy, history, and the subjects of all sorts of
books, of which she has read a prodigious quantity. She speaks five
languages so well, that by her accent it might be a dispute which of
them was her first. They are Low Dutch, German, French, Italian, and
English, which last she speaks as truly and easily as any native; which
to me is a matter of amazement, whatever advantages she might have
in her youth by the conversation of her mother; for though the late
king’s (William’s) mother was likewise an Englishwoman, of the same
royal family; though he had been more than once in England before the
Revolution; though he was married there, and his court continually full
of many of that nation, yet he could never conquer his foreign accent.
But, indeed, the Electress is so entirely English in her person, in her
behaviour, in her humour, and in all her inclinations, that naturally
she could not miss of anything that peculiarly belongs to our land.
She was ever glad to see Englishmen, long before the Act of Succession.
She professes to admire our form of government, and understands it
mighty well, yet she asks so many questions about families, customs,
laws, and the like, as sufficiently demonstrate her profound wisdom
and experience. She has a deep veneration for the Church of England,
without losing affection or charity for any other sort of Protestants,
and appears charmed with the moderate temper of our present bishops and
other of our learned clergy, especially for their approbation of the
liberty allowed by law to Protestant Dissenters. She is adored for her
goodness among the inhabitants of the country, and gains the hearts of
all strangers by her unparalleled affability. No distinction is ever
made in her court concerning the parties into which Englishmen are
divided, and whereof they carry the effects and impressions with them
whithersoever they go, which makes others sometimes uneasy as well as
themselves. There it is enough that you are an Englishman; nor can you
ever discover by your treatment which are better liked, the Whigs or
the Tories. These are the instructions given to all the servants, and
they take care to execute them with the utmost exactness. I was the
first who had the honour of kneeling and kissing her hand on account
of the Act of Succession; and she said, among other discourse, that
she was afraid the nation had already repented their choice of an old
woman, but that she hoped none of her posterity would give her any
reasons to grow weary of their dominion. I answered, that the English
had too well considered what they did to change their minds so soon,
and they still remembered they were never so happy as when they were
last under a woman’s government. Since that time, sir,’ adds the
courtly but unorthodox Toland to the ‘Minister of State in Holland,’
to whom his letter is addressed, ‘we have a further confirmation of
this truth by the glorious administration of Queen Anne.’
The record would be imperfect if it were not accompanied by another
‘counterfeit presentment,’ that of her son, Prince George Louis,
the husband of Sophia Dorothea. Toland describes him as ‘a proper,
middle-sized, well-proportioned man, of a genteel address, and good
appearance;’ but he adds, that his Highness ‘is reserved, and therefore
speaks little, but judiciously.’ ‘He is not to be exceeded,’ says
Toland, ‘in his zeal against the intended universal monarchy of France,
and so is most hearty for the common cause of Europe,’ for the very
good reason, that therein ‘his own is so necessarily involved.’ Toland
adds, that George Louis understood the constitution of England better
than any ‘foreigner’ he had ever met with; a very safe remark, for our
constitution was ill understood abroad; and even had the theoretical
knowledge of George Louis been ever so correct, his practice with our
constitution betrayed such ignorance that Toland’s assertion may be
taken only for what it is worth. ‘Though,’ says the writer just named,
‘though he be well versed in the art of war, and of invincible courage,
having often exposed his person to great dangers in Hungary, in the
Morea, on the Rhine, and in Flanders, yet he is naturally of peaceable
inclination; which mixture of qualities is agreed, by the experience of
all ages, to make the best and most glorious princes. He is a perfect
man of business, exactly regular in the economy of his revenues’ (which
he never was of those of England, seeing that he outran his liberal
allowance, and coolly asked the parliament to pay his debts), ‘reads
all despatches himself at first hand, writes most of his own letters,
and spends a considerable part of his time about such occupations, in
his closet, and with his ministers.’ ‘I hope,’ Toland says, ‘that none
of our countrymen will be so injudicious as to think his reservedness
the effect of sullenness or pride; nor mistake that for state which
really proceeds from modesty, caution, and deliberation; for he is very
affable to such as accost him, and expects that others should speak to
him first, which is the best information I could have from all about
him, and I partly know to be true by experience.’... ‘As to what I
said of his frugality in laying out the public money, I need not give
a more particular proof than that all the expenses of his court, as
to eating, drinking, fire, candles, and the like, are duly paid every
Saturday night; the officers of his army receive their pay every month,
so likewise his envoys in every part of Europe; and all the officers of
his household, with the rest that are on the civil list, are cleared
off every half-year.’ We are then assured that his administration was
equable, mild, and prudent--a triple assertion which his own life and
that of his hardly-used wife flatly denied. Toland, however, will have
it that there never existed a prince who was so ardently beloved by his
subjects. Hanover itself is said to be without division or faction, and
all Hanoverians as being in a condition of ecstasy at the Solomon-like
rectitude and jurisdiction of his very Serene Highness. He describes
Madame Kielmansegge as a woman of sense and wit; and of ‘Mademoiselle
Schulemberg,’ he says that she is especially worthy of the rank she
enjoys, and that ‘in the opinion of others, as well as mine, she is a
lady of extraordinary merit!’ Of Sophia Dorothea, Toland makes no note
whatever.
There only remains to be added, that the legation left Hanover loaded
with presents. The earl received the portrait of the Electress, with
an Electoral crown in diamonds by way of mounting to the frame. George
Louis bestowed upon him a gold basin and ewer. Gold medals and
snuffboxes were showered among the other members. The chaplain, Dr.
Sandys, was especially honoured by rich gifts in medals and books. He
was the first who ever read the service of our Church in the presence
of the Electress. She joined in it with apparent fervour, and admired
it generally; but when a hint was conveyed to her that it might be
well were she to introduce it in place of the Calvinistic form used in
her chapel, as of the Lutheran in that of the Elector, she shook her
head, with a smile; said that there was no difference between the three
forms, in essentials, and that episcopacy was merely the established
form in England. She thought for the present she would ‘let well
alone.’ And it was done accordingly!
In the year 1705 the war was raging which France was carrying on for
the purpose of extending her limits and influence, and which England
and her allies had entered into in order to resist such aggression
and restore that terribly oscillating matter--the balance of European
power. The Duke of Marlborough had, at the prayer of the Dutch States,
left the banks of the Moselle, in order to help Holland, menaced
on the side of Liège by a strong French force. Our great duke left
General D’Aubach at Trèves to secure the magazines which the English
and Dutch had laid up there; but upon the approach of Marshal Villars,
D’Aubach destroyed the magazines and abandoned Trèves, of which the
French immediately took possession. This put an end to all the schemes
which had been laid for attacking France on the side of the Moselle,
where her frontiers were but weak, and carried her confederates back
to Flanders, where, as the old-fashioned chronicler, Salmon, remarks,
‘they yearly threw away thousands of brave fellows against stone
walls.’ Thereupon, Hanover became menaced. On this, Horace Walpole has
something in point:
‘As the genuine wife was always detained in her husband’s power, he
seems not to have wholly dissolved their union; for on the approach
of the French army towards Hanover, during Queen Anne’s reign, the
Duchess of Halle (Ahlden) was sent home to her father and mother, who
doted on their only child, and did retain her for a whole year, and
did implore, though in vain, that she might continue to reside with
them.’ On the return of ‘the genuine wife’ to captivity some of the old
restrictions were taken off. There was no prohibition of intercourse
with the parents; for the Duke of Zell had resolved on proceeding to
visit his daughter, but only deferred his visit until the conclusion of
a grand hunt in which he was anxious to take part. He went; and between
fatigue, exposure to inclement weather, and neglect on his return, he
became seriously ill, rapidly grew worse, died on the 28th of August
1705, and by his death gave the domains of a dukedom to Hanover and
deprived his daughter of a newly-acquired friend.
The death of the Duke of Zell was followed by honour to Bernstorf.
George Louis appointed him to the post of prime-minister of Hanover,
and at the same time made him a count. The death of the father of
Sophia Dorothea was, however, followed by consequences more fatal than
those just named. The severity of the imprisonment of the princess was
much aggravated; and though she was permitted to have an occasional
interview with her mother, all application to be allowed to see her two
children was sternly refused--and this refusal, as the poor prisoner
used to remark, was the bitterest portion of her misery.
It was of her son that George Louis used to say, in later years, ‘Il
est fougueux, mais il a du cœur’--hot-headed but not heartless. George
Augustus manifested this disposition very early in life. He was on one
occasion hunting in the neighbourhood of Luisberg, not many miles
from the scene of his mother’s imprisonment, when he made a sudden
resolution to visit her, regardless of the strict prohibition against
such a course laid on him by his father and the Hanoverian government.
Laying spurs to his horse, he galloped at full speed from the field,
and in the direction of Ahlden. His astonished suite, seeing the
direction which he was following at so furious a rate, immediately
suspected his design and became legally determined to frustrate it.
They left pursuing the stag and took to chasing the prince. The
heir-apparent led them far away over field and furrow, to the great
detriment of the wind and persons of his pursuers; and he would have
distanced the whole body of flying huntsmen, but that his steed was
less fleet than those of two officers of the Electoral household, who
kept close to the fugitive, and at last came up with him on the skirts
of a wood adjacent to Ahlden. With mingled courtesy and firmness they
represented to him that he could not be permitted to go further in a
direction which was forbidden, as by so doing he would not only be
treating the paternal command with contempt, but would be making them
accomplices in his crime of disobedience. George Augustus, vexed and
chafed, argued the matter with them, appealed to their affections
and feelings, and endeavoured to convince them both as men and as
ministers, as human beings and as mere official red-tapists, that he
was authorised to continue his route to Ahlden by every law, earthly or
divine.
The red-tapists, however, acknowledged no law under such circumstances
but that of their Electoral lord and master, and that law they would
not permit to be broken. Laying hold of the bridle of the prince’s
steed, they turned its head homewards and rode away with George
Augustus in a state of full discontent and strict arrest.
CHAPTER X.
THE SUCCESSION--DEATH OF THE ELECTRESS.
Marriage of Prince George to Princess Caroline of Anspach, and of
his sister to the Crown Prince of Prussia--Honours conferred by
Queen Anne on Prince George--Intention to bring over to England
the Princess Sophia--Opposed by Queen Anne--Foundation of the
kingdom of Prussia--The establishment of this Protestant kingdom
promoted by the Jesuits--The Electress Sophia’s visit to Loo--The
law granting taxes on births, deaths, and marriages--Complaint of
Queen Anne against the Electress--Tom D’Urfey’s doggrel verses
on her--Death of the Electress--Character of her.
The Elector, meditating on this sudden development of the domestic
affections of his son, resolved to aid such development, not by
giving him access to his mother, but by bestowing on him the hand of
a consort. Caroline of Anspach was a very accomplished young lady,
owing to the careful education which she received at the hands of the
best-loved child of Sophia Charlotte, Electress of Brandenburg, and the
first, but short-lived, Queen of Prussia. If the instructress was able,
the pupil was apt. She was quick, enquiring, intelligent, and studious.
Her application was great, her perseverance unwearied, and her memory
excellent. She learned quickly and retained largely, seldom forgetting
anything worth remembrance; and was an equally good judge of books
and individuals. Her perception of character has, perhaps, never been
surpassed. She had no inclination for trivial subjects, nor affection
for trivial people. She had a heart and mind only for philosophers and
philosophy; but she was not the less a lively girl, or the more a
pedant on that account. She delighted in lively conversation, and could
admirably lead or direct it. Her knowledge of languages was equal to
that of Sophia of Hanover, of whom she was also the equal in wit and in
repartee. But therewith she was more tender, more gentle, more generous.
The marriage of George Augustus, Electoral Prince of Brunswick-Hanover,
with Caroline, daughter of John Frederick, Margrave of Anspach, was
solemnised in the year 1705. The wife of George Augustus was of the
same age as her husband. She had had the misfortune to lose her father
when she was yet extremely young, and had been brought up at the Court
of Berlin under the guardianship of Sophia Charlotte, the consort of
Frederick of Prussia.
The sister of George Augustus, the only daughter of Sophia Dorothea,
and bearing the same baptismal names as her mother, was also married
during the captivity of the latter. Three remarkable Englishmen were
present at the marriage of the daughter of Sophia Dorothea with the
Prince Royal of Prussia. These were Lord Halifax, Sir John Vanbrugh,
and Joseph Addison. Queen Anne, who had restored Halifax to a favour
from which he had fallen, entrusted him to carry the bill for the
naturalisation of the Electoral family and for the better security of
the Protestant line of succession, and also the Order of the Garter
for the Electoral Prince. On this mission, Addison was the invited
companion of the patron whom he so choicely flattered. Vanbrugh was
present in his official character of Clarencieux King-at-Arms, and
performed the ceremony of investiture. The little Court of Hanover was
joyfully splendid on this doubly festive occasion. The nuptials were
celebrated with more accompanying gladness than ever followed them.
The pomp was something uncommon in its way, and the bride must have
been wearied of being married long before the stupendous solemnity had
at length reached its slowly-arrived-at conclusion. She became Queen of
Prussia in 1712.
Honours now fell thick upon the Electoral family, but Sophia Dorothea
was not permitted to have any share therein. In 1706, Queen Anne
created her son, George Augustus, Baron of Tewkesbury, Viscount
Northallerton, Earl of Milford Haven, Marquis and Duke of Cambridge.
With these honours it was also decreed that he should enjoy full
precedence over the entire peerage.
There was a strong party in England whose most earnest desire it was
that the Electress Sophia, in whose person the succession to the crown
of Great Britain was settled, should repair to London--not permanently
to reside there, but in order that during a brief visit she might
receive the homage of the Protestant party. She was, however, reluctant
to move from her books, philosophy, and cards, until she could be
summoned as Queen. Failing here, an attempt was made to bring over
George Louis, who was nothing loth to come; but the idea of a visit
from him was to poor Queen Anne the uttermost abomination. Her Majesty
had some grounds for her dislike to a visit from her old wooer. She
was nervously in terror of a monster popular demonstration. Such a
demonstration was publicly talked of; and the enemies of the house of
Stuart, by way of instruction and warning to the Queen, whose Jacobite
bearing towards her brother was matter of notoriety, had determined, in
the event of George Louis visiting England, to give him an escort into
London that should amount to the very significant number of some forty
or fifty thousand men.
The journal of the lord-keeper, Cowper, states the official answer of
the princess to all the invitations which had been agitated by the
Hanoverian Tories during the year 1704 and the succeeding summer. ‘At
the Queen’s Cabinet Council, Sunday, the 11th of November 1705, foreign
letters read in her Majesty’s presence, the substance remarkable, that
at Hanover was a person, agent to the discontented party here, to
invite over the Princess Sophia and the Electoral Prince (afterwards
George II.) into England, assuring them that a party here was ready to
propose it. That the Princess Sophia had caused the same person to be
acquainted, “that she judged the message came from such as were enemies
to her family; that she would never hearken to such a proposal but
when it came from the Queen of England herself;” and withal she had
discouraged the attempt so much that it was believed nothing more could
be said in it.’
Sophia, who was naturally reluctant to come to England upon a mere
popular or partisan invitation, would gladly have come on the bidding
of the Queen. This was never given. In one year the Queen sent a
request to the Electress to aid her in promoting the peace of Europe,
and a present to her god-daughter Anne, the first child of George
Augustus and Caroline of Anspach. Earl Rivers carried both letter
and present. The letter was acknowledged with cold courtesy by the
Electress, in a communication to the Earl of Strafford, secretary of
state. The communication bears date the 11th of November 1711; and,
after saying that the gift is infinitely esteemed, the Electress
adds--‘I would not, however, give my _parchment_ for it, since that
will be an everlasting monument in the archives of Hanover, and the
present for the little princess will go, when she is grown up, into
another family.’
Early in 1714 Anne addressed a powerful remonstrance to the aged
Electress, complaining that ever since the Act of Succession had been
settled, there had been a constant agitation, the object of which was
to bring over a prince of the Hanoverian house to reside in England,
even during the writer’s life. She accuses the Electress of having
come, though perhaps tardily, into this sentiment, which had its origin
in political pretensions, and she adds, that if persevered in, it may
end in consequences dangerous to the succession itself, ‘which is not
secure any other ways than as the princess who actually wears the crown
maintains her authority and prerogative.’
Her Majesty addressed a second letter to George Augustus, as Duke of
Cambridge, expressing her thoughts with respect to the design he had of
coming into her kingdom. ‘I should tell you,’ she says, ‘nothing can be
more dangerous to the tranquillity of my dominions, and the right of
succession in your line, and consequently most disagreeable to me.’
The proud Dowager-Electress had declared that ‘she cared not when she
died, if on her tomb could be recorded that she was Queen of Great
Britain and Ireland.’ These words are said to have given great offence
to Queen Anne.
There is evidence that the last letters of Anne had something to do
with the death of the Electress. They had hardly been received and
read, when her health, which had been for some time failing, grew
worse. She rallied, however, for a time, and was able to take exercise,
but the blow had been given from which she never recovered.
Molyneux, an agent of the Duke of Marlborough at Hanover, says he was
on his way to the country palace of the Electress, when he was suddenly
informed that she had been seized with mortal illness in one of the
garden-walks.
‘I ran up there, and found her fast expiring in the arms of the poor
Electoral Princess (Caroline, afterwards Queen of George II.) and
amidst the tears of a great many of her servants, who endeavoured in
vain to help her. I can give you no account of her illness, but that
I believe the chagrin of those villainous letters I sent you last post
has been in a great measure the cause of it. The Rheingravine who has
been with her these fifteen years has told me she never knew anything
make so deep an impression on her as the affair of the prince’s
journey, which I am sure she had to the last degree at heart, and she
has done me the honour to tell me so twenty times. In the midst of
this, however, these letters arrived, and these, I verily believe, have
broken her heart and brought her with sorrow to the grave. The letters
were delivered on Wednesday, at seven.
‘When I came to court she was at cards, but was so full of these
letters that she got up and ordered me to follow her into the garden,
where she gave them to me to read, and walked, and spoke a great deal
in relation to them. I believe she walked three hours that night. The
next morning, which was Thursday, I heard that she was out of order,
and on going immediately to court, she ordered me to be called into her
bed-chamber. She gave me the letters I sent you to copy; she bade me
send them next post, and bring them afterwards to her to court. This
was on Friday. In the morning, on Friday, they told me she was very
well, but seemed much chagrined. She was dressed, and dined with the
Elector as usual. At four, she did me the honour to send to town for
some other copies of the same letters; and then she was still perfectly
well. She walked and talked very heartily in the orangery. After that,
about six, she went out to walk in the garden, and was still very well.
A shower of rain came, and as she was walking pretty fast to get to
shelter, they told her she was walking a little too fast. She answered,
“I believe I do,” and dropped down on saying these words, which were
her last. They raised her up, chafed her with spirits, tried to bleed
her; but it was all in vain, and when I came up, she was as dead as if
she had been four days so.’[2] Such was the end, on the 10th of June
1714, of a very remarkable woman.
CHAPTER XI.
AHLDEN AND ENGLAND.
The neglected captive of Ahlden--Unnoticed by her son-in-law,
except to secure her property--Madame von Schulenburg--The Queen
of Prussia prohibited from corresponding with her imprisoned
mother--The captive betrayed by Count de Bar--Death of Queen
Anne--Anxiety felt for the arrival of King George--The Duke
of Marlborough’s entry--Funeral of the Queen--Public entry of
the King--Adulation of Dr. Young--Madame Kielmansegge, the new
royal favourite--Horace Walpole’s account of her--‘A Hanover
garland’--Ned Ward, the Tory poet--Expression of the public
opinion--The Duchess of Kendal bribed by Lord Bolingbroke--
Bribery and corruption general--Abhorrence of parade by the King.
During marriage festivals and court _fêtes_ held to celebrate some step
in greatness, Sophia Dorothea continued to vegetate in Ahlden. She was
politically dead; and even in the domestic occurrences of her family,
events in which a mother might be gracefully allowed to have a part,
she enjoyed no share. The marriages of her children and the births of
_their_ children were not officially communicated to her. She was left
to learn them through chance or the courtesy of individuals.
Her daughter was now the second Queen of Prussia, but the King
cared not to exercise his influence in behalf of his unfortunate
mother-in-law. Not that he was unconcerned with respect to her. His
consort was heiress to property over which her mother had control, and
Frederick was not tranquil of mind until this property had been secured
as the indisputable inheritance of his wife. He was earnest enough in
his correspondence with Sophia Dorothea until this consummation was
arrived at; and when he held the writings which secured the succession
of certain portions of the property of the duchess on his consort, he
ceased to trouble himself further with any question connected with the
unfortunate prisoner; except, indeed, that he forbade his wife to hold
any further intercourse with her mother, by letter or otherwise.
Few and trivial are the incidents told of her long captivity. The
latter had been embittered, in 1703, by the knowledge that Mademoiselle
von der Schulenburg was the mother of another daughter, Margaret
Gertrude, of whom the Elector was the father. This child was ten years
younger than her sister, Petronilla Melusina, who subsequently figured
at the Court of George II. as Countess of Walsingham, and who was the
uncared-for wife of Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield.
Previous to the prohibition laid on his wife by the King of Prussia,
an epistolary intercourse had been privately maintained between Sophia
Dorothea and her daughter. Such intercourse had never received the
King’s sanction; and when it came to his knowledge, at the period of
the settlement of part of the maternal property on the daughter, he
peremptorily ordered its cessation. It had been maintained chiefly by
means of a Chevalier de Bar; Ludwig, a privy-councillor at Berlin;
Frederick, a page of the Queen’s; and a bailiff of the castle of
Ahlden. There were too many confederates in a matter so simple, and the
whole of them betrayed the poor lady, for whom they professed to act.
The most important agent was the chevalier: in him the duchess confided
longest, and in his want of faith she was the last to believe. He had
introduced himself to her by sending her presents of snuff, no unusual
present to a lady in those days--though it is pretended that these
gifts bore a peculiar signification, known only to the donor and the
recipient. They probably had less meaning than the presents forwarded
to the prisoner by her daughter, consisting now of her portrait,
another time of a watch, or some other trinket, which served to pass a
letter with it, in which were filial injunctions to the poor mother to
be patient and resigned, and to put no trust in the Count de Bar.
The prisoner did not heed the counsel, but continued to confide in
a man who was prodigal of promise, and traitorous of performance.
Her hopes were fixed upon escaping, but they were foiled by the
watchfulness of noble spies, who exultingly told her that her husband
was a king. And it is asserted that she might have been a recognised
queen if she would but have confessed that she had failed in obedience
towards her husband. It is certain that a renewed, but it may not have
been an honest, attempt at reconciliation was made just previous to
the accession of George I., but the old reply fell from the prisoner’s
lips:--‘If I am guilty, I am not worthy of him: if I am innocent, he is
not worthy of me.’
The death of the Electress Sophia, in 1714, was followed very shortly
after by the demise of Queen Anne. This event had taken all parties
somewhat by surprise. They stood face to face, as it were, over the
dying Queen. The Jacobites were longing for her to name her brother
as her successor, whom they would have proclaimed at once at the
head of the army. The Hanoverian party were feverish with fears and
anticipations; but they had the regency dressed up and ready in the
back ground, and Secretary Craggs, booted and spurred, was making such
haste as could then be made on his road to Hanover, to summon King
George. The Jacobite portion of the cabinet was individually bold in
resolving what ought to be done, but they were, bodily, afraid of the
responsibility of doing it. Each man of each faction had _his_ king’s
name ready upon his lips, awaiting only that the lethargy of the Queen
should be succeeded by irretrievable death to give it joyful utterance.
Anne died on the 1st of August 1714; the Jacobites drew a breath of
hesitation; and in the meantime the active Whigs instantly proclaimed
King George, gave Addison the mission of announcing the demise of one
sovereign to another, who was that sovereign’s successor, and left the
Jacobites to their vexation and their threatened redress.
Lord Berkley was sent with the fleet to Orange Polder, in Holland,
there to bring over the new King; but Craggs had not only taken a very
long time to carry his invitation to the monarch, but the husband of
Sophia, when he received it, showed no hot haste to take advantage
thereof. The Earl of Dorset was despatched over to press his immediate
coming, on the ground of the affectionate impatience of his new
subjects. The King was no more moved thereby than he was by the first
announcement of Lord Clarendon, the English ambassador, at Hanover.
On the night of the 5th of August that envoy had received an express,
announcing the demise of the Queen. At two o’clock in the morning he
hastened with what he supposed the joyful intelligence to Herrnhausen,
and caused George Louis to be aroused, that he might be the first to
salute him as King. The new monarch yawned, expressed himself vexed,
and went to sleep again as calmly as any serene highness. In the
morning some one delicately hinted, as if to encourage the husband of
Sophia Dorothea in staying where he was, that the presbyterian party
in England was a dangerous regicidal party. ‘Not so,’ said George, who
seemed to be satisfied that there was no peril in the new greatness;
‘not so; I have nothing to fear from the king-killers; they are all on
my side.’ But still he tarried; one day decreeing the abolition of the
excise, the next ordering, like King Arthur in Fielding’s tragedy, all
the insolvent debtors to be released from prison. While thus engaged,
London was busy with various pleasant occupations.
On the 3rd of August the late Queen was opened; and on the following
day her bowels were buried, with as much ceremony as they deserved,
in Westminster Abbey. The day subsequent to this ceremony, the Duke
of Marlborough, who had been in voluntary exile abroad, and whose
office in command of the imperial armies had been held for a short
time, and not discreditably, by George Louis, made a triumphant entry
into London. The triumph, however, was marred by the sudden breaking
down of his coach at Temple-Bar--an accident ominous of his not again
rising to power. The Lords and Commons then sent renewed assurances
of loyalty to Hanover, and renewed prayers that the lord there would
doff his electoral cap, and come and try his kingly crown. To quicken
this, the lower house, on the 10th, voted him the same revenues the
late Queen had enjoyed--excepting those arising from the Duchy of
Cornwall, which were, by law, invested in the Prince of Wales. On
the 13th Craggs arrived in town to herald the King’s coming; and on
the 14th the Hanoverian party were delighted to hear that on the
Pretender repairing from Lorraine to Versailles, to implore of Louis
to acknowledge him publicly as king, the French monarch had pleaded,
in bar, his engagements with the House of Hanover, and that thereon
the Pretender had returned dispirited to Lorraine. On the 24th of the
month the late Queen’s body was privately buried in Westminster Abbey,
by order of her successor, who appeared to have a dread of finding the
old lady of his young love yet upon the earth. This order was followed
by another, which ejected from their places many officials who had
hoped to retain them--and chief of these was Bolingbroke. London then
became excited at hearing that the King had arrived at the Hague on
the 5th of September. It was calculated that the nearer he got to his
kingdom the more accelerated would be his speed; but George was not
to be hurried. Madame Kielmansegge, who shared what was called his
regard with Mademoiselle von der Schulenburg, had been retarded in her
departure from Hanover by the heaviness of her debts. The daughter
of the Countess von Platen would not have been worthy of her mother
had she suffered herself to be long detained by such a trifle. She,
accordingly, gave her creditors the slip, set off to Holland, and was
received with a heavy sort of delight by the King. The exemplary couple
tarried above a week at the Hague; and, on the 16th of September George
and his retinue set sail for England. Between that day and the day of
his arrival at Greenwich, the heads of the Regency were busy in issuing
decrees:--now it was for the prohibition of fireworks on the day of his
Majesty’s entry; next against the admission of unprivileged carriages
into Greenwich Park on the King’s arrival; and, lastly, one promising
one hundred thousand pounds to any loyal subject who might be lucky
enough to catch the Pretender in England, and who would bring him a
prisoner to London.
On the 18th of September the King landed at Greenwich; and on the
two following days, while he sojourned there, he was waited on by
various officials, who went smiling to the foot of the throne, and
came away frowning at the cold treatment they received there. They who
thought themselves the most secure endured the most disgraceful falls,
especially the Duke of Ormond, who, as captain-general, had been three
parts inclined to proclaim the Pretender. He repaired in gorgeous array
to do homage to King George; but the King would only receive his staff
of office, and would _not_ see the ex-bearer of it; who returned home
with one dignity the less, and for George one enemy the more.
The public entry into London on the 20th was splendid, and so was
the court holden at St. James’s on the following day. A lively
incident, however, marked the proceedings of this first court. Colonel
Chudleigh, in the crowd, branded Mr. Allworth, M.P. for New Windsor,
as a Jacobite; whereupon they both left the palace, went in a coach to
Marylebone Fields, and there fought a duel, in which Mr. Allworth was
killed on the spot. This was the first libation of blood offered to the
King.
No poet affected to deplore the decease of Anne with such profundity of
jingling grief as Young. He had not then achieved a name, and he was
eagerly desirous to build up a fortune. His threnodia on the death of
Queen Anne is a fine piece of measured maudlin; but the author appears
to have bethought himself, before he had expended half his stock of
sorrows, that there would be more profit in welcoming a living than
bewailing a defunct monarch. Accordingly, wiping up his tears, and
arraying his face in the blandest of smiles, he addressed himself to
the double task of recording the reception of George and registering
his merits. He first, however, apologetically states, as his warrant
for turning from weeping for Anne to cheering for George, that all the
sorrow in the world cannot reverse doom, that groans cannot ‘unlock th’
inexorable tomb’; that a fond indulgence of woe is sad folly, for, from
such a course, he exclaims, with a fine eye to a poet’s profit--
What fruit can rise or what advantage flow!
So, turning his face from the tomb of Anne to the throne of George, he
grandiosely waves his hat, and thus he sings:--
Welcome great stranger to Britannia’s throne!
Nor let thy country think thee all her own.
Of thy delay how oft did we complain!
Our hope reach’d out and met thee on the main.
With pray’r we smooth the billows for thy feet,
With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet;
And when thy foot took place on Albion’s shore,
_We, bending, bless’d the Gods and ask’d no more!_
What hand but thine should conquer and compose,
Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes,
Repel the daring youth’s presumptuous aim,
And by his rival’s greatness give him fame?
Now, in some foreign court he may sit down,
And quit without a blush the British crown;
Secure his honour, though he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.
This sneer at the Pretender is as contemptible as the flattery of
George is gross; and the picture of an entire nation on its knees,
blessing Olympus, and bidding the gods to restrain all further gifts,
is as magnificent a mixture of bombast and blasphemy as ever was made
up by venal poet. But here is more of it:--
Nor think, great sir, now first at this late hour,
In Britain’s favour you exert your power;
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
The numerous tokens of your princely grace;
Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine,
Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine,
In the more scenes your genius was display’d
The greater debt was on Britannia laid:
They all conspired this mighty man to raise,
And your new subjects proudly share the praise.
Such is the record of a rhymer: Walpole, in plain and truthful prose,
tells a very different story. He informs us that the London mob were
highly diverted at the importation by the King of his uncommon seraglio
of ugly women. ‘They were food,’ he says, ‘for all the venom of the
Jacobites,’ and so far from Britain thanking him for coming himself, or
for bringing with him _these_ numerous tokens of his princely grace,
‘nothing could be grosser than the ribaldry vomited out in lampoons,
libels, and every channel of abuse, against the sovereign and the new
court, and chanted even in their hearing about the public streets.’
Mademoiselle von Schulemberg (_sic_) was created Duchess of Kendal.
‘The younger Mademoiselle von Schulemberg, who came over with her, and
was created Countess of Walsingham, passed for her niece, but was so
like the King, that it is not very credible that the duchess, who had
affected to pass for cruel, had waited for the left-handed marriage.’
Lady Walsingham, as previously said, was afterwards married to the
celebrated Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield.
To the Duchess of Kendal--George (who was so shocked at the infidelity
of which his wife was alleged to be guilty) was to the mistress as
inconstant as to the wife he had been untrue. He set aside the former,
to put in her place Madame Kielmansegge, called, like her mother,
Countess von Platen. On the death of her husband, in 1721, he raised
her to the rank of Countess of Leinster in Ireland, Countess of
Darlington and Baroness of Brentford in England. Coxe says of her, that
her power over the King was not equal to that of the Duchess of Kendal,
but her character for rapacity was not inferior. Horace Walpole has
graphically portrayed Lady Darlington in the following passage:--
‘Lady Darlington, whom I saw at my mother’s in my infancy, and whom I
remember by being terrified at her enormous figure, was as corpulent
and ample as the duchess was long and emaciated. The fierce black
eyes, large, and rolling beneath two lofty arched eyebrows, two acres
of cheeks spread with crimson, an ocean of neck that overflowed, and
was not distinguished from, the lower part of her body, and no part
restrained by stays--no wonder that a child dreaded such an ogress.’
The mob had a strong Tory leaven at this time, and among the multitude
circulated a mass of broadsides and ballads, of so openly a seditious
character that the power of the law was stringently applied to suppress
the evil. Before the year was out half the provincial towns in England
were infected with seditious sentiments against the Whig government,
which had brought in a King whose way of life was a scandal to them.
This feeling of contempt for both King and government was wide as well
as deep; and it was so craftily made use of by the leaders of public
opinion, that, before George had been three months upon the throne, the
‘High-church rabble,’ as the Tory party was called, in various country
towns were violent in their proceedings against the government; and
at Axminster, in Devonshire, shouted for the Pretender, and drank his
health as King of England. The conduct of George to his wife, Sophia
Dorothea, was as satirically dealt with, in the way of censure, as any
of his delinquencies, and his character as a husband was not forgotten
in the yearly tumults of his time, which broke out on every recurring
anniversary of Queen Anne’s birthday (April the 23rd) to the end of his
reign.
If the new King was dissatisfied with his new subjects, he liked as
little the manners of England. ‘This is a strange country,’ said his
Majesty; ‘the first morning after my arrival at St. James’s, I looked
out of the window, and saw a park, with walks, a canal, and so forth,
which they told me were mine. The next day, Lord Chetwynd, the ranger
of _my_ park, sent me a fine brace of carp out of _my_ canal, and I
was told that I must give five guineas to Lord Chetwynd’s servant, for
bringing me _my own_ carp, out of _my own_ canal, in _my own_ park!’
The monarch’s mistresses loved as much to receive money as the King
himself loved little to part from it. The Duchess of Kendal’s rapacity
has been mentioned: one instance of it is mentioned by Coxe, on the
authority of Sir Robert Walpole, to the effect that ‘the restoration of
Lord Bolingbroke was the work of the Duchess of Kendal. He gained the
duchess by a present of eleven thousand pounds, and obtained a promise
to use her influence over the King for the purpose of forwarding his
complete restoration.’ Horace Walpole states that the duchess was no
friend of Sir Robert, and wished to make Lord Bolingbroke minister in
his room. The rapacious mistress was jealous of Sir Robert’s credit
with the monarch. Monarch and minister transacted business through the
medium of indifferent Latin; the King not being able to speak English,
and Sir Robert, like a country gentleman of England, knowing nothing
of either German or French. ‘It was much talked of,’ says the lively
writer of the ‘Reminiscences of the Courts of the first two Georges,’
‘that Sir Robert, detecting one of the Hanoverian ministers in some
trick or falsehood before the King’s face, had the firmness to say to
the German, “_Mentiris impudentissime!_” The good-humoured monarch
only laughed, as he often did when Sir Robert complained to him of his
Hanoverians selling places, nor would be persuaded that it was not
the practice of the English court.’ The singularity of this complaint
is, that it was made by a minister who was notorious for complacently
saying, that ‘Every man in the House of Commons had his price.’
CHAPTER XII.
CROWN AND GRAVE.
Arrival of Caroline, Princess of Wales--The King dines
at the Guildhall--Proclamation of the Pretender--
Counter-proclamations--Government prosecutions--A mutiny among
the troops--Impeachment of the Duke of Ormond of high treason
--Punishment of political offenders--Failure of rebellion
in Scotland--Punishment for wearing oak-boughs--Riot at the
mug-house in Salisbury Court, and its fatal consequences--The
Prince of Wales removed from the palace--Dissensions between
the King and the Prince--Attempt on the life of King George--
Marriage of the King’s illegitimate daughter--The South-Sea
Bubble--Birth of Prince William, the butcher of Culloden--Death
of the Duchess of Zell--Stricter imprisonment of the captive of
Ahlden--Her calm death--A new royal favourite, Mrs. Brett--Death
of the King.
While Sophia Dorothea continued to linger in her prison, her husband
and son, with the mistresses of the former and the wife of the latter,
were enjoying the advantages and anxieties which surround a throne. The
wife of the Prince of Wales, Caroline, arrived at Margate on the 13th
of October. She was accompanied by her two eldest daughters, Anne and
Amelia. Mother and children rested during one day in the town where
they had landed, slept one night at Rochester, and arrived at St.
James’s on the 15th. The royal coronation took place in Westminster
Abbey on the 20th of the same month. Amid the pomp of the occasion, no
one appears to have thought of her who should have been Queen-consort.
There was much splendour and some calamity, for as the procession was
sweeping by, several people were killed by the fall of scaffolding in
the Palace Yard. The new King entered the Abbey amid the cheers and
screams of an excited multitude.
Three days after, the monarch, with the Prince and Princess of Wales,
dined with the Lord Mayor and corporation in the Guildhall, London, and
there George performed the first grateful service to his people, by
placing a thousand guineas in the hands of the sheriffs, for the relief
of the wretched debtors then immured in the neighbouring horrible
prisons of Newgate and the Fleet.
Within a month, the general festivities were a little marred by the
proclamation of the Pretender, dated from Lorraine, wherein he laid
claim to the throne which George was declared to have usurped. At this
period the Duke of Lorraine was a sovereign prince, maintaining an
envoy at our court; but the latter was ordered to withdraw from the
country immediately after the arrival of the ‘Lorraine proclamation’ by
the French mail. Already George I. began to feel that on the throne he
was destined to enjoy less quiet than his consort in her prison.
The counter-proclamations made in this country, chiefly on account
of the Jacobite riots at Oxford and some other places, were made up
of nonsense and malignity, and were well calculated to make a good
cause wear the semblance of a bad one. They decreed, or announced,
thanksgiving on the 20th of January, for the accession of the House of
Hanover; and, to show what a portion of the people had to be thankful
for, they ordered a rigorous execution of the laws against papists,
non-jurors, and dissenters generally, who were assumed to be, as a
matter of course, disaffected to the reigning house.
After some of the first troubles of his reign had been got over, the
King visited Hanover, where he invested his brother, the Duke of York,
and Prince Frederick with the Order of the Garter. He even partook of
the pleasures of the chase in the woods around Ahlden; but except
ordering a more stringent rule for the safe-keeping of his consort, he
took no further notice of Sophia Dorothea. He returned to London on
the 18th of January 1716–17, and on that day week, hearing that the
episcopal clergy of Scotland continued to refuse to pray for him, he
issued a decree, which compelled many to fly the country or otherwise
abscond. The English clergy experienced even harsher treatment for less
offence. I may mention, as an instance, the case of the Rev. Laurence
Howell, who, for writing a pamphlet called ‘The State of Schism in
the Church of England truly stated,’ was stripped of his gown by the
executioner, fined 500_l._, imprisoned three years, and was sentenced
to be twice publicly whipped by the hangman!
On the first absence of the King from England, the Prince of Wales was
appointed regent, but he was never entrusted with that high office a
second time. ‘It is probable,’ says Walpole, ‘that the son discovered
too much fondness for acting the king, as that the father conceived a
jealousy of his having done so. Sure it is, that on the King’s return,
great divisions arose in the court, and the Whigs were divided--some
devoting themselves to the wearer of the crown and others to the
expectant.’ So that, in the second year of his reign, the King not only
held his wife in prison, but his son and heir was banished from his
presence.
Passing over the record of public events, the next interesting fact
connected with the private life of the faithless husband of Sophia
Dorothea was the marriage of his illegitimate daughter Charlotte with
Lord Viscount Howe. The bride’s mother was Charlotte Sophia, daughter
of the Countess von Platen; and Charlotte Sophia was decently married
to Baron Kielmansegge, Master of the Horse to George I. In 1719, at
the time of the above marriage, the baroness was a widow. George I.
himself gave away the bride as the baroness’s niece. ‘The King,’ says
Walpole, ‘was indisputably her father; and the first child born of this
union was named George, after the King.’ The Princess Amelia, daughter
of George II., ‘treated Lady Howe’s daughter, “Mistress Howe,” as a
princess of the blood-royal, and presented her with a ring, containing
a small portrait of George I., with a crown in diamonds.’ The best
result of this marriage was, that the famous Admiral Howe was one of
the sons born of it, and that was the only benefit which the country
derived from the vicious conduct of George I. If the marriage of the
child of one mistress tended to mortify the vanity of another, as is
said to have been the case with Von der Schulenburg, King George found
a way to pacify her. That lady was already Duchess of Munster, in
Ireland, and the King, in April 1719, created her a baroness, countess,
and duchess of Great Britain, by the name, style, and title of Baroness
of Glastonbury, Countess of Feversham, and Duchess of Kendal; and this
done, the King soon after embarked at Gravesend for Hanover.
The year 1720 saw King George more upon the Continent than at home,
where indeed universal misery reigned, in consequence of the bursting
of the great South Sea Bubble, which had promised such golden solidity
--which ended in such disappointment and ruin, and for furthering which
the Duchess of Kendal and her daughter received bribes of 10,000_l._
each. In April of the following year, William Augustus was born at
Leicester House. The daughter of Sophia Dorothea was his godmother; her
husband and the Duke of York were the godfathers. This son of George
Augustus and Caroline of Anspach, Prince and Princess of Wales, was
afterwards famous as the Duke of Cumberland.
On the 17th of January 1721, the royal family went into mourning, and
this was the only domestic incident of the reign in which Sophia
Dorothea was allowed to participate. With her, the mourning was not a
mere formality; it was not assumed, but was a testimony offered, in
sign of her sorrow, for the death of her mother, Eleanora, Duchess
of Zell. The Duchess had seen little of her daughter for some time
previous to her death, but she bequeathed to her as much of her private
property as she had power to dispose of by will.
Sophia Dorothea had now a considerable amount of funds placed to her
credit in the bank of Amsterdam. Of the incidents of her captivity
nothing whatever is known, save that it was most rigidly maintained.
She was forgotten by the world, because unseen, and they who kept
her in prison were as silent about her as the keepers of the Man in
the Iron Mask were about that mysterious object of their solicitude.
Where little is known there is little to be told. The captive bore her
restraint with a patience which even her daughter must have admired;
but she was not without hopes of escaping from a thraldom from which
it was clear she could never be released by the voluntary act of those
who kept her in an undeserved custody. It is believed that her funds
at Amsterdam were intended by her to be disposed of in the purchase of
aid to secure her escape; but it is added that her agents betrayed her,
embezzled her property, and by revealing for what purpose they were her
agents, brought upon her a closer arrest than any under which she had
hitherto suffered. Romance has made some additions to these items of
intelligence--items, great portions of which rest only on conjecture.
The undoubted fact that much of the property which she inherited was
to pass to her children rendered the death of a mother a consummation
to be desired by (it was said) so indifferent a son and daughter as
the Prince of Wales and the Queen of Prussia. The interest held by her
husband was of a similar description, and the fatal consequences that
might follow were not unprovided for by the friends of the prisoner.
‘It is known,’ says Walpole, ‘that in Queen Anne’s time there was much
noise about French prophets. A female of that vocation (for we know
from Scripture that the gift of prophecy is not limited to one gender)
warned George I. to take care of his wife, as he would not survive
her a year. That oracle was probably dictated to the French Deborah
by the Duke and Duchess of Zell, who might be apprehensive that the
Duchess of Kendal might be tempted to remove entirely the obstacle
to her conscientious union with their son-in-law. Most Germans are
superstitious, even such as have few other impressions of religion.
George gave such credit to the denunciation, that, on the eve of his
last departure, he took leave of his son and the Princess of Wales with
tears, telling them he should never see them more. It was certainly his
own approaching end that melted him, not the thought of quitting for
ever two persons that he hated.’
The poor princess, ‘Queen of Great Britain,’ as those who loved
her were wont to call her, had been long in declining health, born
of declining hopes; and yet she endured all things with patience,
contenting herself in her last moments with reasserting her innocence,
commending herself to God, naming her children, and pardoning her
oppressors. On the 2nd of November 1726, after much hope, not only
deferred but crushed out; after much disappointment of expectations,
built on the promises of false friends; and after marked but gradual
decrease of health, Sophia Dorothea became suddenly and dangerously
ill. She lost all consciousness, and on the 13th of the month she lay
dead on her bed in the castle of Ahlden.
The news soon reached Hanover, where the authorities, with a feeling of
becomingness, ordered a general mourning as for the death of a queen in
the land. As soon as this decent step was known in England, the King
was vulgar in his wrath. He sent peremptory orders to Hanover to do
away immediately with all signs of mourning, and the officials, if not
the public, went into ordinary, or holiday, gear.
At the Court of Berlin, the daughter of Sophia Dorothea, the King, and
consequently all the Prussian fashionable world, assumed the deepest
mourning, as for a Queen of England so nearly allied to the Queen of
Prussia. The King of Great Britain took this natural circumstance
for an insult; but he was obliged to bear, albeit with blaspheming
impatience, what he could not resent. The simple royal order for the
funeral was that the Duchess of Ahlden should be buried in a grave dug
for her on the banks of the Aller. The soil was dug into, over and over
again, but the water rushed in and mocked the attempts of the workmen.
Meanwhile, the body of Sophia Dorothea lay in a plain leaden coffin in
the castle and no one knew what to do with it, for fear of offending
the King. After several weeks had passed, a few strong men carried it
down to a cellar, and, covering it over with a cart-load or two of
sand, left it till further gracious orders should arrive from over the
water.
At the end of six months there was a stir in the royal stud stables at
Zell. Four of the King’s horses were taken thence and were ridden over
to Ahlden. The chief of the men in charge there showed the royal order
by which he was commissioned to take up the body from beneath the heap
of sand and carry it back to Zell. And this was to be done without any
ceremony whatever.
Accordingly, at midnight the coffin was dragged from under the sand,
hoisted into a suitable vehicle, and it was unceremoniously jolted over
the rough roads till it reached the chief church in the old ducal city
of Zell. The necessary workpeople were ready. They carried the plain
leaden coffin down to the vault below, and without any circumstance of
prayer or outward respect, they cast it into a corner; and there it
still lies, without even a name on the rough lead to indicate whose sad
burthen of life is deposited within.
Her royal husband in England simply notified in the _London Gazette_
that a Duchess of Ahlden had died at her residence on the date above
named; but he did not add that he had thereby lost a wife, or his
children lost a mother. No intimation was given of the relationship she
held towards him or them. The quality of his affection was illustrated
by his explosion of rage when he heard that his daughter, with the
Court of Prussia, had gone into mourning for the death of her mother.
The husband of Sophia Dorothea became of gayer humour than usual after
her death. After receiving intelligence of that event, the royal
widower went to see the Italian comedians in the Haymarket act ‘Il
Mercante Prodigo,’ or ‘Harlequin Prodigal Merchant.’ He liked this
sort of entertainment so well, that, a few nights later, he commanded
the performance of ‘Pantalone, Barone di Sloffenburgo,’ at the King’s
Theatre. On Christmas Eve, the newspapers recorded the fact that Prince
Waldeck (who had come over with despatches in November) had taken leave
of his Majesty and had returned to Hanover. Therewith seemed to have
come the end of a long, and dark, and mournful history.
In the list of the persons of note and distinction in Great Britain
and Ireland, and of the Foreign Princes who died in the year
1726--published in the _Daily Post_ in January 1727, no record was made
of the demise of Sophia Dorothea. On the other hand, there is an entry
of a bereavement by which her husband, the King, had been afflicted,
in the same mouth of November, namely, in the death of ‘Mr. Mahomet,
_valet de chambre_ to his Majesty.’
A story was current that Sophia Dorothea, on her death-bed, had
summoned her husband, the King, to meet her at the great judgment
seat of Heaven within a year. This summons was conveyed in a letter
addressed by her to him, but it was not delivered to the King till
after he had, in nervous restlessness, set out for Hanover.
On the night of the 2nd of June 1727, little Horace Walpole, then
ten years old, was conducted by the King’s illegitimate daughter,
Petronilla Melusina (Lady Walsingham) to the King himself, to kiss the
royal hand as his Majesty passed on his way to sup (for the last time,
as it proved) with Petronilla’s mother (the former von der Schulenburg,
now Duchess of Kendal) the King’s old mistress. This presentation
had been accorded to the prayer of the first minister’s wife, Horace
Walpole’s mother.
On the following day, the 3rd of June, the King left England. On the
night of that day week he died at Osnaburgh, aged sixty-seven years and
thirteen days. The King had landed at Vaer, in Holland, on the 7th, and
he travelled thence to Utrecht, by land, escorted by the Guards to the
frontiers of Holland. On Friday, the 9th, he reached Dalden, at twelve
at night, when he was apparently in excellent health. He partook of
supper largely, and with appetite, eating, among other things, part of
a melon, a fruit which has killed more than one emperor of Germany. At
three the next morning he resumed his journey. According to the story
to which allusion has just been made, the letter of Sophia Dorothea was
then given to him. He read it, appeared shocked, and became ill. He was
probably moved by something more than mere sentiment, for he had not
travelled two hours when he was attacked by violent abdominal pains.
He hurried on to Linden, where dinner awaited him; but, being able
to eat nothing, he was immediately bled, and other remedies made use
of. Anxious to reach Hanover, he ordered the journey to be continued
with all speed. He fell into a lethargic doze in the carriage, and so
continued, leaning on a gentleman in waiting who was with him in the
carriage. To this attendant he feebly announced in French, ‘I am a dead
man.’ He reached the episcopal palace at Osnaburgh at ten that night;
was again bled in the arm and foot, but ineffectually; his lethargy
increased, and he died about midnight.
The King’s mistress, the Duchess of Kendal, who had gone thither to
meet him, tore her hair, beat her breast, and uttered loud cries of
despair at this bereavement. She repaired to Brunswick and shut herself
up, for three months, as the most afflicted of widows. Subsequently,
she returned to her house near Isleworth. A raven was the last pet of
this lady; and the familiarity of the two gave rise to the popular
legend that George had promised to visit his old mistress, after death,
if such circumstance were allowed, and that he was keeping his word in
the shape of the much caressed bird in sables.
Even in her estrangement from her husband, Sophia Dorothea never
uttered a word of complaint against him. She never failed to exhibit
either mildness or dignity in her captivity: on the contrary, she
manifested both; and Coxe says of her, in his ‘Memoirs of Walpole,’
that, ‘on receiving the sacrament once every week, she never omitted
making the most solemn asseverations that she was not guilty of the
crime laid to her charge.’ Her son (George II.) had a double fault in
his father’s eyes, namely, his popularity, and, at one time, his love
for his mother--whom he loved, we are told, as much as he hated his
father. A pleasant household, a sorry hearth; mistresses resting their
rouged cheeks on the monarch’s bosom, a wife in prison, and a son
hating her oppressor, and loving, but not redressing, the oppressed.
Had Sophia Dorothea survived her consort, her son, it is said, had
determined to bring her over to England and proclaim her Queen-dowager.
Lady Suffolk, the snubbed mistress of that son, expressed to Horace
Walpole her surprise on going (in the morning after the intelligence
of the death of George I. had reached England) to the new Queen, ‘at
seeing, hung up in the Queen’s dressing-room, a whole-length of a
lady in royal robes; and, in the bed-chamber, a half-length of the
same person, neither of which Lady Suffolk had ever seen before. The
prince had kept them concealed, not daring to produce them during the
life of his father. The whole-length he probably sent to Hanover. The
half-length I have frequently seen in the library of the Princess
Amelia, who told me it was the property of her grandmother. She
bequeathed it, with other pictures of her family, to her nephew, the
Landgrave of Hesse.’
If George II. never in his later days named his mother, it was because
the enemies of the dynasty pretended to trace in the features of the
second George a likeness to Count Königsmark, his mother’s gallant
cavalier! The Whigs had denied the legitimacy of the son of James II.,
and the Tories embraced with eagerness an opportunity to deny that of
the heir of Brunswick.
The son of Sophia Dorothea was the pupil of his grandmother, Sophia
of Hanover; and his boyhood did little credit to the system, or the
acknowledged good sense of his instructress.
When the Earl of Macclesfield was at Hanover, in the year 1700, bearing
with him that Act of Succession which secured a throne for the husband
and son of Sophia Dorothea, that son, George Augustus, was not yet out
of his ‘teens.’ He was of that age at which a prince is considered
wise enough to rule kingdoms, but is yet incapable of governing
himself. At that time he was said to ‘give the greatest hopes of
himself that we, or any people on earth, could desire.’ He was not of
proud stature, indeed--and Alexander was not six feet high; but Toland
asserts, what is very hard to believe, that George possessed a winning
countenance, and a manly aspect and deportment. In later years, he was
rigid of feature, and walked as a man does who is stiff in the joints.
He was, in the days of his youth, a graceful and easy speaker; that is,
his phrases were well constructed, and he expressed them with facility.
His complexion was fair, and his hair a light brown. Like his father,
he spoke Latin fluently; and English much better than his father, but
with a decided foreign accent, like William of Orange. As the utmost
care was taken, according to Toland, to furnish him with such other
accomplishments as are fit for a gentleman and a prince, it is a pity
that he made so unprofitable a use of so desirable a provision. He was
tolerably well-versed in history, but history to him was not philosophy
teaching by example; for though, in his earlier years, panegyrists said
of him, not only that his inclinations were virtuous, but that he was
‘wholly free from all vice,’ his life, subsequently, could not be so
characterised, and the later practice marred the fair precedent. But
let Toland limn the object of his love.
‘These acquired parts,’ he says, ‘with a generous disposition and a
virtuous inclination, will deservedly render him the darling of our
people, and probably grace the English throne with a most knowing
prince.’ In the popular sense of the term, the last words cannot be
denied; and yet he never knew how to obtain, or cared how to merit,
his people’s love. ‘He learns English with inexpressible facility,
and has not only learned of his grandmother to have a real esteem for
Englishmen, but he likewise entertains a high notion of the wisdom,
goodness, and power of the English government, concerning which I
heard him, to my great satisfaction, ask several pertinent questions,
and such as betokened no mean or common observation. I was surprised
to find he understood so much of our affairs already; but his great
vivacity will not let him be ignorant of anything. There is nothing
more to be wished,’ says Toland, ‘but that he be proof against the
temptations which accompany greatness, and defended from the poisonous
infection of flatterers, who are the greatest bane of society, and
commonly occasion the ruin of princes, if not in their lives, yet, at
least, in their fame and reputation.’ It was under the temptations
alluded to that George Augustus made shipwreck of his fame. His
history, however, will be traced more fully hereafter. At present we
will only consider the career and character of his sister.
The daughter of Sophia Dorothea, some years younger than her brother,
was a promising girl when the Act of Succession opened a throne to
her father, but not to her mother. She had in her youth sweetness of
manners, fairness of features, and a soft and winning voice. Her fair
brown hair, as in her mother’s case, heightened the grace and charms of
a fair complexion; and her blue eyes were the admiration of the poets,
and the inspiration even of those whom the gods had not made poetical.
Her features, taken singly, were not without defect; but the expression
which pervaded them was a good substitute for purely unintellectual
beauty. The Electress Sophia was, if not her governess, the
superintendent of her governesses; and the training, rigid and formal,
failed in the development that was most to be desired. ‘In minding
her discourse to others,’ says Toland, ‘and by what she was pleased
to say to myself, she appears to have a more than ordinary share of
good sense and wit. The whole town and court commend the easiness of
her manners, and the evenness of her disposition; but, above all her
other qualities, they highly extol her good humour, which is the most
valuable endowment of either sex, and the foundation of most other
virtues. Upon the whole, considering her personal merit and the dignity
of her family, I heartily wish and hope to see her some day Queen of
Sweden.’ This hearty wish was not to be realised. The younger Sophia
Dorothea became the wife of a brute and the mother of a hero. The old
paternal Seigneurie of ‘D’Olbreuse, dans le pays D’Aulnis,’ was raised
to the dignity of a Countship in 1729. It became the property of Sophia
Dorothea’s children, George II., King of England, and Sophia, Queen
of Prussia. They, with some propriety--but probably under constraint
of the law of France--made it over to the nearest French relative of
Eleanora D’Olbreuse, Sophia Dorothea’s mother--Alexandre Prevost de
Gayemont.
This would seem to be the end of a sad history. But the persecution of
Sophia Dorothea did not terminate with her life.
A hundred and seven years after Sophia Dorothea had ended that unhappy
life, her unhappy story was revived, and her memory was now made to
suffer under calumny that had not been thought of in her life-time.
In the year 1833 a Swede, named Propst Wisselgren, contributed to No.
33 of the ‘Magazin für die Literatur des Auslandes’ the copy of an
alleged love-letter, the original of which existed, it was said, in
Sophia Dorothea’s hand-writing, in the archives of the Count de la
Gardie.
In the year 1836 Cramer, in his ‘Denkwürdigkeiten der Gräfin Maria
Aurora von Königsmark,’ referred to this letter, and expressed his
disbelief in its genuineness and authenticity.
Until 1847 the memory of Sophia Dorothea was left unassailed by any
further attempt against it. In that year, however, further alleged
autograph letters, not only of hers, but also others said to be written
by Königsmark, appeared in the ‘Literarische Blätter für Unterhaltung.’
They were preceded by an introduction and explanations by the Swedish
writer Palmblad, who had selected them, it was stated, from more than
a hundred which were then in the possession of Count Stephen de la
Gardie, of Löberod, in Schonen.
How did these alleged autograph letters find their way into Sweden?
They had previously been kept, we are gravely told, in a drawer in
Oefiwedskloster, by the widowed Countess Amelia Ramel (a Löwenhaupt by
birth), at whose death, in 1810, they came into the possession of her
son, a Count de la Gardie. Löberod was acquired by a Count Jacob Gustus
de la Gardie in 1817.
But how did the Lady Amelia Ramel become the holder of these
extraordinary documents?
The answer is: As the descendant of General Karl von Löwenhaupt, who
had married Amelia, one of the two sisters of Königsmark. This lady is
stated to have made over this mass of letters to her children, with
this observation: Here are the letters captured again (wiedererobert)
at great peril, which cost a brother his life and a king’s mother her
freedom.
Captured, seized, recovered at great peril! When? where? by whom? from
whom?
No reply; not the smallest particle of evidence is given on these
important points. If they were obtained under circumstances of great
danger, it must have been from some one who considered them of great
importance, but who must have allowed himself to be plundered of them
with great indifference. No one ever heard of the robbery or capture,
nor of the means by which it was effected.
In 1838 one letter saw the light. In 1847 several were published in
Germany and Sweden. To all enquiry, no other answer has been made than
that the letters had existed since 1810 in the keeping of the persons
above named; that they had come down from Amelia Königsmark, who had
wedded with a Löwenhaupt; that they were genuine letters, and that they
conclusively proved the guilt of Sophia Dorothea and Count Königsmark.
Sophia Dorothea, it must be remembered, never had the guilt implied
laid to her charge. The name of Königsmark was never once uttered
at her trial--if it may so be called. She was punished for alleged
disobedience to, and desertion of, her husband. She retained so much of
the character of a wife that she was not allowed to marry again. She
remained till her death the wife of a King of England, with whom she
would hold no association. Her husband kept her for more than thirty
years a state prisoner. How could this cruelty be better justified than
by blasting her character and memory for ever--long after all parties
were far beyond questioning? How could this dire penalty be inflicted,
after death, more easily than by preparing a correspondence between the
two personages, which might be kept in a cloister drawer till it could
be produced to serve its infamous purpose?
The persons who held these papers in later years may have
conscientiously believed in their genuineness. Of the contemporaries of
Sophia Dorothea, the Countess von Platen and even Bernstorf are said
to have been able to imitate the handwriting of Sophia Dorothea. We do
not insinuate that they were willing to forge these letters. But some
one probably did so. Königsmark’s letters may indeed be genuine; but it
does not follow that they were addressed to the wife of him who was
afterwards George I. Without name, date, or address, they might serve
to calumniate any other lady of Sophia Dorothea’s time.
Of the letters themselves, Palmblad, who inspected the precious
collection, states in his ‘Aurora Königsmark,’ or rather in an appendix
to the first part of that historical romance, that they consist of
several hundreds, of which two-thirds are by Königsmark, the other
third by Sophia Dorothea, and that in print they would fill a stout
volume.
Those of the princess are in an elegant, somewhat flowing hand,
and, with rare exception, correct in expression. They are on fine,
gilt-edged paper. Königsmark’s letters are, we are told, on coarse,
thick paper, which hardly agreed with his fine gentlemanly style in
everything. They are legibly written, but the spelling is that of an
ignorant school-boy.
In some portions, cyphers, numbers, or disguised names were used, the
interpretation of which was easily got at, as would be the case if the
letters were forged and were intended to be easily understood a century
after the events had happened to which they referred.
Very few of the letters--none of importance--have any address on them.
They have strayed from their envelopes, says Palmblad; but envelopes
were not then in use. Letters were folded and the address written
on the blank outside folding. Some few, according to Palmblad, have
external directions and are sealed with Königsmark’s private seal--a
heart within the motto, ‘Cosi fosse il vostro dentre il mio’ (so may be
yours within mine!). The post-mark is on some. One of them is directed,
‘Pour la personne connue.’ Palmblad suggests that it was originally
enclosed within one ‘to the Confidant.’ Several are addressed to
‘Mademoiselle La Frole de Knesebeck.’ The latter name is occasionally
spelt ‘Qnesbegk.’ A nearly complete (and very convenient) absence of
dates defies all attempts to place this correspondence in anything like
chronological order. Conjecturally, the experts suggest that the dates
extend from 1688 to 1693, inclusive--six years.
When it is remembered that the princess and Königsmark were closely
watched, in order, if possible, to make a case out against them, and
that the two friends knew they were surrounded by spies, the idea of
their sending letters through the post, and of such letters being
preserved instead of destroyed, seems folly too absurd for serious
belief.
‘The contents of these letters,’ Palmblad informs us, ‘consist, for
the most part, of mutual assurances of love and everlasting fidelity;
of complaints over separation and of the constraint put on them by the
secret relations existing between them; of plans for privately meeting,
or expressed hopes of a coming uninterrupted life together; of accounts
of their occupations, pleasures, and their conversational intercourse
with others; mixed up with jealous reproaches, and subsequent apologies
for making them. When both pass an evening at court festivals, where
the princess is unable to bestow a tender glance or a stolen word
on her beloved, or has spoken or walked with another cavalier, then
Königsmark addresses to her an epistle full of complaints at her
coquetry, and her ‘airs connus.’ With the same mistrust does the
princess notice every step of her (supposed) adorer. Nevertheless,
no two persons so tenderly loved one another as Königsmark his
Leonisse--the fond pseudonym of the princess.’
As far as the above description goes, any fairly practised hand might
have invented the whole series of letters.
Even Professor Palmblad does not venture to guess when the
correspondence began. His assertion that Königsmark was at Hanover,
in the military service of that state, in 1685, is disproved by the
painstaking author of ‘Die Herzogin von Ahlden,’ who finds Königsmark
settled there not till 1688. Palmblad, with his earlier date, points
laughingly to the birth of Sophia Dorothea’s daughter, in 1687; and
asks if the Prussian royal family, into which that daughter married,
has in its veins the blood of Guelph or of Königsmark. In like easy
manner, regardless of chronology, the Jacobites in England used to
speak of the son of George I. as ‘Young Königsmark!’
When Königsmark was absent campaigning, the princess, says Palmblad,
sent him her portrait, and he returned a gift of his own portrait,
painted expressly for her in Brussels. Whereupon, Palmblad says, ‘the
princess forwarded to him her diary.’ This has not yet been found or
forged, but Palmblad has no doubt as to the nature of its contents.
The whole story is founded on letters which the least scrupulous of
autograph dealers would hesitate to warrant.
What follows is to be read with the remembrance that the plotters
against Sophia Dorothea never lost sight of her or of the count. They
could not make a step without being observed by spies, employed by
principals who wished to destroy both the princess and Königsmark.
Through the very eye-holes of the tapestried figures in the palace
human eyes peered, in search of evidence to work the ruin of those two
friends. Not finding it, Königsmark was secretly murdered, and Sophia
Dorothea shut up for the remainder of her life, on no other charge than
that of deserting her husband’s society and refusing to return to it.
This is Palmblad’s story: ‘During Königsmark’s presence at court,
he was generally admitted to the princess by her confidant, after
midnight, and he sometimes remained four-and-twenty hours with her. He
had previously declared himself indisposed and under medical regimen
as an excuse for appearing to keep within doors. Aye,’ adds Palmblad,
bolder grown, ‘the princess herself glided secretly at night into
Königsmark’s quarters’ (which were at some distance from the palace).
‘She speaks in the most fervid expressions of her love, her ‘_ardeur_,’
and declares herself ready to sacrifice for him her reputation, and
to accompany him to the remotest corner of the world! Königsmark
hesitates; his fortune is not secure, his position uncertain, and he
must first seek glory and riches in war: but her prayers detain him in
Hanover.’
These two persons could have said this and more to one another in
complete or comparative safety. To write such things down, and to
preserve what was written, was madness, fatal to life and honour if
discovered. But if these, and much worse, were not written down by some
one, how could Sophia Dorothea be made infamous for ever in the eyes of
posterity?
One can only judge of the bushel by the sample; and of the whole
correspondence, which is now in the library of the University of
Lund, by the fragmentary extracts which have been made public. If
two persons, knowing they were watched, and their letters detained,
could write such fiercely ardent assurances of mutual love, express
such utter contempt for the consequences of discovery, and explain to
one another how they were tracked and betrayed, they must have been
hopelessly insane. An enemy would bend invention to such course as the
one best calculated to destroy those against whom it was directed.
But there is one point which seems conclusive against the genuineness
of this correspondence. There are passages in the alleged letters of
Königsmark to the princess which no man, however devoid of every manly
quality, would write to a woman whom he loved--would write to any woman
at all. These passages not even the most utterly and irretrievably
abandoned of women would be able to read without sense of insult and
outrage even to such soiled and shattered womanhood as hers. A man
writing such things, supposing they were intelligible to the person
addressed, would in that person’s eyes be loathsome and execrable for
ever.
Of course it is a horrible thought that any one could be sufficiently
wicked and cruel to forge letters with the idea of slaying reputations
by the forgery. But this wickedness and this cruelty were not uncommon.
Scores upon scores of letters have been forged in France alone in
order to destroy the reputation of Sir Isaac Newton. As a mere matter
of profitable business, the manufactory of forged letters, simply for
the market, is in the greatest possible activity. A letter by any one,
written at any time, eagerly demanded, is sure to be supplied after a
while. Letters, with other purpose in view than mere profit--intended
to turn up in long after years, in order to fasten a calumny on some
victim--are also not uncommon. One instance may be cited in the case
of the multitudinous forged letters of Shelley. The late Mr. Moxon
published a volume of Shelley letters; and soon after he withdrew the
volume, on discovery that every one of these letters was a forgery.
Stray letters of Shelley, however, continued to come into the market.
Letters to his wife of the most confidential nature, containing vile
aspersions against his father, were bought as genuine by Sir Percy
Shelley, the poet’s son. These, too, were discovered to be forgeries
and were destroyed. One of these precious epistles, addressed to Byron,
and bearing Shelley’s signature, contained an assertion against the
fidelity of ‘Harriet.’ Whoever bought it paid six guineas for a calumny
against a dead and defenceless woman, to which was appended the forged
signature of her dead and defenceless husband. Till something more
is known of the history of the alleged correspondence between Sophia
Dorothea and Königsmark--of which correspondence nothing was known to
the world till more than a century after her death--let us put against
it her own assertions of her innocence. It is only a woman’s word; but
it was asserted on solemn occasions, and it may surely be accepted
against the letters which were not put forth till long after she, too,
was dead and defenceless, who, when living, was not charged with the
guilt which this mysterious correspondence would cast heavily upon her.
Sophia Dorothea, from the time her husband ascended the throne of Great
Britain, was, in a sort of loving sorrow, called by the few left to
love her--the Queen. She was indeed an uncrowned Queen of England. As
little really of a queen as Caroline of Brunswick in after years. But
her true place, nevertheless, is among them. Her blood--the blood of
the French Protestant, Seigneur D’Olbreuse--has doubly asserted itself.
Through the son of Sophia Dorothea and his descendants, it flows in the
veins of that honoured lady, the Queen of Great Britain and Empress of
India. Through the daughter of Sophia Dorothea, it is inherited by the
Emperor of Germany; and the inheritance was enriched and strengthened
when the Princess Royal of England became the wife of the Crown Prince
of Prussia, the heir of the German Empire.
_CAROLINE WILHELMINA DOROTHEA_,
WIFE OF GEORGE II.
Da seufzt sie, da presst sie das Herz--es war
Ja Lieb und Glück nur geträumet.
GEIBEL.
CHAPTER I.
BEFORE THE ACCESSION.
Birth of Princess Caroline--Her early married life--Eulogised
by the poets--Gaiety of the Court of the Prince and Princess
at Leicester House--Beauty of Miss Bellenden--Mrs. Howard,
the Prince’s favourite--Intolerable grossness of the Court of
George the First--Lord Chesterfield and the Princess--The
mad Duchess--Buckingham House--Rural retreat of the Prince at
Richmond; the resort of wit and beauty--Swift’s pungent verses
--The fortunes of the young adventurers, Mr. and Mrs. Howard--
The Queen at her toilette--Mrs. Clayton, her influence with
Queen Caroline--The Prince ruled by his wife--Dr. Arbuthnot and
Dean Swift--The Princess’s regard for Newton and Halley--Lord
Macclesfield’s fall--His superstition, and that of the Princess
--Prince Frederick’s vices--Not permitted to come to England
--Severe rebuff to Lord Hardwicke--Dr. Mead--Courage of the
Prince and Princess--The Princess’s friendship for Dr. Friend--
Swift at Leicester House--Royal visit to ‘Bartlemy Fair.’
Caroline Wilhelmina Dorothea was the daughter of John Frederick,
Marquis of Brandenburg Anspach, and of Eleanor Erdmuth Louisa, his
second wife, daughter of John George, Duke of Saxe Eisenach. She was
born in 1683, and married the Electoral Prince of Hanover, afterwards
George II., in the year 1705. Her mother having re-married, after her
father’s death, when Caroline was very young, the latter left the
court of her step-father, George IV., Elector of Saxony, for that of
her guardian, Frederick, Elector of Brandenburg, afterwards King of
Prussia. The Electress of Brandenburg was the daughter of Sophia,
Electress of Hanover, and sister of George I. The young Caroline was
considered fortunate in being placed under the care of a lady, who, it
was said at the time, would assuredly give her a ‘tincture of her own
politeness.’
Notice has already been taken of the suitors who early offered
themselves for the hand of the youthful princess; and for what
excellent reason she selected the son of Sophia Dorothea. It was
said, when she came to share the throne of England with her husband,
that Heaven had especially reserved her in order to make Great
Britain happy. Her early married life was one of some gaiety, if not
of felicity; and Baron Pilnitz says in his Memoir, that when the
Electoral family of Hanover was called to the throne of this country,
she showed more cool carelessness for the additional grandeur than
any of the family, whose _outward_ indifference was a matter of
admiration, in the old sense of that word, to all who beheld it. The
Princess Caroline, according to the baron, particularly demonstrated
that she was thoroughly satisfied in her mind that she could be happy
without a crown, and that ‘both her father-in-law and her husband were
already kings in her eyes, because they highly deserved that title.’
Of her conduct during the period she was Princess of Wales, the same
writer says that she favoured neither political party, and was equally
esteemed by each. This, however, is somewhat beside the truth.
