We spoke, in our last chapter, of the false alarms by which the soldiers
forming our garrison were once or twice called together in the night, to
try their zeal and alacrity; and we said how terribly alarmed were the
women and children on such occasions. But we can, as truly as proudly,
add that their fears did not extend to our brave and gallant volunteers.
They rushed to their gathering spots, wild and eager for the coming
danger, and, we verily believe, were sorely disappointed when they found
that the actual opportunity had not arrived for teaching the enemy how
Englishmen could fight for their country, their king, their altars,
hearths, and homes. Let us, however, be thankful that we were never
subjected to the horrors of invasion, but that the bold front of our
champions kept it and them at a distance. The worst of our military
fever was, that, in imitation of the bad practice of real soldiers at
that day, it led to several duels. One of them ended fatally, a member
of one of the most respectable families in the town having fallen by the
hand of another, with whom he had always previously been on the most
intimate terms. It was supposed at the time that this sad affair was
encouraged by some who should have made every exertion and used every
effort to have prevented it, but did not.
We have already spoken of several of the general officers who commanded
in this district at the time we speak of. There was one, however, who
will occupy a larger space in our canvas than we can afford to give to
any other. When our military enthusiasm was at its height, Prince
William Frederick of Gloucester came down to take the command. It has
always been said that “Liverpool loves a lord,” and there is some truth
in the sarcasm. You may fancy, then, into what a fever of loyalty we
were all thrown, young as well as old, by the presence of a prince of the
blood royal amongst us, the veritable nephew of “the good old king,”
George the Third. And then how that fever grew and inflamed into actual
white heat when the Duke of Gloucester, the king’s brother and the father
of the prince, arrived on a visit to his son. We remember him as if it
were but yesterday; a fine, benevolent-looking old man, who was all
smiles and kindness as he spoke to you. The prince himself was a tall,
handsome, noble-looking young man, not too clever, as some of his
intimates whispered, as they profanely called him “Silly Billy,” the name
having been originally fastened upon him by his royal cousin,
subsequently George the Fourth, of splendid and dissipated memory. But
what of that? We did not want him to set the Mersey on fire, but to
fight if fighting were to become necessary. And O! what gaieties, what
parties, what festivities, what flirtations, we had in honour of his
arrival and residence amongst us. Beauty was beauty in those days, and
so the prince thought, and so did the train of gallant and glorious
staff-officers who accompanied him. There was the magnificent Mrs. —,
and the pretty Mrs. —, and the clever Mrs. —, and the splendid-looking
Miss —. How other hearts beat, perhaps with jealousy, perhaps with
spite, as the prince, at most of the gay parties, generally devoted
himself, more or less, to one or other of these Lancashire witches.
Occasionally, however, a fit of formality came over him, and then nothing
could be so stupid as to have the honour of meeting him. The duke, his
father, had not married a bit of German silver, but had followed the bent
of his inclinations and united himself to an English lady of great
beauty. This led to the passing of the Royal Marriage Act. To annoy the
prince, under these circumstances, his cousins used to raise a question
occasionally whether he should be called Highness or Royal Highness,
although there was no doubt that the latter was his title. This made him
ever and anon tenacious of the amount of honour and respect to be paid to
him, and when the fit was upon him, he would push etiquette to the
extreme, and keep the whole company standing in his presence, just as
another prince does sometimes at the present day. But when he did relax,
he could be a delightful companion. He possessed prodigious strength,
and was very fond of displaying it at those times when he forgot his
stiffness and starch. There was, however, one sad interruption to the
worship and adoration with which he had hitherto been surrounded in
Liverpool. The Prince of Wales (George the Fourth) and the Duke of
Clarence (the sailor king) paid a visit to “the good old town.” As the
stars twinkle not before the moon, and the moon herself pales before the
brighter beams of the sun, so certain of our tuft-hunters here forgot the
respect which was due and which they had long paid to the prince, in
their anxiety to bow down and render homage to the new and passing
visitors. We are not going to recount all the follies of the occasion.
How the Duke of Clarence pushed a milk-pail from a poor girl’s head, in
Water-street, and then astonished her with a guinea for her loss, and so
forth. We shall hasten at once to a scene which took place at the Town
Hall. A magnificent banquet was given there by the Mayor of the time
being. The Prince of Wales, the Duke of Clarence, Prince William
Frederick of Gloucester, the Earls of Derby and Sefton, with a crowd of
military officers, were present. After dinner the usual toasts were
proposed; then the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence, each with
three times three. At last it was Prince William’s turn, when, under the
influence of some demon of mischief, the Mayor, instead of proposing his
health, as usual, with all his titles and all the honours, foolishly
consulted the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence on the subject,
asking in what form he should give the toast, and whether he should say
Highness or Royal Highness. The answer of the Prince of Wales was said
to be, “Certainly not Royal Highness, and without the honours,” while the
Duke of Clarence more bluntly replied, “D— him, don’t give him at all.”
The Mayor then rose and simply proposed, “The commander-in-chief of the
District, Prince William Frederick of Gloucester.” It was drunk in
solemn silence. The company all looked grave, as feeling that, under the
influence of a higher idolatry, a gross insult had been offered to the
late god of Liverpool adoration. Fierce glances were exchanged between
the staff-officers and the other military men present. The prince
himself writhed under the stroke, like a wounded tiger smarting under the
lance of the hunter. Fire and brimstone and the devil himself flashed
from his eyes, but he kept his seat. Presently the fearful and appalling
silence was broken by the voice of the Mayor, calling out, as the next
toast, “The lord-lieutenant of the county, with three times three,” the
three times three omitted at the name of the commander-in-chief, being
revived with that of the next toast. A thunderbolt falling into the
midst of the party could not have caused more astonishment and
excitement. There could be no mistake now. The insult was meant to be
an insult, and nothing but an open, prominent, and most insulting insult.
The words had hardly passed from the lips of the Mayor, when Prince
William, glancing a signal to his staff, who had their eyes fixed upon
him, rose from his seat and left the room, followed not only by them, but
by the whole of the military officers of his command who were present,
leaving the table almost deserted, the Mayor gaping in amazement, and the
royal cousins astounded at the spirit which they had evoked, more,
perhaps, in mischief than in wanton insolence. However that may have
been, from that day forth there was an uncomfortable feeling between the
people of Liverpool and Prince William. It is only just to the rest of
the corporation and to the gentry of the place to state, that to a man
they felt strongly that an unwarrantable insult had been offered to him.
He was, we believe, persuaded of this, but he never could be cordial
again. If he forgave, he could not forget, the slight and mortification
to which he had been so publicly exposed.