IN GEORGIAN DAYS
Society from the time of the Revolution had gradually drifted into an
independent existence, and was no longer dominated by the influence of
the Court. The hatred entertained by Queen Mary, the Consort of William
III., towards the supporters of her father was probably responsible
for this in a great measure. The Jacobites in their turn entered into
intrigue. As Queen Anne’s reign drew to a close, often beneath those
old trees in Hyde Park, meetings were arranged under the very eyes of
the Whigs. Signs and tokens communicated place and time, surrounding
the conspirators still with that touch of romance which always clung to
the fortunes of the Stuarts.
Meanwhile another vast social change had been creeping over London and
London life.
The Great Fire had proved a dominating factor in the growth and
development of Society in the capital. The poor, starving, homeless
wretches at Islington and Moorfields, in 1666, could see nothing in the
disaster but calamity and despair. The wealthy merchant bemoaned his
losses. Those who had lost nothing and suffered nothing regarded the
flames as a disinfectant from the Plague, an unrivalled opportunity
for improving streets and houses. Despondency soon gave place to the
excitement and interests of rebuilding the town. Many of the wealthy
merchants and aristocratic residents of the City, finding themselves
homeless, erected houses in Holborn and thereabouts, a neighbourhood
which before that time had been occupied by mansions of great noblemen,
the laws of Elizabeth and James I. against building between Temple Bar
and Whitehall having kept the district fairly clear.
This exodus from the City had the same effect in those days that the
modern red brick villa has on the present generation. The aristocracy
fled before it and moved westwards. Lord Burlington went to Sir John
Denham’s house, enlarged it, and named it Burlington House; Lord
Berkeley built Berkeley House, which was burnt down later, on the site
where Devonshire House now stands. Many others of the nobility followed
suit. Added to this, the introduction of the coach brought country
gentry so much more frequently to town that they also needed houses of
their own, and joined the westward “trek.”
[Illustration: Entrance to Hyde Park on a Sunday.
_From a Print in the Crace Collection, British Museum._]
The student of social development finds a yet deeper change in the
migration. Class distinction became strongly marked. It was no longer
considered dignified to belong to the City of London, and trade
devolved on the middle class, who henceforth held positions that had
been filled by the younger branches of the nobility. Thus the Society
of the City of Westminster looked down on the Society of the City of
London, and nowhere was this more emphasised than in Hyde Park, which
the aristocracy regarded as their own. It was only on Sundays that the
City of London hied thither, and on these occasions My Lady turned
up her nose and My Lord sniffed high in the air, while the Londoners
stared and remarked on the fine inhabitants of the western city.
Under the Georges this feeling did not abate; in fact, during the week
the high-born aristocracy regarded Hyde Park as so exclusively their
happy playground, that in the early Georgian days ladies and gentlemen
spoke without introductions. Everybody knew who everybody else was. The
chief course of study the Society lady pursued was that of heraldry and
pedigree. It must be borne in mind that the aristocracy were not so
numerous as in these times. At the beginning of the eighteenth century
the whole population of London was but half a million.
Livery servants were allowed to enter Hyde Park, although still
excluded from St. James’s and Kensington Gardens, and when ladies
walked in the Park they were attended by a flunkey carrying a long
staff as his rod of office, and often by a little black slave-boy.
Manners and morals were sadly missing in this fashionable centre. The
licentiousness established under Charles II. had spread and thrived
throughout the realm, and George I. and his son publicly encouraged
it. In fact, when the former attended the theatre he was carried
in his sedan-chair with a guard before and behind, and his two
mistresses—popularly known as the “Elephant” and the “Maypole,” from
their respective breadth and length,—brought up the rear, borne by men
in the Royal livery.
It is hard for the Londoner of 1908 to realise that two hundred years
ago neither children, nor the “man in the street,” nor the loafer, nor
the orator, were permitted to enter Hyde Park. In fact, the only part
the poor labouring folk ever knew of it was its high brick wall.
When the Jacobite risings were fermenting, a military camp was formed
in Hyde Park. The newspapers contain grand accounts of the rejoicings
among the troops, and the feast given to the men by the Duke of
Montague, who was in command, in honour of the Prince of Wales’s
birthday.
Joseph Addison, writing to a friend in June 1715, says:
“SIR,—Yesterday the King reviewed the Horse Guards in Hyde Park.
His Majesty made so good a figure on horseback, was followed by
such prodigious numbers of people who pressed about him to kiss his
stirrups, and huzza’d with such acclamations of joy and good-will, that
it is hoped by his friends that His Majesty will take more frequent
opportunities of being seen by the meaner sort of his people. One of
the mob called out ‘High Church’ near the King at his going out of the
Parke, for which he was immediately knocked and used very scurvily by
the rest.”
[Illustration: PLAN OF HYDE PARK _as it was in 1725_.
