ANOTHER VISIT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
It was the evening following the one the incidents of which occupied the
preceding chapter.
Beneath a sofa in the Ball Room of Buckingham Palace, Henry Holford lay
concealed.
It would be a mere repetition of statements made in former portions of
this work, were we to describe the means by which the young man obtained
access to the most private parts of the royal dwelling. We may, however,
observe that he had paid frequent visits to the palace since the
occasion when we first saw him enter those sacred precincts at the
commencement of January, 1839; and that he was as familiar with the
interior of the sovereign's abode, even to its most retired chambers, as
any of its numerous inmates.
He had run many risks of discovery; but a species of good fortune seemed
to attend upon him in these strange and romantic ventures; and those
frequent alarms had never as yet terminated in his detection. Thus he
became emboldened in his intrusions; and he now lay beneath the sofa in
the Ball Room, with no more apprehension than he would have entertained
if some authority in the palace had actually connived at his presence
there.
It was nine o'clock in the evening; and the Ball Room was brilliantly
illuminated.
But as yet the low-born pot-boy was its sole occupant.
Not long, however, was he doomed to that solitude. By a strange
coincidence, the two noble ladies whose conversation had so much
interested him on the occasion of his first visit to the palace, entered
the room shortly after nine o'clock. He recognised their voices
immediately; and he was delighted at their arrival, for their former
dialogues had awakened the most lively sentiments of curiosity in his
mind. But since his intrusion in January, 1839, he had never seen nor
heard them in his subsequent visits to the royal dwelling, until the
present occasion; and now, as they advanced through the room together,
he held his breath to catch the words that fell from them.
"The dinner-party was tiresome to-day, my dear countess," observed the
duchess: "her Majesty did not appear to be in good spirits."
"Alas!" exclaimed the lady thus addressed, "our gracious sovereign's
melancholy fits occur at less distant intervals as she grows older."
"And yet her Majesty has every earthly reason to be happy," said the
duchess. "The Prince appears to be devotedly attached to her; and the
Princess Royal is a sweet babe."
"Worldly prosperity will not always ensure felicity," returned the
countess; "and this your grace must have perceived amongst the circle of
your acquaintance. Her Majesty is a prey to frequent fits of
despondency, which are distressing to the faithful subjects who have the
honour to be near the royal person. She will sit for an hour at a time,
in moody contemplation of that sweet babe; and her countenance then
wears an expression of such profound—such plaintive—such touching
melancholy, that I have frequently wept to behold her thus."
"What can be the cause of this intermittent despondency?" inquired the
duchess.
"It is constitutional," answered the countess. "The fit comes upon her
Majesty at moments when she is surrounded by all the elements of
pleasure, happiness, and joy. It is a dark spirit against which no mind,
however powerful, can wrestle. The only method of mitigating the
violence of its attacks is the bustle of travelling:—then novelty,
change of scene, exercise, and the demonstrations of popular devotion
seem to relieve our beloved sovereign from the influence of that morbid,
moody melancholy."
"I believe that when we conversed upon this topic on a former
occasion,—it must be at least two years ago,—your ladyship hinted at the
existence of hereditary idiosyncrasies in the Royal Family?" observed
the duchess, inquiringly. "Indeed," added her grace, hastily, "I well
remember that you alluded to the unfortunate attachment of George the
Third for a certain Quakeress——"
"Yes—Hannah Lightfoot, to whom the monarch, when a prince, was privately
united," answered the countess. "His baffled love—the necessity which
compelled him to renounce one to whom he was devotedly attached—and the
constant dread which he entertained lest the secret of this marriage
should transpire, acted upon his mind in a manner that subsequently
produced those dread results which are matters of history."
"You allude to his madness," said the duchess, with a shudder.
"Yes, your grace—that madness which is, alas! hereditary," replied the
countess solemnly. "But George the Third had many—many domestic
afflictions. Oh! if you knew all, you would not be surprised that he had
lost his reason! The profligacy of some of his children—most of them—was
alone sufficient to turn his brain. Many of those instances of
profligacy have transpired; and although the public have not been able
to arrive at any positive proofs respecting the matters, I can
nevertheless assure your grace that such proofs _are_ in existence—and
in my possession!"
"Your ladyship once before hinted as much to me; and I must confess that
without having any morbid inclination for vulgar scandal, I feel some
curiosity in respect to those matters."
