|In spite of Sir Robert Walpole's persuasions to the contrary, the king
went back to Hanover a week after his son's marriage. Previous to his
departure from England he appointed Queen Caroline regent, much to the
dissatisfaction of the Prince of Wales; but he went further, for he sent
word to the prince that wherever the queen resided _there_ would always
be apartments for himself and the princess. In other words, Frederick
was to be treated as a sort of a prisoner without the privilege of a
separate court of his own. This was most humiliating, and a condition
of affairs that naturally led to disobedience and deceit; for when Queen
Caroline removed from one residence to another her son would pretend to
be making preparations to follow, and then contrive some excuse for
not doing so. Once he pleaded illness of the princess, although she was
perfectly well, then the queen feigned anxiety and went to visit the
make-believe invalid, who received her in a darkened room, and said she
was suffering from measles, although the doctors could not be induced
to back her up in her lie. The queen went to live at Kensington, as
she always did during her husband's absence, and every time she held a
council meeting there Frederick contrived to arrive just as the business
was concluded. This he did on purpose to annoy his mother, and to show
his displeasure at her being regent, when he {104}thought that position
ought to have been assigned to him.
It would have been a great deal better for all the members of the royal
family if the king had been more contented to remain in England; but he
spent months at a time in Hanover, and was only prevented at last from
indulging in this amusement by the breaking out of the seven years'
war. Everybody expressed his opinion very freely on the subject of
King George's love for Germany, and made that the ostensible reason for
complaint, no matter what it was really. One day a poor, lean, lame,
blind, old horse was turned loose into the streets with a shabby, broken
saddle on his back, and a paper fastened to his head, on which was this
inscription: "Let nobody stop me: I am the King's Hanover Equipage going
to fetch his Majesty to England."
At the Royal Exchange a placard was posted up with this notice: "It is
reported that his Hanover Majesty designs to visit his British dominions
for three months in the Spring." On the gate of St. James's Palace
appeared this advertisement: "Lost or strayed out of this house, a man
who has left a wife and six children on the parish; whoever will give
any tidings of him to the church wardens of St. James's Parish, so as he
maybe got again, shall receive four shillings and sixpence reward.
"N.B. This reward will not be increased, nobody judging him to deserve a
crown." There were many more such notices; but we have quoted enough
to give an idea of what complaining there was because King George loved
Germany, and did not take the pains to conceal it.
During the king's absence Queen Caroline governed, with Walpole for
adviser and assistant; but every measure they decided upon was submitted
to the Cabinet Council, who were required to sanction and sign each
document before it was carried into effect. This was wise management,
{105}because the responsibility was thus shared by a number of people,
though Walpole acted quite independently. In 1736 the queen had a
great deal of trouble as regent, for there were corn-riots in the West,
labor-riots in London, because there were so many Irishmen there who
were willing to work at cheaper rates than the English, and smugglers on
the coasts who were in league with the peasantry. This class of people
gave special uneasiness, because whenever they were opposed they cursed
the queen, as well as "the foreign prince," as they called the king, and
cheered for James III. The disturbance became so great that the guard
around Kensington Palace had to be doubled, the person of the queen
not being considered safe. A large part of the trouble was due to
intoxication, which increased depravity among the lower orders to an
alarming degree.
So a bill was introduced before parliament to prohibit the sale of gin.
It did little good, however; for the horrid stuff was sold under such
names as Sangree, Tom Row, Cuckold's Comfort, Parliament Gin, Make
Shift, The Last Shift, Ladies' Delight, King Theodore, Cholic and Gripe
Waters. Gin-shops disappeared and gave place to chemists, who had whole
rows of bottles labelled, "Take two or three spoonfuls of this four or
five times a day, or as often as the fit takes you." When these
people were arrested and brought before the courts, they said that
apothecary-shops were more in demand than ever before, because the "late
act of parliament had caused people to suffer so much from cholic that
they had constantly to buy medicine." There were those who informed
against others for selling gin, either privately or under a false name,
merely for the gratification of some spite, or from a feeling of envy;
but when they fell into the hands of the mob they paid dearly for it,
for they were beaten, rolled in the dirt, held under a pump, or ducked
in the horse-pond or in the Thames. {106}There were disturbances in
Scotland, too, the most formidable of which was known as the Porteous
riot, because a captain of that name was one of the principal victims of
it. Sir Walter Scott has given an excellent and most interesting account
of this riot in one of the most popular of his novels. He says that
Captain John Porteous was the son of a citizen of Edinburgh, who did all
in his power to bring him up to an honest trade; but the boy was so wild
and dissipated that at last he was sent to join the army in Holland,
with the hope that the discipline would improve his morals. Some years
later he returned to his native city, where he was employed by the
magistrates to drill the City Guard, because he was supposed to possess
military skill. It was not long before he was made captain, and his very
name became a terror to all disturbers of the public peace, because he
was so harsh and severe. He commanded a corps of a hundred and twenty
soldiers, whose duty it was to preserve order, and prevent street
robberies and mobs; yet whenever there was a public holiday there
was sure to be a skirmish between the City Guard and the rabble of
Edinburgh, who really hated them.
