NINETEENTH-CENTURY FRAGMENTS
Meanwhile Hyde Park was the centre of a far wider evolution than that
which has been already noticed in eighteenth-century London. A new era
had dawned for Britain.
The power of colonisation—which to-day has attained the strength
of Imperialism—had, after long infancy, developed into lusty youth
clamouring for equal rights, for freedom, for independence.
Clive had fought and conquered at Plassey, Wolfe had won and died
at Quebec. Wider issues were at stake, greater demands were made on
English politicians, who were confronted by problems such as had never
arisen in the world’s history.
In England itself the revival of literature continued, in spite of
the thrust of the _Westminster Gazette_ at the Macaronis. Brilliant
orators, wily statesmen, long-headed, far-sighted diplomatists
sprang to the front to devote their talents and their lives to these
far-reaching questions.
In this awakened national life, Hyde Park, too, had its place. It was
not merely a central point for the gathering of the fashionable and
the frivolous. Many statesmen strolled thither, met one another and
exchanged views, sometimes after lively debates in the House, seeking
in the charm of its greenery and shade the solution of many a knotty
problem. There, again, they found opportunities for obtaining influence
in carrying through momentous measures.
We have seen Pitt on his little Welsh pony. In contrast to his simple
figure, John Wilkes lolled in his gaudy equipage, ogling fair ladies,
and posing as a hero of the people. Such appearances multiplied as the
years went on.
There, Burke was often to be seen strolling alone, or chatting with a
friend after a brilliant speech on a leading topic of the day. There,
Windham took an early morning ride and watched the Guards at drill, or
joined the fashionable throng later in the day.
There, the first Lord Holland was wont to alight from his carriage,
and let it follow him as he wended his way from Whitehall to Holland
House, talking as he went, to his friends. There, also, William
Wilberforce held conversation when he lived at Gore House, and those
who were privileged to be at his famous gatherings would take a turn
through the Park, discussing that wonderful personality and his aims.
There, Charles James Fox, Sheridan, the younger Pitt, and many others
were to be seen day by day, but it was by no means with men alone that
political issues of the time rested.
Fair ladies attached great importance to their daily visit to the
Park. It was their battlefield, where they must—for their own peace of
mind—mentally slay some rival, lay siege to some masculine stronghold,
and render resistance useless. And be sure the gossips of the Georges
had much to say about such actresses as Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Pritchard,
Peg Woffington, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Cibber, Mrs. Jordan, or such beauties
as Lady Sarah Lennox, Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, and Lady
Elizabeth Foster, all of whom were familiar figures in the Park.
In that daily rendezvous in Hyde Park astute statesmen were coerced,
ruled, and graciously governed by the feminine mind, and more power was
acquired by Society ladies in those casual meetings than probably in
any other way. Nowadays, women’s wise influence is chiefly brought to
bear on public and political matters over the teacups—a pleasant social
function which at that time had scarcely been established.
To what extent this feminine influence existed, and could be called
upon on a moment’s notice, is shown in the following note, found in
Vere Foster’s _Two Duchesses of Devonshire_. It was written by Charles
James Fox from the House of Commons to the beautiful Georgiana Duchess
of Devonshire in 1805, about a year before the death of both writer and
recipient:
“Pray speak to everybody you can to come down or we shall be lost on
the Slave Trade. Morpeth, Ossulton, Ld. A. H., Ld. H. Petty all away.
Pray, pray send anybody you see.
“Yours
C. J. F.”
“1/2 past seven. H. of C.”
[Illustration: Camp in Hyde Park during the Gordon Riots, 1780.
_From a Print in the Crace Collection, British Museum._]
War with America gave zest to military affairs. Hyde Park was the
nursery for new regiments. Ladies, including the Duchess of Devonshire,
the Duchess of Beaufort, and Lady Sutton, appeared in a feminised
edition of the military garb of their respective husbands’ commands.
Near the site of Cumberland Gate targets were set up for ball practice,
and it is not many years since the last of the stones used were removed.
Tyburn was already doomed, not because hanging had ceased to be a
fashionable entertainment, but because all sorts and conditions of men
attending the executions invaded the “Arcadia” of the _beau monde_, and
rendered it hideous to them.
In 1783 the gallows were swept away.
During those final scenes around the “triple tree” a romantic figure
had passed across the horizon of Hyde Park, who, but for an attack of
fever in Newgate, to which he succumbed, might also have ended his days
at the gallows. The peculiar personality of Lord George Gordon had
been played out, and the Gordon Riots, which Dickens so graphically
describes in _Barnaby Rudge_, had landed their instigator in gaol.
Lord George had been a familiar frequenter of the Park, where he drove
his own coach, though his income only reached the modest sum of £600 a
year. The desire to be possessed of a coach was as strong, apparently,
in England in those days as it is in Italy or Spain to-day, where folk
will live on beans and olives, and save their money to drive behind a
pair of horses.
