QUEEN VICTORIA’S ACCESSION
“Oh, maiden, heir of Kings,
A King has left his place,
The Majesty of death has swept
All other from his face.
And thou upon thy mother’s breast
No longer lean adown--
But take the glory for the rest,
And rule the land that loves thee best!
The Maiden wept;
She wept to wear a crown!”
_Elizabeth Barrett [Browning]._
On May 24th, 1837, Princess Victoria attained her majority, being
eighteen years of age; and the King knew that his prayer had been
answered. He arranged a magnificent State ball in honour of the event;
but his day for balls was over, for just as the nine months he had
asked for expired, he was taken ill, and though he rallied several
times he did not again show himself in public. Queen Adelaide did not
fill the part of hostess either, for she was too anxious about her
husband to leave him. She was a good wife and, notwithstanding all the
evil said of her, a good woman. I have not in all my researches come
across--apart from her political bias--a single instance of any act
or word on her part which could be brought forward to her discredit.
But to be no lover of pomp, show, or dress was a sufficiently serious
omission to condemn any Queen in the eyes of her Court.
This wonderful birthday meant a busy time for the Princess. She was
awakened in the morning by music outside her window, composed and
arranged by Mr. Rodwell, concerning which a sneering comment was made
that Rodwell had made “an ass of himself on the Princess’s birthday by
braying under her window.” There were many costly gifts to receive--the
King sent her a beautiful piano--and many deputations from public
bodies to take her attention. With these the Duchess was in her
element, for she was almost as fond of making speeches as was the King;
but the Princess still, and for the last time, played the part of the
child in public, standing by and listening to the wise and indiscreet
sayings of her mother. Well, it was the Duchess’s last chance, too,
though she did not know it, for her sun was setting just when she
thought it was rising to the mid heavens.
When a deputation from the City of London came to make a pretty speech,
Her Royal Highness was true to her custom of not forgetting an injury.
Though eighteen years had passed, and George IV. had long been in his
grave, she still nourished the slights that had been put upon her on
her arrival in England. The Duchess of Clarence had not been welcomed
with open arms, the Duchess of Cumberland had for years been ignored by
the Royal Family, but these two ladies treated the matter in dignified
silence. However, the Duchess of Kent had done everything she could
to keep alive bad feeling, and on this day, which should have been
given over to kindliness, she reminded the gentlemen from the City that
when the Duke of Kent died she and the Princess “stood alone, almost
friendless and unknown in this country. I could not even speak the
language of it.” Then she went on to point out that, in spite of all,
she had done her best to bring up her daughter to be the true Sovereign
of the nation; that she had put her into intercourse with all classes
of people, and had taught her that the protection of popular liberties
and the preservation of the constitutional prerogatives of the Crown
were the proper aims of a Monarch.
It was not a long speech, but it was scarcely calculated to be soothing
reading for the irascible and ailing King.
The village of Kensington--it was a village in those days, the Duchess
appreciating for her child the good air of the country lanes--was _en
fête_ for the birthday; a great flag of white silk, inscribed in
gold with the name of Victoria, was hoisted over the Palace, and Union
Jacks were run up on the church and on the Green, to say nothing of
every house showing its regard by the exhibition of flags. A general
holiday was declared, and at the State ball given that night it is safe
to believe that Victoria grieved at the absence of the King and Queen,
even though there was always fear of discomfort when they and her
mother met. There had been further strained relations in April of this
year, when Lady de Lisle, one of the King’s--his favourite--daughters,
died at Kensington Palace, of which she was the custodian. During her
illness the Duchess carried her resentment so far as to pay her no
attention, and the _Court Journal_ announced that a party, of
distinguished guests who had been invited to dinner, was not put off,
though Lady de Lisle lay dead in the Palace. A bitter comment upon this
was made that, when the Duchess’s confectioner, being insane through
drink, had committed suicide a little while earlier, all festivities
had been stopped out of sympathy for the man’s wife.
