‘TRISTIS GLORIA.’
The result of the Queen’s trial advantageous to neither party--
The Queen’s application to Parliament for a residence--Lord
Liverpool’s reply--Royal message from the Queen to Parliament,
and its discourteous reception--The Queen goes to St. Paul’s
to return thanks--Uncharitable conduct of the Cathedral
authorities--Their unseemly behaviour rebuked by the Lord Mayor
--Revenue for the Queen recommended by the King--Accepted by
her--The Coronation of George IV.--The Queen claims a right to
take part in the ceremony--Her right discussed--Not allowed
--Determines to be present--The Queen appears at the Abbey,
and is refused admittance--With a broken spirit retires--
Her sense of degradation--The King labours to give _éclat_
to his Coronation--The Coronation-festival in Westminster
Hall described--Appearance of the Duke of Wellington--His
banquet to the King--The King’s speech on the occasion--True
greatness of the Duke--Anecdote of Louis XIV. and Lord Stair--
Regal banquet to the foreign ministers--The Duke of Wellington
appears as an Austrian general--Incident of the Coronation--
Lord Londonderry’s banquet to the minister of Louis Napoleon.
The Queen was in tears when the ‘people’ were rejoicing, less certainly
for her sake than for the popular victory which had been achieved.
There was nothing in the issue of the trial for any party to rejoice
at. The ministry could not exult, for although they had carried the
bill which declared the Queen worthy of degradation from her rights and
privileges, rank and station, yet they refrained from acting upon it,
because the popular voice was hoarse with menace, so unfairly had the
case of the two antagonists been tried before the august tribunal of
the peers.
The popular voice had been heeded, and was satisfied with the triumph.
Caroline must have felt that she was really of but secondary account
in the matter, that the victory was not for her, and that, righteously
or unrighteously, her reputation had been irretrievably shaken into
ruins.
Her great spirit, however, was as yet undaunted. The bill was no
sooner withdrawn than she formally applied to Lord Liverpool to be
furnished with a fitting place of residence and a suitable provision.
The premier’s reply informed her Majesty that the King was by no means
disposed to permit her to reside in any of the royal palaces, but
that the pecuniary allowance which she had hitherto enjoyed would be
continued to her until parliament should again meet for the regular
despatch of business. Caroline, determined to harass her husband, next
sent the following note to the prime minister:--‘The Queen requests
Lord Liverpool to inform his Majesty of the Queen’s intention to
present herself next Thursday in person at the King’s Drawing-room,
to have the opportunity of presenting a petition to his Majesty for
obtaining her rights.’
The following humiliating minute was accordingly made to guide the
King:--‘If the Queen should decline delivering her petition into any
hands but the King’s, the King should not be advised to permit her to
come up to the Drawing-room, but should himself go down to the room
where the Queen is, attended by such of his household and his ministers
as may be there, and receive the petition.’
The then present parliament was about to be prorogued, and the Queen
was resolved that, if possible, that body should not separate until it
had granted her what, as Queen-consort, she had a right to demand. Her
solicitor-general, accordingly, went down to the Commons with a royal
message, which he was not permitted to deliver. The House probably
never presented such a scene as that disgraceful one of the night
of the 23rd of November. Mr. Denman stood with the Queen’s letter in
his hand; he was perfectly in order, but the Speaker chose rather to
obey that brought by the usher of the black rod, summoning the members
to attend at the bar of the Lords and listen to the prorogation. The
Speaker hurried out of the House, and the Queen’s message was virtually
flung into the street. The public, however, knew that its chief object
was to announce the Queen’s refusal of any allowance or accommodation
made to her as by ministerial bounty. She still claimed the restoration
of her name to the Liturgy, and a revenue becoming her recognised rank
as Queen-consort.
