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CAROLINE THE ILLUSTRIOUS

Queen Caroline,
and the Duke of Cumberland.

Walter L. Colls Ph. Sc.

Caroline the Illustrious
Queen-Consort of George II. and
sometime Queen-Regent

A Study of her Life and Time

BY
W. H. WILKINS, M.A., F.S.A.
AUTHOR OF “THE LOVE OF AN UNCROWNED QUEEN”

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1901

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

BOOK III.
QUEEN CONSORT AND QUEEN REGENT.

CHAPTER I.
THE NEW REIGN. 1737.

The news of George the First’s death reached England four days after he had breathed his last at Osnabrück. A messenger, bearing sealed despatches from Lord Townshend, arrived at Sir Robert Walpole’s house in Arlington Street at noon on Wednesday, June 14th. He was told that the Prime Minister was at Chelsea, and he at once repaired thither. He found the great man at dinner. Walpole was thunderstruck at the news, for the old King was of so strong a constitution that, despite his occasional fainting fits, every one expected him to live to a green old age, as his mother had done before him. His sudden death, too, might mean the end of the Prime Minister’s political career. But there was no time for vain regrets—the King was dead, long live the King. So ordering his horse to be saddled, Walpole rode off at full speed to Richmond, where George Augustus then was, to announce the tidings and pay homage to his new Sovereign. The day was hot, and so furiously did he ride that he killed, his son tells us, two horses between Chelsea and Richmond; but then his son was given to exaggeration.

Walpole arrived at Richmond Lodge about three o’clock, and requested to be shown at once into the royal presence. The Duchess of Dorset, who was in waiting, said it was impossible, as the Prince had undressed and gone to bed after dinner according to his custom, and the Princess was resting also, and no one dared disturb them. But Walpole explained that his business brooked of no delay, and the duchess went to wake them. The King (as he must now be called), very irate at being disturbed, came into the ante-chamber in haste with his breeches in his hand—he was one of those princes who are fated to appear ridiculous even at the greatest moments of their lives. Walpole fell on one knee, kissed the hand holding the breeches, and told his Majesty that his royal sire was dead, and he was King of England. “Dat is von big lie,” shouted King George the Second, as he had shouted at the Duke of Roxburgh on a memorable occasion some time before. But Walpole, unlike the duke, showed no resentment at being given the lie, and for all answer produced Townshend’s despatch, which gave particulars of the late King’s death. George snatched the letter from him and eagerly conned it; but his face did not relax as he read, nor did his manner unbend towards the Prime Minister. Walpole uttered some words of formal condolence, but they were ungraciously ignored. After an awkward pause, he asked the King his pleasure with regard to the Accession Council, the Proclamation, and other matters necessary to be done at once, naturally expecting that he should be commanded to attend to them. “Go to Chiswick, and take your directions from Sir Spencer Compton,” said the King curtly, and turned his back as an intimation that the interview was at an end. George the Second then went to tell the great news to his Queen, and the crestfallen Minister withdrew, to go, as ordered, to Compton.

Walpole’s reflections on his ride to Chiswick must have been bitter indeed. Well might he exclaim, as his fallen rival, Bolingbroke, had done under a similar reverse: “What a world is this and how does Fortune banter us!” For years he had been Prime Minister with almost absolute power, enjoying to the full the confidence of his Sovereign. Suddenly he was stripped of every shred of authority, and dismissed (for the King’s bidding him go to Compton was tantamount to a dismissal) without the slightest consideration, like a dishonest servant. Walpole knew that George the Second owed him a grudge for not having kept his promises at the reconciliation, and disliked him, as he disliked all who enjoyed the late King’s favour. But the Prime Minister hoped that time and Caroline’s influence would put things right. He did not know that Pulteney had repeated certain remarks he had incautiously made soon after the reconciliation, when Pulteney asked him what terms he had got for the Prince of Wales. Walpole answered with a sneer: “Why, he is to go to court again, and he will have his drums and guards, and such fine things”. “But,” said Pulteney, “is the Prince to be left Regent as he was when the King first left England?” Walpole replied, “Certainly not, he does not deserve it, we have done more than enough for him; and if it were to be done again, we would not do so much”.[1] George the Second’s little mind resented slights of this kind more than greater wrongs, and he now took his revenge.