The poets were as much concerned with the Princess of Wales as the
politicians. Some abused, and some adored her. Addison, in 1714,
assured her that the Muse waited on her person, and that she herself was
Born to strengthen and to grace our isle.
The same writer could not contemplate the daughter of Caroline, but
that his prophetic eye professed to--
Already see the illustrious youths complain,
And future monarchs doom’d to sigh in vain.
Frederick (Duke of Gloucester), the elder and less loved son of
Caroline, was not yet in England, but her favourite boy, William,
was at her side; and of him Addison said, that he had ‘the mother’s
sweetness and the father’s fire.’ The poet went on, less to prophesy
than to speculate with a ‘perhaps’ on the future destiny of William
of Cumberland; and it was well he put in the saving word, for nothing
could be less like fact than the ‘fortune’ alluded to in the following
lines:--
For thee, perhaps, even now of kingly race,
Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace.
Some Caroline, to Heaven’s dictates true,
Who, while the sceptred rivals vainly sue,
Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall see,
And slight th’ imperial diadem for thee.
Of the princess herself, he says more truly, that she--
with graceful ease
And native majesty is form’d to please.
And he adds, that the stage, growing refined, will draw its finished
heroines from her, who was herself known to be ‘skill’d in the labours
of the deathless muse.’ In short, Parnassus was made to echo with
eulogies of or epigrams upon this royal lady. George I., for years
together, never addressed a word to the Prince of Wales, but the
princess would compel him, as Count Broglie, the French ambassador
writes, to answer the remarks which she addressed to him when she
encountered him ‘in public.’ ‘But even then,’ says the count, ‘he only
speaks to her on these occasions for the sake of decorum.’ _She-devil_
was the appellation commonly employed by the amiable King to designate
his high-spirited daughter-in-law.
The Prince and Princess of Wales, on withdrawing from St. James’s,
established their court in ‘Leicester Fields.’ Of this court, Walpole
draws a pleasant picture. It must have been a far livelier locality
than that of the King, whose ministers were the older Whig politicians.
‘The most promising,’ says Walpole, ‘of the young lords and gentlemen
of that party, and the prettiest and liveliest of the young ladies,
formed the new court of the Prince and Princess of Wales. The
apartment of the bedchamber-women in waiting became the fashionable
evening rendezvous of the most distinguished wits and beauties: Lord
Chesterfield, Lord Stanhope, Lord Scarborough, Carr (Lord Hervey),
elder brother of the more known John Lord Hervey, and reckoned to have
superior parts; General (at that time only Colonel) Charles Churchill,
and others, not necessary to mention, were constant attendants; Miss
Lepell, afterwards Lady Hervey, my mother, Lady Walpole, Mrs. Selwyn,
mother of the famous George, and herself of much vivacity, and pretty;
Mrs. Howard, and, above all, for universal admiration, Miss Bellenden,
one of the maids of honour. Her face and person were charming; lively
she was almost to _étourderie_; and so agreeable she was, that I never
heard her mentioned afterwards by one of her contemporaries who did not
prefer her as the most perfect creature they ever knew.’
To this pleasant party in this pleasant resort, the Prince of Wales
often came--his chief attraction being, not the wit or worth of the
party, but the mere beauty of one of the party forming it. This was
Miss Bellenden, who, on the other hand, saw nothing in the fair-haired
and little prince that could attract her admiration. The prince was
never famous for much delicacy either of expression or sentiment, but
he could exhibit a species of wit in its way. He had probably been
contemplating the engraving of the visit of Jupiter to the nymph Danae
in a shower of gold, when he took to pouring the guineas from his purse
in Miss Bellenden’s presence. He seemed to her, if we may judge by the
comment she made upon his conduct, much more like a villainous little
bashaw offering to purchase a Circassian slave; and on one occasion, as
he went on counting the glittering coin, she exclaimed, ‘Sir, I cannot
bear it; if you count your money any more I will go out of the room.’
She did even better, by marrying the man of her heart, Colonel John
Campbell--a step at which the prince, when it came to his knowledge,
affected to be extremely indignant; and never forgave her for an
offence, which indeed was no offence and required no forgiveness. The
prince, like that young Duke of Orleans who thought he would suffer in
reputation if he had not a ‘favourite’ in his train, let his regard
stop at Mrs. Howard, another of his wife’s bedchamber-women, who
was but too happy to receive such regard, and to return it with all
required attachment and service.
The Princess of Wales, during the reign of her father-in-law,
maintained a brilliant court, and presided over a gay round
of pleasures. In this career she gained that which she sought
after--popularity. What she did from policy, her husband the prince
did from taste; and the encouragement and promotion of pleasure were
followed by the one as a means to an end, by the other for the sake
of the pleasure itself. Every morning there was a drawing-room at
the princess’s, and twice a week the same splendid reunion in her
apartments, at night. This gave the fashion to a very wide circle;
crowded assemblies, balls, masquerades, and ridottos became the
‘rage;’ and from the fatigues incident thereto, the votaries of fashion
found relaxation in plays and operas.
Quiet people were struck by the change which had come over court
circles since the days of ‘Queen Anne, who had always been decent,
chaste, and formal.’ The change indeed was great, but diverse of
aspect. Thus the court of pleasure at which Caroline reigned supreme
was a court where decency was respected; respected, at least, as
much as it well could be at a time when no superabundance of respect
for decency was exhibited in any quarter. Still, there was not the
intolerable grossness in the house of the prince which was to be met
with in the very presence of his sire. Lord Chesterfield said of that
sire that ‘he had nothing bad in him as a man,’ and yet he records of
him that he had no respect for women--but some liking, it may be added,
for those who had little principle and much fat. ‘He brought over with
him,’ says Chesterfield, ‘two considerable samples of his bad taste and
good stomach--the Duchess of Kendal and the Countess of Darlington;
leaving at Hanover, because she happened to be a Papist, the Countess
von Platen, whose weight and circumference was little inferior to
theirs. These standards of his Majesty’s tastes made all those ladies
who aspired to his favour, and who were near the statutable size,
strain and swell themselves, like the frogs in the fable, to rival the
bulk and dignity of the ox. Some succeeded and others burst.’ If the
house of the son was not the abode of all the virtues, it at least was
not the stye wherein wallowed his father. Upon the change of fashion,
Chesterfield writes to Bubb Dodington, in 1716, the year when Caroline
began to be looked up to as the arbitress of fashion:--‘As for the gay
part of the town, you would find it much more flourishing than when
you left it. Balls, assemblies, and masquerades have taken the place
of dull, formal, visiting days, and the women are much more agreeable
trifles than they were designed. Puns are extremely in vogue, and the
license very great. The variation of three or four letters in a word
breaks no squares, insomuch that an indifferent punster may make a very
good figure in the best companies.’ The gaiety at the town residence of
the prince and princess did not, however, accompany them to Richmond
Lodge. There Caroline enjoyed the quiet beauties of her pretty retreat,
which was, however, shared with her husband’s favourite, ‘Mrs. Howard.’
‘Leicester Fields’ was, nevertheless, not always such a bower of bliss
as Walpole has described it, from hearsay. If the prince and ladies
were on very pleasant terms, the princess and the ladies were sometimes
at loggerheads, with as little regard for _bienséance_ as if they had
been very vulgar people; indeed, they often were exceedingly vulgar
people themselves.
It was with Lord Chesterfield that Caroline Wilhelmina Dorothea was
most frequently at very disgraceful issue. Lord Chesterfield was one
of the prince’s court, and he was possessed of an uncontrollable
inclination to turn the princess into ridicule. Of course she was made
acquainted with this propensity of the refined Chesterfield by some
amiable friend, who had the regard which friends, with less judgment
than what they call amiability, generally have for one’s failings.
Caroline, perhaps half afraid of the peer, whom she held to be a
more annoying joker than a genuine wit, took a middle course by way
of correcting Chesterfield. It was not the course which a woman of
dignity and refinement would have adopted; but it must be remembered
that, at the period in question, the princess was anxious to keep as
many friends around her husband as she could muster. She consequently
told Lord Chesterfield, half in jest and half in earnest, that he had
better not provoke her, for though he had a wittier, he had not so
bitter a tongue as she had, and any outlay of his wit, at her cost,
she was determined to pay, in her way, with an exorbitant addition of
interest upon the debt he made her incur.
The noble lord had, among the other qualifications of the fine
gentleman of the period, an alacrity in lying. He would gravely assure
the princess that her royal highness was in error; that he could never
presume to mimic her; and thereupon he would only watch for a turn of
her head to find an opportunity for repeating the offence which he had
protested could not possibly be laid to his charge.
Caroline was correct in asserting that she had a bitter tongue. It was
under control, indeed; but when she gave it unrestricted freedom, its
eloquence was not well savoured. Indeed her mind was far less refined
than has been generally imagined. Many circumstances might be cited
in proof of this assertion; but perhaps none is more satisfactory, or
conclusive rather, than the fact that she was the correspondent of the
Duchess of Orleans, whose gross epistles can be patiently read only by
grossly inclined persons; but which, nevertheless, tell so much that
is really worth knowing that students of history read, blush, and are
delighted.
The Prince of Wales, dissatisfied with his residences, entered into
negotiations for the purchase of Buckingham House. That mansion was
then occupied by the Dowager-duchess of Buckingham, she whose mother
was Catherine Sedley, and whose father was James II. She was the mad
duchess, who always went into mourning and shut up Buckingham House on
the anniversary of the death of her grandfather, Charles I. The duchess
thus writes of the negotiation, in a letter to Mrs. Howard:--
‘If their royal highnesses will have everything stand as it is,
furniture and pictures, I will have 3,000_l._ _per annum_. Both run
hazard of being spoiled; and the last, to be sure, will be all to be
new bought, whenever my son is of age. The quantity the rooms take
cannot be well furnished under 10,000_l._ But if their highnesses will
permit all the pictures to be removed, and buy the furniture as it will
be valued by different people, the house shall go at 2,000_l._ If the
prince or princess prefer much the buying outright, under 60,000_l._
it will not be parted with as it now stands; and all his Majesty’s
revenue cannot purchase a place so fit for them, nor for less a sum.
The princess asked me at the drawing-room if I would not sell my fine
house. I answered her, smiling, that I was under no necessity to
part with it; yet, when what I thought was the value of it should be
offered, perhaps my prudence might overcome my inclination.’
At the period when Caroline expressed some inclination to possess this
residence, on the site of the old mulberry garden, there was a mulberry
garden at Chelsea, the owner of which was a Mrs. Gale. In these gardens
some very rich and beautiful satin was made, from English silkworms,
for the Princess of Wales, who took an extraordinary interest in the
success of ‘the native worm.’ The experiments, however, patronised as
they were by Caroline, did not promise a realisation of sufficient
profit to warrant their being pursued any further.
The town residence of the prince and princess lacked, of course, the
real charms, the quieter pleasures, of the lodge at Richmond. The
estate on which the latter was built formed part of the forfeited
property of the Jacobite Duke of Ormond.
The prince and princess kept a court at Richmond, which must have been
one of the most pleasant resorts at which royalty has ever presided
over fashion, wit, and talent. At this court the young (John) Lord
Hervey was a frequent visitor, at a time when his mother, Lady
Bristol, was in waiting on the princess, and his brother, Lord Carr
Hervey, held the post of groom of the bedchamber to the prince. Of the
personages at this ‘young court,’ the right honourable John Wilson
Croker thus speaks:--
‘At this period Pope and his literary friends were in great favour at
this “young court,” of which, in addition to the handsome and clever
princess herself, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Selwyn, Miss Howe, Miss Bellenden,
and Miss Lepell, with Lords Chesterfield, Bathurst, Scarborough, and
Hervey, were the chief ornaments. Above all, for beauty and wit, were
Miss Bellenden and Miss Lepell, who seem to have treated Pope, and been
in return treated by him, with a familiarity that appears strange in
our more decorous days. These young ladies probably considered him as
no more than what Aaron Hill described him--
Tuneful Alexis, on the Thames’ fair side,
The ladies’ _plaything_ and the Muse’s pride.’
Mr. Croker notices that Miss Lepell was called _Mrs._ according to the
fashion of the time. It was the custom so to designate every single
lady who was old enough to be married.
Upon Richmond Lodge Swift showered some of his most pungent verses. He
was there more than once when it was the scene of the ‘young court.’ Of
these occasions he sang, after the princess had become Queen, to the
following tune:--
Here went the Dean, when he’s to seek,
To sponge a breakfast once a week,
To cry the bread was stale, and mutter
Complaints against the royal butter.
But now I fear it will be said,
No butter sticks upon his bread.
We soon shall find him full of spleen,
For want of tattling to the Queen;
Stunning her royal ears with talking;
His rev’rence and her highness walking.
Whilst saucy Charlotte,[3] like a stroller,
Sits mounted on the garden roller.
A goodly sight to see her ride,
With ancient Mirmont at her side.
In velvet cap his head is warm,
His hat, for shame, beneath his arm.
Other poets were occasionally more audacious than Swift in
appropriating domestic incidents in the princess’s family for their
subjects. Early in 1723 one of them thus addresses an expected member
of that family:--
Promis’d blessing of the year,
Fairest blossom of the Spring,
Thy fond mother’s wish;--appear!
Haste to hear the linnets sing!
Haste to breathe the vernal air,
Come to see the primrose blow;
Nature doth her lap prepare,
Nature thinks thy coming slow.
Glad the people, quickly smile
Darling native of our isle.
The gentle Princess Mary (subsequently the unhappy Princess of Hesse)
cannot be said to have kept the linnets or the primroses waiting, the
birth of this fourth daughter of the Prince and Princess of Wales
having taken place on the 22nd of February 1723.
During a large portion of the married life of George Augustus and
Caroline, each was supposed to be under the influence of a woman, whose
real influence was, however, overrated, and whose importance, if great,
was solely so because of the undue value attached to her imaginary
influence. Both those persons were of the ‘young court,’ at Leicester
House and Richmond Lodge.
The women in question were Mrs. Howard, the prince’s ‘favourite,’ and
Mrs. Clayton, bedchamber-woman, like Mrs. Howard, to Caroline. The
first lady was the daughter of a Knight of the Bath, Sir Henry Hobart.
Early in life she married Mr. Howard, ‘the younger brother of more than
one Earl of Suffolk, to which title he at last succeeded himself, and
left a son by her, who was the last earl of that branch.’ The young
couple were but slenderly dowered; the lady had little, and her husband
less. The court of Queen Anne did not hold out to them any promise
of improving their fortune, and accordingly they looked around for a
locality where they might not only discern the promise, but hope for
its realisation. Their views rested upon Hanover and ‘the rising sun’
there; and thither, accordingly, they took their way; and there they
found a welcome at the hands of the old Electress Sophia, with scanty
civility at those of her grandson, the Electoral Prince.
At this time, the fortunes of the young adventurers were so low, and
their aspirations so high, that they were unable to give a dinner to
the Hanoverian minister, till Mrs. Howard found the means by cutting
off a very beautiful head of hair and selling it. If she did this in
order that she might not incur a debt, she deserves some degree of
praise, for a habit of prompt payment was not a fashion of the time.
The sacrifice probably sufficed; for it was the era of full-bottomed
wigs, which cost twenty or thirty guineas, and Mrs. Howard’s hair,
to be applied to the purpose named, may have brought her a dozen
pounds, with which a very recherché dinner might have been given, at
the period, to even the most gastronomic of Hanoverian ministers, and
half-a-dozen secretaries of legation to boot.
The fortune sought for was seized, although it came but in a
questionable shape. After the lapse of some little time, the lady had
made sufficient impression on the hitherto cold Prince George Augustus
to induce him, on the accession of his father to the crown of England,
to appoint her one of the bedchamber-women to his wife, Caroline,
Princess of Wales.
When Mrs. Howard had won what was called the ‘regard’ of the prince,
she separated from her husband. _He_, it is true, had little regard
_for_, and merited no regard _from_, his wife; but he was resolved
that she should attain not even a bad eminence unless he profited by
it. He was a wretched, heartless, drunken, gambling profligate; too
coarse, even, for the coarse fine gentlemen of the day. When he found
himself deserted by his wife, therefore, and discovered that she had
established her residence in the household of the prince, he went down
to the palace, raised an uproar in the courtyard, before the guards and
other persons present, and made vociferous demands for the restoration
to him of a wife whom he really did not want. He was thrust out of
the quadrangle without much ceremony, but he was not to be silenced.
He even appears to have interested the Archbishop of Canterbury in
the matter. The prelate affected to look upon the princess as the
protectress of her bedchamber-woman and the cause of the latter living
separate from her husband, to whom he recommended, by letter, that
she should be restored. Walpole says, further, that the archbishop
delivered an epistle from Mr. Howard himself, addressed through the
Princess Caroline to his wife, and that the princess ‘had the malicious
pleasure of delivering the letter to her rival.’
Mrs. Howard continued to reside under the roof of this
strangely-assorted household. There was no scandal excited thereby at
the period, and she was safe from conjugal importunity, whether at
St. James’s Palace or Leicester House. ‘The case was altered,’ says
Walpole, ‘when, on the arrival of summer, their royal highnesses were
to remove to Richmond. Being only woman of the bedchamber, etiquette
did not allow Mrs. Howard the entrée of the coach with the princess.
She apprehended that Mr. Howard might seize her upon the road. To
baffle such an attempt, her friends, John, Duke of Argyle, and his
brother, the Earl of Islay, called for her in the coach of one of them,
by eight o’clock in the morning of the day by noon of which the prince
and princess were to remove, and lodged her safely in their house at
Richmond.’ It would appear, that after this period the servant of
Caroline and the favourite of George Augustus ceased to be molested by
her husband; and, although there be no proof of that gentleman having
been ‘bought off,’ he was of such character, tastes, and principles,
that he cannot be thought to have been of too nice an honour to allow
of his agreeing to terms of peace for pecuniary ‘consideration.’
George thought his show of regard for Mrs. Howard would stand for
proof that he was not ‘led’ by his wife. The regard wore an outwardly
Platonic aspect, and daily at the same hour the royal admirer resorted
to the apartment of the lady, where an hour or two was spent in ‘small
talk’ and conversation of a generally uninteresting character.
It is very illustrative of the peculiar character of George Augustus,
that his periodical visits, every evening at nine, were regulated with
such dull punctuality ‘that he frequently walked about his chamber for
ten minutes, with his watch in his hand, if the stated minute was not
arrived.’
Walpole also notices the more positive vexations Mrs. Howard received
when Caroline became Queen, whose head she used to dress, until she
acquired the title of Countess of Suffolk. The Queen, it is said,
delighted in subjecting her to such servile offices, though always
apologising to _her good Howard_. ‘Often,’ says Walpole, ‘her Majesty
had more complete triumph. It happened more than once that the King,
coming into the room while the Queen was dressing, has snatched off the
handkerchief, and turning rudely to Mrs. Howard, has cried, ‘Because
you have an ugly neck yourself, you hide the Queen’s.’
One other instance may be cited here of Caroline’s dislike of her good
Howard. ‘The Queen had an obscure window at St. James’s that looked
into a dark passage, lighted only by a single lamp at night, which
looked upon Mrs. Howard’s apartment. Lord Chesterfield, one Twelfth
Night at court, had won so large a sum of money that he thought it
not prudent to carry it home in the dark, and deposited it with the
mistress. Thence the Queen inferred great intimacy, and thenceforwards
Lord Chesterfield could obtain no favour from court; and, finding
himself desperate, went into opposition.’ But this is anticipating
events. Let us speak of the other bedchamber-woman of the Princess of
Wales and subsequently of Queen Caroline, also a woman of considerable
note in the quiet and princely circle at Leicester House, and the more
brilliant _réunions_ at St. James’s and Kensington. She was a woman
of fairer reputation, of greater ability, and of worse temper than
Mrs. Howard. Her maiden name was Dyves, her condition was of a humble
character, but her marriage with Sir Robert Clayton, a clerk in the
Treasury, gave her importance and position, and opportunity to improve
both. Her husband, in addition to his Treasury clerkship, was one of
the managers of the Marlborough estates in the duke’s absence, and this
brought his wife to the knowledge and patronage of the duchess. The
only favour ever asked by the latter of the House of Hanover was a post
for her friend Mrs. Clayton, who soon afterwards was appointed one of
the bedchamber-women to Caroline, Princess of Wales.
Mrs. Clayton has been as diversely painted by Lord Hervey and Horace
Walpole as Chesterfield himself. It is not to be disputed, however,
that she was a woman of many accomplishments; of not so many as her
flatterers ascribe to her, but of more than were conceded to her by
her enemies. The same may be said of her alleged virtues. Walpole
describes her as a corrupt, pompous simpleton, and Lord Hervey as a
woman of great intelligence and rather ill-regulated temper, the latter
preventing her from concealing her thoughts, let them be what they
might. The noble lord intimates, rather than asserts, that she was more
resigned than desirous to live at court, for the dirty company of which
she was too good, but whom she had the honesty to hate but not the
hypocrisy to tell them they were good. Hervey adds, that she did good,
for the mere luxury which the exercise of the virtue had in itself.
Others describe her as corrupt as the meanest courtier that ever lived
by bribes. She would take jewels with both hands, and wear them without
shame, though they were the fees of offices performed to serve others
and enrich herself. The Duchess of Marlborough was ashamed of her
protegée in this respect, if there be truth in the story of her grace
being indignant at seeing Mrs. Clayton wearing gems which she knew were
the price of services rendered by her. Lady Wortley Montague apologises
for her by the smart remark, that people would not know where wine was
sold if the vendor did not hang out a bush.
Of another fact there is no dispute--the intense hatred with which Mrs.
Howard and Mrs. Clayton regarded each other. The former was calm, cool,
cutting, and contemptuous, but never unlady-like, always self-possessed
and severe. The latter was hot, eager, and for ever rendering her
position untenable for want of temper, and therefore lack of argument
to maintain it. Mrs. Clayton, doubtless, possessed more influence with
the Queen than her opponent with the King, but the influence has
been vastly overrated. Caroline only allowed it in small matters, and
exercised in small ways. Mrs. Clayton was, in some respects, only her
authorised representative, or the medium between her and the objects
whom she delighted to relieve or to honour. The lady had some influence
in bringing about introductions, in directing the Queen’s notice to
works of merit, or to petitions for relief; but on subjects of much
higher importance Caroline would not submit to influence from the same
quarter. On serious questions she had a better judgment of her own
than she could be supplied with by the women of the bedchamber. The
great power held by Mrs. Clayton was, that with her rested to decide
whether the prayer of a petitioner should or should not reach the eye
of Caroline. No wonder, then, that she was flattered, and that her
good offices were asked for with showers of praise and compliment
to herself, by favour-seekers of every conceivable class. Peers of
every degree, and their wives, bishops and poor curates, philosophers
well-to-do, and authors in shreds and patches; sages and sciolists;
inventors, speculators, and a mob of ‘beggars’ which cannot be classed,
sought to approach Caroline through Mrs. Clayton’s office, and humbly
waited Mrs. Clayton’s leisure, while they profusely flattered her in
order to tempt her to be active in their behalf.
Caroline not only ruled her husband without his being aware of it, but
could laugh at him heartily, without hurting his feelings by allowing
him to be conscious of it. Hereafter mention may be made of the
sensitiveness of the court to satire; but before the death of George
I., it seems to have been enjoyed--at least by Caroline, Princess of
Wales--more than it was subsequently by the same illustrious lady when
Queen of England. Dr. Arbuthnot, at the period alluded to, had occasion
to write to Swift. The doctor had been publishing, by subscription,
his ‘Tables of Ancient Coins,’ and was gaining very few modern
specimens by his work. The dean, on the other hand, was then reaping a
harvest of profit and popularity by his ‘Gulliver’s Travels’--that book
of which the puzzled Bishop of Ferns said, on coming to the last page,
that, all things considered, he did not believe a word of it!
Arbuthnot, writing to Swift on the subject of the two works, says
(November 8, 1726) that his book had been out about a month, but that
he had not yet got his subscribers’ names. ‘I will make over,’ he says,
‘all my profits to you for the property of “Gulliver’s Travels,” which,
I believe, will have as great a run as John Bunyan. Gulliver is a happy
man, that, at his age, can write such a book.’ Arbuthnot subsequently
relates, that when he last saw the Princess of Wales ‘she was reading
Gulliver, and was just come to the passage of the hobbling prince,
which she laughed at.’ The laugh was at the cost of her husband, whom
Swift represented in the satire as walking with one high and low heel,
in allusion to the prince’s supposed vacillation between the Whigs and
Tories.
The princess, however, had more regard, at all times, for sages
than she had for satirists. It was at the request of Caroline that
Newton drew up an abstract of a treatise on Ancient Chronology, first
published in France, and subsequently in England. Her regard for
Halley dates from an earlier period than Newton’s death or Caroline’s
accession. She had, in 1721, pressed Halley to become the tutor of her
favourite son, the Duke of Cumberland; but the great perfector of the
theory of the moon’s motion was then too busy with his syzygies to be
troubled with teaching the humanities to little princes. It was for the
same reason that Halley resigned his post of secretary to the Royal
Society.
This question of the education of the children of the Prince and
Princess of Wales was one much discussed, and not without bitterness,
by the disputants on both sides. In the same year that the Princess
of Wales desired to secure Halley as the instructor of William of
Cumberland (1721) George I. made an earl of that Thomas Parker who,
from an attorney’s office, had steadily risen through the various
grades of the law, had been entrusted with high commissions, and
finally became Lord Chancellor. George I., on his accession, made him
Baron of Macclesfield, and in 1721 raised him to the rank of earl.
He paid for the honour by supporting the King against the Prince and
Princess of Wales. The latter claimed an exclusive right of direction
in the education of their children. Lord Macclesfield declared that,
by law, they had no right at all to control the education of their
offspring. Neither prince nor princess ever forgave him for this. They
waited for the hour of repaying it; and the time soon came. The first
‘Brunswick Chancellor’ became notorious for his malpractices--selling
places and trafficking with the funds of the suitors. His enemies
resolved to impeach him. This resolution originated at Leicester
House, and was carried out with such effect that the chancellor was
condemned to pay a fine of 30,000_l._ George I., knowing that the son
whom he hated was the cause of so grave, but just, a consequence,
promised to repay to the ex-chancellor the amount of the fine which
Lord Macclesfield had himself paid, a few days after the sentence, by
the mortgage of a valuable estate. The King, however, was rather slow
in acquitting himself of his promise. He forwarded one instalment of
1,000_l._, but he paid no more, death supervening and preventing the
further performance of a promise only made to annoy his son and his
son’s wife.
In one respect Lord Macclesfield and the Princess of Wales resembled
each other--in entertaining a curious feeling of superstition. It
will be seen, hereafter, how certain Caroline felt that she should
die on a Wednesday, and for what reasons. So, like her, but with more
accuracy, the fallen Macclesfield pointed out the day for his decease.
In his disgrace he had devoted himself to science and religion. He
was, however, distracted by a malady which was aggravated by grief, if
not remorse. Dr. Pearce, his constant friend, called on him one day
and found him very ill. Lord Macclesfield said: ‘My mother died of the
same disorder on the eighth day, and so shall I.’ On the eighth day
this prophecy was fulfilled; and the Leicester House party were fully
avenged.
The feelings of both prince and princess were for ever in excess. Thus
both appear to have entertained a strong sentiment of aversion against
their eldest child, Frederick. Caroline did not bring him with her to
this country when she herself first came over to take up her residence
here. Frederick was born at Hanover, on the 20th of January 1707. He
was early instructed in the English language; but he disliked study
of every description and made but little progress in this particular
branch. As a child, he was remarkable for his spitefulness and cunning.
He was yet a youth when he drank like any German baron of old, played
as deeply as he drank, and entered heart and soul into other vices,
which not only corrupted both, but his body also. His tutor was
scandalised by his conduct, and complained of it grievously. Caroline
was, at that time, given to find excuses for conduct with which she did
not care to be so far troubled as to censure it; and she remarked that
the escapades complained of were mere page’s tricks. ‘Would to Heaven
they were no more!’ exclaimed the worthy governor; ‘but in truth they
are tricks of grooms and scoundrels.’ The Prince spared his friends as
little as his foes, and his heart was as vicious as his head was weak.
Caroline had little affection for this child, whom she would have
willingly defrauded of his birthright. At one time she appears to
have been inclined to secure the Electorate of Hanover for William,
and to allow Frederick to succeed to the English throne. At another
time she was as desirous, it is believed, of advancing William to the
crown of England and making over the Electorate to Frederick. How far
these intrigues were carried on is hardly known, but that they existed
is matter of notoriety. The law presented a barrier which could not,
however, be broken down; but, nevertheless, Lord Chesterfield, in
his character of the princess, intimated that she was busy with this
project throughout her life.
Frederick was not permitted to come to England during any period of the
time that his parents were Prince and Princess of Wales. An English
title or two may be said to have been flung to him across the water.
Thus, in 1717, he was called rather than created Duke of Gloucester.
The Garter was sent to him the following year. In 1726 he became Duke
of Edinburgh. He never occupied a place in the hearts of either his
father or mother.
It is but fair to the character of the Princess of Wales to say
that, severe as was the feeling entertained by herself against Lord
Macclesfield--a feeling shared in by her consort--neither of them ever
after entertained any ill feeling against Philip Yorke, subsequently
Lord Chancellor Hardwicke, who defended his friend Lord Macclesfield,
with great fearlessness, at the period of his celebrated trial. Only
once, in after life, did George II. visit Lord Hardwicke with a severe
rebuff. The learned lord was avaricious, discouraging to those who
sought to rise in their profession, and caring only for the advancement
of his own relations. He was once seeking for a place for a distant
relation, when the husband of Caroline exclaimed, ‘You are always
asking favours, and I observe that it is invariably in behalf of some
one of your family or kinsmen.’ We shall hereafter find Caroline making
allusions to ‘Judge Gripus’ as a character in a play, but it was a name
given to Lord Hardwicke, on account of his ‘meanness.’ This feeling
was shared by his wife. The expensively embroidered velvet purse in
which the great seal was carried was renewed every year during Lord
Hardwicke’s time. Each year, Lady Hardwicke ordered that the velvet
should be of the length of one of her state rooms at Wimpole. In course
of time the prudent lady obtained enough to tapestry the room with the
legal velvet, and to make curtains and hangings for a state bed which
stood in the apartment. Well might Pope have said of these:--
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus and on Gripus’ wife.
But this is again anticipating the events of history. Let us go back to
1721, when Caroline and her husband exercised a courage which caused
great admiration in the saloons of Leicester House and a doubtful sort
of applause throughout the country. Lady Mary Wortley Montague had
just reported the successful results of inoculation for the small-pox,
which she had witnessed at Constantinople. Dr. Mead was ordered by the
prince to inoculate six criminals who had been condemned to death, but
whose lives were spared for this experiment. It succeeded admirably,
and the patients were more satisfied by the result of the experiment
than any one besides. In the year following, Caroline allowed Dr.
Mead to inoculate her two daughters, and the doctor ultimately became
physician-in-ordinary to her husband.
The medical appointments made by Caroline and her husband certainly
had a political motive. Thus, the Princess of Wales persuaded her
husband to name Freind his physician-in-ordinary just after the latter
had been liberated from the Tower, where he had suffered incarceration
for daring to defend Atterbury in the House of Commons when the bishop
was accused of being guilty of treason. Caroline always had a high
esteem for Freind, independently of his political opinions, and one of
her first acts, on ceasing to be Princess of Wales, was to make Freind
physician to the Queen.
It is said by Swift that the Princess of Wales sent for him to
Leicester Fields no less than nine times before he would obey the
reiterated summons. When he _did_ appear before Caroline, he roughly
remarked that he understood she liked to see odd persons; that she
had lately inspected a wild boy from Germany, and that now she had
the opportunity of seeing a wild parson from Ireland. Swift declares
that the court in Leicester Fields was very anxious to settle him in
England, but it may be doubted whether the anxiety was very sincere.
Swift’s declaration that he had no anxiety to be patronised by the
Princess of Wales was probably as little sincere. The patronage
sometimes exercised there was mercilessly sneered at by Swift. Thus
Caroline had expressed a desire to do honour to Gay; but when the post
offered was only that of a gentleman usher to the little Princess
Caroline, Swift was bitterly satirical on the Princess of Wales
supposing that the poet Gay would be willing to act as a sort of male
nurse to a little girl of two years of age.
The Prince of Wales was occasionally as cavalierly treated by the
ladies as the princess by the men. One of the maids of honour of
Caroline, the well-known Miss Bellenden, would boldly stand before him
with her arms folded, and when asked why she did so, would toss her
pretty head, and laughingly exclaim that she did so, not because she
was cold, but that she chose to stand with her arms folded. When her
own niece became maid of honour to Queen Caroline, and audacious Miss
Bellenden was a grave married lady, she instructively warned her young
relative not to be so imprudent a maid of honour as her aunt had been
before her.
But strange things were done by princes and princesses in those days,
as well as by those who waited on them. For instance, in 1725, it is
reported by Miss Dyves, maid of honour to the Princess Amelia, daughter
of the Princess of Wales, that ‘the Prince, and everybody but myself,
went last Friday to Bartholomew Fair. It was a fine day, so _he_ went
by water; and I, being afraid, did not go; after the fair, they supped
at the King’s Arms, and came home about four o’clock in the morning.’
An heir-apparent, and part of his family and consort, going by water
from Richmond to ‘Bartlemy Fair,’ supping at a tavern, staying out all
night, and returning home not long before honest men breakfasted, was
not calculated to make royalty respectable.
CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST YEARS OF A REIGN.
Death of George the First--Adroitness of Sir Robert Walpole--The
first royal reception--Unceremonious treatment of the late King’s
will--The coronation--Magnificent dress of Queen Caroline--Mrs.
Oldfield, as Anne Boleyn, in ‘Henry VIII.’--The King’s revenue
and the Queen’s jointure, the result of Walpole’s exertions--His
success--Management of the King by Queen Caroline--Unseemly
dialogue between Walpole and Lord Townshend--Gay’s ‘Beggars’
Opera,’ and satire on Walpole--Origin of the opera--Its great
success--Gay’s cause espoused by the Duchess of Queensberry--Her
smart reply to a royal message--The tragedy of ‘Frederick, Duke
of Brunswick’--The Queen appointed Regent--Prince Frederick
becomes chief of the opposition--His silly reflections on the
King--Agitation about the repeal of the Corporation and Test
Acts--The Queen’s ineffectual efforts to gain over Bishop
Hoadly--Sir Robert extricates himself--The Church made the
scapegoat--Queen Caroline earnest about trifles--Etiquette of
the toilette--Fracas between Mr. Howard and the Queen--Modest
request of Mrs. Howard--Lord Chesterfield’s description of her.
Sir Robert Walpole was sojourning at Chelsea, and thinking of nothing
less than of the demise of a king, when news was brought him, by a
messenger from Lord Townshend, at three o’clock in the afternoon of the
14th of June 1727, that his late most sacred Majesty was then lying
dead in the Westphalian palace of his serene highness the Bishop of
Osnaburgh. Sir Robert immediately hurried to Richmond, in order to be
the first to do homage to the new sovereigns, George and Caroline.
George accepted the homage with much complacency, and on being asked by
Sir Robert as to the person whom the King would select to draw up the
usual address to the privy council, George II. mentioned the speaker
of the House of Commons, Sir Spencer Compton.
This was a civil way of telling Sir Robert that his services as
prime-minister were no longer required. He was not pleased at being
supplanted, but neither was he wrathfully little-minded against
his successor--a successor so incompetent for his task that he was
obliged to have recourse to Sir Robert to assist him in drawing up
the address above alluded to. Sir Robert rendered the assistance with
much heartiness, but was not the less determined, if possible, to
retain his office, in spite of the personal dislike of the King, and
of that of the Queen, whom he had offended, when she was Princess of
Wales, by speaking of her as ‘that fat beast, the prince’s wife.’
Sir Robert could easily make poor Sir Spencer communicative with
regard to his future intentions. The latter was a stiff, gossiping,
soft-hearted creature, and might very well have taken for his motto
the words of Parmeno in the play of Terence:--‘Plenus rimarum sum.’
He intimated that on first meeting parliament he should propose an
allowance of 60,000_l._ per annum to be made to the Queen. ‘I will make
it 40,000_l._ more,’ said Sir Robert, subsequently, through a second
party, to Queen Caroline, ‘if my office of minister be secured to me.’
Caroline was delighted at the idea, intimated that Sir Robert might
be sure ‘the fat beast’ had friendly feelings towards him, and then
hastening to the King, over whose weaker intellect her more masculine
mind held rule, explained to her royal husband that as Compton
considered Walpole the fittest man to be--what he had so long been
with efficiency--prime-minister, it would be a foolish act to nominate
Compton himself to the office. The King acquiesced, Sir Spencer was
made president of the council, and Sir Robert not only persuaded
parliament, without difficulty, to settle one hundred thousand a
year on the Queen, but he also persuaded the august trustees of the
people’s money to add the entire revenue of the civil list, about one
hundred and thirty thousand pounds a year, to the annual sum of seven
hundred thousand pounds, which had been settled as proper revenue for a
king. Sir Robert had thus the wit to bribe King and Queen, out of the
funds of the people, and we cannot be surprised that their Majesties
looked upon him and his as true allies. Indeed Caroline did not wait
for the success of the measure in order to show her confidence in
Walpole. Their Majesties had removed from Richmond to their temporary
palace in Leicester Fields, on the very evening of their receiving
notice of their accession to the crown; and the next day all the
nobility and gentry in town crowded to kiss their hands. ‘My mother,’
says Horace Walpole, ‘among the rest, who, Sir Spencer Compton’s
designation and not his evaporation being known, could not make her
way between the scornful backs and elbows of her late devotees, nor
could approach nearer to the Queen than the third or fourth row; but
no sooner was she descried by her Majesty than the Queen said aloud:
“There I am sure I see a friend!” The torrent divided and shrank to
either side, “and as I came away,” said my mother, “I might have walked
over their heads, had I pleased.”’
George I. had drawn up a will which he coolly thought his successor
would respect. Perhaps he remembered that his son believed in ghosts
and vampires, and would fulfil a dead man’s will out of mere terror of
a dead man’s visitation. But George Augustus had no such fear, nor any
such respect, as that noticed above.
At the first council held by George II., Dr. Wake, Archbishop of
Canterbury, in whose hands George I. had deposited his last will and
testament, produced that precious instrument, placed it before the
King, and composed himself to hear the instructions of the deceased
parent recited by his heir. The new King, however, put the paper in
his pocket, walked out of the room, never uttered a word more upon the
subject, and general rumour subsequently proclaimed that the royal will
had been dropped into the fire by the testator’s son.
That testator, however, had been a destroyer of wills himself. He had
burnt that of the poor old Duke of Zell, and he had treated in like
manner the last will of Sophia Dorothea. The latter document favoured
both his children more than he approved, and the King, who could do
no wrong, committed a felonious act, which for a common criminal
would have purchased a halter. Being given to this sort of iniquity
himself, he naturally thought ill of the heir whom he looked upon as
bound to respect the will of his father. To bind him the more securely
to such observance, he left two duplicates of his will; one of which
was deposited with the Duke of Wolfenbüttel, the other with another
German prince, whose name has not been revealed, and both were given
up by the depositaries, for fee and reward duly paid for the service.
The copies were destroyed in the same way as the original. What
instruction was set down in this document has never been ascertained.
Walpole speaks of a reported legacy of forty thousand pounds to the
King’s surviving mistress, the Duchess of Kendal, and of a subsequent
compromise made with the husband of the duchess’s ‘niece’ and heiress,
Lady Walsingham--a compromise which followed upon a threatened action
at law. Something similar is said to have taken place with the King of
Prussia, to whose wife, the daughter of George I., the latter monarch
was reported to have bequeathed a considerable legacy.
However this may be, the surprise of the council and the consternation
of the primate were excessive. The latter dignitary was the last
man, however, who could with propriety have blamed a fellow-man for
acting contrary to what was expected of him. He himself had been the
warmest advocate of religious toleration, until he reached the primacy
and had an opportunity for the exercise of a little harshness towards
dissenters. The latter were as much astonished at their ex-advocate as
the latter was astounded by the act of the King.
We will not further allude to the coronation of George and Caroline
than by saying that, on the occasion in question, these Sovereigns
displayed a gorgeousness of taste of a somewhat barbarous quality. The
coronation was the most splendid which had been seen for years. George,
despite his low stature and fair hair, which heightened the weakness of
his expression at this period, was said to be on this occasion ‘every
inch a king.’ He enjoyed the splendour of the scene and of himself, and
thought it cheaply purchased at the cost of much fatigue.
Caroline was not inferior to her lord. It is true that of crown jewels
she had none, save a pearl necklace, the solitary spoil left of all
the gems, ‘rich and rare,’ which had belonged to Queen Anne, and
which had, for the most part, been distributed by the late King among
his favourites of every degree. Caroline wore on the occasion of her
crowning, not only the pearl necklace of Queen Anne, but ‘she had on
her head and shoulders all the pearls and necklaces which she could
borrow from the ladies of quality at one end of the town, and on her
petticoat all the diamonds she could hire of the Jews and jewellers at
the other; so,’ adds Lord Hervey, from whom this detail is taken, ‘the
appearance and the truth of her finery was a mixture of magnificence
and meanness, not unlike the _éclat_ of royalty in many other
particulars, when it comes to be nicely examined and its sources traced
to what money hires and flattery lends.’
The Queen dressed for the grand ceremony in a private room at
Westminster. Early in the morning she put on ‘an undress’ at St.
James’s, of which we are told that ‘everything was new.’ She was
carried across St. James’s Park privately in a chair, bearing no
distinctive mark upon it, and preceded, at a short distance, by the
Lord Chancellor and Mrs. Howard, both of whom were in ‘hack sedans.’
She was dressed by that lady. Mrs. Herbert, another bed-chamber woman,
would fain have shared in the honour, but as she was herself in full
dress for the ceremony, she was pronounced incapable of attiring her
who was to be the heroine of it. At the conclusion of the august affair
the Queen unrobed in an adjacent apartment, and, as in the morning, was
smuggled back to St. James’s in a private chair.
Magnificent as Caroline was in borrowed finery at her coronation,
she was excelled in point of show by Mrs. Oldfield, on the stage at
Drury Lane. The theatre was closed on the night of the real event--the
government had no idea then of dividing a multitude; but the management
expended a thousand pounds in getting up the pageant of the crowning
of Anne Boleyn, at the close of ‘Henry VIII.’ In this piece, Booth
made Henry the principal character, and Cibber’s Wolsey sank to a
second-rate part. The pageant, however, was so attractive, that it was
often played, detached from the piece, at the conclusion of a comedy or
any other play. Caroline went more than once with her royal consort to
witness this representation, an honour which was refused to the more
vulgar show, which had but indifferent success, at Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields.
The King’s revenue, as settled upon him by the Whig parliament, was
larger than any of our Kings had before enjoyed. Caroline’s jointure,
100,000_l._ a year, with Somerset House and Richmond Lodge, was
double that which had been granted previously to any Queen. This
success had been so notoriously the result of Walpole’s exertions,
that the husband of Caroline, who dealt in very strong terms, began
to look complacently on the ‘rogue and rascal,’ thought his brother
Horace bearable, in spite of his being, as George used to call him,
‘scoundrel,’ ‘fool,’ and ‘dirty buffoon,’ and he even felt less averse
than usual to the two secretaries of state of Walpole’s administration,
the Duke of Newcastle, the ‘impertinent fool,’ whom he had threatened
at the christening of William, Duke of Cumberland, and Lord Townshend,
whom he was wont to designate as a ‘choleric blockhead.’ The issue
of the affair was, that of Walpole’s cabinet no one went out but the
minister’s son-in-law, Lord Malpas, roughly ejected from the Mastership
of the Robes, and ‘Stinking Yonge,’ as the King used elegantly to
designate Sir William, who was turned out of the Commission of
Treasury, and whose sole little failings were, that he was ‘pitiful,
corrupt, contemptible, and a great liar,’ though, as Lord Hervey says,
‘rather a mean than a vicious one,’ which does not seem to mend the
matter, and which is a distinction without a difference. After all, Sir
William only dived to come up fresh again. And Lord Malpas performed
the same feat.
Henceforth, it was understood by every lady, says Lord Hervey, ‘that
Sir Robert was the Queen’s minister; that whoever he favoured she
distinguished, and whoever she distinguished the King employed.’ The
Queen ruled, without seeming to rule. She was mistress by power of
suggestion. A word from her in public, addressed to the King, generally
earned for her a rebuke. Her consort so pertinaciously declared that he
was independent, and that she never meddled with public business of any
kind, that every one, even the early dupes of the assertion, ceased at
last to put any faith in it. Caroline ‘not only meddled with business,
but directed everything which came under that name, either at home or
abroad.’ It is too much, perhaps, to say that her power was unrivalled
and unbounded, but it was doubtless great, and purchased at great cost.
That she could induce her husband to employ a man whom he had not yet
learned to like was in itself no small proof of her power, considering
the peculiarly obstinate disposition of the monarch.
Her recommendation of Walpole was not based, it is believed, upon any
very exalted motives. Walpole himself, in his official connections with
the Sovereign, was certainly likely to take every advantage of the
opportunity to create favourable convictions of his ability. Caroline,
in praising his ability to the King, suggested that Sir Robert was rich
enough to be honest, and had so little private business of his own that
he had all the more leisure to devote to that of the King. ‘New leeches
would be not the less hungry;’ and with this very indifferent sort of
testimony to her favourite’s worth, Caroline secured a servant for the
King and a minister for herself.
The tact of the Queen was so admirable that the husband, who followed
her counsel in all things, never even himself suspected but that he
was leading her. This was the very triumph of the Queen’s art, and
the crowning proof of the simplicity and silliness of the King. It is
said that he sneered at Charles I. for being governed by _his_ wife;
at Charles II. for being governed by his mistresses; at James led
by priests; at William duped by men; at Queen Anne deceived by her
favourites; and at his father, who allowed himself to be ruled by any
one who could approach him. And he finished his catalogue of scorn by
proudly asking, ‘Who governs now?’ The courtiers probably smiled behind
their jaunty hats. The wits, and some of them were courtiers too,
answered the query more roughly, and they remarked, in rugged rhyme and
bad grammar--
You may strut, dapper George, but ’twill all be in vain;
We know ’tis Queen Caroline, not you that reign--
You govern no more than Don Philip of Spain.
Then if you would have us fall down and adore you,
Lock up your fat spouse, as your dad did before you.
The two were otherwise described by other poetasters, as--
So strutting a king and so prating a queen.
It is a fact, at which we need not be surprised, that the most cutting
satires against the King, as led by his wife, were from the pens of
female writers--or said to be so. And this is likely enough; for in
no quarter is there so much contempt for a man who leans upon, rather
than supports, his wife. The court certainly offered good opportunity
for the satirists to make merry with. At the court of Caroline, it
must be confessed, there was not much female delicacy, and still less
manly dignity--even in the presence of the Queen herself. Thus we hear,
for instance, of Caroline, one evening, at Windsor, asking Sir Robert
Walpole and Lord Townshend where they had dined that day? My lord
replied that he had dined with Lord and Lady Trevor, an aged couple,
and the lady remarkable for her more than ordinary plainness. Whereupon
Sir Robert, with considerable latitude of expression, intimated,
jokingly, that his friend was paying political court to the lord, in
order to veil a court of another kind addressed to the lady. Lord
Townshend, not understanding raillery on such a topic, grew angry, and
in defending himself against the charge of seducing old Lady Trevor,
was not content with employing phrases of honest indignation alone, but
used illustrations that no ‘lord’ would ever think of using before a
lady. Caroline grew uneasy, not at the growing indelicacy of phrase,
but at the angry feelings of the Peachum and Lockit of the court; and
‘to prevent Lord Townshend’s replying, or the thing being pushed any
further, only laughed, and began immediately to talk on some other
subject.’[4]
The mention of the heroes in Gay’s opera serves to remind me that, in
1729, the influence of the Queen was again exerted to lead the King to
do what he had not himself dreamed of doing.
Sir Robert Walpole must have been more ‘thin-skinned’ than he is
usually believed to have been, if he could really have felt wounded, as
it would appear was the case, by the alleged satire of the ‘Beggars’
Opera.’ The public would seem to have been the authors of such satire
rather than Gay, for they made application of many passages, to which
the writer of them probably attached no personal meaning.
The origin of the piece was certainly _not_ political. It was a mere
Newgate pastoral put into an operatic form, and intended to ridicule,
what it succeeded in overthrowing for a season, the newly introduced
Italian Opera. The piece had been refused by Cibber, and was accepted
by Rich, who brought it out at Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, on the 29th of
January 1728, with such success, that it was said of it, that it made
Gay rich, and Rich gay. Walker was the Macheath, and Miss Fenton,
afterwards Duchess of Bolton, the Polly--a character in which she
was not approached by either of her three immediate successors, Miss
Warren, Miss Cantrell, or sweet Kitty Clive. Johnson says of the piece
that it was plainly written only to divert--without any moral purpose,
and therefore not likely to do good. This is the truth, no doubt; and
if Gay put in a few strong passages just previous to representation,
it was the public application which gave them double force. Perhaps
the application would have been stronger if Quin had originally
played, as was intended, the part of Macheath. To step from Macbeth
to the highwayman might have had a political signification given to
it; and indeed Quin did play, and sing, the captain one night for his
benefit---just as another great tragedian, Young, did, within our own
recollection. However, never had piece such success. It was played at
every theatre in the kingdom, and every audience was as keenly alive
for passages which could be applied against the court and government as
they were for mere ridicule against the Italian Opera.
Caroline herself was probably not opposed to the _morale_ of the piece.
Her own chairmen were suspected of being in league with highwaymen,
and probably were; but on their being arrested and dismissed from her
service by the master of her household, who suspected their guilt,
she was indignant at the liberty taken and insisted on their being
restored. She had no objection to be safely carried by suspected
confederates of highwaymen.
The poverty of ‘Polly’ could not render it exempt from being made the
scapegoat for the ‘Beggars’ Opera,’ in which Walpole, from whom Gay
could not obtain a place, was said to be ‘shown-up,’ night after night,
as a thief and the friend of thieves. The ‘Beggars’ Opera’ had a run
before its satire was felt by him against whom it was chiefly directed.
‘Polly’ is very stupid and not satirical, but it was a favourite with
the author. The latter, therefore, was especially annoyed at receiving
an injunction from the lord chamberlain’s office, obtained at the
request of Sir Robert, whereby the representation of ‘Polly’ was
forbidden in every theatre. The poet determined to shame his enemies
by printing the piece with a smart political supplement annexed.
Gay was the ‘spoiled child’ of the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.
They espoused his cause; and the duchess was especially active, urgent,
and successful in procuring subscriptions--compelling them, by gentle
violence, even from the most reluctant. This zeal for the vexed poet
went so far that the duchess solicited subscriptions even in the
Queen’s apartment and in the royal drawing-room. There was something
pleasant in making even the courtiers subscribe towards the circulating
of a piece which royalty, through its official, had prohibited from
being acted. The zealous duchess was thus busy with three or four
gentlemen, in one corner of the room, when the King came upon them and
enquired the nature of her business. ‘It is a matter of humanity and
charity,’ said her grace, ‘and I do not despair but that your Majesty
will contribute to it.’ The Monarch disappointed Gay’s patroness in
this respect, but he exhibited no symptom whatever of displeasure,
and left her to her levying occupation. Subsequently, however, in the
Queen’s apartment, the subject was talked over between the royal pair,
and not till then did George perceive that the conduct of the duchess
was so impertinent that it was necessary to forbid her appearing again,
at least for the present, at court.
The King’s vice-chamberlain, Mr. Stanhope, was despatched with a verbal
message to this effect. The manner and the matter equally enraged
Gay’s patroness, and she delivered a note of acknowledgment to the
vice-chamberlain, in which she stated that she was both surprised and
gratified at the royal and agreeable command to stay away from court,
seeing that she had never gone there but for her own diversion, and
also from a desire of showing some civility to the King and Queen! The
lively lady further intimated, that perhaps it was as well that they
who dared to speak, or even think, truth, should be kept away from
a court where it was unpalatable; although she had thought that in
supporting truth and innocence in the palace, she was paying the very
highest compliment possible to both their Majesties.
When the note was completed, the writer gave it to Mr. Stanhope to
read. The stiff vice-chamberlain felt rather shocked at the tone, and
politely advised the duchess to think better of the matter, and write
another note. Her grace consented, but the second edition was so more
highly spiced, and so more pungent than the first, that the officer
preferred taking the latter, which he must have placed before King and
Queen with a sort of decent horror, appropriate to a functionary of his
polite vocation. The duchess lost the royal favour, and the duke, her
husband, lost his posts.
After all, it seems singular, that while so stupid a piece as ‘Polly’
was prohibited, the representation of the ‘Beggars’ Opera’ still went
on. The alleged offence was thus seemingly permitted, while visitation
was made on an unoffending piece; and subscriptions for the printing
of that piece were asked for, as we have seen, by the Duchess of
Queensberry, in the very apartments of the Sovereign, who is said to
have been most offended at the poet’s alleged presumption.
Other poets and the players advanced in the good will of Caroline
and her house by producing pieces complimentary to the Brunswick
family. Thus Rich, who had offended the royal family by getting up the
‘Beggars’ Opera,’ in January 1728, produced Mrs. Haywood’s tragedy of
‘Frederick, Duke of Brunswick-Lunenberg,’ in March 1729. The authoress
dedicated her play to Frederick, Prince of Wales, and her object in
writing it was to represent one of the ancestors of his royal highness
as raised to the imperial throne in consequence of his virtues. It may
be a question whether Caroline, or her husband, or son, could approve
of a subject which exhibited the Brunswick monarch falling under the
dagger of an assassin. However this may be, the public was indifferent
to the piece and its object; and, after being represented three times,
it disappeared for ever and left the stage to be again occupied by the
‘Beggars’ Opera:’ Peachum--Walpole, Lockit--Townshend, and Mat o’ the
Mint, type of easy financiers, who gaily bid the public ‘stand and
deliver!’
On the first occasion on which George I. left England to visit Hanover,
he appointed the Prince of Wales regent of the kingdom during his
absence. The prince, in spite of his limited powers--he was unable to
act on the smallest point without the sanction of ministers--contrived
to gain considerable and well-deserved popularity. George never again
allowed him to hold the same honourable office; and the son and father
hated each other ever after. In the May of this year, that son, now
King, quitted England in order to visit the Electorate, but he did not
appoint Frederick, Prince of Wales, as regent during his absence. He
delegated that office to the Queen, and most probably by the Queen’s
advice. Frederick had not been long in London before the opposition
party made him, if not their chief, at least their rallying point.
The prince hated his father heartily and openly, and he had as little
regard for his mother. When application was made to parliament to pay
some alleged deficiencies in the civil list, Frederick was particularly
severe on the extravagance of his sire and the method adopted to remedy
it. He talked loudly of what he would have done in a similar extremity,
or rather of how he would never have allowed himself to fall into so
extreme a difficulty. He was doubly in the wrong; ‘in the first place,
for saying what he ought only to have thought; and, in the next, for
not thinking what he ought not to have said.’ It was not likely, even
if the King had been so disposed, that the Queen would have consented
to an arrangement which would have materially diminished her own
consequence. She was accordingly invested with the office of regent;
and she performed its duties with a grace and an efficiency which
caused universal congratulation that the post had not been confided to
other, and necessarily weaker, hands. She had Sir Robert Walpole at her
side to aid her with his counsel; and the presence of the baronet’s
enemy, Lord Townshend, with the King had no effect in damaging the
power effectively administered by Caroline and her great minister.
It was not merely during the absence of the King in Hanover that
Caroline may be said to have ruled in England. The year 1730 affords us
an illustration on this point.
The dissenters, who had originally consented to the Test and
Corporation Acts, upon a most unselfish ground--for they sacrificed
their own interest in order that the Romanists might be prevented from
being admitted to places of power and trust--now demanded the repeal of
those Acts. The request perplexed the crown and ministry, especially
when an election was pending. To promise the dissenters (and it was
more especially the Presbyterians who moved in this matter) relief
would be to deprive the crown of the votes of churchmen; and to reject
the petition would be to set every dissenter against the government
and its candidates. Sir Robert Walpole, in his perplexity, looked
around for a good genius to rescue him from the dilemma in which he
was placed. He paused, on considering Hoadly, Bishop of Salisbury. The
bishop was the very _deus ex machinâ_ most needed, but he had been
shabbily treated on matters of preferment; and Walpole, who had face
for most things, had not the face to ask help from a man whom he had
ill-treated. The Queen stepped in and levelled the difficulty.
Caroline sent for Hoadly to come to her at Kensington. She received the
prelate with affability, and overwhelmed him with flattery, compliments
on his ability, and grateful expressions touching his zeal and the
value of his services in the King’s cause. She had now, she said, a
further service to ask at his hands; and, of course, it was one which
demanded of him no sacrifice of opinion or consistency: the Queen would
have been the last person to ask such a thing of the reverend prelate!
The service was this. The dissenters required the repeal of the Test
and Corporation Acts. The government did not dispute their right to
have such a concession made to them, but it did feel that the moment
was inconvenient; and, therefore, Bishop Hoadly, for whom the whole
body of dissenters entertained the most profound respect, was solicited
to make this opinion known to them, and to induce them to defer their
petition to a more favourable opportunity.
The Queen supported her request by such close and cogent arguments,
flattered the bishop so adroitly, and drew such a picture of the
possibly deplorable results of an attempt to force the repeal of the
Acts alluded to at the present moment, that Hoadly may be excused if he
began to think that the stability of the House of Hanover depended on
the course he should take in this conjuncture. He was not, however, to
be cajoled out of his opinions or his independence; he pronounced the
restrictive Acts unreasonable politically, and profane theologically.
He added, that, as a friend to religious and civil liberty, he
would vote for the repeal whenever and by whomsoever proposed. He
should stultify himself if he did otherwise. All that was in his
‘little power,’ consistent with his honour and reputation, he would,
nevertheless, willingly do. If he could be clearly convinced that the
present moment was unpropitious for pressing the demand, and perilous
to the stability of the government, he would not fail to urge upon the
dissenters to postpone presenting their petition until the coming of a
more favourable opportunity.
The out-of-door world no sooner heard of this interview between the
Queen and the prelate, than a report arose that her Majesty had
succeeded in convincing the right reverend father that the claims of
the dissenters were unreasonable, and that the bishop, as a consequence
of such conviction, would henceforth oppose them resolutely.
Hoadly became alarmed, for such a report damaged all parties. He was
very anxious to maintain a character for consistency, and at the same
time not to lose his little remnant of interest at court. He tried in
vain to get a promise from Sir Robert, that, if the dissenters would
defer preferring their claim until the meeting of a new parliament,
it should then meet with the government support. Sir Robert was too
wary to make such a promise, although he hinted his conviction of
the reasonableness of the claim, and that it would be supported when
so preferred. But the bishop, in his turn, was too cautious to allow
himself to be caught by so flimsy an encouragement; and he was admitted
to several subsequent consultations with the Queen; but, clever as
she was, she could not move the bishop. Hoadly was resolved that the
dissenters should know, that if he thought they might with propriety
defer their petition, he would uphold its prayer whenever presented.
In the mean time, Sir Robert extricated himself and the government
cleverly. Caroline doubtless enjoyed this exercise of his ability as
well as its results. The dissenters, organising an agitation, had
established a central committee in London, all the members of which
were bound to Sir Robert; ‘all monied men, and scriveners, and chosen
by his contrivance. They spoke only to be prompted, and acted only
as he guided.’[5] This committee had a solemnly farcical meeting with
the administration, to hold a consultation in the matter. Sir Robert
and the speakers confined themselves to the unseasonableness, but
commended the reasonableness, of the petition. ‘My lord president
looked wise, was dull, took snuff, and said nothing. Lord Harrington
(the Mr. Stanhope who had waited on the Duchess of Queensberry) took
the same silent, passive part. The Lord-Chancellor (King) and the Duke
of Newcastle had done better had they followed that example too; but
both spoke very plentifully, and were both equally unintelligible; the
one (King) from having lost his understanding, and the other from never
having had any.’[6]
The committee, after this interview, came to the resolution, that if
a petition were presented to parliament now in favour of the repeal
of the Test and Corporation Acts, ‘there was no prospect of success.’
This resolution saved the administration from the storm threatened by
the Presbyterian party. That party considered itself betrayed by its
own delegates, the Queen and Sir Robert were well satisfied with the
result, and the bishop was looked upon by the dissenters as having
supported their cause too little, and by the Queen’s cabinet as having
supported it too much.
In this case it may, perhaps, be fairly asserted that the Queen and
the minister, while they punished the dissenters, caused the blame to
fall upon the church. Their chief argument was, that the opposition
of the clergy would be a source of the greatest embarrassment to the
administration. It had long been the fashion to make the church suffer,
at least in reputation, on every occasion when opportunity offered,
and without any thought as to whether the establishment deserved it
or not. It was in politics precisely as it was in Sir John Vanbrugh’s
comedy of the ‘Provoked Wife.’ It will be remembered that, in that
dramatic mirror, which represents nature as objects are seen reflected
in flawed glass, when the tailor enters with a bundle, the elegant
_Lord Rake_ exclaims, ‘Let me see what’s in that bundle!’ ‘An’t please
you,’ says the tailor, ‘it is the doctor of the parish’s gown.’ ‘The
doctor’s gown!’ cries my lord; and then, turning to _Sir John Brute_,
he exultingly enquires, or requires, ‘Hark you, knight; you won’t stick
at abusing the clergy, will you?’ ‘No!’ shouts _Brute_, ‘I’m drunk, and
I’ll abuse anything!’ ‘Then,’ says _Lord Rake_, ‘you shall wear this
gown whilst you charge the watch; that though the blows fall upon you,
the scandal may light upon the church!’ ‘A generous design, by all the
Gods!’ is the ecstatic consent of the Pantheistic _Brute_--and it is
one to which _Amen!_ has been cried by many of the Brute family since
first it was uttered by their illustrious predecessor.
Meanwhile, Caroline could be as earnest and interested upon trifles
as she was upon questions of political importance. She loved both to
plague and to talk about Mrs. Howard.
That the Queen was not more courteous to this lady than their
respective positions demanded there is abundant evidence. In
a very early period of the reign Mrs. Howard was required, as
bedchamber-woman, to present a basin for the Queen to wash her hands
in, and to perform the service kneeling. The _etiquette_ was, for the
basin and ewer to be set on the Queen’s table by a page of the back
stairs: the office of the bedchamber-woman was then to take both, pour
out the water, set it before the Queen, and remain kneeling while her
Majesty washed, of which refreshing ceremony the kneeling attendant was
the only one who dared be the ocular witness.
This service of genuflexion remained in courtly fashion till the death
of Queen Charlotte. In the mean time, Mrs. Howard was by no means
disposed to render it to Queen Caroline. The scene which ensued was
highly amusing. On the service being demanded, said Caroline to Lord
Hervey, ‘Mrs. Howard proceeded to tell me, with her little fierce eyes,
and cheeks as red as your coat, that, positively, she would not do it;
to which I made her no answer then in anger, but calmly, as I would
have said to a naughty child:--“_Yes, my dear Howard, I am sure you
will. I know you will. Go, go; fie for shame! Go, my good Howard; we
will talk of this another time._” Mrs. Howard did come round; and I
told her,’ said Caroline, ‘I knew we should be good friends again; but
could not help adding, in a little more serious voice, that I owned, of
all my servants, I had least expected, as I had least deserved it, such
treatment from her; when she knew I had held her up at a time when it
was in my power, if I had pleased, any hour of the day, to let her drop
through my fingers, thus----.’
Caroline’s own account of the _fracas_ between Mrs. Howard and her
husband is too characteristic to be passed over. The curious in such
matters will find it in full detail in ‘Lord Hervey’s Memoirs.’ In
this place it will suffice to say, that, according to Lord Hervey, Mr.
Howard had a personal interview with the Queen. Caroline described the
circumstances of it with great graphic power. At this interview he had
said that he would take his wife out of her Majesty’s coach if he met
her in it. Caroline told him to ‘Do it, if he dare; though,’ she added,
‘I was horribly afraid of him (for we were _tête à tête_) all the time
I was thus playing the bully. What added to my fear on this occasion,’
said the Queen, ‘was, that as I knew him to be so _brutal_, as well
as a little mad, and seldom quite sober, so that I did not think it
impossible but that he might throw me out of window (for it was in
this very room our interview was, and that sash then open, as it is
now); but as soon as I got near the door, and thought myself safe from
being thrown out of the window, I resumed my grand tone of Queen, and
said I would be glad to see who would dare to open my coach-door and
take out one of my servants; knowing all the time that he might do so
if he would, and that he could have his wife and I the affront. Then I
told him that my resolution was positively, neither to force his wife
to go to him if she had no mind to it, nor to keep her if she had. He
then said he would complain to the King; upon which I again assumed my
high tone, and said the King had nothing to do with my servants; and,
for that reason, he might save himself the trouble, as I was sure the
King would give him no answer but that it was none of his business to
concern himself with my family; and after a good deal more conversation
of this sort (I standing close to the door all the while to give me
courage), Mr. Howard and I bade one another _good morning_, and he
withdrew.’
Caroline proceeded to call Lord Trevor ‘an old fool’ for coming to her
with thanks from Mrs. Howard, and suggestions that the Queen should
give 1,200_l._ a-year to the husband for the consent of the latter to
his wife’s being retained in the Queen’s household. Caroline replied
to this suggestion with as high a tone as she could have used when
addressing herself to Mr. Howard; but with a coarseness of spirit and
sentiment which hardly became a queen, although they do not appear to
have been considered unbecoming in a queen at _that_ time. ‘I thought,’
said Caroline, ‘I had done full enough, and that it was a little too
much, not only to keep the King’s “_guenipes_” (trollops) under my
roof, but to pay them too. I pleaded poverty to my good Lord Trevor,
and said I would do anything to keep so good a servant as Mrs. Howard
about me; but that for the 1,200_l._ a-year, I really could not afford
it.’ The King used to make presents to the Queen of fine Hanoverian
horses, not that _she_ might be gratified, but that he might, when he
wanted them, have horses maintained out of her purse. So he gave her
a bedchamber-woman in Mrs. Howard; but Caroline would not have her on
the same terms as the horses, and the 1,200_l._ a-year were probably
paid---not by the King, after all, but by the people.
Lord Chesterfield describes the figure of Mrs. Howard as being
above the middle size and well-shaped, with a face more pleasing
than beautiful.[7] She was remarkable for the extreme fairness and
fineness of her hair. ‘Her arms were square and lean, that is, ugly.
Her countenance was an undecided one, and announced neither good nor
ill nature, neither sense nor the want of it, neither vivacity nor
dulness.’ It is difficult to understand how such a face could be
‘pleasing;’ and the following is the characteristic of a common-place
person. ‘She had good natural sense, not without art, but in her
conversation dwelt tediously upon details and _minuties_.’ Of the man
whom she had, when very young, hastily married for love, and heartily
hated at leisure, Chesterfield says, ‘he was sour, dull, and sullen.’
The same writer sets it down as equally unaccountable that the lady
should have loved such a man, or that the man should ever have loved
anybody. The noble lord is also of opinion that only a Platonic
friendship reigned between the King and the favourite; and that it was
as innocent as that which was said to have existed between himself and
Miss Bellenden.
Very early during the intercourse, ‘the busy and speculative
politicians of the antechambers, who knew everything, but knew
everything wrong,’ imagined that the lady’s influence must be
all-powerful, seeing that her admirer paid to her the homage of
devoting to her the best hours of his day. She did not reject
solicitations, we are told, because she was unwilling to have it
supposed that she was without power. She neither rejected solicitations
nor bound herself by promises, but hinted at difficulties; and, in
short, as Chesterfield well expresses it, she used ‘all that trite
cant of those who with power will not, and of those who without power
cannot, grant the requested favours.’ So far from being able to make
peers, she was not even successful in a well-meant attempt to procure
a place of 200_l._ a-year ‘for John Gay, a very poor and honest man,
and no bad poet, only because he was a poet, which the King considered
as a mechanic.’ Mrs. Howard had little influence, either in the house
of the Prince, or, when she became Countess of Suffolk, in that of the
King. Caroline, we are told, ‘had taken good care that Lady Suffolk’s
apartment should not lead to power and favour; and from time to time
made her feel her inferiority by hindering the King from going to her
room for three or four days, representing it as the seat of a political
faction.’
CHAPTER III.
THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS ANNE.
Violent opposition to the King by Prince Frederick--Readings
at Windsor Castle--The Queen’s patronage of Stephen Duck
--His melancholy end--Glance at passing events--Precipitate
flight of Dr. Nichols--Princess Anne’s determination to get a
husband--Louis XV. proposed as a suitor; negotiation broken off
--The Prince of Orange’s offer accepted--Ugly and deformed--
The King and Queen averse to the union--Dowry settled on the
Princess--Anecdote of the Duchess of Marlborough--Illness
of the bridegroom--Ceremonies attendant on the marriage--
Mortification of the Queen--The public nuptial chamber--Offence
given to the Irish peers--The Queen and Lady Suffolk--Homage
paid by the Princess to her deformed husband--Discontent of
Prince Frederick--His anxiety not unnatural--Congratulatory
addresses by the Lords and Commons--Spirited conduct of the Queen
--Lord Chesterfield--Agitations on Walpole’s celebrated Excise
Scheme--Lord Stair delegated to remonstrate with the Queen--
Awkward performance of his mission--Sharply rebuked by the Queen
--Details of the interview--The Queen’s success in overcoming the
King’s antipathy to Walpole--Comments of the populace--Royal
interview with a bishop.
The social happiness of Caroline began now to be affected by the
conduct of her son Frederick, Prince of Wales. Since his arrival in
England, in 1728, he had been but coolly entertained by his parents,
who refused to pay the debts he had accumulated in Hanover previous to
his leaving the Electorate. He was soon in the arms of the opposition;
and the court had no more violent an enemy, political or personal, than
this prince.
His conduct, however--and some portion of it was far from being
unprovoked--did not prevent the court from entering into some social
enjoyments of a harmless and not over-amusing nature. Among these may
be reckoned the ‘readings’ at Windsor Castle. These readings consisted
of the poetry, or verses rather, of that Stephen Duck, the thresher,
whose rhymes Swift has ridiculed in lines as weak as any which ever
fell from the pen of Duck. The latter was a Wiltshire labourer, who
supported, or tried to support, a family upon the modest wages of
four-and-sixpence a week. In his leisure hours, whenever those could
have occurred, he cultivated poetry; and two of his pieces, ‘The
Shunamite’ and ‘The Thresher’s Labour,’ were publicly read in the
drawing-room at Windsor Castle, in 1730, by Lord Macclesfield. Caroline
procured for the poet the office of yeoman of the guard, and afterwards
made him keeper of her grotto, _Merlin’s Cave_, at Richmond. This
last act, and the patronage and pounds which Caroline wasted upon the
wayward and worthless savage, show that Swift’s epigram upon the busts
in the hermitage at Richmond was not based upon truth--
Louis, the living learned fed,
And raised the scientific head.
Our frugal Queen, to save her meat,
Exalts the heads that cannot eat.
Swift’s anger against the Queen, who once promised him some medals,
but who never kept her word, and from whom he had hoped, perhaps, for
a patronage which he failed to acquire, was further illustrated about
this time in a fiercely satirical poem, in which he says:--
May Caroline continue long--
For ever fair and young--in song.
What, though the royal carcase must,
Squeez’d in a coffin, turn to dust?
