THE REACTION.
1715.
As the tide of popular feeling seemed flowing in favour of the new
King, the Government took advantage of it to dissolve Parliament,
which had now sat for nearly six months since the death of Queen Anne.
This Parliament behaved with dignity and circumspection at a crisis of
English history. The majority of the members of the House of Commons
were Tory, but, despite a certain element of Jacobitism, they had shown
their loyal acquiescence in the Hanoverian succession in a variety of
ways. They had voted to George the First a civil list of £700,000 per
annum, of which £100,000 was for the Prince of Wales; they had even
agreed, though with wry faces, to pay £65,000 which the King claimed as
arrears due to his Hanoverian troops. The Tories had certainly earned
more consideration from the King than they received. But the fiat had
gone forth that there was to be no commerce with them, and Ministers
were determined to obtain a Whig majority. To this end they not only
employed all the resources of bribery and corruption by lavish
expenditure of secret service money, but were so unconstitutional
as to drag the King into the arena of party politics. In the Royal
Proclamation summoning the new Parliament, the King was made to call
upon the electors to baffle the designs of disaffected persons, and “to
have a particular regard to such as showed a fondness to the Protestant
succession when it was in danger”. This was perhaps to some extent
justified by a manifesto which James had issued the previous August
from Lorraine, in which he spoke of George as “a foreigner ignorant
of the language, laws and customs of England,” and said he had been
waiting to claim his rights on the death “of the Princess our sister,
of whose good intentions towards us we could not for some time past
well doubt”. This manifesto compromised the late Queen’s Ministers, and
the Government determined to challenge the verdict of the country upon
it.
The Jacobites were quite willing to meet the issue. Riots broke out at
Birmingham, Bristol, Chippenham, Norwich and other considerable towns
in the kingdom. In the words of the old Cavalier song, it was declared
that times would not mend “until the King enjoyed his own again,” and
James’s health was drunk at public and private dinners by passing the
wine glass over the water bottle, thus transforming the toast of “The
King,” into “The King over the water”. The hawkers of pamphlets and
ballads openly vended and shouted Jacobite songs in the streets, and
many of them were prosecuted with great severity. Two forces, opposite
enough in other ways, the Church and the Stage, were found to be united
against the Government, and a Royal Proclamation was issued commanding
the clergy not to touch upon politics in their sermons, and forbidding
farces and plays which held Protestant dissenters up to ridicule.
The violence of the Jacobites played into the hands of the Government
and considerably embarrassed the moderate section of the Tory party,
who, under the leadership of Sir Thomas Hanmer, were opposed to the
restoration of a Roman Catholic prince, and were willing to support the
monarchy as represented by the House of Hanover, provided that they
had some voice in the government of the country. But the Whigs pressed
home their advantage, and raised the cry of “No Popery,” with which
they knew the nation as a whole thoroughly agreed. The Tories could
only fall back on their old cry, “The Church in danger,” declaring that
George the First was not a _bonâ-fide_ member of the Church of England,
but a Protestant Lutheran, and pointing to the fact that he had brought
with him his Lutheran chaplain. But this was clearly inconsistent,
for though the King was not a sound Churchman, he was not a man to
make difficulties about religious matters, and he had unhesitatingly
conformed to the Church of England, and had attended services in the
Chapel Royal and received the sacrament, together with the Prince and
Princess of Wales. The Church would be obviously in far greater danger
from a Roman Catholic prince who refused to acknowledge the validity
of Anglican sacraments or orders, and who regarded the Church of
England as heretical.
The result of the General Election was a foregone conclusion, for
though only a year or two before the people in many parts of England
had shown themselves well disposed towards a Stuart restoration,
they were easily led by those in authority. The mob is always ready
to shout with the stronger, and in this instance the Whigs and the
Hanoverians had clearly shown themselves the stronger. There had been
an improvement in trade and a good harvest, and this told in favour of
the new _régime_. In short the great mass of the people were utterly
weary of political strife and revolutions; all they wanted was to be
left to live their lives, and do their work in peace, and, provided
they were not overtaxed, or their liberties and religion menaced, they
were quite indifferent whether a Stuart or a Guelph reigned over them.