Sir Spencer Compton, to whom the disconcerted Minister sadly made his way, had been Speaker of the House of Commons, Treasurer of the Prince of Wales’s Household, and Paymaster of the Army. Compton was much more of a courtier than a politician. He was a man of the mediocre order of ability that often makes a good and safe official; he knew all about forms, procedure, and precedents, but he was not a leader of men, and he was quite unprepared for, and quite unequal to, the great position now thrust upon him. Walpole, who knew the man with whom he had to deal, felt towards Compton no personal resentment. He acquainted him briefly with George the First’s death, gave him the new King’s commands, and added on his own behalf: “Everything is in your hands; I neither could shake your power if I would, nor would if I could. My time has been, yours is beginning; but as we all must depend in some degree upon our successors, and as it is always prudent for these successors, by way of example, to have some regard for their predecessors, that the measure they mete out may be measured to them again—for this reason I put myself under your protection, and for this reason I expect you will give it. I desire no share of power or business, one of your white sticks,[2] or any employment of that sort, is all I ask, as a mark from the Crown that I am not abandoned to the enmity of those whose envy is the only source of their hate.”[3]

Though Compton was astonished at the news, he did not conceal his delight at the unexpected honour that had fallen upon him. Walpole’s speech flattered his vanity, and perhaps also touched his heart; he grandiloquently promised him his protection, and, thinking he had nothing to fear from the fallen statesman, took him into his confidence and consulted him as to how he should proceed. The two Ministers then drove together to Devonshire House to see the Duke of Devonshire, President of the Council, and arrange for an immediate meeting of the Privy Council. At forms Compton was an adept, but when it came to the speech that had to be put into the King’s mouth he was nonplussed. He took Walpole aside, and asked him, as he had composed all the speeches of the late King, to compose this one also. Walpole pretended to demur, but as Compton persisted, he consented and withdrew to a private room in Devonshire House to draft the speech, while Compton set off to do homage to the King and Queen. Walpole must have chuckled over his task, for if the precedent-loving Compton had only consulted the back folios of the Gazette he would have found plenty of models for the King’s speech; but he was so fussed with forms and ceremonies, and so elated with the sense of his new importance, that he was incapable of thinking coherently.

The King and Queen had driven up from Richmond in the afternoon, and were now arrived at Leicester House. The great news had spread abroad, and all London was flocking to Leicester Fields. When Compton arrived there, the square was so thronged with people who had assembled to cheer their Majesties that the coaches and chairs of the mighty, who were hurrying to pay their court, could scarce make way through the crowd. Inside Leicester House the walls were already hung with purple and black, and the Queen appeared in “black bombazine”; but these were the only signs of mourning, all else wore an aspect of rejoicing and congratulation. The new King and Queen held a court, the rooms were thronged with the great nobility and high officials, and persons of divers parties and creeds struggled up and down the stairs, all anxious to kiss their Majesties’ hands, and to profess their loyalty and devotion. The Queen, who had a keen sense of irony, must have smiled to herself when she contrasted the crowded rooms before her with the thinly attended receptions which Leicester House (except on great occasions such as birthdays) had witnessed during the past few years.

This was the proudest hour of Caroline’s life. She had reached the summit of her ambition, she had become Queen. But the mere show of sovereignty did not content her, she was determined to be the power behind the throne greater than the throne. It was not enough for her that she had become Queen through her husband, she was determined to rule through him also. Did this inscrutable woman, we wonder, in this her hour of glory, recall the parallel Leibniz had drawn long before, when the prospects of the House of Hanover were darkest, between her and England’s greatest Queen, Elizabeth? May-be, for, like Elizabeth, Caroline determined to have her Cecil. She knew there was but one man in England capable of maintaining the Hanoverian dynasty upon the throne in peace, and that one was Walpole. She had been dismayed when the King told her that he had sent for Compton, for she knew Compton’s weakness. But, like a wise woman she did not attempt to thwart her husband in the first heat of his resentment against his father’s favourite minister, who had been, willingly or unwillingly, the late King’s mouthpiece for many slights to him, and perhaps, too, she thought it would be good for Walpole to be taught a lesson. She bided her time.