_From a Plan of the Parish of Sᵗ. George Hanover Square, in the Vestry
Room of that Parish._
_From Rocque’s Map._]
An incident that happened during their stay well shows the temper of
the times. May 29th came round, and two soldiers picked a sprig of oak
from the old trees and stuck it in their caps,—a mere boyish fancy,
no doubt, but one that savoured strongly of Jacobitism, for it called
to mind Charles I., as well as the birthday and return of Charles II.
So these unfortunate youths were drummed out of the army, and flogged
almost to death.
May Fair, which had been abolished in 1708, was revived for the
amusement of the soldiers. This fair first originated in the May-Day
games that were held in Brookfields, on the banks of the Tyburn before
it crossed Piccadilly. The whole thing had become so disorderly,
however, that it was stopped by Queen Anne, probably in consideration
for the owners of new houses near the fair ground. After its revival
the fair was held annually until 1760. While the camp thus had
brought disorder to Mayfair, it was a safeguard to Kensington, for it
temporarily dispersed the bands of highwaymen who infested that part.
There are many records extant describing the immediate surroundings
of Hyde Park at this time, those in the Muniment Room at Westminster
Abbey being of special interest. Among them is a plan of the area of
Knightsbridge abutting on Hyde Park Corner in 1719. The West-bourne
flowed out where the Albert Gate now stands. On, or close to, the site
of the French Embassy was the Lazar Hospital and some stocks, and
nearer Hyde Park Corner, the Knightsbridge Chapel. On the opposite side
of the road stood the “Roase Inn,” to which belonged a tract of land
stretching east, and containing both a smithy and sheep-pens belonging
to the inn. All this sounds strange, and yet there are several old
farmhouses standing right in the heart of London to-day. The “Roase”
was in existence until 1860, and was then known as “The Rose and
Crown.” What a different scene was this ordinary drinking house from
that on the other side of the brick wall.
The 18th century were the days of the beaux, who appeared in Hyde Park
in their chairs to lounge, chaff the orange-girls and flower-sellers,
and exchange comments with the fair occupants of the coaches and
calèches.
In the Ring these chariots now acquired a splendour which represented
great wealth. A curious incident had happened in the desire of Beau
Fielding to figure as a descendant of the House of Hapsburg, from
which he claimed descent. Appearing in a chariot of unparalleled
gorgeousness, with the Hapsburg arms upon it, he excited the ire of
Lord Denbigh, who had the undisputed right to the arms. This nobleman
engaged a house-painter to await Fielding’s arrival in the Ring, and at
the first opportunity this individual, taking the brush from a huge can
of yellow paint which he carried, proceeded to cover the splendid coach
of the aspirant with daubs, entirely obliterating the offending arms.
Beau Fielding was left with the choice of retiring amidst the laughter
the event created, or of reviving the joke each time he drove round the
favoured circle.
We talk of our gay throng in Hyde Park to-day, as one of the most
brilliant gatherings of beauty and fashion in the world. But what must
the gorgeousness have been of those scenes a century and a half ago,
when men as well as women wore bright colours and rich materials, and
added airs and graces to their frills and laces?
Retiring to bed in the early hours of the morning, the dandy of the
early Georges lay till noon, and then donned a shirt much befrilled,
belaced, and embroidered, for the benefit of any chance visitor who
might call. His periwig lay in full display somewhere in the room,
curled, powdered, and scented according to the latest fashion.
About midday he rose and performed his toilet, donning his gorgeous
silken hose and coloured shoes glorified with silver buckles, his
velvet breeches, embroidered waistcoat, and silken coat, then his
periwig; and, posing before his mirror, he arranged his gay cravat,
stuck on his patches, painted his face if necessary, scented his
lace handkerchief—the fashionable lace was Valenciennes—attached his
dangling sword, and took his meal. After this, his mirror was again
resorted to for adjusting his hat in exactly the proper manner, his
snuff-box was the finishing touch, and his chairmen then bore to the
Park, or some other pleasure resort, this gentleman of fortune whose
personal attire alone must have represented hundreds of pounds.
Any one who had been in the army always wore his scarlet uniform,
while the private individual bedecked himself with coats of silks and
brocades, velvets and satins, embroidered with gold. These garments
the habitués of Hyde Park carried with such graceful bearing that a
City of London man could be discerned at once from the gaucheries he
performed. Few of the merchants wore silken coats, for so late as this
the sumptuary laws of Elizabeth could be traced in the various grades
and trades of the people. Even in 1908 have we not the blue smock of
the butcher and our ’Varsity gowns surviving voluntarily as a relic of
these old laws?
The daily appearance in the Park meant much more to the early
eighteenth-century ladies than it does to Society dames of the present
day. They saw little of their husbands, and were—so far as their
home life went—often alone. They read practically nothing; in fact,
their intellects were starved. Dress was their one and only idea, and
engrossed much of the day, until they went to the Park in their grand
equipages drawn by four horses, running footmen preceding, others
following.
The ignorance of the age was deplorable. The gatherings of the wits and
literary men, so famous under Anne, had been dispersed by the strong
political force of Sir Robert Walpole. Addison, Swift, and Pope alone
remained in prominence.