Outside London and the great cities politics did not affect the people
one way or another, but prejudice goes for something, and there is no
doubt that the people of England, by an overwhelming majority, were
prejudiced against the Roman Catholic religion, and a Roman Catholic
claimant to the throne, after their experience of James the Second was
naturally regarded with suspicion. The English people knew little as
yet about George from Hanover, and cared less; the only thing they knew
was that he was not a Roman Catholic, and that was in his favour. They
sighed too for a settled form of government, and this the Hanoverian
succession seemed to promise them.
When the new Parliament met in March, the Whigs had an overwhelming
majority in the House of Commons. The King opened Parliament in person,
but as he was unable to speak English, his speech was read by Lord
Chancellor Cowper. In it George the First was made to declare that he
was “called to the throne of his ancestors,” and he would uphold the
established constitution of Church and State. It was soon evident that
the Whigs meant to follow up their victory at the polls by persecuting
their opponents. In the House of Lords the Address contained the words
“to recover the reputation of this kingdom,” and Bolingbroke made his
last speech in Parliament in moving an amendment to substitute the word
“maintain” for the word “recover,” which, he eloquently objected, would
cast a slur upon the reign of the late Queen. Of course the amendment
was lost. The temper of the new Parliament was soon made manifest, and
threats of impeachment were the order of the day. At one time it seemed
likely that Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, would be impeached, for
Walpole declared in the House of Commons that, “Evident proofs will
appear of a meeting having been held by some considerable persons,
one of whom is not far off, wherein it was proposed to proclaim the
Pretender at the Royal Exchange”. This, of course, was an allusion to
the hurried meeting which had been held in Lady Masham’s apartments
when the Queen lay dying, and Atterbury’s offer to go forth and
proclaim James. But all the Ministers were not so zealous as Walpole,
and more moderate counsels prevailed; they were afraid of arousing the
old cry of “The Church in danger,” and Atterbury was left alone. But
Bolingbroke in the House of Lords sat and heard that he and some of his
late colleagues were to be impeached of high treason.
Bolingbroke affected to treat the threat with contempt, and for some
days he went about in public as usual, saying that he was glad to be
quit of the cares of office, and to be able to devote his leisure to
literature. On the evening of March 26th (1715), he ostentatiously
showed himself in a box at Drury Lane, discussed plans for the morrow,
and laughed and talked with his friends. When the performance was over,
he went back to his house, disguised himself as a serving man in a
large coat and a black wig, and stole off under cover of the darkness
to Dover, whence he crossed in a small vessel to France. It was said
that Bolingbroke’s flight, a grave mistake, was largely determined by
Marlborough, who, being anxious to get him out of the way, pretended he
had certain knowledge that it was agreed between the English Ministers
and the Dutch Government that he was to be beheaded.
A Committee of Secrecy was now formed to examine into the conduct of
the last Ministry of Queen Anne with regard to the Treaty of Utrecht
and James’s restoration. This committee consisted of twenty-one
members, all Whigs, and when at safe distance he saw the list,
Bolingbroke must have known that he had little chance of a fair
trial, for the chairman of the committee was his bitter enemy, Robert
Walpole. The Tories in Parliament still believed, or pretended to
believe, that matters would not be carried to extremities, and talked
much of the clemency of the King, but they were mistaken. When the
committee reported it was found that Oxford, Ormonde and Bolingbroke
were to be impeached of high treason, and Strafford, who was one of
the plenipotentiaries at Utrecht, was accused of high crimes and
misdemeanours. Ormonde was living at Richmond in great state, and,
since his dismissal, had ostentatiously ignored the House of Hanover.
He was very popular with the people, and had powerful friends in both
Houses of Parliament, many of whom urged him to seek an audience of
the King at once, and throw himself on the royal clemency. Others
wished him to go to the west of England, and stir up an insurrection in
favour of James. Ormonde did neither. Like Bolingbroke, he was seized
with panic, and determined to fly to France. Before he went he visited
Oxford and besought him to escape also. Oxford refused, and Ormonde
took leave of him with the words: “Farewell, Oxford, without a head,”
to which the latter replied: “Farewell, duke, without a duchy”.