When the riots broke out a camp was again formed in Hyde Park. It
was much needed, for, after the burning of Lord Mansfield’s house in
Bloomsbury Square, the nobility in Mayfair would not remain in their
homes at night; and Wraxall tells us that the Duchess of Devonshire for
many nights left her mansion in Piccadilly, and slept on a sofa at the
house of Lord Clermont in Berkeley Square.
But these riots were quickly subdued, and Hyde Park again became the
scene of gaiety, festivity, and frivolity, bordered on the east and
south by its stately mansions, where magnificent entertainments were
given, and the owners held small courts of their own. One of these—on
the site of Dorchester House, the present American Embassy—belonged to
Lord Milton, who was afterwards made Earl of Dorchester. He was famous
for his regal hospitality, but so exclusive was the circle of friends
admitted to its stately halls, that the house was known among the
excluded ones as “Milton’s Paradise Lost.” Its owner, who was a man of
great intellect, but reserved and haughty, was one of the most familiar
figures in the Park.
It is passing strange that an American, in the charming person of Mr.
Whitelaw Reid, should dispense royal hospitality on the very edge of
Old Tyburn Lane.
Another remarkable personage, contemporary with Lord Milton, was Lord
Deerhurst, the son of Lady Coventry (Miss Gunning). Although quite
blind through a shooting accident, he would ride full gallop in Rotten
Row. Once he cannoned into another horseman, but after a few days’ rest
he again appeared in the saddle as reckless as ever.
Yet another strange personage to be seen was the Duke of Queensberry,
known as “old Q,” whose worldliness and licentiousness in an era by
no means strict in morals have given his name a sinister notoriety. He
survived to the venerable age of eighty-six, sitting out to the last
on his balcony in Piccadilly watching the gay world passing into the
Park, a spectacle which caused Leigh Hunt to “wonder at the longevity
of his dissipation and the prosperity of his worthlessness.” In his
drawing-room in Piccadilly he enacted his famous reproduction of the
scene on Mount Ida, with three of the most beautiful women in London to
represent the goddesses—“in the same dress, so to speak,” as Mr. Street
so tactfully puts it[4]—and himself as Paris to award the apple.
The Prince of Wales had already broken out into all sorts of
extravagance, and his appearances in the Park were occasions for his
greatest displays. His mock marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert at Carlton
House, and their legal marriage in her own home in Park Street, Park
Lane, near Hereford Gardens, were the talk of the day, and they were,
before and after, constantly to be seen together in the Park. In the
winter before this marriage there was again skating on the Serpentine,
and the gay Prince appeared in a fur coat which cost £800, and a
large black muff. In fact, one might devote a whole volume to the
extravagance indulged in by this young man, in order that he might
figure loudly in his favourite London resort.
Reviews and prize-fights were great attractions in the Parks. Gay
ladies rode in Rotten Row, among whom a well-known personality was
the wonderful Marchioness of Salisbury, who was seen there daily for
so many years, and was also famous for her support of Pitt in his
elections, while her rival, _the_ Duchess of Devonshire, canvassed for
Fox.
It was a critical time for England: wars without, the dark shadow
of insanity resting on the Sovereign, men striving for first place
in the realm; and the nation hailed with true rejoicing the news of
King George III.’s recovery in 1789. London was one great blaze of
illuminations from end to end. The monarch was at Kew, but the Queen
and Princesses drove up to town to see the displays, making Apsley
House their headquarters, and returning home very late at night. Hyde
Park took no small share in these festivities.
Soon after the marriage of Caroline of Brunswick with the Prince of
Wales, she appeared in the Park and was the object of great admiration,
which, in spite of all her faults, was accorded to her by the English
public until the end of her life. So far as a selfish man can love,
the object of the Prince’s affection was Mrs. Fitzherbert, and he only
submitted to the marriage with his cousin in order to pay his debts,
for the Princess brought with her a dowry of a million sterling.
In spite of all his efforts, the Prince was about this time eclipsed in
Hyde Park, for a man, who largely owed his position to Royal favour,
outstripped him in the elegance and costliness of his dress. This was
Beau Brummel, the son of one of the Whitehall Secretaries. His aunt,
Mrs. Searle, lived as gate-keeper of the Green Park, inhabiting a
little cottage in a small enclosure in which she kept cows. This good
body often received visits from the Princes and Princesses, and it
was here that the Prince Regent met the youthful Brummel, and was so
attracted by him that he secured for him a commission in the army. Hyde
Park saw much of this dandy in his finery, with his mincing ways and
absurd conceits. He scored heavily for a time, but was destined to end
his days in poverty.
In 1800, George III. was reviewing the Grenadier Guards in the Park,
when a musket-ball entered the leg of a gentleman standing a few yards
from him, piercing his thigh. It was subsequently found that the ball
had gone through the coat of a Frenchman, and also struck a boy on the
way. His Majesty remained where he was, and laughed the matter off.