The Duchesses of Marlborough and Buckingham still vied with each other
as to who should be the most important factor in Society. The Duchess
of Shrewsbury; Miss Lepell, who afterwards married Lord Hervey; Mary
Bellenden, the lady who refused the attentions of the Prince of Wales
and married Colonel Campbell; Miss Howe, Lord Hervey, Sir Robert
Walpole, and Lord Chesterfield, were all familiar figures in the haunts
of Hyde Park. Added to these was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose
sprightly conversation was in great request in those days.
[Illustration: MOLLY LEPELL, afterwards Lady Hervey.]
Her tongue and pen had a somewhat sharp edge. She waged war on the
ignorance of the day, and her _Letters_ have come down to us full of
the culture and cleverness for which she was distinguished. Writing to
the Countess of Mar in 1723, she said:
“Your old friend Mrs. Lowther is still fair and young, and in pale pink
every night in the Park; but after being highly in favour, poor I am in
utter disgrace, without my being able to guess wherefore, except she
fancied me the author or abettor of two vile ballads written on her
‘dying adventure,’ which I am so innocent of that I never saw.”
The explanation of the “dying adventure” is too good to pass over.
Mrs. Lowther was a sister of Lord Lonsdale, unmarried, and of high
repute. All middle-aged unmarried women were addressed as “Mrs.” in
those days, just as wives of our own time look upon that title as their
prerogative. She happened to be sitting at breakfast with a friend when
a new footman—an awkward country lad—announced “there was one as begged
to see her.”
“What is his name?” she inquired.
“Don’t know,” was the reply.
“What sort of a person is he—a gentleman?”
“Can’t say rightly.”
“Go and ask him his business.”
The footman disappeared and returned with a broad grin on his face:
“Why, Madam, he says as how—he says he is——”
“Well, what does he say, fool?”
“He says he is one as dies for your Ladyship.”
“Dies for me!” exclaimed the lady, annoyed beyond measure at the smile
on the faces of her friend and the footman. “Was there ever such a
piece of insolence? Turn him out of my house this minute. And, hark ye,
shut the door in his face!”
The yokel obeyed, but setting about the matter with more force than
the visitor would put up with, there was a scuffle, the neighbourhood
was roused, the constable or watchman arrived, and the affair became
serious. Finally, when matters were arranged by the arm of the law, and
the caller could calmly explain himself, he proved to be one of Mrs.
Lowther’s tradesmen, a dyer whom she often employed to freshen up her
gowns.
One can quite imagine the glee with which the ladies related the story
to their friends when they saw the pink gown appearing in the distance
every evening.
Lady Mary seems to have bestowed much criticism on her contemporaries,
both male and female. Pope—who, by the way, spent many of his young
days near Hyde Park—was to her the “little wasp of Twickenham,” and in
another letter of hers we find the following, in which runs a rich vein
of sarcasm:
“Lady Hervey makes the top figure in town, and is so good a show twice
a week at the Drawing-room, and twice more at the Opera, for the
entertainment of the public.... Lady Hervey is more delightful than
ever, and such a politician that if people were not blind to merit, she
would govern the nation.”
These two instances are, perhaps, typical of the chatter that was rife
in those daily drives and walks in Hyde Park when George II. came to
the throne. Men enjoyed the gossip, as they do now. Would that we had
a bioscope that would reproduce those picturesque groups lounging
under the trees: Lord Hervey with his debonair appearance, the worldly
Lord Chesterfield, and the numerous others who figure in the witty
correspondences which became an art in the eighteenth century. Hyde
Park supplied the subjects for many a long letter from Horace Walpole,
George Selwyn, and their friends, written in such racy style that one
can almost hear the chuckle with which a bit of “talk about town” was
indited, or the approving laugh of the recipient as he read.
Under George II. change was busy. The spirit of gardening was abroad.
People were tired of clipped hedges, trimmed shrubs, and the formality
of the Dutch style. Queen Caroline beautified Kensington Gardens, and
in doing so robbed Hyde Park of three hundred acres to give her greater
scope. “Natural” gardening was the vogue, and this addition leant
itself to her scheme.
The greatest change of all, for which habitués of the Park remain
indebted to Queen Caroline, Consort of George II., was the Serpentine.
It is still the finest sheet of water in any of the London parks, and
has entirely altered the aspect from the large area over which it is
visible.
Why “Serpentine”?
Perhaps five persons out of six, if asked to give the reason why this
particular name was applied to the newly fashioned lake, would not
be able to guess correctly. It was so called because of its shape. In
fact, the bend is very small, barely noticeable, yet in its day it
marked a revolt from the existing order of things. Hitherto no one in
laying out ornamental water in a landscape garden had dared to depart
from the perfectly straight line or square form which had been brought
over from Holland, and was considered the acme of good taste. Queen
Caroline was wise enough to break away from these absurd limitations,
and the example she was among the first to set has since been followed
with the happiest results. But so established was the idea of a square
or oblong lake from which she departed, that map-makers (as will be
seen in the accompanying map) represented the stretch of water in a
quadrilateral form for some years.
