Accident at a Review—The King shot at, at Drury Lane
Theatre—Behaviour of the Royal Family—Biography of Hadfield—His
trial and acquittal—Grand Review of Volunteers on the King’s
birthday—The bad weather, and behaviour of the crowd.
ON THE 15th of May, the King, who, while his health was good, was
always most active in fulfilling the onerous duties which devolved
upon him, attended the field exercises of the Grenadier battalion of
the Guards, in Hyde Park, when a gentleman named Ongley, a clerk in
the Navy Office, was shot by a musket ball, during the volley firing,
whilst standing but twenty-three feet from the King. The wound was not
dangerous—through the fleshy part of the thigh—and it was immediately
dressed; and it might have passed off as an accident, but for an event
which occurred later in the day. The cartouch-boxes of the soldiers
were examined, but none but blank cartridges were found. So little
indeed was thought of it, that the King, who said it was an accident,
stopped on the ground for half an hour afterwards, and four more
volleys were fired by the same company before he left.
The King was a great patron of the Drama, and on that evening he
visited Drury Lane Theatre, where, “by command of their Majesties,”
were to be performed “She would, and she would not,”[4] and “The
Humourist;”[5] but scarcely had he entered the box, before he had
taken his seat, and whilst he was bowing to the audience, than a man,
who had previously taken up a position in the pit close to the royal
box, took a good and steady aim with a horse-pistol, with which he was
armed, at His Majesty, and fired: luckily missing the King, who with
the utmost calmness, and without betraying any emotion, turned round to
one of his attendants, and after saying a few words to him, took his
seat in apparent tranquillity, and sat out the whole entertainment. He
had, however, a narrow escape, for one of the two slugs with which the
pistol was loaded, was found but a foot to the left of the royal chair.
Needless to say, the would-be assassin was seized at once—as is
so graphically depicted in the illustration—and, by the combined
exertions of both pit and orchestra, was pulled over the spikes and
hurried across the stage, where he was at once secured and carried
before Sir William Addington, who examined him in an adjoining
apartment. The audience was furious, and with difficulty could be
calmed by the assurance that the villain was in safe custody. Then,
to avert attention, the curtain drew up, and the stage was crowded by
the whole strength of the house—scene-shifters, carpenters, and all;
and “God save the King” was given with all the heartiness the occasion
warranted.
Then, when that was done, and the royal party was seated, came the
reaction. The Princesses Augusta, Sophia, and Mary fainted away, the
latter twice. The Princess Elizabeth alone was brave, and administered
smelling salts and cold water to her less courageous sisters. The
Queen bore it well—she was very pale, but collected—and during the
performance kept nodding to the princesses, as if to tell them to keep
up their spirits.
The name of the man who fired the shot was James Hadfield. He
was originally a working silversmith; afterwards he enlisted in
the 15th Light Dragoons, and his commanding officer gave him the
highest character as a soldier. He deposed that Hadfield, “while
in the regiment, was distinguished for his loyalty, courage, and
irreproachable conduct. On all occasions of danger he was first to
volunteer. On the memorable affair at Villers en Couche, on the 24th
of April, 1794, which procured the 15th Regiment so much honour, and
the officers the Order of Merit from his Imperial Majesty, Hadfield
behaved with the most heroic bravery. On the 18th of May following,
when the Duke of York retreated in consequence of the attack of
Pichegru on his rear, Hadfield, in the action at Roubaix, fought with
desperation. He volunteered on a skirmishing party, withstood the shock
of numbers alone, was often surrounded by the enemy, and called off by
his officers, but would not come. At last he fell, having his skull
fractured, his cheek separated from his face, his arm broken, and he
was otherwise so shockingly mangled, that the British troops, after
seeing him, concluded he was dead: and he was returned among the killed
in the _Gazette_. The French having obtained possession of the field,
Hadfield fell into their hands, and recovered. He remained upwards of a
year a prisoner, his regiment all the time supposing him dead; but in
August, 1795, he joined it at Croydon, to the great astonishment and
joy of his comrades, who esteemed him much. It soon became manifest,
however, that his wounds had deranged his intellect. Whenever he drank
strong liquors he became insane; and this illness increased so much
that it was found necessary to confine him in a straight-waistcoat. In
April, 1796, he was discharged for being a lunatic.” His officers gave
him the highest character, particularly for his loyalty; adding that
they would have expected him to lose his life in defending, rather than
attacking, his King, for whom he had always expressed great attachment.
[Illustration: JAMES HADFIELD’S ATTEMPT TO KILL GEORGE III., MAY 15,
1800.]