It was, however, thought to be an attempt on his life—a true surmise
evidently, for a pistol was fired at him in the theatre the same
evening.
After the overdressing of earlier days, with a superabundance of stuffs
and ruffs, fashion had reduced the feminine attire to a sparseness that
was indecent, and brought indignant denunciation from both the Pope and
the Protestant clergy. The last year of the eighteenth century was a
distinguished one in Hyde Park, on account of the number of beautiful
women to be seen driving there. Many of them handled the ribbons in
fine form, chief in this art being the Marchioness of Donegall and
the Countess of Mansfield. A figure, long to adorn the Park with his
presence, was Sir Arthur Wellesley. He was a faithful lover of the
Row and those more secluded roads to the west and north, where he
generally rode a beautiful Arab horse, and these graceful animals
became the vogue. Humble heroes as well were brought to mind, for the
King granted a little cottage near the Royal Humane Society’s House—not
the present one, which was opened later by Sir Arthur Wellesley when
Duke of Wellington—to Mrs. Sims, an unfortunate woman who had lost all
her six sons in battle.
Strutt, writing in his _Sports and Pastimes_ in 1801, says:
“I have seen, some years back, when the Serpentine River in Hyde Park
was frozen over, four gentlemen there dance, if I may be allowed the
expression, a double minuet in skates with as much ease, and I think
more elegance, than in a ballroom; others again, by turning and winding
with much adroitness, have already in succession described upon the ice
the form of all the letters of the alphabet.”
Moreover, that cosmopolitan touch, in which all Britons rejoice so long
as it does not encroach, began to show itself, and in 1803, the exiled
Bourbon Princes were often to be seem among the throngs in the Park,
and they were present at a review held by the King, to which the Queen
and Princesses also came, as well as six of the Princes. It was a most
brilliant affair, and attracted crowds.
[Illustration:
Winter Amusements.
_From a Print in Crace Collection, British Museum._]
Those early nineteenth-century days were full of amusing
eccentricities. The springs in Hyde Park were much sought after by
people for bathing, others for drinking, and on Sundays a strange
scientist and doctor, who resided in Mount Street, Martin van Butchell
by name, used to attend, to distribute water from one of them. He was a
well-known character, who rode daily among the throng on a white pony
with a long, flowing tail, and this poor beast used at times to be
painted whatever colour his master fancied. The advertisements of this
self-advertising quack in the contemporary newspapers are most amusing.
Malcolm, in his _Review of Society in 1807_, says:
“Other amusements of the great consist in riding through Hyde Park: the
ladies in their coaches, and the gentlemen on horseback in an adjoining
road. He that would judge of the population of London should attend in
the Park on any Sunday at three o’clock, from February till May; he
must be astonished at the sight. The coaches, the horses, the populace
of every rank who toil against the bleak East winds, are wonderfully
numerous. Nor should he omit a visit to Kensington Gardens in May, to
view the beautiful pedestrians that form our fashionable world: or a
winter excursion to the Serpentine River and the Canal in St. James’s
Park, where numbers skait, or attempt to skait.”
In 1808 it was suggested in Parliament that houses should be built in
Hyde Park itself, but the proposal was quickly vetoed, for year by year
it became more and more popular as a public rendezvous. The Prince of
Wales came dashing down the Row in his tilbury, with his groom by his
side, displaying a lack of dignity that shocked many people. The aged
and infirm enjoyed a pleasant drive in the Park. Dr. Burney describes
his daily outing after he was paralysed, as “an old lady’s drive about
Hyde Park,” while it was the scene of a pathetic incident in the life
of Princess Caroline and her daughter.
Forbidden to hold intercourse with her only child—the Princess
Charlotte—and refused admittance at Windsor, Princess Caroline was one
day driving, when she saw her daughter’s carriage going in another
direction. She bade her coachman follow, and finally, in Hyde Park,
overtook Princess Charlotte near the Serpentine. The carriages drew
up side by side, the Royal occupants leaned over, kissed each other,
and exchanged some cherished words of conversation. A crowd gathered,
but no matter—it was a sympathetic English crowd, parents and children
themselves, who would have defended the mother and daughter had need
arisen.
Just about this period a Mrs. Browne came to London, lovely and to be
pitied. She attracted the attention of the remarkable Lord Petersham.
Henceforth this nobleman appeared in Hyde Park indicating to the world
the trend his affections had taken by his brown hat and clothes, brown
coach, brown horses, brown liveries, even to the servants’ hats.
Lord Petersham’s rival in eccentricity was a wonderful, wealthy magnate
from Antigua. Society named him _Diamond_ Coates, or _Romeo_ Coates;
the latter name arose from his passion for acting, and especially his
performance as Romeo. His turn-out in the Park was most remarkable.