"Some day I will place in your hand papers of a fearful import, in
connexion with the Royal Family," returned the countess. "Your grace
will then perceive that profligacy the most abandoned—crimes the most
heinous—vices the most depraved, characterised nearly all the children
of George the Third. There is one remarkable fact relative to that
prince's marriage with Hannah Lightfoot. The Royal Marriage Act was not
passed until _thirteen years after this union_, and could not therefore
set it aside; and yet _Hannah Lightfoot was still living when the prince
espoused Charlotte Sophia Princess of Mecklenburgh Strelitz in 1761_."
"Is this possible?" exclaimed the duchess, profoundly surprised.
"It is possible—it is true!" said the countess emphatically. "In 1772
the Royal Marriage Act[25] was passed, and provided that no member of
the Royal Family should contract a marriage without the sovereign's
consent. This measure was enacted for several reasons; but principally
because the King's two brothers had formed private matrimonial
connexions,—the Duke of Cumberland with Mrs. Horton, a widow—and the
Duke of Gloucester with the widow of the Earl of Waldegrave."
[Illustration]
"The act certainly appears to me most cruel and oppressive," said the
duchess; "inasmuch as it interferes with the tenderest affections and
most charming of human sympathies—feelings which royalty has in common
with all the rest of mankind."
"I cordially agree with your grace," observed the countess. "The law is
barbarous—monstrous—revolting; and its evil effects were evidenced by
almost every member of the family of George the Third. In the first
place, the Prince of Wales (afterwards George the Fourth) was privately
united to Mrs. Fitzherbert, at the house of that lady's uncle, Lord
Sefton. Fox, Sheridan, and Burke were present at the ceremony, in
addition to my mother and several relations of the bride. Mr. Fox handed
her into the carriage; and the happy pair proceeded to Richmond, where
they passed a week or ten days. Queen Charlotte was made acquainted with
the marriage: she sent for her son, and demanded an explanation. The
prince avowed the truth. Your grace has, of course, read the discussion
which took place in connexion with this subject, in the House of
Commons, in 1787. Mr. Rolle, the member for Devonshire, mysteriously
alluded to the union: Mr. Fox rose up, and denied it; but from that day
forth Mrs. Fitzherbert never spoke to Fox again. Sheridan let the truth
escape him:—he said, '_A lady who has been alluded to, is without
reproach, and is entitled to the truest and most general respect_.' How
would Mrs. Fitzherbert have been without reproach, or entitled to
respect, if she were _not_ married to the prince? But I have
proofs—convincing proofs—that such an union did actually take place,
although it was certainly null and void in consequence of the Marriage
Act."
"It nevertheless subsisted according to the feelings and inclinations of
the parties interested," said the duchess; "and it was based on
_honour_, if on no legal principle."
"Alas!" whispered the countess, casting a rapid glance around; "the word
_honour_ must not be mentioned in connexion with the name of George the
Fourth. It pains me to speak ill of the ancestors of our lovely queen:
but—if we converse on the subject at all—truth must influence our
observations. The entire life of George the Fourth was one of profligacy
and crime. Often have I marvelled how one possessing a soul so refined
as Georgiana, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, could have resigned
herself to such a degraded voluptuary—such a low debauchee. Yet she was
his Queen of Love, surrounded by her graces, who, however, bore the
modern names of Craven, Windham, and Jersey."
"Carlton House has, indeed, beheld strange and varied scenes," said the
duchess; "low orgies and voluptuous revels—music floating here—dice
rattling there—the refinements of existence in one room, and the most
degraded dissipation in another."
"Such was the case," observed the countess. "But let us return to the
consequences of the Royal Marriage Act. Rumour has told much in
connexion with the coupled names of the Duke of York and Mrs. Clarke—the
late King William and Mrs. Jordan; and so well known are these facts
that I need not dwell upon them. The matrimonial connexions of the Duke
of Sussex—first with Lady Augusta Murray, and afterwards with Lady
Cecilia Underwood,[26] are all matters resting upon something more solid
than mere conjecture."
"And the Duke of Cumberland—the present King of Hanover?" said the
duchess inquiringly.
"It is dangerous to speak of _him_," whispered the countess; "because it
is impossible to utter a word in his favour."
"You surely cannot believe all the tales that have been circulated
against him?" exclaimed the duchess, earnestly watching the countenance
of her companion, as if to anticipate her reply.
"Does your grace particularly allude to the death of Sellis?" asked the
countess, turning her head so as to meet the glance of her friend.