In the meantime she publicly partook of the Holy Communion at the
parish church of Hammersmith, a proceeding which many persons
considered as a new protestation of her innocence. The admirers of
coincidences affected to have found a remarkable one in the first
lesson for the day, on this occasion (Isaiah lix.); and particularly in
the verse which declares that ‘Judgment is turned away backward, and
justice standeth afar off, for truth is fallen into the street, and
equity cannot enter.’ This was considered as applicable to the Queen’s
case, but, as its applicability presented itself in a double sense,
every one construed it as he thought best.
Caroline’s next step was to proceed to St. Paul’s in solemn, public
array, to return thanks for her escape from the meshes constructed for
her by her enemies. Due notice was given of her Majesty’s intention
and object to the Cathedral authorities, and the day appointed by her
was the 29th of November. The intimation excited in those authorities
neither admiration nor respect. Even the dean, the mild and virtuous
Van Mildert, seemed to think that it was highly unbecoming in the Queen
to be grateful for the dispensations of Heaven. The whole chapter
thought, or were taught to think, that there was no greater nuisance
upon earth than for this woman to come to St. Paul’s and thank God that
he had not allowed her enemies to prevail over her. Those who may have
any doubt as to these being the capitular sentiments are referred to
the ‘Life of Lord Sidmouth,’ by Dean Pellew, who records with emphatic
approval what the good, but mistaken, Van Mildert very uncharitably
said and did upon the occasion.
The Corporation of London were anxious to facilitate the Queen’s
object; the Chapter of St. Paul’s, under pressure from very high
authority without, resolved to do all they could to impede it. They
determined that nothing should be changed in the ordinary service; that
the Queen’s presence or purpose should in no way be recognised; that
the doors should be thrown open to the rush of Queen and _canaille_
indiscriminately; and that the mayor and corporation should be held
responsible for the safety of the Cathedral.
The chief magistrate and his council soon, however, brought the chapter
to a more proper sense of seemliness. The latter body indeed would not
yield on any really ecclesiastical point; but they agreed that certain
arrangements might be made by the mayor and his corporate brothers for
the better maintenance of the decorum, dignity, and decency becoming so
solemn an occasion.
The dean was satisfied that the unwashed artisans--the unclean
public generally--would make of the day a ‘saturnalia,’ a festival
of obscene desecration. The public, it is to be hoped, pleasingly
surprised him. It generally comports itself with propriety when it
descends in countless masses into the streets to form a portion of the
solemnity, partly actors, partly spectators, on great occasions. The
people never behaved with more decency than they did on this day.
The circumstance was really solemn, but there were matters about it
that robbed it of some of its solemnity. It was solemn to see a Queen
proceeding alone, as it may be said, but through myriads of people,
to acknowledge publicly the mercies of Heaven. Lady Anne Hamilton was
her solitary female English attendant; but every woman who witnessed
her progress either praised or pitied her that day. Her ‘procession’
was made up of very slender material, though all her court followed
her in the person of Mr. Vice-Chamberlain Craven. This little company,
however, was swollen by numerous additions on the way; members of
parliament, among others, Sir Robert Wilson, Mr. Hume, and Mr. John
Cam Hobhouse, lent some dignity by their presence. Horsemen fell
into the line, vehicles of every degree took up their following, and
the ‘trades’ marshalled themselves, either in joining the march or
drawing up to greet the pious Queen as she passed upon her way. Among
these, perhaps, the solemnity most suffered. Some very ill-favoured
individuals shouted for her Majesty beneath banners which declared,
‘Thus shall it be done to the woman whom the people delight to honour.’
The braziers added a joke to the occasion by raising a flag over their
position at the end of Bridge Street, on which it was recorded that
‘The Queen’s Guards are Men of Metal.’
With the addition of the ordinary civic pomp the Queen arrived at
the Cathedral, where she was received with affectionate respect by
her friends, and with some show of courtesy by the ecclesiastical
authorities, who had wiled away the time previous to her arrival by
squabbling rather too loudly for the place and occasion with the
corporation present.