Drawn by perfect horse-flesh, he posed in a luxurious carriage shaped
like a shell,—altogether a most imposing and artistic affair,—but he
spoilt the effect, and displayed the _nouveau riche_, by sticking his
ridiculous crest all over his belongings. Nevertheless, he was the pet
of fashion for some time.
Eccentricity was the rage. Each tried to outvie his neighbour in
attracting attention. Another remarkable sight was the Persian
Ambassador, who, mounted on a mule, was to be seen riding daily in the
Row. A peculiarity of his attire was the extreme width of his trousers,
which the wind used to inflate as he galloped along, rendering him
a ludicrous spectacle, more fit for a circus than the dull skies of
London.
The fall of Napoleon and his exile to Elba played an important part in
Hyde Park’s doings, and the year 1814 was unequalled in Georgian days
for the pageantry displayed in its precincts. The spring was marked by
the procession of the exiled Bourbon, Louis XVIII., returning in full
state to take possession of the throne of France. The Prince Regent
had gone out from London to meet him on his way from Hartwell House,
in Buckinghamshire, where he had spent his exiled days, and with all
ceremonial possible conducted him to the metropolis, whence he set out
for France.
The summer was filled with peace festivities. The Emperor of Russia,
the King of Prussia, and some of the Prussian Generals—Blucher among
them—visited England, and were in the Park on many occasions. The
Sunday crowd went mad at seeing them; in fact, many casualties were
caused in the excitement when they were on their way to Kensington.
The following Sunday a great review was held—the most brilliant ever
witnessed—but the culmination of the festivities was the Great Fair.
Commencing on 31st July, 1814, no amusement was lacking, the chief show
being a miniature naval engagement on the Serpentine. Extravagance,
however, seems to have reigned supreme. During the week the fair lasted
it cost the country £40,000.
The “Reminiscences” of Captain Gronow give many details of this time.
A group of dandies was always to be found in the gay society of the
Prince Regent, his chief friends being Beau Brummel, the Duke of
Argyll, Lord Worcester, Lord Alvanley, Lord Foley, and others.
The most beautiful ladies were the Duchess of Rutland, the Duchess
of Gordon, the Duchess of Bedford, and the Duchess of Argyll; Lady
Cowper,—afterwards Lady Palmerston,—and the lovely daughters of the
Marquis of Anglesea. Lady Cowper inherited her mother’s talent as a
leader of Society—especially political Society,—while other brilliant
hostesses were Lady Castlereagh, the Countess of Jersey, Lady Sefton,
Princess Esterhazy, and the Countess Lieven.
[Illustration: Jubilee Fair in Hyde Park in 1814. After the fall of
Napoleon.
_From a Print in the Crace Collection, British Museum._]
It was a distinguished gathering still that was seen in Hyde Park
at five o’clock in the afternoons, the ladies driving in their
_vis-à-vis_, with their gorgeously embroidered hammer-cloths, be-wigged
coachmen and resplendent footmen, while the dandies rode their smart
horses and bedecked themselves with blue coats, leather breeches,
top-boots, and wonderful stiff white cravats. To these men Beau
Brummel was the motive power, the beginning and the end of their
existence, and Brummel’s tailor was only second to the beau himself.
Truly Hyde Park has an unparalleled record. For four hundred years the
makers of history, politicians, beauty, nobility, bravery—and knavery,
alas!—have all tendered homage to the charm of its acres, its noble
trees, its grassy sward. Generation after generation has proclaimed
love for it; and now, indeed, what would the babies and the beauties do
without the famous stretch from Marble Arch to Piccadilly?
But it is the fate of humanity that in the gayest scenes of life dark
Tragedy will thrust her hand, and in the midst of this wonderful
assembly in 1816 spread the news that Harriet Westbrook, the wife of
the poet Shelley, had committed suicide in the Serpentine.
Fifty years later—to make a wide digression—Mrs. Jane Welsh Carlyle
went for a drive in Hyde Park, entering at Queen’s Gate, where she
alighted and took her little dog for a run. After returning to the
carriage, she drove to a quiet place on the Tyburnia side of the Park,
and the dog was put out again, but opposite Stanhope Place it was
knocked over by a passing brougham. Mrs. Carlyle and the occupant of
the other brougham alighted, and Mrs. Carlyle returned to her carriage
with the dog, after which the coachman heard nothing but a slight
whimper from the animal. After driving round the Park again, he was
surprised at receiving no orders, and seeing his mistress in exactly
the same posture as he had observed her some distance back, he asked a
lady to look in, who found that Mrs. Carlyle had passed away.