Among the smugglers that abounded all along the coast of Scotland was
one Andrew Wilson, a man possessed of so much strength, courage,
and cunning, that he did not hesitate to conduct the most desperate
enterprises. He frequently managed to escape the king's officers; but
they watched him so closely that they were able to seize all the wares
he smuggled into the country and completely ruined him. He, like many
others, could not see the justice of taxation, and looked upon himself
as a man deprived of his honest dues, and resolved to get back what he
could, in one way or another, from the government. So, hearing that a
tax collector had come to the town, with a considerable sum of public
money, Wilson decided to seize him and {107}take from him
just the amount of which he had been deprived. He associated himself for
this purpose with a young man named Robertson and two others, who, after
carefully watching the movements of the collector, broke into the house
where he lodged, and entered his apartment. As soon as the collector
beheld three armed men,--for Robertson, the fourth, kept watch at the
house-door,--he suspected that his life was in danger, and jumped out of
the window in his night-shirt. The plunderers then helped themselves to
two hundred pounds; but no sooner had they made their escape than one of
the accomplices gave the alarm; the military were called in, Wilson and
Robertson were caught with the money concealed about their persons; both
were tried and condemned to death. As public sympathy was always with
smugglers, and they were generally regarded by the country people along
the coast as brave, worthy traders, this sentence was considered too
severe. On the other hand, the act had been so audacious that it was
thought proper to make an example of the culprits. When it seemed
certain that sentence of death was really to be executed, files and
other implements were conveyed secretly to the prisoners to enable them
to escape. Thus provided, they cut through a bar of one of the prison
windows, and might have got off, had it not been for Wilson's obstinacy.
Robertson was a young, slender man, and knew that he could pass through
the opening, when he proposed to enlarge it from the outside, to enable
Wilson, who was very fat, to pass also. Wilson insisted on going first;
but all the pushing and squeezing in the world availed nothing, and the
poor man stuck fast half way, without being able to advance or recede.
In this plight he was discovered by the jailer, who took the necessary
precautions to prevent the recurrence of such an attempt. Robertson did
not once reproach his companion; but Wilson {108}was greatly distressed,
because he knew that but for him Robertson would not have got into
trouble at all, and that he had injured him a second time by not
permitting him to pass through the window first, when he might have
escaped. So his whole thought was turned towards devising some means for
the rescue of the young man, for he cared nothing about his own fate.
Next to the Edinburgh city jail was a church, to which criminals under
sentence of death were led by a strong guard on the Sunday previous to
their execution. Wilson and Robertson, each between two soldiers of the
City Guard, sat in the pew set apart for persons in their unfortunate
situation on a certain Sunday, while the officiating clergyman preached
an affecting sermon, part of which was ad#-dressed to the prisoners.
Robertson wept, but Wilson's countenance bore a look of fixed
determination, and his thoughts seemed far away. The congregation
glanced towards the two men, but their suspicion was not excited by
anything they saw; on the contrary, compassion was aroused, and after
the benediction had been pronounced, many lingered to take a last look,
as they supposed, at the unfortunate criminals. Suddenly Wilson seized
two of the soldiers, one with each hand, called to his companion, "Run,
Geordie, run!" threw himself on the third, and fastened his teeth in the
collar of his coat. For an instant Robertson was so taken aback that he
did not stir, but the cry of "Run, run!" that arose from every part of
the church recalled him to himself; so he shook off the grasp of the
fourth soldier, jumped over the pew-railing, and disappeared through
the church door, the crowd making way for him, and covering his retreat.
From that time the practice of taking culprits to church has been
discontinued.
Now Wilson was looked upon as a hero, and it was whispered that the mob
of Edinburgh, who always favored {109}such offenders, would help him to
escape also. Murmurs to this effect reached the ears of the magistrates,
who ordered John Porteous to be at the place of execution with the
City Guard at the time appointed for Wilson to expiate his crime. This
defence not being deemed sufficient, a regular infantry regiment besides
was drawn up on the principal streets of the city, to intimidate the
people in case they purposed any interference with the officers of
justice.
John Porteous became most indignant at this arrangement, for he was
jealous of the sound of any drums besides his own within the city
limits. He could not vent his ill-humor on the magistrates, but resolved
to do so on poor Wilson, whom he ordered to be manacled as soon as he
was delivered over to his charge by the prison keeper. This was done to
prevent any possibility of escape, but the handcuffs were too small for
the wrists of so powerful a man as Wilson, so the captain forced them
on with his own hands until they clasped, and tortured the criminal
dreadfully. Wilson remonstrated against such barbarity, and declared
that the pain distracted his thoughts from their proper course at such a
solemn moment.
"It signifies little," replied Captain Porteous; "your pain will soon be
at an end."
"Your cruelty is great," answered the sufferer. "You know not how soon
you yourself may have occasion to ask the mercy which you are now
refusing to a fellow-creature. May God forgive you."