The usual service was then proceeded with, and again the coincidence
hunters sought for their favourite spoil. They found abundance of what
they desired in the hundred-and-fortieth and the following psalms. But
of these the phrases cut both ways, and perhaps there was no passage
more personally applicable to the Queen, and some of those friends less
in deed than in word, than where it is written, ‘Oh let not my heart be
inclined to _any_ evil thing; let me not be occupied in ungodly works
with the men that work wickedness, lest I eat such things as please
them. Let the righteous rather smite me friendly, and reprove me. _But_
let not their precious balsam break my head; yea, I will pray yet
against their wickedness.’ No especial form of thanksgiving was made
use of in her Majesty’s name, but this was not needed. It was, however,
imperative upon the clergy officiating to read the parenthetical clause
in the General Thanksgiving prayer, which has immediate reference to
the individual who desires to make an offering of human gratitude to
God. This clause, however, was omitted! The Queen-consort of England
was upon her knees upon the floor of the Cathedral, but the officiating
minister virtually looked up to Him, and standing between Caroline
and her Creator, exclaimed, ‘Lord, she is not here!’ The omission of
the clause was tantamount to this. The people behaved better than the
priests on that day; and yet it was one on which the priests might have
found occasion to give valuable instruction to the people. Those of St.
Paul’s mistook their mission on the day in question.
This spiritual matter ended, the temporal welfare of the Queen had to
be looked to. If she could have existed upon good wishes, she would
have been wealthy, for never did congratulatory addresses pour in
upon her as at the end of this year and the beginning of that which
followed. But she needed something more substantial than good wishes,
and the King himself acknowledged as much in a speech from the throne,
delivered on the re-opening of parliament in January, 1821. His
Majesty recommended that a separate provision should be made for the
Queen-consort. She instantly declared her refusal of any provision that
was not accompanied by the restoration of her name in the Liturgy. The
condition was peremptorily declined by the government, and the income
of 50,000_l._ a year was then accepted by the Queen. In this step
she disappointed numberless friends, who would not have contributed
a farthing to her maintenance. But stern necessity broke the pride
of the poor lady, who was beginning to feel that a banker without
‘effects’ for her use was a worse thing than a Liturgy without her
name. Her increased revenue enabled her to bear the expenses of a town
establishment, which she now formed at Cambridge House, South Audley
Street, but her favourite residence was still that on the banks of the
Thames.
Early in May, 1821, the ceremony of the King’s coronation began to
be spoken of as an event that was about to take place. Caroline did
not forget that she was Queen-consort. She immediately addressed
Lord Liverpool, claiming to take part in the ceremony. The claim
was made literally in these words:--‘The Queen, from circumstances,
being obliged to remain in England, she requests of the King will be
pleased to command those ladies of the first rank his Majesty may think
the most proper in the realm to attend the Queen on the day of the
Coronation, of which her Majesty is informed is now fixed, and also to
name such ladies which will be required to bear her Majesty’s train
on that day. The Queen, being particularly anxious to submit to the
good taste of his Majesty, most earnestly entreats the King to inform
the Queen in what dress the King wishes the Queen to appear in on that
day at the Coronation.’ The premier replied that, as his Majesty had
determined that the Queen should form no part of the ceremonial of the
coronation, it was his royal pleasure that she should not even attend
the ceremony itself. Ever active when she could inflict annoyance on
the King by claiming what she very well knew he would never concede,
she succeeded in obtaining a hearing for her legal advisers in her
behalf before the Privy Council. They served her to the best of their
ability, but in truth they had no right upon their side, and the
arguments which they raised to prove what could not be demonstrated
fell down as rapidly as they were constructed. Mr. Brougham deduced a
presumed right from a curious fact, from a circumstance of a law being
passed in the year 784 _excluding_ Queen Adelberga from the ceremony
of being crowned Queen of the West Saxons, because she had murdered a
former husband. The most early instance in which the title of Queen
is given to a wife of a King of Wessex in any contemporary document
occurs in the reign of Edmund, A.D. 945. The West Saxons, it will be
remembered, had well-nigh dethroned Ethelwolf for crowning his wife
Judith, on the ground that by so doing he had violated the laws of
the West Saxons, made by them on the death of their King Bertric. ‘It
has been supposed,’ says Lingard, in his History of the Anglo-Saxon
Church, ‘that Queens were crowned, because in some MSS. the order
for the coronation of a Queen follows that for the coronation of a
King; but this proves only that both orders were contained in the
original from which the copy was made.’ The same writer also states
that the little Queen Judith was so beloved that the people ultimately
acquiesced in her coronation without a murmur. Mr. Brougham never
pleaded a cause more unsuccessfully than on this day. Mr. Denman,
the Queen’s solicitor-general, was, if not more successful, at least
infinitely more reasonable. He grounded his application upon the
simple and incontrovertible fact, that the Queen was in so unfortunate
a position as to be unable to waive any right she considered she
possessed without being exposed to the most injurious imputations. ‘He
begged to impress upon their lordships, as well as upon the country,
that the claim of his illustrious client was put forth in self-defence,
because her Majesty could not forego that claim without hazarding her
reputation or sacrificing her honour, which, to her, was dearer than
life itself.’