Those elements her name compose,
Like atoms, are exempt from blows.
And, in allusion to the princesses and their prospects, he adds, that
Caroline ‘hath graces of her own:’--
Three Graces by Lucina brought her,
Just three, and ev’ry Grace a daughter.
Here many a king his heart and crown
Shall at their snowy feet lay down;
In royal robes they come by dozens
To court their English-German cousins:
Besides a pair of princely babies
That, five years hence, will both be Hebes.
The royal patronage of Duck ultimately raised him to the church, and
made of him Vicar of Kew. But it failed to bring to the thresher
substantial happiness. He had little enjoyment in the station to which
he was elevated; and, weary of the restraints it imposed on him, he
ultimately escaped from them by drowning himself.
Of the Graces who were the daughters of Caroline, the marriage of one
began now to be canvassed. Meanwhile, there was much food for mere talk
in common passing events at home. The courtiers had to express sympathy
at their Majesties’ being upset in their carriage, when travelling only
from Kew to London. Then the son of a Stuart had just died in London.
He was that Duke of Cleveland who was the eldest son of Charles II. and
Barbara Villiers. In the year 1731 died two far more remarkable people.
On the 8th of April ‘Mrs. Elizabeth Cromwell, daughter of Richard
Cromwell, the Protector, and grand-daughter of Oliver Cromwell, died
at her house in Bedford Row, in the eighty-second year of her age.’ In
the same month passed away a man whose writings as much amused Caroline
as they have done commoner people--Defoe. He had a not much superior
intellectual training to that of Stephen Duck, but he was ‘one of the
best English writers that ever had so mean an education.’ The deaths
in the same year of the eccentric and profligate Duke of Wharton, and
of the relict of that Duke of Monmouth who lost his head for rebellion
against James II., gave further subject of conversation in the court
circle; where, if it was understood that death was inevitable and
necessary, no one could understand what had induced Dr. Nichols, of
Trinity College, Cambridge, to steal books from the libraries in that
university town. The court was highly merry at the precipitate flight
of the doctor, after he was found out; but there was double the mirth
the next year at the awkwardness of the Emperor of Germany, who,
happening to fire at a stag, chanced to shoot Prince Schwartzenberg,
his master of the horse. But we turn from these matters to those of
wooing and marriage.
In the year 1733 the proud and eldest daughter of Caroline, she who
had expressed her vexation at having brothers, who stood between her
and the succession to the crown--a crown, to wear which for a day,
she averred she would willingly die when the day was over--in the
year above named, the Princess Anne had reached the mature age of
twenty-four, and her hand yet remained disengaged. Neither crown nor
suitor had yet been placed at her disposal. A suitor _with_ a crown was
once, however, very nearly on the point of fulfilling the great object
of her ambition, and that when she was not more than sixteen years of
age. The lover proposed was no less a potentate than Louis XV., and he
would have offered her a seat on a throne, which, proud as she was, she
might have accepted without much condescension.
It is said that the proposal to unite Louis XV. and the Princess Anne
originated with the French minister, the Duke de Bourbon, and that
the project was entertained with much favour and complacency, until
it suddenly occurred to some one that if the princess became queen in
France, she would be expected to conform to the religion of France.
This, it was urged, could not be thought of by a family which was a
reigning family only by virtue of its pre-eminent Protestantism. It
does not seem to have occurred to any one that when Maria Henrietta
espoused Charles I., she had not been even asked to become a professed
member of the Church of England, and that we might have asked for the
same toleration in France for the daughter of Caroline as had been
given in England to the daughter of the ‘Grand Henri.’ However this may
be, the affair was not pursued to its end, and Caroline could not say
to her daughter, as Stanislas said to his on the morning he received an
offer for her from the young King Louis:--‘_Bon jour! ma fille: vous
êtes Reine de France!_’
Anne was unlucky. She lived moodily on for some half-dozen years, and,
nothing more advantageous offering, she looked good-naturedly on one of
the ugliest princes in Europe. But then he happened to be a sovereign
prince in his way. This was the Prince of Orange, who resembled
Alexander the Great only in having a wry neck and a halt in his gait.
But he also had other deformities from which the Macedonian was free.
George and Caroline were equally indisposed to accept the prince for
a son-in-law, and the parental disinclination was expressed in words
to the effect that neither King nor Queen would force the feelings of
their daughter, whom they left free to accept or reject the misshapen
suitor who aspired to the plump hand and proud person of the Princess
Anne.
The lady thought of her increasing years; that lovers were not to be
found on every bush, especially sovereign lovers; and, remembering
that there were Princesses of England before her who had contrived to
live in much state and a certain degree of happiness as Princesses of
Orange, she declared her intention of following the same course, and
compelling her ambition to stoop to the same modest fortune.
The Queen was well aware that her daughter knew nothing more of the
prince than what she could collect from his counterfeit presentments
limned by flattering artists; and Caroline suggested that she should
not be too ready to accept a lover whom she had not seen. The princess
was resolute in her determination to take him at once, ‘for better,
for worse.’ Her royal father was somewhat impatient and chafed by
such pertinacity, and exclaimed that the prince was the ugliest man
in Holland, and he could not more terribly describe him. ‘I do not
care,’ said she, ‘how ugly he may be. If he were a Dutch baboon I would
marry him.’ ‘Nay, then, have your way,’ said George, in his strong
Westphalian accent, which was always rougher and stronger when he was
vexed; ‘have your way: you will find _baboon_ enough, I promise you!’
Could the aspiring Prince of Orange only have heard how amiably he
was spoken of _en famille_ by his future relations, he would perhaps
have been less ambitious of completing the alliance. Happily these
family secrets were not revealed until long after he could be conscious
of them, and accordingly his honest proposals were accepted with
ostentatious respect and ill-covered ridicule.
The marriage of the princess royal could not be concluded without an
application to parliament. To both houses a civil intimation was made
of the proposed union of the Princess Anne and the Prince of Orange.
In this intimation the King graciously mentioned that he promised
himself the concurrence and assistance of the Commons to enable him
to give such a portion with his eldest daughter as should be suitable
to the occasion. The Commons’ committee promised to do all that the
King and Queen could expect from them, and they therefore came to the
resolution to sell lands in the island of St. Christopher to the amount
of 80,000_l._, and to make over that sum to the King, as the dowry of
his eldest daughter. The resolution made part of a bill of which it was
only one of the items, and the members in the house affected to be
scandalised that the dowry of a Princess of England should be ‘lumped
in’ among a mass of miscellaneous items--charities to individuals,
grants to old churches, and sums awarded for less dignified purposes.
But the bill passed as it stood, and Caroline, who only a few days
before had sent a thousand pounds to the provost of Queen’s College,
Oxford, for the rebuilding and adorning of that college, was especially
glad to find a dowry for her daughter, in whatever company it might
come, provided only it was not out of her own purse.
The news of the securing of the dowry hastened the coming of the
bridegroom. On the 7th of November 1732 he arrived at Greenwich,
and thence proceeded to Somerset House. His intended wife, when she
heard of his arrival, was in no hurry to meet him, but went on at her
harpsichord, surrounded by a number of opera-people. The Queen spoke
of him as ‘that animal!’ The nuptials were to have been speedily
solemnised, but the lover fell grievously sick. When the poor ‘groom’
fell sick, not one of the royal family condescended to visit him, and
though he himself maintained a dignified silence on this insulting
conduct, his suite, who could not imitate their master’s indifference,
made comment thereupon loud and frequent enough. They got nothing by
it, save being called Dutch boobies. The princess royal exhibited
no outward manifestation either of consciousness or sympathy. She
appeared precisely the same under all contingencies; and whether the
lover were in or out of England, in life or out of it, seemed to this
strong-minded lady to be one and the same thing.
There was no one whom the postponement of the marriage more annoyed
than it did the Duchess of Marlborough. She was then residing in
Marlborough House, which had been built some five-and-twenty years
previously by Wren. That architect was employed, not because he was
preferred, but that Vanbrugh might be vexed. The ground, in which had
formerly been kept the birds and fowls ultimately destined to pass
through the kitchen to the royal table, had been leased to the duchess
by Queen Anne, and the expenses of building amounted to nearly fifty
thousand pounds. The duchess both experienced and caused considerable
mortifications here. She used to speak of the King in the adjacent
palace as her ‘neighbour George.’ The entrance to the house, from Pall
Mall, was, as it still is, a crooked and inconvenient one. To remedy
this defect, she intended to purchase some houses ‘in the Priory,’
as the locality was called, for the purpose of pulling them down and
constructing a more commodious entry to the mansion; but Sir Robert
Walpole, with no more dignified motive than spite, secured the houses
and ground, and erected buildings on the latter, which, as now,
completely blocked in the front of the duchess’s mansion. She was
subjected to a more temporary, but as inconvenient, blockade when the
preparations for the wedding of the imperious Anne and her ugly husband
were going on. Among other preparations a boarded gallery, through
which the nuptial procession was to pass, was built up close against
the duchess’s windows, completely darkening her rooms. As the boards
remained there during the postponement of the ceremony, the duchess
used to look at them with the remark, ‘I wish the princess would oblige
me by taking away her _orange chest_!’
But the sick bridegroom took long to mend; and it was not till the
following January that he was even sufficiently convalescent to journey
by easy stages to Bath, and there drink in health at the fashionable
pump. A month’s attendance there restored him to something like health;
and in February his serene highness was gravely disporting himself at
Oxford, exchanging compliments and eating dinners with the sages and
scholars at that seat of learning. Another month was allowed to pass,
and then, on the 24th of March 1733, the royal marriage was solemnised
‘in the French Chapel,’ St. James’s, by the Bishop of London.
The ceremony was as theatrical and coarse as such things used to be in
those days. The prince must have looked very much as M. Potier used to
look in Riquet à la Houppe, before his transformation from deformity to
perfection. He was attired in a ‘cloth of gold suit;’ and George and
Caroline may be pardoned if they smiled at the ‘baboon’ whom they were
about to accept for their son-in-law. The bride was ‘in virgin robes of
silver tissue, having a train six yards long, which was supported by
ten dukes’ and earls’ daughters, all of whom were attired in robes of
silver tissue.’
Nature will assert its claims in spite of pride or expediency; and
accordingly it was observed that, after the bridegroom had arrived,
and the marriage procession began to move through the temporarily
constructed gallery, blazing with light, and glittering with bright
gems and brighter eyes, the bride herself seemed slightly touched, and
Caroline especially grave and anxious in her deportment. She appeared,
for the first time, to feel that her daughter was about to make a great
sacrifice, and her consequent anxiety was probably increased by the
conviction that it was too late to save her daughter from impending
fate. The King himself, who had never been in the eager condition of
the _seigneur_ in the song, who so peremptorily exclaims--
De ma fille Isabelle
Sois l’époux à l’instant--
manifested more impassibility than ever. Finally, the knot was tied
under a salvo of artillery and a world of sighs.
The ceremony took place in the evening, and at midnight the royal
family supped in public. It was a joyous festival, and not before
two in the morning did the jaded married couple retire to the bower
prepared for them, where they had to endure the further nuisance of
sitting up in bed, in rich undresses, while the court and nobility,
‘fresh’ from an exhilarating supper and strong wines, defiled before
them, making pleasant remarks the while, as ‘fine gentlemen’ used to
make who had been born in our Augustan age.
Caroline felt compassion for her daughter, but she restrained her
feelings until her eye fell upon the bridegroom. In his silver tissue
night-dress, his light peruque, his ugliness, and his deformity, he
struck her as the impersonation of a monster. His ill figure was so
ill-dressed, that, looked at from behind, he appeared to have no
head, and seen from before, he appeared as if he had neither neck nor
legs.[8] The Queen was wonderfully moved at the sight--moved with pity
for her daughter, and with indignation at her husband. The portion
of the ceremony which used to be the merriest was by far the most
mournful, at least so far as the Queen’s participation therein was
concerned. She fairly cried with mingled vexation, disappointment, and
disgust. She could not even revert to the subject, for days after,
without crying, and yet laughing too, as the oddity of the bridegroom’s
ugliness came across her mind.
The married couple were assuredly a strangely assorted pair. The
bride, indeed, was not without common-place charms. In common with
a dairy-maid the princess had a lively clear look and a very fair
complexion. Like many a dairy-maid, too, of the time, she was very
much marked with the small-pox. She was also ill-made, and inclined
to become as obese as her royal mother. But then the bridegroom! All
writers dealing with the subject agree that his ugliness was something
extraordinary. No one doubts that he was deformed; but Hervey adds some
traits that are revolting. His serene highness did not, like the gods,
distil a celestial ichor. He appears, however, not to have been void
of sense or good feeling; for when, at the period of his arrival, he
was received with very scanty honours and cold ceremony--was made to
feel that he was nothing in himself, and could only become anything
here by marrying an English princess; when George, if not Caroline,
‘snubbed’ the courtiers who crowded his apartments at Somerset House;
and when, in short, the prince of 12,000_l._ a year was made to feel
that but little value was set upon him--he bore it all in silence, or
as if he did not perceive it. Let us hope that gallantry for the lady
induced the princely Quasimodo thus to act. It was almost more than she
deserved; for while the people were ready to believe that the alliance
was entered into the better to strengthen the Protestant succession,
Anne herself was immediately moved thereto by fear, if she were left
single, of ultimately depending for a provision upon her brother
Frederick.
Lord Hervey was the master of the ceremonies on this serio-comic
occasion. According to his table of precedence, the Irish peers were to
walk in the procession after the entire body of the peerage of Great
Britain. This was putting the highest Irish peer beneath the lowest
baron in Britain. The Hibernian lords claimed to walk immediately
after the English and Scotch peers of their own degree. It was the
most modest claim ever made by that august body; but, modest as it
was, the arrogant peers of Great Britain threatened, if the claim were
allowed, to absent themselves from the ceremony altogether! The case
was represented to Caroline, and she took the side of right and common
sense; but when she was told that to allow the Irish claim would be to
banish every British peer from the solemn ceremony, she was weak enough
to give way. Lord Hervey, in his programme for the occasion, omitted to
make any mention of the peers of Ireland at all--thus leaving them to
walk where they could. On being remonstrated with, he said that if the
Irish lords were not satisfied he would keep all the finery standing,
and they might walk through it in any order of precedency they liked
on the day after the wedding. One lord grievously complained of the
omission of the illustrious Hibernian body from the programme. Lord
Hervey excused himself by remarking, that as the Irish house of peers
was then sitting in Dublin, he never thought, being an Englishman, of
the august members of that assembly being in two places at once.
The claim was probably disallowed because Ireland was not then in union
with England, as Scotland was. On no other ground could the claim have
been refused; and Caroline saw that even that ground was not a very
good one whereon to rest a denial. As it was, the Irish peers felt
like poor relations, neither invited to nor prohibited from the joyous
doings, but with a thorough conviction that, to use a popular phrase,
their room was deemed preferable to their company.
During the week following the marriage, Frederick, Prince of Wales,
was employed, after a fashion which suited his tastes extremely well,
in escorting his brother-in-law to witness the sights of London. It
then appears to have suddenly struck the government that it would
be as well to make an Englishman of the bridegroom, and that that
consummation could not be too quickly arrived at. Accordingly, a bill
for naturalising the prince was brought in and read three times on the
same day. It, of course, passed unanimously, and the prince received
the intelligence of his having been converted into a Briton with a
phlegm which showed that he had not altogether ceased to be a Dutchman.
He was much more pleasurably excited in the April of the following
year, when he heard that the King had sent a written message to the
Commons, intimating that he had settled five thousand a year on the
princess royal, and desiring that they would enable him to make the
grant for the life of the princess, as it would otherwise determine on
his Majesty’s death. The Commons complied with this message, and the
Prince of Orange was infinitely more delighted with this Act than with
that which bestowed on him the legal rights of an Englishman.
This pleasant little arrangement having been concluded, the prince and
princess set out for Holland, from St. James’s, on the 10th of April
1734; and in July of the same year the princess was again in England,
not at all to the satisfaction of her sire, and but very scantily to
the delight of her mother. The young lady, however, was determined to
remain; and it was not till November that she once more returned to her
home behind the dykes. The Queen was not sorry to part with her, for
just then she was deep in the _fracas_ connected with the dismissal of
her husband’s ‘favourite,’ Lady Suffolk, from her office of mistress
of the robes to her Majesty, an office in which she was succeeded by
the more worthy Countess of Tankerville. The King had the less time
to be troubled with thought about ‘that old deaf woman,’ as he very
ungallantly used to call his ancient ‘favourite,’ as he, too, was
deeply engaged in protesting against the Elector Palatine, who had been
very vigorously protesting against the right of the King, as Elector of
Hanover, to bear the title of arch-treasurer of the empire.
The commiseration which the Queen _had_ felt for her daughter was
shared by the sister of the latter, the Princess Amelia, who declared
that nothing on earth could have induced her to wed with such a man as
the Prince of Orange. Her declaration was accepted for as much as it
was worth. The gentle Princess Caroline, on the other hand, thought
that her sister, under the circumstances, had acted wisely, and that,
had _she_ been so placed, she would have acted in like manner. Nor did
the conduct of the bride give the world any reason to think that she
stood in need of pity. She appeared to adore the ‘monster,’ who, it
must be confessed, exhibited no particular regard for his spouse. The
homage she paid him was perfect. ‘She made prodigious court to him,’
says Lord Hervey, ‘addressed everything she said to him, and applauded
everything he said to anybody else.’
Perhaps the pride of the princess would not permit a doubt to be thrown
upon her supreme happiness. Her brother Frederick strove to mar it by
raising a quarrel, on a slight, but immensely absurd, foundation. He
reproached her for the double fault of presuming to be married before
him, and of accepting a settlement from her father when _he_ had none.
He was ingenious in finding fault; but there may have been a touch of
satire in this, for Anne was known to have been as groundlessly angry
with her brother for a circumstance which he could not very well help,
namely, his own birth, whereby the princess royal ceased to be next
heir to the crown.
The prince, however, was not much addicted to showing respect to
anybody, least of all to his mother. It was because of this miserable
want of respect for the Queen that the King, in an interview forced on
him by his son, refused to settle a fixed annuity upon him--at least
till he had manifested a more praiseworthy conduct towards the Queen.
The anxiety of Frederick on this occasion was not unnatural, for he
was deeply in debt, and of the 100,000_l._ granted to the prince by
parliament out of the civil list, the King allowed him only 36,000_l._
The remainder was appropriated by the King, who doubtless made his
son’s conduct the rule of his liberality, measuring his supplies to
the prince according as the latter was well or ill behaved. It was a
degrading position enough, and the degradation was heightened by the
silent contempt with which the King passed over his son’s application
to be permitted to join in active service. Throughout these first
family quarrels, the Queen preserved a great impartiality, with some
leaning, perhaps, towards serving her son. Nothing, however, came of
it; and, for the moment, Frederick was fain to be content with doing
the honours of the metropolis to his ungraceful brother-in-law.
The congratulatory addresses which were presented on the occasion of
the marriage had a mordantly satirical tone about them. It is wonderful
how George and Caroline, whose unpopularity was increasing at this
time, continued to preserve their equanimity at hearing praises rung
on the name and services of ‘Orange’--the name of a prince who had
become King of England by rendering the questionable service to _his
father-in-law_ of turning him off the throne.
The address of the Lords to the Queen, especially congratulating the
mother on the marriage of her daughter, was rendered painful instead
of pleasant by its being presented, that is spoken, to her by Lord
Chesterfield. Caroline had never seen this peer since the time he was
dismissed from her husband’s household, when she was Princess of Wales.
He had not been presented at court since the accession of the present
Sovereign, and the Queen was therefore resolved to treat as an utter
stranger the man who had been impertinent enough to declare he designed
that the step he took should be considered as a compliment to the
Queen. The latter abhorred him, nevertheless, for his present attempt
to turn the compliment addressed to her by the Lords into a joke.
Before he appeared, Caroline intimated her determination not to let the
peer’s cool impertinence awe or disconcert her. He really did find what
she declared he should, that ‘it was as little in his power for his
presence to embarrass her as for his raillery behind her back to pique
her, or his consummate skill in politics to distress the King or his
ministers.’[9]
The Queen acted up to this resolution. She received Lords Chesterfield,
Scarborough, and Hardwicke, the bearers of the address, in her
bedchamber, no one else being present but her children and Lord Hervey,
who stood behind her chair. The last-named nobleman, in describing the
scene, says: ‘Lord Chesterfield’s speech was well written and well got
by heart, and yet delivered with a faltering voice, a face as white as
a sheet, and every limb trembling with concern. The Queen’s answer was
quiet and natural, and delivered with the same ease that she would have
spoken to the most indifferent person in her circle.’
Caroline, however, had more serious matters to attend to during this
year than affairs of marriage. Of these we will now briefly speak.
Sir Robert Walpole’s celebrated Excise scheme was prolific in raising
political agitations and exciting both political and personal passions.
The Peers were, strangely enough, even more resolute against the
measure than the Commons; or perhaps it would be more correct to say,
that a portion of them took advantage of the popular feeling to further
thereby their own particular interests and especial objects.
It is again illustrative of the power and influence of Caroline, and
of the esteem in which she was held, that a body of the peers delegated
Lord Stair to proceed to the Queen, at Kensington, and remonstrate
with her upon the unconstitutional and destructive measure, as they
designated the Excise project.
Lord Stair was a bold man and was accustomed to meet and contend with
sovereigns. He had no doubt of being able to turn Caroline to his
purpose. But never did delegate perform his mission so awkwardly. He
thought to awaken the Queen’s indignation against Walpole by imparting
to her the valuable admonitory knowledge that she was ruled by that
subtle statesman. He fancied he improved his position by informing
her that Walpole was universally hated, that he was no gentleman, and
that he was as ill-looking as he was ill-inclined. He even forgot
his mission, save when he spoke of fidelity to his constituents, by
going into purely personal matters, railing at the minister whose very
shoe-buckles he had kissed in order to be appointed vice-admiral of
Scotland, when the Duke of Queensberry was ejected from that post, and
accusing Walpole of being manifestly untrue to the trust which he held,
seeing that whenever there was an office to dispose of, he invariably
preferred giving it to the Campbells rather than to him--Stair. To the
_Campbells_!--he reiterated, as if the very name were enough to rouse
Caroline against Walpole. To the Campbells! who tried to rule England
by means of the King’s mistress; opposed to governing it by means of
the King’s wife.
Caroline heard him with decent and civil patience until he had gone
through his list of private grievances, and began to meddle with
matters personal to herself and the royal hearth. She then burst forth,
and was superb in her rebuke--superb in its matter and manner--superb
in her dignity and in the severity with which she crushed Lord Stair
beneath her fiery sarcasms and her withering contempt. She ridiculed
his assertions of fidelity, and told him he had become traitor to his
own country and the betrayer of his own constituents. She mocked his
complacent assurances that his object was not personal, but patriotic.
She professed her intense abhorrence of having the private dissensions
of noblemen ripped open in her presence, and bade him learn better
manners than to speak, as he had done, of ‘the King’s servants to the
King’s wife.’
‘My conscience,’ said Lord Stair.
‘Don’t talk to me of your conscience, my lord,’ said Caroline, ‘or I
shall faint.’ The conversation was in French, and the Queen’s precise
words were, ‘Ne me parlez point de conscience, milord; vous me faites
évanouir.’
The Scottish lord was sadly beaten down, and confessed his disgraceful
defeat by requesting her Majesty to be good enough to keep what had
passed at the interview as a secret. He added, in French, ‘Madame, le
Roi est trompé et vous êtes trahie’--‘The King is deceived and you are
betrayed.’ He had previously alluded to Lords Bolingbroke and Carteret,
as men worthy indeed to be trusted, and who had the honour and glory
of the kingdom at heart. These names, with such testimonial attached
to them, especially excited the royal indignation. ‘Bolingbroke and
Carteret!’ exclaimed Caroline. ‘You may tell them from me, if you will,
that they are men of no parts; that they are said to be two of the
greatest liars in any country; and that my observation and experience
confirm what is said of them.’[10]
Stair reiterated his request that the incidents of the private
interview should not be further spoken of. Caroline consented; and she
must have felt some contempt for him as he also promised that he would
keep them secret, giving knowledge thereof to no man.
‘Well?’ said Carteret, enquiringly, as he met with Lord Stair after
this notable interview with Caroline.
‘Well!’ exclaimed Lord Stair, ‘I have staggered her!’ A pigmy might as
well have boasted of having staggered Thalestris and Hippolyta.
A short time subsequently Lord Hervey was with the Queen, in her
apartment, purveying to her, as he was wont to do, the floating news
of the day. Among other things, he told her of an incident in a debate
in parliament upon the army supplies. In the course of the discussion,
Carteret had observed that, at the period when Cardinal Mazarin was
ruining France by his oppressive measures, a great man sought an
audience of the Queen (Anne of Austria, mother of the young King Louis
XIV.), and after explaining to her the perils of the times, ended with
the remark that she was maintaining a man at the helm who deserved to
be rowing in the galleys.
Caroline immediately knew that Lord Stair had revealed what he had
petitioned her to keep secret; and feeling that she was thereby
exonerated from observing further silence, her Majesty took the
opportunity to ‘out with it all,’ as she said in not less choice
French: ‘J’ai pris la première occasion d’égosiller tout.’
Reverting to Carteret’s illustration she observed that the ‘great man’
noticed by him was Condé, a man who never had a word to say against
Mazarin as long as the cardinal fed a rapacity which could never be
satisfied. This was, in some degree, Stair’s position with regard to
Walpole. ‘Condé, in his interview with the Queen of France,’ observed
the well-read Queen of England, ‘had for his object to impose upon
her and France, by endeavouring to persuade her that his private
resentments were only a consequence of his zeal for the public
service.’
Lord Hervey, very gallantly and courtier-like, expressed his wish that
her Majesty could have been in the house to let the senate know her
wisdom; or that she could have been concealed there, to have had the
opportunity of saying, with Agrippine--
Derrière une voile, invisible, et présente,
Je fus de ce grand corps l’âme toute puissante.
The quotation, perhaps, could not have been altogether applicable,
but as Lord Hervey quoted it, and ‘my lord’ was a man of wit, it is
doubtless as well-placed as wit could make it. The Queen, at all
events, took it as a compliment, laughed, and declared, that often
when she was with these impatient fellows, ever ready with their
unreasonable remonstrances, she was tempted herself to say, with
Agrippine, that she was--
Fille, femme, et mère de vos maîtres;
a quotation less applicable even than the former, but in which Lord
Hervey detected such abundance of wit that he went into a sort of
ecstasy of delight at the Queen’s judgment, humour, knowledge, and
ability.
When the Excise bill was for the first time brought before the house,
the debate lasted till one in the morning. Lord Hervey, during the
evening, wrote an account of its progress to the King and Queen; and
when he repaired to the palace at the conclusion of the discussion, the
King kept him in the Queen’s bed-chamber, talking over the scene, till
three o’clock in the morning, and never for a moment remembered that
the hungry intelligencer had not dined since the yesterday.
When the clamour against the bill rose to such a pitch that all
England, the army included, seemed ready to rise against it, Walpole
offered himself as a personal sacrifice, if the service and interests
of the King would be promoted by his surrender of office and power. It
is again illustrative of the influence of Caroline that this offer was
made to her and not to the King. He was in truth the Queen’s minister;
and nobly she stood by him. When Walpole made the offer in question,
Caroline declared that she would not be so mean, so cowardly, or so
ungrateful as to abandon him; and she infused the same spirit into the
King. The latter had intended, from the first, to reign and govern,
and be effectively his own minister; but Caroline so wrought upon him
that he thought he had of himself reached the conviction that it was
necessary for him to trust in a minister, and that Walpole was the
fittest man for such an office. And so he grew to love the very man
whom he had been wont to hold in his heart’s extremest hate. He would
even occasionally speak of him as a ‘noble fellow,’ and, with tears in
his eyes, would listen to an account of some courageous stand Walpole
had made in the house against the enemies of the government, and he
would add the while a running commentary of sobs.
The Queen’s greatest triumph was this overcoming of her husband’s
personal hatred for Walpole. It could not have been an achievement
easy to be accomplished. But her art in effecting such achievements
was supreme, and she alone could turn to her own purpose the caprices
of a hot-headed man, of whom it has been said, that he was of iron
obstinacy, but that he was unlike iron in this, that the hotter he
became the more impossible it was to bend him. Caroline found him
pliant when she found him cool. But then, too, he was most wary, and it
was necessary so to act as to cause every turn which she compelled him
to make appear to himself as if it were the result of his own unbiassed
volition.
Supremely able as Caroline was, she could not, however, always conceal
her emotion. Thus, at this very period of the agitation of the Excise
bill, on being told, at one of her evening drawing-rooms, of the
difficulties and dangers which beset the path of the government, she
burst into tears, became unusually excited, and finally affecting,
and perhaps feeling, headache and vapours, she broke up her quadrille
party, and betrayed in her outward manner an apparent conviction of
impending calamity. She evinced the same weakness on being told, on a
subsequent evening, that Walpole was in a majority of only seventeen.
Such a small majority she felt was a defeat; and, on this occasion,
she again burst into tears, and for the first time expressed a fear
that the court _must_ give way! The sovereign was, at the same time, as
strong within her as the woman; and when she heard of the subordinate
holders of government posts voting against the minister or declining to
vote with him, she bitterly denounced them, exclaiming, that they who
refused to march with their leader were as guilty as they who openly
deserted, and that both merited condign punishment.[11]
The King on this occasion was as excited as his consort, but he
manifested his feelings in a different way. He made Lord Hervey repeat
the names of those who thwarted the views of the crown, and he grunted
forth an angry commentary at each name. ‘Lord John Cavendish,’ began
Hervey. ‘_A fool!_’ snorted the King. ‘Lord Charles Cavendish.’ ‘_Half
mad!_’ ‘Sir William Lowther.’ ‘_A whimsical fellow!_’ ‘Sir Thomas
Prendergast.’ ‘_An Irish blockhead!_’ ‘Lord Tyrconnel.’ ‘_A puppy_,’
said George, ‘who never votes twice _on the same side_!’
On the other hand, the populace made _their_ comment on the proceedings
of the court. It was rendered in a highly popular way, and with much
significancy. In the city of London, for instance, the mob hung in
effigy Sir Robert Walpole and a _fat woman_. The male figure was duly
ticketed. The female effigy was well understood to mean the Queen.
_Her_ power would, after all, not have followed in its fall that of
Walpole. Lord Hervey remarks, that had he retired, Caroline would
have placed before the King the names of a new ministry, and that the
administration would not have hung together a moment after it had
outlived her liking.
In the meantime her indefatigability was great. At the suggestion, it
is supposed, of Walpole, she sent for the Bishop of Salisbury, Dr.
Hoadly, who repaired to the interview with his weak person and stately
independence, if one may so speak, upheld by his ‘crutched stick.’ His
power must have been considered very great, and so must his caprice;
for he was frequently sent for by Caroline, remonstrated with for
supposed rebellion, or urged to exert all his good offices in support
of the crown. It is difficult to believe that the lengthy speeches
reported by Hervey were actually delivered by Queen and bishop. There
is nothing longer in Livy, and we are not told that any one took
them down. Substantially, however, they may be true. The Queen was
insinuating, complimentary, suggestive, and audacious; the bishop all
duty, submission, and promise--as far as his consistency and principles
could be engaged. But, after all, the immense mountain of anxiety
and stratagem was reared in vain, for Walpole withdrew his bill, and
Caroline felt that England was but nominally a monarchy.
CHAPTER IV.
FAMILY AND NATIONAL QUARRELS.
Retirement of Lady Suffolk--Tact of Queen Caroline--Arrogance of
Princess Anne--Private life of the royal family--The Count de
Roncy, the French refugee--German predilections of the Queen--A
scene at court--Queen Caroline’s declining health--Ambitious
aspirations of Princess Anne--Bishop Hoadly and the see of
Winchester--The Queen and the clergy--The Queen appointed
Regent--The King and Madame Walmoden--Lord Hervey’s imaginary
post-obit diary--The Queen’s farewell interview with Lady
Suffolk--Grief made fashionable--The temper of the King on his
return--A scene: dramatis personæ, the King, Queen, and Lord
Hervey--Lady Deloraine (Pope’s _Delia_) a royal favourite--An
angry scene between the King and Queen--The King’s opinion of
Bishop Hoadly--Dissension between the King and Prince--The royal
libertine at Hanover--Court revels--Lady Bolingbroke and the
Queen.
The year 1734 was marked by the retirement from court of the lady whom
it was the fashion to call the Queen’s rival. Mrs. Howard, on becoming
Countess of Suffolk, by the accession of her husband to the earldom in
1731, had been raised to the office of mistress of the robes to the
Queen. Her husband died two years subsequently; and, shortly after, the
King’s widowed favourite was sought in marriage by another suitor.
Her departure from court was doubtless principally caused by this new
prospect of a happier life. It may have been accelerated by other
circumstances. Lord Chesterfield, angry with the Queen for forgetting
to exert her promised influence for him in obtaining some favour,
applied to Lady Suffolk, and informed the Queen of the course he had
taken. Caroline thereon told the King that she had had some petition to
present on Lord Chesterfield’s behalf, but that as he had entrusted
it to Lady Suffolk’s presenting, her own influence would probably be
unavailing. The King, fired at the implied affront to his consort,
treated his old mistress, now nearly half a century in years, with such
severity that she begged to be permitted to withdraw. Lady Suffolk
brought her long career at court to a close in this year, previous
to her marriage with the Honourable George Berkeley, younger son of
the second Earl of Berkeley. He was Master of St. Catherine’s in the
Tower, and had served in two parliaments as member for Dover. Horace
Walpole, who knew Lady Suffolk intimately when she was residing at
Marble Hill, Twickenham, and he at Strawberry Hill, says of her, that
she was what may be summed up in the word ‘lady-like.’ She was of a
good height, well made, extremely fair, with the finest light-brown
hair, was remarkably genteel, and was always dressed with taste and
simplicity. He adds, ‘for her face was regular and agreeable rather
than beautiful, and those charms she retained, with little diminution,
to her death, at the age of seventy-nine’ (in July 1767). He does not
speak highly of her mental qualifications, but states that she was
grave, and mild of character, had a strict love of truth, and was
rather apt to be circumstantial upon trifles. The years of her life,
after her withdrawal from court, were passed in a decent, dignified,
and ‘respectable’ manner, and won for her a consideration which her
earlier career had certainly not merited.
The Queen’s influence was even stronger than the favourite’s credit.
‘Except a barony, a red riband, and a good place for her brother, Sir
John Hobart, Earl of Buckinghamshire, Lady Suffolk could succeed but
in very subordinate recommendations. Her own acquisitions were so
moderate, that, besides Marble Hill, which cost the King ten or twelve
thousand pounds, her complaisance had not been too dearly purchased.
She left the court with an income so little to be envied, that though
an economist and not expensive, by the lapse of some annuities on
lives not so prolonged as her own, she found herself straitened, and,
besides Marble Hill, did not at most leave twenty thousand pounds to
her family. On quitting court, she married Mr. George Berkeley, and
outlived him.’[12]
It is not certain how far Caroline’s influence was exercised in the
removal of Lady Suffolk, whom the Queen, according to some authors,
requested to continue some time longer in her office of mistress of the
robes. Nor is it important to ascertain. Caroline had higher duties
to perform. She continued to serve her husband well, and she showed
her opinion of her son, the Prince of Wales, by her conduct to him on
more than one occasion. Thus, on New Year’s Day the prince attended
his royal sire’s _levée_, not with any idea of paying his father the
slightest measure of respect, but, suspecting that the King would
not speak to him, to show the people with what contempt the homage
of a dutiful son was met by a stern parent. When Caroline heard of
the design, she simply persuaded the King to address his son kindly
in public. This advice was followed, and the filial plot accordingly
failed.
The Queen was as resolute in supporting the King against being driven
into settling a permanent income upon the prince. She spoke of the
latter as an extravagant and unprincipled fool, only less ignorant
than those who were idiots enough to give opinions upon what they
could not understand. ‘He costs the King 50,000_l._ a-year, and till
he is married that may really be called a reasonable allowance.’
She stigmatised him as a ‘poor creature,’ easily led away, but not
naturally bad-hearted. His seducers she treated as knaves, fools, and
monsters. To the suggestion that a fixed allowance, even if it should
be less than what the King paid out for him every year, would be better
than the present plan, Caroline only replied that the King thought
otherwise; and so the matter rested.
The tact of the Queen was further displayed in the course adopted by
her on an occasion of some delicacy. Lord Stair had been deprived of
his regiment for attempting to bring in a law whereby the commissions
of officers should be secured to them for life. The King said he would
not allow him to keep by favour what he had endeavoured to keep by
force. Thereupon Lord Stair addressed a private letter to the Queen,
through her lord-chamberlain, stuffed with prophetic warnings against
the machinations of France and the designs of Walpole.
Caroline, on becoming acquainted with the contents of the epistle,
rated her chamberlain soundly, and bade him take it instantly to Sir
Robert Walpole, with a request to the latter to lay it before the
King. She thus ‘very dexterously avoided the danger of concealing
such a letter from the King, or giving Sir Robert Walpole any cause
of jealousy from showing it.’ His Majesty very sententiously observed
upon the letter, that Lord Stair ‘was a puppy for writing it, and the
lord-chamberlain a fool for bringing it.’ The good chamberlain was
a fool for other reasons also. He had no more rational power than a
vegetable, and his solitary political sentiment was to this effect, and
wrapped up in very bad English: ‘I hate the French, and I hope as we
shall beat the French.’[13]
The times were growing warlike, and it was on the occasion of the
Prince of Orange going to the camp of Prince Eugene that the Princess
Anne returned to England. She was as arrogant and as boldly spoken
as ever. In the latter respect she manifested much of the spirit of
her mother. During her stay at court, the news of the surrender of
Philipsburg reached this country. Her highness’s remark thereon,
in especial reference to her royal father, is worth quoting. It
was addressed to Lord Hervey, who was leading the princess to her
own apartment after the drawing-room. ‘Was there ever anything so
unaccountable,’ said she, shrugging up her shoulders, ‘as the temper
of papa? He has been snapping and snubbing every mortal for this week,
because he began to think Philipsburg would be taken; and this very
day, that he actually hears it is taken, he is in as good humour as
I ever saw him in in my life. To tell you the truth,’ she added, in
French, ‘I find _that_ so whimsical, and (between ourselves) so utterly
foolish, that I am more enraged by his good, than I was before by his
bad, humour.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Lord Hervey, ‘he may be about Philipsburg as David
was about the child, who, whilst it was sick, fasted, lay upon the
earth, and covered himself with ashes, but the moment it was dead, got
up, shaved his beard, and drank wine.’ ‘It may be like David,’ said the
princess royal, ‘but I am sure it is not like Solomon.’
It was hardly the time for Solomons. Lord Chancellor King was a man of
the people, who, by talent, integrity, and perseverance, rose to the
highest rank to which a lawyer can work his way. He lost his popularity
almost as soon as he acquired the seals, and these he was ultimately
compelled, from growing imbecility of mind, to resign. He was the most
dilatory in rendering judgments of all our chancellors, and would
never willingly have decided a question, for fear he should decide it
incorrectly. This characteristic, joined to the fact of his having
published a history of the Apostles’ Creed, extorted from Caroline the
smart saying, that ‘He was just in the law what he had formerly been in
the Gospel, making creeds upon the one without any steady belief, and
judgments in the other without any settled opinion. But the misfortune
for the public is,’ said Caroline, ‘that though they could reject his
silly creeds, they are forced often to submit to his silly judgments.’
The court private life of the sovereigns at this time was as dull as
can well be imagined. There were two persons who shared in this life,
and who were very miserably paid for their trouble. These were the
Count de Roncy and his sister. They were French Protestants, who, for
conscience’ sake, had surrendered their all in France and taken refuge
in England. The count was created Earl of Lifford in Ireland. His
sister, Lady Charlotte de Roncy, was governess to the younger children
of George II. Every night in the country, and thrice a week when the
King and Queen were in town, this couple passed an hour or two with the
King and Queen before they retired to bed. During this time ‘the King
walked about, and talked to the brother of armies, or to the sister of
genealogies, while the Queen knotted and yawned, till from yawning she
came to nodding, and from nodding to snoring.’[14]
This amiable pair, who had lived in England during four reigns, were
in fact hard-worked, ill-paid court-drudges; too ill-paid, even, to
appear decently clad; an especial reproach upon Caroline, as the lady
was the governess of her children. But they were not harder worked, in
one respect, than Caroline herself, who passed seven or eight hours
_tête-à-tête_ with the King every day, ‘generally saying what she did
not think,’ says Lord Hervey, ‘and forced, like a spider, to spin out
of her own bowels all the conversation with which the fly was taken.’
The King could bear neither reading nor being read to. But, for the
sake of power, though it is not to be supposed that affection had not
some part in influencing Caroline to undergo such heavy trial, she
endured that willingly, and indeed much more than that.
At all events, she had some respect for her husband; but she despised
the son, who, in spite of her opinion of the natural goodness of his
heart, was mean and mendacious. The prince, moreover, was weaker
of understanding and more obstinate of temper than his father. The
latter hated him, and because of that hatred, his brother, the Duke of
Cumberland, was promoted to public employment. His sisters betrayed
him. Had Caroline not had a contempt for him, she would have influenced
the King to a very different line of conduct.
It was said of Frederick, that, from his German education, he was
more of a German than an Englishman. But the bias alluded to was not
stronger in him than it was in his mother.
Caroline was so much more of a German than of an Englishwoman, that
when the interests of Germany were concerned she was always ready to
sacrifice the interests of England. Her daughter Anne would have had
Europe deluged in blood for the mere sake of increasing her own and her
husband’s importance. In a general war she thought he would come to
the surface. Caroline was disinclined to go to war for the empire only
because she feared that, in the end, there might be war in England,
with the English crown for the stake.
There was at this time in London a dull and proud imperial envoy,
named Count Kiuski. He was haughty and impertinent in his manner of
demanding succour, as his master was in requiring it, from the Dutch.
Caroline rallied him on this one day, as he was riding by the side of
her carriage at a stag-hunt. She used a very homely and not a very
nice illustration to show the absurdity of losing an end by foolishly
neglecting the proper means. ‘If a handkerchief lay before me,’ said
she, ‘and I felt I had a dirty nose, my good Count Kiuski, do you think
I should beckon the handkerchief to come to me, or stoop to take it
up?’[15]
Political matters were not neglected at these hunting-parties. Lord
Hervey, ‘her child, her pupil, and her charge,’ who constantly rode
by the side of her carriage, on a hunter which she had given him, and
which could not have been of much use to him if he never quitted the
side of his mistress, used to discuss politics while others followed
the stag. The Queen, who was fourteen years older than he, used to
say, ‘It is well I am so old, or I should be talked of because of
this creature!’ And indeed the intercourse was constant and familiar.
He was always with her when she took breakfast, which she usually
did alone, and was her chief friend and companion when the King was
absent. Such familiarity gave him considerable freedom, which the Queen
jokingly called impertinence, and said that he indulged in that and in
contradicting her because he knew that she could not live without him.
It was at a hunting-party that Lord Hervey endeavoured to convince her
that for England to go to war for the purpose of serving the empire
would be a disastrous course to take. He could not convince her in a
long conversation, and thereupon, the chase being over, he sat down and
penned a political pamphlet, which he called a letter, which was ‘as
long as a “President’s Message,” and which he forwarded to the Queen.’
If Caroline was not to be persuaded by it, she at least thought none
the worse of the writer, who had spared no argument to support the
cause in which he boldly pleaded.
We have another home-scene depicted by Lord Hervey, which at once shows
us an illustration of parental affection and parental indifference.
The Princess Anne, after a world of delay, had reluctantly left St.
James’s for Holland, where her husband awaited her, and whither she
went for her confinement. The last thing she thought of was the success
of the opera and the triumph of Handel. She recommended both to the
charge of Lord Hervey, and then went on her way to Harwich, sobbing.
When she had reached Colchester she, upon receiving some letters from
her husband stating his inability to be at the Hague so soon as he
expected, started suddenly for Kensington.
In the meantime, in the palace at the latter place Lord Hervey
found the Queen and the gentle Princess Caroline sitting together,
drinking chocolate, shedding tears, and sobbing, all at the absence
of the imperious Lady Anne. The trio had just succeeded in banishing
melancholy remembrances by launching into cheerful conversation, when
the gallery door was suddenly opened, and the Queen rose, exclaiming,
‘The King here already!’ When, however, she saw that, instead of the
King, it was only the Prince of Wales, and ‘detesting the exchange of
the son for the daughter, she burst out anew into tears, and cried out,
“Oh, God! this is too much!”’ She was only relieved by the entry of the
King, who, perceiving but not speaking to his son, took the Queen by
the hand and led her out to walk.
This ‘cut direct,’ by affecting to be unconscious of the presence
of the obnoxious person, was a habit with the King. ‘Whenever the
prince was in a room with him,’ says Lord Hervey, ‘it put one in mind
of stories that one has heard of ghosts which appear to part of the
company and were invisible to the rest; and in this manner, wherever
the prince stood, though the King passed him ever so often, or ever so
near, it always seemed as if the King thought the prince filled a void
space.’
On the following day, the 22nd of October, the Princess Anne suddenly
appeared before her parents. They thought her at Harwich, or on the
seas, the wind being fair. Tears and kisses were her welcome from her
mother, and smiles and an embrace formed the greeting from her father.
The return was ill-advised, but the Queen, with a growing conviction
of decaying health, could not be displeased at seeing again her first
child.
The health of Caroline was undoubtedly at this time much impaired, but
the King allowed her scant respite from labour on that account. Thus on
the 29th of this month, although the Queen was labouring under cold,
cough, and symptoms of fever, in addition to having been weakened by
loss of blood, a process she had recently undergone twice, the King not
only brought her from Kensington to London for the birthday, but forced
her to go with him to the opera to hear the inimitable Farinelli. He
himself thought so little of illness, or liked so little to be thought
ill, that he would rise from a sick couch to proceed to hold a _levée_,
which was no sooner concluded than he would immediately betake himself
to bed again. His affection for the Queen was not so great but that
he compelled the same sacrifices from her; and on the occasion of
this birthday, at the morning drawing-room, she found herself so near
swooning, that she was obliged to send her chamberlain to the King,
begging him to retire, ‘for she was unable to stand any longer.’
Notwithstanding which, we are told by Lord Hervey, that ‘at night he
brought her into a still greater crowd at the ball, and there kept her
till eleven o’clock.’
Sir Robert Walpole frequently, and never more urgently than at this
time, impressed upon her the necessity of being careful of her own
health. He addressed her as though she had been Queen Regnant of
England--as she certainly was governing sovereign--and he described
to her in such pathetic terms the dangers which England would, and
Europe might, incur, if any fatal accident deprived her of life, and
the King were to fall under the influence of any other woman, that the
poor Queen, complaining and coughing, with head heavy, and aching eyes
half closed with pain, cheeks flushed, pulse quick, spirits low, and
breathing oppressed, burst into tears, alarmed at the picture, and with
every disposition to do her utmost for the benefit of her health and
the well-being of the body politic.
It was the opinion of Caroline, that in case of her demise the King
would undoubtedly marry again, and she had often advised him to take
such a step. She affected, however, to believe that a second wife would
not be able to influence him to act contrary to the system which he had
adopted through the influence of herself and Walpole.
It was during the sojourn of the Princess Anne in England that she
heard the details of the withdrawal of Lady Suffolk from court.
Everybody appeared to be rejoiced at that lady’s downfall, but most
of all the Princess Anne. The King thought that of all the children
of himself and Caroline, Anne loved him best. This dutiful daughter,
however, despised him, and treated him as an insufferable bore, who
always required novelty in conversation from others, but never told
anything new of his own. In allusion to the withdrawal of Lady Suffolk
from court, this amiable child remarked, ‘I wish with all my heart he
would take somebody else, that Mamma might be a little relieved from
the occasion of seeing him for ever in her room!’
In November the Princess Anne once more proceeded to Harwich, put to
sea, and was so annoyed by the usual inconveniences that she compelled
the captain to land her again. She declared that she should not be
well enough for ten days to go once more aboard. This caused great
confusion. Her father, and indeed the Queen also, insisted on her
repairing to Holland by way of Calais, as her husband had thoughtfully
suggested. She was compelled to pass through London, much to the King’s
annoyance, but he declared that she should not stop, but proceed at
once over London Bridge to Dover. He added, that she should never
again come to England in the same condition of health. His threat was
partly founded on the expense, her visit having cost him 20,000_l._
Her reluctance to proceed to her husband’s native country was founded,
it has been suggested, on her own ambitious ideas. Her brothers were
unmarried, and she was anxious, it is thought, that her own child
should be English born, as it would stand in the line of inheritance
to the throne. However this may be, the Queen saw the false step the
daughter had already taken, and insisted on the wishes of her husband,
the prince, being attended to; and so the poor foiled Anne went home to
become a mother, very much against her will.
The Princess Amelia observed to Mrs. Clayton, the Queen’s
bedchamber-woman, that her brother, Prince Frederick, would have been
displeased if the accouchement of the princess had taken place in
England. To this, Mrs. Clayton, as Lord Hervey observes, very justly
remarked, ‘I cannot imagine, madam, how it can affect the prince at all
where she lies in; since with regard to those who wish more of your
royal highness’s family on the throne, it is no matter whether she
be brought to bed here or in Holland, or of a son or a daughter, or
whether she has any child at all; and with regard to those who wish all
your family well, for your sake, madam, as well as our own, we shall be
very glad to take any of you in your turn, but none of you out of it.’
But the Queen had other business this year wherewith to occupy her
besides royal marriages, or filial indispositions. In some of these
matters her sincerity is sadly called in question. Here is an instance.
In 1734 the Bishop of Winchester was stricken with apoplexy, and
Lord Hervey was no sooner aware of that significant fact--it was a
mortal attack--than he wrote to Hoadly at Salisbury, urging him in the
strongest terms to make application to be promoted from Sarum to the
almost vacant see.
This promotion had been promised him by the King, Queen, and Walpole,
all of whom joined in blandly reproving the bishop for being silent
when Durham was vacant, whereby alone he lost that golden appointment.
He had served government so well, and yet had contrived to maintain
most of his usual popularity with the public, that he had been told to
look upon Winchester as his own, whenever an opening occurred.
Hoadly was simple enough to believe that the Queen and Walpole were
really sincere. He addressed a letter to the King through his ‘two
ears’--the Queen and Walpole; and he wrote as if he were sure of being
promoted, according to engagement, while at the same time he acted as
if he were sure of nothing.
Caroline called the bishop’s letter indelicate, hasty, ill-timed, and
such like; but Hoadly so well obeyed the instructions given to him that
there was no room for escape, and he received the appointment. When
he went to kiss hands upon his elevation, the King was the only one
who behaved with common honesty. He, and Caroline too, disliked the
man, whom the latter affected a delight to honour, for the reason that
his respect for royalty was not so great as to blind him to popular
rights, which he supported with much earnestness. On his reception by
the King, the latter treated him with disgraceful incivility, exactly
in accordance with his feelings. Caroline did violence to hers, and
gave him honeyed words, and showered congratulations upon him, and
pelted him, as it were, with compliments and candied courtesy. As for
Sir Robert Walpole, who hated Hoadly as much as his royal mistress
and her consort did together, he took the new Bishop of Winchester
aside, and, warmly pressing his hand, assured him without a blush that
his translation from Sarum to Winchester was entirely owing to the
mediation of himself, Sir Robert. It was a daring assertion, and Sir
Robert would have hardly ventured upon making it had he known the share
Lord Hervey had had in this little ecclesiastical intrigue. Hoadly was
not deluded by Walpole, but he was the perfect dupe of the Queen.
Lord Mahon,[16] in speaking of Caroline, says that ‘her character was
without a blemish.’ Compared with many around her, perhaps it was; but
if the face had not spots it had ‘patches,’ which looked very much
like them. On this matter, the noble lord appears to admit that some
doubt may exist, and he subsequently adds: ‘But no doubt can exist
as to her discerning and most praiseworthy patronage of worth and
learning in the Church. The most able and pious men were everywhere
sought and preferred, and the episcopal bench was graced by such men
as Hare, Sherlock, and Butler.’ Of course, Queen Caroline’s dislike
of Hoadly may be set down as founded upon that prelate’s alleged want
of orthodoxy. It has been noticed in another page, that, according to
Walpole, the Queen had rather weakened than enlightened her faith by
her study of divinity, and that her Majesty herself ‘was at best not
orthodox.’ Her countenance of the ‘less-believing’ clergy is said, upon
the same authority, to have been the effect of the influence of Lady
Sundon, who ‘espoused the heterodox clergy.’
Lord Mahon also says that the Queen was distinguished for charity
towards those whom she accounted her enemies. She could nurse her rage,
however, a good while to keep it warm. Witness her feeling manifested
against that daughter of Lord Portland who married Mr. Godolphin.
Her hatred of this lady was irreconcileable, nor was the King’s of a
more Christian quality. That lady’s sole offence, however, was her
acceptance of the office ‘of governess to their daughter in the late
reign, without their consent, at the time they had been turned out of
St. James’s, and the education of their children, who were kept there,
taken from them.’[17] For this offence the King and Queen were very
unwilling to confer a peerage and pension on Godolphin in 1735, when
he resigned his office of groom of the stole in the royal household.
The peerage and pension were, nevertheless, ultimately conferred at the
earnest solicitation of Walpole, and with great ill-humour on the part
of the King.
Even Walpole, with all his power and influence, was not at this time so
powerful and influential but that when he was crossed in parliament he
suffered for it at court. Thus, when the Crown lost several supporters
in the house by adverse decisions on election petitions, the King
was annoyed, and the Queen gave expression to her own anger on the
occasion. It was rare indeed that she ever spoke her dissatisfaction
of Sir Robert; but on the occasion in question she is reported as
having said that Sir Robert Walpole either neglected these things, and
judged it enough to think they were trifles, though in government,
and especially in this country, nothing was a trifle, ‘or, perhaps,’
she said, ‘there is some mismanagement I know nothing of, or some
circumstances we are none of us acquainted with; but, whatever it is,
to me these things seem very ill-conducted.’[18]
The Queen really thought that Walpole was on the point of having
outlived his ability and his powers to apply it for the benefit of
herself and husband. She observed him melancholy, and set it down that
he was mourning over his own difficulties and failures. When Caroline,
however, was told that Sir Robert was not in sorrow because of the
difficulties of government, but simply because his mistress, Miss
Skerret, was dangerously ill of a pleuritic fever, the ‘unblemished
Queen’ was glad! She rejoiced that politics had nothing to do with
his grief, and she was extremely well pleased to find that the
prime-minister was as immoral as men of greater and less dignity. And
then she took to satirising both the prime-minister and the lady of his
homage. She laughed at him for believing in the attachment of a woman
whose motives must be mercenary, and who could not possibly see any
attraction in such a man but through the meshes of his purse. ‘She must
be a clever gentlewoman,’ said Caroline, ‘to have made him believe that
she cares for him on any other score; and to show you what fools we all
are on some point or other, she has certainly told him some fine story
or other of her love, and her passion, and that poor man, with his
burly body, swollen legs, and villainous stomach (“_avec ce gros corps,
jambes enflés, et ce vilain ventre_”) believes her!--ah, what is human
nature?’ On this rhapsody Lord Hervey makes a comment in the spirit of
Burns’ verse--
Would but some god the giftie gi’e us,
To see ourselves as ithers see us--
and it was excellent opportunity for such comment. ‘While she was
saying this,’ remarks the noble lord, ‘she little reflected in what
degree she herself possessed all the impediments and antidotes to love
she had been enumerating, and that, “_Ah, what is human nature?_” was
as applicable to her own blindness as to his.’
She certainly illustrated in her own person her assertion that in
government nothing was a trifle. Thus, when what was called the Scotch
Election Petition was before parliament and threatening to give some
trouble to the ministerial side, her anxiety till the question was
decided favourably to the Crown side, and her affected indifference
after the victory, were both marked and striking. On the morning before
the petition was presented, praying the House of Lords to take into
consideration certain alleged illegalities in the recent election of
sixteen representative peers of Scotland--a petition which the house
ultimately dismissed--the anxiety of Caroline was so great ‘to know
what was said, thought, or done, or expected on this occasion, that she
sent for Lord Hervey while she was in bed; and because it was contrary
to the queenly etiquette to admit a man to her bedside while she was
in it, she kept him talking upon one side of the door, which was just
upon her bed, while she conversed with him on the other for two hours
together, and then sent him to the King’s side to repeat to his Majesty
all he had related to her.’[19] By the _King’s side_ is meant, not his
Majesty’s side of the royal couch, but the side of the palace wherein
he had his separate apartments.
It was soon after this period (1735), that the King set out for
Hanover, much against the inclination of his ministers, who dreaded
lest he should be drawn in to conclude some engagement, when abroad,
adverse to the welfare of England. His departure, however, was
witnessed by Caroline with much resignation. It gave her infinitely
more power and more pleasure; for, as regent, she had no superior to
consult or guide, and in her husband’s absence she had not the task
of amusing a man who was growing as little amusable as Louis XIV. was
when Madame de Maintenon complained of her terrible toil in that way.
His prospective absence of even half a year’s duration did not alarm
Caroline, for it released her from receiving the daily sallies of a
temper that, let it be charged by what hand it would, used always to
discharge its hottest fire, on some pretence or other, upon her!
The Queen’s enjoyment, however, was somewhat dashed by information
conveyed to her by that very husband, and by which she learned that the
royal reprobate, having become smitten by the attractions of a young
married German lady, named Walmoden, had had the rascality to induce
her to leave her husband--a course which she had readily adopted for
the small consideration of a thousand ducats.
This Madame Walmoden brings us back to the times of Sophia Dorothea.
Elizabeth, sister of the Countess von Platen who brought about the
catastrophe in which Königsmark perished and Sophia Dorothea was
ruined, was married, first to von Busch, and secondly to von Weyhe (or
Weyke). By this second marriage she had a daughter, who became the wife
of General von Wendt. These von Wendts had a daughter also, who married
Herr Walmoden. It was this last lady whom the son of Sophia Dorothea
lured from her husband, and whom he ultimately raised to the dignity of
Countess of Yarmouth.
Not the smallest incident which marked the progress of this infamous
connection was concealed by the husband from his wife. He wrote at
length minute details of the person of the new mistress, for whom he
bespoke the love of his own wife!
Lord Hervey thinks that the pride of the Queen was much more hurt
than her affections on this occasion; which is not improbable, for
the reasoning public, to whom the affair soon became known, at once
concluded that the rise of the new mistress would be attended with the
downfall of the influence of Caroline.
The latter, however, knew well how to maintain her influence, let who
would be the object of the impure homage of her exceedingly worthless
husband. To the letters which he addressed to her with particular
unction, she replied with an unction quite as rich in quality and
profuse in degree. Pure and dignified as she might seem in discoursing
with divines, listening to philosophers, receiving the metrical
tributes of poets, or cavilling with scholars, she had no objection
to descend from Olympus and find relaxation in wallowing in Epicurus’
stye. Nor did she thus condescend merely to suit a purpose and to gain
an end. Her letters, encouraging her husband in his amours with women
at Hanover, were coarse enough to have called up a blush on the cheek
of one of Congreve’s waiting-maids. They have the poor excuse tied to
them of having been written for the purpose of securing her own power.
The same apology does not apply to the correspondence with the _dirty_
Duchess of Orleans. Caroline appears to have indulged in the details of
that correspondence for the sake of the mere pleasure itself. And yet
she has been called a woman without blemish!
The King’s letters to her are said to have extended to sixty, and
never to less than forty, pages. They were filled, says Lord Hervey,
‘with an hourly account of everything he saw, heard, thought, or did,
and crammed with minute trifling circumstances, not only unworthy of
a man to write, but even of a woman to read; most of which I saw, and
almost all of them I heard reported by Sir Robert Walpole, to whose
perusal few were not committed, and many passages were transmitted
to him by the King’s own order; who used to tag several paragraphs
with “_Montrez ceci et consultez ladessus le gros homme_.” Among many
extraordinary things and expressions these letters contained was one
in which he desired the Queen to contrive, if she could, that the
Prince of Modena, who was to come at the latter end of the year to
England, might bring his wife with him.’ She was the younger daughter
of the Regent Duke of Orleans. The reason which the King gave to his
wife for the request which he had made with respect to this lady was,
that he had understood the latter was by no means particular as to what
quarter or person she received homage from, and he had the greatest
inclination imaginable to pay his addresses to a daughter of the late
Regent of France. ‘Un plaisir,’ he said--for this German husband wrote
even to his German wife in French--‘que je suis sûr, ma chère Caroline,
vous serez bien aise de me procurer, quand je vous dis combien je
le souhaite!’ If Wycherley had placed such an incident as this in
a comedy, he would have been censured as offending equally against
modesty and probability.
In the summer of this year, Lord Hervey was absent for a while from
attendance on his royal mistress; but we may perhaps learn from one
of his letters, addressed to her while he was resting in the country
from his light labours, the nature of his office and the way in which
Caroline was served. The narrative is given by the writer as part of
an imaginary post-obit diary, in which he describes himself as having
died on the day he left her, and as having been repeatedly buried in
the various dull country houses by whose proprietors he was hospitably
received. He thus proceeds:--
‘But whilst my body, madam, was thus disposed of, my spirit (as when
alive) was still hovering, though invisible, round your Majesty,
anxious for your welfare, and watching to do you any little service
that lay within my power.
‘On Monday, whilst you walked, my _shade_ still turned on the side of
the sun to guard you from its beams.
‘On Tuesday morning, at breakfast, I brushed away a fly that had
escaped Teed’s observation’ (Teed was one of the Queen’s attendants)
‘and was just going to be the taster of your chocolate.
‘On Wednesday, in the afternoon, I took off the chillness of some
strawberry-water your Majesty was going to drink as you came in hot
from walking; and at night I hunted a bat out of your bedchamber, and
shut a sash just as you fell asleep, which your Majesty had a little
indiscreetly ordered Mrs. Purcel to leave open.
‘On Thursday, in the drawing-room, I took the forms and voices of
several of my acquaintances, made strange faces, put myself into
awkward postures, and talked a good deal of nonsense, whilst your
Majesty entertained me very gravely, _recommended_ me very graciously,
and laughed at me internally very heartily.
‘On Friday, being post-day, I proposed to get the best pen in the other
world for your Majesty’s use, and slip it invisibly into your standish
just as Mr. Shaw was bringing it into your gallery for you to write;
and accordingly I went to _Voiture_, and desired him to hand me his
pen; but when I told him for whom it was designed, he only laughed at
me for a blockhead, and asked me if I had been at court for four years
to so little purpose as not to know that your Majesty had a much better
of your own.
‘On Saturday I went on the shaft of your Majesty’s chaise to Richmond;
as you walked there I went before you, and with an invisible wand I
brushed the dew and the worms out of your path all the way, and several
times uncrumpled your Majesty’s stocking.
‘Sunday.--This very day, at chapel, I did your Majesty some service,
by tearing six leaves out of the parson’s sermon and shortening his
discourse six minutes.’
While these imaginary services were being rendered by the visionary
Lord Hervey to the Queen, realities more serious and not less amusing
were claiming the attention of Caroline and her consort.
In return for the information communicated by the King to the Queen on
the subject of Madame Walmoden and her charms, Caroline had to inform
her husband of the marriage we have spoken of between Lady Suffolk and
Mr. George Berkeley. The royal ex-lover noticed the communication in
his reply in a coarse way, and expressed his entire satisfaction at
being rid of the lady, and at the lady’s disposal of herself.
When Caroline informed her vice-chamberlain, Lord Hervey, of the report
of this marriage, his alleged disbelief of the report made her peevish
with him, and induced her to call him an ‘obstinate devil,’ who would
not believe merely improbable facts to be truths. Caroline then railed
at Lady Suffolk in good set terms as a sayer and doer of silly things,
entirely unworthy of the reputation she had with some people of being
the sayer and doer of wise ones.
It was on this occasion that Caroline herself described to Lord Hervey
the farewell interview she had had with Lady Suffolk. The ex-mistress
took a sentimental view of her position, and lamented to the wife that
she, the mistress, was no longer so kindly treated as formerly by the
husband. ‘I told her,’ said the Queen, ‘in reply, that she and I were
not of an age to think of these sort of things in such a romantic
way, and said, “My good Lady Suffolk, you are the best servant in the
world; and, as I should be most extremely sorry to lose you, pray
take a week to consider of this business, and give me your word not
to read any romances in that time, and then I dare say you will lay
aside all thoughts of doing what, believe me, you will repent, and
what I am very sure I shall be very sorry for.”’[20] It was at one of
these conversations with Lord Hervey that the Queen told him that
Lady Suffolk ‘had had 2,000_l._ a year constantly from the King whilst
he was prince, and 3,200_l._ ever since he was King; besides several
little dabs of money both before and since he came to the crown.’
A letter of Lady Pomfret’s will serve to show us not only a picture of
the Queen at this time, but an illustration of feeling in a fine lady.
Lady Pomfret, writing to Lady Sundon, in 1735, says: ‘All I can say
of Kensington is, that it is just the same as it was, only pared as
close as the bishop does the sacrament. My Lord Pomfret and I were
the greatest strangers there; no secretary of state, no chamberlain
or vice-chamberlain, but Lord Robert, and he just in the same coat,
the same spot of ground, and the same words in his mouth that he had
when I left there. Mrs. Meadows in the window at work; but, though
half an hour after two, the Queen was not quite dressed, so that I
had the honour of seeing her before she came out of her little blue
room, where I was graciously received, and acquainted her Majesty, to
her great sorrow, how ill you had been; and then, to alleviate that
sorrow, I informed her how much Sundon was altered for the better, and
that it looked like a castle. From thence we proceeded to a very short
drawing-room, where the Queen joked much with my Lord Pomfret about
Barbadoes. The two ladies of the bedchamber and the governess are yet
on so bad a foot, that upon the latter coming into the room to dine
with Lady Bristol, the others went away, though just going to sit down,
and strangers in the place.’
The writer of this letter soon after lost a son, the Honourable Thomas
Fermor. It was a severely felt loss; so severe that some weeks elapsed
before the disconsolate mother was able, as she says, ‘to enjoy the
kind and obliging concern’ expressed by the Queen’s bedchamber-woman
in her late misfortune. Christianity itself, as this charming mother
averred, would have authorised her in lamenting such a calamity during
the remainder of her life; but then, oh joy! her maternal lamentation
was put an end to and Rachel was comforted, and all because--‘It was
impossible for any behaviour to be more gracious than that of the Queen
on this occasion, who made it _quite fashionable_ to be concerned’ at
the death of Lady Pomfret’s son.
But there were more bustling scenes at Kensington than such as those
described by this fashionably sorrowing lady and the sympathising
sovereign.
On Sunday, the 26th of October, the Queen and her court had just
left the little chapel in the palace of Kensington, when intimation
was given to her Majesty that the King, who had left Hanover on
the previous Wednesday, was approaching the gate. Caroline, at the
head of her ladies and the gentlemen of her suite, hastened down to
receive him; and, as he alighted from his ponderous coach, she took
his hand and kissed it. This ceremony performed by the regent, a very
unceremonious, hearty, and honest kiss was impressed on his lips by the
wife. The King endured the latter without emotion, and then, taking the
Queen-regent by the fingers, he led her upstairs in a very stately and
formal manner. In the gallery there was a grand presentation, at which
his Majesty exhibited much ill-humour, and conversed with everybody but
the Queen.
His ill-humour arose from various sources. He had heated himself by
rapid and continual travelling, whereby he had brought on an attack of
a complaint to which he was subject, which made him very ill at ease,
and which is irritating enough to break down the patience of the most
patient of people.
On ordinary occasions of his return from Hanover his most sacred
Majesty was generally of as sour disposition as man so little heroic
could well be. He loved the Electorate better than he did his kingdom,
and would not allow that there was anything in the latter which could
not be found in Hanover of a superior quality. There was no exception
to this: men, women, artists, philosophers, actors, citizens, the
virtues, the sciences, and the wits, the country, its natural beauties
and productions, the courage of the men and the attractions of the
women--all of these in England seemed to him worthless. In Hanover they
assumed the guise of perfection.
This time he returned to his ‘old’ wife laden with a fresh sorrow--the
memory of a new favourite. He had left his heart with the insinuating
Walmoden, and he brought to his superb Caroline nothing but a tribute
of ill-humour and spite. He hated more than ever the change from an
Electorate where he was so delightfully despotic, to a country where
he was only chief magistrate, and where the people, through their
representatives, kept a very sharp watch upon him in the execution of
his duties. He was accordingly as coarse and evil-disposed towards the
circle of his court as he was to her who was the centre of it. He,
too, was like one of those pantomime potentates who are for ever in
King Cambyses’ vein, and who sweep through the scene in a whirlwind of
farcically furious words and of violent acts, or of threats almost as
bad as if the menaces had been actually realised. It was observed that
his behaviour to Caroline had never been so little tinged with outward
respect as now. She bore his ill-humour with admirable patience; and
her quiet endurance only the more provoked the petulance of the little
and worthless King.
He was not only ill-tempered with the mistress of the palace, but
was made, or chose to think himself, especially angry at trifling
improvements which Caroline had carried into effect in the suburban
palace during the temporary absence of its master. The improvements
consisted chiefly in removing some worthless pictures and indifferent
statues and placing master-pieces in their stead. The King would
have all restored to the condition it was in when he had last left
the palace; and he treated Lord Hervey as a fool for venturing to
defend the Queen’s taste and the changes which had followed the
exercise of it. ‘I suppose,’ said the dignified King to the courteous
vice-chamberlain, ‘I suppose you assisted the Queen with your fine
advice when she was pulling my house to pieces, and spoiling all my
furniture. Thank God! at least she has left the walls standing!’
Lord Hervey asked if he would not allow the two Vandykes which the
Queen had substituted for ‘two signposts,’ to remain. George pettishly
answered, that he didn’t care whether they were changed or no; ‘but,’
he added, ‘for the picture with the dirty frame over the door, and the
three nasty little children, I will have them taken away, and the old
ones restored. I will have it done, too, to-morrow morning, before I go
to London, or else I know it will not be done at all.’
Lord Hervey next enquired if his Majesty would also have ‘his gigantic
fat Venus restored too?’ The King replied that he would, for he liked
his fat Venus better than anything which had been put in its place.
Upon this Lord Hervey says _he_ fell to thinking ‘that if his Majesty
had liked his _fat Venus_ as well as he used to do, there would have
been none of these disputations.’
By a night’s calm repose the ill-humour of the Sovereign was not
dispersed. On the following morning we meet with the insufferable
little man in the gallery, where the Queen and her daughters were
taking chocolate; her son, the Duke of Cumberland, standing by. He only
stayed five minutes, but in that short time the husband and father
contrived to wound the feelings of his wife and children. ‘He snubbed
the Queen, who was drinking chocolate, for being always stuffing; the
Princess Amelia for not hearing him; the Princess Caroline for being
grown fat; the Duke of Cumberland for standing awkwardly; and then he
carried the Queen out to walk, to be re-snubbed in the garden.’[21]
Sir Robert Walpole told his friend Hervey that he had done his utmost
to prepare the Queen for this change in the King’s feelings and
actions towards her. He reminded her that her personal attractions
were not what they had been, and he counselled her to depend more
upon her intellectual superiority than ever. The virtuous man advised
her to secure the good temper of the King by throwing certain ladies
in his way of an evening. Sir Robert mentioned, among others, Lady
Tankerville, ‘a very safe fool, who would give the King some amusement
without giving her Majesty any trouble.’ Lady Deloraine, the _Delia_
from whose rage Pope bade his readers dread slander and poison, had
already attracted the royal notice, and the King liked to play cards
with her in his daughter’s apartments. This lady, who had the loosest
tongue of the least modest women about the court, was characterised by
Walpole as likely to exercise a dangerous influence over the King. If
Caroline would retain her power, he insinuated, she must select her
husband’s favourites, through whom she might still reign supreme.