As these words were repeated among the crowd, compassion for Wilson was
increased with a proportionate degree of indignation against Porteous,
who was much disliked by the common people. When the criminal arrived
at the Grass-market, the place of execution, the multitude attempted no
violence, and the sentence of the law was fulfilled in due form. {110}No
sooner was life extinct than by a sudden impulse, angry murmurs filled
the air, which increased to whoops, howls, and yells, while the mob
pressed forward and threw stones at Porteous and his men. One young man
with a cap slouched over his face jumped upon the scaffold and cut down
the body dangling there, while others approached to carry it off. This
excited the fury of Captain Porteous, who snatched a musket from one of
his soldiers, gave the order to fire, and set the example by shooting a
man dead on the spot. Six or seven others were slain, and a great many
were wounded. This was an unjustifiable act of violence on the part of a
man whose duty it was to preserve peace and order, and he recognized it
as such when his rage had subsided.
On his return to the guard-house Porteous dismissed his men, and went
to make his report of the day's proceedings to the magistrates, glossing
over his own part in them as much as possible. The public indignation
was great, and before it had time to cool Captain Porteous was brought
up for trial before the High Court of Justiciary. There was so much
conflicting evidence that the jury had a long and tedious task; but
at the end their verdict was such that the captain was condemned to be
hanged on September 8, and all his movable property confiscated to the
crown, according to the Scottish law in cases of wilful murder.
On the day appointed for the execution, Grass-market was crowded almost
to suffocation, and every window of the surrounding tenement-houses
was filled with spectators. Few words were spoken, but there was an
expression in men's faces that showed determination as they watched for
the approach of the criminal with a feeling of triumphant revenge. Had
the captain appeared upon the scaffold some sympathy might have been
awakened in his behalf, but the longer the delay the greater became the
{111}animosity against him. Among the magistrates and the better class
of the Scotch people Porteous had been a favorite officer, for he had
proved himself a reliable man in cases of emergency, and it was argued
that on the occasion of the Wilson execution his conduct might have been
caused by an imprudent excess of zeal. So a petition, signed by a vast
number of the nobility and gentry, was sent to Queen Caroline, asking
her to exercise the mercy of the crown in the captain's behalf.
Just at the last moment, when all preparations for the execution had
been completed, a reprieve, granting a respite of six weeks, arrived
with the queen regent's signature. The news, which the magistrates
almost feared to communicate, was at length announced, and spread like
lightning among the crowd.
There were groans of indignation and disappointed revenge as the
citizens began to disperse and return to their respective homes; but
some of them gathered in knots, and several individuals were seen
to pass from group to group talking excitedly about the injustice of
Wilson's death, and how much more he was entitled to mercy than this
man, who had just been granted a reprieve. An Edinburgh mob, when
thoroughly excited, had always been considered one' of the fiercest that
could be found in Europe, and it was not easy to suppress them. They
took their departure from Grass-market, but they were to be heard from
soon again; for that very night they assembled to the number of four or
five thousand, seized and closed the city gates, took possession of all
the arms belonging to the City Guard, set fire to the prison gate, and
released every prisoner confined within, excepting Captain Porteous. Him
they dragged to the place of execution, and with all the solemnity of a
legal proceeding hanged him, saying that they wanted to show the world
that no authority {112}should have power to dispense with the laws of
Scotland, while many talked in the coarsest and most opprobrious terms
of the queen and her reprieve. As soon as this horrible murder was
committed the mob was appeased and dispersed without further violence to
any one.
Queen Caroline was excessively indignant, particularly with Captain
Moyle, commander of the troops, who had refused to use his authority in
suppressing the riot. She declared that he deserved to be shot by order
of court-martial quite as much as the rioters deserved to be hanged.
Even Sir Robert Walpole, who tried to soften her majesty's temper,
acknowledged that Moyle had acted like a fool, knave, and coward.
When the Edinburgh jail was thrown open by the mob on the night of the
Porteous murder, there was among the prisoners a lovely, fair-haired
young woman, named Effie Deans, who had been arrested on a charge of
having killed her infant. This circumstance would not be in place here,
excepting as it led to an act of sympathy and generosity on the part of
Queen Caroline which shows a pleasing trait in her character.
Effie Deans had a sister, ten years older than herself, named Jeanie,
who was so much distressed at the punishment of one in whose innocence
she had the utmost confidence, that she was determined to get a pardon
for her if possible. For that purpose she applied to Mr. Butler, a young
minister, to whom she was engaged to be married. He, too, believed
in Effie's innocence, and resolved to aid his lady-love in her worthy
endeavor to save her sister. After a few moments of reflection he
remembered that his father and grandfather had rendered important
service to the ancestors of the Duke of Argyle, whose influence with
Queen Caroline was very great; he, therefore, gave Jeanie a paper,
which had descended as an heirloom in his family, {113}stating that
in consideration of the aid rendered to the Argyle family, all the
descendants thereof were earnestly enjoined to grant any reasonable
demand that might ever be made by the Butlers.
Armed with this document, Jeanie sought the presence of the duke, who,
after inquiring into her sister's trouble and carefully examining the
paper she gave him, told her to come to him two days later, and he would
do his best to serve her, adding: "But God has the hearts of kings in
his own hand."