At the May Drawing Room, probably in retaliation for this, all the men
attached to the Duchess’s household were excluded by Royal mandate
from being present, giving rise to the remark that “the necessity for
this suspension of privilege must have been very great, as from what
everybody knows of the kind disposition of the King, he would not have
exercised his prerogative in a way that cannot otherwise be understood
than as an act of censure.”
The poor old King was still in fear about his country; he did not
believe, as many did, that Victoria was too delicate to live long,
but he did think her too young to reign, for he knew that her general
attitude was one of gentle obedience to her mother, and he thought
that when he was dead the Duchess of Kent would be virtually Queen of
England. It is said that about five days before he died he praised God
for the good sleep he had had, and the Queen said:
“And shall I pray to the Almighty that you may have a good day?”
“Oh, do!” answered the King. “I wish I could live for ten years for
the sake of the country. I feel it my duty to keep well as long as
possible.”
Just after the birthday King William wrote to the Duchess of Kent,
offering to form an independent household for the Princess; but this
she sharply declined, and we are told the reply was couched “in very
unsatisfactory terms.”
But William could not bear that this girl should not benefit in some
way personally from her majority, so he wrote her a letter, offering
her the sum of ten thousand a year from his own purse which was to
be regarded as her very own, independent of her mother’s income.
This letter was given to the Lord Chamberlain, then Lord Conyngham,
with instructions that he was to give it to no one but the Princess.
Conyngham went to Kensington and was received by Sir John Conroy, who
met his request to see the Princess by asking on what authority did
he make such a demand--which certainly seems to justify the King’s
doubt as to there being fair play at Kensington, and also proves that
Victoria was not allowed to receive visitors.
“On the authority of His Majesty the King,” replied Lord Conyngham.
Upon this Conroy disappeared, and after an interval the Chamberlain was
ushered into the presence of the Duchess and the Princess. Bowing low,
Conyngham said he had been charged by His Majesty with a letter for the
Princess Victoria, and at this the masterful mother at once held out
her hand to receive the precious missive.
“Pardon me, madam,” said the courtier, “I have been expressly commanded
by the King to deliver this into the Princess’s own hand.”
It must have been a humiliating moment for the proud woman, and it was
but the first of many such. The Princess took the letter, and Conyngham
bowed himself out of the room. To the intense anger of the Duchess, her
daughter wrote affectionately to her uncle, accepting the kind offer
made to her. William then named a responsible person who was to receive
this money for her, and the usual dispute began, for the Duchess
thought she should be the disburser of the sum, of which she proposed
taking six thousand pounds and giving Victoria four thousand.
This is true, though it reads with all the dramatic interest of
fiction, and the effect is heightened by our ignorance of the girl
who was the unhappy and unwilling cause of these quarrels. For seven
years she had suffered from these violent and futile disputes between
two persons whom she loved, and who, though loving her well, yet loved
their own conception of what was good for her so much that they were
ready to make her miserable. Who uttered the last word in this quarrel
no one knows, for it was never settled, and Victoria had no need of the
ten thousand a year.
Everyone knew now that the King was dying. The Court dreaded death,
for there was no forecasting events. What would happen to the country
with a bit of a girl at its head--a girl who had been rarely seen among
them, who never came to Court, and who seemed timid and retiring?
One cannot wonder that the forgotten dislike of Leopold rose to
fever heat, that the wildest stories were told of the Camarilla at
Kensington, and that it was reported that the new Royal Household was
all planned and the members of it named--all entirely without taking
the Princess into consideration. She did not count with the public
or with the Press; she was the merest cipher. She would be Queen, of
course--that was admitted--but the people with whom England would have
to deal would be the Duchess and Leopold, Conroy and Lord Durham, the
Coburgs, and the tribe of Germans who had already inflamed resentment
in some quarters. Lord Durham was on his way home, and his return was
regarded with keen curiosity, for it was felt that he would probably
play a great political part, and would influence materially the
Councils of the Queen.