After his discharge he worked at his old trade; but even his shopmates
gave testimony before the Privy Council as to his insanity. He was
tried on June 26th by Lord Kenyon, in the Court of King’s Bench, and
the evidences of his insanity were so overwhelming, that the Judge
stopped the case, and the verdict of acquittal, on the ground that he
was mad, was recorded. He was then removed to Newgate. He seems to have
escaped from confinement more than once—for the _Annual Register_ of
August 1, 1802, mentions his having escaped from his keepers, and been
retaken at Deal; whilst the _Morning Herald_ of August 31st of the same
year chronicles his escape from Bedlam, and also on the 4th of October,
1802, details his removal to Newgate again.[6]
To pass to a pleasanter subject. The next event in the year of social
importance is the Grand Review of Volunteers in Hyde Park, on the
occasion of the King’s 63rd birthday.
The Volunteer movement was not a novelty. The Yeomanry were enrolled
in 1761, and volunteers had mustered strongly in 1778, on account of
the American War. But the fear of France caused the patriotic breast to
beat high, and the volunteer rising of 1793 and 1794 may be taken as
the first grand gathering of a civic army.
On this day the largest number ever brigaded together, some 12,000 men,
were to be reviewed by the King in Hyde Park. The whole city was roused
to enthusiasm, and the _Morning Post_ of the 5th of June speaks of it
thus: “A finer body of men, or of more martial appearance, no country
could produce. While they rivalled, in discipline, troops of the line;
by the fineness of their clothing, and the great variety of uniform
and the richness of appointments, they far exceeded them in splendour.
The great number of beautiful standards and colours—the patriotic
gifts of the most exalted and distinguished females—and the numerous
music, also contributed much to the brilliancy and diversity of the
scene. It was with mixed emotions of pride and gratitude that every
mind contemplated the martial scene. Viewing such a body of citizen
soldiers, forsaking their business and their pleasures, ready and
capable to meet all danger in defence of their country—considering,
too, that the same spirit pervades it from end to end, the most
timid heart is filled with confidence. We look back with contempt
on the denunciations of the enemy, ‘which, sown in serpents’ teeth,
have arisen for us in armed men,’ and we look with gratitude to our
new-created host, which retorted the insult, and changed the invader
into the invaded.”
But, alack and well-a-day! to think that all this beautiful writing
should be turned in bathos by the context; and that this review should
be for ever memorable to those who witnessed it, not on account of
the martial ardour which prompted it, but for the pouring rain which
accompanied it! No language but that of an eye-witness could properly
portray the scene and give us a graphic social picture of the event.
“So early as four o’clock the drums beat to arms in every quarter, and
various other music summoned the reviewers and the reviewed to the
field. Even then the clouds were surcharged with rain, which soon began
to fall; but no unfavourableness of weather could damp the ardour of
even the most delicate of the fair. So early as six o’clock, all the
avenues were crowded with elegantly dressed women escorted by their
beaux; and the assemblage was so great, that when the King entered
the Park, it was thought advisable to shut several of the gates to
avoid too much pressure. The circumstance of the weather, which, from
the personal inconvenience it produced, might be considered the most
inauspicious of the day, proved in fact the most favourable for a
display of beauty, for a variety of scene, and number of incidents.
From the constant rain and the constant motion, the whole Park could
be compared only to a newly ploughed field. The gates being locked,
there was no possibility of retreating, and there was no shelter but
an old tree or an umbrella. In this situation you might behold an
elegant woman with a neat yellow slipper, delicate ankle, and white
silk stocking, stepping up to her garter in the mire with as little
dissatisfaction as she would into her coach—there another making the
first _faux pas_ perhaps she ever did and seated reluctantly on the
moistened clay.
[Illustration: THE LOYAL DUCKING; OR, RETURNING FROM THE REVIEW ON THE
FOURTH OF JUNE, 1800.]
“Here is a whole group assembled under the hospitable roof of an
umbrella, whilst the exterior circle, for the advantage of having
one shoulder dry, is content to receive its dripping contents on the
other. The antiquated virgin laments the hour in which, more fearful
of a speckle than a wetting, she preferred the dwarfish parasol to the
capacious umbrella. The lover regrets there is no shady bower to which
he might lead his mistress, ‘nothing loath.’ Happy she who, following
fast, finds in the crowd a pretence for closer pressure. Alas! were
there but a few grottos, a few caverns, how many Didos—how many
Æneas’? Such was the state of the spectators. That of the troops was
still worse—to lay exposed to a pelting rain; their arms had changed
their mirror-like brilliancy[7] to a dirty brown; their new clothes
lost all their gloss, the smoke of a whole campaign could not have more
discoloured them. Where the ground was hard they slipped; where soft,
they sunk up to the knee. The water ran out at their cuffs as from a
spout, and, filling their half-boots, a squash at every step proclaimed
that the Austrian buckets could contain no more.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]