Some ten or a dozen separate pools and ponds existed in Hyde Park
before the work was undertaken. They were fed by the West-bourne,
which trickled from one to another, and, leaving the grounds at their
southern boundary, finally found a way into the river Thames. In the
forest days these were the haunt of the heron, which is especially
mentioned by Henry VIII. among the game to be strictly preserved. About
these pools and marshes, as we know, bluff King Hal and his daughter
Elizabeth flew their hawks. Later the brook itself became greatly
fouled, and the ponds, which were almost stagnant, an offence rather
than an addition to the amenities of the Park.
[Illustration:
HYDE PARK in 1746.
_From Rocque’s map of London._]
Queen Caroline had the advice and assistance of Charles Withers,
then Surveyor-General of Woods and Forests, in constructing the
Serpentine. George II., believing that all the cost was being borne
out of the Queen’s privy purse, generously abstained from interference
in her schemes. It was not until after her death that he discovered
that £20,000 of his own money had been expended in this and other
improvements in the Park and gardens. The West-bourne was first drained
by an embankment being thrown across it. The soil excavated for the
foundation of the single great lake was then dumped down to raise the
level of the ground at the south end of Kensington Gardens. On the
summit of the little hill so formed was placed a small temple, which
has since disappeared.
A couple of hundred men were employed on the work, which was begun in
1730. The “Old Lodge” was destroyed in order to form the new ornamental
water, and the Ring, which had been the vogue for upwards of a century,
went with it. The latter had ceased to be a gay and fashionable resort
when the camp afforded a counter-attraction, and never recovered its
popularity. Moreover, Newmarket had become the great racing centre,
and the Ring thus passed out of existence ingloriously. The cost of
the Serpentine is said to have been only £6000. Some years before, the
Chelsea Waterworks had been granted the rights of supplying the new
western suburbs with water from Hyde Park and St. James’s Park; but
they now accepted compensation of £2500, and handed over their rights
in Hyde Park for the new design. The Serpentine continued to derive its
waters from the West-bourne until the stream became too polluted by
the increase of population on its banks, when it was turned underground.
Major Hussey, of His Majesty’s Board of Works, kindly tells me that the
present arrangements are as follows:
“Water is pumped into the Serpentine from shallow wells in St. James’s
Park and also from a deep well at the head of the Serpentine; in the
latter case, however, it is usually first pumped to the Round Pond,
whence it returns by gravity to the Serpentine.
“Water can also, if necessary, be let into the Serpentine from the
Water Board mains. No water now enters from the Westbourne Stream,
which was originally the only supply.
“The Round Pond, the Serpentine, Buckingham Palace Lake, and St.
James’s Park Lake, are all connected in the order named, and water can
flow through the series.
“The fountains at the head of the Serpentine play by pressure from the
Round Pond. If necessary they can be worked from the engines direct.
The water pumped to the Serpentine from St. James’s Park flows through
an iron pipe until it reaches the east end of the Serpentine; thence it
passes along an old brick culvert and enters the Serpentine near its
head in Kensington Gardens.
“The opening up of this culvert a short time ago for the purposes of
cleaning, may have given rise to the report that an old culvert had
recently been discovered.”
That Queen Caroline made such extensive improvements in the Park “for
the good of Londoners generally,” was much doubted at the time. Indeed,
there was some talk of a Royal Palace being erected there, and of
further encroachments. Nevertheless, Queen Caroline’s work has proved a
lasting benefit to the chief pleasure ground of the Metropolis.
The King was busy meanwhile with a new road through the Park to
Kensington. The Princess Amelia was devoted to horses and riding, and
frequently appeared in Hyde Park. George II.’s Road appears to have
been assigned for carriages simply passing through the Park, while
the older way of William III., known as “The King’s Old Road,” was
allotted to the dallying of pleasure-seekers, and the term “Rotten Row”
came to be applied to it by the succeeding generation. This is said to
be a corruption of “Route du Roi,” but other writers derive it from
“rotteran,” to muster. The new road was the cause of many disasters,
coaches frequently sticking in the mud and overturning. The King’s
daughters were driving into London on pleasure bent one evening, when
a chaise capsized and the horse attached fell under the feet of the
leaders in the royal coach-and-four. The young princesses were not
hurt, but were so frightened that they returned home, and were bled,
according to the custom of that time.
Riding became a passion. Favourite steeds were shown off in Hyde
Park, wagers were made, and just as we proclaim that our Charron, our
Panhard, our Mercedes, or our Daimler did such and such a distance in
so many hours without a check, so in the early half of the eighteenth
century the long journey accomplished at top speed by some favourite
horse was the talk of the day. It is said that the Duchess of Bedford
appeared in the Row in a particularly smart riding-habit of dark blue
cloth with white facings, which George II. admired so much that he took
the idea for his new naval uniforms in 1748, and abolished the scarlet
dress hitherto worn by ships’ officers.