Instead of waiting for Jeanie Deans the Duke of Argyle sent one of his
servants the next day in a coach to fetch her, and after a long drive
she found herself on a turnpike road leading to London. The duke's
servant got down from the carriage, and opened the door just as his
master appeared. "You have been punctual, I see, Jeanie," said the duke
as he placed her in a large chariot drawn by four horses, and seated
himself by her side, giving his footman an order to drive forward
rapidly. It is not our province to give all the details of this
interesting adventure, which anybody may read in Sir Walter Scott's
"Heart of Midlothian" for himself; we will mention only that part of it
which refers to the queen.
When Jeanie walked into the gardens of Kensington Palace with the Duke
of Argyle, she saw two ladies strolling about. They were her majesty and
an attendant; but the young girl did not suspect the rank of the person
whom the duke approached and conversed with for several minutes, while
she stood at some distance away. Neither could she hear what was said,
but presently she was told by a signal from the duke to advance.
Queen Caroline smiled at the shy, awkward manner of the quiet, demure
little Scotchwoman as she came towards her, and in a low, sweet voice,
with a broad northern ac- {114}cent, asked "her leddyship to have pity
on a poor misguided young creature."
"Stand up, young woman," said the queen, in a kind tone, "and tell me
what sort of barbarous folk your country people are, where child-murder
is become so common as to require the restraint of laws like yours?"
"If your leddyship pleases," answered Jeanie, "there are _mony_ places
besides Scotland where mothers are unkind to their ain flesh and blood."
And so the conversation went on until Queen Caroline was in possession
of the whole of Effie's sad story, and then she said: "I fear you have
had a long journey to little purpose; since, if the king were to pardon
your sister, in all probability it would do her little good, for I
suppose your people of Edinburgh would hang her out of spite." The queen
spoke thus because she was still very angry at the contempt with which
her reprieve had been treated in the case of John Porteous. But Jeanie
replied: "I am confident that baith town and country wad rejoice to see
his majesty taking compassion on a poor unfriended creature."
"His majesty has not found it so of late," said the queen; "but, hark
you, young woman, had you any friends engaged in the Porteous mob?"
"No, madam," replied Jeanie, pleased that she could say so with truth;
"I would hae gaen to the end of the earth to save the life of John
Porteous, or any other unhappy man in his condition; but he is dead and
gane to his place, and they that have slain him must answer, for their
ain act. But my sister--my puir sister Effie, still lives, though her
days and hours are numbered! She still lives, and a word of the king's
mouth might restore her to a broken-hearted auld man, that never, in his
daily and nightly exercise, forgot to pray that his majesty might
{115}
[Illustration: 0121]
{117}be blessed with a long and a prosperous reign. Oh, madam, if ever
ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a suffering creature, whose
mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca'd fit to live or die, have
some compassion on our misery! Save an honest house from dishonor, and
an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early and dreadful
death! Alas! it is not when we sleep soft and wake merrily ourselves
that we think on other people's sufferings. Our hearts are waxed light
within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting our
ain battles. But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the
body--and seldom may it visit your leddyship--and when the hour of death
comes, that comes to high and low--lang and late may it be yours--oh, my
leddy, then it isna what we hae dune for oursells, but what we hae dune
for others, that we think on maist pleasantly. And the thoughts that ye
hae intervened to spare the puir thing's life, will be sweeter in that
hour, come when it may, than if a word of your mouth could hang the
the Porteous mob at the tail of ae tow." The tears flowed down
Jeanie's cheeks as she pleaded for her sister's life, and all present
were touched at her simple, solemn manner. "This is eloquence," said her
majesty to the Duke of Argyle.. "Young woman," she continued, addressing
herself to Jeanie, "I cannot grant a pardon to your sister; but
you shall not want my warm intercession with his majesty. Take this
housewife case," she continued, putting a small embroidered needle-case
into Jeanie's hands; "do not open it now, but at your leisure you
will find something in it which will remind you that you have had an
interview with Queen Caroline." Jeanie had begun to suspect to whom she
was speaking; but as soon as her suspicion was confirmed she dropped
upon her knees speechless with gratitude. After a few {118}courteous
remarks addressed to the duke, Queen Caroline withdrew.
It is only necessary for us to add that upon opening the needle-case at
the duke's request, as they were driving back home, Jeanie Deans found,
besides the usual assortment of silks, needles, scissors, etc., a
bank-bill for fifty pounds; and her sister's pardon was sent to her
before many days had elapsed. The story, so beautifully related by
Scott, is founded on fact; but the name of the young girl who sought
the interview with the Duke of Argyle in behalf of her sister is a
fictitious one.
In October King George wrote the queen to remove from Kensington to St.
James's, saying that the season being far advanced, and the house in
which she was living reputed to be damp, he thought it would be better
for her health, besides she would be nearer the ministers. She did not
obey, because she knew that her husband did not mean what he wrote, but
preferred to have her live in retirement, as she was doing, until his
return.
Frederick, however, removed to London, but left his suite in the
country, so that he could not be accused of setting up a rival court,
and of thus acting in direct disobedience to his father's commands. He
charmed the public by sending five hundred pounds to the Lord Mayor for
the purpose of releasing poor freemen of the city. To be sure he was
deeply involved in debt as usual, and his creditors would have preferred
to get the money themselves; nevertheless, his act was a liberal one,
and formed a strong contrast to his father, who spent large sums in
Germany, much to the disgust of his English subjects.