Of the threatened lords Oxford was now the only one who remained.
He was in the House of Lords to hear his impeachment, and when it
was moved that he should be committed to the Tower, he made a short
and dignified speech in his defence. He was escorted to the Tower by
an enormous crowd, who cheered loudly for him and the principles he
represented. The cheers were ominous to the Government, and showed that
the Whigs in their lust for vengeance had shot their bolt too far.
These impeachments were in fact merely the result of party animosity,
and could not be justified on broad grounds. The Treaty of Utrecht,
whether bad or good, had been approved by two Parliaments, and the
responsibility for it therefore rested not upon the ex-Ministers, but
upon the nation, which had sufficiently punished those Ministers when
it drove them from power. From the report of the committee it seemed
that the impeached lords had contemplated the restoration of James as a
political possibility, but they had left no evidence to show that they
had determined to restore him. On the contrary, both before and after
the proclamation of the new King, they had made professions of loyalty
to the House of Hanover.
It is impossible to say what George the First thought of these
impeachments, probably he understood the principles of political
freedom better than his Ministers. But the people had not yet divested
themselves of the idea of the political responsibility of the King, and
the persecuting spirit of the Ministers provoked a reaction not only
against the Government, but against the monarch. The cheers which at
first greeted the King’s appearance in public now gave place to hoots
and seditious cries.
For this unpopularity the King himself was largely responsible.
The result of the election made him feel surer of his position
on the throne, and he no longer troubled to conceal his natural
ungraciousness. Unlike the Prince and Princess of Wales, he made no
effort to court popularity or to feign sentiments he did not feel, and
he openly expressed his dislike of England and all things English; he
disliked the climate and the language, and did not trust the people.
His dissatisfaction expressed itself even in the most trivial things.
Nothing English was any good, even the oysters were without flavour.
The royal household were at their wits’ end to know what could be the
matter with them, until at last some one remembered that Hanover was
a long way from the sea, and that the King had probably never eaten
a fresh oyster before he came to England. Orders were given that
they should be kept until they were stale, and the difficulty was
solved--the King expressed himself satisfied and enjoyed them. But
his other peculiarities were not so easily overcome. Notwithstanding
that Parliament had been so liberal with the civil list, George showed
himself extremely penurious in everything that related to his English
subjects. “This is a strange country,” he grumbled once; “the first
morning after my arrival at St. James’s I looked out of a window and
saw a park with walks and a canal, which they told me was mine. The
next day Lord Chetwynd, the ranger of my park, sent me a brace of my
carp out of my canal, and I was told I must give five guineas to
Lord Chetwynd’s man for bringing my own carp, out of my own canal, in
my own park.” A reasonable complaint, it must be admitted, but his
niggardliness had not always the same excuse. For example, it had been
the custom of English sovereigns on their birthdays to give new clothes
to their regiment of Guards, and George the First grudgingly had to
follow precedent, but he determined to do it as cheaply as possible,
and the shirts that were sent to the soldiers were so coarse that the
men cried out against them. Some even went so far as to throw them
down in the court-yard of St. James’s Palace, and soon after, when a
detachment was marching through the city to relieve guard at the Tower,
the soldiers evinced their mutinous disposition by pulling out their
undergarments and showing them to the crowd, shouting derisively, “Look
at our Hanoverian shirts”. The King’s miserliness did not extend to his
Hanoverians. When his Hanoverian cook came to him and declared that he
must go back home, as he could not control the waste and thefts that
went on in the royal kitchen, the King laughed outright, and said:
“Never mind, my revenues now will bear the expense. You rob like the
English, and mind you take your share.” The King also wished to shut up
St. James’s Park for his private benefit, and when he asked Townshend
how much it would cost to do so, the Minister replied, “Only three
crowns, sire”. Whereat the King remarked it was a pity, as it would
make a fine field for turnips.
George the First had nothing of majesty in his demeanour or appearance.