Hyde Park was more than ever the playground of the higher classes.
Cricket matches, first introduced in the reign of William III., were
the fashion; teams were formed from the ranks of the nobility, and
graced by royalty, who batted merrily across the sward on summer
days. Though cricket is no longer permitted in Hyde Park, it is still
played in its much more beautiful rival, Regent’s Park. Skating on the
Serpentine, too, was established on the first occasion that Jack Frost
cast his silent grip over the new ornamental water.
Queen Caroline instituted a Drawing-Room every Sunday at Kensington
Palace, and thither beauty and birth flocked in costly array, and then
to the Park. She was a clever diplomat, possessing great tact and a far
better idea of ruling than her husband. Under her sway literature was
encouraged, though Society remained as licentious as ever.
Meantime Hyde Park was still the goal of that western migration.
Grosvenor Gate had been erected in the reign of George I. at the
expense of the inhabitants of the new mansions. Viscount Lanesborough
had treked as far as Hyde Park Corner, and built what his friends
called “his country house.” In fact, he himself had the following words
inscribed on its front:
“It is my delight to be
Both in town and country.”
[Illustration: St. George’s Hospital and the Original “Tattersall’s” at
Hyde Park Corner.
_From Print in the Crace Collection, British Museum._] When, in 1733,
a “difference of doctors” arose at Westminster Hospital, the dissenting
physicians purchased Lanesborough House, and founded St. George’s
Hospital.
Lord Chesterfield, writing to Mr. Dayrolles in 1748, evidently thought
little of the new quarter. “As my new house is situated among a parcel
of thieves and murderers, I shall have occasion for a house-dog,” is
the best he can say. Chesterfield House was within a stone’s-throw of
Hill Street, where the famous Mrs. Montagu resided for a time. It was
not the spick-and-span locality of the present day, but was unpaved
and ill-kept, the road being in a fearful condition, and Mrs. Montagu,
the originator of the “blue stocking” assemblies, gives a wonderful
description of it in her _Lady of the Last Century_.
“The ‘thieves and murderers’ were among the butchers of Mayfair and
Sheppard’s Market—not then cleared out for such streets as have since
been erected on the site. Park Lane was then Tyburn Lane, and what
with the Fair of six weeks’ duration (with blackguardism and incidents
of horror that will not bear repeating) and the monthly hangings at
Tyburn, from which half the drunken and yelling spectators poured
through Mayfair, Hill Street, and adjacent outlets on their way to
home and fresh scenes of riot. Between the fair, the gallows, and the
neighbouring rascalry, the district was not to be entered after dark
without risk of the wayfarer being stripped by robbers. Footpads were
as common between Hay Hill and Park Lane as highwaymen between Hounslow
and Bagshot.”
The leaders of Society living near by found it easier to come
frequently into Hyde Park; it was so much a matter of routine that
even those voluminous letters of the period speak as if that part
of the day’s amusement was as necessary as their dinner. Instead of
driving some distance to the Park, they were now quite close; while
their shopping was a much more serious affair, for until the end of
the century the best shops were still in Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill,
and St. Paul’s Churchyard. This may account for the fashionable ladies
visiting Newgate so often, for they passed it on their shopping
expeditions, and probably in the absence of organised charity they
felt that they were doing a kindness in taking gifts to the condemned
criminals.
Four years later, the Duke of Rutland moved to a country residence he
had built on the site of the present Rutland Gate, known in those days
as “Well-fields,” and for which he paid a rental of thirty pounds per
annum—the area being seven acres. To him was granted the privilege of a
private gate into Hyde Park, and this was the origin of the small gate
still in existence on that spot.
Near at hand stood Kingston House, erected by the beautiful Miss
Chudleigh and the Duke of Kingston, and there it was that the lady gave
those wonderful masquerades and fêtes described by Horace Walpole, to
celebrate the royal birthdays, at which the fireworks were so extensive
that stands were put up in Hyde Park for onlookers anxious to witness
the display.
The fact of seven hundred and thirty coaches passing Hyde Park Corner
in three days is chronicled by Horace Walpole as a most wonderful
thing. It is interesting to note in the Report of the recent Royal
Commission on London traffic, that during a certain day between 8 a.m.
and 8 p.m., 29,320 vehicles passed the Marble Arch.
_Traffic which passed Marble Arch from 8 a.m. to
8 p.m. on 6th July 1904._
Omnibuses 4,745
Trade Vehicles 7,314
Cabs and Carriages 13,135
Barrows 310
Cycles 3,816
———
Total 29,320
======
_Traffic which passed Hyde Park Corner from 8 a.m.
to 8 p.m. on 26th July 1904._
Omnibuses 6,635
Trade Vehicles, Selected Carriers 714
„ „ Others 7,249
Cabs, Two-wheel 7,096
„ Four-wheel 2,654
Carriages 2,414
———
26,762
Barrows 384
Cycles 2,140
———
Total 29,286
======
These numbers are much greater now—and the motors run into several
thousands. Over 3000 vehicles pass the Marble Arch during a busy hour.