Whether the tragedy of Shelley’s wife, and others of like kind, gave
Society a distaste for the vicinity of the Serpentine, history does
not say, but the drive from Apsley House to Cumberland Gate became
the fashionable quarter. The four-rowed belt of walnut-trees had been
removed some time before, and thus the road was considerably widened,
but it was commonly crowded to excess. There were already evidences
of the Man in the Street asserting his claim to this former Royal
preserve, not so much on week days as on Sundays, and Greville tells
us of the Duchess of Cambridge being mobbed to her very door, and so
terrified that she almost fainted. Moreover, on such occasions as the
Fair in 1814, the Coronation of George IV., and also the severe winters
of 1820 and 1821, the populace reigned supreme, and Society was not by
any means a mighty factor in Hyde Park.
It was during this migration to the east side of the Park and Park Lane
in 1820 that two dozen chairs were first set out at Stanhope Gate, the
forerunners of those 35,000 which are now to be found scattered about
on the grass and by the gravel-walks.
Following closely on all the follies and shows in honour of George
IV.’s Coronation came a most disgraceful scene. Caroline of Brunswick
died a few days after she received the refusal of the King to allow her
to enjoy the rights of a Queen. According to her desire she was to be
buried in Brunswick, and the body was to be embarked at Harwich. The
most direct route to that place would have been through the City, but,
lest the citizens should wish to pay a last honour to the poor lady who
had passed such an unhappy life in their country, the order was given
that the body should be taken to Harwich by a circuitous route. The
procession was denuded of all dignity, and directions were given that
it should turn up Church Street, Kensington, into the Bayswater Road.
But this the crowd, which numbered some thousands, would not permit. A
company of Life Guards were sent for, but on their arrival they had to
give way before the dense mob.
It was finally decided to take the direct route to London. Orders were
again sent that the procession _must_ go round, and not through the
City. The crowd, however, prevented it from turning into Hyde Park or
up Park Lane. But by a rapid manœuvre, part of the troops with the
hearse forced their way into the Park, the gate was closed on the
mob, and the body was taken at full gallop from Hyde Park Corner to
the Cumberland Gate. There the crowd forestalled them, and made all
progress impossible. Volleys were fired, and caused a temporary giving
way, which enabled the procession to move towards Edgware Road, which
was also rendered impassable. All this went on in a terrible storm of
wind and rain. After again firing on the populace, with the result that
only a little headway was made, and struggling for seven hours to obey
orders, those in command of the procession were forced to turn back
and pass by Tyburn, Oxford Street, Holborn, and Drury Lane into the
Strand, to the City. For thus giving way the officer in command lost
his commission.
It is impossible to contemplate such an outrageous scene without a
glance at that calm February morning, almost a century later, grey,
still and chilly, when from early dawn the population of London—even
to the loafer and the noisy hooligan of the street—went with subdued
demeanour towards Hyde Park, there to stand, or sit in the trees for
hours, until the funeral _cortége_ of Queen Victoria should pass
through London. Even Nature herself seemed to hold her breath as the
stately procession wound its way across the Park, on that very road
taken by the galloping horses eighty years before. Where a raging crowd
had run yelling with fury and indignation in Park Lane, a mass of
the people silently stood with bared heads—rows upon rows of them—as
that simple gun-carriage, with its regal burden, slowly filed by and
vanished through the Marble Arch. Where the clattering hoofs of the
soldiers’ steeds at the funeral of Caroline of Brunswick had mixed with
the fury of the storm, sovereigns, princes, ambassadors, statesmen,
soldiers, and sailors, paced by with saddened mien, to the muffled
strains of military bands—a pageant as imposing as it was solemn.
But returning to those days of George IV., one notable figure at least
must not escape mention—the beautiful Lady Blessington. How beautiful
she was subsequent generations have learnt from the picture by Sir
Thomas Lawrence, now among the treasures of the Wallace Collection—a
portrait which probably has been more often engraved than the work of
any other British portrait-painter.
She is represented about eighteen years of age, when she had recently
come from Ireland, and in the first flush of her maidenhood; though,
in fact, she had been forced into marriage when only fourteen with a
worthless Captain Farmer, whom she left after three months.
When a widow of twenty-nine she married the Earl of Blessington. From
comparative penury, she was raised at one step into the most luxurious
and fashionable life of the time. Her equipage was considered one of
the most elegant in the Park, where she drove regularly until she went
abroad with her husband.
Lord Blessington was a man of great wealth; but even his resources were
taxed to meet the excessive extravagance of his wife. After his death
in 1829 her reign in the social life of London really began.
Possessed at that time of a large fortune, she filled the house in
Seamore Place with valuable furniture and _objets d’art_, and to her
brilliant salon flocked all the wit and genius of the day. The Duke of
Wellington, Bulwer Lytton, the two Disraelis, Lord Brougham, Sir Thomas
Lawrence, Thomas Moore, Sir E. Landseer, Landor, Maclise, Ainsworth,
Thackeray, and Lord John Russell were often to be found there. A
contemporary has left a graceful pen picture of her.