A few years later, however, it was a well-known fact, though since
forgotten, that the whole of the appointments to be filled in the
Royal Household upon the death of William IV. and the formation of Her
Majesty’s domestic establishment had been arranged in accordance with
the political notions, not of the Duchess of Kent, but of Victoria’s
uncle, the Duke of Sussex, in conjunction with Lord Melbourne, in both
of whom she reposed great confidence.
England--that part of it which was interested--watched breathlessly
while William fought his last fight, and the social and political
forces gathered themselves together for some great and unknown change.
In this state of tension there was one man, loyal and upright, who
seemed always ready to give good advice and who would neither lose nor
gain by the change; this was the Duke of Wellington. To him on Waterloo
Day the King sent a message, bidding him hold the usual banquet in
commemoration of the great fight; just as it pleased him that Victoria
should go in state to Ascot on June 12th, for which he sent seven
carriages for her _cortège_, her own being drawn by six grey
horses.
Cumberland, still troubled with a lingering hope that his ambition
might be satisfied, went to the Duke, asking what he should do.
“Do?” said the Duke. “The best thing you can do is to go away as fast
as you can. Go instantly, and take care that you are not pelted.”
This is given on good authority, and, if true, could not have been
very pleasant for the Duke to hear, as he probably had hoped for very
different advice. He had always held that the Salic law, as applied
to the Hanoverian dynasty, should also apply to Great Britain, and as
Victoria had no right to rule in Hanover, she had therefore no right
to rule in England. It was about this period that he asked of his
aide-de-camp, already mentioned:
“Would you and your troop follow me through the streets of London if I
were proclaimed King?”
“Yes, and to the Tower the next day,” was the indignant reply.
“You have cut your own throat, my boy, by that remark. As King of
England I could make you a great man. What will the Princess Victoria
do for you and yours?”
It was to the Duke of Wellington that Lord Melbourne went a month
later for advice as to how best to initiate the Queen into her various
duties. Indeed, though Wellington had not taken the popular side in
the long struggle over Reform, he was by no means a keen party man; in
each question he followed the line that he believed would be best for
the nation, and, in spite of plots and innuendoes, he was, with one,
perhaps with two, exceptions, loyal to the Crown, no matter who wore it.
When it was almost certain that William would not recover,
“Grandmamma,” or, to use its better name, _The Times_, proceeded
to mould “the child” Victoria into shape. It began with a fairly mild
article, not, of course, insinuating anything, but just devoutly
praying that her education had been conducted under a noble and lofty
regard to her fitness for the duties of Queen of England, that she
had been prepared to think for herself, to employ her _own_
discernment, to take nothing upon trust; and asserting that she ought
not to be made the subject of jealous or vexatious restraint or be kept
in a state of pupilage, &c.
Two days later it went a step further in a leader, expressing the fear
that the Princess had received a narrow, or a jealous, or otherwise
ill-framed education, and roundly impressing upon the Duchess that
she had no political status, no political duties whatever beyond that
of obedience to laws. They said that she had no more power over the
Sovereign (who happened to be her offspring) than any other Duchess
of the Royal Family. They considered that she could not be a sound
adviser to an inexperienced Queen because of her foreign connections,
while her _entourage_ at home would form no desirable Cabinet for
a Queen of England. Then the article concluded with the avowal that it
had been written on purpose to meet the eye of Victoria, that she might
learn how vital it was that her earliest advisers should be men in whom
the better part of England could repose entire confidence.
Strongly Whig over the Catholic Emancipation Bill, _The Times_ had
gone as strongly Tory on the Reform Bill, and was furious at the idea
that the Whig Ministry, of which the King could not rid himself, was
still likely to keep in power. They were entirely without information
as to the character of King William’s successor, and thought, as did
most of the world, that England would be ruled by the Duchess of Kent
and her circle. What influence these articles may have had upon the
Princess there is no written evidence to show, but it is certain that
from the moment that this docile little daughter attained the Throne
she followed out exactly in this matter the policy thus urged upon her
by a paper the general policy of which she did not in the least approve.