More traffic passes the scene of old Tyburne in twenty-four hours than
any other spot in London, and yet the police organisation is so perfect
there is rarely a mishap.
Of the most famous highwaymen of former times succeeding chapters will
tell. The great rendezvous of the footpads who preyed on the passers-by
was at the “Halfway House” in Knightsbridge, and numerous attacks on
people in Hyde Park were recorded.
“Lady Betty Waldegrave,” says her uncle, “was robbed t’other night in
Hyde Park, under the very noses of the lamps and the Patrole.”
Horace Walpole and his relations seem to have been favourite prey for
the highwaymen. Elsewhere a story of a tragic encounter is given, but
there is a comic incident as well.
One night, about thirty years later than the period of which I am
writing, he was driving with a lady to Twickenham, to some evening
entertainment, when the coach was held up by a highwayman. With the
greatest calmness and promptitude the lady at once handed the errant
of the road her purse, bulging with money. The man seized it and rode
off, well pleased with the spoil. But the lady was more happy still,
for she had come provided for emergencies. The purse only contained
_counterfeit_ coin!
Towards the end of George II.’s reign two figures appeared in Hyde Park
that startled Society—two fortuneless Irish girls, the daughters of an
Irish squire, and nieces of Lord Mayo. Horace Walpole describes them as
“the two handsomest women alive.” “Those goddesses the Gunnings” was
Mrs. Montagu’s term for them.
Such was their poverty, that when they were presented at Dublin Castle,
Mrs. Peg Woffington, the actress, lent them dresses in which to appear.
They made their début at the English Court in 1751, and from that time
crowds used to come daily to the Park to have a sight of them. They
were mobbed wherever they went; in fact, at the Drawing-Room when the
younger one, Elizabeth, was presented on her marriage with the Duke
of Hamilton, the ladies clambered on to chairs and tables to see her.
Walpole writes:
“As you talk of our beauties, I shall tell you a new story of the
Gunnings, who make more noise than any of their predecessors since
the days of Helen, though neither of them, nor anything about them,
has yet been _teterrima belli causa_. They went the other day to
see Hampton Court; as they were going into the Beauty-room, another
company arrived; the housekeeper said, ‘This way, ladies, here are
the beauties.’ The Gunnings flew into a passion, and asked her what
she meant; they came to see the palace, not to be shown as a sight
themselves.”
They were fêted and feasted by everybody, and their own heads evidently
became turned as well as other people’s. It was at Chesterfield House
that the younger sister met the Duke of Hamilton, who fell in love
at first sight, but the story of their romantic marriage with the
curtain ring is well known. The elder one married Lord Coventry about a
fortnight later. Both romances were a godsend to the gossiping habitués
of Hyde Park, who, however, were plenteously supplied with dainty
morsels such as they loved, in the form of secret marriages. It was
the heyday of the Keith marriages at Mayfair Chapel, and at the Fleet.
Tit-bits from the gaming-tables were told and passed from one another,
until Mrs. Montagu, disgusted with the scandal in these meetings and
the gambling that went on at parties, made a new departure in Society.
She was resolved to institute _réunions_ where conversion and
literature should entertain, and cards and gambling should never be
seen. The result was that quite a new intellectual element appeared
in Society. She brought such minds into contact as Mrs. Vesey, Mrs.
Thrale, Mrs. Barbauld, Hannah More, Lucy Aikin, Fanny Burney, Jane
Austen, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, Johnson, Pulteney, Earl of
Bath, the first Lord Lyttelton, Horace Walpole, Dr. Burney, Garrick,
and Reynolds, and the force of such gatherings was bound to influence
both men and women.
[Illustration: MARIA, COUNTESS OF COVENTRY, née GUNNING.]
In _Jane Austen and Her Times_ (G. E. Mitton), a delightful volume
recently published, there is an interesting picture of the habits of
the day:
“The epoch was one of change and enlargement in other than geographical
directions. In the thirty years before Jane Austen’s birth an immense
improvement had taken place in the position of women. Mrs. Montagu, in
1750, had made bold strokes for the freedom and recognition of her sex.
The epithet ‘blue stocking,’ which has survived with such extraordinary
tenacity, was at first given, not to the clever women who attended
Mrs. Montagu’s informal receptions, but to her men friends, who were
allowed to come in the grey or blue worsted stockings of daily life,
instead of the black silk considered _de rigueur_ for parties. Up to
this time, personal appearance and cards had been the sole resources
for a leisured dame of the upper classes, and the language of gallantry
was the only one considered fitting for her to hear. By Mrs. Montagu’s
efforts it was gradually recognised that a woman might not only have
sense herself, but might prefer it should be spoken to her; and that
because the minds of women had long been uncultivated they were not
on that account unworthy of cultivation. Hannah More describes Mrs.
Montagu as ‘not only the finest genius, but the finest lady I ever saw
... her form (for she has no body) is delicate even to fragility; her
countenance the most animated in the world; the sprightly vivacity of
fifteen, with the judgment and experience of a Nestor.’”