Compton at once had audience of the King. When he came out from the royal closet he walked across the courtyard to his coach between lines of bowing and fawning courtiers, all anxious to bask in the rays of the rising sun. They knew full well what this audience portended. Compton, greatly flattered by this homage, drove back to Devonshire House, where he found that the man whom he had superseded had finished the King’s speech. Compton was graciously pleased to approve the draft; he took it and copied it in his own handwriting. He then again repaired to Leicester House to present it to the King. On this occasion he was accompanied by the Duke of Devonshire and other privy councillors, including Walpole, who were to be present at the Accession Council. George the Second liked the speech well enough, but found fault with one paragraph and desired that it should be altered. Compton wished it to stand, for he knew not how to change it, but the King was obdurate and very testy at being opposed. Compton was then so incredibly foolish, from the point of view of his own interest, as to ask Walpole to go to the King’s closet and see what he could do. Walpole went, nothing loath, and improved the occasion by declaring to the King his willingness to serve him either in or out of office. This was the Queen’s opportunity. According to some, it was she who suggested that Walpole should be sent for; she certainly suggested to the King that perhaps he had been a little hasty, and it would be bad for his affairs to employ a man like Compton, who had already shown himself inferior in ability to the Minister whom he was to succeed. But Caroline could do no more at this juncture than suggest, and leave the leaven to work in the King’s mind.

George the Second held his Accession Council that same night at Leicester House. He read his speech to his faithful councillors in which he lamented “the sudden and unexpected death of the King, my dearest father,” he spoke of his “love and affection” for England and declared his intention of preserving the laws and liberties of the kingdom, and upholding the constitution as it stood. If he felt any relenting towards Walpole it was not visible in his manner. Compton took the first place, and the man who had hitherto dominated the councils of the King, and was still nominally Prime Minister, was completely ignored by the new Sovereign. The office-seekers were not slow to follow the lead. For the next few days Leicester House was crowded every day, but whenever Walpole appeared the courtiers shrank away from him as though he had the plague. Walpole himself, though he knew the utter weakness of Compton, had no hope of being continued in office, and hourly expected to receive the King’s command to give up the seals. “I shall certainly go out,” he said to his friend Sir William Yonge, after the Council, “but let me advise you not to go into violent opposition, as we must soon come in again.” Yonge quickly had experience of going out, for he was dismissed the next day, the King had always hated him and called him “stinking Yonge”; Lord Malpas, Walpole’s son-in-law, was dismissed also. But the public announcement of the Prime Minister’s dismissal tarried unaccountably—unaccountably that is to those who were not behind the scenes.

The Queen’s influence was now beginning to tell. At first she persuaded the King to delay, for she knew that if he delayed he would reflect, and if he reflected he would change his mind. She reminded him of the trouble a change of Ministers would involve before he was comfortably seated on the throne, and she knew the King hated trouble. The King objected to Walpole’s notorious greed for gold, but the Queen met this by saying that, with so many opportunities of amassing wealth, he must by this time have become so rich that he would want no more, and this, in a lesser degree, applied to his colleagues. “The old leeches,” she cynically added, “will not be so hungry as the new ones, and will know their business much better.” The critical situation of foreign affairs was another of the arguments used by the Queen in favour of Walpole, for no one had the same grasp of the tangled skeins of foreign policy as he. The European courts, which did not understand the working of the English Constitution, might become alarmed at a sudden change of Ministry and imagine that it foretold a change in England’s foreign policy, thus creating a general distrust, which would be dangerous to the reigning dynasty, more especially as there was always the fear of secret negotiations going on between James and the Roman Catholic courts of Europe. This was particularly true of France, with whom it was of the utmost importance to maintain good relations at the present juncture. Whilst Caroline was thus arguing, as luck would have it, Horace Walpole, the Prime Minister’s brother, who was ambassador to France, arrived in England with a letter which his diplomacy had obtained from Cardinal de Fleury, pledging his master to maintain the treaties France had entered into with the late King, and to show goodwill towards George and ill-will to James. All these considerations told. But the most cogent argument which the Queen urged, and the one which had undoubtedly the most weight with the King, was the settlement of the Civil List. The new Civil List, Caroline reminded the King, was pressing, but a change of Ministers was not. There was nobody so able as Walpole to secure for them a handsome increase of the Civil List, for, as the old King said, he “could turn stones into gold”. Why then let private resentment lead to personal inconvenience?