When King William died, _The Times_ entirely lost its head. It had
struck these sledge-hammer blows at the Duchess of Kent, but it did
not believe in the Princess Victoria. The day after the new Queen had
read her Declaration, _The Times_, as _The Examiner_ said,
insulted her understanding by declaring that she did not comprehend the
import of the words she delivered, and they took particular exception
to her statement that she congratulated herself on succeeding a
monarch whose “desire to promote the amelioration of the laws and
institutions of the country has rendered his name an object of general
attachment and veneration.” From their standpoint this was, of course,
pure Radicalism, for, as good Tories, they held concerning the laws as
Leibnitz did of the world, that the laws we had were “the best of all
possible” laws, and needed no amelioration. Neither _The Times_
nor any other paper grumbled when, in 1901, King Edward declared at
his first Council that he was determined, “as long as there is breath
in my body, to work for the good and amelioration of my people.” Yet
Victoria’s was the better sentence. Of course, it is possible to
ameliorate people, but it is easier to perform the operation on laws or
even on lives.
From Victoria the editorial turned to Lord Melbourne and became really
funny, asking, “Has this Whig-Radical Ethiopian changed his skin?
this leopard of Popery his spots?” and it finished up with the fine
patriotic intimation that it was the strength of devotion to the
Constitution which prompted “us to ring the alarm bell throughout the
British Empire until we shall have helped to achieve its salvation,
have seen it perish, or have ourselves ceased to exist.”
On the evening of June 19th, 1837, King William saw all his children,
and at two o’clock on the morning of the 20th he died. We all know the
story of how the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham, the Lord
Chamberlain, rode to Kensington to convey the news to Victoria that
she was now Queen. Miss Wynn, who published her diaries under the
pseudonym of “A Lady of Quality,” gives a rather amusing account of the
occurrence. The two gentlemen arrived at Kensington Palace at about
five in the morning; they knocked, rang, and thumped for a considerable
time before they could rouse the porter at the gates; then, having
been kept waiting in a courtyard, they were turned into one of the
lower rooms and forgotten by everyone. They rang, and desired the
attendant who appeared to tell the Princess’s maid that they requested
an audience. Nothing followed, and they rang again. The maid, who now
answered the bell, said that the Princess was in such a sweet sleep
that she could not disturb her. “We are come to the Queen on business
of State, and her sleep must give way to that,” was the answer.
In a few minutes Victoria appeared in a loose white nightgown and
shawl, her hair falling about her shoulders, her feet in slippers,
tears in her eyes, but perfectly cool and collected.
[Illustration: LORD MELBOURNE.]
The following morning a Council was called for eleven o’clock, but the
summonses were sent out so late that many were not received until the
hour appointed. Lord Melbourne, as Prime Minister, had to teach the
Queen her part, which he had first to learn himself, and he found her
quiet, dignified, and eager to bear herself well. The Lords assembled
in one room of Kensington Palace, and were solemnly informed by the
Lord President of the events, which they all knew perfectly, that
the King was dead, and that they were gathered together to swear
allegiance to the new Sovereign. This little form observed, the
Lord President, the two Royal Dukes--Cumberland was quite sure now
that he had not a chance left at present--the two Archbishops, the
Chancellor, and the Prime Minister went into the next room, where with
great formality the news of William’s death was conveyed to the girl
who stood there alone, not in her nightgown this time, but in a sober
garment of black. The doors between the rooms were then thrown open,
and the Queen entered that in which stood a great crowd of nobles and
office-holders. Greville says, “The Queen entered, accompanied by her
two uncles, who advanced to meet her,” which certainly might have been
more lucid had it been differently worded.