Caroline is said to have taken this advice in good part. There would
be difficulty in believing that it ever was given did we not know that
the Queen herself could joke, not very delicately, in full court, on
her position as a woman not first in her husband’s regard. Sir Robert
would comment on these jokes in the same locality, and with increase of
coarseness. The Queen, however, though she affected to laugh, was both
hurt and displeased--hurt by the joke and displeased with the joker, of
whom Swift has said, that--
By favour and fortune fastidiously blest,
He was loud in his laugh and was coarse in his jest.
In spite of the King’s increased ill-temper towards the Queen, and in
spite of what Sir Robert Walpole thought and said upon that delicate
subject, Lord Hervey maintains that at this very time the King’s heart,
as affected towards the Queen, was not less warm than his temper. The
facts which are detailed by the gentle official immediately after he
has made this assertion go strongly to disprove the latter. The detail
involves a rather long extract; but its interest, and the elaborate
minuteness with which this picture of a royal interior is painted, will
doubtless be considered ample excuse for reproducing the passages. Lord
Hervey was eye and ear-witness of what he here so well describes:--
‘About nine o’clock every night the King used to return to the Queen’s
apartment from that of his daughter’s, where, from the time of Lady
Suffolk’s disgrace, he used to pass those evenings he did not go to
the opera or play at quadrille, constraining them, tiring himself, and
talking a little indecently to Lady Deloraine, who was always of the
party.
‘At his return to the Queen’s side, the Queen used often to send for
Lord Hervey to entertain them till they retired, which was generally
at eleven. One evening among the rest, as soon as Lord Hervey came
into the room, the Queen, who was knotting, while the King walked
backwards and forwards, began jocosely to attack Lord Hervey upon an
answer just published to a book of his friend Bishop Hoadly’s on the
Sacrament, in which the bishop was very ill-treated; but before she
had uttered half what she had a mind to say, the King interrupted her,
and told her she always loved talking of such nonsense, and things she
knew nothing of; adding, that if it were not for such foolish people
loving to talk of these things when they were written, the fools who
wrote upon them would never think of publishing their nonsense, and
disturbing the government with impertinent disputes that nobody of any
sense ever troubled himself about. The Queen bowed, and said, “Sir,
I only did it to let Lord Hervey know that his friend’s book had not
met with that general approbation he had pretended.” “A pretty fellow
for a friend!” said the King, turning to Lord Hervey. “Pray what is it
that charms you in him? His pretty limping gait?” And then he acted
the bishop’s lameness, and entered upon some unpleasant defects which
it is not necessary to repeat. The stomachs of the listeners must
have been strong, if they experienced no qualm at the too graphic and
nasty detail. “Or is it,” continued the King, “his great honesty that
charms your lordship? His asking a thing of me for one man, and when
he came to have it in his own power to bestow, refusing the Queen to
give it to the very man for whom he had asked it? Or do you admire his
conscience, that makes him now put out a book that, till he was Bishop
of Winchester, for fear his conscience might hurt his preferment, he
kept locked up in his chest? Is his conscience so much improved beyond
what it was when he was Bishop of Bangor, or Hereford, or Salisbury
--for this book, I fear, was written so long ago--or is it that he
would not risk losing a shilling a year more whilst there was anything
better to be got than what he had? I cannot help saying, that if the
Bishop of Winchester is your friend, you have a great puppy, and a very
dull fellow, and a great rascal, for your friend. It is a very pretty
thing for such scoundrels, when they are raised by favour above their
deserts, to be talking and writing their stuff, to give trouble to
the government which has showed them that favour; and very modest for
a canting, hypocritical knave to be crying that _the kingdom of Christ
is not of this world_ at the same time that he, as Christ’s ambassador,
receives 6,000_l._ or 7,000_l._ a year. But he is just the same thing
in the Church that he is in the government, and as ready to receive the
best pay for preaching the Bible, though he does not believe a word of
it, as he is to take favour from the Crown, though, by his republican
spirit and doctrine, he would be glad to abolish its power.”’
There is something melancholily suggestive in thus hearing the temporal
head of a Church accusing of rank infidelity a man whom he had raised
to be an overseer and bishop of souls in that very Church. If George
knew that Hoadly did not believe in Scripture, he was infinitely worse
than the prelate for the simple fact of his having made him a prelate,
or having translated him from one diocese to another of more importance
and more value. But, to resume:--
‘During the whole time the King was speaking, the Queen, by smiling
and nodding in proper places, endeavoured all she could, but in vain,
to make her court, by seeming to approve everything he said.’ Lord
Hervey then attempted to give a pleasant turn to the conversation by
remarking on prelates who were more docile towards government than
Hoadly, and who, for being dull branches of episcopacy, and ignorant
piecers of orthodoxy, were none the less good and quiet subjects. From
the persons of the Church the vice-chamberlain got to the fabric,
and then descanted to the Queen upon the newly restored bronze gates
in Henry VII.’s Chapel. This excited the King’s ire anew. ‘My lord,’
said he, ‘you are always putting some of these fine things in the
Queen’s head, and then I am to be plagued with a thousand plans and
workmen.’ He grew sarcastic, too, on the Queen’s grotto in Richmond
Gardens, which was known as _Merlin’s Cave_, from a statue of the great
enchanter therein; and in which there was a collection of books, over
which Stephen Duck, thresher, poet, and parson, had been constituted
librarian. The _Craftsman_ paper had attacked this plaything of the
Queen, and her husband was delighted at the annoyance caused to her by
such an attack.
The poor Queen probably thought _she_ had succeeded in cleverly
changing the topic of conversation by referring to and expressing
disapproval of the expensive habit of giving _vails_ to the servants of
the house at which a person has been visiting. She remarked that she
had found it no inconsiderable expense during the past summer to visit
her friends even in town. ‘That is your own fault,’ growled the King;
‘for my father, when he went to people’s houses in town, never was fool
enough to give away his money.’ The Queen pleaded that she only gave
what her chamberlain, Lord Grantham, informed her was usual; whereupon
poor Lord Grantham came in for his full share of censure. The Queen,
said her consort, ‘was always asking some fool or another what she was
to do, and that none but a fool would ask another fool’s advice.’
The vice-chamberlain gently hinted that liberality would be expected
from a Queen on such occasions as her visits at the houses of her
subjects. ‘Then let her stay at home, as I do,’ said the King. ‘You do
not see me running into every puppy’s house to see his new chairs and
stools.’ And then, turning to the Queen, he added: ‘Nor is it for _you_
to be running your nose everywhere, and to be trotting about the town,
to every fellow that will give you some bread and butter, like an old
girl who loves to go abroad, no matter where, or whether it be proper
or no.’ The Queen coloured, and knotted a good deal faster during this
speech than before; whilst the tears came into her eyes, but she said
not one word.
Such is the description of Lord Hervey, and it shows Caroline in a
favourable light. The vice-chamberlain struck in for her, by observing
that her Majesty could not see private collections of pictures without
going to the owners’ houses, and honouring them by her presence.
‘Supposing,’ said the King, ‘she had a curiosity to see a tavern,
would it be fit for her to satisfy it? and yet the innkeeper would be
very glad to see her.’ The vice-chamberlain did not fail to see that
this was a most illogical remark, and he very well observed, in reply,
that, ‘if the innkeepers were used to be well received by her Majesty
in her palace, he should think that the Queen’s seeing them at their
own houses would give no additional scandal.’ As George found himself
foiled by this observation, he felt only the more displeasure, and he
gave vent to the last by bursting forth into a torrent of German, which
sounded like abuse, and during the outpouring of which ‘the Queen made
not one word of reply, but knotted on till she tangled her thread, then
snuffed the candles that stood on the table before her, and snuffed one
of them out. Upon which the King, in English, began a new dissertation
upon her Majesty, and took her awkwardness for his text.’[22]
Unmoved as Caroline appeared at this degrading scene, she felt it
acutely; but she did not wish that others should be aware of her
feelings under such a visitation. Lord Hervey was aware of this; and
when, on the following morning, she remarked that he had looked at her
the evening before as if he thought she had been going to cry, the
courtier protested that he had neither done the one nor thought the
other, but had expressly directed his eyes on another object, lest if
they met hers, the comicality of the scene should have set both of
them laughing.
And such scenes were of constant occurrence. The King extracted
something unpleasant from his very pleasures, just as acids may be
produced from sugar. Sometimes he fell into a difficulty during the
process. Thus, on one occasion, when the party were again assembled
for their usual delightful evening, the Queen had mentioned the name
of a person whose father, she said, was known to the King. It was
at the time when his Majesty was most bitterly incensed against his
eldest son. Caroline was on better terms with Frederick; but, as she
remarked, they each knew the other too well to love or trust one
another. Well, the King hearing father and son alluded to, observed,
that ‘one very often sees fathers and sons very little alike; a wise
father has very often a fool for his son. One sees a father a very
brave man, and his son a scoundrel; a father very honest, and his son
a great knave; a father a man of truth, and his son a great liar;
in short, a father that has all sorts of good qualities, and a son
who is good for nothing.’[23] The Queen and all present betrayed, by
their countenances, that they comprehended the historical parallel;
whereupon the King attempted, as he thought, to make it less flagrantly
applicable, by running the comparison in another sense. ‘Sometimes,’
he said, ‘the case was just the reverse, and that very disagreeable
fathers had very agreeable men for their sons.’ In this case, the King,
as Lord Hervey suggests, was thinking of his own father, as in the
former one he had been thinking of his son.
But how he drew what was sour from the sweetest of his pleasures
is shown from his remarks after having been to the theatre to see
Shakspeare’s ‘Henry IV.’ He was tolerably well pleased with all the
actors, save the ‘Prince of Wales.’ He had never seen, he said,
so awkward a fellow and so mean a looking scoundrel in his life.
Everybody, says Lord Hervey, who hated the actual Prince of Wales
thought of him as the King here expressed himself of the player; ‘but
all very properly pretended to understand his Majesty literally, joined
in the censure, and abused the theatrical Prince of Wales for a quarter
of an hour together.’
It may be here noticed that Shakspeare owed some of his reputation, at
this time, to the dissensions which existed between the King and his
son. Had it, at least, not been for this circumstance, it is not likely
that the play of ‘Henry IV.’ would have been so often represented as
it was at the three theatres--Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, Covent Garden,
and Drury Lane. Every auditor knew how to make special application
of the complainings and sorrowings of a royal sire over a somewhat
profligate son; or of the unfilial speeches and hypocritical assurance
of a princely heir, flung at his Sovereign and impatient sire. The
house in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields had the reputation of being the Tory
house; and the Prince of Wales _there_ was probably represented as a
proper gentleman; not out of love to _him_, but rather out of contempt
to the father. It was not a house which received the favour of either
Caroline or her consort. The new pieces there ran too strongly against
the despotic rule of kings--the only sort of rule for which George
at all cared, and the lack of which made him constantly abusive of
England, her institutions, parliament, and public men. It is difficult
to say what the real opinion of Caroline was upon this matter, for at
divers times we find her uttering opposite sentiments. She could be as
abusive against free institutions and civil and religious rights as
ever her husband was. She has been heard to declare that sovereignty
was worth little where it was merely nominal, and that to be king or
queen in a country where people governed through their parliament was
to wear a crown and to exercise none of the prerogatives which are
ordinarily attached to it. At other times she would declare that the
real glory of England was the result of her free institutions; the
people were industrious and enterprising because they were free, and
knew that their property was secure from any attack on the part of
prince or government. They consequently regarded their sovereign with
more affection than a despotic monarch could be regarded by a slavish
people; and she added, that she would not have cared to share a throne
in England, if the people by whom it was surrounded had been slaves
without a will of their own, or without a heart that throbbed at the
name of liberty. The King never had but one opinion on the subject, and
_therefore_ the theatre at Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields was for ever resounding
with clap-traps against despotism, and _that_ in presence of an
audience of whom Frederick, Prince of Wales, was chief, and Bolingbroke
led the applause.
But even Drury Lane could be as democratic as Lincoln’s Inn. Thus,
in the very year of which we are treating, Lillo brought out his
‘Christian Hero’ at Drury Lane, and the audience had as little
difficulty to apply the parts to living potentates as they had
reluctance to applaud to the echo passages like the following against
despotic rulers:--
Despotic power, that root of bitterness,
That tree of death that spreads its baleful arms
Almost from pole to pole, beneath whose cursed shade
No good thing thrives, and every ill finds shelter,
Had found no time for its detested growth
But for the follies and the crimes of men.
But ‘Drury’ did not often offend in this guise, and even George and
Caroline might have gone to see ‘Junius Brutus,’ and have been amused.
The Queen, who well knew the corruption of the senate, might have
smiled as Mills, in Brutus, with gravity declared that the senators--
Have heaped no wealth, though hoary grown in honours,
and George might have silently assented to the reply of Cibber, Jun.,
in ‘Messala,’ that--
On crowns they trample with superior pride;
They haughtily affect the pomp of princes.
The Queen’s vice-chamberlain asserts that the King’s heart still beat
for Caroline as warmly as his temper did against her. This assertion
is not proved, but the contrary, by the facts. These facts were of so
painful a nature to the Queen that she did not like to speak of them,
even to Sir Robert Walpole. One of them is a precious instance of the
conjugal warmth of heart pledged for by Lord Hervey.
The night before the King had last left Hanover for England he supped
gaily, in company with Madame Walmoden and her friends, who were not
so _nice_ as to think that the woman who had deserted her husband
for a King who betrayed his consort had at all lost _caste_ by such
conduct. Towards the close of the banquet, the frail lady, all wreathed
in mingled tears and smiles, rose, and gave as a toast, or sentiment,
the ‘next 29th of May.’ On that day the old libertine had promised to
be again at the feet of his new concubine; and as this was known to
the select and delicate company, they drank the ‘toast’ amid shouts of
loyalty and congratulations.
The knowledge of this fact gave more pain to Caroline than all the
royal fits of ill-humour together. The pain was increased by the King’s
conduct at home. It had been his custom of a morning, at St. James’s,
to tarry in the Queen’s rooms until after he had, from behind the
blinds, seen the guard relieved in the court-yard below: this took
place about eleven o’clock. This year he ceased to visit the Queen or
to watch the soldiers; but by nine o’clock in the morning he was seated
at his desk, writing lengthy epistles to Madame Walmoden, in reply to
the equally long letters from the lady, who received and despatched a
missive every post.
‘He wants to go to Hanover, does he?’ asked Sir Robert Walpole of Lord
Hervey; ‘and to be there by the 29th of May. Well, he shan’t go for all
that.’
Domestic griefs could not depress the Queen’s wit. An illustration of
this is afforded by her remark on the _Triple Alliance_. ‘It always put
her in mind,’ she said, ‘of the _South Sea_ scheme, which the parties
concerned entered into, not without knowing the cheat, but hoping to
make advantage of it, everybody designing, when he had made his own
fortune, to be the first in scrambling out of it, and each thinking
himself wise enough to be able to leave his fellow-adventurers in the
lurch.’
It has been well observed that the King’s good humour was now as
insulting to her Majesty as his bad. When he was in the former rare
vein, he exhibited it by entertaining the Queen with accounts of her
rival, and the many pleasures which he and that lady had enjoyed
together. He appears at Hanover to have been as extravagant in the
entertainments which he gave as his grandfather, Ernest Augustus.
Some of these court revels he caused to be painted on canvas; the
ladies represented therein were all portraits of the actual revellers.
Several of such pictures were brought over to England, and five of
them were hung up in the Queen’s dressing-room. Occasionally, of an
evening, the King would take a candle from the Queen’s table, and go
from picture to picture, with Lord Hervey, telling him its history,
explaining the joyous incidents, naming the persons represented, and
detailing all that had been said or done on the particular occasion
before them. ‘During which lecture,’ says the vice-chamberlain himself,
‘Lord Hervey, while peeping over his Majesty’s shoulders at those
pictures, was shrugging up his own, and now and then stealing a look,
to make faces at the Queen, who, a little angry, a little peevish, and
a little tired at her husband’s absurdity, and a little entertained
with his lordship’s grimaces, used to sit and knot in a corner of the
room, sometimes yawning, and sometimes smiling, and equally afraid of
betraying those signs, either of her lassitude or mirth.’
In the course of the year which we have now reached, Queen Caroline
communicated to Lord Hervey a fact, which is not so much evidence of
her Majesty’s common-sense, as of the presumption and immorality of
those who gave Caroline little credit for having even the sense which
is so qualified. Lord Bolingbroke had married the Marchioness de
Villette, niece of Madame de Maintenon, about the year 1716. The union,
however, was not only kept secret for many years, but when Bolingbroke
was under attainder, and a sum of 52,000_l._ belonging to his wife was
in the hands of Decker, the banker, Lady Bolingbroke swore that she
was not married to him, and so obtained possession of a sum which,
being hers, was her husband’s, and which being her husband’s, who was
attainted as a traitor, was forfeit to the Crown. However, as some of
it went through the hands of poor Sophia Dorothea’s rival, the easy
Duchess of Kendal, and her rapacious niece, Lady Walsingham, the matter
was not enquired into. Subsequently Lady Bolingbroke attempted to
excuse her husband’s alleged dealings with the Pretender, by asserting
that he entered into them solely for the purpose of serving the Court
of London. ‘That was, in short,’ said Caroline to Lord Hervey, ‘to
betray the Pretender; for though Madame de Villette softened the word,
she did not soften the thing, which I own,’ continued the Queen, ‘was
a speech which had so much impudence and villainy mixed up in it, that
I could never bear him or her from that hour, and could hardly hinder
myself from saying to her--“And pray, madam, what security can the King
have that my Lord Bolingbroke does not desire to come here with the
same honest desire that he went to Rome? or that he swears that he is
no longer a Jacobite, with any more truth than you have sworn you are
not his wife?”’ The only wonder is, considering Caroline’s vivacious
character, that she restrained herself from giving expression to her
thoughts. She was eminently fond of ‘speaking daggers’ to those who
merited such a gladiatorial visitation.
CHAPTER V.
THE MARRIAGE OF FREDERICK, PRINCE OF WALES.
The Queen’s cleverness--Princess Augusta of Saxe Gotha, the
selected bride of Prince Frederick--Spirited conduct of
Miss Vane, the Prince’s mistress--The King anxious for a
matrimonial alliance with the Court of Prussia--Prussian
intrigue to prevent this--The Prussian _mandats_ for entrapping
recruits--Quarrel, and challenge to duel, between King George
and the Prussian monarch--The silly duel prevented--Arrival
of the bride--The royal lovers--Disgraceful squabbles of the
Princes and Princesses--The marriage--Brilliant assemblage
in the bridal chamber--Lady Diana Spencer proposed as a match
for the Prince--_Débût_ of Mr. Pitt, afterwards Lord Chatham,
in the House of Commons--Riot of the footmen at Drury Lane
Theatre--Ill-humour exhibited by the Prince towards the Queen.
The Queen never exhibited her _cleverness_ in a clearer light than
when, in 1735, she got over the expected difficulty arising from a
threatened parliamentary address to the throne for the marriage and
settlement of the Prince of Wales. She ‘crushed’ it, to use the term
employed by Lord Hervey, by gaining the King’s consent--no difficult
matter--to tell the prince that it was his royal sire’s intention to
marry him forthwith. The King had no princess in view for him; but was
ready to sanction any choice he might think proper to make, and the
sooner the better. As if the thing were already settled, the Queen, on
her side, talked publicly of the coming marriage of the heir-apparent;
but not a word was breathed as to the person of the bride. Caroline,
moreover, to give the matter a greater air of reality, purchased
clothes for the wedding of her son with the yet ‘invisible lady,’ and
sent perpetually to jewellers to get presents for the ideal future
Princess of Wales.
The lady, however, was not a merely visionary bride. It was during the
absence of the King in Hanover that it was delicately contrived for him
to see a marriageable princess--Augusta of Saxe Gotha. He approved of
what he saw, and wrote home to the Queen, bidding her to prepare her
son for the bridal.
Caroline communicated the order to Frederick, who received it with due
resignation. His mother, who had great respect for outward observances,
counselled him to begin his preparations for marriage by sending
away his ostentatiously maintained _favourite_, Miss Vane. Frederick
pleased his mother by dismissing Miss Vane, and then pleased himself
by raising to the vacant bad eminence Lady Archibald Hamilton, a woman
of thirty-five years of age and the mother of ten children. The prince
visited her at her husband’s house, where he was as well received by
the master as by the mistress. He saw her constantly at her sister’s,
rode out with her, walked with her daily for hours in St. James’s
Park, ‘and, whenever she was at the drawing-room (which was pretty
frequently), his behaviour was so remarkable that his nose and her
ear were inseparable, whilst, without discontinuing, he would talk to
her as if he had rather been relating than conversing, from the time
he came into the room to the moment he left it, and then seemed to be
rather interrupted than to have finished.’[24]
The first request made by Lady Archibald to her royal lover was,
that he would not be satisfied with putting away Miss Vane; but that
he would send her out of the country. The prince did not hesitate a
moment; he sent a royal message, wherein he was guilty of an act of
which no _man_ would be guilty to the woman whom he had loved. The
message was taken by Lord Baltimore, who bore proposals, offering an
annuity of 1,600_l._ a year to the lady, on condition that she would
proceed to the continent, and give up the little son which owed to her
the disgrace of his birth, but to whom both she and the prince were
most affectionately attached. The alternative was starvation in England.
Miss Vane had an old admirer, to whom she sent in the hour of
adversity, and who was the more happy to aid her in her extremity as,
by so doing, he would not only have some claim on her gratitude, but
that he could, to the utmost of his heart’s desire, annoy the prince,
whom he intensely despised.
Lord Hervey sat down, and imagining himself for the nonce in the place
of Miss Vane, he wrote a letter in that lady’s name. The supposed
writer softly reproved the fickle prince, reminded him of the fond
old times ere love yet had expired, resigned herself to the necessity
of sacrificing her own interests to that of England, and then running
over the sacrifices which a foolish woman must ever make--of character,
friends, family, and peace of mind--for the fool or knave whom she
loves with more irregularity than wisdom, she burst forth into a tone
of indignation at the mingled meanness and cruelty of which she was now
made the object, and finally refused to leave either England or her
child, spurning the money offered by the father, and preferring any
fate which might come, provided she were not banished from the presence
and the love of her boy.
Frederick was simple enough to exhibit this letter to his mother,
sisters, and friends, observing at the same time that it was far too
clever a production to come from the hand of Miss Vane, and that he
would not give her a farthing until she had revealed the name of the
‘rascal’ who had written it. The author was popularly set down as being
Mr. Pulteney.
On the other hand, Miss Vane published the prince’s offer to her,
and therewith her own letter in reply. The world was unanimous in
condemning him as mean and cruel. Not a soul ever thought of finding
fault with him as immoral. At length a compromise was effected. The
prince explained away the cruel terms of his own epistle, and Miss Vane
withdrew what was painful to him in hers. The pension of 1,600_l._
a year was settled on her, with which she retired to a mansion in
Grosvenor Street, her little son accompanying her. But the anxiety
she had undergone had so seriously affected her health that she was
very soon after compelled to proceed to Bath. The waters were not
healing waters for her. She died in that city, on the 11th of March
1736, having had one felicity reserved for her in her decline, the
inexpressible one of seeing her little son die before her. ‘The Queen
and the Princess Caroline,’ says Lord Hervey, ‘thought the prince more
afflicted for the loss of this child than they had ever seen him on any
occasion, or thought him capable of being.’
One of the most cherished projects of George the Second was the union
by marriage of two of his own children with two of the children of the
King of Prussia. Such an alliance would have bound more intimately
the descendants of Sophia Dorothea through her son and daughter. The
double marriage was proposed to the King of Prussia, in the name of
the King of England, by Sir Charles Hotham, minister-plenipotentiary.
George proposed that his eldest son, Frederick, should marry the eldest
daughter of the King of Prussia, and that his second daughter should
marry the same King’s eldest son. To these terms the Prussian monarch
would not agree, objecting that if he gave _his_ eldest daughter to the
Prince of Wales, he must have the eldest, and not the second, daughter
of George and Caroline for the Prince of Prussia. Caroline would have
agreed to these terms; but George would not yield: the proposed
intermarriages were broken off, and the two courts were estranged for
years.
The Prussian princess, Frederica Wilhelmina, has published the memoirs
of her life and times; and Ranke, quoting them in his ‘History of the
House of Brandenburgh,’ enters largely into the matrimonial question,
which was involved in mazes of diplomacy. Into the latter it is not
necessary to enter; but to those who would know the actual causes of
the failure of these proposed royal marriages the following passage
from Ranke’s work will not be without interest:--
‘Whatever be their exaggerations and errors, the memoirs of the
Princess Frederica Wilhelmina must always be considered as one of
the most remarkable records of the state of the Prussian court of
that period. From these it is evident that neither she herself, nor
the Queen, had the least idea of the grounds which made the King
reluctant to give an immediate consent to the proposals. They saw
in him a domestic tyrant, severe only towards his family, and weak
to indifferent persons. The hearts on both sides became filled with
bitterness and aversion. The Crown Prince, too, who was still of an
age when young men are obnoxious to the influence of a clever elder
sister, was infected with these sentiments. With a view to promote
her marriage, he suffered himself to be induced to draw up in secret
a formal declaration that he would give his hand to no other than
an English princess. On the other hand, it is inconceivable to what
measures the other party had recourse, in order to keep the King steady
to his resolution. Seckendorf had entirely won over General Grumbkoo,
the King’s daily and confidential companion, to his side; both of them
kept up a correspondence of a revolting nature with Reichenbach, the
Prussian resident in London. This Reichenbach, who boasts somewhere
of his indifference to outward honours, and who was, at all events,
chiefly deficient in an inward sense of honour, not only kept up a
direct correspondence with Seckendorf, in which he informed him of all
that was passing in England in relation to the marriage, and assured
the Austrian agent that he might reckon on him as on himself; but,
what is far worse, he allowed Grumbkoo to dictate to him what he was
to write to the King, and composed his despatches according to his
directions. It is hardly conceivable that these letters should not have
been destroyed; they were, however, found among Grumbkoo’s papers at
his death. Reichenbach, who played a subordinate part, but who regarded
himself as the third party to this conspiracy, furnished on his side
facts and arguments which were to be urged orally to the King, in
support of his statements. Their system was to represent to the King
that the only purpose of England was to reduce Prussia to the condition
of a province, and to turn a party around him that might fetter and
control all his actions; representations to which Frederick William
was already disposed to lend an ear. He wished to avoid having an
English daughter-in-law because he feared he should be no longer master
in his own house; perhaps she would think herself of more importance
than he; he should die, inch by inch, of vexation. On comparing these
intrigues, carried on on either side of the King, we must admit that
the former--those in his own family--were the more excusable, since
their sole object was the accomplishment of those marriages, upon
the mere suspicion of which the King broke out into acts of violence
which terrified his family and his kingdom and astonished Europe. The
designs of the other party were far more serious; their purpose was to
bind Prussia in every point to the existing system, and to keep her
aloof from England. Of this the King had no idea; he received without
suspicion whatever Reichenbach wrote or Grumbkoo reported to him.’
The mutual friends, whose interest it was to keep Prussia and England
wide apart, laboured with a zeal worthy of a better cause, and not only
broke the proposed marriages, but made enemies of the two Kings. A
dispute was built up between them touching Mecklenburgh; and Prussian
press-gangs and recruiting parties crossed into the Hanoverian
territory, and carried off or inveigled the King of England’s Electoral
subjects into the military service of Prussia. This was the most
outrageous insult that could have been devised against the English
monarch, and it was the most cruel that could be inflicted upon the
inhabitants of the Electorate.
The King of Prussia was not nice of his means for entrapping men, nor
careful on whose territory he seized them, provided only they were
obtained. The districts touching on the Prussian frontier were kept in
a constant state of alarm, and border frays were as frequent and as
fatal as they were on England and Scotland’s _neutral_ ground, which
derived its name from an oblique application of etymology, and was so
called because neither country’s faction hesitated to commit murder
or robbery upon it. I have seen in the inns near these frontiers some
strange memorials of these old times. Those I allude to are in the
shape of _mandats_, or directions, issued by the authorities, and
they are kept framed and glazed, old curiosities, like the ancient
way-bill at the _Swan_ at York, which announces a new fast coach
travelling to London, God willing, in a week. These _mandats_, which
were very common in Hanover when Frederick, after refusing the English
alliance, took to sending his _Werbers_, or recruiters, to lay hold
of such of the people as were likely to make good tall soldiers, were
to this effect: they enjoined all the dwellers near the frontiers to
be provided with arms and ammunition; the militia to hold themselves
ready against any surprise; the arms to be examined every Sunday
by the proper authorities; watch and ward to be maintained day and
night; patrols to be active; and it was ordered, that, the instant
any strange soldiers were seen approaching, the alarm-bells should be
sounded and preparations be made for repelling force by force. The
Prussian _Werbers_, as they were called, were wont sometimes to do
their spiriting in shape so questionable that the most anti-belligerent
travellers and the most unwarlike and well-intentioned bodies were
liable to be fired upon if their characters were not at once explained
and understood. These were times when Hanoverians, who stood in fear of
Prussia, never lay down in bed but with arms at their side; times when
young peasants who, influenced by soft attractions, stole by night from
one village to another to pay their _devoirs_ to bright eyes waking to
receive them, walked through perils, love in their hearts, and a musket
on their shoulders. The enrollers of Frederick, and indeed those of his
great son after him, cast a chill shadow of fear over every age, sex,
and station of life.
In the meantime the two Kings reviled each other as coarsely as any two
dragoons in their respective services. The quarrel was nursed until
it was proposed to be settled, not by diplomacy, but by a duel. When
this was first suggested, the place, but not the time, of meeting, was
immediately agreed upon. The territory of Hildesheim was to be the spot
whereon were to meet in deadly combat two monarchs--two fathers, who
could not quietly arrange a marriage between their sons and daughters.
It really seemed as if the blood of Sophia Dorothea of Zell was ever to
be fatal to peace and averse from connubial felicity.
The son of Sophia Dorothea selected Brigadier-General Sutton for his
second. Her son-in-law (it will be remembered that he had married
that unhappy lady’s daughter) conferred a similar honour on Colonel
Derschein. His English Majesty was to proceed to the designated
arena from Hanover; Frederick was to make his way thither from
Saltzdhal, near Brunswick. The two Kings of Brentford could not have
looked more ridiculous than these two. They would, undoubtedly, have
crossed weapons, had it not been for the strong common sense of a
Prussian diplomatist, named Borck. ‘It is quite right and exceedingly
dignified,’ said Borck one day, to his master, when the latter was
foaming with rage against George the Second, and expressing an eager
desire for fixing a near day whereon to settle their quarrel--‘it
is most fitting and seemly, since your Majesty will not marry with
England, to cut the throat, if possible, of the English monarch;
but your faithful servant would still advise your Majesty not to
be over-hasty in fixing the day: ill-luck might come of it.’ On
being urged to show how this might be, he remarked--‘Your gracious
Majesty has lately been ill, is now far from well, and might, by
naming an early day for voidance of this quarrel, be unable to keep
the appointment.’ ‘We would name another,’ said the King. ‘And in
the meantime,’ observed Borck, ‘all Europe generally, and George of
England in particular, would be smiling, laughing, commenting on, and
ridiculing the King who failed to appear where he had promised to be
present with his sword. Your Majesty must not expose your sacred person
and character to such a catastrophe as this: settle nothing till there
is certainty that the pledge will be kept; and, in the meantime, defer
naming the day of battle for a fortnight.’
The advice of Borck was followed, and of course the fight never ‘came
off.’ The ministers of both governments exerted themselves to save
their respective masters from rendering themselves supremely, and
perhaps sanguinarily, ridiculous--for the blood of both would not have
washed out the absurdity of the thing. Choler abated, common-sense
came up to the surface, assumed the supremacy, and saved a couple of
foolish kings from slaying or mangling each other. George, however, was
resolved, and that for more reasons than it is necessary to specify,
that a wife must be found for his heir-apparent; and it was Caroline
who directed him to look at the princesses in the small and despotic
court of Saxe Gotha. Walpole was the more anxious that the Prince of
Wales should be fittingly matched, as a report had reached him that
Frederick had accepted an offer from the Duchess of Marlborough of a
hundred thousand pounds and the hand of her favourite grand-daughter,
Lady Diana Spencer. The marriage, it was said, was to come off
privately, at the duchess’s lodge in Richmond Park.
Lord Delawar, who was sent to demand the hand of the Princess Augusta
from her brother, the Duke of Saxe Gotha, was long, lank, awkward, and
unpolished. There was no fear here of the catastrophe which followed on
the introduction to Francesca da Rimini of the handsome envoy whom she
mistook for her bridegroom, and with whom she fell in love as soon as
she beheld him.
Walpole, writing from King’s College on the 2nd of May 1736, says: ‘I
believe the princess will have more beauties bestowed upon her by the
occasional poets than even a painter would afford her. They will cook
up a new Pandora, and in the bottom of the box enclose Hope--that all
they have said is true. A great many, out of excess of good breeding,
who have heard that it was rude to talk Latin before women, proposed
complimenting her in English; which she will be much the better for. I
doubt most of them, instead of fearing their compositions should not be
understood, should fear they should; they wish they don’t know what to
be read by they don’t know who.’
When the King despatched some half dozen lords of his council to
propose to the prince that he should espouse the youthful Princess
Augusta, he replied, with a tone of mingled duty and indifference,
something like Captain Absolute in the play, that ‘whoever his Majesty
thought a proper match for his son would be agreeable to him.’
The match was straightway resolved upon; and as the young lady knew
little of French and less of English, it was suggested to her mother
that a few lessons in both languages would not be thrown away. The
Duchess of Saxe Gotha, however, was wiser in her own conceit than her
officious counsellors; and remembering that the Hanoverian family had
been a score of years, and more, upon the throne of England, she very
naturally concluded that the people all spoke or understood German,
and that it would really be needlessly troubling the child to make her
learn two languages, to acquire a knowledge of which would not be worth
the pains spent upon the labour.
When princesses then espoused heirs to thrones they were treated but
with very scanty ceremony. Their own feelings were allowed to exercise
very little influence in the matter; there was no pleasant wooing time;
the bridegroom did not even give himself the trouble to seek the bride
--he does not always do so, even now; and when the bride married the
deputy who was despatched to espouse her by proxy, she knew as little
of the principal as she did of his representative. But the blooming
young Princess of Saxe Gotha submitted joyfully to custom and the
chance of becoming Queen of England. She was willing to come and win
what the Prince of Wales, had not dignity made him ungallant, should
have gone and laid at her feet and besought her to accept. Accordingly,
the royal yacht, _William and Mary_, destined to carry many a less
noble freight before its career was completed, bore the bride to our
shores. When Lord Delawar handed the bride ashore at Greenwich, on
the 25th of April 1736, she excited general admiration by her fresh
air, good humour, and tasteful dress. It was St. George’s day; no
inauspicious day whereon landing should be made in England by the young
girl of seventeen, who was to be the mother of the first king born and
bred in England since the birthday of James II.
The royal bride was conducted to the Queen’s house in the park, where,
as my fair readers, and indeed _all_ readers with equal good sense and
a proper idea of the fitness of things, will naturally conclude that
all the royal family had assembled to welcome, with more than ordinary
warmth, one who came among them under circumstances of more than
ordinary interest. But the truth is that there was no one to give her
welcome but solemn officers of state and criticising ladies-in-waiting.
The _people_ were there of course, and the princess had no cause to
complain of any lack of warmth on their part. For want of better
company, she spent half an hour with the English commonalty; and as
she sat in the balcony overlooking the park, the gallant mob shouted
themselves hoarse in her praise, and did her all homage until the
tardy lover arrived, whose own peculiar homage he should have been
in a little more lover-like haste to pay. However, Frederick came at
last, and he came alone. The King, Queen, duke, and princesses sent
‘their compliments, and hoped she was well!’ They could not have sent
or said less had she been Griselda, fresh from her native cottage and
about to become the bride of the prince without their consent and
altogether without their will. But the day was Sunday, and perhaps
those distinguished personages were reluctant to indulge in too much
expansion of feeling on the sacred day.
On the following day, Monday, Greenwich was as much alive as it used
to be on a fine fair-day: for the princess dined in public, and all
the world was there to see her. That is to say, she and the prince
dined together in an apartment the windows of which were thrown open
‘to oblige the curiosity of the people;’ and it is only to be hoped
that the springs of the period were not such inclement seasons as
those generally known by the name of spring to us. The people having
stared their fill, and the princess having banqueted as comfortably
as she could under such circumstances, the Prince of Wales took her
down to the water, led her into a gaily decorated barge, and slowly up
the river went the lovers--with horns playing, streamers flying, and
under a fusillade from old stocks of old guns, the modest artillery
of colliers and Other craft anxious to render to the pair the usual
noisy honours of the way. They returned to Greenwich in like manner,
similarly honoured, and there, having supped in public, the prince
kissed her hand, took his leave, and promised to return upon the morrow.
On the Tuesday the already enamoured Frederick thought better of his
engagement, and tarried at home till the princess arrived there. She
had left Greenwich in one of the royal carriages, from which she
alighted at Lambeth, where, taking boat, she crossed to Whitehall.
Here one of Queen Caroline’s state chairs was awaiting her, and in
it she was borne, by two stout carriers, plump as Cupids but more
vigorous, to St. James’s Palace. The reception here was magnificent and
tasteful. On the arrival of the bride, the bridegroom, already there
to receive her, took her by the hand as she stepped out of the chair,
softly checked the motion she made to kneel to him and kiss his hand,
and, drawing her to him, gallantly impressed a kiss--nay two, for the
record is very precise on this matter--upon her lips. All confusion and
happiness, the illustrious couple ascended the staircase hand in hand.
The prince led her into the presence of a splendid and numerous court,
first introducing her to the King, who would not suffer her to kneel,
but, putting his arm around her, sainted her on each cheek. Queen
Caroline greeted as warmly the bride of her eldest son; and the Duke of
Cumberland and the princesses congratulated her on her arrival in terms
of warm affection.
The King, who had been irritably impatient for the arrival of the
bride, and had declared that the ceremony should take place without
him if it were not speedily concluded, was softened by the behaviour
of the youthful princess on her first appearing in his presence. ‘She
threw herself all along on the floor, first at the King’s and then at
the Queen’s feet.’[25] This prostration was known to be so acceptable
a homage to his Majesty’s pride, that, joined to the propriety of
her whole behaviour on this occasion, it gave the spectators great
prejudice in favour of her understanding.
The poor young princess, who came into England unaccompanied by a
single female friend, behaved with a propriety and ease which won the
admiration of Walpole and the sneers of old ladies who criticised
her. Her self-possession, joined as it was with modesty, showed that
she was ‘well-bred.’ She was not irreproachable of shape or carriage,
but she was fair, youthful, and sensible--much more sensible than the
bridegroom, who quarrelled with his brothers and sisters, in her very
presence, upon the right of sitting down and being waited on in such
presence!
The squabbles between the brothers and sisters touching etiquette show
the extreme littleness of the minds of those who engaged in them.
The prince would have had them, on the occasion of their dining with
himself and bride the day before the wedding, be satisfied with stools
instead of chairs, and consent to being served with something less than
the measure of respect shown to _him_ and the bride. To meet this, they
refused to enter the dining-room till the stools were taken away and
chairs substituted. They then were waited upon by their own servants,
who had orders to imitate the servants of the Prince of Wales in every
ceremony used at table. Later in the evening, when coffee was brought
round by the prince’s servants, his visitors declined to take any, out
of fear that their brother’s domestics might have had instructions to
inflict ‘some disgrace (had they accepted of any) in the manner of
giving it!’
On the day of the arrival of the bride at St. James’s, after a dinner
of some state, and after some rearrangement of costume, the ceremony of
marriage was performed, under a running salute from artillery, which
told to the metropolis the progress made in the nuptial solemnity. The
bride ‘was in her hair,’ and wore a crown with one bar, as Princess
of Wales, a profusion of diamonds adding lustre to a youthful bearing
that could have done without it. Over her white robe she wore a mantle
of crimson velvet, bordered with row upon row of ermine. Her train
was supported by four ‘maids,’ three of whom were daughters of dukes.
They were Lady Caroline Lennox, daughter of the Duke of Richmond;
Lady Caroline Fitzroy, daughter of the Duke of Grafton; Lady Caroline
Cavendish, daughter of the Duke of Devonshire,--and with the three
bridesmaids who bore the name of the Queen was one who bore that of
her whom the King had looked upon as really Queen of England--of
Sophia, his mother. This fourth lady was Lady Sophia Fermor, daughter
of the Earl of Pomfret. Excepting the mantle, the ‘maids’ were dressed
precisely similar to the ‘bride’ whom they surrounded and served. They
were all in ‘virgin habits of silver.’ Each bridesmaid wore diamonds
of the value of from twenty to thirty thousand pounds.
The Duke of Cumberland performed the office of father to the bride,
and they were ushered to the altar by the Duke of Grafton and Lord
Hervey, the lord and vice-chamberlains of the household. The Countess
of Effingham and the other ladies of the household left the Queen’s
side to swell the following of the bride. The Lord Bishop of London,
Dean of the Chapel Royal, officiated on this occasion; and when he
pronounced the two before him to have become as one, voices in harmony
arose within, the trumpets blazoned forth their edition of the event,
the drums rolled a deafening peal, a clash of instruments followed, and
above all boomed the thunder of the cannon in the park, telling in a
million echoes of the conclusion of the irrevocable compact. A little
ceremony followed in the King’s drawing-room, which was in itself
appropriate, and which seemed to have heart in it. On the assembling
there of the entire bridal party, the newly-married couple went, once
more hand in hand, and kneeling before the King and his consort, who
were seated at the upper end of the room, the latter solemnly gave
their blessing to their children and bade them be happy.
A royally joyous supper succeeded, at half-past ten, where healths
were drunk and a frolicsome sort of spirit maintained, as was common
in those somewhat ‘common’ times. And then followed a sacred portion
of the ceremony, which is now considered as being more honoured in the
breach than the observance. The bride was conducted processionally to
her sleeping apartment; while the prince was helped to disrobe by his
royal sire, and his brother the duke. The latter aided in divesting him
of some of his heavy finery, and the King very gravely ‘did his royal
highness, the prince, the honour to put on his shirt.’ All this must
have been considered more than nuisance enough by the parties on whom
it was inflicted by way of honour, but the newly-married victims of
that day had much more to endure.
When intimation had been duly made that the princess had been undressed
and re-dressed by her maids, and was seated in the bed ready to receive
all customary and suitable honour, the King and Queen entered the
chamber. The former was attired in a dress of gold brocade, turned up
with silk, embroidered with large flowers in silver and colours, with
a waistcoat of the same, and buttons and star dazzling with diamonds.
Caroline was in ‘a plain yellow silk, robed and faced with pearls,
diamonds, and other jewels, of immense value. The Dukes of Newcastle,
Grafton, and St. Albans, the Earl of Albemarle, Colonel Pelham, and
many other noblemen, were in gold brocades of from three to five
hundred pounds a suit. The Duke of Marlborough was in a white velvet
and gold brocaded tissue. The waistcoats were universally brocades with
large flowers. It was observed,’ continues the court historiographer,
‘most of the rich clothes were of the manufactures of England, and in
honour of our own artists. The few which were French did not come up to
those in goodness, richness, or fancy, as was seen by the clothes worn
by the royal family, which were all of the British manufacture. The
cuffs of the sleeves were universally deep and open, the waists long,
and the plaits more sticking out than ever. The ladies were principally
in brocades of gold and silver, and wore their sleeves much lower than
had been done for some time.’
When all these finely dressed people were assembled, and the bride
was sitting upright in bed, in a dress of superb lace, the princely
bridegroom entered, ‘in a nightgown of silver stuff and cap of the
finest lace.’ He must have looked like a facetious prince in a
Christmas extravaganza. However, he took his place by the side of
the bride; and while both sat ‘bolt upright’ in bed, the ‘quality’
generally were admitted to see the sight, and to smile at the edifying
remarks made by the King and other members of the royal family who
surrounded the couch.
The record of this happy event would hardly be complete were we to
omit to notice that it was made the occasion of a remarkable _débût_
in the House of Commons. An address congratulatory of the marriage
was moved by Mr. Lyttelton, and the motion was seconded by Mr. Pitt,
subsequently the first Earl of Chatham, who then made his first speech
in parliament. The speech made by Lyttelton was squeaking and smart.
That of Cornet Pitt, as he was called, was so favourable to the virtues
of the son, and, by implication, so insulting to the person of the
father, that it laid the foundation of the lasting enmity of George
against Pitt--an enmity the malevolence of which was first manifested
by depriving Pitt of his cornetcy. The poets were, of course, as
polite as the senators, and epithalamia rained upon the happy pair in
showers of highly complimentary and very indifferent verse. The lines
of Whitehead, the laureate, were tolerably good, for a laureate, and
the following among them have been cited ‘as containing a wish which
succeeding events fully gratified.’
Such was the age, so calm the earth’s repose,
When Maro sung and a new Pollio rose.
Oh! from such omens may again succeed
Some glorious youth to grace the nuptial bed;
Some future Scipio, good as well as great,
Some young Marcellus with a better fate:
Some infant Frederick, or some George, to grace
The rising records of the Brunswick race.
If these set ringing the most harmonious of the echoes which Parnassus
could raise on the occasion, the other metrical essays must have been
wretched things indeed. But the Muse at that time was not a refined
muse. If a laureate would only find rhyme, decency and logic were
gladly dispensed with.
The prince was very zealous and painstaking in introducing his bride to
the people. For this purpose they were often together at the theatre.
On one of these occasions the princess must have had but an indifferent
idea of the civilisation of the people over whom she fairly expected
one day to reign as queen-consort. The occasion alluded to was on
the 3rd of May 1736, when great numbers of footmen assembled, with
weapons, in a tumultuous manner, broke open the doors of Drury Lane
Theatre, and fighting their way to the stage-doors, which they forced
open, they prevented the Riot Act being read by Colonel de Veal, who
nevertheless arrested some of the ringleaders and committed them to
Newgate. In this tumult, founded on an imaginary grievance that the
footmen had been illegally excluded from the gallery, to which they
claimed to go _gratis_, many persons were severely wounded, and the
terrified audience hastily separated; the prince and princess, with a
large number of persons of distinction, retiring when the tumult was at
its highest. The Princess of Wales had never witnessed a popular tumult
before; and, though this was ridiculous in character, it was serious
enough of aspect to disgust her with that part of ‘the majesty of the
people’ which was covered with _plush_.
The King, in spite of Sir Robert Walpole’s threat, proceeded to
Hanover in the month of May. Before he quitted England he sent word
to his son that, wherever the Queen Regent resided, _there_ would be
apartments for the Prince and Princess of Wales. Frederick looked
upon this measure in its true light, namely, as making him a sort of
prisoner, and preventing the possibility of two separate courts in the
King’s absence. The prince determined to disobey his father and thwart
his mother. When the Queen removed from one residence to another, he
feigned preparations to follow her, and then feigned obstructions to
them. He pleaded an illness of the princess which did not exist, and
was surprised that his medical men declined to back up _his_ lie by
another of their own. The Queen on her side, feigning anxious interest
in her daughter-in-law, visited her in her imaginary illness; but the
patient, who was first said to be suffering from measles, then from a
rash, and finally was declared to be really indisposed with a cold,
was kept in a darkened room, and was otherwise so trained to deceive
that Caroline left the bed-side as wise as when she went to it. In this
conduct towards his mother Frederick was chiefly influenced by his
ill-humour at the Queen’s being appointed regent. When she opened the
commission at Kensington, which she always did as soon as she received
intelligence of the landing of the King in Holland, Frederick would not
attend the council, but contrived to reach the palace just after the
members had concluded their business.
CHAPTER VI.
AT HOME AND OVER THE WATER.
The Queen and Walpole govern the kingdom--The bishops reproved
by the Queen--Good wishes for the bishops entertained by the
King--Anecdote of Bishop Hare--Riots--An infernal machine--Wilson
the smuggler and the Porteous mob--General Moyle--Coldness of the
Queen for the King--Walpole advises her Majesty--Unworthy conduct
of Caroline and vice of her worthless husband--Questionable
fidelity of Madame Walmoden--Conduct of the Princess at the
Chapel Royal--The Princess and her doll--Pasquinades, &c. on
the King--Farewell royal supper at Hanover--Dangerous voyage
of the King--Anxiety of the Court about him--Unjust blame
thrown on Admiral Wager--The Queen congratulates the King on his
escape--The King’s warm reply--Discussions about the Prince’s
revenue--Investigation into the affairs of the Porteous mob--The
Queen and the Bill for reduction of the National Debt--Vice in
high life universal--Represented on the stage, occasions the
censorship--Animosity of the Queen and Princesses towards Prince
Frederick.
Though the King delegated all royal power to the Queen, as regent
during his absence, he exercised his kingly office when in Hanover by
signing commissions for officers. The Queen would not consent that
objection should be taken to this course followed by her husband, or
that any representation should be made to him on the subject. Such
acts, indeed, did not interfere with her great power as regent--a
power which she wielded in union with Walpole. These two persons
governed the kingdom according to their own councils; but the minister,
nevertheless, placed every conclusion at which he and the Queen had
arrived before the cabinet council, by the obsequious members of
which the conclusions, whatever they were, were sanctioned, and the
necessary documents signed. Thus Walpole, by the side of the Queen,
acted as independently as if he had been King; but of his acts he
managed to make the cabinet share with him the responsibility.
The office exercised by the Queen was far from being a sinecure or
exempt from great anxieties; but it was hardly more onerous than that
which she exercised during the King’s residence in England. Her chief
troubles, she was wont to say, were derived from the bishops.
If Caroline could not speak so harshly of the prelates, generally or
individually, as her husband, she could reprove them, when occasion
offered, with singular asperity. We may see an instance of this in the
case of the episcopal opposition to the Mortmain and to the Quakers’
Relief Bills; but especially to the latter. This particular bill had
for its object to render more easy the recovery of tithes from Quakers;
the latter did not ask for exemption, but for less oppression in the
method of levying. The court wished that the bill should pass into law.
Sherlock, now Bishop of Salisbury, wrote a pamphlet against it; and the
prelates generally, led by Gibson, Bishop of London, stirred up all
the dioceses in the kingdom to oppose it, with a cry of _The Church
in danger_. Sir Robert Walpole represented to the Queen that all the
bishops were blameable; but that the chief blame rested upon Sherlock,
whose opposition was described as being as little to be justified in
point of understanding and policy as in integrity and gratitude. Sir
Robert declared that he was at once the dupe and the willing follower
of the Bishop of London, and that both were guilty of endeavouring to
disturb the quiet of the kingdom.
The first time Dr. Sherlock appeared at court after this the Queen chid
him extremely, and asked him if he was not ashamed to be overreached
in this manner by the Bishop of London. She accused him of being a
second time the dupe of the latter prelate, who was charged with having
misled him in a matter concerning the advancement of Dr. Rundle to an
episcopal see. ‘How,’ she asked him, ‘could he be blind and weak enough
to be running his nose into another’s dirt again!’ As for the King, he
spoke of the prelates on this occasion ‘with his usual softness.’ They
were, according to the hereditary defender of the faith, ‘a parcel of
black, canting, hypocritical rascals.’ They were ‘silly,’ ‘impertinent’
fellows, presuming to dictate to the Crown; as if it were not the duty
of a bishop to exercise this boldness when emergency warranted and
occasion suited.
Both bills were passed in the Commons. The Mortmain Bill (to prevent
the further alienation of lands by will in mortmain) passed the Lords;
but the Quakers’ Relief Bill was lost there by a majority of two.
The Queen was far from desiring that the bishops should be so treated
as to make them in settled antagonism with the Crown. She one day
ventured to say something in this spirit to the King. It was at a
time when he was peevishly impatient to get away to Hanover, to the
society of Madame Walmoden, and to the young son born there since his
departure. He is reported to have exclaimed to Caroline, when she was
gently urging a more courteous treatment of the bishops--‘I am sick to
death of all this foolish stuff, and wish, with all my heart, that the
devil may take all your bishops, and the devil take your minister, and
the devil take the parliament, and the devil take the whole island,
provided I can get out of it and go to Hanover.’[26]
What Caroline meant by moderation of behaviour towards the bishops it
is hard to understand; for when Drs. Sherlock and Hare complained to
her that, in spite of their loyalty to the Crown they were nightly
treated with great coarseness and indignity by lords closely connected
with the court, Caroline spoke immediately, in the harsh tone and
strong terms ordinarily employed by her consort, and said, that she
could more easily excuse Lord Hervey, who was chiefly complained of
as speaking sharply against them in parliament--‘I can easier excuse
him,’ exclaimed her Majesty, ‘for throwing some of the Bishop of
London’s dirt upon you than I can excuse _all you other fools_ (who
love the Bishop of London no better than he does) for taking the Bishop
of London’s dirt upon yourselves.’ She claimed a right to chide the
prelates soundly, upon the ground that she loved them deeply; and
she made very liberal use of the privilege she claimed. Bishop Hare,
in replying, called Lord Hinton, one of Lord Hervey’s imitators, his
‘ape.’ The Queen told this to Lord Hervey, who answered, that his
ape, if he came to know that such a term had been applied to him,
would certainly knock down the Queen’s ‘baboon.’ Caroline, with a
childish spirit of mischief, communicated to Hare what _she_ had done,
and what her vice-chancellor had said upon it. The terrified prelate
immediately broke the third commandment, exclaiming, ‘Good God! madam,
what have you done! As for Lord Hervey, he will satisfy himself,
perhaps, with playing his wit off upon me, and calling me _Old Baboon_;
but for my Lord Hinton, who has no wit, he will knock me down.’ The
vice-chamberlain, who reports the scene, says--‘This tallied so
ridiculously with what Lord Hervey had said to the Queen that she burst
into a fit of laughter, which lasted some minutes before she could
speak; and then she told the bishop, “That is just, my good lord, what
Lord Hervey did do, and what he said the ape would do.”’ The Queen,
however, promised that no harm should come to the prelate.
No inconsiderable amount of harm, however, was inflicted on many of the
prelates, including Hare himself. Walpole was disposed to translate him
when an advantageous opportunity offered; but Hervey showed him good
reason for preferring pliant Potter, then of Oxford. Gibson, the Bishop
of London, had been looking to be removed to Canterbury whenever Dr.
Wake’s death there should cause a vacancy. He expected, however, that,
in accordance with his wish, Sherlock would succeed him in London. The
Queen was disposed to sanction the arrangement; but she was frightened
out of it by Walpole and Hervey. She accordingly advised Sherlock ‘to
go down to his diocese and live quietly; to let the spirit he had
raised so foolishly against him here subside; and to reproach himself
only if he had failed, or should fail, of what he wished should be done
and she had wished to do for him.’
During the absence of the King, in 1736, in Hanover, the Queen Regent
had but an uneasy time of it at home. First, there were corn riots in
the west, which were caused by the attempts of the people to prevent
the exportation of corn, and which could only be suppressed by aid
of the military. Next, there were labour riots in the metropolis in
consequence of the market being overstocked by Irish labourers, who
offered to work at lower rates than the English; and which also the
bayonet alone was able to suppress. Thirdly, the coasts were infested
by smugglers, whom the prospect of the hangman could not deter from
their exciting vocation, and who not only killed revenue officers
in very pretty battles, but were heartily assisted by the country
people, who looked upon the contrabandists as most gallant and useful
gentlemen. Much sedition was mixed up with the confusion which arose
from these tumultuary proceedings: for wherever the people were opposed
in their inclinations, they immediately took to cursing the Queen
especially; not, however, sparing the King, nor forgetting, in their
street ovations, to invoke blessings upon James III. It was, indeed,
the fashion for every aggrieved person to speak of George II., in his
character of Elector of Hanover, as ‘a foreign prince.’ When this was
done by a nonjuring clergyman named Dixon, who exploded an innocent
infernal machine in Westminster Hall (to the great terror of judges
and lawyers), which scattered papers over the hall denouncing various
acts of parliament--first that against the sale of gin in unlicensed
places, then the act for building Westminster Bridge, the one to
suppress smuggling, and that which enabled ‘a foreign prince’ to borrow
600,000_l._ of money sacredly appropriated to the payment of our debts
--the Lord Chancellor and the Chief Justice were so affrighted that
they called the escapade ‘a treason.’ Caroline summoned a council
thereon, and, having at last secured the half-mad and destitute
offender, they consigned him to rot in a gaol; although, as Lord Hervey
says, ‘the lawyers _should_ have sent him to Bedlam, and _would_ have
sent him to Tyburn.’
The popular fury was sometimes so excited that it was found necessary,
as in the Michaelmas of this year, to double the guards who had the
care of her sacred Majesty at Kensington. The populace had determined
upon being drunk, when, where, and how they liked. The government had
resolved that they should not get drunk upon gin at any but licensed
places; and thereupon the majesty of the people became so furious that
even the person of Caroline was hardly considered safe in her own
palace.
Nor were riots confined only to England. A formidable one broke out in
Edinburgh, based upon admiration for a smuggler named Wilson, who had
cleverly robbed a revenue officer, as well as defrauded the revenue.
The mob thought it hard that the poor fellow should be hanged for such
little foibles as these; and though they could not rescue him from the
gallows, they raised a desperate tumult as he was swung from it. The
town guard fired upon the rioters, by order of their captain, Porteous,
and several individuals were slain. The captain was tried for this
alleged unlawful slaying, and was condemned to die; but Caroline, who
admired promptness of character, stayed the execution by sending down a
reprieve. The result is well known; the mob broke open the prison, and
inflicted Lynch law upon the captain, hanging him in the market-place,
amid a shower of curses and jeers against Caroline and her reprieve.
The indignation of the Queen Regent was almost uncontrollable. She was
especially indignant against General Moyle, commander of the troops,
who had refused to interfere to suppress the riot. He was tolerably
well justified in his refusal; for the magistrates of Edinburgh, ever
ready to invoke assistance, were addicted to betray them who rendered
it to the gallows if the riot was suppressed by shedding the blood of
the rioters. His conduct on this occasion was further regulated by
orders from his commander-in-chief. Caroline had no regard for any of
the considerations which governed the discreet general; and, in the
vexation of her chafed spirit, she declared that Moyle deserved to be
shot by order of a court-martial. It was with great difficulty that
her ministers and friends succeeded in softening the asperity of her
temper. Even Sir Robert Walpole, who joined in representing that it
were better to hold Moyle harmless, maintained in private that the
general was fool, knave, or coward. Lord Hervey says that the Queen
resented the conduct of the Scotch on this occasion, as showing ‘a
tendency to shake off all government; and I believe was a little more
irritated, from considering it in some degree as a personal affront to
her, who had sent down Captain Porteous’s reprieve; and had she been
told half what was reported to have been said of her by the Scotch mob
on this occasion, no one could think that she had not ample cause to be
provoked.’
To return to the domestic affairs of Caroline: it is to be observed
that the Queen had not seen the King leave England, with indifference.
She was aware that he was chiefly attracted to Hanover by the
unblushing rival who, on his departure thence, had drunk, amid smiles
and tears, to his speedy return. His departure, therefore, something
affected her proud spirit, and she was for a season depressed. But
business acted upon her as a tonic, and she was occupied and happy, yet
not without her hours of trial and vexation, until the time approached
for the King’s return.
Bitter, however, were her feelings when she found that return
protracted beyond the usual period. For the King to be absent on his
birthday was a most unusual occurrence, and Caroline felt that the
rival must have some power indeed who could thus restrain him from
indulgence in old habits. She was, however, as proud as she was pained.
She began to grow cool in her ceremony and attentions to the King. She
abridged the ordinary length of her letters to him, and the usual four
dozen pages were shortened into some seven or eight. Her immediate
friends, who were aware of this circumstance, saw at once that her
well-known judgment and prudence were now in default. They knew that
to attempt to insinuate reproach to the King would arouse his anger,
and not awaken his sleeping tenderness. They feared lest her power
over him should become altogether extinct, and that his Majesty would
soon as little regard his wife by force of habit as he had long ceased
to do by readiness of inclination. It was Walpole’s conviction that
the King’s respect for her was too firmly based to be ever shaken.
Faithless himself, he reverenced the fidelity and sincerity which
he knew were in her; and if she could not rule by the heart, it was
certain that she might still continue supreme by the head--by her
superior intellect. Still, the minister recognised the delicacy and
danger of the moment, and, in an interview with Caroline, he made it
the subject of as extraordinary a discussion as was ever held between
minister and royal mistress--between man and woman. Walpole reminded
her of faded charms and growing years, and he expatiated on the
impossibility of her ever being able to establish supremacy in the
King’s regard by power of her personal attractions! It is a trait of
her character worth noticing, that she listened to these unwelcome,
but almost unwarrantably expressed, truths with immoveable patience.
But Walpole did not stop here. He urged her to resume her long letters
to the King, and to address him in terms of humility, submissiveness,
duty, and tender affection; and he set the climax on what one might
almost be authorised to consider his impudence, by recommending her to
invite the King to bring Madame Walmoden with him to England. At this
counsel the tears _did_ spring into the eyes of Caroline. The softened
feeling, however, only maintained itself for a moment. It was soon
forgotten in her desire to recover or retain her power. She promised
to obey the minister in all he had enjoined upon her; but Walpole,
well as he knew her, very excusably conjectured that there _must_
still be enough of the mere woman in her, to induce her to refuse to
perform what she had promised to accomplish. He was, however, mistaken.
It is true, indeed, that her heart recoiled at what the head had
resolved, but she maintained her resolution. She conversed calmly with
Walpole on the best means of carrying it out. But the minister put
no trust in her assertions until such a letter as he had recommended
had actually been despatched by her to the King. She rallied Walpole
on his doubts of her, but praised him for his abominable counsel.
It was this commendation which alarmed him. He could believe in her
reproof; but he affirmed that he was always afraid when Caroline
‘_daubed_.’ However, he was now obliged to believe, for the Queen spoke
calmly of the coming of her rival, allotted rooms for her reception,
devised plans and projects for rendering her comfortable, and even
expressed her willingness to take her into her own service! Walpole
opposed this, but she cited the case of Lady Suffolk. Upon which the
minister observed, with infinite moral discrimination, that there
was a difference between the King’s making a mistress of the Queen’s
servant, and making a Queen’s servant of his mistress. The people might
reasonably look upon the first as a very natural condition of things,
while the popular virtue might feel itself outraged at the second.
Caroline said nothing, but wrote certainly the most singular letter
that ever wife wrote to a husband. It was replied to by a letter also
the most singular that ever husband addressed to a wife.[27] The King’s
epistle was full of admiration at his consort’s amiable conduct, and
of descriptions of her rival’s bodily and mental features. He extolled
the virtues of his wife, and then expressed a wish that he could be as
virtuous as she! ‘But,’ wrote he, in very elegant French, ‘you know my
passions, my dear Caroline; you know my weaknesses; there is nothing in
my heart hidden from you; and would to God,’ exclaimed the mendacious,
blaspheming libertine, ‘would to God that you could correct me with the
same facility with which you apprehend me! Would to God that I could
imitate you as well as I admire you, and that I could learn of you all
the virtues which you make me see, feel, and love!’
The Queen, then, had not only to look after the affairs of the kingdom
in the monarch’s absence, but to assist him with her advice for the
better management of his love-affairs in Hanover. With all Madame
Walmoden’s affected fidelity towards him, he had good grounds for
suspecting that his interest in her was shared by less noble rivals.
The senile dupe was perplexed in the extreme. One rival named as being
on too familiar terms with the lady was a Captain von der Schulenburg,
a relation of the Duchess of Kendal. There was a little drama enacted
by all three parties, as complicated as a Spanish comedy, and full of
love-passages, rope-ladders, and lying. The closing scene exhibits the
lady indignant in asserting her innocence, and the wretched monarch
too happy to put faith in her assertions. When left alone, however,
he addressed a letter to his wife, asking her what she thought of
the matter, and requesting her to consult Walpole, as a man ‘who has
more experience in these sort of matters, my dear Caroline, than
yourself, and who in the present affair must necessarily be less
prejudiced than I am!’ There never was an epithet of obloquy which this
miserable fellow flung at his fellow men which might not have been more
appropriately applied to himself.
Caroline, doubtless, gave the counsel that was expected from her; and
then, having settled to the best of her ability this very delicate
affair, she was called upon to interfere in a matter more serious.
The young Princess of Wales had scandalised the whole royal family
by taking the sacrament at the German Lutheran chapel. Serious
remonstrance was made to her on the subject; but the young lady shed
tears, and pleaded her conscience. Religious liberty, however, was not
a thing to be thought of, and she must take the sacrament according
to the forms prescribed by the Church of England. She resisted the
compulsion, until it was intimated to her that if she persisted in
the course on which she had entered, there was a possibility that she
might be sent back to Saxe Gotha. Upon that hint she at once joined
the Church of England. She had no more hesitation than a Lutheran or
Catholic German princess who marries into the Czar’s family has of at
once accepting all which the Greek Church enjoins, and which the lady
neither cares for nor comprehends.
Nor was this the only church matter connected with the princess which
gave trouble to the Queen. The case of conscience was followed by a
case of courtesy, or rather, perhaps, of the want of it. The Queen
attended divine service regularly in the chapel in Kensington Palace,
and set a good example of being early in her attendance, which was not
followed by the Prince and Princess of Wales, when they also were in
residence at the palace. It was the bad habit of the latter, doubtless
at the instigation of her husband, not to enter the chapel till after
the service had commenced and the Queen was engaged in her devotions.
The princess had then, in order to get to the seat allotted to her,
to pass by the Queen--a large woman in a small pew! The scene was
unbecoming in the extreme; for the princess passed in front of her
Majesty, between her and the prayer-book, and there was much confusion
and unseemliness in consequence. When this had been repeated a few
times, the Queen ordered Sir William Toby, the princess’s chamberlain,
to introduce his royal mistress by another door than that by which
the Queen entered, whereby her royal highness might pass to her place
without indecorously incommoding her Majesty. The prince would not
allow this to be done, and he only so far compromised the matter, by
ordering the princess, whenever she found the Queen at chapel before
herself, not to enter at all, but to return to the palace.
Caroline, offended as she was with her son, would not allow him to
pretend that she was as difficult to live with as his father, and so
concealed her anger. Lord Hervey so well knew that the prince wished to
render the Queen unpopular, that he counselled his royal mistress not
to let her son enjoy a grievance that he could trade upon. Lord Hervey
said, ‘he could wish that if the prince was to sit down in her lap,
that she would only say she hoped he found it easy.’
For the princess the Queen had nothing but a feeling which partook
mostly of a compassionate regard. She knew her to be really harmless,
and thought her very dull company; which, for a woman of Caroline’s
intellect and power of conversation, she undoubtedly was. The woman
of cultivated mind yawned wearily at the truisms of the common-place
young lady, and made an assertion with respect to her which bespoke a
mind more coarse than cultivated. ‘Poor creature!’ said Caroline, of
her young daughter-in-law; ‘were she to spit in my face, I should only
pity her for being under such a fool’s direction, and wipe it off.’
The fool, of course, was the speaker’s son. The young wife, it must
be confessed, was something childish in her ways. Nothing pleased her
better than to play half through the day with a large, jointed doll.
This she would dress and undress, and nurse and fondle at the windows
of Kensington Palace, to the amusement and wonder, rather than to the
edification, of the servants in the palace and the sentinels beneath
the windows. The Princess Caroline almost forgot her gentle character
in chiding her sister-in-law, and desiring her ‘not to stand at the
window during these operations on her baby.’ The Princess Caroline
did not found her reproach upon the impropriety of the action, but
upon that of allowing it to be witnessed by others. The lower people,
she said, thought everything ridiculous that was not customary, and
the thing would draw a mob about her, and make _la canaille_ talk
disagreeably!
The act showed the childishness of her character at that time; a
childishness on which her husband improved by getting her to apply,
through the Queen, for the King’s consent to allow her to place Lady
Archibald Hamilton upon her household. Frederick informed his young
wife of the position in which the world said the lady stood with regard
to him; but he assured her that it was all false. Augusta believed, or
affected to believe, or was perhaps indifferent; and Lady Archibald was
made lady of the bedchamber, privy purse, and mistress of the robes to
the princess, with a salary of nine hundred pounds a-year.
While the ladies of the court discussed the subject of the King, his
wife, his favourite, and the favourite of the prince, and seriously
canvassed the expediency of bringing Madame Walmoden to England,
there were some who entertained an idea that it would be well if
the Sovereign himself could be kept out of it. The people took
to commiserating Caroline, and many censured her husband for his
infidelity, while others only reproved him because that faithlessness
was made profitable to foreigners and not to fairer frailty at home.
In the meantime, his double taste for his Electorate and the ladies
there was caricatured in various ways. Pasquinades intimated that his
Hanoverian Majesty would condescend to visit his British dominions at a
future stated period. A lame, blind, and aged horse, with a saddle, and
a pillion behind it, was sent to wander through the streets, with an
inscription on the forehead, which begged that nobody would stop him,
as he was ‘the King’s Hanoverian equipage, going to fetch his Majesty
and his----to England.’ The most stinging satire of all was boldly
affixed to the walls of St. James’s Palace, and was to this effect:
‘Lost or strayed, out of this house, a man who has left a wife and six
children on the parish. Whoever will give any tidings of him to the
churchwardens of St. James’s parish, so as he may be got again, shall
receive _four shillings and sixpence_ reward. N.B. This reward will not
be increased, nobody judging him to deserve a crown.’
The King himself was rather gratified than otherwise with satires
which imputed to him a gallantry (as it is erroneously called) of
disposition. He was only vexed when censure was gravely directed
against him which had reference to the incompatibility of his pursuits
with his position, his age, and his infirmities. He preferred being
reproved as profligate, rather than being considered past the period
when profligacy would be venial.
Previous to his return to England, he expressed a wish to the Queen
that she would remove from Kensington to St. James’s, on the ground
that it would be better for her health, and she would be easier of
access to the ministers. The road between London and the suburban
locality, which may now be said to be a part of it, was at the period
alluded to in so wretched a condition, that Kensington Palace was
more remote from the metropolis than Windsor Castle is now. Caroline
understood her husband too well to obey. She continued, as regent, to
live in retirement, and this affectation of disregard for the outward
splendour of her office was not unfavourably looked upon by the King.
The Queen’s rule of conduct was not, however, that which best pleased
her son. Frederick declared his intention of leaving the suburban
palace for London. Caroline was vexed at the announcement of an
intention which amounted, in other words, to the setting up of a rival
court; particularly after the orders which had been communicated from
the King to the Prince of Wales, through the Duke of Grafton. Frederick
wrote a note in reply, like that of his mother’s, in French, in which
he intimated his willingness to remain at Kensington as long as the
Queen Regent made it her residence. The note was probably written
for the prince by Lord Chesterfield. Caroline inflicted considerable
annoyance on her son by refusing to consider him as the author of
the note; which, by the way, Lord Hervey thought might have been
written by ‘young Pitt,’ but certainly _not_ by Lord Chesterfield.