He disliked uniforms, and generally appeared in a shabby suit of brown
cloth, liberally besprinkled with snuff. He was a gluttonous eater and
frequently drank too much. When he came to England his habits were set,
and he was too old to change them even if he had the will to do so,
which he had not. The English people might take him, or leave him, just
as they pleased. He had never made any advances to them, and he was
not going to begin now. George’s abrupt manner and coarse habits must
have been a severe test to the loyalty of his courtiers, who had been
accustomed to the grace and dignity of the Stuarts. Certainly not his
most fervent supporters could pretend that he ruled by right Divine,
nor was it possible to revive for him the old feeling of romantic
loyalty which had hitherto circled around the persons of the English
kings. Yet in fairness it must be said that behind his rude exterior
he had some good qualities, but they were not those which made for
popularity.
His great error as King of England was that he wantonly added to
his unpopularity by the horde of hungry Hanoverians, “pimps, whelps
and reptiles,” as they were called in a contemporary print, whom he
brought over with him, and who at once set to work to make themselves
as unpleasant as possible. Much of the King’s regal authority was
exercised through what has been called “The Hanoverian Junta,” three
Ministers who came in his suite, Bothmar, Bernstorff and Robethon.
Bothmar’s position in England immediately before Queen Anne’s death
had been difficult and delicate, and he was hated by Bolingbroke and
the Tories, a hatred which, when his royal master came into power,
he was able to repay fourfold. His knowledge of English affairs was
unrivalled by any other Hanoverian. As George became more acquainted
with his new subjects, Bothmar ceased to be so useful, but at first
his influence was paramount, and he amassed a large fortune from the
bribes given him by aspirants to the royal favour. Bernstorff had been
prime minister in Hanover since the death of Count Platen, and for
many years previously had held the position of chief adviser to the
Duke of Celle. He had earned George’s goodwill by prejudicing the Duke
of Celle against his daughter, Sophie Dorothea--indeed Bernstorff may
be said to have contributed to the Princess’s ruin, and he was even
now largely responsible for her strict and continued imprisonment. In
foreign affairs Bernstorff gained considerable influence, and worked
for the aggrandisement of Hanover at the expense of England, with the
full consent and approval of the King. He found his schemes, however,
thwarted by Townshend on many occasions, and so he too directed his
surplus energies to the sale of places. Robethon was a Frenchman of
low birth. He had been at one time private secretary to William of
Orange, and had been employed by the Elector of Hanover in carrying on
a confidential correspondence with England--“a prying, impertinent,
venomous creature,” Mahon calls him, “for ever crawling in some slimy
intrigue”. He, too, was most venal, and seized every opportunity of
enriching himself.
These three men brought with them two women, who were familiar figures
at the Court of George the First. One was a Mademoiselle Schütz, a
niece of Bernstorff, and probably a relative of the envoy who had been
recalled by order of Queen Anne. She was of pleasing appearance, but
made herself exceedingly offensive to the English ladies by giving
herself great airs, and wishing to take precedence even of countesses.
She also was a bird of prey, but as she had little influence, her
opportunities of plunder were limited, and she seems mainly to have
occupied herself with borrowing jewels from English peeresses,
wherewith to bedeck her person, and forgetting to return them. By the
time she went back to Hanover, it was computed that she carried off
with her a large box of treasure obtained in this way. The other woman
was Madame Robethon, wife of the secretary aforesaid, who, being of
mean birth, squat figure, and harsh, croaking voice, was generally
known in court circles as _La Grenouille_, or “The Frog”.
But the avarice of all these was as nothing compared with that of
the mistresses, Schulemburg and Kielmansegge, who were now nicknamed
the “Maypole” and the “Elephant” respectively. These ladies were
sumptuously lodged in St. James’s Palace, but their suites of rooms
were situated far apart, with King George between them, a wise
precaution, as they hated one another with an intense and jealous
hatred. Of the two, Schulemburg had immeasurably more influence, and,
consequently, far greater opportunities of amassing a fortune. She
was brazen and shameless in her greed for gold. When, as a protest
against the arrest of his son-in-law Sir William Wyndham in 1715, the
Duke of Somerset, the proudest nobleman in England, and the premier
Protestant duke, resigned the Mastership of the Horse, Schulemburg had
the impudence to propose that the office should be left vacant and the
revenues given to her. To every one’s disgust, the King consented and
handed over to her the profits of this appointment, amounting to £7,500
a year. Schulemburg was a veritable daughter of the horse-leech, always
crying “Give, give,” and it says very little for English morals or
honesty to find that, much as she was despised, her apartments at St.