“In a long library, lined alternately with splendidly bound books and
mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening
upon Hyde Park, I found Lady Blessington alone. The picture to my eye
as the door opened was a very lovely one; a woman of remarkable beauty
half buried in a _fauteuil_ of yellow satin, reading by a magnificent
lamp suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling, ... and a
delicate white hand relieved on the back of a book, to which the eye
was attracted by the blaze of its diamond rings.”
Later Lady Blessington moved to Gore House, Kensington, where the great
philanthropist, William Wilberforce, had preceded her. It stood on the
site of the Albert Hall. Her entertainments were on a more lavish scale
in this larger house, and troubles gathered round her.
Of Count D’Orsay’s relations with Lady Blessington much was said at
the time. Married, by previous agreement with Lord Blessington, to his
daughter—a mere child, and the stepdaughter of the Countess—he found
his kindred spirit was really the child-wife’s stepmother.
[Illustration: LADY BLESSINGTON.]
No woman was more generous to those needing help, more modest over her
beneficent works, nor has any woman’s weak point been more fostered by
Fate than that of Lady Blessington. While the Earl lived, luxury and
extravagance were showered upon her in every possible form. After his
death she was under the influence of the Comte D’Orsay, a past master
in the art of spending money. London went mad over the shape of a tie,
if that shape was introduced by Comte D’Orsay. He was a man of genius,
a talented painter and sculptor, a brilliant conversationalist, of
the most prepossessing appearance. Generous to the many refugees of his
country in London, extravagant in personal matters, he was in constant
debt. He possessed faultless taste, and was the best horseman, fencer,
and shot in Society. The two were undoubtedly the most often quoted and
best-known figures of social life and the Park in the early nineteenth
century. They lived at the rate of thousands a year, and seldom had a
penny. Lady Blessington struggled to pay D’Orsay’s debts and her own,
and to keep things going; but at length she could struggle no longer.
Gore House was seized by the creditors, and its contents sold. In April
1849 the couple fled to Paris, where within two months Lady Blessington
died in great poverty.
Lady Blessington was one of the first women to take up literature, and
she was most handsomely paid for her work; so well, indeed, that at
times she was in affluence, and at others plunged into the verge of
bankruptcy. It was a strange coincidence that Lady Blessington’s first
work described the ruin and selling up of a large establishment. Her
whole life was one long romance, as pathetic and lonely at times as it
was brilliant and splendid at others.
A great innovation during the Waterloo period was the Achilles Statue,
of which much was written, the pen of Bernal Osborne and many others
finding in it food for satire. It was the first nude statue erected in
England, and shocked Society—none the less, to be sure, because it was
the tribute of the ladies of England to the heroic Wellington. The
subscribers protested that they were not consulted by Westmacott, the
sculptor. An eccentric old Sheriff, who disported himself in Hyde Park,
especially expressed himself on the subject. People turned their backs
and fled to Rotten Row again.
The high brick wall that had been first placed round the Park in the
reign of Charles II., when Hamilton restored the deer, and had been
rebuilt in 1726, was now removed, and an iron railing was put up in
its place. This was the greatest blow that had as yet been struck
against the comparative monopoly of Hyde Park by the aristocracy. The
old Curds and Whey House also disappeared. The parks—and in fact the
whole of London—were still badly kept, and needed police supervision,
and matters did not improve until the Police Act of 1829 was brought
into force by the efforts of Sir Robert Peel. In its first year the
new force numbered 3600 men; now the Metropolitan Police alone—not
including the splendid body of City Constabulary—is over seventeen
thousand strong.
When William IV. succeeded his brother George IV. on the throne, Hyde
Park was the only scene of display, and there the rejoicings were
limited to fireworks; but even these were mismanaged in some way, and
several people were hurt by the falling rockets.
The King and Queen Adelaide used often to drive round the Serpentine.
The latter was never really popular, but King William won the sympathy
of the people by his simplicity. This very homeliness, however, kept
his Ministers busy and anxious to know what fresh departure His
Majesty was going to take. The Duke of Wellington must have often
wished himself back at the head of his troops when negotiating for this
irresponsible monarch.
One morning he informed the Duke that he would dine with him at Apsley
House that evening.
At Apsley House all was bustle and scurry. Preparations for the
dinner were at their busiest, the hour appointed had arrived, and the
household was in a turmoil, when, to the horror of everybody concerned,
a dusty, tired-out looking cavalcade came in sight, and proved to be
the two Kings returning from Windsor. The people all crowded to Hyde
Park Corner, and the Duke rushed hatless to do his Sovereign honour.
But what could he have felt on finding that instead of the Kings being
dressed in their best in honour of the feast, at least an hour must
elapse before they could be even clean.
In 1831, during the agitation over the Reform Bill, the mob twice
attacked Apsley House, and the second time broke all the windows. There
was scarcely a whole sheet of glass left, and what made it more painful
still, the Duke knew nothing of the anger of the populace, as he had
for several days scarcely left the bedside of his wife, who, when the
attack took place, was actually dying. It was not until two hundred
police mustered that the rioters were dispersed. After this the Duke
had iron shutters placed at all the windows, and would never have them
removed, but they were taken down by his successor. Those now outside
the windows facing the Park are made of wood.