Nothing was done during the King’s stay at Leicester House, and in the eyes of the world Compton was still first in the King’s favour. At the end of the week the Court moved to Kensington, and by that time the Queen had worked so well that the King sent for Walpole, and asked him about the Civil List. The new monarch mentioned a sum so large that Walpole was staggered, accustomed though he was to Hanoverian rapacity; but he showed nothing of his feeling in his face, and promised to do his utmost to serve his Majesty. He then had an audience of the Queen, who confided to him that Compton’s estimate had by no means satisfied the King’s demands, and he had proposed that she should have only a poor £60,000 a year. Walpole at once grasped the situation. He declared that he would obtain a jointure for her Majesty of £100,000 a year, which was £40,000 more than Compton had proposed, and he would force Parliament to meet the King’s wishes. It was said that Walpole bought his influence with the Queen for this extra £40,000 a year, but that was not wholly true. Quite apart from money, Caroline had wit enough to see that the interests of the House of Hanover could best be served by Walpole, and of all English statesmen he was the one who could most be trusted to frustrate the Jacobites—for the rival claims of the Stuarts were an ever present danger to the Hanoverian family until 1745. She was, of course, not averse to receiving something in return for her support, and Walpole, it must be admitted, paid, or rather made the nation pay, for it handsomely. In addition to the Queen’s £100,000 a year, Somerset House and Richmond Lodge were made over to her. Her income was double what any queen-consort had enjoyed before, and more than any has been granted since.

KING GEORGE II.

From the Painting by John Shackleton in the National Portrait Gallery.

Walpole now realised that all that lay between him and power was a question of money. He therefore went next morning to the King with carefully prepared estimates. He proposed that his Majesty’s Civil List should consist primarily of the £700,000 a year paid to the late King; £100,000 more, which had been paid directly to the Prince of Wales in the last reign, but which would now be vested in the King to make what allowance he pleased to his eldest son; and a further increase of £130,000 a year arising out of certain funds. In all, therefore, the King would receive the enormous sum of more than £900,000 a year. This George agreed to, for though he would have liked more, he had the sense to see that it was impossible to get it. The Queen had impressed upon him that Walpole was the only man who could carry such a large increase through the House of Commons. Pulteney and other Opposition politicians were ready to promise more to gain office, but their promises were nothing worth, for they had neither the ability nor the power to carry a large grant through Parliament. The King therefore took Walpole by the hand, and said that he had considered the matter, and intended to continue him in office on the understanding that he would carry through the Civil List, at the sum named. He added significantly: “Consider, Sir Robert, what makes me easy in this matter will prove for your ease too; it is for my life it is to be fixed, and it is for your life”.

Matters thus being settled, the Queen that night at the drawing-room made known her approval of Walpole in a characteristic manner. Lady Walpole had come to court to pay her respects to the King and Queen, but she could not make her way to the royal daïs, for the lords and ladies turned their backs on the wife of the fallen Minister (as they considered him), and refused to yield her place. By dint of much struggling she managed to reach the third row, where she was espied by the Queen, who, beckoning to her, called out: “There, I am sure, I see a friend.” The crowd in front immediately divided, and Lady Walpole performed her obeisance in the sight of the wondering court. The King and Queen smiled, and chatted with her some little time. All the courtiers noted it, and, “as I came away,” said Lady Walpole afterwards, “I might have walked over their heads had I pleased”. Thus Compton’s brief dream of authority vanished, and Walpole’s tenure in power was assured. The crowd of placemen who had surrounded Compton transferred their attentions once more to Walpole, and the former was now as much deserted as the latter had been. The most extraordinary part of the whole affair was that, though Compton’s friends, chief among whom were Mrs. Howard, the Duke of Argyll and Lord Chesterfield, were plunged into despondency by his fall, Compton himself heeded little these vicissitudes, and was content to be given, by way of compensation, a place about the court, the garter, and a peerage under the title of Earl of Wilmington. If the man had not been such a fool, he might almost have passed for a philosopher.