James’s Palace were crowded by some of the first of the Whig nobility,
and not only they, but their wives and daughters paid the mistress
their court.
The Princess of Wales always treated Schulemburg with politeness, and
recognised the peculiar relationship which existed between her and
the King. Towards Kielmansegge she was not so complaisant, and when,
shortly after her arrival in England, that lady prayed to be received
by the Princess, Caroline sent word to say that “in these matters
things go by age, and she must, therefore, receive the oldest first,”
namely, Schulemburg. Caroline had a strong dislike to Kielmansegge,
whom she regarded as a most mischievous woman, and declared that “she
never even stuck a pin in her gown without some object”. Kielmansegge
did not get nearly so many perquisites as her companion in iniquity.
Incidentally she secured a prize, such as a sum of £500 from one
Chetwynd for obtaining for him an appointment in the Board of Trade,
with the additional sum of £200 per annum as long as he held it. This
was rather a heavy tax upon his salary, but as the appointment was a
sinecure, and Chetwynd quite incompetent to fill it even if it had not
been, he was content to get it on any terms. The indignation of the
people was especially directed against these two women. The English
people had been accustomed by the Stuarts to royal mistresses; they
could forgive the Hanoverian women their want of morals, and even their
avarice had they kept it within bounds; but they could not forgive
their lack of beauty, and when they set out in the King’s coaches to
take the air, they were often greeted with jeers and yells. On one
of these occasions, when the crowd was more than usually offensive,
Schulemburg, who had picked up a little English by this time, thrust
her painted face out of the window of the coach and cried: “Goot pipple
what for you abuse us, we come for all your goots?” “Yes, damn ye,”
shouted a fellow in the crowd, “and for all our chattels too.”
[Illustration: LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.
(IN EASTERN DRESS.)]
There were two more members of this strange household who incurred
their share of odium, the King’s Turks, Mustapha and Mahomet, who
alone were admitted into the royal bedchamber to dress and undress
the monarch--duties which until this reign had been performed by
English officers of the household appointed by the King. These Turks,
although occupying so humble a position, were paid much court to, and
were able to acquire a considerable sum of money by doing a trade in
minor appointments about the royal household, such as places for pages,
cooks, grooms, and so forth.
The King, who disliked state and ceremonial, after the first year of
his reign appeared at the drawing-rooms at St. James’s only for a
brief time, leaving the honours to be done by the Princess of Wales.
He liked best to spend his evenings quietly in the apartments of one
of his mistresses, smoking a pipe and drinking German beer, or playing
ombre or quadrille for small sums. To these parties few English were
ever invited. “The King of England,” says the Count de Broglie, “has
no predilection for the English nation, and never receives in private
any English of either sex.”[58] But to this rule there were two notable
exceptions. One was the younger Craggs, and the other Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu, whose beauty and vivacity, and free and easy manners and
conversation, made her peculiarly acceptable to Schulemburg and the
King.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who was the eldest daughter of the wealthy
and profligate Duke of Kingston, was one of the most remarkable women
of her time. Her upbringing had given an impetus to her natural
originality; she had lost her mother when she was a child, and had
grown up under the care of her father, who made much of her, but who
was far from a judicious guardian. As a girl Lady Mary was allowed
to run wild among the stables and kennels, but her sense and thirst
for knowledge prevented her from abusing her freedom. She read widely
anything and everything, taught herself Latin, and acquired a thorough
knowledge of Greek and French. Her father was very proud of her, and
proposed her as a toast to the famous Kit-Cat club, at one of their
festive gatherings at a tavern in the Strand. The members demurred
on the ground that they had never seen her. “Then you shall!” said
the duke with an oath, and he forthwith sent his man home to say that
Lady Mary was to be dressed in her best and brought to him at once.