On the eighth of December the king left Hanover to return to England,
and arrived at Helvoetsluys, the seaport, on the eleventh of the same
month. His daughter, Anne, was dangerously ill at the Hague; but he did
not take time {119}even to inquire how she was, so impatient did he feel
to get back to his Caroline. Everybody in London was on the lookout for
their sovereign, for it was known that he had reached the-Holland coast,
and as the weather was fine it was expected that he would be among them
in a few days. But the wind changed, a violent storm ensued, and such
a terrific hurricane blew from the west that fears were entertained for
the king's safety. People began to bet on the time of his sailing, and
the probabilities of his having gone to the bottom of the ocean. Day
succeeded day; still no news; the excitement increased. Walpole began to
discuss the situation of the royal family, and to consider what sort of
a ruler the Prince of Wales would make,--how he would treat his mother,
sisters, and brother, who would rule him, and whom he would bully. Lord
Hervey had a private conversation with the queen on the subject, and
assured her that she would be able to govern her son as easily as she
had her husband; but she could not be induced to believe that, called
Frederick a fool, and wondered at his popularity, which seemed perfectly
incomprehensible to her. Hour after hour reports came of losses at sea;
the Harwich guns had been heard at a distance, and they were regarded
as signals of distress from the royal fleet. The queen would not believe
that the king was drowned, though Frederick had informed her that little
doubt remained, and began to assume lordly airs as he grew more and more
convinced of his own advancement. But all his high hopes were dashed to
the ground when a courier arrived, having risked his life to bring the
news to England that King George had not sailed when he expected, and
was still at Helvoetsluys awaiting favorable winds and weather.
At last favorable weather did come, and the royal fleet set sail, but it
was overtaken by a storm far more severe than the one that had detained
it before. This time Queen {120}Caroline was excessively anxious, for
she saw there was real cause for alarm. The ships that had comprised the
royal fleet were dashed ashore at various points along the coast, some
of them totally wrecked, and it was reported that the last seen of the
vessel which bore the king was when she was tacking, and it was hoped
that his majesty might have got safely back to Helvoetsluys, though
there were strong doubts.
Christmas-day came around, and still no king. St. James's palace
presented a most gloomy appearance. The queen and her attendants
played cards in the evening, and every one tried to appear cheerful and
hopeful, but their thoughts were far away, and all were prepared for the
worst. The next day, being Sunday, Caroline attended chapel, resolved
to keep up her courage until she was positive that her husband had
perished. In the midst of the service a letter was handed to her from
the king, which she opened at once. Considering the anxiety she had
endured she is to be excused for that, for she afterwards declared that
her heart had been heavier that day than ever before. His majesty wrote
that he had set sail, but the fleet had been scattered, and his ship
driven back to Holland after knocking about for nearly twenty hours. He
added that the commander, Sir Charles Wager, was entirely to blame, for
he had hurried him aboard with the assurance that wind and tide were
both favorable.
This statement was entirely false, for it was George himself who had
insisted on setting sail, and he had even declared that if Sir Charles
refused he would go over in a packet-boat, adding, "Be the weather what
it may, I am not afraid."
"I _am_," was the seaman's reply. "But I want to see a storm," said
the king, "and would sooner be twelve hours in one than be shut up for
twenty-four hours more at this place."
"Twelve hours in a storm!" cried
{121}
[Illustration: 0127]
{123}Sir Charles, "four hours would do your business for you." The
commander would not sail until the wind was fair, and when he did so,
he said, "Although your majesty can compel me to go, I can make you
come back again." And he was right, for the storm that overtook them was
awful, and their return to the Dutch coast was attended by a great deal
of danger. On landing Sir Charles said, "Sir, you wished to see a storm;
how does your majesty like it?" "So well," replied the king, "that I
never wish to see another."
[[A.D. 1737.]] Queen Caroline wrote a letter to her husband
congratulating him on his safety, and he sent one in return filled with
terms of affection and praise. He passed five long, tedious weeks at
Helvoetsluys, and did not arrive in England until the fifteenth of
January. Contrary to his usual habit, he came from Germany in a splendid
humor, smiled on every one, complimented his wife, and declared her to
be the most superior woman in the world. One thing made him very angry,
and that was when any of the ministers inquired after his health. He
really was not well, for his experience at sea had upset him dreadfully;
but any man who presumed to refer to his illness was pronounced a
"puppy," and treated with supreme contempt.
Soon after his return to England the king was much annoyed about the
income of the Prince of Wales, but the manner in which it was settled
by parliament gave both his majesty and Queen Caroline perfect
satisfaction. This means, of course, that the prince did not get what he
asked for, because, if he had, their majesties would have been very much
displeased. Queen Caroline was so anxious for her son William to succeed
to the throne that she would have given anything if Frederick could have
been put out of the way; but she was not to be gratified, {124}and even
if she had been, the little daughter born to the Princess of Wales on
the thirty-first of July, would have stood in William's path.