When Parliament met a week later it was seen by all the world that Walpole retained his old place. It was Walpole who proposed and carried through Parliament the bloated Civil List. Such was the Minister’s power that no one in the House of Commons dared raise his voice against it except Shippen the Jacobite, who was known as “Downright Shippen” for his outspokenness. He had been sent to the Tower in 1717 for proclaiming in the House of Commons the obvious truth that George the First “was a stranger to our language and constitution”; yet, avowed Jacobite though Shippen remained, Walpole never repeated this error. Walpole had a great respect for him and used to say he was the only man in Parliament whose price he did not know. Shippen on his part declared: “Robin and I are two honest men, he is for King George and I am for King James, but these men in long cravats only desire place under King George or King James”. Parliament, having duly passed the Civil List, was dissolved by the King in person, who had one great advantage over his father in that he was able to read his speeches in English, albeit with a broad German accent. Walpole now had it all his own way. All the old King’s Ministers were kept in office, even the Duke of Newcastle whom the King had especially hated—all, that is, except Lord Berkeley, who was forced to resign in consequence of the Queen having found in the late King’s cabinet a paper (of which mention has already been made) containing a plan to kidnap the Prince of Wales and send him off to America. Berkeley, who had drawn up the document, found it convenient to withdraw to the Continent. No other changes of importance were made. Malpas was reinstated; Yonge had to remain out of office for a little time longer, but was eventually given a small post.

The Jacobites had always expected that the death of George the First would, in some way, benefit the Stuart cause—in what way it is not clear, for George the Second when Prince of Wales was less unpopular than his father. But the Jacobites hugged the hope that the death of the first Hanoverian king would plunge the country into confusion, and so it might have done, if George the First had not been so inconsiderate as to die at a moment when the Jacobites were in great confusion themselves. For the last two or three years James’s little court had been distracted by internal jealousies and intrigues. Lord Mar, who superseded Bolingbroke, had, notwithstanding all his services, been superseded by Hay, whom James appointed his Secretary of State and created Earl of Inverness. Hay had a wife, who shared in these barren honours, which, it was said, she had done much to win. Her brother, Murray, James created Earl of Dunbar. This trio, of whom the lady was the most arrogant, entirely governed James, who, like a true Stuart, was swayed by favourites. They created great dissatisfaction at his court. It was not long before his consort, Clementina, who was a princess of great beauty and virtue, but extremely high-spirited, had cause to complain of the insolence of Inverness and his wife. It was said that Lady Inverness was James’s mistress, and colour was lent to the rumour by the fact that Clementina insisted upon her dismissal from her court. James refused, and she withdrew from her husband’s palace and retired to the convent of St. Cecilia at Rome. A long correspondence ensued between James and Clementina, but she declined to return unless Lady Inverness was dismissed, and so brought about a virtual separation. This domestic scandal did great harm to the Stuart cause among the Roman Catholic princes of Europe, all of whom warmly espoused Clementina’s side. The Emperor, who was her kinsman, was highly displeased, the Queen of Spain, who was her friend, was indignant, the Jacobites in England were divided amongst themselves, and in Scotland James’s followers fell off everywhere in numbers and in zeal. The strongest representations were made to James from every side, but for a long time he turned a deaf ear to them all. At last, after protracted negotiations, he accepted Inverness’s resignation and Lady Inverness went with her husband. Clementina agreed to leave her convent and rejoin her husband who was then at Bologna. She was actually on the road when the news arrived of George the First’s death. Immediately all domestic considerations were swallowed up in the political necessities of the moment.

Seeing the advisability of being nearer England at this crisis, James set out from Bologna on the pretext of meeting his consort, but turning back half-way, he posted with all speed to Lorraine. As soon as he arrived at Nancy in Lorraine he sent a messenger to Atterbury, who was acting as his agent in Paris, another to Lord Orrery, his agent in London, and a third to Lockhart at Liège, who was acting as his agent for Scotland. James had no lack of courage, and was anxious to set out for the Highlands at once, though he had neither a settled scheme nor promise of foreign aid. But the news he received from the north of the Tweed was discouraging, and the despatches from England were worse. Lord Strafford wrote to him[4] saying that the tide in favour of the “Prince and Princess of Hanover,” as he called them, was too strong at present for the Jacobites to resist, and it would be better to wait until dissatisfaction broke out again, which he anticipated would not be long. “I am convinced,” he wrote, “that the same violent and corrupt measures taken by the father will be pursued by the son, who is passionate, proud, and peevish, and though he talks of ruling by himself, he will just be governed as his father was. But his declarations that he will make no distinction of parties, and his turning off the Germans make him popular at present.” Strafford, like many others, made the mistake of leaving Queen Caroline out of his calculations.