The note itself is only quoted from memory by Lord Hervey, who says
that Lord Chesterfield would have written better French, as well as
with more turns and points. It closely resembles the character of Lord
Chesterfield’s letters in French, which were never so purely French but
there could be detected in them phrases which were mere translations
of English idioms; and it was precisely because of such a fault that
Caroline had suspected that the note was written by an Englishman born.
The fact remains to be noticed that, in spite of the promise made by
the prince to remain at Kensington, he really removed to London; but,
as his suite was left in the suburbs, he considered that his pledge was
honourably maintained.
Frederick’s conduct seems to have arisen from a fear of its being
supposed that he was governed by others. Had it been the Queen’s
interest to rule him by letting him suppose that he was free from the
influence of others, she would have done it as readily and as easily as
in the case of the King. The Queen considered him so far unambitious
that he did not long for his father’s death; but Lord Hervey showed her
that if _he_ did not, the creditors who had lent him money, payable
with interest at the King’s decease, were less delicate in this
matter; and that the demise of the King might be so profitable to many
as to make the monarch’s speedy death a consummation devoutly to be
wished. The life of the Sovereign was thus put in present peril, and
Lord Hervey suggested to the Queen that it would be well were a bill
brought into parliament, making it a capital offence for any man to
lend money for a premium at the King’s death. ‘To be sure,’ replied
the Queen, ‘it ought to be so; and pray talk a little with Sir Robert
Walpole about it.’ Meanwhile, Frederick Prince of Wales exhibited
a liberality which charmed the public generally, rather than his
creditors in particular, by forwarding 500_l._ to the Lord Mayor for
the purpose of releasing poor freemen of the City from prison. The act
placed the prince in strong contrast with his father, who had been
squandering large sums in Germany.
The King’s departure from Hanover for England took place in the night
of the 7th to the 8th of December, after one of those brilliant and
festive farewell suppers which were now given on such occasions by the
Circe or the Cynthia of the hour. Wine and tears, no doubt, flowed
abundantly; but, as soon as the scene could be decently brought to an
end, the royal lover departed, and arrived on the 11th at Helvoetsluys.
His daughter Anne was lying sick, almost to death, at the Hague, where
her life had with difficulty been purchased by the sacrifice of that of
the little daughter she had borne. The King, however, had not leisure
for the demonstration of any parental affection, and he hurried on
without even enquiring after the condition of his child. Matter-of-fact
people are usually tender, and, if not tender, courteously decent
people. The King was a matter-of-fact person enough, but even in this
he acted like those highly refined and sentimental persons in whom
affection is ever on their lips and venom in their hearts.
The wind was fair, and all London was in expectation, but without
eagerness, of seeing once more their _gaillard_ of a King, with his
grave look, among them. But the wind veered, and a hurricane blew from
the west with such violence that every one concluded, if the King had
embarked, he must necessarily have gone down, and the royal convoy of
ships perished with him. Bets were laid upon the event, and speculation
was busy in every corner. The excitement was naturally great, for
the country had never been in such uncertainty about their monarch.
Wagers increased. Walpole began to discuss the prospects of the royal
family, the probable conduct of the possible new sovereign, the little
regard he would have for his mother, the faithless guardian he would
be over his brother and sisters, and the bully and dupe he would
prove, by turns, of all with whom he came in contact. Lord Hervey and
Queen Caroline discussed the same delicate question; and the latter,
fancying that her son already assumed, in public and in her presence,
the swagger of a new greatness, and that he was bidding for popularity,
would not listen to Lord Hervey’s assurances that she would be able
to rule him as easily as she had done his father. She ridiculed his
conduct, called him fool and ass, and averred that while the thought of
some things he did ‘made her feel sick,’ the idea of the _popularity_
of Fritz made her ‘vomit.’ As hour was added to hour, amid all this
speculation and trouble, and ‘still Cæsar came not,’ reports of loss
of life at sea became rife. At Harwich, guns had been heard at night
booming over the waters; people had come to the conclusion that they
were guns of distress fired from the royal fleet--the funeral dirge of
itself and the monarch. Communication of this gratifying conclusion
was made to Caroline. Prince Frederick kindly prepared her for the
worst; Lord Hervey added the expression of his fears that that worst
was not very far off; and the Princess Caroline began meditating upon
the hatred of her brother ‘for mamma,’ and the little chance there
would be of her obtaining a liberal provision from the new king. The
Queen was more concerned than she chose to acknowledge; but when
gloomy uncertainty was at its highest, a courier, whose life had been
risked, with those of the ship’s crew with whom he came over, in order
to inform Caroline that her consort had not risked his own, was flung
ashore ‘miraculously’ at Yarmouth; whence hastening to St. James’s,
he relieved all apprehensions and crushed all expiring hopes, by the
announcement that his Majesty had never embarked at all, and was still
at Helvoetsluys, awaiting fine weather and favouring gales.
The fine weather came, and the wind was fair for bringing the royal
wanderer home. It remained so just long enough to induce all the King’s
anxious subjects to conclude that he had embarked, and then wind and
weather became more tempestuous and adverse than they were before.
And now people set aside speculation, and confessed to a conviction
that his Majesty lived only in history. During the former season of
doubt, Caroline had solaced herself, or wiled away her time, by reading
‘Rollin’ and affecting to make light of all the gloomy reports which
were made in her hearing. There was now, however, more cause for alarm.
By ones, and twos, and fours, the ships which had left Helvoetsluys
with the King were flung upon the English coast, or succeeded in
making separate harbours in a miserably wrecked condition. All the
intelligence they brought was, that his Majesty had embarked, that they
had set sail in company, that an awful hurricane had arisen, that Sir
Charles Wager had made signal for every vessel to provide for its own
safety, and that the last seen of the royal yacht was that she was
tacking, and they only hoped that his Majesty _might_ have succeeded
in getting back to Helvoetsluys. Some in England echoed that loyally
expressed hope; others only desired that the danger intimated by it
might have been wrought out to its full end.
Christmas-day at St. James’s was the very gloomiest of festive times,
and the evening was solemnly spent in round games of cards. The
Queen, indeed, did not know of the disasters which had happened to
the royal fleet; but there was uncertainty enough touching the fate
of her royal husband to make even the reading of Rollin appear more
decent than playing at basset and cribbage. Meanwhile, the ministers
and court officials stood round the royal table, and discoursed on
trivial subjects, while their thoughts were directed towards their
storm-tost master. On the following morning, Sir Robert Walpole
informed her Majesty of the real and graver aspect of affairs. The
heart of the tender woman at once melted; and Caroline burst into
tears, unrestrainedly. The household of the heir-apparent, on the other
hand, began to wear an aspect as though the wished-for inheritance had
at last fallen upon it.
The day was Sunday, and the Queen resolved upon attending chapel as
usual. Lord Hervey thought her weak in determining to sit up to be
stared at. He had no idea that a higher motive might influence a wife
in dread uncertainty as to the fate of her husband. Caroline, it is
true, was not influenced by any such high motive. She simply did not
wish that people should conclude, from her absence, that the Sovereign
had perished; and she would neglect no duty belonging to her position
till she was relieved from it by law. She accordingly appeared at
chapel as usual; and in the very midst of the service a letter was
delivered to her from the King, in which the much-vexed monarch told
her how he had set sail, how the fleet had been scattered, how he had
been driven back to Helvoetsluys after beating about for some twenty
hours, and how it was all the fault of Sir Charles Wager, who had
hurried him on board, on assurance of wind and tide being favourable,
and of there being no time to be lost.
The joy of Caroline was honest and unfeigned. She declared that her
heart had been heavier that day than ever it had been before; that she
was still, indeed, anxious touching the fate of one whose life was so
precious, not merely to his family, but to all Europe; and that, but
for the impatience and indiscretion of Sir Charles Wager, the past
great peril would never have been incurred.
The admiral was entirely blameless. The King had deliberately
misrepresented the circumstances. It was the royal impatience which
had caused all the subsequent peril. The Sovereign, weary of waiting
for a wind, declared that if the admiral would not sail, he would go
over in a packet-boat. Sir Charles maintained he could not. ‘Be the
weather what it may,’ said the King, ‘I am not afraid.’ ‘_I am_,’ was
the laconic remark of the seaman. George remarked that he ‘wanted to
see a storm, and would sooner be twelve hours in one than be shut up
for twenty-four hours more at Helvoetsluys.’ ‘Twelve hours in a storm!’
cried Sir Charles; ‘four hours would do your business for you.’ The
admiral would not sail till the wind was fair; and he remarked to the
King that although his Majesty could compel him to go, ‘I,’ said Sir
Charles, ‘can make you come back again.’ The storm which arose after
they _did_ set sail was most terrific in character, and the escape of
the voyagers was of the narrowest. The run back to the Dutch coast was
not effected without difficulty. On landing, Sir Charles observed,
‘Sir, you wished to see a storm; how does your Majesty like it?’ ‘So
well,’ said the King, ‘that I never wish to see another.’ The admiral
remarked, in one of his private letters, giving a description of the
event, ‘that his Majesty was at present _as tame_ as any about him;’
‘an epithet,’ says Lord Hervey, ‘that his Majesty, had he known it,
would, I fancy, have liked, next to the storm, the least of anything
that happened to him.’
‘How is the wind for the King?’ was the popular query at the time of
this voyage; and the popular answer was, ‘Like the nation--against
him.’ And when men who disliked him because of _his_ vices or of
_their_ political hopes remarked that the Sovereign had been saved from
drowning, they generally added the comment that ‘it was God’s mercy,
and a thousand pities!’ The anxiety of Caroline for the King’s safety
had, no doubt, been very great--so great, that in it she had forgotten
sympathy for her daughter in her hour of trial. Lord Hervey will not
allow that the Queen had any worthier motive for her anxiety than her
apprehension ‘of her son’s ascending the throne, as there were no
lengths she did not think him capable of going to pursue and ruin her.’
She comforted herself by declaring that, had the worst happened, she
still would have retained Lord Hervey in her service, and have given
him an apartment in her jointure house, (old) Somerset House. She
added, too, that she would have gone down on her knees to beg Sir
Robert Walpole to continue to serve the son as he had done the father.
All this is not so self-denying as it seems. In retaining Lord Hervey,
whom her son hated, she was securing one of her highest pleasures; and
by keeping Sir Robert in the service of the prince, she would have
governed the latter as she had done his father.
Gross as the King was in his acts, he was choice and refined, when he
chose, in his letters. The epistle which he wrote, in reply to the
congratulations of the Queen on his safety, is elegant, touching, warm,
and apparently sincere. ‘In spite of all the danger I have incurred
in this tempest, my dear Caroline, and notwithstanding all I have
suffered, having been ill to an excess which I thought the human body
could not bear, I assure you that I would expose myself to it again and
again to have the pleasure of hearing the testimonies of your affection
with which my position inspired you. This affection which you testify
for me, this friendship, this fidelity, the inexhaustible goodness
which you show for me, and the indulgence which you have for all my
weaknesses, are so many obligations, which I can never sufficiently
recompense, can never sufficiently merit, but which I also can never
forget.’ The original French runs more prettily than this, and adapts
itself well to the phrases which praised the Queen’s charms and
attractions with all the ardour of youthful swain for blushing nymph.
The Queen showed the letter to Walpole and Hervey, with the remark that
she was reasonably pleased with, but not unreasonably proud of, it. The
gentlemen came to the conclusion that the master whom they served was
the most incomprehensible master to whom service was ever rendered. He
was a mere old cajoler, deceiving the woman whom he affected to praise,
and only praising her because she let him have an unconstrained course
in vice while she enjoyed one in power.
At length, after a detention of five weeks at Helvoetsluys, the King
arrived at Lowestoft. The Queen received information of his coming at
four o’clock in the morning, after a sleepless night, caused by illness
both of mind and body. When Walpole repaired to her at nine, she was
still in bed; and the good Princess Caroline was at her side, trying
to read her to sleep. Walpole waited until her Majesty had taken some
repose; and meanwhile the Prince of Wales and the Princess Amelia (who
was distrusted by her brother and by her mother, because she affected
to serve each while she betrayed both) entered into a gossiping sort of
conference with him in the antechamber. The prince was all praise, the
minister all counsel. Walpole perhaps felt that the heir-apparent, who
boasted that, when he appeared in public, the people shouted, ‘_Crown
him! Crown him!_’ was engaging him to lead the first administration
under a new reign. The recent prospect of such a reign being near at
hand had been a source of deep alarm to Caroline, and also of distaste.
She would have infinitely preferred that Frederick should have been
disinherited, and his brother William advanced to his position as
heir-apparent.
The King arrived in town on the 15th of January 1737. He came in
sovereign good humour; greeted all kindly, was warmly received, and was
never tired of expatiating on the admirable qualities of his consort.
An observer, indifferently instructed, would not have thought that
this contemptible personage had a mistress, who was the object of more
ardent homage than he ever paid to that wife whom he declared to be
superior to all the women in the world. He was fervent in his eulogy
of her, not only to herself but to Sir Robert Walpole; and indeed was
only peevish with those who presumed to enquire after his health. The
storm had something shaken him, and he was not able to open parliament
in person; but nothing more sorely chafed him than an air of solicitude
and enquiry after his condition by loyal servitors--who got nothing for
their pains but the appellation of ‘puppies.’ He soon, however, had
more serious provocation to contend with.
The friends of the Prince of Wales compelled him, little reluctant, to
bring the question of his income before parliament. The threat to take
this step alarmed Walpole, by whose advice a message was sent from the
King, and delivered by the lords of the council to the prince, whereby
the proposal was made to settle upon him the 50,000_l._ a-year which he
now received in monthly payments at the King’s pleasure, and also to
settle a jointure, the amount of which was not named, upon the princess.
Both their Majesties were unwilling to make this proposition; but
Walpole assured them that the submitting it to the prince would place
his royal highness in considerable difficulty. If he accepted it, the
King would get credit for generosity; and if he rejected it, the prince
would incur the blame of undutifulness and ingratitude.
The offer was made, but it was neither accepted nor refused. The
prince expressed great gratitude, but declared his inability to
decide, as the conduct of the measure was in the hands of others,
and he could not prevent them from bringing the consideration of it
before parliament. The prince’s friends, and indeed others besides his
friends, saw clearly enough that the King offered no boon. His Majesty
simply proposed to settle upon his son an annual income, amounting to
only half of what parliament had granted on the understanding of its
being allotted to the prince. The King and Queen maintained with equal
energy, and not always in the most delicate manner, that the parliament
had no more right to interfere with the appropriation of this money
than that body had with the allowances made by any father to his son.
The rage of the Queen was more unrestrained than that of her husband;
and she was especially indignant against Walpole for having counselled
that an offer should be made which had failed in its object, and had
not prevented the matter being brought before parliament.
The making of it, however, had doubtless some influence upon the
members, and helped in a small way to increase the majority in favour
of the government. The excitement in the court circle was very great
when an address to the King was moved for by Pulteney, suggesting the
desirableness of the prince’s income being increased. The consequent
debate was one of considerable interest, and was skilfully maintained
by the respective adversaries. The prince’s advocates were broadly
accused of lying; and Caroline, at all times and seasons, in her
dressing-room with Lord Hervey, and in the drawing-room with a crowded
circle around her, openly and coarsely stigmatised her son as a liar
and his friends as ‘nasty’ Whigs. Great was her joy when, by a majority
of 234 to 204, the motion for the address was defeated. There was even
congratulation that the victory had cost the King so little in bribes
--only 900_l._, in divisions of 500_l._ to one member and 400_l._ to
another. And even this sum was not positive purchase-money of votes for
this especial occasion; but money promised to be paid at the end of
the session for general service, and only advanced now because of the
present particular and well-appreciated assistance rendered.
Let us do the prince the justice to say, that, in asking that his
income might be doubled, he did not ask that the money should be drawn
from the public purse. When Bubb Dodington first advised him to apply
to parliament for a grant, his answer was spirited enough. ‘The people
have done quite enough for my family already, and I would rather beg
my bread from door to door than be a charge to them.’ What he asked
for was, that out of his father’s civil list of nearly a million
sterling per annum, he might be provided with a more decent revenue
than a beggarly fifty thousand a-year, paid at his father’s pleasure.
Pulteney’s motion was denounced by ministers as an infraction of the
King’s prerogative. Well, Frederick could not get the cash he coveted
from the King, and he would not take it from the public. Bubb Dodington
had advised him to apply to parliament, and he rewarded Bubb for the
hint by easing him occasionally of a few thousands at play. He exulted
in winning. ‘I have just nicked Dodington,’ said he on one occasion,
‘out of 5,000_l._, and Bubb has no chance of ever getting it again!’
The battle, however, was not yet concluded. The prince’s party
resolved to make the same motion in the Lords which had been made in
the Commons. The King and Queen meanwhile considered that they were
released from their engagement, whereby the prince’s revenue was to
be placed entirely in his own power. They were also anxious to eject
their son from St. James’s. Good counsel, nevertheless, prevailed over
them to some extent, and they did not proceed to any of the extremities
threatened by them. In the meantime, the scene within the palace was
one to make a very stoic sigh. The son had daily intercourse with one
or both of his parents. He led the Queen by the hand to dinner, and
she could have stabbed him on the way; for her wrath was more bitter
than ever against him, for the reason that he had introduced her name,
through his friends, in the parliamentary debate, in a way which she
considered must compromise her reputation with the people of England.
He had himself declared to the councillors who had brought him the
terms of the King’s offer, that he had frequently applied through the
Queen for an interview with the King, at which an amicable arrangement
of their differences might be made; but that she had prevented such
an interview, by neglecting to make the prince’s wishes known to his
father. This story was repeated by the prince’s friends in parliament,
and Caroline called heaven and earth to witness that her son had
grossly and deliberately lied. In this temper the two often sat down to
dinner at the same table. As for the King, although Frederick attended
the royal _levées_, and stood near his royal sire, the latter never
affected to behold or to consider him as present, and he invariably
spoke of him as a brainless, impertinent puppy and scoundrel.[28]
The motion for the address to the King, praying him to confer a
jointure on the princess, and to settle 100,000_l._ a-year out of the
civil list on the prince, was brought before the House of Peers by Lord
Carteret. That nobleman so well served his royal client that, before
bringing forward the motion, he made an apology to the Queen, declaring
that office had been forced on him. The exercise thereof was a decided
failure. The Lords rejected the motion, on a division of 103 to 40,
the minority making strong protest against the division of the House,
and in very remarkable language. The latter did not trouble their
Majesties, and this settling of the question helped to restore Walpole
to the royal favour, from which he had temporarily fallen.
There was another public affair which gave the Queen as much perplexity
as any of her domestic troubles. This was the investigation into the
matter of the Porteous riot at Edinburgh, with the object of punishing
those who were most to blame. It is not necessary to detail this
matter at any length, or indeed further than the Queen was personally
connected with it. She was exceedingly desirous that it should be
decided on its merits, and that it should not be made a national
matter of. On this account, she was especially angry with the Duke of
Newcastle, on whom she laid the blame of having very unnecessarily
dragged up to London such respectable men as the Scotch judges; and she
asked him ‘What the devil he meant by it?’ While the affair was still
pending, but after the judges had been permitted to go back again, the
Queen remarked to Lord Hervey, ‘she should be glad to know the truth,
but believed she should never come at it--whether the Scotch judges
had been really to blame or not in the trial of Captain Porteous: for,
between you and the Bishop of Salisbury’ (Sherlock), said she, ‘who
each of you convinced me by turns, I am as much in the dark as if I
knew nothing at all of the matter. He comes and tells me that they
are all as black as devils; you, that they are as white as snow; and
whoever speaks last, I believe. I am like that judge you talk of so
often in the play (Gripus,[29] I think you call him), who, after one
side had spoken, begged t’others might hold their tongue, for fear of
puzzling what was clear to him. I am Queen Gripus; and since the more I
hear the more I am puzzled, I am resolved I will hear no more about it;
but let them be in the right or the wrong, I own to you I am glad they
are gone.’
The city of Edinburgh was ultimately punished by the deposition of
its provost, Mr. Wilson, who was declared incapable of ever serving
his Majesty, and by the imposition of a fine of two thousand pounds
sterling. The ‘mulct’ was to go to the ‘cook-maid widow of Captain
Porteous, and make her, with most unconjugal joy, bless the hour in
which her husband was hanged.’[30]
The conduct of Caroline, when Sir John Bernard proposed to reduce the
interest on the National Debt from four to three per cent., again
presents her to us in a very unfavourable light. Not only the Queen,
but the King also was most energetically opposed to the passing of the
bill. People conjectured that their Majesties were large fundholders,
and were reluctant to lose a quarter of the income thence arising, for
the good of the nation. The bill was ultimately thrown out, chiefly
through the opposition of Walpole. By this decision, the House
stultified its own previously accorded permission (by 220 to 157)
for the introduction of the bill. Horace Walpole, the brother of Sir
Robert, was one of those who voted first for and then against the bill
--or first against and then for his brother. We must once more draw
from Lord Hervey’s graphic pages to show what followed at court upon
such a course:--‘Horace Walpole, though his brother made him vote
against the three per cent., did it with so ill a grace, and talked
against his own conduct so strongly and so frequently to the Queen,
that her Majesty held him at present in little more esteem or favour
than the Duke of Newcastle. She told him that because he had some
practice in treaties, and was employed in foreign affairs, he began to
think he understood everything better than anybody else; and that it
was really quite new his setting himself up to understand the revenue,
money matters, and the House of Commons better than his brother! “Oh,
what are you all but a rope of sand, that would crumble away in little
grains, one after another, if it was not for him?” And whenever Horace
had been with her, speaking on these subjects, besides telling Lord
Hervey, when he came to see her, how like an opinionative fool Horace
had talked before them, she used to complain of his silly laugh hurting
her ears, and his dirty body offending her nose, as if she had never
had the two senses of hearing and smelling, in all her acquaintance
with poor Horace, till he had talked for three per cent. Sometimes she
used to cough and pretend to retch with talking of his dirt; and would
often bid Lord Hervey open the window to purify the room of the stink
Horace had left behind him, and call the pages to burn sweets to get
it out of the hangings. She told Lord Hervey she believed Horace had a
hand in the “Craftsman,” for that once, warmed in disputing on this
three-per-cent. affair, he had more than hinted to her that he guessed
her reason for being so zealous against this scheme was her having
money in the stocks.’
When such coarseness was common at court, we need not be surprised
that dramatic authors, whose office it is to hold the mirror up to
nature, should have attempted to make some reflection thereon, or to
take license therefrom, and give additional coarseness to the stage.
Walpole’s virtuous indignation was excited at this liberty--a liberty
taken only because people in his station, and far above his station,
by their vices and coarseness, justified the license. It was this
vice, and not the vices of dramatic authors, which first fettered
the drama and established a censorship. The latter was set up, not
because the stage was wicked, but in order that it should not satirise
the wickedness of those in high station. The Queen was exceedingly
delighted to see a gag put upon both Thalia and Melpomene.
The vice was hideous. They who care to stir the offensive mass will
find proof enough of this hideousness in the account given by Lady
Deloraine, the wife of Mr. Windham, of the King’s courtship of her, and
his consequent temporary oblivion of Madame Walmoden. This new rival of
the Queen, a charming doll of thirty-five years of age, was wooed by
the King in a strain which the stage would hardly have reproduced; and
his suit was commented upon by the lady, in common conversation with
lords and ladies, with an unctuousness of phrase, a licentiousness of
manner, and a coolness of calculation such as would have disgraced the
most immodest of women. This coarseness of sentiment and expression
was equally common. When it was said that Lord Carteret was writing a
history of his times, and that noble author himself alleged that he
was engaged in ‘giving fame to the Queen,’ the latter, one morning,
noticed the alleged fact to Lord Hervey. The King was present, and his
Majesty remarked:--‘I dare say he will paint you in fine colours, the
dirty liar.’ ‘Why not?’ asked Caroline; ‘good things come out of dirt
sometimes. I have ate very good asparagus raised out of dung?’ When
it was said that not only Lord Carteret, but that Lords Bolingbroke
and Chesterfield were also engaged in writing the history of their
times, the Queen critically anticipated ‘that all the three histories
would be three heaps of lies; but lies of very different kinds: she
said Bolingbroke’s would be great lies; Chesterfield’s little lies;
and Carteret’s lies of both sorts.’[31] It may be added, that where
there were vice and coarseness there was little respect for justice
or for independence of conduct. The placeman who voted according to
his conscience, when he found his conscience in antagonism against the
court, was invariably removed from his place.
In concluding this chapter, it may be stated that when Frederick was
about to bring forward the question of his revenue, the Queen would
fain have had an interview with the son she alternately despised and
feared, to persuade him against pursuing this measure--the carrying out
of which she dreaded as prejudicial to the King’s health in his present
enfeebled state. Caroline, however, would not see her son, for the
reason, as the mother alleged, that he was such an incorrigible liar
that he was capable of making any mendacious report of the interview,
even of her designing to murder him. She had, in an interview with
him, at the time of the agitation connected with the Excise bill, been
compelled to place the Princess Caroline, concealed, within hearing,
that she might be a witness in case of the prince, her brother,
misrepresenting what had really taken place.
When the King learned the prince’s intentions, he took the matter much
more coolly than the Queen. Several messengers, however, passed between
the principal parties, but nothing was done in the way of turning the
prince from his purpose. It was an innocent purpose enough, indeed,
as he represented it. The parliament had entrusted to the King a
certain annual sum for the prince’s use. The King and Queen did not
so understand it, and he simply applied to parliament to solicit that
august body to put an interpretation on its own act.
The supposed debilitated condition of the King’s health gave increased
hopes to the prince’s party. The Queen, therefore, induced him to
hold _levées_ and appear more frequently in public. His improvement
in health and good humour was a matter of disappointment to those who
wished him dying, and feared to see him grow popular.
The animosity of the Queen and her daughter, Caroline, against the
Prince of Wales was ferocious.[32] The mother cursed the day on which
she had borne the son who was for ever destroying her peace, and
would end, she said, by destroying her life. There was no opprobrious
epithet which she did not cast at him; and they who surrounded the
Queen and princess had the honour of daily hearing them hope that
God would strike the son and brother dead with apoplexy. Such enmity
seems incredible. The gentle Princess Caroline’s gentlest name for her
brother was ‘that nauseous beast;’ and in running over the catalogue
of crimes of which she declared him capable, if not actually guilty,
she did not hesitate to say that he was capable of murdering even
those whom he caressed. Never was family circle so cursed by dissension
as this royal circle; in which the parents hated the son, the son
the parents; the parents deceived one another, the husband betrayed
the wife, the wife deluded the husband, the children were at mutual
antagonism, and truth was a stranger to all.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BIRTH OF AN HEIRESS.
Russian invasion of the Crimea--Announcement of an heir disbelieved
by the Queen--Princess of Wales conveyed to St. James’s by the
Prince in a state of labour--Birth of a Princess--Hampton Court
Palace on this night--The palace in an uproar--Indignation
of Caroline--Reception of the Queen by the Prince--Minute
particulars afforded her by him--Explanatory notes between
the royal family--Message of the King--His severity to the
Prince--The Princess Amelia double-sided--Message of Princess
Caroline to the Prince--Unseemly conduct of the Prince--The
Prince an agreeable ‘rattle’--The Queen’s anger never subsided--
The Prince ejected from the palace--The Queen and Lord Carteret
--Reconciliation of the royal family attempted--Popularity of
the Prince--The Queen’s outspoken opinion of the Prince--An
interview between the King, Queen, and Lord Hervey--Bishop
Sherlock and the Queen--The King a purchaser of lottery-tickets.
The parliament, having passed a Land-tax bill of two shillings in the
pound, exempted the Prince of Wales from contributing even the usual
sixpence in the pound on his civil-list revenue, and settled a dowry
on his wife of 50,000_l._ per annum, peremptorily rejected Sir John
Bernard’s motion for decreasing the taxation which weighed most heavily
on the poor.[33] The public found matter for much speculation in these
circumstances, and they alternately discussed them with the subject of
the aggressive ambition of Russia. The latter power was then invading
the Crimea with two armies under Munich and Lasci. The occupier of
the Muscovite throne stooped to mendacity to veil the real object of
the war; and there were Russian officers not ashamed to be assassins
--murdering the wounded foe whom they found lying helpless on their
path.[34]
The interest in all home and foreign matters, however, was speedily
lost in that which the public took in the matter, which soon presented
itself, of the accession of an heir in the direct hereditary line of
Brunswick.
The prospect of the birth of a lineal heir to the throne ought to
have been one of general joy in a family whose own possession of the
crown was contested by the disinherited heir of the Stuart line. The
prospect, however, brought no joy with it on the present occasion. It
was not till within a month of the time for the event that the Prince
of Wales officially announced to his father, on the best possible
authority, the probability of the event itself. Caroline appears at
once to have disbelieved the announcement. She was so desirous of
the succession falling to her second son, William, that she made no
scruple of expressing her disbelief of what, to most other observers,
was apparent enough. She questioned the princess herself, with more
closeness than even the position of a mother-in-law could justify; but
for every query the well-trained Augusta had one stereotyped reply--‘I
don’t know.’ Caroline, on her side, resolved to be better instructed.
‘I will positively be present,’ she exclaimed, ‘when the promised
event takes place;’ adding, with her usual broadness of illustration,
‘It can’t be got through as soon as one can blow one’s nose; and I am
resolved to be satisfied that the child is hers.’
These suspicions, of which the Queen made no secret, were of course
well known to her son. He was offended by them; offended, too, at a
peremptory order that the birth of the expected heir should take place
in Hampton Court Palace; and he was, moreover, stirred up by his
political friends to exhibit his own independence, and to oppose the
royal wish, in order to show that he had a proper spirit of freedom.
Accordingly, twice he brought the princess to London, and twice
returned with her to Hampton Court. Each time the journey had been
undertaken on symptoms of indisposition coming on, which, however,
passed away. At length one evening, the prince and princess, after
dining in public with the King and Queen, took leave of them for the
night, and withdrew to their apartments. Up to this hour the princess
had appeared to be in her ordinary health. Tokens of supervening
change came on, and the prince at once prepared for action. The night
(the 31st of July) was now considerably advanced, and the Princess of
Wales, who had been hitherto eager to obey her husband’s wishes in all
things, was now too ill to do anything but pray against them. He would
not listen to such petitions. He ordered his ‘coach’ to be got ready
and brought round to a side entrance of the palace. The lights in the
apartment were in the meantime extinguished. He consigned his wife to
the strong arms of Desnoyers, the dancing-master, and Bloodworth, an
attendant, who dragged, rather than carried, her down stairs. In the
meantime, the poor lady, whose life was in very present peril, and
sufferings extreme, prayed earnestly to be permitted to remain where
she was. Subsequently she protested to the Queen that all that had been
done had taken place at her own express desire! However this may be,
the prince answered her prayers and moans by calling on her to have
courage; upbraiding her for her folly; and assuring her, with a very
manly complacency, that it was nothing, and would soon be over! At
length the coach was reached. It was the usually capacious vehicle of
the time, and into it got not only the prince and princess, but Lady
Archibald Hamilton and two female attendants. Vriad, who was not only
a _valet-de-chambre_, but a surgeon and _accoucheur_, mounted the box.
Bloodworth, the dancing-master, and two or three more, got up behind.
The prince enjoined the strictest silence on such of his household
as remained at Hampton Court, and therewith the coach set off, at a
gallop, not for the prince’s own residence at Kew, but for St. James’s
Palace, which was at twice the distance.
At the palace nothing was prepared for them. There was not a couch
ready for the exhausted lady, who had more than once on the road been,
as it seemed, upon the point of expiring; not even a bed was ready for
her to lie down and repose upon. No sheets were to be found in the
whole palace--or at least in that part over which the prince had any
authority. For lack of them, Frederick and Lady Hamilton aired a couple
of tablecloths, and these did the service required of them.
In the meantime, notice had been sent to several officers of state,
and to the more necessary assistants required, to be present at the
imminent event. Most of the great officers were out of the way. In lieu
of them arrived the Lord President, Wilmington, and the Lord Privy
Seal, Godolphin. In their presence was born a daughter, whom Lord
Hervey designated as ‘a little rat’ and described as being ‘no bigger
than a tooth-pick case.’
Perhaps it was the confusion which reigned before and at her birth
which had some influence on her intellects in after life. She was an
extremely pretty child, not without some mental qualifications; but
she became remarkable for making observations which inflicted pain and
embarrassment on those to whom they were addressed. In after years, she
also became the mother of that Caroline of Brunswick who herself made
confusion worse confounded in the family into which she was received as
a member--that Caroline whom we recollect as the consort of George IV.
and the protectress of Baron Bergami.
At Hampton Court, the King and Queen, concluding that their dear son
and heir had, with his consort, relieved his illustrious parents of
his undesired presence for the night, thought of nothing so little as
of that son having taken it into his head to perform a trick which
might have been fittingly accompanied by the ‘Beggars’ Opera’ chorus of
‘Hurrah for the Road!’
No comedy has such a scene as that enacted at Hampton Court on this
night. While the prince was carrying off the princess, despite all
her agonising entreaties, the rest of the royal family were quietly
amusing themselves in another part of the palace, unconscious of what
was passing. The King and the Princess Amelia were at _commerce_
below-stairs; the Queen, in another apartment, was at quadrille; and
the Princess Caroline and Lord Hervey were soberly playing at cribbage.
They separated at ten, and were all in bed by eleven, perfectly
ignorant of what had been going on so near them.
At a little before two o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Tichborne entered
the royal bedchamber, when the Queen, waking in alarm, asked her if the
palace was on fire. The faithful servant intimated that the prince had
just sent word that her royal highness was on the point of becoming a
mother. A courier had just arrived, in fact, with the intelligence.
The Queen leaped out of bed and called for her ‘morning gown,’ wherein
to hurry to the room of her daughter-in-law. When Tichborne intimated
that she would need a coach as well as a gown, for that her royal
highness had been carried off to St. James’s, the Queen’s astonishment
and indignation were equally great. On the news being communicated
to the King, his surprise and wrath were not less than the Queen’s,
but he did not fail to blame his consort as well as his son. She had
allowed herself to be outwitted, he said; a false child would despoil
her own offspring of their rights; and this was the end of all her
boasted care and management for the interests of her son William! He
hoped that Anne would come from Holland and scold her. ‘You deserve,’
he exclaimed, ‘anything she can say to you.’ The Queen answered little,
lest it should impede her in her haste to reach London. In half an hour
she had left the palace accompanied by her two daughters, and attended
by two ladies and three noblemen. The party reached St. James’s by four
o’clock.
As they ascended the staircase, Lord Hervey invited her Majesty to
take chocolate in his apartments after she had visited the princess.
The Queen replied to the invitation ‘with a wink,’ and a significant
intimation that she certainly would refuse to accept of any refreshment
at the hands of her son. One would almost suppose that she expected to
be poisoned by him.
The prince, attired, according to the hour, in nightgown and cap, met
his august mother as she approached his apartments, and kissed her hand
and cheek, according to the mode of his country and times. He then
entered garrulously into details that would have shocked the delicacy
of a monthly nurse; but, as Caroline remarked, she knew a good many of
them to be ‘lies.’ She was cold and reserved to the prince; but when
she approached the bedside of the princess, she spoke to her gently
and kindly--womanly, in short; and concluded by expressing a fear that
her royal highness had suffered extremely, and a hope that she was
doing well. The lady so sympathisingly addressed, answered, somewhat
flippantly, that she had scarcely suffered anything, and that the
matter in question was almost nothing at all. Caroline transferred her
sympathy from the young mother to her new-born child. The latter was
put into the Queen’s arms. She looked upon it silently for a moment,
and then exclaimed in French, her ordinary language, ‘May the good
God bless you, poor little creature! here you are arrived in a most
disagreeable world.’ The wish failed, but the assertion was true. The
‘poor little creature’ was cursed with a long tenure of life, during
which she saw her husband deprived of his inheritance, heard of his
violent death, and participated in family sorrow, heavy and undeserved.
After pitying the daughter thus born, and commiserating the mother who
bore her, Caroline was condemned to listen to the too minute details
of the journey and its incidents, made by her son. She turned from
these to shower her indignation upon those who had aided in the flight,
and without whose succour the flight itself could hardly have been
accomplished. She directed her indignation by turns upon all; but she
let it descend with peculiar heaviness upon Lady Archibald Hamilton,
and made it all the more pungent by the comment, that, considering Lady
Archibald’s mature age, and her having been the mother of ten children,
she had years enough, and experience enough, and offspring enough, to
have taught her better things and greater wisdom. To all these winged
words, the lady attacked answered no further than by turning to the
prince, and repeating, ‘You see, sir!’ as though she would intimate
that she had done all she could to turn him from the evil of his ways,
and had gained only unmerited reproach for the exercise of a virtue,
which, in this case, was likely to be its own and its only reward!
The prince was again inclined to become gossiping and offensive in
his details, but his royal mother cut him short by bidding him get to
bed; and with this message by way of farewell, she left the room,
descended the staircase, crossed the court on foot, and proceeded to
Lord Hervey’s apartments, where there awaited her gossip more welcome
and very superior chocolate.
Over their ‘cups,’ right merry were the Queen and her gallant
vice-chamberlain at the extreme folly of the royal son. They were too
merry for Caroline to be indignant, further than her indignation could
be shown by designating her son by the very rudest possible of names,
and showing her contempt for all who had helped him in the night’s
escapade. She acknowledged her belief that no foul play had taken
place, chiefly because the child was a daughter. This circumstance
was in itself no proof of the genuineness of the little lady, for if
Frederick had been desirous of setting aside his brother William, his
mother’s favourite, from all hope of succeeding to the throne, the
birth of a daughter was quite as sufficient for the purpose as that
of a son.[35] The Queen comforted herself by remarking that, at all
events, the trouble she had taken that night was not gratuitous. It
would at least, as she delicately remarked, be a ‘good grimace for
the public,’ who would contrast her parental anxiety with the marital
cruelty and the filial undutifulness of the Prince of Wales.
While this genial pair were thus enjoying their chocolate and gossip,
the two princesses, and two or three of the noblemen in attendance,
were doing the same in an adjoining apartment. Meanwhile Walpole
had arrived, and had been closeted with the prince, who again had
the supreme felicity of narrating to the unwilling listener all the
incidents of the journey, in telling which he, in fact, gave to the
minister the opportunity which Gyges was afforded by Candaules, or
something very like it, and for which Frederick merited, if not the
fate of the heathen husband, at least the next severe penalty short of
it.
The sun was up long before the royal and illustrious party dispersed.
The busy children of industry, who saw the Queen and her equipage sweep
by them along the Western Road, must have been perplexed with attempts
at guessing at the causes of her Majesty being so early abroad, in so
wayworn a guise. The last thing they could then have conjectured was
the adventure of the night--the scene at Hampton Court, the flight
of the son with his wife, the pursuit of the royal mother with her
two daughters, the occurrence at St. James’s--or, indeed, any of the
incidents of the stirring drama that had been played out.
From the hour when royalty had been suddenly aroused to that at which
the Queen arrived at Hampton Court Palace--eight in the morning, George
II. had troubled himself as little with conjecturing as his subjects.
When the Queen detailed to him all that had passed, he poured out the
usual amount of paternal wrath, and of the usual quality. He never was
nice of epithet, and least of all when he had any to bestow upon his
son. It was not spared now, and what was most liberally given was most
bitter of quality.
Meanwhile, both prince and princess addressed to their Majesties
explanatory notes in French, which explained nothing, and which, as far
as regards the prince’s notes, were in poor French and worse spelling.
Everything, of course, had been done for the best; and the sole regret
of the younger couple was, that they had somehow, they could not guess
how or wherefore, incurred the displeasure of the King and Queen. To
be restored to the good opinion of the latter was, of course, the one
object of the involuntary offenders’ lives. In short, they had had
their way; and, having enjoyed that exquisite felicity, they were not
reluctant to pretend that they were extremely penitent for what had
passed.
The displeasure of Caroline and her consort at the unfeeling conduct
of Frederick was made known to the latter neither in a sudden nor an
undignified way. It was not till the 10th of September that it may
be said to have been officially conveyed to the prince. On that day
the King and Queen sent a message to him from Hampton Court, by the
Dukes of Grafton and Richmond and the Earl of Pembroke, who faithfully
acquitted themselves of their unwelcome commission at St. James’s.
The message was to the effect, that ‘the whole tenor of the prince’s
conduct for a considerable time had been so entirely void of all real
duty, that their Majesties had long had reason to be highly offended
with him; and, until he withdrew his regard and confidence from those
by whose instigation and advice he was directed and encouraged in his
unwarrantable behaviour to his Majesty and the Queen, and until he
should return to his duty, he should not reside in a palace belonging
to the King, which his Majesty would not suffer to be made the resort
of those who, under the appearance of an attachment to the prince,
fomented the divisions which he had made in his family, and thereby
weakened the common interest of the whole.’ Their Majesties further
made known their pleasure that ‘the prince should leave St. James’s,
with all his family, when it could be done without prejudice or
inconvenience to the princess.’ His Majesty added, that ‘he should, for
the present, leave the care of his grand-daughter until a proper time
called upon him to consider of her education.’ In consequence of this
message, the prince removed to Kew on the 14th of September.
The King and Queen now not only treated their son with extraordinary
severity, and spoke of him in the coarsest possible language, but
they treated in like manner all who were suspected of aiding and
counselling him. Their wrath was especially directed against Lord
Carteret, who had at first deceived them. That noble lord censured, in
their hearing, a course of conduct in the prince which he had himself
suggested, and, in the hearing of the heir-apparent, never failed to
praise. When their Majesties discovered this double-dealing, and that
an attempt was being made to convince the people that in the matter
of the birth of the princess royal, the Queen alone was to blame for
all the disagreeable incidents attending it, their anger was extreme.
The feeling for Lord Carteret was shown when Lord Hervey one day spoke
of him with some commiseration--his son having run away from school,
and there being no intelligence of him, except that he had formed a
very improper marriage. ‘Why do you pity him?’ said the King to Lord
Hervey: ‘I think it is a very just punishment, that, while he is acting
the villainous part he does in debauching the minds of other people’s
children, he should feel a little what it is to have an undutiful puppy
of a son himself!’
Fierce, indeed, was the family feud, and undignified as fierce. The
Princess Amelia is said to have taken as double-sided a line of conduct
as Lord Carteret himself; for which she incurred the ill-will of both
parties. The prince declared not only that he never would trust her
again, but that, should he ever be reconciled with the King and Queen,
his first care should be to inform them that she had never said so much
harm of him to them as she had of them to him. The Princess Caroline
was the more fierce partisan of the mother whom she loved, from the
fact that she saw how her brother was endeavouring to direct the public
feeling against the Queen. She was, however, as little dignified in her
fierceness as the rest of her family. On one occasion, as Desnoyers,
the dancing-master, had concluded his lesson to the young princesses,
and was about to return to the prince, who made of him a constant
companion, the Princess Caroline bade him inform his patron, if the
latter should ever ask him what was thought of his conduct by her,
that it was her opinion that he and all who were with him, except the
Princess of Wales, deserved hanging. Desnoyers delivered the message,
with the assurances of respect given by one who acquits himself of a
disagreeable commission to one whom he regards. ‘How did the prince
take it?’ asked Caroline, when next Desnoyers appeared at Hampton
Court. ‘Well, madam,’ said the dancing-master, ‘he first spat in the
fire, and then observed, “Ah, ah! Desnoyers; you know the way of that
Caroline. That is just like her. She is always like that!”’ ‘Well, M.
Desnoyers,’ remarked the princess, ‘when next you see him again, tell
him that I think his observation is as foolish as his conduct.’
The exception made by the Princess Caroline of the Princess of Wales,
in the censure distributed by the former, was not undeserved. She was
the mere tool of her husband, who made no confidante of her, had not
yet appreciated her, but kept her in the most complete ignorance of all
that was happening around her, and much of which immediately concerned
her. He used to speak of the office of wife in the very coarsest terms;
and did not scruple to declare that he would not be such a fool as his
father was, who allowed himself to be ruled and deceived by his consort.
In the meantime, he treated his mother with mingled contempt and
hypocrisy. When, nine days after the birth of the little Princess
Augusta, the Queen and her two daughters again visited the Princess of
Wales, the prince, who met her at the door of the bedchamber, never
uttered a single word during the period his mother remained in the
room.
He was as silent to his sisters; but he was ‘the agreeable “rattle”’
with the members of the royal suite. The Queen remained an hour; and
when she remarked that she was afraid she was troublesome, no word
fell from the prince or princess to persuade her to the contrary. When
the royal carriage had arrived to conduct her away, her son led her
downstairs, and at the coach door, ‘to make the mob believe that he was
never wanting in any respect, he kneeled down in the dirty street, and
kissed her hand. As soon as this operation was over, he put her Majesty
into the coach, and then returned to the steps of his own door, leaving
his sisters to get through the dirt and the mob, by themselves, as they
could. Nor did there come to the Queen any message, either from the
prince or princess, to thank her afterwards for the trouble she had
taken, or for the honour she had done them in this visit.’ This was the
last time the mother and son met in this world. Horace Walpole well
observes of the scene that it must have caused the Queen’s indignation
to shrink into mere contempt.
The Queen’s wrath never subsided beyond a cold expression of
forgiveness to the prince when she was on her death-bed; but she
resolutely refused to see him when that solemn hour arrived, a few
months subsequently. She was blamed for this; but her contempt was too
deeply rooted to allow her to act otherwise to one who had done all he
could to embitter the peace of his father. She sent to him, it is said,
her blessing and pardon; ‘but conceiving the extreme distress it would
lay on the King, should he thus be forced to forgive so impenitent a
son, or to banish him if once recalled, she heroically preferred a
meritorious husband to a worthless child.’[36]
Had the prince been sincere in his expressions when addressing either
of his parents by letter after the delivery of his wife, it is not
impossible but that a reconciliation might have followed. His studied
disrespect towards the Queen was, however, too strongly marked to
allow of this conclusion to the quarrel. He invariably omitted to
speak of her as ‘your Majesty;’ _Madam_, and _you_, were the simple
and familiar terms employed by him. Indeed, he more than once told her
that he considered that the Prince of Wales took precedence of the
Queen-consort; at which Caroline would contemptuously laugh, and assure
her ‘dear Fritz’ that he need not press the point, for even if she were
to die, the King could not marry _him_!
It was for mere annoyance’ sake that he declared, at the end of August,
after the christening of his daughter, that she should not be called
the ‘Princess Augusta,’ but the ‘Lady Augusta,’ according to the old
English fashion. At the same time he declared that she should be styled
‘Your Royal Highness,’ although such style had never been used towards
his own sisters before their father’s accession to the crown.
It will hardly be thought necessary to go through the documentary
history of what passed between the Sovereigns and their son before he
was finally ejected from St. James’s Palace. Wrong as he was in his
quarrel, ‘Fritz’ kept a better temper, though with as bitter a spirit
as his parents. On the 13th of September, the day before that fixed
on for the prince’s departure, ‘the Queen, at breakfast, every now
and then repeated, _I hope in God I shall never see him again_; and
the King, among many other paternal _douceurs_ in his valediction to
his son, said: Thank God! to-morrow night the puppy will be out of my
house.’ The Queen thought her son would rather like, than otherwise,
to be made a martyr of; but it was represented to her, that however
much it might have suited him to be made one politically, there was
more disgrace to him personally in the present expulsion than he would
like to digest. The King maintained that his son had not sense of his
own to find this out; and that as he listened only to boobies, fools,
and madmen, he was not likely to have his case truly represented to
him. And then the King ran through the list of his son’s household; and
Lord Carnarvon was set down as being as coxcombical and irate a fool
as his master; Lord Townshend, for a proud, surly booby; Lord North,
as a poor creature; Lord Baltimore, as a trimmer; and ‘Johnny Lumley’
(the brother of Lord Scarborough), as, if nothing else, at least ‘a
stuttering puppy.’ Such, it is said, were the followers of a prince,
of whom his royal mother remarked, that he was ‘a mean fool’ and ‘a
poor-spirited beast.’
While this dissension was at its hottest, the Queen fell ill of the
gout. She was so unwell, so weary of being in bed, and so desirous
of chatting with Lord Hervey, that she now for the first time broke
through the court etiquette, which would not admit a man, save the
Sovereign, into the royal bed-chamber. The noble lord was with her
there during the whole day of each day that her confinement lasted. She
was too old, she said, to have the honour of being talked of for it;
and so, to suit her humour, the old ceremony was dispensed with. Lord
Hervey sate by her bed-side, gossiped the live-long day; and on one
occasion, when the Prince of Wales sent Lord North with a message of
enquiry after her health, he amused the Queen by turning the message
into very slipshod verse, the point of which is at once obscure and
ill-natured, but which seems to imply that the prince would have been
well content had the gout, instead of being in her foot, attacked her
stomach.
The prince had been guilty of no such indecency as this; but there was
no lack of provocation to make him commit himself. When he was turned
out of St. James’s, he was not permitted to take with him a single
article of furniture. The royal excuse was, that the furniture had
been purchased, on the prince’s marriage, at the King’s cost, and was
his Majesty’s property. It was suggested that sheets ought not to be
considered as furniture; and that the prince and princess could not be
expected to carry away their dirty linen in baskets. ‘Why not?’ asked
the King; ‘it is good enough for them!’
Such were the petty circumstances with which Caroline and her consort
troubled themselves at the period in question. They at once hurt their
own dignity and made their son look ridiculous. The great partisan of
the latter (Lord Baltimore) did not rescue his master from ridicule by
comparing his conduct to that of the heroic Charles XII. of Sweden.
But the comparison was one to be expected from a man whom the King had
declared to be, in a great degree, a booby, and, in a trifling degree,
mad.
As soon as the prince had established himself at Kew, he was waited on
by Lord Carteret, Sir William Wyndham, and Mr. Pulteney. The King could
not conceal his anger under an affected contempt of these persons or of
their master. He endeavoured to satisfy himself by abusing the latter,
and by remarking that ‘they would soon be tired of the puppy, who was,
moreover, a scoundrel and a fool; and who would talk more fiddle-faddle
to them in a day than any old woman talks in a week.’
The prince continued to address letters both to the King and Queen,
full of affected concern, expressed in rather impertinent phrases. The
princess addressed others, in which she sought to justify her husband’s
conduct; but as in all these notes there was a studied disrespect of
Caroline, the King would neither consent to grant an audience to the
offenders, nor would the Queen interfere to induce him to relent.
The Queen, indeed, did not scruple to visit with her displeasure
all those courtiers who showed themselves inclined to bring about
a reconciliation; and yet she manifested some leaning towards Lord
Carteret, the chief agent of her son. This disposition alarmed Walpole,
who took upon himself to remind her that _her_ minister could serve
her purpose better than her son’s, and that it was of the utmost
importance that she should conquer in this strife. ‘Is your son to be
bought?’ said Walpole. ‘If you will buy him, I will get him cheaper
than Carteret.’ Caroline answered only with ‘a flood of grace, good
words, favour, and professions’ of having full confidence in her own
minister--that is, Walpole himself--who had served her so long and so
faithfully.
A trait of Caroline’s character may here be mentioned, as indicative
of how she could help to build up her own reputation for shrewdness by
using the materials of others. Sir Robert Walpole, in conversation with
Lord Hervey, gave him some account of an interview he had had with the
Queen. The last-named gentleman believed all the great minister had
told him, because the Queen herself had, in speaking of the subject
to Lord Hervey, used the precise terms now employed by Walpole. The
subject was the lukewarmness of some of the noblemen about court to
serve the King: the expression used was--‘People who keep hounds must
not hang every one that runs a little slower than the rest, provided,
in the main, they will go with the pack; one must not expect them all
to run just alike and to be equally good.’ Hervey told Walpole of the
use made by the Queen of this phrase, and Sir Robert naturally enough
remarked, ‘He was always glad when he heard she repeated as her own
any notion he had endeavoured to infuse, because it was a sign what he
had laboured had taken place.’
Meanwhile the prince was of himself doing little that could tend to
anything else than widen the breach already existing between him and
his family. He spoke aloud of what he would do when he came to be
King. His intentions, as reported by Caroline, were that she, when
she was Queen-dowager, should be ‘fleeced, flayed, and minced.’ The
Princess Amelia was to be kept in strict confinement; the Princess
Caroline left to starve; of the little princesses, Mary and Louisa,
then about fourteen and thirteen years of age, he made no mention; and
of his brother, the Duke of Cumberland, he always spoke ‘with great
affectation of kindness.’
Despite this imprudent conduct, endeavours continued to be made by the
prince and his friends, in order to bring about the reconciliation
which nobody seemed very sincere in desiring. The Duke of Newcastle had
implored the Princess Amelia, ‘For God’s sake!’ to do her utmost ‘to
persuade the Queen to make things up with the prince before this affair
was pushed to an extremity which might make the wound incurable.’ The
Queen is said to have been exceedingly displeased with the Duke of
Newcastle for thus interfering in the matter. The Princess of Wales,
however, continued to write hurried and apparently earnest notes
to the Queen, thanking her for her kindness in standing godmother
to her daughter, treating her with ‘Your Majesty,’ and especially
defending her own husband, while affecting to deplore that his conduct,
misrepresented, had incurred the displeasure of their Majesties. ‘I
am deeply afflicted,’ so runs a note of the 17th of September, ‘at
the manner in which the prince’s conduct has been represented to your
Majesties, especially with regard to the two journeys which we made
from Hampton Court to London the week previous to my confinement. I
dare assure your Majesties, that the medical man and midwife were then
of opinion that I should not be confined before the month of September,
and that the indisposition of which I complained was nothing more
than the cholic. And besides, madam, is it credible, that if I had
gone twice to London with the design and in the expectation of being
confined there, I should have returned to Hampton Court? I flatter
myself that time and the good offices of your Majesty will bring about
a happy change in a situation of affairs, the more deplorable for me
inasmuch as I am the innocent cause of it,’ &c.
This letter, delivered as the King and Queen were going to chapel,
was sent by the latter to Walpole, who repaired to the royal closet
in the chapel, where Caroline asked him what he thought of this last
performance? The answer was very much to the purpose. Sir Robert said,
he detected ‘you lie, you lie, you lie, from one end of it to the
other.’ Caroline agreed that the lie was flung at her by the writer.
There was as much discussion touching the reply which should be
sent to this grievously offending note as if it had been a protocol
of the very first importance. One was for having it smart, another
formal, another so shaped that it should kindly treat the princess as
blameless, and put an end to further correspondence, with some general
wishes as to the future conduct of ‘Fritz.’ This was done, and the
letter was despatched. What effect it had upon the conduct of the
person alluded to may be discerned in the fact that when, on Thursday,
the 22nd of September, the prince and princess received at Carlton
House the Lord Mayor and Corporation of London, with an address of
congratulation on the birth of the Princess Augusta, the lords of the
prince’s present council distributed to everybody in the room copies of
the King’s message to the prince, ordering him to quit St. James’s,
and containing reflections against all persons who might even visit
the prince. The lords, particularly the Duke of Marlborough and Lords
Chesterfield and Carteret, deplored the oppression under which the
Prince of Wales struggled. His highness also spoke to the citizens in
terms calculated--certainly intended--to win their favour.
He did not acquire all the popular favour he expected. Thus, when,
during the repairs of Carlton House, he occupied the residence of the
Duke of Norfolk, in St. James’s Square--a residence which the duke and
duchess refused to let to him, until they had obtained the sanction of
the King and Queen--‘he reduced the number of his inferior servants,
which made him many enemies among the lower sort of people.’ He also
diminished his stud, and ‘farmed all his tables, even that of the
princess and himself.’ In other words, his tables were supplied by a
cook at so much per head.
His position was one, however, which was sure to procure for him a
degree of popularity, irrespective of his real merits. The latter,
however, were not great nor numerous, and even his own officers
considered their interests far before those of him they served--or
deserted. At the theatre, however, he was the popular hero of the hour,
and when once, on being present at the representation of ‘Cato,’[37]
the words--
When vice prevails and impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station--
were received with loud huzzas, the prince joined in the applause, to
show how he appreciated, and perhaps applied, the lines.
Although the King’s alleged oppression towards his son was publicly
canvassed by the latter, the prince and his followers invariably named
the Queen as the true author of it. The latter, in commenting on this
filial course, constantly sacrificed her dignity. ‘My dear lord,’ said
Caroline, once, to Lord Hervey, ‘I will give it you under my hand,
if you have any fear of my relapsing, that my dear first-born is the
greatest ass, and the greatest liar, and the greatest _canaille_, and
the greatest beast, in the whole world, and that I most heartily wish
he was out of it!’ The King continued to treat him in much the same
strain, adding, courteously, that he had often asked the Queen if the
beast were his son. ‘The Queen was a great while,’ said he, ‘before her
maternal affection would give him up for a fool, and yet I told her
so before he had been acting as if he had no common sense.’ While so
hard upon the conduct of their son, an entry from Lord Hervey’s diary
will show us what was their own: the King’s with regard to decency, the
Queen’s with respect to truth.
Whilst the Queen was talking one morning touching George I.’s will and
other family matters, with Lord Hervey, ‘the King opened her door at
the further end of the gallery; upon which the Queen chid Lord Hervey
for coming so late, saying, that she had several things to say to him,
and that he was always so long in coming, after he was sent for, that
she never had any time to talk with him. To which Lord Hervey replied,
that it was not his fault, for that he always came the moment he was
called; that he wished, with all his heart, the King had more love, or
Lady Deloraine more wit, that he might have more time with her Majesty;
but that he thought it very hard that he should be snubbed and reproved
because the King was old and Lady Deloraine a fool. This made the Queen
laugh; and the King asking, when he came up to her, what it was at, she
said it was at a conversation Lord Hervey was reporting between the
prince and Mr. Lyttelton, on his being made secretary. The King desired
him to repeat it. Lord Hervey got out of the difficulty as he best
could. When the Queen and my lord next met, she said: “I think I was
one with you for your impertinence.” To which Lord Hervey replied, “The
next time you serve me so, madam, perhaps I may be even with you, and
desire your Majesty to repeat as well as report.”’[38]
It may be noticed here, that both Frederick and the Queen’s party
published copies of the French correspondence which had passed between
the two branches of the family at feud, and that in the translations
appended to the letters, each party was equally unscrupulous in giving
such turns to the phrases as should serve only one side, and injure the
adverse faction. Bishop Sherlock, who set the good fashion of residing
much within his own diocese, once ventured to give an opinion upon the
prince’s conduct, which at least served to show that the prelate was
not a very finished courtier. Bishops who reside within their dioceses,
and trouble themselves little with what takes place beyond it, seldom
are. The bishop said that the prince had lacked able counsellors, had
weakly played his game into the King’s hands, and made a blunder which
he would never retrieve. This remark provoked Caroline to say--‘I hope,
my lord, this is not the way you intend to speak your disapprobation of
my son’s measures anywhere else; for your saying that, by his conduct
lately, he has played his game into the King’s hands, one would imagine
you thought the game had been before in his own; and though he has made
his game still worse than it was, I am far from thinking it ever was a
good one, or that he had ever much chance to win.’
Caroline, and indeed her consort also, conjectured that the public
voice and opinion were expressed in favour of the occupants of the
throne from the fact, that the birthday drawing-room of the 30th of
October was the most splendid and crowded which had ever been known
since the King’s accession. That King himself probably little cared
whether he were popular or not. He was at this time buying hundreds of
lottery-tickets, out of the secret-service money, and making presents
of them to Madame Walmoden. A few fell, perhaps, to the share of Lady
Deloraine: ‘He’ll give her a couple of tickets,’ said Walpole, ‘and
think her generously used.’ His Majesty would have rejoiced if he could
have divided so easily his double possession of England and Hanover.
He had long entertained a wish to give the Electorate to his second
son, William of Cumberland, and entertained a very erroneous idea
that the English parliament could assist him in altering the law of
succession in the Electorate. Caroline had, perhaps, not a much more
correctly formed idea. She had a conviction, however, touching her son,
which was probably better founded. ‘I knew,’ she said, ‘he would sell
not only his reversion in the Electorate, but even in this kingdom,
if the Pretender would give him five or six hundred thousand pounds
in present; but, thank God! he has neither right nor power to sell
his family--though his folly and his knavery may sometimes distress
them.’[39]
CHAPTER VIII.
DEATH OF CAROLINE.
Indisposition of the Queen--Her anxiety to conceal the
cause--Walpole closeted with her--Her illness assumes a grave
character--Obliged to retire from the Drawing-room--Affectionate
attentions of Princess Caroline--Continued bitter feeling towards
the Prince--Discussions of the physicians--Queen takes leave of
the Duke of Cumberland--Parting scene with the King--Interview
with Walpole--The Prince denied the palace--Great patience of
the Queen--The Archbishop summoned to the palace--Eulogy on the
Queen pronounced by the King--His oddities--The Queen’s exemplary
conduct--Her death--Terror of Dr. Hulse--Singular conduct of the
King--Opposition to Sir R. Walpole--Lord Chesterfield pays court
to the Prince’s favourite.
After the birth of the Princess Louisa, on the 12th of December, 1724,
Caroline, then Princess of Wales, was more than ordinarily indisposed.
Her indisposition was of such a nature that, though she had made no
allusion to it herself, her husband spoke to her on the subject. The
princess avoided entering upon a discussion, and sought to satisfy the
prince by remarking that her indisposition was nothing more than what
was common to her health, position, and circumstances. For some years,
although the symptoms were neglected, the disease was not aggravated.
At length more serious indications were so perceptible to George,
who was now King, that he did not conceal his opinion that she was
suffering from rupture. This opinion she combated with great energy,
for she had a rooted aversion to its being supposed that she was
afflicted with any complaint. She feared lest the fact, being known,
might lose her some of her husband’s regard, or lead people to think
that with personal infirmity her power over him had been weakened. The
King again and again urged her to acknowledge that she suffered from
the complaint he had named, and to have medical advice on the subject.
Again and again she refused, and each time with renewed expressions
of displeasure; until at last, the King, contenting himself with
expressing a hope that she would not have to repent of her obstinacy,
made her a promise never to allude to the subject again without her
consent. The secret, however, was necessarily known to others also;
and we can only wonder that, being so known, more active and effective
measures were not taken to remedy an evil which, in our days, at least,
formidable as it may appear in name, is so successfully treated as
almost to deserve no more serious appellation than a mere inconvenience.
Under an appearance of, at least, fair health, Queen Caroline may be
said to have been gradually decaying for years. Her pride and her
courage would not, however, allow of this being seen; and when she
rose, as was her custom, to curtsey to the King, not even George
himself was aware of the pain the effort cost her. Sir Robert Walpole
was long aware that she suffered greatly from some secret malady, and
it was not till after a long period of observation that he succeeded
in discovering her Majesty’s secret. He was often closeted with her,
arranging business that they were afterwards to nominally transact
in presence of the King, and to settle, as _he_ imagined, according
to _his_ will and pleasure. It was on some such occasion that Sir
Robert made the discovery in question. The minister’s wife had just
died; she was about the same age as Caroline, and the Queen put to the
minister such close, physical questions, and adverted so frequently
to the subject of rupture, of which Sir Robert’s wife did not die,
that the minister at once came to the conclusion that her Majesty
was herself suffering from that complaint.[40] This was the case: but
the fact was only known to the King himself, her German nurse (Mrs.
Mailborne), and one other person. A curious scene often occurred in her
dressing-room and the adjoining apartment. During the process of the
morning toilette, prayers were read in the outer room by her Majesty’s
chaplain, the latter kneeling the while beneath the painting of a nude
Venus--which, as Dr. Madox, a royal chaplain on service, once observed,
was a ‘very proper altar-piece.’ On these occasions, Walpole tells us
that, ‘to prevent all suspicion, her Majesty would frequently stand
some minutes in her shift, talking to her ladies, and, though labouring
with so dangerous a complaint, she made it so invariable a rule never
to refuse a desire of the King, that every morning, at Richmond, she
walked several miles with him; and more than once, when she had the
gout in her foot, she dipped her whole leg in cold water to be ready to
attend him. The pain, her bulk, and the exercise, threw her into such
fits of perspiration as routed the gout; but those exertions hastened
the crisis of her distemper.’
In the summer of 1737 she suffered so seriously, that at length, on
the 26th of August, a report spread over the town that the Queen was
dead.[41] The whole city at once assumed a guise of mourning--gay
summer or cheerful autumn dresses were withdrawn from the shop windows,
and nothing was to be seen in their place but ‘sables.’ The report,
however, was unfounded. Her Majesty had been ill, but one of her
violent remedies had restored her for the moment. She was thereby
enabled to walk about Hampton Court with the King; but she was not
equal to the task of coming to London on the 29th of the same month,
when her grand-daughter Augusta was christened, and King, Queen, and
Duchess of Saxe Gotha stood sponsors, by their proxies, to the future
mother of a future Queen of England.
At length, in November 1737, the crisis above alluded to occurred, and
Caroline’s illness soon assumed a very grave character. Her danger,
of which she was well aware, did not cause her to lose her presence
of mind, nor her dignity, nor to sacrifice any characteristic of her
disposition or reigning passion.
It was on Wednesday morning, the 9th of November, that the Queen was
seized with the illness which ultimately proved fatal to her. She
was distressed with violent internal pains, which Daffy’s Elixir,
administered to her by Dr. Tessier, could not allay. The violence of
the attack compelled her to return to bed early in the morning; but
her courage was great and the King’s pity small, and consequently she
rose, after resting for some hours, in order to preside at the usual
Wednesday’s drawing-room. The King had great dislike to see her absent
from this ceremony; without her, he used to say, there was neither
grace, gaiety, nor dignity; and, accordingly, she went to this last
duty with the spirit of a wounded knight who returns to the field and
dies in harness. She was not able long to endure the fatigue. Lord
Hervey was so struck by her appearance of weakness and suffering, that
he urged her, with friendly peremptoriness, to retire from a scene for
which she was evidently unfitted. The Queen acknowledged her inability
to continue any longer in the room, but she could not well break up
the assembly without the King, who was in another part of the room,
discussing the mirth and merits of the last uproarious burlesque
extravaganza, ‘The Dragon of Wantley.’ All London was then flocking to
Covent Garden to hear Lampe’s music and Carey’s light nonsense; and
Ryan’s Hamlet was not half so much cared for as Reinhold’s Dragon, nor
Mrs. Vincent’s Ophelia so much esteemed as the Margery and Mauxalinda
of the two Misses Young.
At length, his Majesty having been informed of the Queen’s serious
indisposition, and her desire to withdraw, took her by the hand to lead
her away, roughly noticing, at the same time, that she had ‘passed
over’ the Duchess of Norfolk. Caroline immediately repaired her fault
by addressing a few condescending words to that old well-wisher of her
family. They were the last words she ever uttered on the public scene
of her grandeur. All that followed was the undressing after the great
drama was over.
In the evening Lord Hervey again saw her. He had been dining with the
French ambassador, and he returned _from_ the dinner at an hour at
which people now dress before they go _to_ such a ceremony. He was
again at the palace by seven o’clock. His duty authorised him, and his
inclination prompted him, to see the Queen. He found her suffering from
increase of internal pains, violent sickness, and progressive weakness.
Cordials and various calming remedies were prescribed, and while they
were being prepared, a little ‘usquebaugh’ was administered to her; but
neither whisky, nor cordials, nor calming draughts could be retained.
Her pains increased, and therewith her strength diminished. She was
throughout this day and night affectionately attended by the Princess
Caroline, who was herself in extremely weak health, but who would not
leave her mother’s bedside till two o’clock in the morning. The King
then relieved her, after his fashion, which brought relief to no one.
He did not sit up to watch the sufferer, but, in his morning gown,
lay outside the bed, by the Queen’s side. Her restlessness was very
great, but the King did not leave her space enough even to turn in bed;
and _he_ was so uncomfortable that he was kept awake and ill-tempered
throughout the night.
On the following day the Queen was bled, but without producing any
good effect. Her illness visibly increased, and George was as visibly
affected by it. Not so much so, however, as not to be concerned about
matters of dress. With the sight of the Queen’s suffering before his
eyes, he remembered that he had to meet the foreign ministers that day,
and he was exceedingly particular in directing the pages to see that
new ruffles were sewn to his old shirt-sleeves, whereby he might wear a
decent air in the eyes of the representatives of foreign majesty. The
Princess Caroline continued to exhibit unabated sympathy for the mother
who had perhaps loved her better than any other of her daughters. The
princess was in tears and suffering throughout the day, and almost
needed as much care as the royal patient herself; especially after
losing much blood by the sudden breaking of one of the small vessels in
the nose. It was on this day that, to aid Broxholm, who had hitherto
prescribed for the Queen, Sir Hans Sloane and Dr. Hulse were called in.
They prescribed for an obstinate internal obstruction which could not
be overcome; and applied blisters to the legs--a remedy for which both
King and Queen had a sovereign and silly disgust.
On the 11th, the quiet of the palace was disturbed by a message
from the Prince of Wales, making enquiry after the condition of his
mother. His declared filial affection roused the King to a pitch of
almost ungovernable fury. The royal father flung at the son every
missile in his well-stored vocabulary of abuse. There really seemed
something devilish in this spirit at such a time. In truth, however,
the King had good ground for knowing that the assurances of the
prince were based upon the most patent hypocrisy. The spirit of the
dying Queen was nothing less fierce and bitter against the prince and
his adherents--that ‘Cartouche gang,’ as she was wont to designate
them. There was no touch of mercy in her, as regarded her feelings or
expressions towards him; and her epithets were not less degrading to
the utterer and to the object against whom they were directed, than
the King’s. She begged her husband to keep her son from her presence.
She had no faith, she said, in his assertions of concern, respect,
or sympathy. She knew he would approach her with an assumption of
grief; would listen dutifully, as it might seem, to her laments; would
‘blubber like a calf’ at her condition; and laugh at her outright as
soon as he had left her presence.
It seems infinitely strange that it was not until the 12th of the month
that the King hinted to the Queen the propriety of her physicians
knowing that she was suffering from rupture. Caroline listened to the
suggestion with aversion and displeasure; she earnestly entreated
that what had hitherto been kept secret should remain so. The King
apparently acquiesced, but there is little doubt of his having
communicated a knowledge of the fact to Ranby, the surgeon, who was
now in attendance. When the Queen next complained of violent internal
pain, Ranby approached her, and she directed his hand to the spot where
she said she suffered most. Like the skilful man that he was, Ranby
contrived at the same moment to satisfy himself as to the existence of
the more serious complaint; and having done so, went up to the King,
and spoke to him in a subdued tone of voice. The Queen immediately
suspected what had taken place, and, ill as she was, she railed at
Ranby for a ‘blockhead.’ The surgeon, however, made no mystery of
the matter; but declared, on the contrary, that there was no time to
be lost, and that active treatment must at once be resorted to. The
discovery of the real malady which was threatening the Queen’s life,
and which would not have been perilous had it not been so strangely
neglected, cost Caroline the only tears she shed throughout her trying
illness.
Shipton and the able and octogenarian Bussier were now called in to
confer with the other medical men. It was at first proposed to operate
with the knife; but ultimately it was agreed that an attempt should be
made to reduce the tumour by less extreme means. The Queen bore the
necessary treatment patiently. Her chief watcher and nurse was still
the gentle Princess Caroline. The latter, however, became so ill, that
the medical men insisted on bleeding her. She would not keep her room,
but lay dressed on a couch in an apartment next to that in which lay
her dying mother. Lord Hervey, when tired with watching--and his post
was one of extreme fatigue and anxiety--slept on a mattress, at the
foot of the couch of the Princess Caroline. The King retired to his own
bed, and on this night the Princess Amelia waited on her mother.