The Duke of Sussex spoke later of the Queen’s nervousness, saying
that she continually took his hand as though to reassure herself; he
added that Lord Melbourne never took his eyes off her, and seemed more
nervous than she, fearing that she might make a slip. Half a century
later, when the Queen was asked if she did not feel nervous at her
first Council, she replied, “No, I have no recollection of feeling
in the slightest degree nervous.” Nervous or not, she behaved with
grace and dignity, as everyone should have expected; but all present
seemed to think that something like a scene would take place, or that
they were going to swear their loyal oaths to a person wanting in
understanding, if we may judge by the chorus of praise which arose
later. “It was extraordinary and far beyond what was looked for”; she
actually “read her speech in a clear, distinct, and audible voice”;
Peel said how amazed he was at her manner and behaviour, at her
apparent deep sense of her position, her modesty, and her firmness.
Did these wise men really think that a girl brought up in such an
atmosphere of self-control and restriction as Victoria had been
would have shamed herself by crying, or stuttering, or fainting, or
giggling? Their extenuation lies in the fact that scarcely any among
them knew anything at all of the Princess, and that very fact excited
such intense curiosity to see how she would behave, that the crowd of
Privy Councillors assembled was so great that, according to one who was
present, the scene of swearing allegiance was more like that at the
bidding in an auction-room than anything else.
Cumberland, who now became King of Hanover, was the first to take the
oath, and Sussex, who was very infirm, and some distance from Her
Majesty, was met half-way across the room, the Queen kissing them both.
Greville noted with satisfaction that her courtesy did not break down
when the heads of either party greeted her, that she was as pleasant
to Wellington and Peel as to Melbourne and the Ministers. Really, his
social knowledge should have saved him any doubts on that point, and
rendered it unnecessary for him to “particularly watch” her when the
Tory lords approached.
Creevy was much more pleasing when he wrote, “I cannot resist telling
you that our dear little Queen in every respect is _perfection_.”
Here is exaggeration, it is true, but no insistence upon doubt as to
her being ordinarily well-mannered.
Even such a grave event as a first Privy Council meeting may provide
food for laughter, and there is one little incident in connection with
this Council which was not only amusing, but should have given those
present some clear idea of their young Sovereign’s character. Sir
Bernard Bosanquet, who was present, tells us that, “With the utmost
dignity, before her assembled Privy Councillors, with her clear young
voice, the Queen began reading:
“‘This Act intituléd’--which is the legal way of spelling entitled.
“‘Entitled, your Majesty, entitled,’ hastily corrected Lord Melbourne
in a loud aside.
“The young Queen slowly drew herself up and said, quietly and firmly,
‘I have said it.’
“Then, after a pause, once more the beautiful childish voice rang out:
“‘This Act intituléd----’”
A curious mistake, or change of mind, took place over the Queen’s name.
The Peers took the oath of fidelity to Alexandrina Victoria, and all
the forms were duly made out in those names. Later in the day the Queen
announced that she would be known as Victoria only, which caused a
great stir officially, as new parchments with the amended style had to
be procured in every case.
Her accession seems to have made a great difference to the little
Queen. While only Princess everyone agreed in describing her as quiet,
timid, shy; she was always hidden under the wing of her mother, who
thought for her, acted for her, and spoke for her. As soon as she
stood alone she became openly what she had probably always been in
private, gay and high-spirited; she rode almost every day and drove in
the Park; she courted publicity, saying, “Let my people see me,” and
everywhere she met smiling faces and affectionate regards. There were,
of course, those who foretold the usual sad tale, among them being
Frances Anne Kemble, who wrote:
“Poor young creature! at eighteen to bear such a burden of
responsibility! I should think the mere state and grandeur, and
slow-paced solemnity of her degree enough to strike a girl of that
age into a melancholy, without all the other graver considerations
and causes for care and anxiety which belong to it. I dare say,
whatever she may think now, before many years are over, she would be
glad to have a small pension of £30,000 a year, and leave to ‘go and
play,’ like common folk of fortune. But, to be sure, if _noblesse
oblige_, Royalty must do so still more, or, at any rate, on a wider
scale; and so I take up my burden again--poor young Queen of England.”