It was impossible for James to stay in Lorraine, for the French Government, at the instigation of Walpole, ordered the Duke of Lorraine to expel the “Pretender” from his territory. The duke, who was only a vassal of France, was forced to obey, and urged his unwelcome guest to leave Lorraine within three days. So James withdrew under protest. “In my present situation,” he wrote to Atterbury, “I cannot pretend to do anything essential for my interest, and all that remains is that the world should see that I have done my part.”[5] It must be admitted that he was ready to do it bravely.

James first sought refuge in the Papal State of Avignon, but here again the relentless English Government, acting through the French, managed to hunt him out, and the following year the heir of our Stuart Kings was forced to return a fugitive to Italy. He was joined by Clementina and afterwards lived harmoniously with her. Unfortunate in all else, James was at least fortunate in his consort, for all authorities unite in praising her grace and goodness, her talents and charity.

The immediate danger of a Jacobite rising was thus warded off, but so long as James and his two sons lived the House of Hanover could not enjoy undisputed title to the throne of England. In these early days, as Caroline knew well, it behoved the princes of the new dynasty to walk warily and court the popular goodwill, for there was always an alternative king in James, who by a turn of Fortune’s wheel might find himself upon the throne of his fathers. Though the official world and most of those in high places were all for the Hanoverian succession, and though Walpole had the means to corrupt members of Parliament and buy constituencies as he would, yet the heart of the people remained very tender towards the exiled royal family and felt a profound compassion for their misfortunes.

The excitement consequent on the new reign continued for some months, and the King, not having had time to make himself enemies, was, to outward semblance, popular. A good deal was due to interested motives. The court was crowded with personages struggling for place. Lord Orrery wrote to James inveighing bitterly against “the civility, ignorance and poor spirit of our nobility and gentry, striving who shall sell themselves at the best price to the court, but resolved to sell themselves at any”. Yet he is constrained to add: “There do not appear to be many discontented people”.[6] Pope, too, who was now quite out of favour at court, wrote to a friend that the new reign “has put the whole world into a new state; but,” he adds enviously, “the only use I have, shall, or wish to make of it, is to observe the disparity of men from themselves in a week’s time; desultory leaping and catching of new modes, new manners and that strong spirit of life with which men, broken and disappointed, resume their hopes, their solicitations, their ambitions”. The political Jeremiahs of the time bewailed the wholesale trafficking in places, and the universal corruption. The King himself did not set a high example of public or private honesty; he had wrung the highest sum he could from Parliament for his Civil List, and at one of his early Councils he distinguished himself by an act which can only be described as dishonest. The timid and time-serving Archbishop of Canterbury, old Dr. Wake, produced the late King’s will, which had been entrusted to him, and handed it to George, fully expecting him to open it and read it to the Council. The King took it without a word, put it into his pocket, and walked out of the room. The Archbishop was so taken aback at this proceeding, that neither he nor the other privy councillors present raised a word in protest. George probably burnt the will after reading it, in any case it was never seen again. But the old King, who probably feared that some such fate would befall his testament, had taken the precaution to make a second copy, which he entrusted to the safe keeping of his cousin, the Duke of Wolfenbüttel. The duke soon intimated this fact to the new King of England, and at the same time hinted that he had no wish to make matters disagreeable (which he could easily do if he wished, for the King and Queen of Prussia were furious), if his silence were made worth his while. George took the hint, and despatched a messenger to Wolfenbüttel promising the duke a subsidy. In return the messenger brought back the duplicate of the will, and this too was destroyed.