The child, for she was then only eight years old, was received with
acclamations by the assembled company whom she delighted with her ready
answers; her health was drunk with enthusiasm, and her name engraved
upon the glasses. Lady Mary afterwards declared that this was the
proudest moment of her life; she was passed from the knee of a poet
to the arms of a statesman, and toasted by some of the most eminent
men in England. While she was still quite young Lady Mary fell in love
with Edward Wortley Montagu, who was a young man of good presence, good
family, well mannered and well educated. She was never much in love
with him, and she showed herself quite alive to his defects, but she
clung to him with a curious persistency. The old duke peremptorily
forbade the marriage, but after many difficulties Wortley Montagu
persuaded Lady Mary to elope with him, and they were privately married
by special licence.
When George the First came to the throne Wortley Montagu, who was
a Whig, obtained, through the patronage of his powerful friends, a
lordship of the Treasury. The duties of his office brought him to
London, and his wife came with him. Her wit, beauty and originality
made a sensation at the early drawing-rooms of George the First. With
all her charms there was in Lady Mary a vein of coarseness, the result
no doubt of her upbringing, which made her particularly sympathetic to
the coarse and sensual King. He talked with her, admired her French,
and admitted her into his special intimacy, though there is nothing to
show that he entertained any feelings for her beyond those of paternal
friendship for a young and beautiful girl, for she was then little
more. But the Prince of Wales, who fancied himself a great gallant,
soon began to pay her marked attention. His admiration was open and
confessed, and one evening when she appeared at Court radiant in her
beauty and splendidly attired, he was so struck with admiration that
he called to the Princess, who was playing cards in the next room,
to come and see how beautifully Lady Mary was dressed. The Princess,
though the most complaisant of wives, objected to being interrupted
in her game to look at the beauty of another woman, and so with a
shrug of her shoulders she merely answered: “Lady Mary always dresses
well,” and went on with her cards. It was soon found impossible by the
courtiers at St. James’s to maintain the favour of both the King and
the Prince; they had to choose between one and the other, and Lady Mary
was no exception to the rule. The favour shown her by the King soon
earned her the dislike of the Prince of Wales, a matter about which
she was indifferent, as she had no liking for him. She distrusted him,
and declared that “he looked on all men and women he saw as creatures
he might kick or kiss for his diversion”. Of the two she preferred his
sire, whom she credited with being passively good-natured. She, alone
among English ladies, enjoyed the card parties and beer-drinkings in
the King’s private apartments, with Schulemburg and Kielmansegge. She
and the younger Craggs, who could talk French and German well, and who
was rather a favourite of Schulemburg’s, often went to make a four
at cards with Schulemburg and the King, and passed many a pleasant
evening, according to their tastes, in this wise.
Lady Mary relates an amusing incident which happened at one of these
royal parties. She was commanded to appear one evening, and went
as in duty bound, but she explained to Schulemburg that she had a
particular reason for wishing to leave early, and prayed her to ask
the King’s leave. George, who disliked to have his parties broken up,
remonstrated, but finding the lady anxious to go, gave her leave to
depart. But when she rose he returned to the point, saying many other
complimentary things, which she answered in a fitting manner, and
finally managed to leave the room. The rest may be quoted: “At the
foot of the great stairs she ran against Secretary Craggs just coming
in, who stopped her to inquire what was the matter--was the company
put off? She told him why she went away, and how urgently the King had
pressed her to stay longer, possibly dwelling on that head with some
small complacency. Mr. Craggs made no remark, but, when he had heard
all, snatching her up in his arms as a nurse carries a child, he ran
full speed with her up-stairs, deposited her within the ante-chamber,
kissed both her hands respectfully (still not saying a word), and
vanished. The pages, seeing her returned, they knew not how, hastily
threw open the inner doors, and, before she had recovered her breath,
she found herself again in the King’s presence. ‘Ah! la re-voilà,’
cried he extremely pleased, and began thanking her for her obliging
change of mind. The motto on all palace gates is ‘Hush!’ as Lady
Mary very well knew. She had not to learn that mystery and caution
ever spread their awful wings over the precincts of a Court, where
nobody knows what dire mischief may ensue from one unlucky syllable
babbled about anything, or about nothing, at a wrong time. But she
was bewildered, fluttered, and entirely off her guard; so, beginning
giddily with, ‘O Lord, sir, I have been so frightened!’ she told his
Majesty the whole story exactly as she would have told it to any one
else. He had not done exclaiming, nor his Germans wondering, when
again the door flew open, and the attendants announced Mr. Secretary
Craggs, who, but that moment arrived it should seem, entered with the
usual obeisance, and as composed an air as if nothing had happened.