It is amusing to find that the struggles of a century and a half ago
are still unsolved to-day, half the pleasure of visiting being knocked
on the head by the uncertainty of the rightful proportion of the tips
to follow. Jane Austen herself alludes to her difficulties:
“I am in great distress whether I shall give Richis half a guinea or
only five shillings when I go away.”
In a letter to the _Times_ in 1795, the vexed subject of tips is
discussed:
“If a man who has a horse puts up at an Inn, besides the usual bill
he must at least give 1s. to the waiter, 6d. to chambermaid, 6d. to
ostler, and 6d. to jack-boot. At breakfast you must give at least 6d.
to waiter and hostler. If the traveller only puts up for refreshment,
besides paying for his horses, he must give 3d. to hostler; at dinner,
6d. to waiter and 3d to hostler; at tea, 6d. between them, etc.”
Jane Austen herself came late enough for the old days of rigid severity
towards children to be past. She says: “No longer were mere babies
taken to see executions and whipped on their return to enforce the
example they had beheld.”
Londoners still flocked to the west on Sundays in their best attire,
and on one occasion, in 1759, Lady Coventry was mobbed in Hyde Park.
The King, hearing of it, ordered that a guard of twelve sergeants
should disperse in the Park on the following Sunday, and that a
reinforcement of a sergeant and twelve men should be ready in case of
need. This Lady Coventry knew, of course, and she went to the Park the
following Sunday, immediately pretended to be frightened, summoned
the guard, and walked about for some time with the twelve sergeants
in front of her, her husband and Lord Pembroke beside her, and the
sergeant and twelve men behind her.
“It is at present the talk of the whole town,” says the Hon. J. West
in a letter to a friend.
It was this same Lady Coventry who, when conversing with George II.,
one day remarked: “The only sight I am eager to see is a coronation.”
The old King laughed heartily, and repeated it as a good story. She did
not realise her wish, because she died a few days before His Majesty.
That gay stream of fashion on the south side was a wondrous sight,
and yet Hyde Park had a vast extent of quiet bosky acres, where old
ladies took their favourite lap-dogs for a run, as Mrs. Thrale speaks
of doing when she lived in Hanover Square. At Hyde Park Corner, where
a woman named Allen had sold apples and other refreshments from a
small portable stall, was erected an ugly little building by special
permission of the King, who recognised in the woman’s husband a
soldier who had fought under him at Dettingen—the last battle in which
a King of England ever took part. This land was afterwards sold by
Allen’s descendants to Apsley, Lord Bathurst, who built Apsley House,
afterwards the home of the famous Duke of Wellington. George II. also
rewarded a pilot who had saved his life on one of his journeys to
Hanover by allowing him to “vend victuals” in Hyde Park—kindly deeds
which soften many ugly lights in his character.
It was just after the death of this monarch that the Park played its
part in the romance of his grandson, George III. The story of the love
and admiration of the young King for the beautiful Lady Sarah Lennox
(daughter of the Duke of Richmond) is well known. Lady Sarah loved Lord
Newbattle, and he was probably the cause of her coolness to George
III. When she was staying with her aunt at Holland House a meeting was
arranged in Hyde Park between the lovers by Lord Newbattle’s sister,
Lady George Lennox, and it was there decided that he should at once ask
his father’s consent to the marriage. Lord Ancrum, however, would not
give permission, and there the matter ended.
But when Cupid walks in high places, Intrigue is busy dogging his
footsteps. And in this case Lord Bute in some way heard of the
projected meeting in the Park, and not only informed the Royal suitor,
but contrived for him to be a witness of it, and thus reconciled him to
his marriage with Charlotte of Mecklenburg.
[Illustration: WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM.]
After his union with that lady, George III. bought Buckingham House
from the Duke of Buckingham, and called it “The Queen’s House.” The
mansion was a red brick building, and was pulled down in George IV.’s
reign, when the present palace was erected. Queen Charlotte cleared
the Court of immorality, but the Royal couple led too secluded a life
to influence a wide circle. Society voted Court life insufferably dull
and prosaic. When in London, it was the King’s habit to ride or drive
daily in Hyde Park. He used a chariot and four when driving, but his
favourite amusement was to trot off for an early morning ride free of
ceremony.
Homely as the King appeared on these occasions, there was a still more
homely figure to be seen in Hyde Park, and yet on all sides people
tendered him homage more spontaneously and more whole-heartedly than to
their monarch. This was William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, ambling along on
his little Welsh pony. He loved the Park, and went there day by day,
and he it was who first pleaded for the “open spaces” of London.
In the year of George III.’s accession, Society was entranced and
horrified by the tragedy which brought Earl Ferrers to the scaffold.
As this was largely a social event it may not be out of place to
describe it here, apart from the story of those of meaner birth who
ended their days at Tyburn. Earl Ferrers was a man of such violent and
uncontrollable temper that his wife and children had left him, and the
Courts had appointed a receiver for his property. The choice had fallen
on an old servant of the family named Johnson, the land-steward, on the
recommendation of Lord Ferrers himself, who doubtless expected to find
in him a pliable tool.