The enclosure of land from Hyde Park, and his attitude to the Reform
Bill and the Corn Laws, created a temporary unpopularity, but before
long he was again received with acclamation everywhere. The Iron Duke
never allowed himself to be carried away by a love of notoriety or
popularity. One day, when he was returning to Apsley House by way of
Constitution Hill, a large mob of admirers followed, cheering him. He
rode calm and unmoved to the gate, where, wheeling round, he bowed
sarcastically, and, silently pointing to his iron shutters, rode on to
his door.
On the accession of Queen Victoria a great Coronation Fair was held in
Hyde Park. The newspapers of the day give exhaustive accounts of it.
On the wide area lying between the Serpentine and Park Lane were to
be seen fat boys, living skeletons, giants, dwarfs, freaks of nature
of all kinds. The acrobat, the conjurer, and wild beast shows were
held forth as attractions. Boats were placed on the Serpentine. Aunt
Sallies, roundabout swings, pony rides, fortune-tellers all helped to
draw not only Londoners, but their country cousins as well, to Hyde
Park. Innumerable stalls and booths were erected for the purpose of
selling refreshments and mementoes of the event, and although the fair
was only supposed to last two days it extended to four.
[Illustration: Festivities on the Ice, 1857.
_From a Print in the “Illustrated London News,” after a Drawing by John
Leech._]
Probably up to that time no such crowd had ever assembled in Hyde Park,
and it is recorded that it was orderly, jocular, fully determined to
enjoy itself, evidently a typical London crowd, ever ready to abide by
the laws. Before the fair closed the Queen drove through the Park to
see it.
From time to time, after the formation of the Serpentine, this fine
sheet of water has afforded good sport to Londoners in severe winters.
Such a scene is handed down to us by the clever drawing of John Leech,
which appeared in the _Illustrated London News_, together with an
excellent description of the festivities.
“But it is in the Parks where Jack Frost is seen in all his glory—there
his admirers assemble in thousands; and, casting aside all distinctions
of society, the Lord Muskovers and the Bill Flue-scrapers jostle each
other on the ice as though they were really ‘dearly beloved brethren,’
and not pomander and soot-balls. No bacchanalian revel more stirring
and confused; and yet the only excitement is exercise. Stay! there are
brandy-balls, so highly recommended by the vendors that, at a loss for
further eulogium, they fall back upon inquiry, and ask (of course,
without asking for a reply), ‘If one warms you for a week, what will
two do?’ Peppermint lozenges are in great request: and ginger-rock and
kian drops are ‘hot in the mouth’ too. Roasting chestnuts crackling
over glowing charcoal are irresistible to boys with cold hands and a
penny. A happy fellow is this son of winter, for see how the rogue has
kissed those pretty lips and dainty cheeks until they are red as summer
roses. What would not those guardsmen give for the same privilege, even
though they should kiss through the wedding ring?”
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in later days used to take a daily
drive in Hyde Park. In 1840 a man named John Oxford shot at the
Queen on Constitution Hill. Her Majesty fortunately escaped unhurt,
so the drive was continued to Hyde Park Corner, and a visit paid to
the Duchess of Kent in Belgrave Square. The next day Her Majesty and
the Prince appeared as usual in the Park, and were the subject of
remarkable popular demonstrations.
Victorian Hyde Park we still have with us, and such changes as have
been introduced, except in the early days of the reign, are within the
memory of some. Chief of these structurally is the Marble Arch. It has
stood on its present site since 1851. The public entrance—for only the
King and Queen use the centre Arch—is still known as Cumberland Gate,
so named after the Duke of Cumberland, whose ruthless massacres after
Culloden won for him the soubriquet of “the Butcher.”
Cumberland Gate, of which an old drawing is here reproduced, was
erected in 1744, largely at the expense of the residents of Cumberland
Place, of whose artistic taste little is to be said. It consisted of
an ugly brick arch, with wooden gates below. Military executions took
place inside the Park just west of it. For long it was known as Tyburn
Gate, from the gallows which stood near by, so that its associations
have always been sanguinary. Old Cumberland Gate was taken down in
1822, and in truth its disappearance was no loss.
[Illustration: OLD CUMBERLAND GATE. To the left of which military
executions took place inside the Park.
_From a Print in the Crace Collection, British Museum._]
The Marble Arch was originally placed in front of the chief entrance
to Buckingham Palace by George IV. When the Palace was enlarged in
1846 there was no place for the arch in the plans, and it was removed
piecemeal in 1850, and re-erected at Tyburn corner, the Cumberland iron
gates being taken down, and arranged to the right and left. The curious
may note the royal monogram of George IV. on the ironwork of the
handsome centre gates in the Arch. The Carrara marble even yet retains
its whiteness, and has undergone little of the toning down to grey,
which afflicts all our public buildings nearer the smoke centre.