‘Mais comment donc, Monsieur Craggs,’ said the King, going up to him,
‘est-ce que c’est l’usage de ce pays de porter des belles dames comme
un sac de froment?’ ‘Is it the custom of this country to carry about
fair ladies like a sack of wheat?’ The Minister, struck dumb by this
unexpected attack, stood a minute or two not knowing which way to
look; then, recovering his self-possession, answered with a low bow,
‘There is nothing I would not do for your Majesty’s satisfaction’. This
was coming off tolerably well; but he did not forgive the tell-tale
culprit, in whose ear, watching his opportunity when the King turned
from them, he muttered a bitter reproach, with a round oath to enforce
it, ‘which I durst not resent,’ continued she, ‘for I had drawn it upon
myself; and, indeed, I was heartily vexed at my own imprudence’.”[59]
It was a peculiarity of George I. that he had no friends in the world,
not even his Hanoverian minions and mistresses, who followed him
here from interested motives, with the exception of Schulemburg. The
English, even those who were admitted to his intimacy, like Lady Mary
Wortley Montagu, had little good to say of him. “In private life he
would have been called an honest blockhead,” she writes, “and Fortune,
which made him a King, added nothing to his happiness, only prejudiced
his honesty and shortened his days.”[60] If this were the case with
people who were near him and benefited by his favours, how can it be
wondered that he was unpopular with his subjects at large? There was
nothing to be spread abroad in his favour, not one gracious act, not
one gracious word or kindly speech. The more his subjects knew of
him the more they disliked him, and the reaction was soon setting in
full flood. The foreign policy of the Government, which was directly
influenced by the King and Bernstorff, tended to increase George’s
unpopularity. The quarrel with Sweden on the purely Hanoverian question
of Bremen and Verden, and the despatch of an English fleet to the
Baltic, brought home to the nation the fact that it would be liable to
be constantly embroiled in continental quarrels for the sake of Hanover.
The King, like his Hanoverians, considered his tenure of the English
throne a precarious one. “He rather considers England as a temporary
possession to be made the most of while it lasts than as a perpetual
inheritance to himself and his family,” wrote the French ambassador;
and, says Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, “the natural honesty of his
temper, joined with the narrow motives of a low education, made him
look upon his acceptance of the crown as an act of usurpation which
was always uneasy to him”. At any rate, George was too honest to feign
a belief in James being a pretended son of James the Second, and he
knew, but for the accident of his Protestantism, that he had no claim
to the English crown. To benefit Hanover at the expense of England was
the keynote of his policy, and when the nation began to be aware of it,
the tide of discontent ran higher and higher, and Jacobite plots were
reported in all directions. There were riots on the King’s birthday,
the crowds wore turnips in their hats in derision of George’s wish
to turn St. James’s Park into a turnip field, effigies of dissenting
ministers were burned, and their chapels wrecked. James’s health was
publicly drunk on Ludgate Hill and in other places; the mob loudly
shouted “Ormonde” and “No George,” and the following doggerel was sung
in the streets:--
If Queen Anne had done justice George had still
O’er slaves and German boobies reigned,
On leeks and garlic still regaled his feast,
In dirty dowlas shirts and fustians dressed.
Disaffection spread everywhere, and recruiting for James went on even
among the King’s guards. In many quarters there was something like
a panic, but the King went about as usual, indifferent to danger.
England, he frankly owned, had disappointed him, and perhaps he did not
greatly care whether he was sent back to Hanover or not. So things
continued through the summer and autumn, until in November they came
to a crisis, and mounted messengers galloped south with the news that
James’s standard had been unfurled in the Highlands.
FOOTNOTES TO BOOK II, CHAPTER III:
[58] _La Correspondance Secrète du Comte Broglie._
[59] Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Letters and Works, edited by Lord
Wharnecliff.
[60] Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Letters and Works, edited by Lord
Wharnecliff.