The following day, Sunday, the 13th, was a day of much solemnity. The
medical men announced that the wound from which the Queen suffered
had begun to mortify, and that death must speedily supervene. The
danger was made known to all; and of all, Caroline exhibited the least
concern. She took a solemn and dignified leave of her children, always
excepting the Prince of Wales. Her parting with her favourite son,
the young Duke of Cumberland, was touching, and showed the depth of
her love for him. Considering her avowed partiality, there was some
show of justice in her concluding counsel to him that, should his
brother Frederick ever be King, he should never seek to mortify him,
but simply try to manifest a superiority over him only by good actions
and merit. She spoke kindly to her daughter Amelia, but much more
than kindly to the gentle Caroline, to whose care she consigned her
two youngest daughters, Louisa and Mary. She appears to have felt as
little inclination to see her daughter Anne, as she had to see her son
Frederick. Indeed, intimation had been given to the Prince of Orange to
the effect that not only was the company of the princess not required,
but that should she feel disposed to leave Holland for St. James’s, he
was to restrain her, by power of his marital authority.
The parting scene with the King was one of mingled dignity and farce,
touching incident and crapulousness. Caroline took from her finger a
ruby ring, and put it on a finger of the King. She tenderly declared
that whatever greatness or happiness had fallen to her share, she had
owed it all to him; adding, with something very like profanity and
general unseemliness, that naked she had come to him and naked she
would depart from him; for that all she had was his, and she had so
disposed of her own that he should be her heir. The singular man to
whom she thus addressed herself acted singularly; and, for that matter,
so also did his dying consort. Among her last recommendations made
on this day, was one enjoining him to marry. The King, overcome, or
seemingly overcome, at the idea of being a widower, burst into a flood
of tears. The Queen renewed her injunctions that after her decease he
should take a second wife. He sobbed aloud; but amid his sobbing he
suggested an opinion that he thought that, rather than take another
wife, he would maintain a mistress or two. ‘Eh, mon Dieu!’ exclaimed
Caroline, ‘the one does not prevent the other! _Cela n’empêche pas!_’
A dying wife might have shown more decency, but she could hardly
have been more complaisant. Accordingly, when, after the above
dignified scene had been brought to a close, the Queen fell into a
profound sleep, George kissed her unconscious cheeks a hundred times
over, expressed an opinion that she would never wake to recognition
again, and gave evidence, by his words and actions, how deeply he
really regarded the dying woman before him. It happened, however,
that she _did_ wake to consciousness again; and then, with his usual
inconsistency of temper, he snubbed as much as he soothed her, yet
without any deliberate intention of being unkind. She expressed her
conviction that she should survive till the Wednesday. It was her
peculiar day, she said. She had been born on a Wednesday, was married
on a Wednesday, first became a mother on a Wednesday, was crowned on a
Wednesday, and she was convinced she should die on a Wednesday.
Her expressed indifference as to seeing Walpole is in strong contrast
with the serious way in which she _did_ hold converse with him on
his being admitted to a parting interview. Her feeling of mental
superiority over the King was exhibited in her dying recommendation
to the minister to be careful of the Sovereign. This recommendation
being made in the Sovereign’s presence was but little relished by
the minister, who feared that such a bequest, with the Queen no
longer alive to afford him protection, might ultimately work his own
downfall. George, however, was rather grateful than angry at the
Queen’s commission to Walpole, and subsequently reminded him with grave
good-humour, that _he_, the minister, required no protection, inasmuch
as the Queen had rather consigned the King to the protection of the
minister; and ‘his kindness to the minister seemed to increase for the
Queen’s sake.’
The day which opened with a sort of despair, closed with a faint
prospect of hope. The surgeons declared that the mortification had
not progressed; and Lord Hervey does not scruple to infer that it had
never begun, and that the medical men employed were, like most of their
colleagues, profoundly ignorant of that with which they professed to
be most deeply acquainted. The fairer prospect was made known to the
Queen, in order to encourage her, but Caroline was not to be deceived.
At twenty-five, she remarked, she might have dragged through it, but
at fifty-five it was not to be thought of. She still superstitiously
looked to the Wednesday as the term of her career.
All access to the palace had been denied alike to the Prince of
Wales and to those who frequented his court; but in the confusion
which reigned at St. James’s some members of the prince’s family, or
following, _did_ penetrate to the rooms adjacent to that in which
lay the royal sufferer, under pretence of an anxiety to learn the
condition of her health. Caroline knew of this vicinity, called them
‘ravens’ waiting to see the breath depart from her body, and insisted
that they should not be allowed to approach her nearer. Ample evidence
exists that the conduct of the Prince of Wales was most unseemly at
this solemn juncture. ‘We shall have good news soon,’ he was heard to
say, at Carlton House: ‘we shall have good news soon; she can’t hold
out much longer!’ There were people who were slow to believe that a
son could exult at the idea of the death of his mother. These persons
questioned his ‘favourite,’ Lady Archibald Hamilton, as to the actual
conduct and language adopted by him; and at such questions the mature
mistress would significantly smile, as she discreetly answered: ‘Oh, he
is very decent!’
The prospect of the Queen’s recovery was quite illusory and
short-lived. She grew so rapidly worse, that even the voices of those
around her appeared to disturb her; and a notice was pinned to the
curtain of her bed, enjoining all present to speak only in the lowest
possible tones. Her patience, however, was very great: she took all
that was offered to her, however strong her own distaste; and when
operations were proposed to her, she submitted at once, on assurance
from the King that he sanctioned what the medical men proposed. She
did not lose her sprightly humour even when under the knife; and she
once remarked to Ranby, when she was thus at his mercy, that she dared
say he was half sorry it was not his own old wife he was thus cutting
about. But the flesh will quiver where the pincers tear; and even from
Caroline terrible anguish would now and then extort a groan. She bade
the surgeons, nevertheless, not to heed her silly complaints, but to do
their duty irrespective of her grumbling.
All this time there does not appear to have been the slightest idea in
the mind either of the sufferer or of those about her that it would
be well were Caroline enabled to make her peace with God. The matter,
however, _did_ occupy the public thought; and public opinion pressed
so strongly, that, rather than offend it, Walpole himself recommended
that a priest should be sent for. The recommendation was made to the
Princess Amelia, and in the obese minister’s usual coarse fashion. ‘It
will be quite as well,’ he said, ‘that the farce should be played. The
Archbishop of Canterbury (Potter) would perform it decently; and the
princess might bid him to be as short as she liked. It would do the
Queen neither harm nor good; and it would satisfy all the fools who
called them atheists, if they affected to be as great fools as they who
called them so!’
Dr. Potter accordingly was summoned. He attended morning and evening.
The King, to show his estimation of the person and his sacred office,
invariably kept out of his wife’s apartment while the archbishop was
present. What passed is not known; but it is clear that the primate, if
he prayed with the Queen, never administered the sacrament to her. Was
this caused by her irreconcilable hatred against her son?
It is said that her Majesty’s mistress of the robes, Lady Sundon, had
influenced the Queen to countenance none but the heterodox clergy. Her
conduct in her last moments was consequently watched with mingled
anxiety and curiosity by more than those who surrounded her. The
public generally were desirous of being enlightened on the subject.
The public soon learned, indirectly at least, that the archbishop had
not administered to the Queen the solemn rite. On the last time of his
issuing from the royal bedchamber, he was assailed by the courtiers
with questions like this:--‘My lord, has the Queen received?’ All the
answer given by the primate was, ‘Gentlemen, her Majesty is in a most
heavenly frame of mind.’ This was an oracular sort of response; and
it may be said that if the Queen was in a heavenly frame of mind, she
must have been at peace with her son, as well as with all men, and
therefore in a condition to receive the administration of the rite
with profit and thankfulness. It was known, moreover, that the Queen
was _not_ at peace with her son, and that she had not ‘received;’ she,
therefore, could not have been, as the archbishop described her, ‘in a
most heavenly frame of mind.’ All that the public knew of her practical
piety was, that the Queen had been accustomed, or said she had been
accustomed, to read a portion of Butler’s ‘Analogy’ every morning at
breakfast. It was of this book that Bishop Hoadly remarked, that he
could never even look at it without getting a head-ache.
Meanwhile, the King, who kept close in the palace, not stirring abroad,
and assembling around him a circle of hearers, expatiated at immense
length upon the virtues and excellences of the companion who was on
the eve of departure from him. There was no known or discoverable good
quality which he did not acknowledge in her; not only the qualities
which dignify woman, but those which elevate men. With the courage and
intellectual strength of the latter, she had the beauty and virtue of
the former. He never tired of this theme, told it over again and again,
and ever at an interminable length. The most singular item in his
monster dissertation was his cool assurance to his children and friends
that she was the only woman in the world who suited him for a wife; and
that, if she had not been his wife, he would rather have had her for
his mistress than any other woman he had ever seen or heard of.
This was the highest possible praise _such_ a husband could bestow; and
he doubtless loved his wife as well as a husband, so trained, could
love a consort. His own sharp words to her, even in her illness, were
no proof to the contrary; and amid tokens of his uncouth tenderness,
observing her restless from pain, and yet desirous of sleep, he would
exclaim, ‘How the devil can you expect to sleep when you never lie
still a moment?’ This was meant for affection; so, too, was the remark
made to her one morning when, on entering her room, he saw her gazing,
as invalids are wont to gaze, idly on vacancy, ‘with lack-lustre eye.’
He roughly desired her to cease staring in that disagreeable way, which
made her look, he said, with refined gallantry, just like a calf with
its throat cut!
His praise of her, as Lord Hervey acutely suggested, had much of
self-eulogy in view; and when he lauded her excellent sense, it had
especial reference to that exemplification of it when she was wise
enough to accept _him_ for a husband. He wearied all hearers with
the long stories which he recounted both of Caroline and himself, as
he sat at night, with his feet on a stool, pouring out prosily his
never-ending narrative. The Princess Amelia used to endeavour to escape
from the tediousness of listening by pretending to be asleep, and to
avenge herself for being compelled to listen by gross abuse of her
royal father when he left the room--calling him old fool, liar, coward,
and a driveller, of whose stories she was most heartily sick.
And so matters went on, progressively worse, until Sunday the 20th
--the last day which Caroline was permitted to see upon earth. The
circumstances attending the Queen’s death were not without a certain
dignity. ‘How long can this last?’ said she to her physician, Tessier.
‘It will not be long,’ was the reply, ‘before your Majesty will be
relieved from this suffering.’ ‘The sooner the better,’ said Caroline.
And then she began to pray aloud: and her prayer was not a formal one,
fixed in her memory by repeating it from the Book of Common Prayer, but
a spontaneous and extemporary effusion, so eloquent, so appropriate,
and so touching, that all the listeners were struck with admiration at
this last effort of a mind ever remarkable for its vigour and ability.
She herself manifested great anxiety to depart in a manner becoming a
great Queen; and as her last moment approached, her anxiety in this
respect appeared to increase. She requested to be raised in bed, and
asked all present to kneel and offer up a prayer in her behalf. While
this was going on she grew gradually fainter; but, at her desire, water
was sprinkled upon her, so that she might revive, and listen to, or
join in, the petitions which her family (all but her eldest son, who
was not present) put up to Heaven in her behalf. ‘Louder!’ she murmured
more than once, as some one read or prayed, ‘Louder, that I may hear.’
Her request was complied with; and then one of her children repeated
audibly the Lord’s Prayer. In this Caroline joined, repeating the
words as distinctly as failing nature would allow her. The prayer was
just concluded when she looked fixedly for a moment at those who stood
weeping around her, and then uttered a long-drawn ‘So----!’ It was
her last word. As it fell from her lips the dial on the chimney-piece
struck eleven. She calmly waved her hand--a farewell to all present and
to the world; and then tranquilly composing herself upon her bed, she
breathed a sigh, and so expired. Thus died Caroline; and few Queens of
England have passed away to their account with more of mingled dignity
and indecorum.
On Thursday, the 15th of November 1757, Sir Robert Walpole wrote
as follows to his brother Horace: ‘The Queen was taken ill last
Wednesday.... It was explicitly declared and universally believed to be
gout in the stomach.... The case was thought so desperate that Sir Hans
Sloane and Dr. Hulse were on Friday sent for, who totally despaired.
Necessity at last discovered and revealed a secret which had been
totally concealed and unknown. The Queen had a rupture which is now
known not to have been a new accident.... But will it ever be believed
that a life of this importance should be lost, or run thus near, by
concealing human infirmities?’
To these accounts of the Queen’s illness it may be added that Nichols,
in his ‘Reminiscences,’ says that Dr. Sands suggested that a cure might
be effected by injecting warm water, and that Dr. Hulse approved of the
remedy and method. It was applied, with no one present but the medical
men just named; and though it signally failed, they pronounced it as
having succeeded. Their terror was great; and when they passed through
the outer apartments, where the Duke of Newcastle congratulatingly
hugged Hulse, on his having saved the Queen’s life, the doctor
struggled with all his might to get away, lest he should be questioned
upon a matter which involved, perhaps, more serious consequences than
he could, in his bewilderment, then accurately calculate.
The Princess Caroline, as soon as the Queen had apparently passed
away, put a looking-glass to her lips, and finding it unsullied by any
breath, calmly remarked, ‘’Tis over!’ and thenceforward ceased to weep
as she had done while her mother was dying. The King kissed the face
and hands of his departed consort with unaffected fervour. His conduct
continued to be as singular as ever. He was superstitious and afraid
of ghosts; and it was remarked on this occasion, that he would have
people with him in his bedroom, as if their presence could have saved
him from the visitation of a spirit. In private, the sole subject of
his conversation was ‘Caroline.’ He loved to narrate the whole history
of her early life and his own: their wooing and their wedding, their
joys and vexations. In these conversations he introduced something
about every person with whom he had ever been in anything like close
connection. It was observed, however, that he never once mentioned the
name of his mother, Sophia Dorothea, or in any way alluded to her. He
purposely avoided the subject; but he frequently named the father of
Sophia, the Duke of Zell, who, he said, was so desirous of seeing his
grandson grow up into an upright man, that the duke declared he would
shoot him if George Augustus should prove a dishonest one!
Amid all these anecdotes, and tales, and reminiscences, and praises,
there was a constant flow of tears shed for her who was gone. They
seemed, however, to come and go at pleasure; for in the very height of
his mourning and depth of his sorrow, he happened to see Horace, the
brother of Sir Robert Walpole, who was weeping for fashion’s sake, but
in so grotesque a manner, that when the King beheld it, he ceased to
cry, and burst into a roar of laughter.
Lord Hervey foretold that his grief would not be of a lasting quality;
and, in some degree, he was correct. It must be confessed, however,
that the King never ceased to respect the memory of his wife. Walpole
only thought of how George might be ruled now that the Queen was gone,
and he speedily fixed upon a plan. He had been accustomed, he said, to
side with the mother against the mistress. He would now, he added, side
with the mistress against the children. He it was, who proposed that
Madame Walmoden should now be brought to England; and, in a revoltingly
coarse observation to the Princess Caroline, he recommended her, if she
would have any influence with her father, to surround him with women,
and govern him through them!
But other parties had been on the watch to lay hold of the power which
had now fallen from the hand of the dead Caroline.
The dissension in the royal family, which was caused by the conduct of
the Prince of Wales at the period of the birth of his eldest daughter,
Augusta, was, of course, turned to political account. It was made even
of more account in that way when the condition of Caroline became
known. Lord Chesterfield, writing to Mr. Lyttelton from Bath, on the
12th of November 1737, says: ‘As I suppose the Queen will be dead or
out of danger before you receive this, my advice to his royal highness
(of Wales) will come full late; but in all events it is my opinion he
cannot take too many and too respectful measures towards the Queen,
if alive, and towards the King, if she is dead; but then that respect
should be absolutely personal, and care should be taken that the
ministers shall not have the least share of it.’
At the time when Caroline’s indignation had been aroused by the course
adopted by the prince, when his wife was brought from Hampton Court
to St. James’s for her confinement, his royal highness had made a
statement to Sir Robert Walpole and Lord Harrington, which they were
subsequently required to put down in writing as corroborative evidence
of what the prince had said to the Queen. In reference to the inditers
of these ‘minutes of conversation,’ Lord Chesterfield advises that
the disrespect which he recommends the prince to exhibit towards the
ministry shall be more marked ‘if in the course of these transactions
the _two evidences_ should be sent to, or of themselves presume to
approach the prince; in which case (says the writer) he ought to show
them personal resentment; and if they bring any message from the King
or Queen which he cannot refuse receiving, he should ask for it in
writing, and give his answer in writing; alleging publicly for his
reason, that he cannot venture anything with people who have grossly
both betrayed and misrepresented private conversation.’[42]
Through the anticipated natural death of the Queen, the opposition
hoped to effect the political death of Walpole. ‘In case the Queen
dies,’ writes Chesterfield, ‘I think Walpole should be looked upon as
gone too, whether he be really so or no, which will be the most likely
way to weaken him; for if he be supposed to inherit the Queen’s power
over the King it will in some degree give it him; and if the opposition
are wise, instead of treating with him, they should attack him most
vigorously and personally, as a person who has lost his chief support.
Which is indeed true; for though he may have more power with the King
than any other body, yet he will never have that kind of power which
he had by her means; and he will not even dare to mention many things
to the King which he could without difficulty have brought about by
her means. Pray present my most humble duty to his royal highness,’
concludes the writer, ‘and tell him that upon principles of personal
duty and respect to the King and Queen (if alive), he cannot go too
far; as, on the other hand, with relation to the ministers, after what
has passed he cannot carry his dignity too high.’ The same strain is
continued in a second letter, wherein it is stated with respect to the
anticipated death of the Queen: ‘It is most certain that Sir Robert
must be in the utmost distress, and can never hope to govern the King
as the Queen governed him;’ and he adds, in a postscript: ‘We have a
prospect of the Claude Lorraine kind before us, while Sir Robert’s has
all the horrors of Salvator Rosa. If the prince would play the rising
sun, he would gild it finely; if not, he will be under a cloud, which
he will never be able hereafter to shine through.’ Finally, exclaims
the eager writer: ‘Instil this into the _Woman_’--meaning by the latter
the Prince of Wales’s ‘favourite,’ Lady Archibald Hamilton, who ‘had
filled,’ says Lord Mahon, ‘the whole of his little court with her
kindred.’ According to Horace Walpole, ‘whenever Sir William Stanhope
met anybody at Carlton House whom he did not know, he always said,
“your humble servant, Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton.”’
A fortnight after Chesterfield contemptuously calls Lady Archibald
‘the _Woman_,’ he begins to see the possibility of her rising to the
possession of political influence, and he says to Mr. Lyttelton: ‘Pray,
when you see Lady Archibald, assure her of my respects, and tell her
that I would trouble her with a letter myself, to have acknowledged
her goodness to me, if I could have expressed those acknowledgments to
my own satisfaction; but not being able to do that, I only desire she
would be persuaded that my sentiments with regard to her are what they
ought to be.’[43] In such wise did great men counsel and intrigue for
the sake of a little pre-eminence, which never yet purchased or brought
with it the boon of happiness.
CHAPTER IX.
CAROLINE, HER TIMES AND CONTEMPORARIES.
Whiston patronised by Queen Caroline--His boldness and reproof
of the Queen--Vanity of the poet Young punished--Dr. Potter,
a high churchman--A benefice missed--Masquerades denounced
by the clergy--Anger of the Court--Warburton, a favourite of
the Queen--Butler’s ‘Analogy,’ her ordinary companion--Rise
of Secker--The Queen’s regard for Dr. Berkeley--Her fondness
for witnessing intellectual struggles between Clarke and
Leibnitz--Character of Queen Caroline by Lord Chesterfield--The
King encouraged in his wickedness by the Queen--General
grossness of manners--The King managed by the Queen--Feeling
exhibited by the King on sight of her portrait--The Duchess
of Brunswick’s daughters--Standard of morality low--
Ridicule of Marlborough by Peterborough--Morality of General
Cadogan--Anecdote of General Webb--Lord Cobham--Dishonourable
conduct of Lord Stair--General Hawley and his singular will--
Disgraceful state of the prisons, and cruelty to prisoners--Roads
bad and ill-lighted--Brutal punishment--Insolent treatment of
a British naval officer by the Sultan--Brutality of a mob--
Encroachment on Hyde Park by Queen Caroline--Ambitious projects
of Princess Anne--Eulogy on the Queen--The children of King
George and Queen Caroline--Verses on the Queen’s death.
Much has been said, and many opposite conclusions drawn, as to the
religious character of Caroline. In _our_ days, such a woman would not
be allowed to wear the reputation of being religious. In _her_ days,
she may with more justice have been considered so. And yet she was
far below a standard of much elevation. When we hear her boasting--or
rather asserting, as convinced of the fact--that ‘she had made it
the business of her life to discharge her duty to God and man in the
best manner she was able,’ we have no very favourable picture of her
humility; though at the same time we may acquit her of hypocrisy.
Her patronage of the well-meaning but mischievous, the learned but
unwise Whiston is quite sufficient to condemn her in the opinion of
many people. Here was a man who had not yet, indeed, left the Church
of England for the Baptist community, because the Athanasian creed was
an offence to him, but he had pronounced Prince Eugène to be the man
foretold in the Apocalypse as the destroyer of the Turkish Empire,
had declared that the children of Joseph and Mary were the natural
brothers and sisters of Christ, set up a heresy in his ‘Primitive
Christianity Revived,’ made open profession of Arianism, boldly made
religious prophecies which were falsified as soon as made, and, more
innocently, translated ‘Josephus,’ and tried to discover the longitude.
Caroline showed her admiration of heterodox Whiston by conferring on
him a pension of fifty pounds a-year; and as she had a regard for the
mad scholar, she paid him with her own hand, and had him as a frequent
visitor at the palace. The King was more guarded in his patronage of
Whiston, and one day said to him, as King, Queen, and preacher were
walking together in Hampton Court Gardens, that his opinions against
Athanasianism might certainly be true, but perhaps it would have been
better if he had kept them to himself. Now Whiston was remarkable for
his wit and his fearlessness, and looking straight in the face of the
man who was King by right of the Reformation, and who was the temporal
head of the Church and, _ex-officio_, Defender of the Faith, he said:
‘If Luther had followed such advice, I should like to know where your
Majesty would have been at the present moment.’ ‘Well, Mr. Whiston,’
said Caroline, ‘you are, as I have heard it said you were, a very free
speaker. Are you bold enough to tell me my faults?’ ‘Certainly,’
was Whiston’s reply. ‘There are many people who come every year from
the country to London upon business. Their chief, loyal, and natural
desire is to see their King and Queen. This desire they can nowhere so
conveniently gratify as at the Chapel Royal. But what they see there
does not edify them. They behold your Majesty talking, during nearly
the whole time of service, with the King--and talking loudly. This
scandalises them; they go into the country with false impressions,
spread false reports, and effect no little mischief.’ The Queen pleaded
that the King _would_ talk to her, acknowledged that it was wrong,
promised amendment, and asked what was the next fault he descried in
her. ‘Nay, madam,’ said he, ‘it will be time enough to go to the second
when your Majesty has corrected the first.’
What Caroline said of her consort was true enough. At chapel, the King,
when not sleeping, _would_ be talking. Dr. Young thought, by power of
his preaching, to keep him awake; but the King, on finding that the
new chaplain was not giving him what he loved, ‘a short, good sermon,’
soon began to exhibit signs of somnolency. Young exerted himself in
vain; and when his Majesty at length broke forth with a snore, the
poet-preacher felt his vanity so wounded that he burst into tears.
Where Kings and Queens so behaved, no wonder that young ensigns flirted
openly with maids of honour, and that Lady Wortley Montague should have
reason to write to the Countess of Bute: ‘I confess I remember to have
dressed for St. James’s Chapel with the same thoughts your daughters
will have at the opera.’
It is not likely that Archbishop Potter was sent for by Caroline
herself in her last illness, for she liked the prelate as little as
Whiston himself did. But Potter, the first of scholars, in spite of the
sneers of academical Parr, was, although a staunch Whig, and esteemed
by Caroline and her consort for his sermon preached before them at
their coronation, yet a very high churchman, one who put the throne
infinitely below the altar, and thought kings very far indeed below
priests. This last opinion, however, was very much modified when the
haughty prelate, son of a Wakefield linendraper, had to petition for a
favour. His practice, certainly, was not perfect, for he disinherited
one son, who married a dowerless maiden out of pure love, and he left
his fortune to the other, who was a profligate and squandered it.
But even Caroline could not but respect Potter for his jealousy with
regard to the worthily supplying of church benefices. Just after the
Queen had congratulated him on being elected to the highest position
in the Church of England, Potter called on a clerical relative, to
announce to him the intention of his kinsman to confer on him a
valuable living. The archbishop unfortunately found his reverend cousin
busily engaged at skittles, and the prelate came upon him just as the
apostolic player was aiming at the centre pin, with the remark, ‘Now
for a shy at the head of the Church!’ He missed his pin, and also
lost his preferment. Neither of their Majesties, however, thought
Potter justified in withholding a benefice on such slight grounds of
offence. Neither George nor Caroline approved of clergymen of any rank
inveighing against amusements. I may cite, as a case in point, the
anger with which the King, in his heart, visited Gibson, Bishop of
London, for denouncing masquerades, and for getting up an episcopal
address to the throne, praying ‘for the entire abolition of such
pernicious diversions.’ The son of Sophia Dorothea was especially fond
of masquerades, and his indignation was great at hearing them denounced
by Gibson. This boldness shut the latter out from all chance of
succeeding to Canterbury. Caroline looked with some favour, however,
on this zealous and upright prelate; and her minister, Walpole, did
nothing to obstruct the exercise of his great ecclesiastical power.
‘Gibson is a pope!’ once exclaimed one of the low church courtiers of
Caroline’s coterie. ‘True!’ was Walpole’s reply, ‘and a very good pope
too!’
It must be confessed, nevertheless, that the church and religion
were equally in a deplorable state just previous to the demise of
Caroline. That ingenious and learned Northumbrian, Edward Grey,
published anonymously, the year before the Queen’s death, a work upon
‘The Miserable and Distracted State of Religion in England upon the
Downfall of the Church Established.’ A work, however, published the
same year, and which much more interested the Queen, was Warburton’s
famous ‘Alliance between Church and State.’ This book brought again
into public notice its author, that William Warburton, the son of a
Newark attorney, who himself had been lawyer and usher, had denounced
Pope as an incapable poet, and had sunk into temporary oblivion in his
Lincolnshire rectory at Brant Broughton. But his ‘Alliance between
Church and State’ brought him to the notice of Queen Caroline, to
whom his book and his name were introduced by Dr. Hare, the Bishop of
Chichester. Caroline liked the book and desired to see the author; but
her last fatal illness was upon her before he could be introduced, and
Warburton had to write many books and wait many years before he found a
patron in Murray (Lord Mansfield) who could help him to preferment.
Queen Caroline made of Butler’s ‘Analogy of Religion, Natural
and Revealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature’ a sort
of light-reading book, which was the ordinary companion of her
breakfast-table. Caroline may have liked to dip into such profound
fountains; but I doubt whether she often looked into the ‘Analogy,’ as
it was not published till 1736, when her malady was increasing, and
her power to study a work so abstruse must have been much diminished.
Still she admired the learned divine, who was the son of a Wantage
shopkeeper, and who was originally a Presbyterian Dissenter--a
community for which German Protestant princes and princesses have
always entertained a considerable regard. Caroline did not merely
admire Butler because high churchmen looked upon him, even after his
ordination, as half a dissenter; she had admired his Rolls Sermons,
and when Secker, another ex-Presbyterian whom Butler had induced to
enter the church, introduced and recommended him to Queen Caroline,
she immediately appointed him clerk of the closet. It could have
been very little before this, that Secker himself--who had been
a Presbyterian, a doctor, a sort of sentimental vagabond on the
Continent, and a free-thinker to boot--had been, after due probation
and regular progress, appointed rector of St. James’s. Walpole declares
that Secker owed this preferment to the favour of the Queen, and
Secker’s biographers cannot prove much to the contrary. At the period
of Caroline’s death he was Bishop of Bristol, and that high dignity
he is also said to have owed to the friendship of Caroline. I wish it
were only as true, that when the Prince of Wales was at enmity with
the King and Queen, and used to attend St. James’s Church, his place
of residence being at Norfolk House, in the adjacent square--I wish,
I say, it were true that Secker once preached to the prince on the
text, ‘Honour thy father and mother.’ The tale, however, is apocryphal;
but it _is_ true that the prince himself, at the period of the family
quarrel, was startled, on entering the church, at hearing Mr. Bonny,
the clerk in orders, rather pointedly beginning the service with, ‘I
will arise, and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have
sinned,’ &c.
But, perhaps, of all the members of the church, Caroline felt regard
for none more than for Berkeley. He had been an active divine long,
indeed, before the Queen visited him with her favour. His progress
had been checked by his sermons in favour of passive obedience and
non-resistance--sermons which were considered not so much inculcating
loyalty to Brunswick as denouncing the revolution which opened to that
house the way to the throne. Berkeley had also incurred no little
public wrath by destroying the letters which Swift’s Vanessa had
bequeathed to his care, with a sum of money for the express purpose of
their being published. But, on the other hand, he had manifested in
various ways the true spirit of a Christian and a philosopher, and had
earned immortal honour by his noble attempt to convert the American
savages to Christianity. But it was his ‘Minute Philosopher’--his
celebrated work, the object of which was to refute scepticism, that
gained for him the distinction of the approval of Caroline. The
expression of such approval is warrant for the Queen’s sincerity in the
cause of true religion. So delighted was the Queen with this work, that
she procured for its author his nomination to the Bishopric of Cloyne.
Never was reward more nobly earned, more worthily bestowed, or more
gracefully conferred. It did honour alike to the Queen and to Berkeley;
and it raised the hopes of those who were ready to almost despair of
Christianity itself, when they saw that Religion yet had its great
champions to uphold her cause, and that, however indifferent the King
might be to the merits of such champions, the Queen herself was ever
eager to acknowledge their services and to recompense them largely as
they merited.
In controversial works, however, Caroline always delighted. She
had no greater joy in this way than setting Clarke and Leibnitz at
intellectual struggle, watching the turns of the contest with interest,
suggesting, amending, adding, or diminishing, and advising every
well-laid blow, by whichever antagonist it was delivered. It may be
asked, Was there not in all this rather more love of intellectual than
of religious pursuits? The reader must judge.
Caroline loved the broad English comedy of her time, and saw no harm in
the very broadest. She was especially fond of the ‘Queen of Comedy,’
Mrs. Oldfield, but affected to be a little shocked at the way in which
she was living with General Churchill. One day, when Mrs. Oldfield had
been reading at Windsor, and was walking on the terrace with the court,
the Queen said to her, ‘I hear, Mrs. Oldfield, that you and the General
are married.’ ‘Madam,’ answered the actress, playing her very best,
‘the General keeps his own secrets.’ After Mrs. Oldfield’s death, the
Queen bought her collection of plays for a hundred and twenty guineas.
Lord Chesterfield says of Caroline, in his lively way, that ‘she was a
woman of lively, pretty parts.’ She merits, however, a better epitaph
and a more sagacious chronicler. ‘Her death,’ adds the noble _roué_,
‘was regretted by none but the King. She died meditating projects
which must have ended either in her own ruin or that of the country.’
Dismissing, for the present, the last part of this paragraph, we
will say that Caroline was mourned by more than by the King; but by
none so deeply, so deservedly, so naturally as by him. He had not,
out of affection for her, been less selfish or less vicious than his
inclinations induced him to be. He was faithless to her, but he never
ceased to respect her; and in those days a husband of whom nothing
worse could be said was rather exemplary of conduct than otherwise. It
was a sort of decorum by no means common. One could have almost thought
him uxorious; for he not only allowed himself to be directed in all
important matters requiring judgment and discretion by the guidance
of her more enlightened mind, but he never drew a picture of beauty
and propriety in woman but all the hearers felt that the original of
the picture was the Queen herself. It is strange, setting aside more
grave considerations for the rule of conduct, that, with such a wife,
he should have hampered himself with ‘favourites.’ These he neither
loved nor respected. A transitory liking and the evil fashion of the
day had something to do with it; and besides, he had a certain feeling
of attachment for women who were obsequious and serviceable. These he
could rule, but his wife ruled _him_. Nor could the women be compared.
Sir Robert Walpole, an unexceptionable witness in this case, asserts
that the King loved his wife’s little finger better than he did Lady
Suffolk’s whole body. For that reason it was that Walpole himself so
respectfully kissed the small, plump, and graceful hand of the Queen
rather than propitiate the good-will of the favourite.
Caroline shared the vices in which her husband indulged, by favouring
the indulgence. She was not the more excusable for this because
Archdeacon Blackburn and other churchmen praised her for encouraging
the King in his wickedness. Her ground of action was not founded on
virtuous principle. She sanctioned, nay promoted, the vicious way
of life followed by her consort merely that she might exercise more
power politically and personally. She depreciated her own worth and
attractions in order to heighten those of the favourites whom the King
most affected, and by way of apologising for his being attracted from
her to them. Actually, she had as little regard for married faith as
the King himself. The Queen regarded his doings with such complacency
as to give rise to a belief that she had never cared for the King, and
was therefore jealouslessly indifferent as to the disgraceful tenor of
his life. An allusion was once made in her presence, when the Duke
of Grafton was by, to her having in former times not been unaffected
by the suit of a German prince. ‘G--d, madam,’ said the duke, in the
fashionable blasphemous style of the period, ‘I should like to see the
man you could love!’ ‘See him?’ said the Queen, laughingly; ‘do you
not then think that I love the King?’ ‘G--d, madam,’ exclaimed the
ostentatious blasphemer, ‘I only wish I were King of France, and I
would soon be sure whether you did or did not.’
Caroline has been laughed at for her patronage of such a poet as Duck.
She had wit enough to see the merit of Gay. On her accession she
offered him the honourable post of gentleman-usher to the Princess
Louisa--a sinecure worth 200_l_. a-year, and a stepping-stone to
other preferment; Gay peremptorily and scornfully declined the offer.
Accordingly, Cibber was preferred to Gay for the post of laureate.
Caroline had always been kind to this ‘tetchy’ poet. In 1724, when
Gay’s play, ‘The Captives,’ had failed on the stage, she invited
him to read it at Leicester House. On being ushered into the august
company, Gay, nervous from long waiting, tragedy in hand, bashful and
blundering, fell over a stool, thereby threw down a screen, and set
his illustrious audience in a comical sort of confusion, amid which
the kind-hearted princess did her best to put Gay at ease in his
perplexities.
The King--to return to that royal widower--indubitably mourned over
his loss, and regarded with some rag, as it were, of the dignity of
affection her memory, and that with a tearful respect. He was for
ever talking of her, even to his mistress; and Lady Yarmouth (as
Madame Walmoden was called), as well as others, had to listen to the
well-conned roll of her queenly virtues, and to the royal conjectures
as to what the advice of Caroline would have been in certain
supervening contingencies. There was something noble in his remark, on
ordering the payment to be continued of all salaries to her officers
and servants, and all her benefactions to benevolent institutions,
that, if possible, nobody should suffer by her death but himself. We
almost pity the wretched but imbecile old man too, when we see him
bursting into tears at the sight of Walpole, and confessing to him,
with a helpless shaking of the hands, that he had lost the rock of his
support, his warmest friend, his wisest counsellor, and that henceforth
he must be dreary, disconsolate, and succourless, utterly ignorant
whither to turn for succour or for sympathy.
This feeling never entirely deserted him; albeit, he continued to
find much consolation where he had done better not to have sought it.
Still, the old memory would not entirely fade, the old fire would
not entirely be quenched. ‘I hear,’ said he, once to Baron Brinkman,
as he lay sleepless, at early morn, on his couch, ‘I hear you have a
portrait of my wife, which was a present from her to you, and that
it is a better likeness than any I have got. Let me look at it.’ The
portrait was brought, and so placed before the King that he could
contemplate it leisurely at his ease. ‘It _is_ like her,’ he murmured.
‘Place it nearer me and leave me till I ring.’ For two whole hours the
baron remained in attendance in an adjoining room, before he was again
summoned to his master’s presence. At the end of that time, he entered
the King’s bedroom, on being called. George looked up at him, with eyes
full of tears, and muttered, pointing to the portrait: ‘Take it away;
take it away! I never yet saw the woman worthy to buckle her shoe.’ And
then he arose, and went and breakfasted with Lady Yarmouth.
A score of years after Caroline’s death, he continued to speak of her
only with emotion. His vanity, however, disposed him to be considered
gallant to the last. In 1755, being at Hanover, he was waited upon by
the Duchess of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel and all her unmarried daughters.
The provident and maternal duchess had an object, and she was not very
far from accomplishing it. The King considered all these young ladies
with the speculative look both of a connoisseur and an amateur. He was
especially struck by the beauty of the eldest, and he lost no time in
proposing her as a match to his grandson and heir-apparent, George,
Prince of Wales, then in his minority. The prince, at the prompting
of his mother, very peremptorily declined the honour which had been
submitted for his acceptance, and the young princess, her mother, and
King George were all alike profoundly indignant. ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the
latter with ardent eagerness, to Lord Waldegrave, ‘oh, that I were but
a score of years younger, this young lady should not then have been
exposed to the indignity of being refused by the Prince of Wales, for I
would then myself have made her Queen of England!’ That is to say, that
if the young Princess of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel could only have been
introduced to him while he was sitting under the shadow of the great
sorrow which had fallen upon him by the death of Caroline, he would
have found solace for his grief by offering her his hand. However, it
was now too late, and the gay old monarch, taking his amber-headed
cane, feebly picked his way to Lady Yarmouth and a game at ombre.
Lord Chesterfield allowed Caroline some degree of female knowledge. If
by this he would infer that she had only a portion of the knowledge
which was commonly possessed by the ladies her contemporaries, his
lordship does her great injustice. Few women of her time were so
well instructed; and she was not the less well-taught for being
in a great degree self-taught. She may have been but superficially
endowed in matters of theology and in ancient history; but, what
compensated at least for the latter, she was well acquainted with
what more immediately concerned her, the history of her own times.
Lord Chesterfield further remarks, that Caroline would have been an
agreeable woman in social life if she had not aimed at being a great
one in public life. This would imply that she had doubly failed,
where, in truth, she had doubly succeeded. She _was_ agreeable in the
circle of social, and she not merely aimed at, but achieved, greatness
in public life. She was as great a queen as queen could become in
England under the circumstances in which she was placed. Without any
constitutional right, she ruled the country with such wisdom that her
right always seemed to rest on a constitutional basis. There was that
in her, that, had her destiny taken her to Russia instead of England,
she would have been as Catherine was in all but her uncleanness; not
that, in purity of mind, she was very superior to Catherine the Unclean.
The following paragraph in Lord Chesterfield’s character of Caroline is
less to be contested than others in which the noble author has essayed
to pourtray the Queen. ‘She professed wit, instead of concealing it;
and valued herself on her skill in simulation and dissimulation, by
which she made herself many enemies, and not one friend, even among the
women the nearest to her person.’ It may very well be doubted, however,
whether any sovereign ever had a ‘friend’ in the true acceptation of
that term. It is much if they acquire an associate whose interest or
inclination it is to be faithful; but such a person is not a friend.
Lord Chesterfield seems to warm against her as he proceeds in his
picture. ‘Cunning and perfidy,’ he says, ‘were the means she made use
of in business, as all women do for want of a better.’ This blow
is dealt at one poor woman merely for the purpose of smiting all.
Caroline, no doubt, was full of art, and on the stage of public life
was a mere, but most accomplished, actress. It must be remembered,
too, that she was surrounded by cunning and perfidious people. Society
was never so unprincipled as it was during her time; and yet, amid its
unutterable corruption, _all_ women were not crafty and treacherous.
There were some noble exceptions; but these did not lie much in the way
of the deaf and dissolute earl’s acquaintance.
‘She had a dangerous ambition,’ continues the same author, ‘for it was
attended with courage, and, if she had lived much longer, might have
proved fatal either to herself or the constitution.’ It is courage
like Caroline’s which plucks peril from ambition, but does not indeed
make the latter less dangerous to the people; which is, perhaps,
what Chesterfield means. With respect to the Queen’s religion, he
says: ‘After puzzling herself in all the whimsies and fantastical
speculations of different sects, she fixed herself ultimately in Deism,
believing in a future state.’ In this he merely repeats a story, which,
probably, originated with those whose views on church questions were
of a ‘higher’ tendency than those of her Majesty. And after repeating
others, he contradicts himself; for he has no sooner stated that the
Queen was not an agreeable woman, because she aimed at being a great
one, than he adds, ‘Upon the whole, the _agreeable woman_ was liked
by most people--but the _Queen_ was neither esteemed, beloved, nor
trusted by anybody but the King.’ At least, she was not despised by
everybody; and _that_, considering the times in which she lived, and
the discordant parties over whom she really reigned, is no slight
commendation. It is a praise which cannot be awarded to the King.
Let us add, that not only has Chesterfield said of Caroline that she
settled down to Deism, ‘believing in a future state,’ but he has said
the same, and in precisely the same terms, of Pope and--upon Pope’s
authority--of Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester. Here is at least a double
and, perhaps, as we should hope, a triple error.
The popular standard of morality was deplorably low throughout the
reigns of the first two Georges. Marlborough was ridiculed for the
unwavering fidelity and affection which he manifested towards his wife.
There were few husbands like him, at the time, in either respect. He
was satirised for being superior to almost irresistible temptations; he
was laughed at for having prayers in his camp--for turning reverently
to God before he turned fiercely against his foes; the epigrammatists
were particularly severe against him because he was honest enough to
pay his debts and live within his income. But ‘his meanness?’ Well,
his meanness might rather be called prudence; and if his censurers had
nourished in themselves something of the same quality, it would have
been the better for themselves and their contemporaries, and, indeed,
none the worse for their descendants. One of the alleged instances of
Marlborough’s meanness is cited, in his having once played at whist
with Dean Jones, at which he left off the winner of sixpence. The dean
delayed to pay the stake, and the duke asked for it, stating that he
wanted the sixpence for a chair to go home in. It seems to me that the
meanness rested with the rich dean in not paying, and not with the
millionaire duke in requiring to be paid.
No man ever spoke more disparagingly of Marlborough than his enemy,
Lord Peterborough, though even _he_ did justice to Marlborough’s
abilities; but Lord Peterborough was especially severe on the duke’s
love of money. The latter spent wisely, the former squandered
profusely, and cheated his heirs. The duke in the Bath-rooms, dunning
a dean for sixpence, is not so degrading a picture as Peterborough,
in the Bath market, cheapening commodities, and walking about in his
blue ribbon and star, with a fowl in his hand and a cabbage or a
cauliflower under either arm. Peterborough was lewd and sensual, vain,
passionate, and inconstant, a mocker of Christianity, and a remorseless
transgressor of the laws of God and man. He was superior to Marlborough
only in one thing--in spelling. A poor boast. Compare the duke, leading
a well-regulated life, and walking daily with his God, to Peterborough,
whose only approaches to religion consisted in his once going to hear
Penn preach, because he ‘liked to be civil to all religions,’ and in
his saying of Fenelon that he was a delicious creature, but dangerous,
because acquaintance with him was apt to make men pious!
Marlborough’s favourite general, Cadogan, was one of the ornaments
of the court of George and Caroline down to 1726. They had reason to
regard him, for he was a staunch Whig, although, as a diplomatist,
he perilled what he was commissioned to preserve. _His_ morality is
evidenced in his remark made when some one enquired, on the committal
of Atterbury to the Tower for Jacobite dealings, what should be done
with the bishop? ‘Done with him!’ roared Cadogan; ‘throw him to the
lions!’ Atterbury, on hearing of this meek suggestion, burst out with
an explosion of alliterative fierceness, and denounced the earl to Pope
‘as a bold, bad, blundering, blustering, bloody bully!’ The episcopal
sense of forgiveness was on a par with the sentiment of mercy which
influenced the bosom of the soldier.
But Marlborough’s social, severe, and domestic virtues were not asked
for in the commanders of following years. Thus Macartney, despite the
blood upon his hand, stained in the duel between the Duke of Hamilton
and Lord Mohun, was made colonel of the twenty-first regiment six
years previous to the Queen’s death. General Webb, who died two years
previously, was thought nothing the worse for his thrasonic propensity,
and was for ever boasting of his courage, and alluding to the four
wounds he had received in the battle of Wynendael. ‘My dear general,’
said the Duke of Argyle, on one of these occasions, ‘I wish you had
received a fifth--in your tongue; for then everybody else would have
talked of your deeds!’
Still more unfavourably shines another of the generals of this reign.
Lord Cobham did not lack bravery, but he owed most of his celebrity to
Pope. He did not care how wicked a man was, provided only he were a
gentleman in his vices; and he was guilty of an act which Marlborough
would have contemplated with horror--namely, tried hard to make
infidels of two promising young gentlemen--Gilbert West, and George,
subsequently Lord, Lyttelton.
Marlborough, too, was superior in morality to Blakeney, that brave
soldier and admirable dancer of Irish jigs; but who was so addicted to
amiable excesses, of which court and courtiers thought little at this
liberal period, that he drank punch till he was paralysed. And surely
it was better, like Marlborough, to play for sixpences, than, like
Wade, to build up and throw down fortunes, night after night, at the
gaming-table. But there was a more celebrated general at the court of
the second George than the road-constructing Wade. John Dalrymple, Earl
of Stair, was one of those men in high station whose acts tend to the
weal or woe of inferior men who imitate them. Stair was for ever gaily
allowing his expenditure to exceed his income. His sense of honour
was not so keen but that he would go in disguise among the Jacobites,
profess to be of them, and betray their confidence. And yet even Lord
Stair could act with honest independence. He voted against Walpole’s
Excise scheme, in 1733, although he knew that such a vote would cost
him all his honours. He _was_ accordingly turned out from his post of
lord high admiral for Scotland. Caroline was angry at his vote, yet
sorry for its consequences. ‘Why,’ said she to him, ‘why were you so
silly as to thwart Walpole’s views?’ ‘Because, madam,’ was the reply,
‘I wished you and your family better than to support such a project.’
Stair merits, too, a word of commendation for his protesting against
the merciless conduct of the government with respect to the captive
Jacobites; and, like Marlborough, he was of praiseworthy conduct
in private life, zealous for Presbyterianism, yet tolerant of all
other denominations, and, by his intense attachment to a Protestant
succession, one of the most valuable supporters of the throne of George
and Caroline. Both the men were consistent; but equal praise cannot be
awarded to another good soldier of the period. The Duke of Argyle, when
out of office, declared that a standing army, in time of peace, was
ever fatal either to prince or nation; subsequently, when in office,
he as deliberately maintained that a standing army never had in any
country the chief hand in destroying the liberties of the state. This
sort of disgraceful versatility marked his entire political career; and
it is further said of him that he ‘was meanly ambitious of emolument as
a politician, and contemptibly mercenary as a patron.’ He had, however,
one rare and by no means unimportant virtue. ‘The strictest economy was
enforced in his household, and his tradesmen were punctually paid once
a month.’ This virtue was quite enough to purchase sneers for him in
the cabinet of King George and the court of Queen Caroline.
In the last year of the reign of that King died General Hawley, whose
severity to his soldiers acquired for him in the ranks the title of
lord chief justice. An extract from his will may serve to show that
the ‘lord chief justice’ had little in him of the Christian soldier.
‘I direct and order that, as there’s now a peace, and I may die the
common way, my carcase may be put anywhere, ’tis equal to me; but I
will have no more expense or ridiculous show than if a poor soldier,
who is as good a man, were to be buried from the hospital. The priest,
I conclude, will have his fee--let the puppy take it. Pay the carpenter
for the carcase-box. I give to my sister 5,000_l._ As to my other
relations, I have none who want, and as I never was married, I have no
heirs; I have, therefore, long since taken it into my head to adopt one
son and heir, after the manner of the Romans; who I hereafter name,
&c.... I have written all this,’ he adds, ‘with my own hand, and this
I do because I hate all priests of all professions, and have the worst
opinion of all members of the bar.’
Having glanced at these social traits of men who were among the
foremost of those who were above the rank of mere courtiers around the
throne of the husband of Caroline, let us quit the palace, and seek for
other samples of the people and the times in the prisons, the private
houses, and the public streets.
With regard to the prisons, it is easier to tell than to conceive
the horrors even of the debtors’ prisons of those days. Out of them,
curiously enough, arose the colonisation of the state of Georgia.
General Oglethorpe having heard that a friend named Castle, an
architect by profession, had died in consequence of the hardships
inflicted on him in the Fleet Prison, instituted an enquiry, by which
discovery was made of some most iniquitous proceedings. The unfortunate
debtors, unable to pay their fees to the gaolers, who had no salary
and lived upon what they could extort from the prisoners and their
friends, were subjected to torture, chains, and starvation. The
authorities of the prison were prosecuted, and penalties of fine and
imprisonment laid upon them. A better result was a parliamentary grant,
with a public subscription and private donations, whereby Oglethorpe
was enabled to found a colony of liberated insolvents in Georgia. Half
of the settlers were either insolvent simply because their richer and
extravagant debtors neglected to pay their bills; the other half were
the victims of their own extravagance.
Bad roads and ill-lighted ways are said to be proofs of indifferent
civilisation when they are to be found in the neighbourhood of great
cities. If this be so, then civilisation was not greatly advanced
among us, in this respect, a century and a quarter ago. Thus we read
that on the 21st of November 1730, ‘the King and Queen, coming from
Kew Green to St. James’s, were overturned in their coach, near Lord
Peterborough’s, at Parson’s Green, about six in the evening, the wind
having blown out the flambeaux, so that the coachman could not see his
way. But their Majesties received no hurt, nor the two ladies who were
in the coach with them.’
If here was want of civilisation, there was positive barbarity in
other matters. For instance, here is a paragraph from the news of the
day, under date of the 10th of June 1731. ‘Joseph Crook, _alias_ Sir
Peter Stranger, stood in the pillory at Charing Cross, for forging
a deed; and after he had stood an hour, a chair was brought to the
pillory scaffold, in which he was placed, and the hangman with a
pruning-knife cut off both his ears, and with a pair of scissors slit
both his nostrils, all which he bore with much patience; but when his
right nostril was seared with a hot iron, the pain was so violent he
could not bear it; whereupon his left nostril was not seared, but he
was carried bleeding to a neighbouring tavern, where he was as merry
at dinner with his friends, after a surgeon had dressed his wounds, as
if nothing of the kind had happened. He was afterwards imprisoned for
life in the King’s Bench, and the issues and profits of his lands were
confiscated for his life, according to his sentence.’
It was the period when savage punishment was very arbitrarily
administered; and shortly after Sir Peter was mangled, without
detriment to his gaiety, at Charing Cross, the gallant Captain Petre
had very nearly got hanged at Constantinople. That gallant sailor and
notable courtier had entertained our ambassador, Lord Kinneal, on board
his ship, and honoured him, on leaving the vessel at nine o’clock at
night, with a salute of fifteen guns. The Sultan happened to have gone
to bed, and was aroused from his early slumbers by the report. He was
so enraged, that he ordered the captain to be seized, bastinadoed,
and hanged; and so little were King George and Queen Caroline, and
England to boot, thought of in Turkey at that day, that it was with
the greatest difficulty that the British ambassador could prevail on
the Sultan to pardon the offender. The court laughed at the incident.
Cromwell would have avenged the affront.
But we must not fancy that we were much less savage in idea or action
at home. There was one John Waller, in 1732, who stood in the pillory
in Seven Dials, for falsely swearing against persons whom he accused as
highway robbers. The culprit was dreadfully pelted during the hour he
stood exposed; but at the end of that time the mob tore him down and
trampled him to death. Whether this, too, was considered a laughable
matter at court is not so certain. Even if so, the courtiers were
soon made serious by the universal sickness which prevailed in London
in the beginning of the year 1732. Headache and fever were the common
symptoms; very few escaped, and a vast number died. In the last week of
January, not less than fifteen hundred perished of the epidemic within
the bills of mortality. There had not been so severe a visitation since
the period of the plague. But our wonder may cease that headache and
fever prevailed, when we recollect that gin was being sold, contrary
to law, in not less than eight thousand different places in the
metropolis, and that drunkenness was not the vice of the lower orders
only.
It has been truly said of Queen Caroline that, with all her
opportunities, she never abused the power which she held over the
King’s mind, by employing it for the promotion of her own friends and
favourites. This, however, is but negative, or questionable praise.
There is, too, an anecdote extant, the tendency of which is to show
that she was somewhat given to the enjoyment of uncontrolledly
exercising the power she had attained for her personal purposes. She
had prepared plans for enclosing St. James’s Park, shutting out the
public, and keeping it for the exclusive pleasure of herself and the
royal family. It was by mere chance, when she had matured her plans,
that she asked a nobleman connected with the Board which then attended
to what our Board of Woods and Forests neglects, what the carrying out
of such a plan might cost. ‘Madam,’ said the witty and right-seeing
functionary, ‘such a plan _might_ cost three crowns.’ Caroline was as
ready of wit as he, and not only understood the hint, but showed she
could apply it, by abandoning her intention.
And yet, she doubtless did so with regret, for gardens and their
arrangement were her especial delight; and she _did_ succeed in taking
a portion of Hyde Park from the public, and throwing the same into
Kensington Gardens. The Queen thought she compensated for depriving the
public of land by giving them more water. There was a rivulet which
ran through the park; and this she converted, by help from Hampstead
streams and land drainage near at hand, into what is so magniloquently
styled the Serpentine river. It is not a river, nor is it serpentine,
except by a slight twist of the imagination.
This Queen was equally busy with her gardens at Richmond and at Kew.
The King used to praise her for effecting great wonders at little cost;
but she contrived to squeeze contributions from the ministry, of which
the monarch knew nothing. She had a fondness, too, rather than a taste,
for garden architecture, and was given to build grottoes and crowd
them with statues. The droll juxtaposition into which she brought the
counterfeit presentments of defunct sages, warriors, and heroes caused
much amusement to the beholders generally.
There was one child of George and Caroline more especially anxious than
any other to afford her widowed father consolation on the death of the
Queen. That child was the haughty Anne, Princess of Orange. She had
strong, but most unreasonable, hopes of succeeding to the influence
which had so long been enjoyed by her royal mother; and she came over
in hot haste from Holland, on the plea of benefiting her health, which
was then in a precarious state. The King, however, was quite a match
for his ambitious and presuming child, and peremptorily rejected her
proffered condolence. This was done with such prompt decision, that the
princess was compelled to return to Holland immediately. The King would
not allow her, it is said, to pass a second night in the metropolis. He
probably remembered her squabbles with his father’s ‘favourite,’ Miss
Brett; and the disconsolate man was not desirous of having his peace
disturbed by the renewal of similar scenes with his own ‘favourite,’
Lady Yarmouth.
Of all the eulogies passed upon Caroline, few were so profuse in their
laudation as that contained in a sermon preached before the council
at Boston, in America, by the Rev. Samuel Mather. There was not a
virtue known which the transatlantic chaplain did not attribute to
her. As woman, the minister pronounced her perfect; as queen, she was
that and sublime to boot. As regent, she possessed, for the time, the
King’s wisdom added to her own. Good Mr. Mather, too, is warrant for
the soundness of her faith; and he applied to her the words in Judith:
‘There was none that gave her an ill word, for she feared God greatly.’
William III. is recorded as having said of his consort, Mary, that if
he could believe any mortal was born without the contagion of sin, he
would believe it of the queen. Upon citing which passage, the Bostonian
exclaims: ‘And oh, gracious Caroline, thy respected consort was ready
to make the same observation of thee; so pure, so chaste, so religious
wast thou, and so in all good things exemplary, amidst the excesses of
a magnificent court, and in an age of luxury and wantonness!’ And he
thus proceeds: ‘The pious Queen was constant at her secret devotions;
and she loved the habitation of God’s house; and from regard to the
divine institutions, with delight and steadiness attended on them. And
as she esteemed and practised every duty of piety towards the Almighty,
so she detested and frowned on every person and thing that made but
an appearance of what was wicked and impious. As she performed every
duty incumbent on her towards her beloved subjects, so she deeply
reverenced the King; and while his Majesty honours her and will grieve
for her to his last moments, her royal offspring rise up and call her
blessed.’
‘Seven are the children,’ said the preacher, ‘which she has left
behind her. These, like the noble Roman Cornelia, she took to be her
chief ornaments. Accordingly, it was both her care and her pleasure
to improve their minds and form their manners, that so they might
hereafter prove blessings to the nation and the world. What a lovely,
heavenly sight must it have been to behold the majestic royal matron,
with her faithful and obsequious offspring around her! So the planetary
orbs about the sun gravitate towards it, keep their proper distance
from it, and receive from it the measures of light and influence
respectively belonging to them. Such was--oh, fatal grief!--such was
the late most excellent Queen.’
The issue of the marriage of Caroline and George II. comprised four
sons and five daughters--namely, Frederick Louis, Prince of Wales,
born January 20, 1706; Anne, Princess of Orange, born October 22,
1708; Amelia Sophia, born June 10, 1711; Caroline Elizabeth, born
May 31, 1713; William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, born April 15,
1721; the Princess Mary, born February 22, 1723; the Princess Louisa,
born December 7, 1724. All these survived the Queen. There was also
a prince born in November 1716, who did not survive his birth; and
George William, Duke of Gloucester, born November 2, 1717, who died in
February of the year following.
At the funeral of Caroline, which was called ‘decently private,’ but
which was, in truth, marked by much splendour and ceremony, not the
King, but the Princess Amelia, acted as chief mourner; and the anthem,
‘The Ways of Zion do mourn,’ was ‘set to Musick by Mr. Handell.’ Of
all the verses poured out on the occasion of her death, two specimens
are subjoined. They show how the Queen was respectively dealt with by
the Democritus and Heraclitus of her subjects:--
Here lies, lamented by the poor and great--
(Prop of the Church, and glory of the State)--
A woman, late a mighty monarch’s queen,
Above all flattery, and above all spleen;
Loved by the good, and hated by the evil,
Pursued, now dead, by satire and the devil.
With steadfast zeal (which kindled in her youth)
A foe to bigotry, a friend to truth;
Too generous for the lust of lawless rule,
Nor Persecution’s nor Oppression’s tool:
In Locke’s, in Clarke’s, in Hoadley’s paths she trod,
Nor fear’d to follow where _they_ follow’d God.
To all obliging and to all sincere,
Wise to choose friendships, firm to persevere.
Free without rudeness; great without disdain;
An hypocrite in nought but _hiding pain_.
To courts she taught the rules of just expence,
Join’d with economy, magnificence;
Attention to a kingdom’s vast affairs,
Attention to the meanest mortal’s cares;
Profusion might consume, or avarice hoard,
’Twas hers to feed, unknown, the scanty board.
Thus, of each human excellence possess’d,
With as few faults as e’er attend the best;
Dear to her lord, to all her children dear,
And (to the last her thought, her conscience clear)
Forgiving all, forgiven and approved,
To peaceful worlds her peaceful soul removed.
The above panegyric was drawn up as a reply to an epitaph of another
character, which was then in circulation, from the pen of a writer
who contemplated his subject in another point of view. It was to this
effect:--
Here lies unpitied, both by Church and State,
The subject of their flattery and hate;
Flatter’d by those on whom her favours flow’d,
Hated for favours impiously bestow’d;
Who aim’d the Church by Churchmen to betray,
And hoped to share in arbitrary sway.
In Tindal’s and in Hoadley’s paths she trod,
An hypocrite in all but disbelief in God.
Promoted luxury, encouraged vice,
Herself a sordid slave to avarice.
True friendship’s tender love ne’er touch’d her heart,
Falsehood appear’d in vice disguised by art.
Fawning and haughty; when familiar, rude;
And never civil seem’d but to delude.
Inquisitive in trifling, mean affairs,
Heedless of public good or orphan’s tears;
To her own offspring mercy she denied,
And, unforgiving, unforgiven died.
CHAPTER X.
THE REIGN OF THE WIDOWER.
Success of Admiral Vernon--Royal visit to ‘Bartlemy Fair’--
Party-spirit runs high about the King and Prince--Lady
Pomfret--The mad Duchess of Buckingham--Anecdote of Lady Sundon
--Witty remark of Lady Mary Wortley--_Fracas_ at Kensington
Palace--The battle of Dettingen--A precocious child--Marriage
of Princess Mary--A new opposition--Prince George--Lady Yarmouth
installed at Kensington--Death of Prince Frederick--Conduct of
the King on hearing of this event--Bubb Dodington’s extravagant
grief--The funeral scant--Conduct of the widowed Princess--
Opposition of the Prince to the King not undignified--Jacobite
epitaph on the Prince--The Prince’s rebuke for frivolous jeer on
Lady Huntingdon--The Prince’s patronage of literary men--Lady
Archibald Hamilton, the Prince’s favourite--The Prince and the
Quakers--Anecdote of Prince George--Princely appreciation of Lady
Huntingdon.
The era of peace ended with Caroline. Walpole endeavoured to prolong
the era, but Spanish aggressions against the English flag in South
America drove the ministry into a war. The success of Vernon at Porto
Bello rendered the war highly popular. The public enthusiasm was
sustained by Anson, but it was materially lowered by our defeat at
Carthagena, which prepared the way for the downfall of the minister
of Caroline. Numerous and powerful were the opponents of Walpole, and
no section of them exhibited more fierceness or better organisation
than that of which the elder son of Caroline was the founder and great
captain.
Frederick, however, was versatile enough to be able to devote as much
time to pleasure as to politics.
As the _roué_ Duke of Orleans, when regent, and indeed before he
exercised that responsible office, was given to stroll with his witty
but graceless followers, and a band of graceful but witless ladies,
through the fairs of St. Laurent and St. Germain, tarrying there till
midnight to see and hear the drolleries of ‘Punch’ and the plays of the
puppets, so the princes of the royal blood of England condescended,
with much alacrity, to perambulate Bartholomew Fair, and to enjoy the
delicate amusements then and there provided. An anonymous writer,
some thirty years ago, inserted in the ‘New European Magazine,’ from
an older publication, an account of a royal visit, in 1740, to the
ancient revels of St. Bartholomew. In this amusing record we are told,
that ‘the multitude behind was impelled violently forwards, and a
broad blaze of red light, issuing from a score of flambeaux, streamed
into the air. Several voices were loudly shouting, ‘Room there for
Prince Frederick! make way for the Prince!’ and there was that long
sweep heard to pass over the ground which indicates the approach of
a grand and ceremonious train. Presently the pressure became much
greater, the voices louder, the light stronger, and, as the train
came onward, it might be seen that it consisted, firstly of a party
of yeomen of the guards clearing the way; then several more of them
bearing flambeaux, and flanking the procession; while in the midst of
all appeared a tall, fair, and handsome young man, having something
of a plump foreign visage, seemingly about four-and-thirty years of
age, dressed in a ruby-coloured frock-coat, very richly guarded with
gold lace, and having his long flowing hair curiously curled over his
forehead and at the sides, and finished with a very large bag and
courtly queue behind. The air of dignity with which he walked; the blue
ribbon and star-and-garter with which he was decorated; the small,
three-cornered, silk court-hat which he wore while all around him
were uncovered; the numerous suite, as well of gentlemen as of guards,
which marshalled him along; the obsequious attention of a short stout
person who, by his flourishing manner, seemed to be a player: all these
particulars indicated that the amiable Frederick, Prince of Wales, was
visiting Bartholomew Fair by torchlight, and that Manager Rich was
introducing his royal guest to all the amusements of the place. However
strange,’ adds the author, ‘this circumstance may appear to the present
generation, yet it is nevertheless strictly true; for about 1740, when
the revels of Smithfield were extended to three weeks and a month, it
was not considered derogatory to persons of the first rank and fashion
to partake in the broad humour and theatrical entertainments of the
place.’
In the following year the divisions between the King and the prince
made party-spirit run high, and he who followed the sire very
unceremoniously denounced the son. To such a one there was a court at
St. James’s, but none at Carlton House. Walpole tells a story which
illustrates at once this feeling and the sort of wit possessed by the
courtiers of the day. ‘Somebody who belonged to the Prince of Wales
said he was going to court. It was objected, that he ought to say
“going to Carlton House;” that the only _court_ is where the King
resides. Lady Pomfret, with her paltry air of learning and absurdity,
said, “Oh, Lord! is there no _court_ in England but the King’s? sure,
there are many more! There is the _Court_ of Chancery, the _Court_ of
Exchequer, the _Court_ of King’s Bench, &c.” Don’t you love her? Lord
Lincoln does her daughter.’ Lord Lincoln, the nephew of the Duke of
Newcastle, the minister, was a frequenter of St. James’s, and, says
Horace, ‘not only his uncle-duke, but even Majesty is fallen in love
with him. He talked to the King at his _levée_ without being spoken to.
That was always thought high treason, but I don’t know how the gruff
gentleman liked it.’ The gruff gentleman was the King, and the phrase
paints him at a stroke, like one of Cruikshank’s lines, by which not
only is a figure drawn, but expression given to it.
The prince’s party, combined with other opponents, effected the
overthrow of Caroline’s favourite minister, Walpole, in 1742. The
succeeding cabinet, at the head of which was Lord Wilmington, did not
very materially differ in principles and measures from that of their
predecessors. In the same year died Caroline’s other favourite, Lady
Sundon, mistress of the robes.
‘Lord Sundon is in great grief,’ says Walpole. ‘I am surprised, for she
has had fits of madness ever since her ambition met such a check by
the death of the Queen. She had great power with her, though the Queen
affected to despise her; but had unluckily told her, or fallen into her
power by, some secret. I was saying to Lady Pomfret, “To be sure she is
dead very rich.” She replied with some warmth, “She never took money.”
When I came home I mentioned this to Sir Robert. “No,” said he, “but
she took jewels. Lord Pomfret’s place of master of the horse to the
Queen was bought of her for a pair of diamond ear-rings, of fourteen
hundred pounds value.” One day that she wore them at a visit at old
Marlbro’s, as soon as she was gone, the duchess said to Lady Mary
Wortley, “How can that woman have the impudence to go about in that
bribe?” “Madam,” said Lady Mary, “how would you have people know where
wine is to be sold unless there is a sign hung out?” Sir Robert told me
that in the enthusiasm of her vanity, Lady Sundon had proposed to him
to unite with her and govern the kingdom together: he bowed, begged her
patronage, but, he said, he thought nobody fit to govern the kingdom
but the King and Queen.’ That King, unsustained by his consort,
appears to have become anxious to be reconciled with his son the Prince
of Wales, at this time, when reports of a Stuart rebellion began to be
rife, and when theatrical audiences applied passages in plays, in a
favourable sense to the prince. The reconciliation was effected; but
it was clumsily contrived, and was coldly and awkwardly concluded. An
agent from the King induced the prince to open the way by writing to
his father. This was a step which the prince was reluctant to take, and
which he only took at last with the worst possible grace. The letter
reached the King late at night, and on reading it he appointed the
following day for the reception of Frederick, who, with five gentlemen
of his court, repaired to St. James’s, where he was received by ‘the
gruff gentleman’ in the drawing-room. The yielding sire simply asked
him, ‘How does the princess do? I hope she is well.’ The dutiful son
answered the query, kissed the paternal hand, and respectfully, as far
as outward demonstration could evidence it, took his leave. He did not
depart, however, until he had distinguished those courtiers present
whom he held to be his friends by speaking to them; the rest he passed
coldly by. As the reconciliation was accounted of as an accomplished
fact, and as the King had condescended to speak a word or two to some
of the most intimate friends of his son; and finally, as the entire
royal family went together to the Duchess of Norfolk’s, where ‘the
streets were illuminated and bonfired;’ there was a great passing to
and fro of courtiers of either faction between St. James’s and Carlton
House. Secker, who went to the latter residence with Benson, Bishop of
Gloucester, to pay his respects, says that the prince and princess were
_civil_ to both of them.
The reconciliation was worth an additional fifty thousand pounds a-year
to the prince, so that obedience to a father could hardly be more
munificently rewarded. ‘He will have money now,’ says Walpole, ‘to
tune up Glover, and Thomson, and Dodsley again:--
Et spes et ratio studiorum in Cæsare tantum.’
There was much outward show of gladness at this court, pageants and
‘reviews to gladden the heart of David and triumphs of Absalom,’ as
Walpole styles his Majesty and the heir-apparent. The latter, with the
princess, went ‘in great parade through the city and the dust to dine
at Greenwich. They took water at the Tower, and trumpeting away to
Grace Tosier’s--
Like Cimon, triumphed over land and wave.’
In another direction, there were some lively proceedings, which would
have amused Caroline herself. Tranquil and dull as Kensington Palace
looks, its apartments were occasionally the scene of more rude than
royal _fracas_. Thus we are told of one of the daughters of the King
pulling a chair from under the Countess Deloraine, just as that not too
exemplary lady was about to sit down to cards. His Majesty laughed at
the lady’s tumble, at which she was so doubly pained, that, watching
for revenge and opportunity, she contrived to give the Sovereign just
such another fall. The sacred person of the King was considerably
bruised, and the trick procured nothing more for the countess than
exclusion from court, where her place of favour was exclusively
occupied by Madame Walmoden, Countess of Yarmouth.
We often hear of the wits of one era being the butts of the next,
and without wit enough left to escape the shafts let fly at them.
Walpole thus describes a drawing-room held at St. James’s, to which
some courtiers resorted in the dresses they had worn under Queen Anne.
‘There were so many new faces,’ says Horace, ‘that I scarce knew where
I was; I should have taken it for Carlton House, or my Lady Mayoress’s
visiting day, only the people did not seem enough at home, but rather
as admitted to see the King dine in public. It is quite ridiculous to
see the number of old ladies, who, from having been wives of patriots,
have not been dressed these twenty years; out they come with all the
accoutrements that were in use in Queen Anne’s days. Then the joy and
awkward jollity of them is inexpressible; they titter, and, wherever
you meet them, are always going to court, and looking at their watches
an hour before the time. I met several at the birth-day, and they were
dressed in all the colours of the rainbow; they seem to have said to
themselves twenty years ago: “Well; if I ever do go to court again, I
will have a pink and silver, or a blue and silver,” and they kept their
resolutions.’
The English people had now been long looking towards that great
battle-field of Europe, Flanders, mingling memories of past triumphs
with hopes of future victories. George II. went heartily into the cause
of Maria Theresa, when the French sought to deprive her of her imperial
inheritance. In the campaign which ensued was fought that battle of
Dettingen which Lord Stair so nearly lost, where George behaved so
bravely, mounted or a-foot, and where the Scots Greys enacted their
bloody and triumphant duel with the gens-d’arme of France.
Meanwhile, Frederick was unemployed. When the King and the Duke of
Cumberland proceeded to the army in Flanders, a regency was formed,
of which Walpole says, ‘I think the prince might have been of it when
Lord Gower is. I don’t think the latter more Jacobite than his royal
highness.’