"Because," continued she, without waiting for a reply, "I should be
sorry—nay, nothing should induce me—to state in plain terms my
impression relative to that event. I may, however, allude to a few
material points. Sir Everard Home, the medical attendant of the Duke of
Cumberland, frequently observed, '_that too much pains were taken to
involve that affair in mystery_;' and another eminent physician, since
dead, declared that '_the head of Sellis was nearly severed from his
body, and that no man could inflict upon himself a wound of such a
depth_.' The Duke of Cumberland stated that his valet, Sellis, entered
his bed-chamber and attacked him with a sword; and that having failed in
his murderous purposes, he retired to his own room and committed
suicide. Sir Everard Home distinctly proved, on the inquest, that the
corpse was found lying on its _side_ on the bed; and yet '_he had cut
his own throat so effectually that he could not have changed his
position after inflicting the wound_.' I will not, however, make any
observations upon _that_ fact and _this_ statement which seem so
conflicting: the subject is almost too awful to deal with. There is
still one remarkable point to which the attention of those who discuss
the dark affair should be directed:—the hand-basin in Sellis's room was
half full of blood-stained water, and it is very clear that the
miserable wretch himself could not have risen to wash his hands _after_
the wound was inflicted in his throat. But let us not dwell on this
horrible event: the mere mention of it makes me shudder."
"The King of Hanover has been, at least, unfortunate in many
circumstances of his life, if not guilty," observed the duchess;
"because his enemies have insisted strongly upon the suspicious nature
of the incident of which we have been speaking."
"The more so, because it was known that the Duke of Cumberland had
intrigued with the wife of Sellis," returned the countess. "As your
grace declares, that exalted personage has been indeed unfortunate—if
nothing more. In 1830 Lord Graves committed suicide; and the improper
connexion existing between the Duke of Cumberland and Lady Graves was
notorious."
"I well remember," said the duchess, "that the conduct of the Duke and
Lady Graves was far from prudent, to say the least of it, after that
melancholy event. Scarcely were the remains of the self-slain nobleman
cold in the tomb, ere his widow and her illustrious lover were seen
driving about together in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court, where Lady
Graves had apartments."
"True," exclaimed the duchess. "But we have travelled a long way from
our first topic—the Royal Marriage Act. We were speaking of its
pernicious effects in respect to the family of George the Third. And
that was a fine family, too! My deceased mother often expatiated—and her
secret papers dwell at length—upon the charms of the princesses. Alas!
how sorrowfully were they situated! In the bloom of youth—in the glow of
health—with warm temperaments and ardent imaginations, which received
encouragement from the voluptuous indolence of their lives—they were
denied the privileges of the meanest peasant girl in the realm:—they
were unable to form matrimonial connexions where their inclinations
prompted them. The consequences were those which might have been
anticipated: the honour of the princesses became sacrificed to illicit
passion—passion which was still natural, although illicit! Those amours
were productive of issue; but the offspring of none has created any
sensation in the world, save in the instance of Captain Garth, the son
of the Princess Sophia. Relative to the mysterious birth of that
individual, the secret papers left by my mother—and the existence of
which is even unknown to my husband—contain some strange, some startling
facts. Conceive the embarrassment—the perilous nature of the situation
in which the princess was suddenly involved—when, during a journey from
London to some fashionable watering-place, she found herself overtaken
with the pangs of premature maternity—she, who up to that moment had
managed to conceal her condition even from the attendants upon her
person! Then imagine this princess—a daughter of the sovereign of the
realm—compelled to put up at a miserable road-side inn—forced to make a
confidant of her lady in attendance, and obliged also to entrust her
secret to the surgeon of the village where her child was born! But you
shall read the narrative, with all its details, in my private papers."
"What opinion has your ladyship formed relative to the circumstances
which led to the Bill of Pains and Penalties instituted against Queen
Caroline, the spouse of George the Fourth?" inquired the duchess.
"I firmly believe that most unfortunate and most persecuted princess to
have been _completely innocent_," answered the countess, with solemn
emphasis. "From the first she was hateful to her husband.
