RETURN TO ENGLAND—ACCESSION OF QUEEN VICTORIA—HER CORONATION
In the year 1836 my eldest brother was married to Miss Ogle, in my
opinion the most beautiful bride I have ever seen, before or since. They
came to reside with us for a time, but the arrangement did not last
long, and they went abroad and settled in Paris. The year 1837 was one
of great sorrow for my sister, and indeed for all of us, as the health
of her dear kind master, William the Fourth, began to fail.
In the month of May I went with my mother to pay a visit of a few days
to Princess Mary, Duchess of Gloucester, at her house in Park Lane. We
had been more than once the guests of this dear and kind Princess, at
her delightful residence at Bagshot Park, but this was the first time I
had slept under her hospitable roof in London. She was a most gracious
lady, and full of delightful old-world anecdotes of her father’s court,
and ever ready to appreciate and to promulgate a joke or a good story.
[Sidenote: MRS JORDAN]
I would sit and listen with gratitude to all she had to tell me of old
days. I had a great admiration (what in the modern vernacular is called
a “cult”) for the talent of Mrs Jordan, although it was only inspired by
hearsay, as she was before my time. My mother had often told me that she
would have considered it worth her while to go to the theatre, merely to
hear the silvery ringing laugh of that actress behind the scenes, even
if she had not waited for the performance of the play. I spoke of Mrs
Jordan to the Duchess, and she told me she quite concurred in my
mother’s opinion. She also gave me a very interesting account of
accompanying her royal parents to the play one night, when the actress
in question was to perform one of her favourite characters. “I was much
excited, my dear Mary,” said the Duchess, “at the prospect of seeing the
woman in whom I knew my brother William was deeply interested; but that
evening was destined to be one of terrible excitement.”
It was the occasion on which the king’s life was attempted in the
theatre. His escape was miraculous, and as he was most popular with his
subjects, the alarm and consternation, with the subsequent enthusiasm
and rejoicing of the audience, baffled all description. The performance
was interrupted, the National Anthem loudly demanded, and the king
vociferously called for, having to bow his thanks from the front of the
Royal Box. When Mrs Jordan made her appearance her reception was warmer
than usual, and, connected as she was with the interests of the Royal
family, her excitement and agitation were such that she fairly broke
down, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing, which did not help to
calm down the general ferment of the evening. It was during our visit at
Gloucester House that William the Fourth’s health failed, and, his days
being numbered, all eyes were fixed on his young successor, Princess
Victoria.
“To-night,” said the Duchess to my mother, “I am dining with the Duke of
Cambridge, and you and little Mary can either dine at home, or I will
order my carriage earlier, and send you to dine with a friend.”
The latter alternative was chosen, and we entered the Royal carriage in
state, with the coachman and foot-men resplendent in scarlet and gold.
It was Derby Day, and as we proceeded down Grosvenor Place, what wonder
that the lowly occupants of that coach should be mistaken for the
highest personages in the land. As we moved along, all heads were bowed,
all hats raised. I took advantage of the occasion. I was about the same
size, and of the same fair complexion and the same coloured hair as
Princess Victoria, and I knew in a moment for whom I had the honour to
be mistaken; so I imitated the courtesy which I felt sure Her Royal
Highness would have evinced in the same circumstances, and I bowed
repeatedly, first from one and then the other window, but that with such
deceitful haste that the imposture could not be detected. My mother
expostulated with me on my effrontery, but to no purpose; I was so much
pleased with my own joke that I continued it the whole length of
Grosvenor Place. How well I remember how entirely I sympathised, even
while I deplored the death of our good kind king, in the love and
enthusiasm which that young, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish Sovereign
excited. There was something so picturesque, so romantic, to me, so like
some fairy-tale of old, in the fair creature who reigned over this
mighty Empire! I saw her one night at the Opera House, where she went in
state, and a brilliant reception awaited her. I do not think I had ever
seen her since two or three years before, when at the opening of
Parliament she mounted the steps of the throne, and kissed the hand of
her uncle, William the Fourth, while the dear old king, in his sailor’s
uniform, surrounded by royal robes, stooped down and embraced the little
princess, who was so soon to succeed him.
[Sidenote: CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA]
In recalling that night at the Opera, I remember how, later in the
evening, the door of the Royal Box opened to admit the Duke of
Wellington, who naturally shared in the honours of the evening. It was
to me a touching, beautiful sight, to see the young Queen give her hand
to the old warrior and lead him forward to the front to obtain a
reception from the audience, scarcely second in enthusiasm to her own.
Another time I saw her, in circumstances indelibly impressed on my
memory. It was on her Coronation day, and the splendour and brilliancy
of that scene, the gorgeous dresses, the magnificent solemnity of the
whole ceremony, do not recur so often to my recollection as the time
when, seated on her Regal chair, she received the homage of the Peers of
England. One of the eldest among them, Lord Rolle, who had passed the
allotted span of life, in approaching to do her honour, tottered, and
nearly fell to the ground, while she, with a gracious and merciful
impulse, rose with outstretched arms to save him from what might have
been a painful fall. I was just above the spot in question, and well
remember the sort of buzz or whisper that spread far and near among
those who witnessed this touching incident.
I have nothing of interest to record in the events of the next two or
three years.
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