The child was named Augusta, and the Prince of Wales had behaved so
badly towards his parents about the time when she appeared in the world
that he was requested to leave St. James's Palace. He removed with his
wife and baby to Kew, and from that time he and his mother never spoke
to each other.
In September the Prince and Princess of Wales held a levee at Carlton
House, when the lord mayor and other officials of the city offered
congratulations on the birth of the Princess Augusta, and many friends
gathered about the prince, anxious to show him that they considered him
oppressed, and wished to prove themselves his partisans. He invariably
discussed his father's treatment of him, but always blamed the queen
for it. Probably this was because she was unwomanly, and unlike a mother
enough to call him by the harshest and most disgraceful names whenever
she had occasion to speak of him at all, and these were no doubt
repeated to him.
If the prince's levees were crowded so were the king's, for his birthday
drawing-room, on the thirtieth of October, was the most splendidly
attended of any that had been celebrated since his accession. This was
very gratifying to King George, and put him in a most amiable mood, but
it was not long to continue; for the queen, whose health had been poor
for many months, though she had endeavored to conceal it, now grew
visibly worse. Yet such was her love for the king, and so anxious was
she to gratify every desire of his, that even when suffering from an
attack of gout she would often plunge her whole leg in cold water, in
order that she might be able to attend him in a walk of three or four
miles. But such treatment only {125}aggravated the disease, and in the
month of August Queen Caroline was so ill that a report was circulated
of her death, and all the London shop windows displayed mourning
materials in place of the gay ones that had decorated them before. The
mourning was premature, however, for the royal patient rallied, and
was able to walk with the king in the gardens of Hampton Court several
times.
[Illustration: 0131]
However, in November of the same year she had a more serious attack,
which finally proved fatal. Queen Caroline was a woman of such energy
and will that she would not succumb until the end. On the morning of the
ninth she got up as usual, but was obliged to return to bed for several
{126}hours. There was to be a drawing-room that day, and as the king
always said that there was neither grace, gayety, nor dignity on such
occasions when the queen was absent, she exerted herself to attend, and
he was inconsiderate enough to permit her to do so. Before long Lord
Hervey noticed how much she was suffering, and urged her to retire; she
refused at first, but finding herself growing weaker she sent for the
king, who was in another part of the room discussing the merits of the
last burlesque performance. At length he answered the summons, and,
without any pretense of sympathy, led the queen from the room, no
doubt with a feeling of great annoyance at having his entertainment
interrupted. This was her last appearance in public.
She was put to bed, and Princess Caroline, who was herself in bad
health, watched beside her mother until long past midnight. Then the
king relieved her; that is, robed in a comfortable morning gown, he lay
on the outside of her majesty's bed, and scarcely left her room enough
to turn over. Besides, he was not quite comfortable, and so grumbled at
being kept awake, and did more harm than good to the sufferer.
On the' following day the queen was bled, but continued to grow worse.
That did not prevent his majesty from giving directions about the
lace ruffles that were to be sewed in his coat-sleeves in time for the
reception of the foreign ministers, before whom he was always desirous
of making a display.
The Princesses Caroline and Amelia watched by their dying mother with
all the devotion of dutiful, affectionate daughters, but they were
not to be rewarded by seeing her recover; for on the thirteenth the
physicians announced that their royal patient was beyond hope of
recovery. She took a solemn, tender farewell of all her children, except
ing {127}the Prince of Wales, and Anne, who was in Holland, and whose
presence in London was not desired by any one.
[Illustration: 0133]
Queen Caroline loved her other children as much as she disliked the two
older ones; and her last words to the Duke of Cumberland were touching
and sensible. After giving him a great deal of counsel, she concluded by
telling him, "That should his brother. Frederick ever be king, he should
never seek to mortify him, but simply try to manifest a superiority
over him only by good actions and merit." She placed her two youngest
daughters, Louisa and Mary, under the care of the gentle Caroline, and
then took leave of the king, who was overcome with grief.
The queen expressed no desire to see Walpole, but he sought an
interview, and then she requested him to take care of the king. All this
time no member of the royal family had suggested that a priest should
be sent for; but {128}for the gratification of public-opinion Walpole
recommended it, though he was little better than a heathen, joked about
bishops, and laughed at High Church and Low. He addressed himself to the
Princess Amelia on the subject thus: "It will be quite as well that the
farce should be played. The Archbishop of Canterbury will perform it
decently; and the princess might bid him be as short as she liked. It
would do the queen neither harm nor good; and it would satisfy all the
fools who called them atheists if they affected to be as great fools as
they who called them so."
So Archbishop Potter was summoned, and attended the dying queen, morning
and evening, but the sacrament was not administered. It was supposed
that this ceremony could not be performed because of her majesty's
irreconcilable hatred of her eldest son, but this could not be known
positively, because all her interviews with the archbishop were private.
However, everybody felt great curiosity to know whether the solemn rite
had been administered, but when at his last visit the courtiers met the
priest and asked eagerly, "My lord, has the queen received?" The only
reply they got was, "Gentlemen, her majesty is in a most heavenly frame
of mind." What that signified they were left to guess, and we may do the
same.