If anyone ever was, by nature, position, and training, born to a life
of hard work, that person was Queen Victoria, and so long as she had
the spirit and the ability to meet her life bravely, I cannot see that
there was any need to pity her. It was inevitable that she should make
mistakes and repent of them, for by such comes growth. If she had great
responsibilities, she was surrounded by those who upheld her arms and
practically took all those responsibilities upon their shoulders.
Carlyle only mentioned Queen Victoria two or three times in his
letters, always with a fatherly, personal note, which yet held more
than a hint of pity, indicating that he saw some immediate cause for
disquiet. A few months after her accession he wrote: “Yesterday, going
through one of the Parks, I saw the poor little Queen. She was in an
open carriage, preceded by three or four swift red-coated troopers;
all off for Windsor just as I happened to pass. Another carriage or
carriages followed with maids of honour, &c.; the whole drove very
fast. It seemed to me the poor little Queen was a bit modest, nice,
sonsy little lassie; blue eyes, light hair, white skin; of extremely
small stature: she looked timid, anxious, almost frightened; for the
people looked at her in perfect silence; one old liveryman alone
touched his hat to her: I was heartily sorry for the poor bairn--though
perhaps she might have said, as Parson Swan did, ‘Greet not for me,
brethren; for verily, yea verily, I greet not for mysel’.’”
At that first Privy Council, the day after the death of King William,
a somewhat curious document was prepared or passed in the form of a
proclamation from Queen Victoria: “For the Encouragement of Piety and
Virtue, and for the Prevention and Punishing of Vice, Profaneness, and
Immorality.” George III. had issued such a proclamation, and whether it
had been the custom for all our Sovereigns to do so I do not know, but
this one seems curious enough to be noted. Part of it ran as follows:
“To the intent therefore that religion, piety, and good manners may
(according to Our most Hearty desire) flourish and increase under our
administration and government, We have thought fit by the advice of
our Privy Council to issue this Our Royal Proclamation, and do hereby
declare Our Royal Purpose and Resolution to discountenance and punish
all manner of Vice, Profaneness, and Immorality in all persons of
whatsoever degree or Quality within this Our Realm, and particularly
in such as are employed near Our Royal Person; and that, for the
encouragement of Religion and morality, We will upon all occasions
distinguish persons of piety and virtue by marks of Our Royal Favour.
And We do expect and require that all persons of honour, or in place
of authority, will give good example by their own virtue and piety,
and to their utmost contribute to the discountenancing persons of
dissolute and debauched lives, that they, being reduced by that means
to shame and contempt for their loose and evil actions and behaviour,
may be thereby also enforced the sooner to reform their ill habits and
practices, and that the visible displeasure of good men towards them
may (so far as it is possible) supply what the laws (probably) cannot
altogether prevent.”
This lengthy document went on to deal with the observance of the Lord’s
Day, with gambling, card-playing, and drinking.
One wonders whether the Queen or her advisers believed that such a
proclamation could lead to any raising of the standard of morals. The
Queen, in her youthfulness, might think so, but the men around her
must have been very doubtful of it even while doing the will of their
Sovereign, or conforming to a custom, by letting such a document be
issued. Yet it is a notable thing that this proclamation embodies in a
paragraph the form which improvement in social manners took during the
Queen’s reign.
The Proclaiming of the Sovereign was the next ceremony in the new
life which was opening up for this young person, and she drove to St.