When the King and the duke returned from their triumphs on the
Continent, the former younger for his achievements, the latter older by
the gout and an accompanying limp, London gave them a reception worthy
of the most renowned of heroes. In proportion as the King saw himself
popular with the citizens did he cool towards the Prince of Wales. The
latter, with his two sisters, stood on the stairs of St. James’s Palace
to receive the chief hero; but though the princess was only confined
the day before, and Prince George lay ill of the small-pox, the King
passed by his son without offering him a word or otherwise noticing
him. This rendered the King unpopular, without turning the popular
affection towards the elder son of Caroline. Nor was that son deserving
of such affection. His heart had few sympathies for England, nor was he
elated by her victories or made sad by her defeats. On the contrary,
in 1745, when the news arrived in England of the ‘tristis gloria,’
the illustrious disaster at Fontenoy, which made so many hearts in
England desolate, Frederick went to the theatre in the evening, and
two days after, he wrote a French ballad, ‘Bacchic, Anacreontic, and
Erotic,’ addressed to those ladies with whom he was going to act in
Congreve’s masque, ‘The Judgment of Paris.’ It was full of praise
of late and deep drinking, of intercourse with the fair, of stoical
contempt for misfortune, of expressed indifference whether Europe had
one or many tyrants, and of a pococurantism for all things and forms
except his _chère Sylvie_, by whom he was good-naturedly supposed to
mean his wife. But this solitary civility cannot induce us to change
our self-gratulation at the fact that a man with such a heart was not
permitted to ascend the throne of Great Britain. In the year after he
wrote the ballad alluded to, he created a new opposition against the
crown, by the counsels of Lord Bath, ‘who got him from Lord Granville:
the latter and his faction acted with the court.’ Of the princess,
Walpole says, ‘I firmly believe, by all her quiet sense, she will turn
out a Caroline.’
In this year, 1743, died that favourite of George I. who more than
any other woman had enjoyed in his household and heart the place
which should have belonged to his wife Sophia Dorothea. Mademoiselle
von der Schulenburg, of the days of the Electorate, died Duchess of
Kendal by favour of the King of England, and Princess of Eberstein by
favour of the Emperor of Germany. She died at the age of eighty-five,
immensely rich. Her wealth was inherited by her so-called ‘niece,’
Lady Walsingham, who married Lord Chesterfield. ‘But I believe,’ says
Walpole, ‘that he will get nothing by the duchess’s death--but his
wife. She lived in the house with the duchess, where he had played away
all his credit.’
George loved to hear his Dettingen glories eulogised in annual odes
sung before him. But, brave as he was, he had not much cause for
boasting. The Dettingen laurels were changed into cypress at Fontenoy
by the Duke of Cumberland in 1744, whose suppression of the Scottish
rebellion in 1745 gained for him more credit than he deserved. The
treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, by which our Continental war was concluded
in 1748, gave peace to England, but little or no glory.
The intervening years were years of interest to some of the children
of Caroline. Thus, in June 1746, the Prince of Hesse came over to
England to marry the second daughter of Caroline, the Princess Mary.
He was royally entertained; but on one occasion met with an accident
which Walpole calls ‘a most ridiculous tumble t’other night at the
opera. They had not pegged up his box tight after the ridotto, and down
he came on all fours. George Selwyn says he carried it off with an
_unembarrassed_ countenance.’
In a year Mary was glad to escape from the brutality of her husband and
repair to England, under pretext of being obliged to drink the Bath
waters. She was an especial favourite with her brother, the Duke of
Cumberland, and with the Princess Caroline.
The result of this marriage gave little trouble to the King. He was
much more annoyed when the Prince of Wales formally declared a new
opposition (in 1747), which was never to subside till he was on the
throne. ‘He began it pretty handsomely, the other day,’ says Walpole,
‘with 143 to 184, which has frightened the ministry like a bomb.
This new party wants nothing but heads; though not having any,’ says
Horace, wittily, ‘to be sure the struggle is fairer.’ It was led by
Lord Baltimore, a man with ‘a good deal of jumbled knowledge.’ The
spirit of the father certainly dwelt in some of his children. The
King, we are told, sent Steinberg, on one occasion, to examine the
prince’s children in their learning. The boy, Prince Edward, acquitted
himself well in his Latin grammar, but Steinberg told him that it would
please his Majesty and profit the prince, if the latter would attend
more to attain proficiency in the German language. ‘German, German!’
said the boy; ‘any dull child can learn that!’ The prince, as he said
it, ‘squinted’ at the baron, and the baron was doubtless but little
flattered by the remark or the look of the boy. The King was probably
as surprised and as little pleased to hear the remark as he was a few
months later to discover that the Prince of Wales and the Jacobite
party had united in a combined parliamentary opposition against the
government. However, Prince Edward’s remark and the Prince of Wales’s
opposition did not prevent the King from conferring the Order of the
Garter on the little Prince George in 1749. The youthful knight,
afterwards King of England, was carried in his father’s arms to the
door of the King’s closet. There the Duke of Dorset received him, and
carried him to the King. The boy then commenced a speech, which had
been taught him by his tutor, Ayscough, Dean of Bristol. His father no
sooner heard the oration commenced, than he interrupted its progress
by a vehement ‘No, no!’ The boy, embarrassed, stopped short; then,
after a moment of hesitation, recommenced his complimentary harangue;
but, with the opening words, again came the prohibitory ‘No, no!’ from
the prince, and thus was the eloquence of the young chevalier rudely
silenced.
But it was not only the peace of the King, his very palaces were put in
peril at this time. The installation of Lady Yarmouth at Kensington,
after the _fracas_ occasioned by Lady Deloraine, had nearly resulted
in the destruction of the palace. Lady Yarmouth resided in the room
which had been occupied by Lady Suffolk, who disregarded damp, and
cared nothing for the crop of fungi raised by it in her room. Not so
Lady Yarmouth, at least after she had contracted an ague. She then
kept up such a fire that the woodwork caught, and destruction to the
edifice was near upon following. There were vacant chambers enough,
and sufficiently comfortable; but the King would not allow them to be
inhabited, even by his favourite. ‘The King hoards all he can,’ writes
Walpole, ‘and has locked up half the palace since the Queen’s death;
so he does at St. James’s; and I believe would put the rooms out at
interest if he could get a closet a-year for them.’
The division which had again sprung up between sire and son daily
widened until death relieved the former of his permanent source of
vexation. This event took place in 1751. Some few years previous to
that period, the Prince of Wales, when playing at tennis or cricket, at
Cliefden, received a blow from a ball, which gave him some pain, but
of which he thought little. It was neglected; and one result of such
neglect was a permanent weakness of the lungs. In the early part of
this year he had suffered from pleurisy, but had recovered--at least,
partially recovered. A previous fall from his horse had rendered him
more than usually delicate. Early in March he had been in attendance
at the House of Lords on occasion of the King, his father, giving his
royal sanction to some bills. This done, the prince returned, much
heated, in a chair with the windows down, to Carlton House. He changed
his dress, put on light, unaired clothing, and, as if _that_ had not
been perilous enough, he had the madness, after hurrying to Kew and
walking about the gardens there in very inclement weather, to lie down
for three hours after his return to Carlton House, upon a couch in a
very cold room which opened upon the gardens. Lord Egmont alluded to
the danger of such a course; the prince laughed at the thought. He was
as obstinate as his father, to whom Sir Robert Walpole once observed,
on finding him equally intractable during a fit of illness, ‘Sir, do
you know what your father died of? Of thinking he could not die.’ The
prince removed to Leicester House. He ridiculed good counsel, and
before the next morning his life was in danger. He rallied, and during
one of his hours of least suffering he sent for his eldest son, and,
embracing him with tenderness, remarked, ‘Come, George, let us be
good friends while we are permitted to be so.’ Three physicians, with
Wilmot and Hawkins, the surgeons, were in constant attendance upon him,
and, curiously enough, their united wisdom pronounced that the prince
was out of danger only the day before he died. Then came a relapse,
an eruption of the skin, a marked difficulty of breathing, and an
increase of cough. Still he was not considered in danger. Some members
of his family were at cards in the adjacent room, and Desnoyers, the
celebrated dancing-master, who, like St. Leon, was as good a violinist
as he was a dancer, was playing the violin at the prince’s bedside,
when the latter was seized with a violent fit of coughing. When this
had ceased, Wilmot expressed a hope that his royal patient would
be better, and would pass a quiet night. Hawkins detected symptoms
which he thought of great gravity. The cough returned with increased
violence, and Frederick, placing his hand upon his stomach, murmured
feebly, ‘_Je sens la mort!_’ (‘I feel death!’). Desnoyers held him
up, and feeling him shiver, exclaimed, ‘The prince is going!’ At that
moment the Princess of Wales was at the foot of the bed: she caught up
a candle, rushed to the head of the bed, and, bending down over her
husband’s face, she saw that he was dead.
So ended the wayward life of the elder son of Caroline; so terminated
the married life of him, which began so gaily when he was gliding about
the crowd in his nuptial chamber, in a gown and night-cap of silver
tissue. The bursting of an imposthume between the pericardium and
diaphragm, the matter of which fell upon the lungs, suddenly killed
_him_ whom the heralds called ‘high and mighty prince,’ and the heir
to a throne lay dead in the arms of a French fiddler. _Les extrêmes se
touchent!_--though Desnoyers, be it said, was quite as honest a man as
his master.
Intelligence of the death of his son was immediately conveyed to George
II., by Lord North. The King was at Kensington, and when the messenger
stood at his side and communicated in a whisper the doleful news, his
Majesty was looking over a card-table at which the players were the
Princess Amelia, the Duchess of Dorset, the Duke of Grafton, and the
Countess of Yarmouth. He turned to the messenger, and merely remarked
in a low voice, ‘Dead, is he? Why, they told me he was better;’ and
then going round to his mistress, the Countess of Yarmouth, he very
calmly observed to her, ‘Countess, Fred is gone!’ And that was all the
sorrow expressed by a father at the loss of a first-born boy, who had
outlived his father’s love. The King, however, sent kind messages to
the widow, who exhibited on the occasion much courage and sense.
As the prince died without priestly aid, so was his funeral unattended
by a single bishop to do him honour or pay him respect. With the
exception of Frederick’s own household and the lords appointed to hold
the pall, ‘there was not present one English lord, not one bishop,
and only one Irish peer (Limerick), two sons of dukes, one baron’s
son, and two privy councillors.’ It was not that want of respect was
intentional, but that no due notice was issued from any office as to
the arrangement of the funeral. The body was carried from the House
of Lords to Westminster Abbey, but without a canopy, and the funeral
service was performed, undignified by either anthem or organ.
But the prince’s friend, Bubb Dodington, poured out a sufficient
quantity of expressed grief to serve the entire nation, and make up
for all lack of ceremony or of sorrow elsewhere. In a letter to Mann,
he swore that the prince was the delight, ornament, and expectation
of the world. In losing him the wretched had lost their refuge,
balm, and shelter. Art, science, and grace had to deplore the loss
of a patron, and in that loss a remedy for the ills of society had
perished also! ‘Bubb de Tristibus’ goes on to say, that _he_ had lost
more than any other man by the death of the prince, seeing that his
highness had condescended to stoop to him, and be his own familiar
friend. Bubb protested that if he ever allowed the wounds of his grief
to heal he should be for ever infamous, and finally running a-muck
with his figures of speech, he declares--‘I should be unworthy of
all consolation if I was not inconsolable.’ This is the spirit of
a partisan; but, on the other side, the spirit of party was never
exhibited in a more malignantly petty aspect than on the occasion of
the death of the prince. The gentlemen of his bedchamber were ordered
to be in attendance near the body, from ten in the morning till the
conclusion of the funeral. The government, however, would order them
no refreshment, and the Board of Green Cloth would provide them
with none, without such order. Even though princes die, _il faut que
tout le monde vive_; and accordingly these poor gentlemen sent to a
neighbouring tavern and gave orders for a cold dinner to be furnished
them. The authorities were too tardily ashamed of thus insulting
faithful servants of rank and distinction, and commanded the necessary
refreshments to be provided. They were accepted, but the tavern dinner
was paid for and given to the poor.
The widowed Augusta, who had throughout her married life exhibited
much mental superiority, with great kindness of disposition, and that
under circumstances of great difficulty, and sometimes of a character
to inflict vexation on the calmest nature, remained in the room by the
side of the corpse of her husband for full four hours, unwilling to
believe in the assurances given her that he was really dead. She was
then the mother of eight children, expecting to be shortly the mother
of a ninth, and she was brought reluctantly to acknowledge that their
father was no more. It was six in the morning before her attendants
could persuade her to retire to bed; but she rose again at eight, and
then, with less thought for her grief than anxiety for the honour of
him whose death was the cause of it, she proceeded to the prince’s room
and burned the whole of his private papers. By this action the world
lost some rare supplementary chapters to a _Chronique Scandaleuse_.
The death of Frederick disconcerted all the measures of intriguing
men, and brought about a great change in the councils of the court as
of the factions opposed to the court. ‘The death of our prince,’ wrote
Whitfield, ‘has afflicted you. It has given me a shock; but the Lord
reigneth, and that is my comfort.’ The Duchess of Somerset, writing
to Dr. Doddridge, says on the same subject: ‘Providence seems to have
directed the blow where we thought ourselves the most secure; for among
the many schemes of hopes and fears which people were laying down to
themselves, this was never mentioned as a supposable event. The harmony
which appears to subsist between his Majesty and the Princess of Wales
is the best support for the spirits of the nation under their present
concern and astonishment. He died in the forty-fifth year of his age,
and is generally allowed to have been a prince of amiable and generous
disposition, of elegant manners, and of considerable talents.’
The opposition which the prince had maintained against the government
of the father who had provoked him to it was not undignified. Unlike
his sire, he did not ‘hate both bainting and boetry;’ and painters and
poets were welcome at his court, as were philosophers and statesmen. It
was only required that they should be adverse to Walpole. Among them
were the able and urbane wits, Chesterfield and Carteret, Pulteney and
Sir William Wyndham; the aspiring young men, Pitt, Lyttelton, and the
Grenvilles: Swift, Pope, and Thomson lent their names and pens to the
prince’s service; while astute and fiery Bolingbroke aimed to govern in
the circle where he affected to serve.
All the reflections made upon the death of the prince were not so
simple of quality as those of the Duchess of Somerset. Horace Walpole
cites a preacher at Mayfair Chapel, who ‘improved’ the occasion after
this not very satisfactory or conclusive fashion: ‘He had no great
parts, but he had great virtues--indeed, they degenerated into vices.
He was very generous; but I hear his generosity has ruined a great
many people; and then, his condescension was such that he kept very
bad company.’ Not less known, and yet claiming a place here, is the
smart Jacobite epitaph, so little flattering to the dead, that had all
Spartan epitaphs been as little laudatory, the Ephori would have never
issued a decree entirely prohibiting them. It was to this effect:
Here lies Fred,
Who was alive and is dead!
Had it been his father,
I had much rather.
Had it been his brother,
Still better than another.
Had it been his sister,
No one could have missed her.
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation:
But since ’tis only Fred,
Who was alive and is dead,
There is no more to be said.
I have not mentioned among those who were the frequenters of his court
the name of Lady Huntingdon. Frederick had the good sense to appreciate
Lady Huntingdon, and he did not despise her because of a little
misdirected enthusiasm. On missing her from his circle, he enquired of
the gay, but subsequently the godly, Lady Charlotte Edwin, where Lady
Huntingdon could be, that he no longer saw her at his court. ‘Oh, I
dare say,’ exclaimed the unconcerned Lady Charlotte--‘I dare say she is
praying with her beggars!’ Frederick had the good sense and the courage
to turn sharply round upon her, and say: ‘Lady Charlotte, when I am
dying I think I shall be happy to seize the skirt of Lady Huntingdon’s
mantle to lift me up to Heaven.’ This phrase was not forgotten when the
adapter of Cibber’s ‘Nonjuror’ turned that play into the ‘Hypocrite,’
and, introducing the fanatic Mawworm, put into his mouth a sentiment
uttered for the sake of the laugh which it never failed to raise, but
which originated, in sober sadness, with Frederick, Prince of Wales.
The character of Caroline’s son was full of contradictions. He had low
tastes, but he also possessed those of a gentleman and a prince. When
the ‘Rambler’ first appeared, he so enjoyed its stately wisdom that he
sought after the author, in order to serve him if he needed service.
His method of ‘serving’ an author was not mere lip compliment. Pope,
indeed, might be satisfied with receiving from him a complimentary
visit at Twickenham. The poet there was on equal terms with the prince;
and when the latter asked how it was that the author who hurled his
shafts against kings could be so friendly towards the son of a king,
Pope somewhat pertly answered, that he who dreaded the lion might
safely enough fondle the cub. But Frederick could really be princely to
authors; and what is even more, he could do a good action gracefully,
an immense point where there is a good action to be done. Thus to
Tindal he sent a gold medal worth forty guineas; and to dry and dusty
Glover, for whose ‘Leonidas’ he had much respect, he sent a note for
500_l._ when the poet was in difficulties. This handsome gift, too, was
sent unasked. The son of song was honoured and not humiliated by the
gift. It does not matter whether Lyttelton, or any one else, taught him
to be the patron of literature and literary men; it is to his credit
that he recognised them, acknowledged their services, and saw them with
pleasure at his little court, often giving them precedence over those
whose greatness was the mere result of the accident of birth.
The prince not only protected poets but he wooed the Muses. Those shy
ladies, however, loved him none the better for being a benefactor to
their acknowledged children. The rhymes of Frederick were generally
devoted to the ecstatic praises of his wife. The matter was good, but
the manner was execrable. The lady deserved all that was said, but
her virtues merited a more gracefully skilful eulogist. The reasoning
was perfect, but the rhymes halted abominably. But how could it be
otherwise? Apollo himself would not stoop to inspire a writer who,
while piling up poetical compliments above the head of his blameless
wife, was paying adoration, at all events not less sincere, to most
worthless ladies of the court? The apparently exemplary father within
the circle of home, where presided a beautiful mother over a bright
young family, was a wretched libertine outside of that circle. His sin
was great, and his taste of the vilest. His ‘favourites’ had nothing of
youth, beauty, or intellect to distinguish them, or to serve for the
poor apology of infidelity. Lady Archibald Hamilton was plain and in
years when she enjoyed her bad pre-eminence. Miss Vane was impudent,
and a maid of honour by office; nothing else: while Lady Middlesex was
‘short and dark, like a cold winter’s day,’ and as yellow as a November
morning. Notwithstanding this, he played the father and husband well.
He loved to have his children with him, always appeared most happy when
in the bosom of his family, left them with regret, and met them again
with smiles, kisses, and tears. He walked the streets unattended, to
the great delight of the people; was the presiding Apollo at great
festivals, conferred the prizes at rowings and racings, and talked
familiarly with Thames fishermen on the mysteries of their craft. He
would enter the cottages of the poor, listen with patience to their
twice-told tales, and partake with relish of the humble fare presented
to him. So did the old soldier find in him a ready listener to the
story of his campaigns and the subject of his petitions; and never
did the illustriously maimed appeal to him in vain. He was a man to
be loved in spite of all his vices. He would have been adored had his
virtues been more, or more real. But his virtue was too often--like his
love for popular and parliamentary liberty--rather affected than real;
and at all events, not to be relied upon.
When a deputation of Quakers waited on the prince to solicit him to
support by himself and friends a clause of the Tything bill in their
favour, he replied: ‘As I am a friend to liberty in general, and to
toleration in particular, I wish you may meet with all proper favour;
but, for myself, I never gave my vote in parliament; and to influence
my friends or direct my servants in theirs does not become my station.
To leave them entirely to their own consciences and understandings is a
rule I have hitherto prescribed to myself, and purpose through life to
observe.’ Andrew Pitt, who was at the head of the deputation, replied:
‘May it please the Prince of Wales, I am greatly affected with thy
excellent notions of liberty, and am more pleased with the answer thou
hast given us than if thou hadst granted our request.’ But the answer
was _not_ a sincere one, and the parliamentary friends and servants of
the prince were expected to hold their consciences at his direction.
Once Lord Doneraile ventured to disregard this influence; upon which
the prince observed: ‘Does he think that I will support him unless he
will do as I would have him? Does he not consider that whoever may
be my ministers, I must be king?’ Of such a man Walpole’s remark was
not far wide of truth when he said that Frederick resembled the Black
Prince only in one circumstance--in dying before his father!
He certainly exhibited little of the chivalrous spirit of the Black
Prince. In 1745, vexed at not being promoted to the command of the
army raised to crush the rebellion, and especially annoyed that it
was given to his brother, the Duke of Cumberland, who had less vanity
and more courage, he ridiculed all the strategic dispositions of the
authorities; and when Carlisle was being besieged by the rebels, a
representation in paste of the citadel was served up at his table, at
dessert, which, at the head of the maids of honour, he bombarded with
sugar-plums.
The young Prince George, afterwards George III., ‘behaved excessively
well on his father’s death.’ The words are Walpole’s; and he
establishes his attestation by recording, that when he was informed
of his father’s decease, he turned pale and laid his hand on his
breast. Upon which his reverend tutor, Ayscough, said, very much like
a simpleton, and not at all like a divine, ‘I am afraid, sir, you are
not well.’ ‘I feel,’ said the boy, ‘something here, just as I did when
I saw the two workmen fall from the scaffold at Kew.’ It was not the
speech of a boy of parts, nor an epitaph deeply filial in sentiment
on the death of a parent; but one can see that the young prince was
conscious of some painful grief, though he hardly knew how to dress his
sensations in equivalent words.
Another son of Frederick, Edward, Duke of York, was ‘a very plain boy,
with strange loose eyes, but was much the favourite. He is a sayer of
things,’ remarks Walpole. Nine years after his father’s death, Prince
Edward had occasion to pay as warm a compliment to Lady Huntingdon
as ever had been paid her by his father. The occasion was a visit
to the Magdalen, in 1760. A large party accompanied Prince Edward
from Northumberland House to the evening service. They were rather
wits than worshippers; for among them were Horace Walpole, Colonel
Brudenell, and Lord Hertford, with Lords Huntingdon and Dartmouth to
keep the wits within decent limits. The ladies were all gay in silks,
satins, and rose-coloured taffeta; there were the Lady Northumberland
herself, Ladies Chesterfield, Carlisle, Dartmouth, and Hertford, Lady
Fanny Shirley, Lady Selina Hastings, Lady Gertrude Hotham, and Lady
Mary Coke. Lord Hertford, at the head of the governors, met the prince
and his brilliant suite at the doors, and conducted him to a sort of
throne in front of the altar. The clergyman, who preached an eloquent
and impressive sermon from Luke xix. 20, was, not many years after,
dragged from Newgate to Tyburn, and there ignominiously hung. Some
one in the company sneeringly observed that Dr. Dodd had preached a
very Methodistical sort of sermon. ‘You are fastidious indeed,’ said
Prince Edward to the objector: ‘I thought it excellent, and suitable
to season and place; and in so thinking, I have the honour of being of
the same opinion as Lady Huntingdon here, and I rather fancy that she
is better versed in theology than any of us.’ This was true, and it was
gracefully said. The prince, moreover, backed his opinion by leaving a
fifty-pound note in the plate.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LAST YEARS OF A REIGN.
Princess Augusta named Regent in the event of a minority--Cause of
the Prince’s death--Death of the Prince of Orange--The King’s
fondness for the theatre--Allusion to the King’s age--Death
of the Queen of Denmark--Her married life unhappy--Suffered
from a similar cause with her mother--Rage of Lady Suffolk at a
sermon by Whitfield--Lady Huntingdon insulted by her--War in
Canada--Daily life of the King--Establishments of the sons of
Frederick--Death of the truth-loving Princess Caroline--Deaths
of Princess Elizabeth and Princess Anne--Queen Caroline’s rebuke
of her--Death of the King--Dr. Porteous’s eulogistic epitaph
on him--The King’s personal property--The royal funeral--The
burlesque Duke of Newcastle.
The last nine years of the reign of the consort of Caroline were of
a very varied character. The earliest of his acts after the death of
Frederick was one of which Caroline would certainly not have approved.
In case of his demise before the next heir to the throne should be
of age, he, with consent of parliament, named the widow of Frederick
as regent of the kingdom. This appointment gave great umbrage to the
favourite son of Caroline, William, Duke of Cumberland, and it was one
to which Caroline herself would never have consented.
But George now cared little for what the opinions of Caroline _might_
have been; and the remainder of his days was spent amid death,
gaiety, and politics. The year in which Frederick died was marked by
the decease of the husband of Caroline’s eldest daughter, of whose
plainness, wooing, and marriage I have previously spoken. The Prince of
Orange died on the 11th of October 1751. He had not improved in beauty
since his marriage, but, increasingly ugly as he became, his wife
became also increasingly jealous of him. Importunate, however, as the
jealousy was, it had the merit of being founded on honest and healthy
affection.
The immediate cause of the prince’s death was an imposthume in the
head. Although his health had been indifferent, his death was rather
sudden and unexpected. Lord Holdernesse was sent over from England by
the King, Walpole says, ‘to learn rather than to teach,’ but certainly
with letters of condolence to Caroline’s widowed daughter. She is
said to have received the paternal sympathy and advice in the most
haughty and insulting manner. She was proud, perhaps, of being made the
_gouvernante_ of her son; and she probably remembered the peremptory
rejection by her father of the interested sympathy she herself had
offered him on the decease of her mother, to whose credit she had hoped
to succeed at St. James’s.
But George himself had little sympathy to spare, and felt no immoderate
grief for the death of either son or son-in-law. On the 6th of
November 1751, within a month of the prince’s death, and not very many
after that of his son and heir to the throne, George was at Drury
Lane Theatre. The entertainment, played for his especial pleasure,
consisted of Farquhar’s ‘Beaux Stratagem’ and Fielding’s ‘Intriguing
Chambermaid.’ In the former, the King was exceedingly fond of the
‘Foigard’ of Yates and the ‘Cherry’ of Miss Minors. In the latter
piece, Mrs. Clive played her original part of ‘Lettice,’ a part in
which she had then delighted the town--a town which could be delighted
with such parts--for now seventeen years. Walpole thus relates an
incident of the night. He is writing to Sir Horace Mann, from Arlington
Street, under the date of the 22nd of November 1751: ‘A certain King,
that, whatever airs you may give yourself, you are not at all like, was
last week at the play. The intriguing chambermaid in the farce says to
the old gentleman, ‘You are villainously old; you are sixty-six; you
can’t have the impudence to think of living above two years.’ The old
gentleman in the stage-box turned about in a passion, and said, “This
is d--d stuff!”’
George was right in his criticism, but rather coarse than king-like
in expressing it. Walpole too, it may be noticed, misquotes what his
friend Mrs. Clive said in her character of Lettice, and he misquotes
evidently for the purpose of making the story more pointed against
the King, who was as sensitive upon the point of age as Louis XIV.
himself. Lettice does not say to Oldcastle ‘you are villainously old.’
She merely states the three obstacles to Oldcastle marrying her young
mistress. ‘In the first place your great age; you are at least some
sixty-six. Then there is, in the second place, your terrible ungenteel
air; and thirdly, that horrible face of yours, which it is impossible
for any one to see without being frightened.’ She does, however, add a
phrase which must have sounded harshly on the ear of a sensitive and
sexagenarian King; though not more so than on that of any other auditor
of the same age. ‘I think you could not have the conscience to live
above a year or a year and a half at most.’ The royal criticism, then,
was correct, however roughly expressed.
In the same year, 1751, died another of the children of George
and Caroline--Louisa, Queen of Denmark. She had only reached her
twenty-seventh year, and had been eight years married. Her mother loved
her, and the nation admired her for her grace, amiability, and talents.
Her career, in many respects, resembled that of her mother. She was
married to a king who kept a mistress in order that the world should
think he was independent of all influence on the part of his wife. She
was basely treated by this king; but not a word of complaint against
him entered into the letters which this spirited and sensible woman
addressed to her relations. Indeed, she had said at the time of her
marriage that, if she should become unhappy, her family should never
know anything about it. She died, in the flower of her age, a terrible
death, as Walpole calls it, and after an operation which lasted an
hour. The cause of it was the neglect of a slight rupture, occasioned
by stooping suddenly when _enceinte_, the injury resulting from which
she imprudently and foolishly concealed. This is all the more strange,
as her mother, on her death-bed, said to her: ‘Louisa, remember I die
by being giddy and obstinate, in having kept my disorder a secret.’ Her
farewell letter to her father and family, a most touching address, and
the similitude of her fate to that of her mother, sensibly affected
the almost dried-up heart of the King. ‘This has been a fatal year
to my family,’ groaned the son of Sophia Dorothea. ‘I lost my eldest
son, _but I was glad of it_. Then the Prince of Orange died, and left
everything in confusion. Poor little Edward has been cut open for an
imposthume in his side; and now the Queen of Denmark is gone! I know
I did not love my children when they were young; I hated to have them
coming into the room; but now I love them as well as most fathers.’
The Countess of Suffolk (the servant of Caroline and the mistress of
Caroline’s husband) was among the few persons whom the eloquence and
fervour of Whitfield failed to touch. When this latter was chaplain
to Lady Huntingdon, and in the habit of preaching in the drawing-room
of that excellent and exemplary woman, there was an eager desire to
be among the privileged to be admitted to hear him. This privilege
was solicited of Lady Huntingdon by Lady Rockingham, for the King’s
ex-favourite, Lady Suffolk. The patroness of Whitfield thought of
Magdalen repentant, and expressed her readiness to welcome her, an
additional sheep to an increasing flock. The beauty came, and Whitfield
preached neither more nor less earnestly, unconscious of her presence.
So searching, however, was his sermon, and so readily could the enraged
fair one apply its terrible truths to herself, that it was only with
difficulty she could sit it out with apparent calm. Inwardly, she felt
that she had been the especial object at which her assailant had flung
his sharpest arrows. Accordingly, when Whitfield had retired, the
exquisite fury, chafed but not repentant, turned upon the meditative
Lady Huntingdon, and well nigh annihilated her with the torrent
and power of her invective. Her sister-in-law, Lady Betty Germain,
implored her to be silent; but only the more unreservedly did she empty
the vials of her wrath upon the saintly lady of the house, who was
lost in astonishment, anger, and confusion. Old Lady Bertie and the
Dowager Duchess of Ancaster rose to her rescue; and, by right of their
relationship with the lady whom the King delighted to honour, required
her to be silent or civil. It was all in vain: the irritated fair one
maintained that she had been brought there to be pilloried by the
preacher; and she finally swept out of the room, leaving behind her an
assembly in various attitudes of wonder and alarm; some fairly deafened
by the thundering echoes of her expressed wrath, others at a loss to
decide whether Lady Huntingdon had or had not directed the arrows of
the preacher, and all most charmingly unconscious that, be that as it
might, the lady was only smarting because she had rubbed against a
sermon bristling with the most stinging truths.
Whitfield made note of those of the royal household who repaired to
the services over which he presided in Lady Huntingdon’s house. In
1752, when he saw regularly attending among his congregation one of
Queen Caroline’s ex-ladies, Mrs. Grinfield, he writes thereupon: ‘One
of Cæsar’s household hath been lately awakened by her ladyship’s
instrumentality, and I hope others will meet with the like blessing.’
In 1755 England and France were at issue touching their possessions
in Canada. The dispute resulted in a war; and the war brought with it
the temporary loss of the Electorate of Hanover to England, and much
additional disgrace; which last was not wiped out till the great Pitt
was at the helm, and by his spirited administration helped England to
triumph in every quarter of the globe. Amid misfortune or victory,
however, the King, as outwardly ‘impassible’ as ever, took also less
active share in public events than he did of old; and he lived with the
regularity of a man who has a regard for his health. Every night, at
nine o’clock, he sat down to cards. The party generally consisted of
his two daughters, the Princesses Amelia and Caroline, two or three of
the late Queen’s ladies, and as many of the gentlemen of the household
--whose presence there was a proof of the Sovereign’s personal esteem
for them. Had none other been present, the party would have been one on
which remark would not be called for. But at the same table with the
children of good Queen Caroline was seated their father’s mistress,
the naturalised German Baroness Walmoden--Countess of Yarmouth. George
II. had no idea that the presence of such a woman was an outrage
committed upon his own children. Every Saturday, in summer, he carried
those ladies, but _without his daughters_, to Richmond. They went in
coaches-and-six, in the middle of the day, with the heavy horse-guards
kicking up the dust before them--dined, walked an hour in the garden,
returned in the same dusty parade; and his Majesty fancied himself the
most gallant and lively prince in Europe.[44]
He had leisure, however, to think of the establishment of the sons
of Frederick; and in 1756 George II. sent a message to his grandson,
now Prince of Wales, whereby he offered him 40,000_l._ a-year and
apartments at Kensington and St. James’s. The prince accepted the
allowance, but declined the residence, on the ground that separation
from his mother would be painful to her. When this plea was made,
the prince, as Dodington remarks in his diary, did not live with
his mother, either in town or country. The prince’s brother Edward,
afterwards created Duke of York, was furnished with a modest revenue of
5,000_l._ a-year. The young prince is said to have been not insensible
to the attractions of Lady Essex, daughter of Sir Charles Williams.
‘The prince,’ says Walpole, ‘has got his liberty, and seems extremely
disposed to use it, and has great life and good humour. She has already
made a ball for him. Sir Richard Lyttelton was so wise as to make her
a visit, and advise her not to meddle with politics; that the Princess
(Dowager of Wales) would conclude that it was a plan laid for bringing
together Prince Edward and Mr. Fox. As Mr. Fox was not just the person
my Lady Essex was thinking of bringing together with Prince Edward, she
replied, very cleverly, “And, my dear Sir Richard, let me advise you
not to meddle with politics neither.”’
From the attempt to establish the Prince of Wales under his own
superintendence, the King was called to mourn over the death of another
child.
The truth-loving Caroline Elizabeth was unreservedly beloved by her
parents, was worthy of the affection, and repaid it by an ardent
attachment. She was fair, good, accomplished, and unhappy. The cause
of her unhappiness may be perhaps more than guessed at in the
circumstance of her retiring from the world on the death of Lord
Hervey. The sentiment with which he had, for the sake of vanity or
ambition, inspired her was developed into a sort of motherly love
for his children, for whom she exhibited great and constant regard.
Therewith she was conscious of but one strong desire--a desire to
die. For many years previous to her decease she lived in her father’s
palace, literally ‘cloistered up,’ inaccessible to nearly all, yet with
active sympathy for the poor and suffering classes in the metropolis.
Walpole, speaking of the death of the Princess Caroline, the third
daughter of George II., says: ‘Though her state of health had been so
dangerous for years, and her absolute confinement for many of them, her
disorder was, in a manner, new and sudden, and her death unexpected
by herself, though earnestly her wish. Her goodness was constant and
uniform, her generosity immense, her charities most extensive; in
short, I, no royalist, could be lavish in her praise. What will divert
you is that the Duke of Norfolk’s and Lord Northumberland’s upper
servants have asked leave to put themselves in mourning, not out of
regard for this admirable princess, but to be more _sur le bon ton_. I
told the duchess I supposed they would expect her to mourn hereafter
for their relations.’
The princess died in December 1757, and early in the following year the
King was seized with a serious fit of illness, which terminated in a
severe attack of gout, ‘which had never been at court above twice in
his reign,’ says Walpole, and the appearance of which was considered
as giving the royal sufferer a chance of five or six years more of
life. But it was not to be so; for the old royal lion in the Tower had
just expired, and people who could ‘put that and that together’ could
not but pronounce oraculary that the royal man would follow the royal
brute. ‘Nay,’ says Lord Chesterfield to his son, ‘this extravagancy was
believed by many above _people_.’ The fine gentleman means that it was
believed by many of his own class.
It was not the old King, however, who was first to be summoned from
the royal circle by the Inevitable Angel. A young princess passed away
before the more aged Sovereign. Walpole has a word or two to say upon
the death of the Princess Elizabeth, the second daughter of Frederick,
Prince of Wales, who died in the September of this year. The immediate
cause of death was an inflammation, which carried her off in two days.
‘Her figure,’ he says, ‘was so very unfortunate that it would have
been difficult for her to be happy; but her parts and application were
extraordinary. I saw her act in “Cato” at eight years old (when she
could not stand alone, but was forced to lean against the side-scene),
better than any of her brothers and sisters. She had been so unhealthy
that, at that age, she had not been taught to read, but had learned the
part of Lucia by hearing the others study their parts. She went to her
father and mother, and begged she might act. They put her off as gently
as they could; she desired leave to repeat her part, and when she did,
it was with so much sense, that there was no denying her.’
Before George’s hour had yet come, another child was to precede the
aged father to the tomb. In 1759 Anne, the eldest and least loved of
the daughters of Caroline, died in Holland. At the period of her birth,
the 9th of October 1709, her godmother, Queen Anne, was occupying the
throne of England; her grandfather, George, was Elector of Hanover;
Sophia Dorothea was languishing in the castle of Ahlden, and her
father and mother bore the title of Electoral Prince and Princess. She
was born at Hanover; and was five years old when, with her sister,
Amelia Sophia, who was two years younger, her mother, the Princess
Caroline, afterwards Queen, arrived in this country on the 15th of
October 1714. She early exhibited a haughty and imperious disposition;
possessed very little feeling for, and exercised very little gentleness
towards, those who even rendered her a willing service. Queen Caroline
sharply corrected this last defect. She discovered that the princess
was accustomed to make one of her ladies-in-waiting stand by her
bedside every night, and read aloud to her till she fell asleep. On
one occasion the princess kept her lady standing so long, that she at
last fainted from sheer fatigue. On the following night, when Queen
Caroline had retired to rest, she sent for her offending daughter, and
requested her to read aloud to her for a while. The princess was about
to take a chair, but the Queen said she could hear her better if she
read standing. Anne obeyed, and read till fatigue made her pause. ‘Go
on,’ said the Queen; ‘it entertains me.’ Anne went on, sulkily and
wearily; till, increasingly weary, she once more paused for rest and
looked round for a seat. ‘Continue, continue,’ said the Queen, ‘I am
not yet tired of listening.’ Anne burst into tears with vexation, and
confessed that she _was_ tired both of standing and reading, and was
ready to sink with fatigue. ‘If you feel so faint from one evening of
such employment, what must your attendants feel, upon whom you force
the same discipline night after night? Be less selfish, my child,
in future, and do not indulge in luxuries purchased at the cost of
weariness and ill-health to others.’ Anne did not profit by the lesson;
and few people were warmly attached to the proud and egotistical lady.
The princess spent nearly twenty years in England, and a little more
than a quarter of a century in Holland; the last seven years of that
period she was a widow. Her last thoughts were for the aggrandisement
of her family; and, when she was battling with death, she rallied her
strength in order to sign the contract of marriage between her daughter
and the Prince Nassau Walberg, and to write a letter to the States
General, requesting them to sanction the match. Having accomplished
this, the eldest daughter of Caroline laid down the pen, and calmly
awaited the death which was not long in coming.
It remains for us now only to speak of the demise of the husband of
Caroline. On the night of Friday, the 25th of October 1760, the King
retired to rest at an early hour, and well in health. At six (next
morning) he drank his usual cup of chocolate, walked to the window,
looked out upon Kensington Gardens, and made some observation upon the
direction of the wind, which had lately delayed the mails from Holland,
and which kept from him intelligence which he was anxious to receive,
and which he was saved the pain of hearing. George had said to the
page-in-waiting that he would take a turn in the garden; and he was on
his way thither, at seven o’clock, when the attendant heard the sound
of a fall. He entered the room through which the King was passing on
his way to the garden, and he found George II. lying on the ground,
with a wound on the right side of his face, caused by striking it in
his fall against the side of a bureau. He could only say, ‘Send for
Amelia,’ and then, gasping for breath, died. Whilst the sick, almost
deaf, and purblind daughter of the King was sent for, the message being
that her father wished to speak to her, the servants carried the body
to the bed from which the King had so lately risen. They had not time
to close the eyes, when the princess entered the room. Before they
could inform her of the unexpected catastrophe, she had advanced to
the bedside: she stooped over him, fancying that he was speaking to
her, and that she could not hear his words. The poor lady was sensibly
shocked; but she did not lose her presence of mind. She despatched
messengers for surgeons and wrote to the Prince of Wales. The medical
men were speedily in attendance; but he was beyond mortal help, and
they could only conclude that the King had died of the rupture of some
vessel of the heart, as he had for years been subject to palpitation
of that organ. Dr. Beilby Porteous, in his panegyrising epitaph on the
monarch, considers his death as having been appropriate and necessary.
He had accomplished all for which he had been commissioned by Heaven,
and had received all the rewards in return which Heaven could give to
man on earth:--
No further blessing could on earth be given,
The next degree of happiness--was Heaven.
George II. died possessed of considerable personal property. Of this he
bequeathed 50,000_l._ between the Duke of Cumberland and the Princesses
Amelia and Mary. The share received by his daughters did not equal what
he left to his last ‘favourite’--Lady Yarmouth. The legacy to that
German lady, of whom he used to write to Queen Caroline from Hanover,
‘You must love the Walmoden, for she loves _me_,’ consisted of a
cabinet and ‘contents,’ valued, it is said, at 11,000_l._ His son, the
Duke of Cumberland, further received from him a bequest of 130,000_l._,
placed on mortgages not immediately recoverable. The testator had
originally bequeathed twice that amount to his son; but he revoked
half, on the ground of the expenses of the war. He describes him as
the best son that ever lived, and declares that he had never given him
cause to be offended: ‘A pretty strong comment,’ as Horace Walpole
remarks, when detailing the incidents of the King’s decease, ‘on the
affair of Klosterseven.’ The King’s jewels were worth, according
to Lady Suffolk, 150,000_l._: of the best of them, which he kept in
Hanover, he made crown jewels; the remainder, with some cabinets,
were left to the duke. ‘Two days before the King died,’ says Walpole,
‘it happened oddly to my Lady Suffolk. She went to make a visit at
Kensington, not knowing of the review. She found herself hemmed in by
coaches, and was close to him whom she had not seen for so many years,
and to my Lady Yarmouth; but they did not know her. It struck her, and
has made her sensible to his death.’
Intelligence of the King’s decease was sent, as before said, to
the Prince of Wales, by the Princess Amelia. The heir-apparent,
however, received earlier intimation of the fact through a German
_valet-de-chambre_, at Kensington. The latter despatched a note, which
bore a private mark previously agreed upon, and which reached the heir
to so much greatness as he was out riding. He knew what had happened by
the sign. ‘Without surprise or emotion, without dropping a word that
indicated what had happened, he said his horse was lame, and turned
back to Kew. At dismounting he said to the groom: “I have said this
horse was lame; I forbid you to say to the contrary.”’ If this story of
Walpole’s be true, the longest reign in England started from a lie.
In the meantime there was the old King to bury, and he was consigned
to the tomb with a ceremony which has been graphically pictured by
Horace Walpole. He describes himself as attending the funeral, not as
a mourner, but as ‘a rag of quality,’ in which character he walked, as
affording him the best means of seeing the show. He pronounced it a
noble sight, and he appears to have enjoyed it extremely. ‘The Prince’s
chamber, hung with purple, and a quantity of silver lamps, the coffin
under a canopy of purple velvet, and six vast chandeliers of silver,
on high stands, had a very good effect. The procession, through a line
of foot-guards, every seventh man bearing a torch--the horse-guards
lining the outsides--their officers, with drawn sabres and crape
sashes, on horseback--the drums muffled--the fifes--bells tolling--and
minute guns--all this was very solemn.’ There was, however, something
more exquisite still in the estimation of this very unsentimental
rag of quality. ‘The _charm_,’ he says, ‘the charm was the entrance
to the Abbey, where we were received by the dean and chapter in rich
robes, the choir and almoners bearing torches; the whole Abbey so
illuminated that one saw it to greater advantage than by day; the
tombs, long aisles, and fretted roof all appearing distinctly, and with
the happiest _chiaro oscuro_. There wanted nothing but incense and
little chapels here and there, with priests saying mass for the repose
of the defunct; yet one could not complain of its not being Catholic
enough. I had been in dread of being coupled with some boy of ten years
old; but the heralds were not very accurate, and I walked with George
Grenville, taller and older, to keep me in countenance. When we came to
the chapel of Henry VII. all solemnity and decorum ceased; no order was
observed, people sat or stood where they could or would; the yeomen of
the guard were crying out for help, oppressed by the immense weight of
the coffin; the bishop read sadly, and blundered in the prayers. The
fine chapter, _Man that is born of a woman_, was chanted, not read; and
the anthem, besides being immeasurably tedious, would have served as
well for a nuptial. The real serious part was the figure of the Duke of
Cumberland, heightened by a thousand melancholy circumstances. He had
a dark-brown adonis, with a cloak of black cloth, and a train of five
yards. Attending the funeral of a father _could not be pleasant_; his
leg extremely bad, yet forced to stand upon it near two hours; his
face bloated and disturbed with his late paralytic stroke, which has
affected, too, one of his eyes; and placed over the mouth of the vault,
into which, in all probability, he must himself soon descend; think
how unpleasant a situation. He bore it all with a firm and unaffected
countenance. This grave scene was fully contrasted by the burlesque
Duke of Newcastle. He fell into a fit of crying the moment he came
into the chapel, and flung himself back into a stall, the archbishop
hovering over him with a smelling-bottle; but in two minutes his
curiosity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel
with his glass, to spy who was or who was not there, spying with one
hand and mopping his eyes with the other. Then returned the fear of
catching cold; and the Duke of Cumberland, who was sinking with heat,
felt himself weighed down, and turning round, found it was the Duke of
Newcastle standing upon his train to avoid the chill of the marble. It
was very theatrical to look down into the vault, where the coffin lay
attended by mourners with lights. Clavering, the groom of the chamber,
refused to sit up with the body, and was dismissed by the King’s order.’
Speaking of the last year of the life of George II., Walpole remarks,
with a truth that cannot be gainsaid: ‘It was glorious and triumphant
beyond example; and his death was most felicitous to himself, being
without a pang, without tasting a reverse, and when his sight and
hearing were so nearly extinguished that any prolongation could but
have swelled to calamities.’
_CHARLOTTE SOPHIA_,
WIFE OF GEORGE III.
CHAPTER I.
THE COMING OF THE BRIDE.
Lady Sarah Lennox, the object of George the Third’s early
affections--The fair Quaker--Matrimonial commission of Colonel
Græme--Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburgh--Her spirited letter
to the King of Prussia--Demanded in marriage by George the Third
--Arrival in England--Her progress to London--Colchester and its
candied eringo-root--Entertained by Lord Abercorn--Arrival in
London, and reception--Claim of the Irish Peeresses advocated by
Lord Charlemont--The Royal marriage--The first drawing-room--A
comic anecdote---The King and Queen at the Chapel Royal--At the
theatre; accidents on the occasion--The coronation--Incidents
and anecdotes connected with it--The young Pretender said to have
been present--The coronation produced at the theatre.
The eldest son of Frederick, Prince of Wales, was yet young when his
grandfather began to consider the question of his marriage; and, it
is said, had designed to form a union between him and a princess of
the royal family of Prussia. The design, if ever formed, entirely
failed; and while those most anxious for the Protestant succession were
occupied in naming princesses worthy to espouse an heir to a throne,
that heir himself is said to have fixed his young affections on an
English lady, whose virtues and beauty might have made her eligible had
not the accident of her not being a foreigner barred her way to the
throne. This lady was Lady Sarah Lennox; and a vast amount of gossip
was expended upon her and the young prince by those busy persons whose
chief occupation consists in arranging the affairs of others. It is
impossible to say how far this young couple were engaged; but the fact,
as surmised, rendered the friends of the prince, now George III., more
anxious than ever to see him provided with a fair partner on the throne.
George III. had first been ‘smitten’ by seeing Lady Sarah Lennox making
hay in a field close to the high road in Kensington. She was charming
in feature, figure, and expression; but her great beauty, according
to Henry Fox, was ‘a peculiarity of countenance that made her at the
same time different from, and prettier than, any other girl I ever
saw.’ At a private court ball, the young King said to Lady Susan
Strangways: ‘There will be no coronation until there is a Queen, and
I think your friend is the fittest person for it; tell her so from
me.’ Subsequently, the enamoured monarch had an opportunity of asking
Lady Sarah if she had received the message confided to Lady Susan. On
the young lady replying in the affirmative, and on her being asked
what she thought of it, her answer was: ‘Nothing, sir!’ Her friends,
however, thought a good deal of it. As Lady Sarah was once entering the
presence chamber, Lady Barrington gently pulled the skirt of her dress,
and said: ‘Let me go in before you; for you will never have another
opportunity of seeing my beautiful back.’ Lady Barrington was famed for
the beauty of her shoulders. Lady Sarah, too, had thought more about
the King’s message than she had confessed to the King himself.
When the news reached her that the young Sovereign was about to marry
a ‘Princess of Mecklenburgh,’ she wrote to Lady Susan: ‘Does not your
choler rise at hearing this. I shall take care to show that I am not
mortified to anybody; but if it is true that one can vex anybody with
a cold, reserved manner, he shall have it, I promise him.’ Anon, the
writer thinks she only liked him a little, and the ‘disappointment
affected her only for an hour or two.’ Ultimately, she remarks: ‘If
he were to change his mind again (which can’t be, tho’), and not give
a _very, very_ good reason for his conduct, I would not have him. We
are to act a play and have a little ball, to show that we are not so
melancholy quite!’ And thus the disappointment was ostensibly got over.
Walpole has described the lady who first raised a tender feeling in the
breast of George in very graphic terms: ‘There was a play at Holland
House, acted by children; not all children, for Lady Sarah Lennox’
(subsequently Lady Sarah Napier) ‘and Lady Susan Strangways played the
women. It was ‘Jane Shore.’ Charles Fox was Hastings. The two girls
were delightful, and acted with so much nature that they appeared the
very things they represented. Lady Sarah was more beautiful than you
can conceive; and her very awkwardness gave an air of truth to the
sham of the part, and the antiquity of the time, kept up by her dress,
which was taken out of Montfaucon. Lady Susan was dressed from Jane
Seymour. I was more struck with the last scene between the two women
than ever I was when I have seen it on the stage. When Lady Sarah was
in white, with her hair about her ears, and on the ground, no Magdalen
of Correggio was half so lovely and expressive.’
But there is a pretty romance extant, based, as even romances may
be, upon some foundation of reality; and, according to the narrators
thereof, it is said that the King, when yet only Prince of Wales, had
been attracted by the charms of a young Quakeress, named Lightfoot (of
the vicinity of St. James’s Market), long before he had felt subdued
by the more brilliant beauty of Lady Sarah Lennox. The romance has
been recounted circumstantially enough by its authors and editors; and,
if these are to be trusted, the young prince was so enamoured that,
finding his peace of mind and happiness depended on his being united to
the gentle Hannah, he made a confidant of his brother, Edward, Duke of
York, and another person, who has never had the honour of being named,
and in their presence a marriage was contracted privately at Curzon
Street Chapel, Mayfair, in the year 1759!
A few years previous to this time, Mayfair had been the favourite
locality for the celebration of hurried marriages, particularly at
‘Keith’s Chapel,’ which was within ten yards of ‘Curzon Chapel.’ The
Reverend Alexander Keith kept open altar during the usual office hours
from ten till four, and married parties for the small fee of a guinea,
license included. Parties requiring to be united at other hours paid
extra. The Reverend Alexander so outraged the law that he was publicly
excommunicated in 1742; for which he as publicly excommunicated the
excommunicators in return. Seven years before George is said to have
married Hannah Lightfoot at Curzon Chapel, James, the fourth Duke of
Hamilton, was married at ‘Keith’s’ to the youngest of the beautiful
Misses Gunning--‘with a ring of the bed-curtain,’ says Horace Walpole,
‘and at half an hour after twelve at night.’
The rest of the pretty romance touching George and Hannah is rather
lumbering in its construction. The married lovers are said to have
kept a little household of their own, and round the hearth thereof we
are further told that there were not wanting successive young faces,
adding to its happiness. But there came the moment when the dream was
to disappear and the sleeper to awaken. We are told by the retailers
of the story that Hannah Lightfoot was privately disposed of--not by
bowl, prison, or dagger, but by espousing her to a gentle Strephon
named Axford, who, for a pecuniary consideration, took Hannah to
wife, and asked no impertinent questions. They lived, at least Hannah
did, for a time, in Harper Street, Red Lion Square. The story is an
indifferent one, but it has been so often alluded to that some notice
of it seemed necessary in this place.
Something more than rumour asserts that the young King was attracted
by the stately grace of Elizabeth Spencer, Countess of Pembroke, who
is described as a living picture of majestic modesty. In after years,
the King looked on the mother of the Napiers, and on the above-named
countess, with a certain loving interest. In the intervals of his
attacks of insanity, it is said that he used to dwell with impassioned
accents on the former beauty of the majestic countess.
The King’s mother had been most averse to the Prussian connection. Mr.
Fox, afterwards Lord Holland, is said to have done his best to further
a union with a subject. The Princess-dowager of Wales and Lord Bute
would have selected a princess of Saxe Gotha; but it was whispered that
there was a constitutional infirmity in that family which rendered
an alliance with it in no way desirable. Besides, George II. said
he had had enough of that family already. A Colonel Græme was then
despatched to Germany, and rumour invested him with the commission to
visit the German courts, and if he could find among them a princess
who was faultless in form, feature, and character, of sound health
and highly accomplished, he was to report accordingly. Colonel Græme,
love’s military messenger, happened to fall in at Pyrmont with the
Princess-dowager of Strelitz and her two daughters. At the gay baths
and salutary springs of Pyrmont very little etiquette was observed,
even in those very ceremonious times, and great people went about less
in masquerade and less strait-laced than they were wont to do at home,
in the circle of their own courts. In this sort of _negligé_ there was
a charm which favoured the development of character, and under its
influence the scrutinising colonel soon vicariously fell in love with
the young Princess Charlotte, and at once made the report which led to
the royal marriage that ensued.
There were persons who denied that this little romantic drama was ever
played at all; but as the colonel was subsequently appointed to the
mastership of St. Catherine’s Hospital, the prettiest bit of preferment
possessed by a Queen-consort, other persons looked upon the appointment
as the due acknowledgment of a princess grateful for favours received.
But, after all, the young King is positively declared to have chosen
for himself. The King of Prussia at that time was a man much addicted
to disregard the rights of his contemporaries, and among other outrages
committed by his army, was the invasion, and almost desolating, of
the little dominion of Mecklenburgh Strelitz, the ducal possession of
the Princess Charlotte’s brother. This act inspired, it is said, the
lady last-named to pen a letter to the monarch, which was as full of
spirit as of logic, and not likely to have been written by so young a
lady. The letter, however, was sufficiently spirited and conclusive
to win reputation for the alleged writer. Its great charm was its
simple and touching truthfulness, and the letter, whether forwarded
to George by the Prussian king, or laid before him by his mother the
princess-dowager, is said to have had such an influence on his mind,
as to at once inspire him with feelings of admiration for the writer.
After praising it, the King exclaimed to Lord Hertford: ‘This is the
lady whom I shall select for my consort--here are lasting beauties
--the man who has any mind may feast and not be satisfied. If the
disposition of the princess but equals her refined sense, I shall be
the happiest man, as I hope, with my people’s concurrence, to be the
greatest monarch in Europe.’
The lady on whom this eulogy was uttered was Charlotte Sophia,
the younger of the two daughters of Charles Louis, Duke of Mirow,
by Albertina Elizabeth, a princess of the ducal house of Saxe
Hilburghausen. The Duke of Mirow was the second son of the Duke of
Mecklenburgh Strelitz, and was a lieutenant-general in the service of
the Emperor of Germany when Charlotte Sophia was born, at Mirow, on the
16th of May 1744. Four sons and one other daughter were the issue of
this marriage. The eldest son ultimately became Duke of Mecklenburgh
Strelitz, and to the last-named place the Princess Charlotte Sophia (or
Charlotte, as she was commonly called) and her family removed in 1751,
on the death of the Duke Charles Louis.
At seven years of age she had for her instructress that verse-writing
Madame de Grabow, whom the Germans fondly and foolishly compared with
Sappho. The post of instructress was shared by many partners; but,
finally, to the poetess succeeded a philosopher, Dr. Gentzner, who,
from the time of his undertaking the office of tutor to that of the
marriage of his ‘serene’ pupil, imparted to the latter a varied wisdom
and knowledge, made up of Lutheran divinity, natural history, and
mineralogy, Charlotte not only cultivated these branches of education
with success, but others also. She was a very fair linguist, spoke
French perhaps better than German, as was the fashion of her time and
country, could converse in Italian, and knew something of English.
Other accounts say that she did not begin to learn French till she knew
she was to leave Mecklenburgh. Her style of drawing was above that
of an ordinary amateur; she danced like a lady, and played like an
artist. Better than all, she was a woman of good sense, she had the
good fortune to be early taught the great truths of religion, and she
had the good taste to shape her course by their requirements. She was
not without faults, and she had a will of her own. In short, she was a
woman; a woman of sense and spirit, but occasionally making mistakes
like any of her sisters.
The letter which she is said to have addressed to the King of Prussia,
and the alleged writing of which is said to have won for her a crown,
has been often printed; but, well known as it is, it cannot well be
omitted from pages professing to give, however imperfectly, as in
the present case, some record of the supposed writer’s life: no one,
however, will readily believe that a girl of sixteen was the actual
author of such a document as the following: ‘May it please your Majesty
... I am at a loss whether I should congratulate or condole with
you on your late victory over Marshal Daun, Nov. 3, 1760, since the
same success which has covered you with laurels has overspread the
country of Mecklenburgh with desolation. I know, Sire, that it seems
unbecoming my sex, in this age of vicious refinement, to feel for
one’s country, to lament the horrors of war, or wish for the return of
peace. I know you may think it more properly my province to study the
arts of pleasing, or to inspect subjects of a more domestic nature;
but, however unbecoming it may be in me, I cannot resist the desire of
interceding for this unhappy people.
‘It was but a very few years ago that this territory wore the most
pleasing appearance; the country was cultivated, the peasants looked
cheerful, and the towns abounded with riches and festivity. What an
alteration at present from such a charming scene! I am not expert at
description, nor can my fancy add any horrors to the picture; but,
sure, even conquerors themselves would weep at the hideous prospects
now before me. The whole country, my dear country, lies one frightful
waste, presenting only objects to excite terror, pity, and despair. The
business of the husbandman and the shepherd are quite discontinued. The
husbandman and the shepherd are become soldiers themselves, and help
to ravage the soil they formerly cultivated. The towns are inhabited
only by old men, old women, and children; perhaps here and there a
warrior, by wounds or loss of limbs rendered unfit for service, left at
his door; his little children hang round him, ask a history of every
wound, and grow themselves soldiers before they find strength for the
field. But this were nothing, did we not feel the alternate insolence
of either army, as it happens to advance or retreat in pursuing the
operations of the campaign. It is impossible to express the confusion
even those who call themselves our friends create; even those from whom
we might expect redress oppress with new calamities. From your justice,
therefore, it is we hope relief. To you even women and children may
complain, whose humanity stoops to the meanest petition, and whose
power is capable of repressing the greatest injustice.’
The very reputation of having written this letter won for its supposed
author the crown of a Queen-consort. The members of the privy council,
to whom the royal intention was first communicated, thought it almost
a misalliance for a King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland to wed
with a lady of such poor estate as the younger daughter of a very poor
German prince. Had they been ethnologists, they might have augured well
of a union between Saxon King and Sclavonic lady. The Sclave blood runs
pure in Mecklenburgh.
It was on the 8th of July 1761 that the King announced to his council,
in due and ordinary form, that having nothing so much at heart as the
welfare and happiness of his people, and that to render the same
stable and permanent to posterity being the first object of his reign,
he had ever since his accession to the throne turned his thoughts
to the choice of a princess with whom he might find the solace of
matrimony and the comforts of domestic life; he had to announce to
them, therefore, with great satisfaction, that, after the most mature
reflection and fullest information, he had come to a resolution to
demand in marriage the Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburgh Strelitz, a
princess distinguished by every amiable virtue and elegant endowment,
whose illustrious line had continually shown the firmest zeal for the
Protestant religion, and a particular attachment to his Majesty’s
family. Lord Hardwicke, who had been fixed upon by the King as his
representative commissioned to go to Strelitz, and ask the hand of the
Princess Charlotte Sophia in marriage, owed his appointment and his
subsequent nomination as master of the buckhounds to his Majesty, to
the circumstance that at the King’s accession he had been almost the
only nobleman who had not solicited some favour from the Crown. He was
so charmed with his mission that everything appeared to him _couleur
de rose_, and not only was he enraptured with ‘the most amiable young
princess he ever saw,’ but, as he adds in a letter to his friend,
Mr. Mitchel, gratified at the reception he had met with at the court
of Strelitz, appearing as he did ‘upon such an errand,’ and happy to
find that ‘the great honour the King has done this family is seen in
its proper light.’ The business, as he remarks, was not a difficult
one. There were no thorns in his rosy path. The little court, he
tells us, exerted its utmost abilities to make a figure suitable for
this occasion, and, in the envoy’s opinion, they acquitted themselves
not only with magnificence and splendour, but with great taste and
propriety. His lordship completed the treaty of marriage on the 15th
of August. His testimony touching the bride runs as follows:--‘Our
Queen that is to be has seen very little of the world; but her very
good sense, vivacity, and cheerfulness, I dare say, will recommend her
to the King, and make her the darling of the British nation. She is
no regular beauty; but she is of a very pretty size, has a charming
complexion, very pretty eyes, and finely made. In short, she is a very
fine girl.’
Mrs. Stuart, daughter-in-law of Lord Bute, left the following note of
the early life of the princess, and of the marriage-by-proxy ceremony,
derived from the Queen herself:--
‘Her Majesty described her life at Mecklenburgh as one of extreme
retirement. She dressed only _en robe de chambre_, except on Sundays,
on which day she put on her best gown, and after service, which was
very long, took an airing in a coach-and-six, attended by guards and
all the state she could muster. She had not “dined” at table at the
period I am speaking of. One morning her eldest brother, of whom she
seems to have stood in great awe, came to her room in company with
the duchess, her mother.... In a few minutes the folding doors flew
open to the saloon, which she saw splendidly illuminated; and then
appeared a table, two cushions, and everything prepared for a wedding.
Her brother then gave her his hand, and, leading her in, used his
favourite expression--“_Allons, ne faites pas l’enfant, tu vas être
Reine d’Angleterre._” Mr. Drummond then advanced. They knelt down. The
ceremony, whatever it was, proceeded. She was laid on the sofa, upon
which he laid his foot; and they all embraced her, calling her “La
Reine.”’
‘La Reine’ was not such ‘a very fine girl’ as not to be startled by the
superior beauty of the two principal ladies who were sent to escort her
to London. When the Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburgh first looked
upon the brilliant Duchesses of Ancaster and Hamilton, she could not
help exclaiming, with a sentiment apparently of self-humility, ‘Are all
the women in England as beautiful as you are?’
The convoying fleet sent to conduct the princess to England was
commanded by the great Lord Anson. The Tripoline ambassador could
not but admire the honour paid by his Majesty in sending so high an
officer--‘the first eunuch,’ as the Mahometan called him--to escort the
bride to her new home.’
When the marriage treaty had been formally concluded, after some
delay caused by the death of the mother of the princess, the little
city of Strelitz became briefly mad with joy and exultation. There
were illuminations, balls, fireworks, and artillery; and for two days
stupendous state banquets followed each other, and said much for the
digestion of those who enjoyed them. On the 17th of August the princess
left Strelitz, accompanied by her brother, the grand duke, and in four
days arrived at Stade amid demonstrations of great delight on the part
of the population, ever grateful for an excitement and especially so
for one afforded them by a young Queen--as the bride elect was already
considered. On the 22nd she embarked at Cuxhaven amid a salute from the
whole fleet. For more than a week she was as disrespectfully tossed and
tumbled about by the rough sea, over which her path lay, as the Hero
of New Zealand buffeting the waves to meet her dusky Leander. During
the voyage a wave washed a sailor from the deck, and he perished in
the surging waters. At the end of the voyage the bride was, rather
unnecessarily informed of the calamity. She had been undisturbed by any
cry of ‘Man overboard!’
The royal yacht which bore the youthful bride was surrounded by the
squadron forming the convoy; and across as boisterous a sea as ever
tried a ship or perplexed a sailor the bride was carried in discomfort
but safety, till, on the evening of Sunday, the 6th of September, the
fleet and its precious freight arrived off Harwich. It was Sunday
evening, and the fact was not known in London till Monday morning.
The report of the ‘Queen’ having been seen off the coast of Sussex on
Saturday was current, but there was great uncertainty as to where she
was, whether she had landed, or when she would be in town. ‘Last night,
at ten o’clock,’ says Walpole on Tuesday morning, ‘it was neither
certain where she landed nor when she would be in town. I forgive
history for knowing nothing, when so public an event as the arrival
of a new Queen is a mystery even at this very moment in St. James’s
Street. This messenger who brought the letter yesterday morning,
said she _arrived_ at half an hour after four, at Harwich. This was
immediately translated into landing, and notified in those words to
the ministers. Six hours afterwards it proved no such thing, and that
she was only in Harwich Road; and they recollected that half an hour
after four happens twice in twenty-four hours, and the letter did not
specify which of the twices it was. Well, the bride’s-maids whipped on
their virginity; the New Road and the parks were thronged; the guns
were choking with impatience to go off; and Sir James Lowther, who was
to pledge his Majesty, was actually married to Lady Mary Stuart. Five,
six, seven, eight o’clock came, and no Queen.’
The lady so impatiently looked for remained on board the yacht
throughout the Sunday night. Storm-tost as she had been, she had borne
the voyage well, and had ‘been sick but half an hour, singing and
playing on the harpsichord all the voyage, and been cheerful the whole
time.’
On Monday she landed, but not till after dinner, and then was received
in the ancient town by the authorities, and with all the usual
ceremonies which it is the curse of very great people to be fated to
encounter. Had the young King been a really gallant monarch he would
have met his bride on the sea-shore; but etiquette does not allow of
sovereigns being gallant, and the princess was welcomed by no higher
dignitary than a mayor. In the afternoon she journeyed leisurely on to
Colchester, where she was entertained at the house of a loyal private
individual, Mr. Enew. Here Captain Birt served her with coffee, and
Lieutenant John Seaber waited on her with tea; this service being
concluded, an inhabitant of the town presented her with a box of
candied eringo-root. This presentation is always made, it would seem,
to royalty when the latter honours Colchester with a passing visit.
The old town is, or was, proud of its peculiar production, ‘candied
eringo-root.’ On the occasion in question the presenter learnedly
detailed the qualities of the root; and the young princess looked as
interested as she could while she was told that the eringium was of the
_Pentandria Digynia_ class, that it had general and partial corollæ,
and that its root was attenuant and deobstruent, and was therefore
esteemed a good hepatic, uterine, and nephritic. Its whole virtue, it
was added, consists in its external or cortical part. There was a good
opportunity to draw a comparison between the root and the bride, to
the advantage of the latter, had the exhibitor been so minded; but the
opportunity was allowed to pass, and the owner of the eringo failed to
allude to the fact that the beauty in the royal features was surpassed
by the virtue indwelling in her heart.
The royal visitor learned all that could well be told her, during her
brief stay, of the historical incidents connected with the place, and
having taken tea and coffee from the hands of veteran warriors, and
candied eringo from Mr. Green, and information touching the visits
of Queen Mary and Elizabeth from the clergy and others, the Princess
Charlotte, or Queen Charlotte, as she was already called, continued
her journey, and by gentle stages arrived at Lord Abercorn’s house at
Witham, ‘’twixt the gloaming and the murk,’ at a quarter past seven.
The host himself was ‘most tranquilly in town;’ and the mansion was
described as ‘the palace of silence.’ The new arrivals, however, soon
raised noise enough within its walls; for notwithstanding the dinner
before landing, some refreshment taken at Harwich, and the tea, coffee,
and candied eringo-root at Colchester, there was still supper to be
provided for the tired Queen and her escort. The first course of the
supper consisted of a mixture of fowl and fish, ‘leverets, partridges,
carp, and soles, brought by express from Colchester, just time enough
for supper.’ There were besides many made dishes, and an abundance of
the choicest fruits that could be procured. The Queen supped in public,
one of the penalties which royalty used to pay to the people. That is,
she sat at table with open doors, at which all comers were allowed to
congregate to witness the not too edifying spectacle of a young bride
feeding. This exploit was accomplished by her Majesty, while Lord
Hardwicke and the gallant Lord Anson stood on either side of the royal
chair, and to the satisfaction of both actress and spectators.
The Queen slept that night at Witham, and the next day went slowly and
satisfiedly on as far as ancient Romford, where she alighted at the
house of a Mr. Dalton, a wine-merchant. In this asylum she remained
about an hour, until the arrival of the royal servants and carriages
from London which were to meet her. The servants having commenced
their office with their new mistress by serving her with coffee, the
Queen entered the royal carriage, in which she was accompanied by the
Duchesses of Ancaster and Hamilton. As it is stated by the recorders
of the incidents of that day that her Majesty was attired ‘entirely in
the English taste,’ it may be worth adding, to show what that taste
was, that ‘she wore a fly-cap with rich lace lappets, a stomacher
ornamented with diamonds, and a gold brocade suit of clothes with a
white ground.’ Thus decked out, the Queen, preceded by three carriages
containing ladies from Mecklenburgh and lords from St. James’s, was
conveyed through lines of people, militia, and horse and foot guards
to London. ‘She was much amused,’ says Mrs. Stuart, ‘at the crowds of
people assembled to see her, and bowed as she passed. She was hideously
dressed in a blue satin quilted jesuit, which came up to her chin
and down to her waist, her hair twisted up into knots called a _tête
de mouton_, and the strangest little blue coif at the top. She had a
great jewel like a Sevigné, and earrings like those now worn, with many
drops, a present from the Empress of Russia, who knew of her marriage
before she did herself.’ She entered the capital by the suburb of Mile
End, which for dirt and misery could hardly be equalled by anything at
Mirow and Strelitz. Having passed through Whitechapel, which must have
given her no very high idea of the civilisation of the British people,
she passed on westward, and proceeding by the longest route, continued
along Oxford Street to Hyde Park, and finally reached the garden-gate
of St. James’s at three in the afternoon. Before she left Romford,
one of the English ladies in attendance recommended her to ‘curl her
_toupée_; she said she thought it looked as well as that of any of the
ladies sent to fetch her; if the King bid her she would wear a periwig;
otherwise she would remain as she was.’
‘Just as they entered Constitution Hill one of the ladies said to
the other, looking at her watch, “We shall hardly have time to dress
for the wedding.” “Wedding!” said the Queen. “Yes, Madam, it is to be
at twelve.” Upon this she fainted. Lady Effingham, who had a bottle
of lavender water in her hand, threw it in her face.’ The travelling
bride had, up to this time, exhibited much self-possession and gaiety
of spirit throughout the journey, and it was not till she came in sight
of the palace that her courage seemed to fail her. _Then_, for the
first time, ‘she grew frightened and grew pale. The Duchess of Hamilton
smiled; the princess said, “My dear duchess, you may laugh, you have
been married twice; but it’s no joke to me.”’
Walpole, writing at ‘twenty minutes past three in the afternoon, not
in the middle of the night,’ says: ‘Madam Charlotte is this instant
arrived; the noise of the coaches, chaise, horsemen, mob, that have
been to see her pass through the parks, is so prodigious that I cannot
distinguish the guns.’
When the royal carriage stopped at the garden-gate the bride’s lips
trembled, and she looked paler than ever, but she stepped out with
spirit, assisted by the Duke of Devonshire, lord-chamberlain. Before
her stood the King surrounded by his court. A crimson cushion was laid
for her to kneel upon, and (Mrs. Stuart tells us) mistaking the hideous
old Duke of Grafton for him, as the cushion inclined that way, she was
very near prostrating herself before the duke; but the King caught her
in his arms first, and all but carried her upstairs, forbidding any one
to enter.