The King’s attorney-general showed that, if claim there were, it
rested solely on usage, and that here the law of usage was without
application, as a coronation of a Queen-consort was not a right, but
a mere favour conferred by the King. The Queen, in short, could no
more _demand_ her own coronation than she could that of the King. The
Privy Council made a report accordingly; it was approved by the King,
and a copy was transmitted to Viscount Hood. The purport of it was--
that, as the queens consort of this realm are not entitled of right to
be crowned at any time, it followed that her Majesty Queen Caroline
was not entitled as of right to be crowned at the time specified in
her Majesty’s memorial. The conclusion was disagreeable, but it was
inevitable. They who thought, however, that it would silence the
Queen for ever, were much mistaken. If she could not form a part of
the ceremony, she could mar it by her presence; and this she resolved
to effect. An announcement was made to Lord Sidmouth of the Queen’s
intention to be present at the coronation on the 19th of July, and she
demanded that a suitable place might be appointed for her accordingly.
The noble lord, in a letter commencing ‘Madam,’ and terminating without
the signature of the writer, informs the Queen that it was not his
Majesty’s intention to comply with the application contained in her
letter.
The Queen was none the less bent upon appearing in the Abbey, and due
notification of the fact was made to the Duke of Norfolk, as earl
marshal of England, with the request added that his grace would order
persons to be in attendance to conduct the Queen to her seat. The earl
marshal transmitted the letter containing the notification and request
to Lord Howard of Effingham, who was the ‘acting earl marshal’ on the
day in question, and that official ‘made his humble representations
to her Majesty of the impossibility, under existing circumstances, of
his having the honour of obeying her Majesty’s commands.’ Her Majesty,
however, was not so easily got rid of. She now addressed a note to the
Archbishop of Canterbury, informing him of her desire to be crowned,
some day after the King, and before the arrangements for the previous
ceremony had been done away with. The lord primate humbly replied that
he was the King’s servant, and was ready to obey any commands that he
might receive from his royal master. Thus foiled once more, the Queen
issued a protest against the proceedings. This document was drawn up
by the law-advisers of her Majesty. It re-asserted that the Queen
could claim as of right to be crowned, and yet it admitted that there
had been cases in which the exercise of the right ‘was from necessity
suspended, or from motives of policy checked;’ and though perhaps not
in the sense in which it was understood by the Queen’s council, the
King now saw that there was a ‘necessity’ for the suspension of the
right claimed, and that there were ‘motives of policy,’ as well as of
personal feeling, for declining to authorise the exercise of it. The
protest was addressed to the King, from whom, says the royal protester,
‘the Queen has experienced only the bitter disappointment of every hope
she had indulged;’ but--and it was in such phrases she was made to
represent the nation as hostile against the King--‘in the attachment of
the people she has found that powerful and decided protection which has
ever been her ready support and unfailing consolation.’