The murder took place on a Sunday afternoon. Earl Ferrers sent for
Johnson, who was an old man, to come to his room, and meantime had
despatched the servants of the household on various duties so that none
should be within earshot. After some minutes of quiet conversation he
produced a paper, and demanded of Johnson that he should sign it. The
steward refused.
Earl Ferrers walked to the door, which he locked, and going to a table
took up a loaded pistol. He then ordered Johnson to kneel. The old
man dropped on one knee. The earl insisted that he should fall on
both knees. As soon as he had adopted this posture Earl Ferrers shot
him through the body. He then loaded the pistol again, as if to fire a
second shot, but suddenly turned from his purpose, and, unlocking the
door, called a servant.
When assistance arrived Earl Ferrers was quite calm and collected. He
had lifted his victim, who had fallen on the floor mortally wounded,
into a chair, and was doing his utmost to stay the flow of blood. The
earl directed that a surgeon should be hastily summoned, and meantime
himself remained tending the dying man. He seems, in fact, to have done
everything that was possible. Johnson survived for nine hours, and told
the story.
Ferrers was brought up to London, “dressed as a jockey” driving in his
own coach and six. Horace Walpole wrote: “Lord Ferrers is in the Tower;
so you see the good-natured people of England will not want their
favourite amusement, executions.” (See Illustration, page 1).
“Their favourite amusement, executions,” means much from a man
like Horace Walpole. He was no newspaper-sensation writer, yet he
deliberately noted the fact that the favourite amusement of London was
to assist at a public execution. Thank Heaven we are less depraved
to-day.
Lord Ferrers pleaded lunacy in his trial before the House of Lords,
but was condemned, and then craved permission for his sentence to be
carried out in the Tower. This was not granted; the only concession
made being that he should be hanged by a silken rope. He dated his
troubles from his marriage, and therefore dressed himself in his
wedding clothes, “a white suit, richly embroidered in silver”—“as good
an occasion,” he observed, “as that for which they were made.” He
refused to go to Tyburn in the cart.
Walpole’s description, written two days after the execution, reveals
the hold these scenes had on London Society.
“He set out from the Tower at nine, amidst crowds, thousands. First
went a string of constables; then one of the sheriffs in his chariot
and six, the horses dressed with ribbons; next Lord Ferrers in his own
landau and six, his coachman crying all the way; guards on each side;
the other sheriff’s chariot followed empty, with a mourning coach and
six, a hearse, and the Horse Guards. Observe that the empty chariot was
that of the other Sheriff, who was in the coach with the prisoner, and
who was Vaillant, the French bookseller in the Strand.... How will you
decipher all these strange circumstances to Florentines? A bookseller
in robes and in mourning, sitting as a magistrate by the side of an
earl, and in the evening everybody going to Vaillant’s shop to hear the
particulars....
... The sheriffs fell to eating and drinking on the scaffold, and
helped up one of their friends to drink with them, as he was still
hanging, which he did for above an hour, and then was conveyed back
with the same pomp to Surgeon’s Hall to be dissected. The executioners
fought for the rope—a silken one—and the man who lost it cried. The
mob tore off the black cloth as relics; but the universal crowd behaved
with great decency and admiration, as well they might; for sure no exit
was ever made with more sensible resolution and with less ostentation.”
That journey, which lasted two hours, on account of the mob, must
have been a trying ordeal. This was the first execution in which the
falling trap was used, and Ferrers is himself supposed to have been its
originator.
Early in George III.’s reign some severe winters occurred, and a
tremendous frost prevailed for weeks. Sleighs glided merrily in Hyde
Park, and contests and wagers were carried out on the Serpentine. In
fact, the Park was about this time at its gayest, for in the following
autumn the King of Denmark and two Princes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha visited
England, when one of the items in the programme of amusement was the
shooting of a certain buck in the Park enclosures. The sport would have
made those old kingly patrons of the chase thrill with horror, for it
took the whole evening and many shots ere that stately stag was brought
down.
The princes added much to the gaiety of the daily gatherings in Hyde
Park, where Society was assuming a more important phase than ever.
By this time the beaux of a quarter of a century before were superseded
by the Bucks and Macaronis. The Macaronis were the Society men, or fops
of the day. It was the thing for Society to make much of them, as we
see to-day Society ladies making a fuss and dressing up toy dogs and
poodles. The long curled wigs of the Macaronis, tied with streaming
ribbons, eye-glasses, patches, paint, velvets, costly canes with gold
and silver tassels, made great show without, but little sense was
revealed under the paint, the powder, and the patches.
In these days of suffragettes women imitate and strive for equal
privileges with men. In 1773 the position was apparently reversed, for
the _Westminster Gazette_ of that date says: “The men imitate the women
in almost everything, perfumes, paint, and effeminate baubles engross
most of their time, and learning is now looked on as an unworthy
attainment.”