Walpole says of her that she looked sensible, cheerful, and remarkably
genteel. He does not say she was pretty, and it must be confessed that
she was rather plain; too plain to create a favourable impression upon
a youthful monarch, whose heart, even if the story of the Quakeress
be a fiction, was certainly pre-occupied by the image of a lady, who,
nevertheless, figured that night among the bride’s-maids--namely, Lady
Sarah Lennox. ‘An involuntary expression of the King’s countenance,’
says Mr. Galt, ‘revealed what was passing within, but it was a passing
cloud--the generous feelings of the monarch were interested; and
the tenderness with which he thenceforward treated Queen Charlotte
was uninterrupted until the moment of their final separation.’ This
probably comes much nearer to the truth than the assertion of Lady Anne
Hamilton, who says: ‘At the first sight of the German princess, the
King actually shrunk from her gaze, for her countenance was of that
cast that too plainly told of the nature of the spirit working within.’
Lord Hardwicke is said to have sent to his wife an unfavourable
description of the Queen’s features, which Lady Hardwicke read aloud
to her friends. It is added that George III., on hearing of it, was
greatly offended.
The King, as before mentioned, led his bride into the palace, where
she dined with him, his mother the princess-dowager, and that Princess
Augusta who was to give a future queen to England, in the person of
Caroline of Brunswick. After dinner, when the bride’s-maids and the
court were introduced to her, she said, ‘Mon Dieu, il y en a tant, il
y en a tant!’ She kissed the princesses with manifest pleasure, but
was so prettily reluctant to offer her own hand to _be_ kissed, that
the Princess Augusta, for once doing a graceful thing gracefully,
was forced to take her hand and give it to those who were to kiss
it, which was prettily humble and good. This act set the Queen
talking and laughing, at which some severe critics declared that the
illustrious lady’s face seemed all mouth. Northcote subsequently
declared that Queen Charlotte’s plainness was not a vulgar, but an
elegant, plainness. The artist saw another grace in her. As he looked
at Reynolds’s portrait of her, fan in hand, Northcote, remembering the
sitting, exclaimed, ‘Lord, how she held that fan!’
It is singular that although the question touching precedency, in the
proper position of Irish peers on English state occasions, had been
settled in the reign of George II., it was renewed on the occasion of
the marriage of Queen Charlotte with increased vigour. The question,
indeed, now rather regarded the peeresses than the peers. The Irish
ladies of that rank claimed a right to walk in the marriage procession
immediately after English peeresses of their own degree. The impudent
wits of the day declared that the Irish ladies would be out of their
vocation at weddings, and that their proper place was at funerals,
where they might professionally _howl_. The rude taunt was made in mere
thoughtlessness, but it stirred the high-spirited Hibernian ladies to
action. They deputed Lord Charlemont to proceed to the court of St.
James’s, and not only prefer but establish their claim. The gallant
champion of dames fulfilled his office with alacrity, and crowned it
with success. The royal bride herself was written to, but she, of
course, could only express her willingness to see as many fair and
friendly faces about her as possible; and she referred the applicants
to custom and the lord-chamberlain. The reference was not favourable
to the claimants, and Lord Charlemont boldly went to the King himself.
The good-natured young monarch was as warm in praise of Irish beauty
as if he was about to marry one, but he protested that he had no
authority, and that Lord Charlemont must address his claim to the
privy council. When that august body received the ladies’ advocate,
they required of him to set down his specific claim in writing, so
that the heralds, those learned and useful gentlemen, might comprehend
what was asked, and do solemn justice to rank and precedency on this
exceedingly solemn occasion. Lord Charlemont knew nothing of the
heralds’ shibboleth, but he found a friend who could and did help him
in his need, in Lord Egmont. By the two a paper was hurriedly drawn up
in proper form, and submitted to the council. The collective wisdom of
the latter pronounced the claim to be good, and that Irish peeresses
might walk in the royal marriage procession immediately after English
peeresses of their own rank, if invited to do so. The verdict was
not worth much, but it satisfied the claimants. If the whole Irish
peerage, the female portion of it at least, was not at the wedding, it
was fairly represented, and when Lord Charlemont returned to Dublin,
the ladies welcomed him as cordially as the nymphs in the bridal of
Triermain did the wandering Arthur. They showered on him flowers of
gratitude, and their dignity was well content to feel assured that they
might all have gone to the wedding if they had only been invited.
At seven o’clock the nobility began to flock down to the scene of the
marriage in the royal chapel. The night was sultry, but fine. At nine,
and not at twelve, the ceremony was performed by the Lord Archbishop of
Canterbury; and perhaps the most beautiful portion of the spectacle was
that afforded by the bride’s-maids, among whom Lady Sarah Lennox, Lady
Caroline Russel, and Lady Elizabeth Keppel were distinguished for their
pre-eminent attractions. During the whole ceremony, it is said that the
royal bridegroom’s eyes were kept fixed on Lady Sarah especially. That
the Queen could not have been so perfectly unpossessed of attractive
features as some writers have declared her, may be gathered from a
remark of Walpole’s, who was present, and who, after praising the
beauty of the bride’s-maids, and that of a couple of duchesses, says:
‘Except a pretty Lady Sunderland, and a most perfect beauty, an Irish
Miss Smith, I don’t think the Queen saw much else to discourage her.’
The general impression was different. What this was may be understood
by a passage in a letter addressed to Mrs. Montagu’s brother, the Rev.
William Robertson, by a friend, in October 1761: ‘The Queen seems to me
to behave with equal propriety and civility; though the common people
are quite exasperated at her not being handsome, and the people at
court laugh at her courtesies.’
All the royal family were present at the nuptials. The King’s brother,
Edward, Duke of York, was at his side; and this alleged witness of the
King’s alleged previous marriage with Hannah Lightfoot, says Lady Anne
Hamilton, ‘used every endeavour to support his royal brother through
the trying ordeal, not only by first meeting the princess in her
entrance into the garden, but also at the altar.’
The Queen was in white and silver. ‘An endless mantle of
violet-coloured velvet,’ says Walpole, ‘lined with crimson, and which,
attempted to be fastened on her shoulder by a bunch of large pearls,
dragged itself and almost the rest of her clothes half-way down her
waist.’
After the ceremony their Majesties occupied two state chairs on the
same side of the altar, under a canopy. The mother of the monarch
occupied a similar chair of state on the opposite side; the other
members of the royal family were seated on stools, while benches were
given to the foreign ministers to rest upon. At half-past ten the
proceedings came to a close, and the return of the marriage procession
from the chapel was announced by thundering salutes from the artillery
of the park and the Tower. ‘Can it be possible,’ said the humble bride,
‘that I am worthy of such honours?’
Walpole says of the royal bride that she did nothing but with good
humour and cheerfulness. ‘She talks a good deal,’ says the same writer,
‘is easy, civil, and not disconcerted.’ While the august company waited
for supper, she sat down, sung, and played; conversed with the King,
Duke of Cumberland, and Duke of York, in German and French. She was
reported to have been as conversant with the last as any native, but
Walpole only says of it that ‘her French is tolerable.’ The supper was
in fact a banquet of great splendour and corresponding weariness. ‘They
did not get to bed till two;’ by which time the bride, who had made a
weary journey through the heat and dust, and had been awake since the
dawn, must have been sadly jaded. ‘Nothing but a German constitution,’
said Mrs. Scott, ‘could have undergone it.’ The same lady says:--‘She
did not arrive in London till three o’clock, and besides the fatigue
of the journey, with the consequences of the flutter she could not
avoid being in, she was to dress for her wedding, be married, have a
drawing-room, and undergo the ceremony of receiving company after she
and the King were in bed, and _all_ the night after her journey and so
long a voyage.’ There are no old fashioned nuptial ceremonies to record
and to smile at. Walpole alludes to a civil war and campaign on the
question of the bedchamber. ‘Everybody is excluded but the minister;
even the lords of the bedchamber, cabinet councillors, and foreign
ministers; but it has given such offence that I don’t know whether Lord
Huntingdon must not be the scapegoat.’
On the 9th of September the Queen held her first drawing-room.
‘Everybody was presented to her, but she spoke to nobody, as she
could not know a soul. The crowd was much less than at a birthday;
the magnificence very little more. The King looked very handsome, and
talked to her with great good humour. It does not promise as if these
two would be the two most unhappy persons in England from this event.’
In contrast with this account of an eye-witness stands the deposition
of Lady Anne Hamilton, a passage from whose suppressed book may be
cited rather than credited. It reflects, however, much of the popular
opinion of that and a far later period. ‘In the meantime,’ writes the
lady just named, ‘the Earl of Abercorn informed the princess of the
previous marriage of the King, and of the existence of his Majesty’s
wife; and Lord Hardwicke advised the princess to well inform herself
of the policy of the kingdom, as a measure for preventing much future
disturbance in the country, as well as securing an uninterrupted
possession of the throne to her issue. Presuming, therefore, that the
German princess had hitherto been an open and ingenuous character,
such expositions, intimations, and dark mysteries were ill-calculated
to nourish honourable feelings, but would rather operate as a check to
their further existence. To the public eye the newly married pair were
contented with each other; alas! it was because each feared an exposure
to the nation. The King reproached himself that he had not fearlessly
avowed the only wife of his affections; the Queen, because she feared
an explanation that the King was guilty of _bigamy_, and thereby her
claim, as also that of her progeny (if she should have any), would
be known to be illegitimate. It appears as if the result of those
reflections formed a basis for the misery of millions, and added to
that number millions yet unborn.’
This probably is solemn nonsense, as it is certainly indifferent
English. We get back to comic truth, at least, in an anecdote told by
Cumberland, of Bubb Dodington, who, ‘when he paid his court at St.
James’s to her Majesty, upon her nuptials, approached to kiss her
hand, decked in an embroidered suit of silk, with lilac waistcoat and
breeches, the latter of which, in the act of kneeling down, forgot
their duty, and broke loose from their moorings in a very indecorous
and uncourtly manner.’ As for the forsaken Ariadne, Lady Sarah Lennox
was very soon united to Sir Charles Bunbury; and subsequently to
Colonel George Napier, by whom she became mother of ‘the Napiers’, one
of whom used to speak sneeringly of George IV. as his ‘cousin.’ Lady
Sarah’s old royal lover never made any secret of his admiration of her.
The last time he was ever at the play with Queen Charlotte, he remarked
to her, of one of the most accomplished of actresses, ‘Miss Pope is
still like Lady Sarah!’
Between the wedding drawing-room and the coronation the King and
Queen appeared twice in public, once at their devotions and once
at the play. On both occasions there were crowds of followers, and
some disappointment. At the chapel-royal, the preacher, the Rev. Mr.
Schultz, made no allusion to the august couple, but simply confined
himself to a practical illustration of his text, ‘Provide things
honest in the sight of all men.’ It was a text from the application
of which a young sovereign couple might learn much that was valuable,
without being preached _at_. But the crowd, who went to stare, and not
to pray, would have been better pleased to have heard them lectured,
and to have seen how they looked under the infliction. The King had
expressly forbidden all laudation of himself from the pulpit, but
the Rev. Dr. Wilson, and Mason the poet, disobeyed the injunction,
and, getting nothing by their praise, joined the _patriotic_ side in
politics immediately. At the play, to which the King and Queen went on
the day after attending church, to witness Garrick, who was advertised
to play Bayes, in the ‘Rehearsal,’ the King was in roars of laughter
at Garrick’s comic acting; which even made the Queen smile, to whom,
however, such a play as the ‘Rehearsal’ and such a part as Bayes must
have been totally incomprehensible, and defying explanation. No royal
state was displayed on this occasion, but there were the penalties
which are sometimes paid by a too eager curiosity. The way from the
palace to the theatre was so beset by a violently loyal mob that there
was difficulty in getting the royal chairs through the unwelcome
pressure. The accidents were many, and some were fatal. The young
married couple did not accomplish their first party of pleasure, shared
with the public, but at the expense of three or four lives of persons
trampled to death among the crowd that had assembled to view _their_
portion of the sight.
The St. ‘James’s Chronicle’ thus reports the scene which took place
on the occasion of the royal visit to Drury Lane, on Friday, the
11th of September: ‘Last night, about a quarter after six, their
Majesties the King and Queen, with most of the royal family, went to
Drury Lane playhouse to see the “Rehearsal.” Their Majesties went in
chairs, and the rest of the royal family in coaches, attended by the
horse-guards. His Majesty was preceded by the Duke of Devonshire, his
lord-chamberlain, and the Honourable Mr. Finch, his vice-chamberlain;
and her Majesty was preceded by the Duke of Manchester, her
lord-chamberlain, and Lord Cantalupe, her vice-chamberlain, the Earl
of Harcourt, her master of the horse, and by the Duchess of Ancaster
and the Countess of Effingham. It is almost inconceivable, the crowds
of people that waited in the streets, quite from St. James’s to the
playhouse, to see their Majesties. Never was seen so brilliant a train,
the ladies being mostly dressed in the clothes and jewels they wore
at the royal marriage. The house was quite full before the doors were
open, so that out of the vast multitude that waited the opening of the
doors, not a hundred got in; the house being previously filled, to the
great disappointment and fatigue of many thousands; and we may venture
to say that there were people enough to have filled fifty such houses.
There was a prodigious deal of mischief done at the doors of the house;
several genteel women, who were imprudent enough to attempt to get in,
had their clothes, caps, aprons, handkerchiefs, all torn off them. It
is said a girl was killed, and a man so trampled on that there are no
hopes of his recovery.’
Among the congratulatory addresses presented to the Queen, on the
occasion of her marriage, there was none which caused so much remark
as that presented by the ladies of St. Albans. They complained that
_custom_ had deprived them of the pleasure of joining in the address
presented by the gentlemen of the borough, and that they were therefore
compelled to act independently. They profited by the occasion to
express a hope that the example set by the King and Queen would be
speedily and widely followed. The holy state of matrimony, the St.
Albans ladies assured her Majesty, had fallen so low as to be sneered
at and disregarded by gentlemen. They further declared that if the best
riches of a nation consisted in the amount of population, they were
the best citizens who did their utmost to increase that amount: to
further which end the ladies of St. Albans expressed a loyal degree of
willingness, with sundry logical reasonings which made even the grave
Charlotte smile.
It is unnecessary perhaps to enter detailedly upon the programme of
the royal coronation. All coronations very much resemble each other;
they only vary in some of their incidents. That of George and Charlotte
had well-nigh been delayed by the sudden and unexpected strike of the
workmen at Westminster Hall. These handicraftsmen had been accustomed
to take toll of the public admitted to see the preparations; but
soldiers on guard, perceiving the profit to be derived from such
a course, allowed no one to enter at all but after payment of an
admission fee sufficiently large to gratify their cupidity. The
plunderers of the public thereupon fell out, and the workmen struck
because they had been deprived of an opportunity of robbing curious
citizens. The dispute was settled by a compromise; an increase of wages
was made to the workmen, and the military continued to levy with great
success upon the purses of civilians, as before.
Nothing further remained to impede the completion of the preparations
for the spectacle; but by another strike, a portion, at least, of the
public ran the risk of not seeing the spectacle at all. The chairmen
and drivers of hired vehicles had talked so largely of their scale
of prices for the Coronation Day, that the authorities threatened to
interfere and establish a tariff; whereupon the chairmen and their
brethren solemnly announced that not a hired vehicle of any description
should ply in the streets at all on the day in question; and that if
there _were_ a sight worth seeing, the full-dressed public might get
to it how they could: they should not ride to it. Thereupon, great
was the despair of a very large and interested class. Appeals, almost
affectionate in expression, were made to the offended chairmen who led
the revolt, and they were entreated to trust to the generous feelings
of their patrons, willing to be their very humble servants, for one
day. The amiable creatures at last yielded, when it was perfectly
understood that the liberal sentiment of riders was to be computed at
the rate of a guinea for a ride from the West-end to the point nearest
the Abbey which the chairmen could reach. Not many could penetrate
beyond Charing Cross, where the bewildered fares were set down amid the
mob and the mud, to work their way through both as best they might.
One class of extortionate robbers only succeeded in making
unwarrantable gain without interference on the part of the authorities,
or appeal on that of the public. The class in question consisted of the
Dean and Chapter of Westminster, who exacted five guineas a foot as the
rent or hire of the space for the erection of scaffolding for seats.
This caused the tariff of places to be of so costly a nature, that,
willing as the public were to pay liberally for a great show, the seats
were but scantily occupied.
The popular eagerness which existed, especially to see the young Queen,
was well illustrated in the person of a married lady, for whom not
only was a front room taken, from the window of which she might see
the procession pass, but a bedroom also engaged, and a medical man in
attendance; the lady’s condition of health rendering it probable that
both might be required before the spectacle had concluded.
Much had been said of the Queen’s beauty, but to that her Majesty had
really little pretension. The public near enough to distinguish her
features were the more disappointed, from the fact that the portrait of
a very pretty woman had been in all the print-shops as a likeness of
the young Queen. The publisher, however, had selected an old engraving
of a young beauty, and erasing the name on the plate, issued the
portrait as that of the royal consort of his Majesty George III. Many
were indignant at the trick, but few were more amused by it than her
Majesty herself.
As illustrative of the crowds assembled, even on places whence but
little could be seen, it may be mentioned that the assemblage on
Westminster Bridge (which was no ‘coign of vantage,’ for the platform
on which the procession passed could hardly be discovered from it) was
so immense as to give rise to a report, which long prevailed, that the
structure of the bridge itself had been injured by this superincumbent
dead weight.
The multitude was enthusiastic enough, but it was not a kindly
endowed multitude. The mob was ferocious in its joys in those days.
Of the lives lost, one at least was so lost by a murderous act of the
populace. A respectable man in the throng dropped some papers, and he
stooped to recover them from the ground. The contemporary recorders of
the events of the day detail, without comment, how the mob held this
unfortunate man forcibly down till they had trampled him to death! The
people must have their little amusements.
It was, perhaps, hardly the fault of the people that these amusements
were so savage in character. The people themselves were treated as
savages. Even on this day of universal jubilee they were treated as if
the great occasion were foreign to them and to their feelings; and a
press-gang, strong enough to defy attack, was not the least remarkable
group which appeared this day among the free Britons over whom George
and Charlotte expressed themselves proud to reign. Such a ‘gang’ did
not do its work in a delicate way, and a score or two of loyal and
tipsy people, who had joyously left their homes to make a day of it,
found themselves at night, battered and bleeding, on board a ‘Tender,’
torn from their families, and condemned to ‘serve the King’ upon the
high seas.
The interior of the Abbey displayed, so says the ‘St. James’s
Chronicle,’ the finest exhibition of genteel people that the world ever
saw. That was satisfactory. The Countess of Northampton carried three
hundred thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds upon her, and other ladies
dropped rubies and other precious stones from their dresses in quantity
sufficient to have made the fortune of any single finder. The day, too,
did not pass without its ominous aspect. As the King was moving with
the crown on his head, the great diamond in the upper portion of it
fell to the ground, and was not found again without some trouble.
Perhaps the prettiest, though not the most gorgeous portion of the
show, was the procession of the Princess-dowager of Wales from the
House of Lords to the Abbey. The King’s mother was led by the hand of
her young son, William Henry. These and all the other persons in this
picturesque group were attired in dresses of white and silver; and the
spectators had the good sense to admire the corresponding good taste.
The princess wore a short silk train, and was consequently relieved
from the nuisance of being pulled back by train-bearers. Her long hair
flowed over her shoulders in hanging curls, and the only ornament upon
her head was a simple wreath of diamonds. She was the best dressed and
perhaps not the least happy of the persons present.
The usual ceremonies followed. The Westminster boys sang ‘_Vivat
Regina_’ on the entry of the Queen into the Abbey, and ‘_Vivat Rex_’ as
soon as the King appeared. The illustrious couple engaged for a time
in private devotions, were presented to the people, and the divine
blessing having been invoked upon them, they sat to hear a sermon
of just a quarter of an hour in length, from Drummond, Bishop of
Salisbury. The text was sermon in itself. It was from I Kings, x. 9:
‘Because the Lord loved Israel for ever, therefore made he thee king,
to do judgment _and justice_.’ The episcopal comment was not a bad
one; but when the prelate talked, as he did, of our constitution being
founded upon the principles of purity and freedom, and justly poised
between the extremes of power and liberty, his sentiment was but poorly
illustrated by the presence of that press-gang without, with whom was
much power over a people who, in such a presence, enjoyed no liberty.
Secker, Archbishop of Canterbury, placed the crowns on the heads of
the Sovereigns, and did not get kissed in return, as was formerly the
custom, at least on the part of a newly crowned king. But perhaps the
prettiest incident took place when the King was about to partake,
with the Queen, of the Sacrament. He desired that he might first put
aside his crown, and appear humbly at the table of the Lord. There
was no precedent for such a case, and all the prelates present were
somewhat puzzled, lest they might commit themselves. Ultimately, and
wisely, they expressed an opinion that, despite the lack of authorising
precedent, the King’s wishes might be complied with. A similar wish
was expressed by Queen Charlotte; but this could not so readily be
fulfilled. It was found that the little crown fixed on the Queen’s
head was so fastened, to keep it from falling, that there would be
some trouble in getting it off without the assistance of the Queen’s
dressers. This was dispensed with, and the crown was worn by the Queen;
but the King declared that in this case it was to be considered simply
as part of her dress, and not as indicating any power or greatness
residing in a person humbly kneeling in the presence of God.
The remainder of the ceremonial was long and tedious, and it was quite
dusk before the procession returned to the Hall. In the meantime, the
champion’s horse was champing his bit with great impatience, as became
a horse of his dignity. This gallant grey charger was no other than
that which bore the sacred majesty of George II. through the dangers of
the great and bloody day at Dettingen. The veteran steed was now to be
the leader in the equestrian spectacle at the banquet of that monarch’s
successor.
Although there was ample time for the completion of everything
necessary to the coronation of George and Charlotte, the earl-marshal
forgot some very indispensable items; among others, the sword of state,
the state-banquet chairs for the King and Queen, and the canopy. It was
lucky that the crown had not been forgotten too. As it was, they had
to borrow the ceremonial sword of the Lord Mayor, and workmen built a
canopy amid the scenic splendours of Westminster Hall. These mistakes
delayed the procession till noon.
It was dark when the procession returned to the Hall; and as the
illuminating of the latter was deferred till the King and Queen had
taken their places, the _cortège_ had very much the appearance of a
funeral procession, nothing being discernible but the plumes of the
Knights of the Bath, which seemed the hearse. There were less dignified
incidents than these in the course of the day’s proceedings; the least
dignified was an awkward rencounter between the Queen herself and the
Duke of Newcastle, behind the scenes. Walpole says that ‘some of the
procession were dressed over night, slept in arm chairs, and were waked
if they tumbled on their heads.’ Noticing some of the ladies present,
the same writer adds: ‘I carried my Lady Townshend, Lady Hertford,
Lady Anne Conolly, my Lady Hervey, and Mrs. Clive to my deputy’s house
at the gate of Westminster Hall. My Lady Townshend said she should be
very glad to see a coronation, as she never had seen one. “Why,” said
I, “madam, you walked at the last.” “Yes, child,” said she, “but I saw
nothing of it. I only looked to see who looked at me.” The Duchess
of Queensberry walked; her affectation that day was to do nothing
preposterous. Lord Chesterfield was not present either in Abbey or
Hall; for, as he said of the ceremony, he was “not alive enough to
march, nor dead enough to walk at it.”’
The scene in the banqueting-hall is further described by Grey and also
by Walpole. Grey says of the scene in Westminster Hall: ‘The instant
the Queen’s canopy entered fire was given to all the lustres at once
by trains of prepared flax that reached from one to the other. To me
it seemed an interval of not half a minute before the whole was in a
blaze of splendour ... and the most magnificent spectacle ever beheld
remained. The King, bowing to the lords as he passed, with his crown
on his head and the sceptre and orb in his hands, took his place with
great majesty and grace. So did the Queen, with her crown, sceptre, and
rod. Then supper was served on gold plate. The Earl Talbot, Duke of
Bedford, and Earl of Effingham, in their robes, all three on horseback,
prancing and curvetting like the hobby-horses in the “Rehearsal,”
ushered in the courses to the foot of the _hautpas_. Between the
courses the champion performed his part with applause.’ ‘All the wines
of Bordeaux,’ Walpole writes to George Montagu, ‘and all the fumes
of Irish brains cannot make a town so drunk as a royal wedding and a
coronation. I am going to let London cool, and will not venture into
it again this fortnight. Oh, the buzz, the prattle, the crowds, the
noise, the hurry! Nay, people are so little come to their senses,
that, though the coronation was but the day before yesterday, the Duke
of Devonshire had forty messages yesterday, desiring admissions for
a ball that they fancied was to be at court last night. People had
sat up a night and a day, and yet wanted to see a dance! If I was to
entitle ages, I would call this “the _century of crowds_.” For the
coronation, if a puppet-show could be worth a million, that is. The
multitudes, balconies, guards, and processions made Palace Yard the
liveliest spectacle in the world: the ball was most glorious. The blaze
of lights, the richness and variety of habits, the ceremonial, the
bunches of peers and peeresses, frequent and full, were as awful as a
pageant can be; and yet, for the King’s sake and my own, I never wish
to see another; nor am impatient to have my Lord Effingham’s promise
fulfilled. The King complained that so few precedents were kept of
their proceedings. Lord Effingham vowed the earl-marshal’s office had
been strangely neglected, but he had taken such care for the future
that the _next coronation_ would be regulated in the most exact manner
imaginable. The number of peers and peeresses present was not very
great; some of the latter, with no excuse in the world, appeared in
Lord Lincoln’s gallery, and even walked about the hall indecently in
the intervals of the procession. My Lady Harrington, covered with
all the diamonds she could borrow, hire, or seize, and with the air
of Roxana, was the finest figure at a distance. She complained to
George Selwyn that she was to walk with Lady Portsmouth, who would
have a wig and a stick. “Pho!” said he, “you will only look as if you
were taken up by the constable.” She told this everywhere, thinking
that the reflection was on my Lady Portsmouth! Lady Pembroke alone,
at the head of the countesses, was the picture of majestic modesty.
The Duchess of Richmond as pretty as nature and dress, with no pains
of her own, could make her. Lady Spencer, Lady Sutherland, and Lady
Northampton, very pretty figures. Lady Kildare, still beauty itself,
if not a little too large. The ancient peeresses were by no means the
worst party. Lady Westmoreland still handsome, and with more dignity
than all. The Duchess of Queensberry looked well, though her locks
are milk-white. Lady Albemarle very genteel; nay, the middle age had
some good representatives in Lady Holdernesse, Lady Rochford, and Lady
Strafford, the perfectest little figure of all. My Lady Suffolk ordered
her robes, and I dressed part of her head, as I made some of my Lord
Hertford’s dress, for you know no profession comes amiss to me, from
a tribune of the people to a habit-maker. Do not imagine that there
were not figures as excellent on the other side. Old Exeter, who told
the King he was the handsomest man she ever saw; old Effingham, and
Lady Say and Sele, with her hair powdered and her tresses black, were
an excellent contrast to the handsome. Lord B. put on rouge upon his
wife and the Duchess of Bedford in the Painted Chamber; the Duchess
of Queensberry told me of the latter, that she looked like an orange
peach, half red and half yellow. The coronets of the peers and their
robes disguised them strangely. It required all the beauty of the
Dukes of Richmond and Marlborough to make them noticed. One there was,
though of another species, the noblest figure I ever saw, the high
constable of Scotland, Lord Errol: as one saw him in a space capable of
containing him, one admired him. At the wedding, dressed in tissue, he
looked like one of the giants at Guildhall, new gilt. It added to the
energy of his person that one considered him as acting so considerable
a part in that very hall where a few years ago one saw his father,
Lord Kilmarnock, condemned to the block. The champion acted his part
admirably, and dashed down his gauntlet with proud defiance. His
associates, Lord Effingham, Lord Talbot, and the Duke of Bedford, were
woeful. Lord Talbot piqued himself on backing his horse down the Hall,
and not turning its rump towards the King; but he had taken such pains
to dress it to that duty that it entered backwards; and at his retreat,
the spectators clapped--a terrible indecorum, but suitable to such
Bartholomew Fair doings. He had twenty _démêlés_, and came off none
creditably. He had taken away the table of the Knights of the Bath, and
was forced to admit two in their old place, and dine the other at the
Court of Requests. Sir William Stanhope said, “We are ill-treated, for
_some of us are gentlemen_.” Beckford told the earl it was hard to
refuse a table to the City of London, whom it would cost ten thousand
pounds to banquet the King, and that his lordship would repent it
if they had not a table in the hall; they had. To the barons of the
Cinque Ports, who made the same complaint, he said, “If you come to me
as lord-steward, I tell you it is impossible; if as Lord Talbot, I am
a match for any of you;” and then he said to Lord Bute, “If I were a
minister, thus would I talk to France, to Spain, to the Dutch; none of
your half-measures.”’
With all the solemnity, there was some riot. A passage from a letter
written by one James Heming (quoted in ‘Notes and Queries,’ 2nd S.,
V. II., p. 109) says: ‘Our friend Harry, who was upon the scaffold
at the return of the procession, closed in with the rear; at the
expense of half a guinea was admitted into the Hall; got brimful of
his Majesty’s claret, and in the universal plunder, brought off the
glass her Majesty drank in, which is placed in the _beaufet_ as a
valuable curiosity.’ There was long a tradition current, that among the
spectators at the great ceremony in the Hall was no less a person than
the Young Pretender, who was said to have been there _incognito_, and
not without some hope of seeing the gauntlet, defiantly thrown down by
the champion, taken up by some bold adherent of his cause. Indeed, it
is further reported that preparation had been made for such an attempt,
but that (fortunately) it accidentally failed. The Pretender, so runs
the legend, was recognised by a nobleman, who, standing near him,
whispered in his ear that he was the last person anybody would expect
to find there. ‘I am here simply out of curiosity,’ was the answer of
the wanderer; ‘but I assure you that the man who is the object of all
this pomp and magnificence is the person in the world whom I least
envy.’ To complete the chain of reports, it may be further noticed that
Charles Edward was said to have abjured Romanism, in the new church in
the Strand, in the year 1754.
The night after the coronation there was an unusually grand ball at
court. The Queen’s bride’s-maids danced in the white bodiced coats
they had worn at the wedding. The Duke of Ancaster was resplendent in
the dress which the King had worn the whole of the day before at the
coronation, and which he had graciously ordered to be presented to the
duke, whose wife was the Queen’s mistress of the robes! The King and
Queen retired at eleven o’clock; not an early hour for the period.
There was great gaiety in town generally at this period. The young
Queen announced that she would attend the opera once a week--_that_
seemed dissipation enough for her, who had been educated with some
strictness in the quietest and smallest of German courts. The weekly
attendance of royalty is thus commented upon by Walpole: ‘It is a fresh
disaster to our box, where we have lived so harmoniously for three
years. We can get no alternative but that over Miss Chudleigh’s; and
Lord Strafford and Lady Mary Coke will not subscribe unless we can.
The Duke of Devonshire and I are negotiating with all our art to keep
our party together. The crowds at the opera and play when the King and
Queen go are a little greater than what I remember. The late royalties
went to the Haymarket when it was the fashion to frequent the other
opera in Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields. Lord Chesterfield one night came into
the latter, and was asked if he had been at the other house? “Yes,”
said he, “but there was nobody but the King and Queen; and as I thought
they might be talking business, I came away.”’
The theatres, of course, adopted the usual fashion of reproducing the
ceremony of the coronation on the stage. Garrick, considering that
he was a man of taste, displayed great tastelessness in his conduct
on this occasion. After ‘Henry VIII.,’ in which Bensley played the
King, Havard acted Wolsey, and Yates--what was so long played as a
comic part--Gardiner, and in which Mrs. Pritchard played the Queen,
and Mrs. Yates Anne Boleyn, a strange representation of the ceremonial
was presented to the public. Garrick, it is said, knowing that Rich
would spare no expense in producing the spectacle at the other house,
and fearing the cost of competition with a man than whom the stage
never again saw one so clever in getting up scenic effects till it
possessed Farley, contented himself with the old, mean, and dirty
dresses which had figured in the stage coronation of George II. and
Caroline. The most curious incident of Garrick’s show was, that by
throwing down the wall behind the stage, he really opened the latter
into Drury Lane itself, where a monster bonfire was burning and a mob
huzzaing about it. The police authorities did not interfere, and the
absurd representation was continued for six or seven weeks, ‘till the
indignation of the public,’ says Davis, ‘put a stop to it, to the great
comfort of the performers, who walked in the procession, and who were
seized with colds, rheumatism, and swelled faces, from the suffocation
of the smoke and the raw air from the open street.’ Their Majesties did
not witness the representation of the coronation at either house. Their
first visit was paid to Drury Lane, when the Queen commanded the piece
to be played, and her selection was one that had some wit in it. The
young bride chose, ‘Rule a Wife and have a Wife.’ The royal visit took
place on the 26th of November.
At Covent Garden ‘Henry the Fifth,’ with the coronation, was acted
twenty-six times; and ‘Richard the Third,’ with the same pageant, was
played fourteen times. That exquisite hussey, Mrs. Bellamy, walked in
the procession as the representative of the Queen. Their Majesties
paid their first visit in state, on the 7th of January 1762. The
King, with some recollection, probably, of his consort’s ‘bespeak’ at
Drury Lane, commanded the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor.’ So that in this
respect the new reign commenced merrily enough. It had its _bons mots_.
When some persons expressed surprise at the Queen having named Lady
Northumberland one of the ladies of her bedchamber, Lady Townshend
said, ‘Quite right! the Queen knows no English. Lady Northumberland
will teach her the vulgar tongue!’
CHAPTER II.
COURT AND CITY.
The _levée_--The King goes to parliament--The first night of the
opera--Garrick grievously offended--The King and Queen present
on the Lord Mayor’s Day--Entertained by Robert Barclay, the
Quaker--Banquet at Guildhall to the King and Queen--Popular
enthusiasm for Mr. Pitt--Buckingham House purchased by the
King for Queen Charlotte--Defoe’s account of it--The Duke of
Buckingham’s description of it--West and his pictures--The house
demolished by George IV.--First illness of the King--Domestic
life of the King and Queen--Royal carriage--Selwyn’s joke on the
royal frugality--Prince Charles of Strelitz--Costume--Graceful
action of the Queen--Birth of Prince George.
The entire population seemed surprised at having got a young Queen and
King to reign over them; and, except an occasional placard or two,
denouncing ‘petticoat government,’ and pronouncing against Scotch
ministers and Lord George Sackville, there seemed no dissatisfied
voice in the whole metropolis. The graces of the young Sovereign were
sung by pseudo-poets, and Walpole, in graceful prose, told of his
surprise at seeing how completely the whole _levée_-room had lost its
air of a lion’s den. ‘The Sovereign don’t stand in one spot, with his
eyes fixed royally on the ground, and dropping bits of German news:
he walks about and speaks to everybody. I saw him afterwards on the
throne, where he is graceful and genteel; sits with dignity, and reads
his answers to addresses well. It was the Cambridge address, carried
by the Duke of Newcastle, in his doctor’s gown, and looking like the
_Médecin malgré lui_. He had been vehemently solicitous for attendance,
for fear my Lord Westmoreland, who vouchsafes himself to bring the
address from Oxford, should out-number him. Lord Litchfield and several
other Jacobites have kissed hands. George Selwyn says, “They go to St.
James’s because now there are so many STUARTS there.”’
In allusion to the crowds of nobles, gentle and simple, going up to
congratulate the King, or to view the processions flocking to the foot
of the throne, or surrounding the King, as it were, when he went to
the first parliament, Walpole remarks: ‘The day the King went to the
house I was three quarters of an hour getting through Whitehall. There
were subjects enough to set up half a dozen petty kings: the Pretender
would be proud to reign over the footmen only; and, indeed, unless
he acquires some of them, he will have no subjects left; all their
masters flock to St. James’s.’ In a few words he describes the scene
at the theatre on the King’s first visit, alone. ‘The first night the
King went to the play, which was civilly on a Friday, not on the opera
night, as he used to do, the whole audience sang _God save the King_ in
chorus. For the first act the press was so great at the door that no
ladies could go to the boxes, and only the servants appeared there, who
kept places. At the end of the second act the whole mob broke in and
seated themselves.’ The play was ‘Richard the Third,’ in which Garrick
represented the king. George III. repeated his visit on the 23rd of
December to see ‘King John.’
His Majesty grievously offended Garrick on this night, by a
manifestation of what the latter considered very bad taste. The King
preferred Sheridan in Faulconbridge to Garrick in King John; and when
this reached the ears of Garrick, he was excessively hurt; and, though
the boxes were taken for ‘King John,’ for several nights, the offended
‘Roscius’ would not allow the play to have its proper run.
But there were other stages, on which more solemn pageants had to be
performed. The Sovereigns had yet to make their first appearance within
the city liberties.
The Queen was introduced to the citizens of London on Lord Mayor’s
Day; on which occasion they may be said emphatically to have ‘made a
day of it.’ They left St. James’s Palace at noon, and in great state,
accompanied by all the royal family, escorted by guards, and cheered
by the people, whose particular holiday was thus shared in common.
There was the usual ceremony at Temple Bar of opening the gates to
royalty and giving it welcome; and there was the once usual address
made at the east end of St. Paul’s Churchyard, by the senior scholar
of Christ’s Hospital School. Having survived the cumbrous formalities
of the first, and smiled at the flowery figures of the second, the
royal party proceeded on their way, not to Guildhall, but to the house
of Mr. Barclay, the patent-medicine-vendor, an honest Quaker whom the
King respected, and ancestor to the head of the firm whose name is not
unmusical to Volscian ears--Barclay, Perkins, and Co.
Robert Barclay, the only surviving son of the author of the same
name, who wrote the celebrated ‘Apology for the Quakers,’ was an
octogenarian, who had entertained, in the same house, two Georges
before he had given welcome to the third George and his Queen
Charlotte. The hearty old man, without abandoning Quaker simplicity,
went a little beyond it, in order to do honour to the young Queen; and
he hung his balcony and rooms with a brilliant crimson damask, that
must have scattered blushes on all who stood near--particularly on the
cheeks of the crowds of ‘Friends’ who had assembled within the house
to do honour to their Sovereigns. How the King--and he was at the
time a very handsome young monarch--fluttered all the female Friends
present, and set their tuckers in agitation, may be guessed from the
fact that he kissed them all round, and right happy were they to be so
greeted. The Queen smiled with dignity, her consort laughed and clapped
his hands, and when they had passed into another room, the King’s
young brothers followed the example, and in a minute had all the young
Quakeresses in their arms--nothing loath. Those were unceremonious
days, and ‘a kiss all round’ was a pleasant solemnity, which was
undergone with alacrity even by a Quakeress.
In the apartment to which the King and Queen had retired the latter was
waited on by a youthful grand-daughter of Mr. Barclay, who kissed the
royal hand with much grace, but would not kneel to do so, a resolute
observance of consistent principle which made the young Queen smile.
Later in the day, when Mr. Barclay’s daughters served the Queen with
tea, they handed it to the ladies-in-waiting, who presented it kneeling
to their Sovereign--a form which Rachel and Rebecca would never have
submitted to. From the windows of this house, which was exactly
opposite Bow Church, the Queen and consort witnessed the Lord Mayor’s
procession pass on its way to Westminster, and had the patience to wait
for its return.
The Princess of Wales was a spectator of the show on this occasion,
with her son, King George, and her daughter-in-law, Queen Charlotte.
Her husband, Frederick, Prince of Wales, once stood among the crowd in
Cheapside to view the return of the Mayor’s procession to Guildhall. He
was recognised by some members of the Saddlers Company, by whom he was
invited into their ‘stand,’ erected in the street. He accepted their
invitation, and made himself so agreeable that the company unanimously
elected him their ‘Master,’ an office which he accepted with great
readiness.
Queen Charlotte and George III. were the last of our sovereigns who
thus honoured a Lord Mayor’s Show. And as it _was_ the last occasion,
and that the young Queen Charlotte was _the_ heroine of the day, the
opportunity may be profited by, to show how that royal lady looked
and bore herself in the estimation of one of the Miss Barclays,
whose letter descriptive of the scene appeared forty-seven years
subsequently, in 1808. ‘About one o’clock papa and mamma, with sister
Western to attend them, took their stand at the street-door, where
my two brothers had long been to receive the nobility, more than a
hundred of whom were then waiting in the warehouse. As the royal
family came, they were conducted into one of the counting-houses,
which was transformed into a very pretty parlour. At half-past two
their Majesties came, which was two hours later than they intended. On
the second pair of stairs was placed our own company, about forty in
number, the chief of whom were of the Puritan order, and all in their
orthodox habits. Next to the drawing-room doors were placed our own
selves--I mean papa’s children, none else, to the great mortification
of visitors, being allowed to enter; for, as kissing the King’s hand
without kneeling was an unexampled honour, the King confined that
privilege to our own family, as a return for the trouble we had been
at. After the royal pair had shown themselves at the balcony, we were
all introduced, and you may believe, at that juncture, we felt no small
palpitations. The King met us at the door (a condescension I did not
expect), at which place he saluted us with great politeness. Advancing
to the upper end of the room, we kissed the Queen’s hand, at the sight
of whom we were all in raptures, not only from the brilliancy of her
appearance, which was pleasing beyond description, but being throughout
her whole person possessed of that inexpressible something that is
beyond a set of features, and equally claims our attention. To be
sure she has not a fine face, but a most agreeable countenance, and is
vastly genteel, with an air, notwithstanding her being a little woman,
truly majestic; and I really think, by her manner is expressed that
complacency of disposition which is truly amiable; and though I could
never perceive that she deviated from that dignity which belongs to
a crowned head, yet on the most trifling occasions she displayed all
that easy behaviour that negligence can bestow. Her hair, which is of
a light colour, hung in what is called coronation-ringlets, encircled
in a band of diamonds, so beautiful in themselves, and so prettily
disposed, as will admit of no description. Her clothes, which were
as rich as gold, silver, and silk could make them, was a suit from
which fell a train supported by a little page in scarlet and silver.
The lustre of her stomacher was inconceivable. The King I think a
very personable man. All the princes followed the King’s example in
complimenting each of us with a kiss. The Queen was upstairs three
times, and my little darling, with Patty Barclay and Priscilla Ball,
were introduced to her. I was present and not a little anxious on
account of my girl, who kissed the Queen’s hand with so much grace that
I thought the princess-dowager would have smothered her with kisses.
Such a report was made of her to the King, that Miss was sent for,
and afforded him great amusement, by saying ‘that she loved the King,
though she must not love fine things, and her grandpapa would not allow
her to make a curtsy.’ Her sweet face made such an impression on the
Duke of York, that I rejoiced she was only five instead of fifteen.
When he first met her, he tried to persuade Miss to let him introduce
her to the Queen; but she would by no means consent till I informed her
he was a prince, upon which her little female heart relented, and she
gave him her hand--a true copy of the sex. The King never sat down,
nor did he taste anything during the whole time. Her Majesty drank tea,
which was brought her on a silver waiter by brother John, who delivered
it to the lady-in-waiting, and she presented it kneeling. The leave
they took of us was such as we might expect from our equals; full of
apologies for our trouble for their entertainment--which they were so
anxious to have explained, that the Queen came up to us, as we stood
on one side of the door, and had every word interpreted. My brothers
had the honour of assisting the Queen into her coach. Some of us sat up
to see them return, and the King and Queen took especial notice of us
as they passed. The King ordered twenty-four of his guard to be placed
opposite our door all night, lest any of the canopy should be pulled
down by the mob, in which there were one hundred yards of silk damask.’
Gog and Magog have never looked down on so glorious a scene and so
splendid a banquet as enlivened Guildhall, at which the Queen and her
consort were royally entertained, at a cost approaching 8000_l._ Both
Sovereigns united in remarking that ‘for elegance of entertainment
the city beat the court end of the town.’ A foreign minister present
described it as a banquet such only as one king could give another. And
it _was_ precisely so. The King of the City exhibited his boundless
hospitality to the King of England. The majesty of the people had the
chief magistrate for a guest.
The majesty of the people, however, if we may credit the Earl of
Albemarle, the author of the ‘Memoir of the Marquis of Rockingham and
his Contemporaries,’ was by no means so civil to the royal guests as
the occasion warranted.
On the 9th of November, George III., who had been married only two
months, went in state with his youthful Queen, to dine with the Lord
Mayor. It was their Majesties’ first visit to the city. Mr. Pitt,
yielding to Lord Temple’s persuasions, and, as he afterwards declared,
‘against his better judgment,’ went with him in his carriage, and
joined the procession. Pitt, the ‘great commoner,’ the terrible ‘Cornet
of Horse,’ hated and dreaded by Sir Robert Walpole, had only just
resigned office, because he could not get his colleagues to agree with
him in an aggressive policy against Spain, to be at war with which
power was then a passion with the people. For this reason Pitt was
their idol and the court party their abomination. Hence, the result
of Pitt’s joining the procession might partly have been anticipated.
The royal bride and bridegroom were received by the populace with
indifference, and Pitt’s late colleague with cries of ‘No Newcastle
salmon!’ As for Lord Bute, he was everywhere assailed with hisses and
execrations, and would probably have been torn in pieces by the mob,
but for the interference of a band of butchers and prize-fighters,
whom he had armed as a body-guard. All the enthusiasm of the populace
was centred in Mr. Pitt, who was ‘honoured[45] with the most hearty
acclamations of people of all ranks; and so great was the feeling in
his favour, that the mob clung about every part of the vehicle, hung
upon the wheels, hugged his footman, and even kissed his horses.’
The royal bride must have been astonished, and the bridegroom was
indignant at what, a few days after the banquet, he called ‘the
abominable conduct of Mr. Pitt.’ The court members of parliament were
directed to be personally offensive to him in the house, and all the
fashionable ladies in town went to see the noble animal baited.
The year of pageants ended with matters of money. Parliament settled
on Queen Charlotte 40,000_l._ per annum, to enable her the better
to support the royal dignity; with a dowry of 100,000_l._ per annum,
and Richmond Old Park and Somerset House annexed, in case she should
survive his Majesty. On the 2nd of December the King went in state to
the House to give the royal assent to the bill. The Queen accompanied
him; and when the royal assent had been given, her Majesty rose from
her seat and curtsied to him the grateful acknowledgments which were
really due to the representatives of the people who gave the money.
Somerset House was but an indifferent town residence for either Queen
or queen-dowager, and the King showed his taste and gratified Queen
Charlotte when, in lieu of the above-named residence, he purchased
for her that red-brick mansion which stood on the site of the present
Buckingham Palace, and was then known as ‘Buckingham House.’ It was
subsequently called the ‘Queen’s House.’ The King bought it of Sir
Charles Sheffield for 21,000_l._, and settled it on his consort by an
act of parliament obtained some years afterwards. Therein were all the
children born, with the exception of their eldest son, George, Prince
of Wales, who was born at St. James’s Palace; who demolished the old
house in 1825, and erected on its site one of the ugliest palaces
by which the sight was ever offended. Queen Victoria has had some
difficulty to make it a comfortable residence; to render it beautiful
was out of the power even of her Majesty’s architect, Mr. Blore. The
edifice of his predecessor, Nash, defied all his efforts.
In Queen Charlotte’s time Mr. Wyatt erected a grand staircase. West’s
pictures soon filled the great gallery, and _that_ artist at least
would not complain, as so many others did, that the Queen and King were
mean patrons of art, seeing that the latter, to gratify his consort,
paid West no less than 40,000_l._ for his labours. The principal of
these pictures are now at Hampton Court. The ‘Regulus’ brought West
a very liberal pension. The dining-room was adorned with pictures by
Zucchero, Vandyke, Lely, Zoffani, Mytens, and Houseman. The Queen’s
house, although intended as a simple asylum for its royal owners from
the oppressive gorgeousness and ceremony of St. James’s, did not
lack a splendour of its own. The crimson drawing-room, the second
drawing-room, and the blue-velvet room, were magnificent apartments,
adapted for the most showy of royal pageants, and adorned with valuable
pictures. Queen Charlotte had hardly been installed in this her own
‘House,’ when her husband commenced the formation of that invaluable
library which her son, on demolishing her house, made over to the
nation, and is now in the British Museum.
The son just alluded to was George IV. Under the pretence of being
about to repair Buckingham House, he applied to the Commons to
afford the necessary supplies. These were granted under the special
stipulation that repairs (and not rebuilding) were intended. The
King and his architect, Nash, however, went on demolishing and
reconstructing until the fine old mansion disappeared, and a hideous
palace took its place, at a tremendous cost to the public. Neither of
the children of Charlotte who lived to ascend the throne resided in
this palace. The old building was the property of a queen-consort,
the new one was first occupied by a Queen-regnant, the daughter
of Charlotte’s third son, Edward. The first great event in Queen
Charlotte’s life, after she became mistress of Buckingham House, was
her becoming the mother of him who destroyed it--George Augustus
Frederick, Prince of Wales.
In 1762 Horace Walpole says: ‘The King and Queen are settled for good
and all at Buckingham House, and are stripping the other palaces
to furnish it. In short, they have already fetched pictures from
Hampton Court, which indicates their never living there; consequently
Strawberry Hill will remain in possession of its own tranquillity, and
not become a cheese-cake house to the palace. All I ask,’ says the
cynic in lace ruffles, ‘all I ask of princes is not to live within
five miles of me.’ Even thus early in the reign, the King’s health
gave rise to some disquietude. ‘The King,’ writes Walpole to Mann,
‘had one of the last of those strong and universally epidemic colds,
which, however, have seldom been fatal. He had a violent cough, and
oppression on his breast, which he concealed, just as I had; but _my_
life was of no consequence, and having no physicians in ordinary, I
was cured in four nights by James’s powder, without bleeding. The
King was blooded seven times and had three blisters. Thank God, he is
safe, and we have escaped a confusion beyond what was ever known on
the accession of the Queen of Scots. Nay, we have not even a successor
born. Fazakerly, who has lived long enough to remember nothing but the
nonsense of the law, maintained, according to its wise tenets, that, as
the King never dies, the Duke of York must have been proclaimed King;
and then be unproclaimed again on the Queen’s delivery. We have not
even any standing law for the regency; but I need not paint you all the
difficulties there would have been in our situation.’
The difficulty was overcome; the King recovered, the royal couple
lived quietly, and when they were disposed to be gay and in company,
they already exhibited a spirit of economy which may illustrate the
saying, that any virtue carried to excess becomes a vice. On the
26th of November the Queen and the King saw ‘a few friends’; the
invitations only included half a dozen strangers, and the entire
company consisted of not more than twelve or thirteen couple. The six
strangers were Lady Caroline Russell, Lady Jane Stewart, Lord Suffolk,
Lord Northampton, Lord Mandeville, and Lord Grey. Besides these were
the court _habitués_, namely the Duchess of Ancaster and her Grace of
Hamilton, who accompanied the Queen on her first arrival. These ladies
danced little: but on the other hand, Lady Effingham and Lady Egremont
danced much. Then there were the six maids of honour, Lady Bolingbroke
--who could not dance because she was in black gloves, and Lady Susan
Stewart in attendance upon ‘Lady Augusta.’ The latter was that eldest
daughter of Frederick, Prince of Wales, at whose birth there had been
such a commotion, and who was commonly called the _Lady_ Augusta, in
obedience to her father’s wishes, who was fond of this old-fashioned
English style of naming our princesses. The noblemen in waiting were
Lords March, Eglintoun, Cantilupe, and Huntingdon. There were ‘no
sitters-by,’ except the King’s mother, the Duchess of Bedford, and
Lady Bute. At this select party, which commenced between half-past six
and seven, the King danced the whole time with the Queen; and the Lady
Augusta, future mother of the next Queen of England, with her four
younger brothers. The dancing went on uninterruptedly till one in the
morning: the hungry guests separated without supper; and so ended the
young couple’s first and not very hilarious party.
That young couple certainly began life in a prosaically business-like
way. To suit the King’s convenience, one opera night was changed
from Tuesdays to Mondays, because the former was ‘post-day’ and his
Majesty too much engaged to attend; and the Queen would not have
gone on Tuesdays without him. There was more questionable taste
exhibited on other occasions. Eight thousand pounds were expended
on a new state-coach, which was ‘a beautiful object crowded with
improprieties.’ The mixture of palm-trees and Tritons was laughed at;
the latter as not being adapted to a land-carriage; the former as being
as little aquatic as the Tritons were terrestrial.
It was, perhaps, with reference to the Queen’s first supperless party
that Lord Chesterfield uttered a _bon mot_, when an addition to the
peerage was contemplated. When this was mentioned in his presence, some
one remarked: ‘I suppose there will be no dukes made.’ ‘Oh, yes, there
will!’ exclaimed Chesterfield, ‘there is to be _one_’ ‘Is? who?’ ‘Lord
Talbot; he is to be created Duke Humphrey, and there is to be no table
kept at court but his.’
The young nobility, who had formed great expectations of the splendour
and gaiety that were to result, as they thought, from the establishment
of a new court, with a young couple at the head of it, were miserably
disappointed that pleasure alone was not the deity enshrined in the
royal dwelling. To the Queen’s palace they gave the name of Holyrood
House, intending to denote thereby that it was the mere abode of chill,
gloom, and meanness. But, be this as it may, the English court was
now the only court in Europe at which vice was discountenanced, and
virtue set as an example and insisted on in others. With respect to
the routine followed there, it certainly lacked excitement, but was
hardly the worse for that. The Queen passed most of her mornings in
receiving instruction from Dr. Majendie in the English tongue. She was
an apt scholar, improved rapidly, and though she never spoke or wrote
with elegance, yet she learned to appreciate our best authors justly,
and was remarkable for the perfection of taste and manner with which
she read aloud. Needle-work followed study, and exercise followed
needle-work. The Queen usually rode or walked in company with the King
till dinner-time; and in the evening she played on the harpsichord,
or sang aloud--and this she could do almost _en artiste_; or she took
share in a homely game of cribbage, and closed the innocently spent day
with a dance. ‘And so to bed,’ as Mr. Pepys would say--without supper.
The routine was something changed when her Majesty’s brother, Prince
Charles of Strelitz, became a visitor at the English court in February
1762. He was a prince short of stature, but well-made, had fine eyes
and teeth, and a very persuasive way with him. So persuasive, indeed,
that he at one time contrived to express from the King 30,000_l._ out
of the civil-list revenue, to pay the debts the prince had contracted
with German creditors.
In the meantime, matters of costume, as connected with court etiquette,
were not considered beneath her Majesty’s notice. Her birth-day was
kept on the 18th of January, to make it as distinct as possible from
the King’s, kept in June, and to encourage both winter and summer
fashions. For the latter anniversary a dress was instituted of
‘stiff-bodied gowns and bare shoulders;’ and invented, it was said,
‘to thin the drawing-room.’ ‘It will be warmer, I hope,’ says Walpole,
in March, ‘by the King’s birth-day, or the old ladies will catch their
deaths. What dreadful discoveries will be made both on fat and lean!
I recommend to you the idea of Mrs. Cavendish when half stark!’ The
Queen’s drawing-rooms, however, were generally crowded by the ladies;
and no wonder, when seventeen English and Scotch unmarried dukes
might be counted at them. The especial birthday drawing-room on the
anniversary of the King’s natal day was, however, ill attended, less on
the King’s account than on that of his minister, Lord Bute. Meanwhile,
court was made to the Queen by civilities shown to a second brother
who had come over to visit her, allured by affection and the success
which had attended the elder brother. _Lady Northumberland’s fête_ to
this wandering prince was a ‘pompous festine;’ ‘not only the whole
house, but the garden was illuminated, and was quite a fairy scene.
Arches and pyramids of lights alternately surrounded the enclosure; a
diamond necklace of lamps edged the rails and descent, with a spiral
obelisk of candles on each hand; and dispersed over the lawn with
little bands of kettle-drums, clarinets, fifes, &c., and the lovely
moon who came without a card.’ Queen Charlotte knew how to perform a
graceful action gracefully as well as any queen who ever shared the
throne. Thus, Lady Bolingbroke having been trusted by the Duchess of
Bedford with a superb enamelled watch to exhibit to her Majesty, the
latter desired her to put it on, that she might the better judge of its
ornamental effect. She was obeyed, and thereupon she made a present of
it to the happy lady, remarking, that the watch looked so well upon her
‘it ought to remain by Lady Bolingbroke’s side.’
But the great event of the year was the birth of the heir-apparent.
It occurred at St. James’s Palace, on the 12th of August. In previous
reigns such events generally took place in the presence of many
witnesses; but on the present occasion the Archbishop of Canterbury and
the Lord Chancellor alone were present in that capacity.
‘Many rejoiced,’ writes Mrs. Scott, the sister of Elizabeth Montagu,
‘but none more than those who have been detained all this hot weather
in town to be present at the ceremony. Among them, no one was more
impatient than the chancellor, who, not considering any part of the
affair as a point of law, thought his presence very unnecessary. His
lordship and the archbishop must have had a fatiguing office; for, as
she was brought to bed at seven in the morning, they must have attended
all night, for fear they should be absent at the critical moment. I
wish they were not too much out of humour before the prince was born to
be able to welcome it properly.’
The royal christening will be, however, of more interest than details
of the birth of the prince. The ceremony was performed in the grand
council chamber, the Archbishop of Canterbury--‘the right rev. midwife,
Thomas Secker,’ as Walpole calls him--officiating. Walpole, describing
the scene, on the day after, says: ‘Our next monarch was christened,
last night, George Augustus Frederick. The Princess (Dowager of Wales),
the Duke of Cumberland, and the Duke of Mecklenburgh, sponsors. The
Queen’s bed, magnificent and, they say, in taste, was placed in the
drawing-room; though she is not to see company in form, yet it looks
as if they had intended people should have been there, as all who
presented themselves were admitted, which were very few, for it had not
been notified; I suppose to prevent too great a crowd. All I have heard
named, besides those in waiting, were the Duchess of Queensberry, Lady
Dalkeith, Mrs. Grenville, and about four other ladies.’
It was precisely at the period of the christening of this royal babe
that the marriage of her who was to be the mother of his future wife
was first publicly spoken of. In September Walpole expresses a hope
to his friend Conway that the hereditary Prince of Brunswick is
‘recovering of the wound in his loins, for they say he is to marry the
Princess Augusta.’ Walpole, however, would have nothing to do with the
new Prince of Wales. ‘With _him_,’ he says, ‘I am positive never to
occupy myself. I kissed the hand of his great-great-grandfather; would
it not be preposterous to tap a volume of future history, of which I
can never see but the first pages?’
Poor Queen Charlotte did not escape scandal. Less than twenty years
after her death a M. Gailliardet published, in 1836, a memoir of the
celebrated Chevalier d’Eon, founded, it is said, on family papers.
In this book, the young Queen Charlotte was described, in the year
1763, as giving interviews by night to the chevalier, and the
Prince of Wales, just named, was said to be their son. Many years
after Gailliardet’s book had appeared a M. Jourdan published ‘Un
Hermaphrodite,’ which was a wholesale plagiarism from Gailliardet.
Jourdan denied this fact; when Gailliardet declared that the whole
story about the Queen and the chevalier was pure fiction! Jourdan then
affirmed that he had nothing to do with ‘Un Hermaphrodite,’ and had
only put his name to it. In this way is calumny propagated. If we may
judge from a letter written about this time, by Mrs. Scott, the Queen
was not a person to attract chevaliers. The Queen’s ‘person,’ she
says, ‘is not the only thing that displeases. There is a coarseness
and vulgarity of manners that disgust much more. She does not seem to
choose to fashion herself at all.’
CHAPTER III.
ANECDOTES AND INCIDENTS.
Scenes, and personal sketches of Queen Charlotte--Her fondness for
diamonds--Visit to Mrs. Garrick--Orphan establishment at Bedford
founded by the Queen--Her benevolence on the breaking of the
Windsor bank--Marriage of Princess Caroline Matilda--Unfounded
rumours about the Queen--Hannah Lightfoot--The King’s illness--A
regency recommended by the King--Discussions relative to
it--Birth of Prince Frederick--Failing health of the Duke of
Cumberland.
In 1761 not a more gorgeously attired queen, in presence of the public,
was to be found than ours. But we learn that, in 1762, the first thing
of which the Queen got positively weary was her jewels. At first,
seeing herself endowed with them, her joy was girlish, natural, and
unfeigned. But the gladness was soon over. It was the ecstacy of a
week, as she herself said a quarter of a century later; and there was
indifference at the end of a fortnight. ‘I thought at first,’ said she,
‘I should always choose to wear them; but the fatigue, and trouble of
putting them on, and the care they required, and the fear of losing
them; why, believe me, madam, in a fortnight’s time I longed for my own
earlier dress and wished never to see them more.’
This was said to Miss Burney, subsequently her dresser and reader, who
adds that the Queen informed her that dress and shows had never been
things she cared for, even in the bloom of her youth; and that neatness
and comfort alone gave her pleasure in herself as in others. The Queen
confessed that ‘the first week or fortnight of being a Queen, when only
in her seventeenth year, she thought splendour sufficiently becoming
her station to believe she should choose thenceforth constantly to
support it. But it was not her mind,’ says Miss Burney, ‘but only
her eyes that were dazzled, and therefore her delusion speedily
vanished, and her understanding was too strong to give it any chance of
returning.’
This is pretty, but it has the disadvantage of not being exactly true.
The Queen may have been indifferent for a while to the wearing or the
value of diamonds, but later in life, if she did nurse a cherished
passion, it was for these glittering gewgaws. The popular voice, at
least, accused her of this passion, and before many years elapsed it
was commonly said that no money was so sure to buy her favour as a
present of diamonds. That she _could_, however, condescend to very
simple tasks is well known. This is illustrated by her visit to Mrs.
Garrick, at Hampton. The Queen found the ex-actress engaged in peeling
onions, and Charlotte sat down, and, by helping her in her employment,
saved her from the annoyance of being ashamed of it.
In 1763 the country hailed the advent of peace and the retirement of
Lord Bute from office. The Queen’s popularity was greater than that of
the King, and even men of extremely liberal politics greeted her ‘mild
and tender virtues.’ She now encouraged trade by her splendid _fêtes_,
and was one of those persons who, by enjoying festive grandeurs calmly,
acquire a reputation for calmly despising them. In August 1763 she
became the mother of a second prince, Frederick, afterwards Duke of
York.
One of the first acts of the Queen, this same year, was a graceful act
of benevolence. The young mother had thought and a heart for young
orphans--of gentility. For parentless children of gentle blood she
established a home in Bedfordshire. At the head of the house was
placed a lady who, with many comforts, enjoyed the liberal salary of
500_l._ per annum. In return for this she superintended the instruction
of the young ladies (who were not admitted till they had attained the
age of fifteen--age of folly and of fermentation, as some one has
called it) in embroidery. The first produce of their taste and toil was
the property of their patroness, the young Queen, and was converted
into ornaments for window curtains, chairs, sofas, and bed furniture
for Windsor Castle and the ‘Queen’s House’ in St. James’s Park.
This was, perhaps, rather a calculating benevolence; but the Queen paid
500_l._ a year for fifty years for it, and her Majesty was not wanting
in true charity. In a later period of her reign the middle classes of
Windsor were thrown into much misery by the breaking of the bank there.
Many individuals of the class alluded to held the 1_l._ notes of this
bank; and the paper had now no more value than _as_ paper. The Queen,
on hearing the case, ordered her treasurer to give cash for these notes
on their being presented, and this was done to the extent of 400_l._
Her daughters acted as clerks, and never was there so hilarious a run
upon the bank as on this royal house at Windsor.
The year 1765 opened in some sense auspiciously--with a royal marriage.
Caroline Matilda was the posthumous daughter of Frederick, Prince
of Wales, and was born in July 1751. The terms of her marriage with
Christian, Crown Prince of Denmark, were settled in January of this
year; but, on account of the extreme youth of the contracting parties,
they were not carried into effect until two years had elapsed.
Meanwhile, the young bride, who had been remarkable for her beauty,
grace, and elegance--and above all for her vivacity--seemed almost to
fade away, so nervously anxious did she become as to the obligation
by which she was bound and its possible results. Before the espousals
were completed her affianced husband had become King of Denmark, and
when Queen Charlotte congratulated her sister-in-law she little thought
of the hard fate that was to follow upon the ceremony. As for the
following year, it was a time of much anxiety and distress, and the
people were scarcely good-humoured enough in 1765 to welcome the birth
of a third prince, in the person of William Henry, afterwards Duke of
Clarence.
The reports circulated at this time, to the effect that the Queen
interfered in state affairs, were discredited by those who certainly
did not lack the means of getting at the truth. The rumour appears to
have been believed by Mr. Stanhope; but Lord Chesterfield, in writing
to his son, and noticing his belief in the good foundation of such
a rumour, says: ‘You seem not to know the character of the Queen;
here it is. She is a good woman, a good wife, a tender mother, and an
unmeddling queen. The King loves her as a woman, but I verily believe
has never yet spoken one word to her about business.’
The reports regarding her were at once atrocious and absurd. They were
the falser because they spoke of her having insisted on a repetition of
her marriage ceremony with the King, and that the same was performed
by Dr. Wilmot, at Kew Palace. The motive for this proceeding was
ascribed to the alleged fact of the death of Hannah Lightfoot, with
whom rumour was resolved that the King had been wedded, and that now a
legal marriage might be solemnised between the Queen and himself. The
atrocity of rumour was illustrated by a report that in consequence of
an attack of illness which had affected, for a short time, the King’s
mental faculties, the Queen, armed with a law which, in the case of an
interruption in the exercise of the royal authority, gave a power of
regency to her Majesty, or other members of the royal family, assisted
by a council, had exercised the most unlimited sway over the national
affairs, to the injury of the nation.
The only part of this which is true is where the King’s illness is
referred to. That he had been mentally affected was not known beyond
the palace, and to but a very few within it. He went with the Queen to
Richmond in the month of April, announcing an intention to spend a week
there; but, on the third day, he appeared unexpectedly at the _levée_
held by the Queen. This was so contrived in order to prevent a crowd.
He was at the drawing-room on the following day, and at chapel on Good
Friday. He looked pale, but it was the fixed plan to call him well, and
far-seeing people hoped that he was so. His health was considered as
very precarious, but what was chiefly dreaded was--consumption.
He acted with promptitude in this matter, by going down to the House,
and in an affecting and dignified spirit, urging the necessity of
appointing a regency, in case of some accident happening to himself
before the heir-apparent should become of age. The struggle on this
bill was one of the most violent which had ever been carried on by
two adverse factions. By a mere juggle practised on the King, the
clauses of the bill passed by the Lords, after some absurd discussion
as to what was meant by the ‘royal family,’ excluded his mother, the
Princess-dowager of Wales, as though she were not a member of it. The
struggle was as fierce in the Commons; for ministers dreaded lest, with
the Princess-dowager, they might get her _protégé_, Lord Bute, for
‘King!’ The political antagonists professed a super-excellence of what
they did not possess--patriotism; and after a battle of personalities,
the name of the Princess-dowager was inserted next after that of the
Queen (whom some were desirous to exclude altogether), as capable, with
certain assistance named, of exercising the power of regency, and the
Lords adopted the bill which came to them thus amended.
The Queen, it is hardly necessary to observe, had no opportunity under
this bill to exercise any present power, had she been ever so inclined.
It was only in after years that her enemies made the accusation
against her, when they wanted the memory which mendacious persons are
said to chiefly require. With respect to the desired omission of the
name of the King’s mother from the regency, it was fixing on her a
most unmerited stigma. The attempt to prove that she was not of the
royal family was to say, in other words, that she was not akin to
her own son. It is not known whether the Queen herself thought so,
nor did people care what a fiction of law might say thereupon. The
Princess-dowager’s name was placed next to that of Queen Charlotte in
the new Regency bill.
There is little more of personal detail connected with the Queen this
year that is of much interest. Her eldest son already wore a long
list of titles, had been honoured with the Order of the Garter, and
returned brief answers to loyal deputations. He was born twice a duke,
once an earl and baron, and Lord High Steward of Scotland. He was Duke
of Cornwall and Rothsay, Earl of Carrick, and Baron of Renfrew; and a
few days after his birth his mother smilingly laid upon his lap the
patent whereby he was created Prince of Wales. His brother Frederick
had been, ere he could speak, named Bishop of Osnaburgh; and Queen
and King were equally hurt by the ‘Chapter,’ who acknowledged their
diocesan, but refused to entrust to him the irresponsible guardianship
of the episcopal funds. The Queen’s thoughts were drawn away from this
matter, for a moment, by the birth (already noticed) of William Henry,
on the 21st of August--the second of her children destined to ascend
the throne. This was the little prince who so delighted the good Mrs.
Chapone, and by his engaging ways won the heart of Dr. Thomas, Bishop
of Winchester.
But while some princes were flourishing, others were fading. The
health of the Duke of Cumberland, the dearly loved son of Caroline,
had long been precarious. As early as April in this year his favourite
sister, Amelia, residing at Gunnersbury, had felt much alarm on his
account. ‘The Duke of Cumberland is actually set out for Newmarket
to-day; he, too, is called much better, but it is often as true of
the health of princes as of their prisoners, that there is little
distance between each and their graves. There has been lately a fire
at Gunnersbury which burned four rooms; her servants announced it
to Princess Amelia with that wise precaution of “Madam, do not be
frightened!”--accordingly, she was terrified. When they told her the
truth, she said, “I am very glad; I had expectation my brother was
dead.”’[46] The expectation seemed natural. A few months more only were
to elapse before he who was so over-praised for his generalship at
Culloden, and so over-censured for his severity after it, was summoned
to depart.
FOOTNOTES
[1] It is even alleged that he had been, through his representative,
M. de Gourville, at the Court of Hanover, the first to suggest the
expediency of a marriage between his daughter and George Louis. The
suggestion was made as coming, not only from himself, but from the
Duchess of Zell also, who certainly was no party to such a proposition.
[2] Letter to the Duke of Marlborough.
[3] De Roney.
[4] Lord Hervey’s ‘Memoirs, &c., of the Court of Queen Caroline.’
[5] Lord Hervey.
[6] Ibid.
[7] Chesterfield’s ‘Life and Letters; edited by Lord Mahon.’
[8] Lord Hervey.
[9] Lord Hervey.
[10] Lord Hervey.
[11] Lord Hervey.
[12] Walpole.
[13] Lord Hervey.
[14] Lord Hervey.
[15] Lord Hervey.
[16] Now Earl Stanhope.
[17] Lord Hervey.
[18] Ibid.
[19] Lord Hervey.
[20] Lord Hervey.
[21] Lord Hervey.
[22] Lord Hervey.
[23] Lord Hervey.
[24] Lord Hervey.
[25] Lord Hervey.
[26] Lord Hervey.
[27] Copies of the original letters, in French, will be found in Lord
Hervey’s volumes.
[28] These matters will be found detailed at great length, in Lord
Hervey’s Memoirs.
[29] In ‘Amphitryon.’
[30] Lord Hervey.
[31] Lord Hervey.
[32] To what extent it was so can only be understood by those who
peruse the Memoirs of this court by Lord Hervey.
[33] Salmon’s ‘Chronological Historian.’
[34] Suwarrow’s ‘Military Catechism’ contains the atrocious hint, that
a wounded foeman may become a dangerous enemy.
[35] Hervey makes this remark, but it was originally made by Walpole.
[36] Lord Hervey.
[37] Quin played the hero.
[38] Lord Hervey’s ‘Memoirs.’
[39] This matter, only alluded to by Lord Chesterfield, is treated at
very great length by Lord Hervey.
[40] Horace Walpole.
[41] Salmon’s ‘Chronological Historian.’
[42] ‘Lord Chesterfield’s Life and Letters. Edited by Lord Mahon.’
[43] ‘Lord Chesterfield’s Life and Letters;’ _ut supra_.
[44] Walpole.
[45] ‘Gentleman’s Magazine.’
[46] ‘Walpole’s Letters.’
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
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
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