Meanwhile the king passed his time praising the virtues of his wife,
which he recounted over and over again, yet whenever he entered her room
he was sure to say something rough or unkind. Once when her eyes had a
vacant look peculiar to invalids, he requested her to "stop staring in
that disagreeable way, which made her look just like a calf with its
throat cut."
On the morning of the twentieth the queen turned to her physician, and
asked, "How long can this last?"
"It will not be long," was the reply, "before your majesty will {129}be
relieved from this suffering."
"The sooner the better," said the queen. Then she began a solemn,
earnest, eloquent prayer, that excited the admiration of every one
present, for it was so beautiful and so touching. She requested to be
raised up in bed, and asked all present to offer up a prayer for her. As
she grew weaker she ordered water to be sprinkled over her, so that
she might revive and be able to listen to the appeal to Heaven in her
behalf. "Louder!" she murmured, while one or the other of her family
prayed, "louder, that I may hear." One of the princesses read the Lord's
Prayer, in which the dying queen took part; at its conclusion she looked
fixedly at those who stood weeping around her, then with a long-drawn,
feeble "so--!" expired, as the clock on the chimney-piece struck eleven.
The king kissed the face and hands of his dead wife, and then went to
his own apartment; but he was so superstitious and so afraid of ghosts
that he would not allow himself to be left alone for a moment. He kept
constantly talking about his "Caroline," and related over and over again
the different circumstances of her life. Then he would weep; but in the
midst of his tears he burst into a roar of laughter at Horace Walpole,
the brother of Sir Robert, because he presented such a grotesque
appearance when he cried.
George II. was not a man to grieve very long nor very deeply, but he
never ceased to respect the memory of his wife, and declared that he had
never seen a woman whom he thought "good enough to buckle her shoes."
Queen Caroline was mourned by a great number of people, as she well
deserved to be, but by none more than the king, to whom she had been one
of the truest, fondest wives a prince was ever blessed with. She loved
him and was faithful to him to the last. Queen Caroline was a clever,
{130}learned, good-tempered woman. Her predominant passion was pride,
the dearest pleasure of her soul was power; but to her credit it must be
recorded that she never abused the power she had over the king's mind by
employing it for the promotion of her own friends or favorites. Carlyle
says of her: "There is something stoically tragic in the history of
Caroline with her flighty vaporing, little king; seldom had foolish
husband so wise a wife."
Queen Caroline was buried at Westminster Abbey, and the Princess Amelia
acted as chief mourner. The anthem sung on that occasion was "The Ways
of Zion do Mourn," set to music by Handel.
Of course the ill-feeling between the king and the Prince of Wales
continued, and whatever courtiers visited at Carlton House dared not
show their faces at St. James's, and the king's jealousy of his son was
probably further increased when George Augustus, who afterwards reigned
as George III., was born. This event occurred on the 4th of June, 1738;
and after that the party opposed to the king gathered more and more
around the prince, while the rival courts kept the town amused.
[A.D. 1743.] For twelve years Sir Robert Walpole had kept England at
peace, but the era of war began soon after Queen Caroline's death.
George II. espoused the cause of Marie Theresa when the French tried to
deprive her of her inheritance. During that campaign the Earl of Stair,
who commanded the British troops, allowed himself to be surrounded by
the enemy near the village of Dettingen, and but for the bravery of
George II., who was present, would have lost the battle. His majesty
rode a vicious horse, which during the conflict carried him out of the
way. At length with the assistance of a soldier the animal was stopped,
and the king dismounted, saying in his broken English, "Aha! now dat I
am upon my own legs, I am sure dat I sal not run away!" {131}The Duke
of Cumberland had accompanied his father to Flanders, and when they got
back to England they met with a most enthusiastic reception. The Prince
of Wales stood at the head of the stairs of St. James's Palace with his
two sisters to receive the king, who passed him by as he would a
dog. The next year the Duke of Cumberland met with a signal defeat
at Fontenoy, and in 1748 peace was restored to England once more. The
Prince of Wales continued to oppose his father all the time, but that
did not prevent his son, Prince George, from having the Order of the
Garter conferred on him. On that occasion the little knight was carried
to the king's door in his father's arms. The Duke of Dorset received
him, and he made a speech that had been taught him by his tutor.
[[A.D. 1749.]] The dissension between George II. and his eldest son was
put an end to at last by the death of the latter, which occurred as a
result of great imprudence in 1751. The king was at Kensington when the
news reached him looking at a game of cards. "Dead, is he? Why, they
told me he was better," and that is all the regret, if it may be so
called, that the royal father felt at the loss of his first-born. But he
sent kind messages to the widow, who behaved with a great deal of sense
and courage.
She was then the mother of eight children, and her husband's death was
a severe blow. She sat beside his body for four hours before she would
believe that he was dead; then, after taking a brief repose, she went to
his writing-desk and burned all his private papers.