James’s Palace with the Duchess of Kent and another lady, while in the
carriage which preceded her were the Earl of Jersey, Lord Conyngham,
the Lord Chamberlain, and Lord Albemarle, the Master of the Horse; in
the third carriage were Sir John Conroy and Lady Flora Hastings. Lady
Flora had attended the Duchess for some years, and should have been
thoroughly well known to the Queen, but yet two years later she had the
misfortune to be grievously misjudged and tragically ill-used by her
Sovereign.
There were moments at the commencement of her reign when Queen Victoria
felt horribly nervous, but she had more than enough self-control to
prevent herself from being overcome by emotion. When she came out of
the door at Kensington Palace arrayed in black, she looked a veritable
child. Her eyes were full of tears, her hands clasped and unclasped,
and she trembled at the ordeal before her; yet she turned and looked
at the body of Guards drawn up on either side of her door, and bowed
in acknowledgment of their salute. Lord Melbourne was by her side,
watching her with a fatherly look, and so began that cordial friendship
between the Queen and the peer which lasted for years, and ended only
in death on one side and something like forgetfulness on the other.
On the route to St. James’s, Greville says, there was very little
shouting and very few hats were raised, but other recorders tell of the
repeated cheers of the multitude. In the courtyard, as has been said,
there was no cheering until a given signal, when Daniel O’Connell led
the way, and the noise was then so hearty that the Queen burst into
tears.
After this, events crowded thick and fast, and one of the first was
the Royal removal to the New, or Buckingham, Palace, a place which
Creevy stigmatised as “the Devil’s Own,” saying that there were
raspberry-coloured pillars without end, enough to turn you sick to
look at, and that the costly ornaments in the State rooms exceeded
all belief in their bad taste and every kind of infirmity. It seems
to-day strange to regard the London residence of the Monarch as being
at Pimlico, and yet that is its true locality. On this removal _The
Times_ condescended to ask a conundrum: “Why is Buckingham Palace
the cheapest that was ever built?” and proceeded to supply the answer,
“Because it was built for one sovereign and furnished for another.”
When the simply arranged bedroom at Kensington, which had for nearly
eighteen years been shared by mother and child, was finally deserted,
Victoria gave orders that the room should remain as it was, and nothing
be removed or added.
There was the necessary Levée to be held, and so great was the
curiosity that such a crowd attended as had never before been seen
at such a function. Over two thousand people were present to kiss
the Queen’s hand; diamond buckles were broken and lost, orders and
decorations torn from their wearers, and epaulettes rubbed from the
shoulders of officers. The Drawing Room the next day, in spite of
torrents of rain, was more fully attended than it had been for many
years. At the Levée Her Majesty was “black as a raven from head to
foot, her hair was plainly dressed without ornament, but she wore the
Ribbon of the Garter, with the Star on her left breast and the buckle
on her left arm.”
When she found that the Garter had to be worn, the Queen sent for
the Duke of Norfolk, and asked anxiously, “But, my Lord Duke, where
_shall_ I wear the Garter?” The Duke could only think of a
portrait of Queen Anne, in which the Garter was placed on the left arm,
and Victoria decided to follow that precedent.
At the Levée there is room for suspicion that the Queen did forget
her good manners, though the lapse was not caused by girlish fright
or nervousness. Among those whom she received was Lord Lyndhurst, and
although she had shown “her usual pretty manner” to all who preceded
him, as soon as he approached she drew herself up as though she had
seen a snake, at which Lyndhurst turned as red as fire, and afterwards
looked as fierce as a fiend.
Having just held a brief for the Queen’s good manners, I feel that
this incident is somewhat awkward, especially as I cannot really
tell why she was rude to Lyndhurst. She may have been affected by
his lordship’s wonderful system of “ratting,” for he had a habit of
making a speech against a Bill, say the Catholic Emancipation Bill,
for example, or the Municipal Reform Bill, which became famous, and
then when he found it good policy to change his views, would make
another notable speech in its favour. Early in his career he held
republican opinions, and thought little of the Whigs because their
notions of reform were so mild; but when he showed himself extremely
clever in defending a noted case, Lord Castlereagh--“carotid-cutting
Castlereagh”--is reported to have said, “I can discover in him
something of the _rat_, and I will set my trap for him, baited
with Cheshire cheese”--meaning that he would offer him the office of
Chief Justice of Cheshire.