When the Earl of Malmsbury, who was sent to Germany to escort the
Princess to England, arrived with her in London, the Prince of Wales
repaired instantly to pay his respects to his intended bride. But
scarcely had he set eyes on her when he conceived a feeling of ineffable
dislike; and, turning towards the Earl, he said, 'Harris,[27] a glass of
brandy—I am ill!' Your grace has heard of love at first sight: here was
hatred at first sight. Every thing attending that marriage was
inauspicious: for if the Princess had the misfortune to make an
unfavourable impression on the Prince, his Royal Highness wantonly
wounded her feelings by grossly manifesting his dislike towards her on
all occasions. On the bridal night he drank so deeply that he fell on a
sofa in the nuptial chamber, and there slept with his clothes on. But to
pass over many years, let us come to the circumstances which led to the
memorable trial of Queen Caroline. During her continental travels, Baron
Bergami was presented to her. He was a man of honourable character, good
family, but ruined fortunes. His condition excited the compassion of the
generous-hearted Caroline; and she gave him a situation in her
household. His conversation was fascinating; and he was frequently her
companion inside the travelling chariot. Perhaps an English lady would
have acted with more prudence; but your grace will remember that there
is a wide distinction between our manners and customs and those of the
Continent. _We_ see improprieties in actions which foreigners view as
harmless courtesies or innocent proofs of friendly interest. _We_ also
seem ready to meet suspicions of evil half-way: foreigners, with more
generous frankness and candour, say, '_Evil be to him who evil thinks_.'
But the marriage was hateful to King George the Fourth; and he was
determined to dissolve it. He was resolved to sacrifice his wife to his
aversions. She was to be made a victim. Then commenced that atrocious
subornation of perjured witnesses which gave a colour to the proceedings
against the unfortunate Queen. Her slightest levities were tortured into
proofs of guilt: her generosity towards Bergami was branded as an
illicit passion. The witnesses made statements which proved how well
they had been tutored: they over-acted their parts; and, in their zeal
to serve a master who paid them for their perjury, they deposed to more
than they could possibly have known, even if the main accusation had
been true. The nation was indignant—for _the people_, your grace, are
possessed of much chivalry and noble generosity of character. Then, too,
rose the portentous voices of Denman and Brougham, calling upon the
hidden accuser to come forth and confront his victim. Oh! it was a vile
proceeding; and I, as a woman—as a wife, feel my blood boiling in my
veins when I think of all the foul wrongs which were heaped upon the
most injured of my sex!"
"That trial," said the duchess, who was naturally of a more cautious
disposition than her companion,—"that trial was certainly a dark blot on
the page which records the annals of George the Fourth's reign."
"Say rather, your grace," exclaimed the countess, "the blackest of the
innumerable black deeds which characterised his existence. Before the
accusation in respect to Bergami was ever thought of, a charge was
concocted against that injured lady, and commissioners were appointed to
investigate it. Thus, your grace perceives, her bad husband was
determined to ruin her. That charge accused her of having been delivered
of a male child at her abode at Blackheath; and the affair certainly
appeared suspicious at first. But how triumphantly was it met? how
readily was it refuted? how easily was it explained! The injured lady
had taken a fancy to the infant of poor but respectable people named
Archer, living in that neighbourhood; and she had undertaken to adopt
and provide for the boy. The unfortunate Princess felt the necessity of
loving something—since her own child was taken from her. Thus was her
goodness towards William Archer converted into a weapon wherewithal to
assail her in the most tender point. Her husband's agents circulated the
most odious calumnies concerning her, and even improperly coupled her
name with that of Sir Sydney Smith, the hero of Acre. But the Archer
story fell to the ground; and the Bergami scandal was subsequently
propagated with a zeal which evinced the determination of George the
Fourth to ruin Caroline of Brunswick."[28]
There was a pause in the conversation.
The duchess, who was possessed of a strong inclination for the
mysterious or scandalous narratives connected with the family of George
the Third, was so impressed by the vehemence and confident emphasis with
which her companion had denounced the profligacy of George the Fourth,
that a species of awe—an undefined alarm came over her:—it suddenly
appeared as if it were a sacrilege thus to canvass the character of that
deceased monarch within the very palace where he himself had dwelt;—and
she hesitated to make any remark or ask any question that might lead to
a continuation of the same topic.
On her side, the countess—who was much older than the duchess, and more
deeply initiated in the mysteries of Courts—had become plunged into a
deep reverie; for she possessed a generous mind, and never could ponder
upon the wrongs of the murdered Queen Caroline without experiencing the
most profound indignation and sorrow.[29]
The reader may probably deem it somewhat extraordinary that ladies
attached to the Court should thus freely discuss the most private
affairs, and canvass the characters of deceased members of the Royal
Family. But we can positively assert that nowhere are scandal and
tittle-tattle more extensively indulged in, than amongst the members of
that circle of courtiers and female sycophants who crowd about the
sovereign.[30]
The conversation of the duchess and countess was not renewed on the
present occasion; for while they were yet plunged each in the depths of
her own particular meditations, the regal train entered the Ball Room.