Her Majesty’s legal advisers supposed, at least they hoped, that she
had now done enough for her dignity, and that with this protest would
end all further prosecution of a matter which could not be carried
further without much peril to that dignity and to her self-respect. But
even _they_ did not know of what metal she was made. On the coronation
day she was up with the dawn, determined to penetrate into the Abbey,
or resolved to test the popular attachment, the powerful and decided
protection of the people, the ready support of the public, of which
she boasted in her last protest, and see if, upon one or other of
these visionary essences, she could not be borne to the end which she
ardently desired. Her health had already begun to suffer from the
effects of the unsettled and agitated career through which she had
passed, but her resolution was above all thoughts of health. She was
like the sick gladiator, determined to stand in the arena, trusting to
the chance of striking an effective blow and yet almost assured that
defeat was certain.
At six o’clock in the morning, the poor Queen, in a carriage drawn
by six horses, and with Lord and Lady Hood and Lady Anne Hamilton in
attendance upon her, proceeded down to Westminster. The acclamations
of the people hailed her on her way, and she reached the front of
Westminster Hall without obstruction. If many a shout here welcomed
her as she descended from her carriage, there was something like fear,
too, in many a breast, lest the incident, peaceful as it seemed, should
not end peacefully. After some hesitation, Caroline, attended as above
mentioned, advanced to the doors of the Hall, amid much confusion, both
of people and soldiery--the first were eager to witness the result,
the second were uncertain how to act, and their leaders appeared
as uncertain how to direct them. The officer on guard respectfully
declined allowing her to pass, even though she were, as she said,
Queen of England. He could only obey his orders, and they were to this
effect: to give passage to no one whatever who was not the bearer of a
ticket. The Queen turned away, disappointed, proceeded on foot to other
doors, and encountered only similar results. It was a pitiable sight to
see her, hurrying along the platform by which her husband was presently
to march in gorgeous array, seeking for permission to pass the way she
would go, ejected alike wherever she made the application, forced back
in one direction by officers in authority, and turned off the platform,
not roughly, but yet turned off, by the common men; and not an arm of
the multitude, upon whose aid she reckoned, was raised to help her to
her end. They pitied her, perhaps, but as her presence there promised
to mar the splendour of which they hoped to be spectators, they wished
she were gone, and rather tolerated than encouraged her.
Never was Queen cast so low as she, when, flurried, fevered, now in
tears and now hysterically laughing, she stood at the door of the Abbey
haggling with the official who acted as porter, and striving to force
or win her way into the interior. The chief of the ‘door-keepers’
demanded to see her ticket, but Lord Hood claimed exemption for her on
account of her recognised rank: the door-keeper would not recognise the
claim. ‘This is your Queen!’ said Lord Hood. ‘Yes, I am your Queen;
will you admit me?’ The assertion and the request were repeatedly made,
but always with the same effect. No passage could be given without
the indispensable ticket. Lord Hood possessed one, and the Queen
appeared for a moment inclined to pass in with that. But her heart
failed her, and, half-laughing, to hide perhaps what she could not
conceal, her half-crying, she declined to go in without her ladies.
Finally, a superior officer appeared, and respectfully intimated that
no preparations whatever had been made for the accommodation of her
Majesty; upon which, after looking around her, as if searching for
suggestions or help from the people, and finding no encouragement, she
assented to Lord Hood’s proposition, that it were better for her to
enter her carriage and return home.
She had dared the hazard of the die: the cast had been unfortunate.
She, for the first time, felt degraded, and she withdrew, still, like
the gladiator from the arena, conscious of bearing the wound of which
death must ultimately and speedily come.
Meanwhile, let us tarry for a moment at the Hall and the Abbey. It
is not likely that England will ever again behold such a scene of
coronation splendour as that of George IV., and it is quite certain
that England would not care to do so. The national taste does not
merely regulate itself by the national purse, but by general principle;
and it is an incontrovertible fact, that the outlay of millions for the
crowning of one man involves the violation of a principle which the
nation desires to see respected.