[[A.D. 1751.]] Frederick had had his friends, and his death was lamented
by many, though his own family were not of the number. A preacher said
of him, "He had no great parts, but he had great virtues,--indeed, they
degenerated into vices. He was very generous; but I hear his generosity
ruined a great many people; and, then, his condescension {132}was such
that he kept very bad company." It is rather hard to decide whether this
was intended for praise or censure; but a Jacobite epitaph that appeared
at the time is decidedly more conclusive. It was to this effect:--
"Here lies Fred,
Who was alive and is dead
Had it been his father,
I had much rather.
Had it been his brother,
Still better than another.
Had it been his sister,
No one could have missed her.
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation:
But since't is only Fred,
Who was alive and is dead,
There is no more to be said."
One of George II.'s earliest acts after the death of the Prince of Wales
was to appoint his wife regent, in case of his own death before the
next heir should be of age. This gave great offence to William, Duke of
Cumberland; but the king did not trouble himself about such a trifle,
and devoted the rest of his life to gayety and politics.
The young Pretender is said to have visited England more than once for
the purpose of finding out what the populace thought of him. One day the
king asked a certain lord where Charles Edward was. "Upon my word, sire,
I don't exactly know," was the reply. "I suppose he is in Italy; but
I'll consult my last despatches."
"Poh, poh! man," said the king, "don't trouble your head about
despatches; I'll tell you where he is: he is now at No.--, in the
Strand, and last night he was at Lady--------'s party.
What shall we do with him?" The lord proposed calling a council to
decide, but the king said, "No, no; we can manage the business without a
council. Let him stay where he is at present; and when the poor man has
{133}amused himself with looking about London, he will go home again."
George II. had no taste for art, science, nor literature, and never
pretended to have. "I hate bainting and boetry too," he used to say,
"neider de one nor de oder ever did any good!" But he loved the theatre,
opera, and masquerades. Once when he was in Hanover he was visited by
the Princess of Orange and Maria of Hesse-Cassel with their husbands. At
that time his court was very brilliant, and he gave a magnificent mask
ball in honor of his guests in the theatre of Herrenhausen. The stage
was splendidly decorated, and the garden surrounding the theatre was
illuminated with colored lanterns. All the ladies and gentlemen appeared
in white satin dominos, and every detail of the ball was conducted with
unusual magnificence. A grand supper was served on three long tables,
and the dancing was kept up until broad daylight.
A few days later there was an assembly at the opera-house, when the king
appeared in a richly embroidered Turkish costume, with a striped silk
turban, in which was an agraffe of rare and costly diamonds, Dapper
little George danced and capered about with his red face, white
eyebrows, and goggle eyes, in a manner that would have been more
becoming to a man of twenty than one of sixty.
[[A.D. 1760.]] The latter years of King George's life were passed as
regularly as clockwork. At night he played cards in the apartments of
his daughters, Amelia and Caroline, with some favored officers of
his own household, and two or three of the late queen's ladies. Every
Saturday he made a pleasure trip to Richmond, where, with a party of
courtiers, he dined. They went in coaches, drawn by six horses, in the
middle of the day, with the horse-guards kicking up the dust before
them, dined, walked an hour in {134}the garden, and returned in the same
dusty procession. This was considered enjoyment.
When the young and beautiful Duchess of Hamilton was presented to King
George, just after her marriage, he conversed with her for a long time,
and was much pleased with her naturalness and vivacity. He asked
her what striking public sights she had witnessed, whereupon she
thoughtlessly replied: "Oh! I have seen so much, there is only one sight
in the world which I wish to behold, and that is a coronation." The
old king gently took her hand in his, and with a sigh, exclaimed, "I
apprehend you have not long to wait; you will soon have your desire."
On the twenty-fifth of October, he arose about his usual hour, and
seemed well; he called for his chocolate, and inquired the direction of
the wind, as if anxious for the arrival of his foreign mails. He then
opened the window, and said he would walk into the garden; but he
stopped, and with a deep sigh, fell to the ground, saying, faintly,
"Call Amelia," and then expired. He was raised and laid upon the bed. It
was found, on examination, that he had died of rupture of the heart.
The funeral took place the following month, at night. The king's chamber
was hung with purple velvet, and lit up with silver lamps; the coffin
was placed on a dais under a canopy of purple velvet, surrounded by
silver candelabra, on high stands.
The procession passed through a double line of foot-guards, every
seventh man bearing a torch. The horse-guards formed an outside line,
and all their officers Wore crape sashes and carried drawn sabres. As
the coffin was borne along, minute-guns were fired, bells tolled, and a
funeral march was played on fifes, with muffled drums for accompaniment.
The procession was met at the entrance to the Abbey by the dean and
chapter in rich robes, all the {135}choir and almsmen bearing torches.
Arriving at the chapel of Henry VIL, the bishop read the prayers for
the dead, which were succeeded by an anthem. The Duke of Cumberland, as
chief mourner, stood at the entrance of the vault, in which his father's
remains were placed beside those of his mother.
He looked very tall in his black cloak, with a train live yards long,
which must have felt very heavy during the two hours he was kept
standing. But he bore the ordeal firmly, in spite of his lame leg, and
the thought that he must soon follow his father. He had had a paralytic
stroke, from which he had not entirely recovered. He lived five years
longer. {136}