And all this while Henry Holford remained concealed beneath the sofa!
Victoria leant upon the arm of her consort; and the illustrious party
was preceded by the Lord Chamberlain and the Lord Steward. The Queen and
the Prince proceeded to the reserved seats which were slightly elevated
in a recess, and were covered with white satin embroidered in silver.
Then the magnificent Ball-Room presented a truly fairy spectacle. Plumes
were waving, diamonds were sparkling, bright eyes were glancing, and
music floated on the air. The spacious apartment was crowded with nobles
and gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms or court-dresses; and with ladies in
the most elegant attire that French fashions could suggest or French
milliners achieve. All those striking or attractive figures, and all the
splendours of their appearance, were multiplied by the brilliant mirrors
to an illimitable extent.
The orchestra extended across one end of the Ball-Room; and the
musicians had entered by a side-door almost at the same moment that the
royal procession made its appearance.
In the rooms adjoining, the Corps of Gentlemen-at-arms and the Yeomen of
the Guard were on duty; and in the hall the band of the Royal Regiment
of Horse Guards was in attendance.
The Queen and the Prince danced in the first quadrille; and afterwards
they indulged in their favourite waltz—the _Frohsinn mein Ziel_. At the
termination of each dance the royal party passed into the Picture
Gallery, where they promenaded amidst a wilderness of flowers and
aromatic shrubs. Then indeed the odour-breathing exotics—the whispering
leaves—the light of the pendent lamps, mellowed so as to give full
effect to the portraits of those who were once famous or once
beautiful—the ribboned or gartered nobles—the blaze of female
loveliness—the streams of melody—the presence of all possible elements
of splendour, harmony, and pleasure, combined to render the whole scene
one of enchantment, and seemed to realize the most glowing and brilliant
visions which oriental writers ever shadowed forth!
The dancing was renewed in the Ball-Room: and as the beauteous ladies of
the court swam and turned in graceful mazes, it appeared as if the art
had become elevated into the harmony of motion. Dancing there was
something more than mechanical: it was a true, a worthy, and a
legitimate sister of poetry and music.
At twelve o'clock the doors of the supper-room were thrown open; and in
that gorgeous banqueting-hall the crimson draperies, the service of
gold, and the massive table ornaments were lighted up by Chinese
lanterns and silver candelabra of exquisite workmanship. A splendid row
of gold cups was laid on each side of the table. On the right of each
plate stood a decanter of water, a finger-glass half filled with tepid
water, a champagne glass, a tumbler, and three wine-glasses. Numerous
servants in magnificent liveries were in attendance. No one asked for
any thing: the servants offered the various dishes, of which the guests
partook or which they rejected according to their taste. No healths were
drunk during the Queen's presence; nor was the ceremony of taking wine
with each other observed—not even on the part of the gentleman with the
lady whom he had handed into the room. The domestics whose especial duty
it was to serve the wine, never filled a glass until it was quite empty;
nor did any guest ask for wine, but, when the servant approached him,
merely stated the kind of wine he chose.
After sitting for about an hour, the Queen rose, and was conducted to
the Yellow Drawing-Room by Prince Albert, the guests all rising as the
royal couple retired.
Then the servants filled the glasses, and the Lord Steward said, "The
Queen!" The health was drunk standing, in silence, and with a gentle
inclination of the head. In a few minutes afterwards the gentlemen
conducted the ladies into the Yellow Drawing-Room, where coffee and
liqueurs were served.
The harp, piano, and songs by some of the ladies, occupied another hour;
at the expiration of which the guests took their departure.
Holford had now been concealed nearly five hours beneath the sofa in the
ball-room; and he was cramped, stiff, and wearied. During that interval
he had experienced a variety of emotions:—wonder at the strange
revelations which he had heard from the lips of the countess,—ineffable
delight in contemplating the person of his sovereign,—envy at the
exalted prosperity of Prince Albert,—thrilling excitement at the
fairy-like aspect of the enchanting dance,—sensations of unknown rapture
occasioned by the soft strains of the music,—and boundless disgust for
his own humble, obscure, and almost serf-like condition.
During those intervals when the royal party and the guests were
promenading in the Picture-Gallery or were engaged in the
supper-apartment and the drawing-room, Holford longed to escape from his
hiding-place and retreat to the lumber-closet where he was in the habit
of concealing himself on the occasion of his visits to the palace; but
there were too many persons about to render such a step safe.