Never did sovereign labour as George IV. laboured to give _éclat_
to the entire ceremony. He passed days and nights with his familiar
friends in discussing questions of dress, colours, fashions, and
effects. His own costume was to him a subject of intense anxiety,
and when his costly habits were completed, so desirous was he to
witness their effect that, according to the gossip of the day, a
court-gossip which was not groundless, his Majesty had one of his own
servants attired in the royal garments, and the King contemplated with
considerable satisfaction the sight of a menial pacing up and down the
room in the monarch’s garb. The man did his office with as much mock
gravity as the dramatic King, Mr. Elliston, when he showered tipsy
benedictions upon the public as he crossed the platform over the pit of
Drury Lane.
But it is true in real things as it is in tragedies, that ‘the King’
is not necessarily the principal character. Even in a ballet the
sovereign is less cared for than the chief dancer who cuts _entrechats_
in his presence. So at the coronation festival of George IV., although
he was first in rank and as princely as any in bearing, he was very
far from being the first in consequence or the foremost man in the
people’s love. This matter is admirably put by Mr. Rush, the American
ambassador to our court, who witnessed the ceremony, and made a very
nice distinction as to the true position of the principal actors in it.
In his account of the scene the amiable and accomplished diplomatist
remarks that the chief splendour of the day, where all wore an air
of joy and animation, was in the Hall. ‘The table for the King’s
banquet,’ he remarks, ‘was spread on the royal platform; the foreign
ambassadors and ministers had theirs in the painted chamber of the
house of lords, a communicating apartment under the same roof--but we
ran from it soon to come into the hall, the centre of all attraction.
The peeresses, peers, and others associated with them had theirs in
the body of the hall. Here six long tables were laid, three on each
side, leaving a vista, or aisle, open in the middle, which directly
fronted the royal platform. The platform and all the seats were covered
with crimson, which, with the peeresses richly dressed, and the plate
on the banqueting-tables, and the company all seated, with the King
at the head of his sumptuous table, shaped as a crescent, so that he
and a few seated on his right and left faced the whole company, made
the spectacle extremely magnificent. The comptroller and clerk of the
kitchen, and purveyor of wines, had not, as may be imagined, overlooked
their duties. But when the Champion appeared at the opposite extremity
of the hall, directly in front of the King, nothing seen at first but
tufts of plumes waving from his horse’s head and his own helmet,
startling emotions arose in every bosom. Curiosity was breathless to
see what was coming. He was attended by Howard of Effingham, and by
Anglesea, and by another greater than all--the DUKE OF WELLINGTON;
and as these, all on horseback, entered abreast, the Champion heralding
his challenge, and the horses seeming almost in contact with the
outward line of peeresses at the table, yet obedient to the bit which
they kept champing--as this equestrian train slowly advanced in
martial grace and strength up the aisle towards the King, all eyes
were seen turned upon one man in it. In vain did the declining sun
through the vast old Gothic edifice throw beams upon the bright and
heavy armour of the Champion; in vain was it, when the horses reaching
by slow, impatient steps the top of the aisle, and proudly halting at
the steps of the royal platform, that the stout-clad Champion again
put forth his challenge, threw down his glove, received the cup _from_
his sovereign, and drank _to_ his sovereign--in vain all this; the
beauty and chivalry at the banqueting-tables still looked at the Duke
of Wellington; still kept their eyes on the man whose person and horse
recalled, not war in romance, but its stern and recent realities. All
were at gaze--fixed, silent. He was habited only as a peer, had only
his staff as Lord High Constable, yet was he the observed of all.
Nowhere was he more intently eyed than from the box where sat the
assembled ambassadors of the potentates of Europe. Judging from opinion
in that box, there was nothing in the elaborate grandeur of the day
to rival the scene. It was the inherent pre-eminence of a great man
exalting moral admiration above the show of the whole kingdom.’ This
was the imperative fact. The King was the great figure of the hour,
but the Duke was the great hero of the age; and the truth was not lost
sight of in the gorgeous splendour of the spectacle.