The trap was set, and Lyndhurst, then plain John Copley, quietly--and
perhaps gratefully--walked into it, and on the first vacancy became
Solicitor-General to the King. It was said about him that he had danced
round the Tree of Liberty to the tune of “Ça ira,” and yet became
one of the most virulent opponents of all movements towards freedom.
However, as Mackintosh said to Lord John Russell, it was with the Whig
_prospects_, not their _views_, that he quarrelled, and it
may have been just this which made the young Queen scorn him, and feel,
as she once owned to Lord Melbourne, a personal dislike of him.
There is a little incident on record which shows just how complaisant
he could be in any matter affecting his interest. A story got about,
and was published in the newspapers, that the Duke of Cumberland had
called upon Lady Lyndhurst, of whom Creevy said “she has such beautiful
eyes and such a way of using them that quite shocked Lady Louisa and
me,” and so grossly misbehaved himself that he was turned out of the
house. He went a second time, when he contented himself with uttering
coarse abuse of Lyndhurst. When this affair was made public, Cumberland
sent a copy of a journal in which the paragraph appeared to the Lord
Chancellor, as Lyndhurst then was, and asked that he should have Lady
Lyndhurst’s permission to contradict “the gross falsehood.”
The thing was true, however, and the Chancellor felt in a fix; he could
not fight a Royal Duke, and yet he wished to warn him not to repeat the
offence. So he temporised; said he had not before seen the paragraph,
which was no doubt one of a series of calumnies to which Lady Lyndhurst
had for some time been exposed. This, however, did not satisfy Duke
Ernest, who was anxious that his shady character should be cleared
of this stain; so he wrote again, demanding a definite sanction to
contradict the report. Upon this Lyndhurst, it is said, though seeing
the result one hardly believes it, went to the national adviser, the
Duke of Wellington, who counselled him to reply that he did not wish
to annoy Lady Lyndhurst by speaking of this matter to her. To this he
added that, as to excluding the Duke from their home, the grateful
attachment they both felt for their Sovereign made that impossible.
So the matter ended. Lyndhurst had cleverly evaded giving the Duke
a straightforward answer--which was more like himself than like the
Duke of Wellington--and had practically assured him that he would be
received as a guest again in the house which he had abused. Lyndhurst
would have seemed more admirable if he had been more of a man and less
of a diplomatist; and it is quite likely that other incidents of this
kind had occurred to make the young Queen, in her youthful zeal for
probity, show her dislike for him publicly. Besides, had she not just
inculcated virtue by proclamation, and declared the way in which she
would reward evil-doers?
To do Lyndhurst justice, however, he seemed to bear her no malice, and
when the storm, raised by _The Times_, gathered strength from her
friendship for Melbourne and broke in fury upon her before she had been
Queen many weeks, Lyndhurst sincerely lamented it. The Tories could not
control their disappointment and anger when it was announced that Lord
Melbourne was to continue Prime Minister, and they vilified the Queen
at every opportunity. To quote from Lord Campbell, a contemporary:
“The practice was to contrast her invidiously with Adelaide, the Queen
Dowager, and at public dinners to receive the Queen’s health with
solemn silence, while the succeeding toast of the Queen Dowager was the
signal for long continued cheers. Some writers went so far as to praise
the Salic law, by which females are excluded from the throne, pointing
out the happiness we should have enjoyed under the rule of the Duke
of Cumberland, but consoling the nation by the assurance that his line
would soon succeed, as the new Queen, from physical defects, could
never bear children.”
Well, after all, there _was_ some reason for pitying the young,
sonsie lassie who was then Queen of England!