It was not, therefore, until a very late hour,—or rather an early one in
the morning,—that he was able to enter the supper-room and help himself
to some of the dainties left upon the board; having done which, he
retreated to his nook in the most retired part of the palace.
-----
Footnote 25:
This Act was denounced at the time as "one calculated only to
encourage fornication and adultery in the descendants of George the
Second."
Footnote 26:
Now Duchess of Inverness.
Footnote 27:
The family name of the Earl of Malmsbury.
Footnote 28:
We had the honour of enjoying the friendship of Sir Sydney Smith in
Paris during the years 1834-7; and the misfortunes of Queen Caroline
frequently became the topic of discourse between us. Sir Sydney Smith
assured us on several occasions and in the most solemn manner, that
the reports which had been circulated relative to himself and that
injured lady, during her residence at Blackheath, were vile calumnies.
"Queen Caroline had certainly much levity of manner, and was very
thoughtless and inexperienced," he would observe; "but her virtue was
never for a moment suspected by me." The following passage occurs in a
letter which Queen Caroline wrote to the Countess de C——, shortly
before the commencement of the Trial, and which autograph letter
(_together with numerous important papers concerning George the Third
and his family_) is in our possession:—"This letter will be delivered
to you by an individual who is persecuted because he has served me
faithfully. I recommend him to your kindness. The Baron Bergami is of
high birth. He has been unfortunate: I perceived the excellence of the
qualities he possesses—I have ameliorated his condition in a pecuniary
point of view—and thus have I secured him as my friend. The fury of my
adversaries pursues him—I tremble for his very existence—my royal
husband is _capable of any crime_ to ensure the gratification of his
revenge. I therefore crave your protection for Bergami, and hope that
by your influence you will so arrange matters that he shall not be
molested in Paris. I do not ask you to admit him into your society,
unless agreeable to yourself; at the same time, my dear Countess, you
must be aware that pride is folly. We must judge mankind by the scale
of merit, and not by the grandeur of titles. This is the course I have
adopted through life, and am well pleased with my line of conduct.
Recollect this precept: you will perceive its wisdom when you grow
old."
Footnote 29:
The last and fatal illness of Queen Caroline was caused by a stoppage
in the bowels. Doctors Maton and Warren (the king's physicians)
attended upon the illustrious lady; and various remedies were
prescribed by them—but in vain. One morning, a bottle of _croton oil_
was sent to an individual of Her Majesty's household, accompanied by
the following letter:—
"SIR,—I am aware that nothing but the great—the very great—danger
Her Majesty is in, would excuse this unauthorised intrusion.
Having, however, learnt from the papers the nature of Her
Majesty's complaint, I have taken the liberty to forward to you,
with a view of having it handed to Dr. Maton or Dr. Warren, a
medicine of strong aperient properties, called _croton oil_—one
drop of which is a dose. It is most probably known to some of Her
Majesty's advisers; but it has only been recently brought into
this country. It may be proper to observe that Doctor Pemberton
has _himself_ taken it; and I have administered it to more than
one person. Its operation is quick and certain. Two drops, when
made into pills with bread, usually produce saving effects in half
or three quarters of an hour. It has struck me that this medicine
might be successfully administered to Her Majesty. At all events I
can have done no harm in taking the liberty to suggest it; but,
unwilling to appear anxious to make myself obtrusive, or to seem
influenced by any other than the most disinterested motives, I
have declined giving my name.
"Yours respectfully,
A CHEMIST."
This letter, and the medicine, were forwarded to Dr. Pemberton, of
Great George Street, Hanover Square, who had at one time been Her
Majesty's principal medical attendant. Dr. Pemberton's answer was
this:—"I have myself taken _two_ drops of the _croton oil_, on several
occasions; and the Queen may safely take _one_." The royal physicians
obtained an interview with George the Fourth, and the result was a
declaration on their part, "_that they did not consider themselves
justified in administering the medicine to Her Majesty_." Comment is
unnecessary.
Footnote 30:
But, ah! while of Victoria's court I'm singing,
What solemn music echoes from the lyre!
And wherefore does a passing bell seem ringing,
And melancholy thoughts my soul inspire?
See where the raven now his flight is winging—
Hark to the anthem of the funeral choir—
List to the curfew's note of death-like gloom—
And drop a tear o'er Flora Hastings' tomb!
—_Sequel to Don Juan._