To do the King justice, it must be confessed that he was among the
first to acknowledge the pre-eminence of the Duke as regarded his
services and merits. At the dinner given by the Duke of Wellington, a
few days after the coronation, in honour of the new sovereign, and with
that monarch as chief guest, this acknowledgment was very gracefully
made. At this splendid banquet, after the noble host had proposed the
health of his royal guest--a toast that was drunk all standing and
all silent, the King himself merely rising to bow his thanks to the
company--George IV. in turn proposed, in a brief speech, the health
of the Duke. ‘The purport of his remarks,’ says Mr. Rush, who was
present at this interesting festival, was, ‘that, had it not been for
the exertions of his friend upon the left (it was so that he spoke of
the Duke), he, the King, might not have had the happiness of meeting
those whom he now saw around him at that table; it was, therefore,
with particular pleasure that he proposed his health. The King spoke
his words with emphasis and great apparent pleasure. The Duke made no
reply, but took in respectful silence what was said. The King continued
sitting while he spoke, as did the company, in profound silence under
his words.’
The silence of the host was true courtesy. It has not escaped Mr.
Rush’s discernment. ‘I thought,’ he says, ‘of Johnson, when George III.
complimented him: the innate dignity of great minds is the same. In
Johnson it was that of the rough, virtuous recluse--whose greatness
was that of the author. In Wellington it was externally moulded into
the will which armies and courts, and long association with the _élite_
of mankind, may be supposed to give. Johnson did not bandy civilities
with his Sovereign, whom he had never seen before; nor did Wellington,
who saw him every day!’ It is ever the same with true gentlemen.
It would seem, however, that all the nobles who shone at the coronation
festivities of George IV. were not so perfect in politeness as the
warrior-duke. King George IV. gave a banquet to the ambassadors
specially sent to grace the high solemnity of the coronation. To this
banquet the foreign ministers generally and the members of the cabinet
were invited and were present. The American Ambassador sat next to
Lord Londonderry, and the two discussed between themselves the power,
pretensions, and infamy of Russia, Lord Londonderry affecting to trust
to the moderation of the Muscovite--a moderation which has been more
truly described by Lord John Russell as more menacing than the ambition
of other powers. The conversation then fell upon English society; and
while on this theme Lord Londonderry remarked, ‘that the higher the
rank and education, the better bred, as a general rule, their people
in England--so he believed it was considered.’ Setting aside the
fact that this is only partially true, it was at the same time a most
uncourteous remark to be made by one who was high in rank and education
to a commoner. But the Stewart-Castlereaghs have ever been unlucky in
their civilities, and with their precious balsams they have too often
bruised the heads they would only have anointed. Witness the fact of
the banquet given by the late Marquis of Londonderry to the ambassador
of Louis Napoleon. Everything was well done but one, and that one
thing, ill done, marred all besides that was well. The room in which
the English host welcomed his French guest was decorated with pierced
and battered French cuirasses, which had covered the breasts of gallant
French enemies at Waterloo. The man who is fortunate enough to kill an
adversary in a duel may, possibly, in after years, be reconciled with
that adversary’s brother, and perhaps entertain him at dinner; but he
would hardly think of hanging up the dead man’s clothes (purchased as
a trophy from his valet) in his dining-room.
The grand banquet at Carlton House was given on the 26th July. The
special and ordinary ambassadors and the ministers were present. The
monarch’s brothers were also among the guests--always excepting
the Duke of Sussex, whose sympathies for Queen Caroline had been too
markedly and publicly expressed.
‘We were invited,’ says Mr. Rush, ‘at seven o’clock. As my carriage
turned into Pall Mall from the foot of St. James’s Street, the old
clock at St. James’s struck seven, and before I reached Carlton Palace
all the carriages appeared to be entering or coming out through the
double gates of the Ionic screen in front of the palace. Mine was among
the last that drove up to the portico, and by a very few minutes past
seven all the guests, save one, were assembled in the reception rooms.