The arch was adapted by Nash from the Arch of Constantine at Rome, and
cost £80,000. It will no doubt be seen to better advantage when its
isolation now in process is carried out. The idea originated with Mr.
F. W. Speaight, to whom all honour is due, for wishing to relieve the
most congested bit of traffic in all London.
Many people will remember when Decimus Burton’s beautiful triple arch
at Hyde Park Corner was surmounted by Wyatt’s ridiculous equestrian
statue of the Duke of Wellington. It was happily removed when the
gateway was set back and the roads replanned in 1882-83, and London
lost a perpetual subject of merriment to foreigners. It had been
intended that the Marble Arch, at the other corner of the Park, should
bear a statue of George IV. mounted on horseback, by Sir Francis
Chantry, but this project was never carried out.
Only brief mention is here necessary of the Great Exhibition of 1851,
held in the vast glass building erected by Paxton for the purpose in
Hyde Park, which now constitutes the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. Though
but an enormous extension of Paxton’s design for a conservatory, built
by him at Chatsworth for the flowering of the Victoria Lily, it was,
by reason of its size and the material employed, considered one of the
world’s marvels. The Palace was nearly twice the breadth, and fully
four times the length, of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It covered twenty acres
of park between Prince’s Gate and the Serpentine, and contained eight
miles of tables.
A couple of most interesting letters written at the time of the opening
of the Great Exhibition are contained in the recently published volumes
of _Letters of Queen Victoria_. The first, bearing the date 2nd May
1851, is from the Duchess of Gloucester, who wrote to Her Majesty:
“MY DEAREST VICTORIA,
“It is impossible to tell you how warmly I do participate in all
you must have felt yesterday, as well as dear Albert, at everything
having gone off so beautifully. After so much anxiety and the trouble
he has had, the joy must be the greater.
“The sight from my window was the gayest and most gratifying to
witness, and to me, who loves you so dearly as I do, made it the
more delightful. The good humour of all around, the fineness of the
day, the manner you were received in both going and coming from the
Exhibition, were quite perfect. Therefore what must it have been
inside the building?... It surpassed the Coronation in magnificence.”
Queen Victoria on the next day writes to the King of the Belgians:
“MY DEAREST UNCLE,
“I wish you could have witnessed May 1st, 1851, the _greatest_ day
in our history, the most beautiful, and imposing, and touching
spectacle ever seen, and the triumph of my beloved Albert. Truly it
was astonishing, a fairy scene. Many cried, and all felt touched and
impressed with devotional feeling. It was the happiest, proudest day
of my life, and I can think of nothing else. Albert’s dearest name
is immortalised with this great conception, his own, and my own dear
country showed she was worthy of it. The triumph is immense.... You
will be astounded at the great work when you see it.... I feel so
proud and happy.”
The Queen’s closed carriage was lined with steel, and drove to the
exhibition at a fast trot.
At the outset public opinion had been by no means unanimous in
approving the scheme, and for a time the subscriptions hung fire, but
the advocacy and enthusiasm of the Prince Consort carried it through.
It was the first of the international shows which have since attained
such colossal proportions. Although, in the hopes of its authors, the
Great Exhibition was to have inaugurated an era of universal peace, it
was soon followed by the Crimean War, and then the Indian Mutiny.
As soon as the glass building had been removed, it was proposed to
erect a statue of Prince Albert on the spot; but, alas, before this was
finished the talented Prince was dead, and the statue then took the
form of the Albert Memorial, which was placed to the west of where
stood the Great Exhibition. The Memorial took some twenty years to
complete. There is much good work in the sculptured detail; but happily
the idea of placing a gilded colossal figure in modern dress, under a
canopy not only too small for it architecturally, but too small even to
keep off the rain, has not been repeated.
In the summer of 1860 an event of great moment was a review of 20,000
volunteers by the Queen. Enthusiasm rose to a boundless height, and the
feelings of loyalty shown both by the volunteers and the crowd was so
overwhelming that the Queen was overcome.
In these days of _ententes cordiales_ it is difficult to realise that
until Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited France in the ’forties,
no reigning English sovereign had been the guest of our neighbours
across the Channel, since Henry VIII. held his wonderful pageant at the
Field of the Cloth of Gold. Further, until Louis XVIII., as already
noticed, passed through London on his way to take possession of the
throne of France in 1814, no King of France had been in England since
the days when the Black Prince led King John captive through the City.
From that friendly visit of our young Queen dates the growing
cordiality between the two countries. In 1855, amidst the spring
beauties of foliage and blossom, Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugénie
made a state procession through Hyde Park, driving round the Serpentine
and out into Bayswater.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] _Ghosts of Piccadilly._