I had never before witnessed such punctuality at any dinner in England.
‘The King entered a minute or two afterwards, and saluted his guests
generally, then went the rounds, speaking to each individually. With
the special ambassadors he paused longest. Time had now run on to
more than a quarter past seven, still one of the guests had not yet
arrived, and that one was the Duke of Wellington. The man not apt
to be behind time when his Majesty’s enemies were to be met was, it
seems, in meeting his friends. Five minutes more went by, and still
no Duke of Wellington; critical moments when each one seemed to count
two. At length, in one of the rooms at a distance, the Duke was seen;
he was dressed in the uniform of an Austrian field-marshal, a plain
round-about jacket of white cloth and white under-dress to suit,
relieved by scarcely anything but his sword. The dress, being tight
and simple, gave to his person a thinner look than usual; and as he
kept advancing with easy step, quite alone, and a general silence
prevailing, the King separated himself from the group of ambassadors
where he was standing, and when he got near enough stepped forward
to meet him. With both hands he shook the Duke by both with great
cordiality, saying something which the company could not hear, but
which, from the manner, we took to be a good-natured rally upon
his late arrival. The Duke received it with placid composure, made
no reply, but bowed. When liberated from the friendly grasp of the
King, he approached a circle of which I happened to be one. One of
the ministers composing it said to him, “We hope you will forgive
our little treason, my Lord Duke, but we have just been determining
that, as some one of the company was to be too late, it was best to
have fallen to your Grace’s lot, who can so well bear it.” With a
half whisper and an arch smile, the Duke replied, “The King knows I
could have been here sooner but for attending to some of his Majesty’s
business.” This, considering the Duke as a cabinet minister and privy
councillor, had doubtless been sufficient to excuse his delinquency,
and secure for him the very cordial reception all had witnessed....
The entire dinner-service was of gold. Each of the salt-cellars, as
well as I could catch the design, represented a small rock in dead
gold, on which reclined a sea-nymph holding in her hand a shell, which
held the salt. One of these was before every two guests; so it was,
as to number, with the gold coolers down the sides, containing wine.
The whole table, sideboard, and room had an air of chaste and solid
grandeur, not, however, interfering with the restrained enjoyments of a
good dinner, of which the King seemed desirous that his foreign guests
should in no wise be abridged, for we sat till past ten o’clock.’
Contrasting this banquet with the one given by the Duke of Wellington,
the same writer and guest remarks that the Duke’s table-service was
not only brilliant, but that it lighted-up better than the King’s;
for being entirely of silver, and very profuse, the whole aspect was
of pure, glittering white, unlike the slightly-shaded tinges which
candles seem to cast from gold plate. The dessert-service at the
Duke’s was of china, a present from the King of Prussia, and made
emblematical of the life of the Duke, commencing with a view of Dangan
Castle, the (supposed) birth-place of Arthur Wellesley, and going
through a course of views of all the places rendered interesting by his
presence or remarkable by his deeds, down to the porcelained pictorial
representation of the crowning glory at Waterloo.
While all these matters were in progress, people who nursed
superstition were prophesying some calamity to come; and certainly,
among the incidents of the coronation of George IV., was one which
would have been counted ominous in earlier days. The gallant Marquis
of Anglesea was Lord High Steward on that occasion, and it was part of
his office to carry the crown up to the altar before the Archbishop
placed it on the King’s head. It was heavier than the gallant Lord High
Steward had reckoned upon, and the glittering crown, ponderous with
gold, diamonds, and other precious stones, slipped from his hands.
He dexterously recovered it, however, before it reached the ground.
Among the medallic records of the time one was the work of an enemy
of Caroline of Brunswick. A bronze medal of the time is extant which
has the Queen’s head, on the obverse, with the inscription: ‘CAROLINE,
D. G. BRITT. REGINA.’ On the reverse is the head of Bergami, with the
inscription: ‘COUNT B. BERGAMI.’