The only excuse that can be urged for the King’s conduct, which probably defrauded among others his sister, the Queen of Prussia, and his son Prince Frederick, was that George the First had treated the will of his consort, Sophie Dorothea of Celle, in the same way, to the detriment, it was suspected, of both his son and his daughter. George the Second also, when Electoral Prince of Hanover, had reason to believe that his father had unjustly deprived him of a substantial inheritance which had been left him by his maternal grandfather, the Duke of Celle. The burning of wills seems to have been a peculiarity of the Hanoverian family at this time, for a year or two later, Frederick, Prince of Wales, accused his father of destroying the will of his uncle Ernest Augustus Duke of York and Bishop of Osnabrück. He died a year after his brother, George the First, and both Prince Frederick and the Queen of Prussia declared that they would have largely benefited by his death had it not been for the chicanery of George the Second. Queen Caroline always stoutly denied this imputation, and maintained that the Duke of York had nothing to leave, except £50,000 which he left to his nephew King George, and his jewels which he bequeathed to his niece the Queen of Prussia, to whom they were immediately sent. But neither the King nor the Queen of Prussia were satisfied with this explanation, and they also had a further dispute with George about the French possessions of his mother, Sophie Dorothea, which she had inherited through her mother, Eléonore d’Olbreuse, who was descended from an ancient Huguenot family of Poitou.

The person who probably lost most by the destruction of George the First’s will was the Duchess of Kendal, but she did not venture to lift her voice in protest. George the Second no doubt felt that she had amassed more than she deserved during the late King’s lifetime, and if he allowed her to remain in peaceable possession of her plunder it was as much as she had any right to expect. The duchess seems to have thought so too, but her daughter, Lady Walsingham, who was also the late King’s daughter, was not so complaisant. When a few years later Lord Chesterfield married her in the belief that she was a great heiress (in which hope he was disappointed), she confided to him that George the First had left her £40,000 in his will, which had never been paid. Lord Chesterfield, who was then out of favour at court and had no hope of regaining it, instituted, or threatened to institute, legal proceedings to recover the legacy. The case never came into court, for half the sum, £20,000, was offered, and accepted, as a compromise.

The aged Duchess of Kendal was the only person in the world who really mourned the late King. Within a week of his death George the First was as completely forgotten as though he had never been; the only reminder of his reign was the official mourning. The Duchess of Kendal had accompanied him on his last journey, but, being indisposed by the sea voyage, she had tarried at the Hague a day to recover, and, like Lord Townshend, was following the King on the road to Hanover, when a messenger rode up to her coach with the tidings of his death. The duchess was overwhelmed with grief; she beat her breast, tore her hair, and rent the air with her cries. But her sorrow did not get the better of her prudence, for, not being sure of the reception that awaited her from the new King, she resolved to remove herself from his Hanoverian dominions, and repaired to the neighbouring territory of Wolfenbüttel. Her fears proved to be groundless, for Queen Caroline harboured towards the ex-mistress no feelings of ill-will, and it followed that the King did not either. On the contrary, Caroline had liked the duchess, who, unlike Lady Darlington, was no mischief-maker, and had personally interceded with George the First, though unsuccessfully, to restore her children to the Princess. Moreover she was such an old-established institution that Caroline had come to look upon her almost in the light of the late King’s wife. The Queen wrote the following letter to her within a fortnight of George the First’s death:—

“Kensington, June 25th, 1727.

“My first thought, my dear Duchess, has been of you in the misfortune that has befallen us; I know well your devotion and love for the late King, and I fear for your health; only the resignation which you have always shown to the divine will can sustain you under such a loss. I wish I could convey to you how much I feel for you, and how anxious I am about your health, but it is impossible for me to do so adequately. I cannot tell you how greatly this trouble has affected me. I had the honour of knowing the late King, you know that to know him was sufficient to make one love him also. I know that you always tried to render good service to the King (George II.); he knows it too, and will remember it himself to you by letter. I hope you realise that I am your friend, it is my pleasure and my duty to remind you of the fact and to tell you that I and the King will always be glad to do all we can to help you. Write to me, I pray you, and give me an opportunity to show how much I love you.—Caroline.”

It is impossible to accept literally these expressions of affection. Allowing for exaggeration they do credit to Caroline’s heart, but the letter was probably dictated as much by prudence as by sympathy, for the Duchess of Kendal was then at Wolfenbüttel, and the Duke of Wolfenbüttel had the duplicate of the late King’s will. Caroline was anxious to avoid a family scandal, for she knew by experience how bad these things were for the dynasty, and in the negotiations which passed between George the Second and the duke it is probable that the Duchess of Kendal played a part, though it is improbable that she received any portion of the subsidy. That matters were amicably arranged is shown by the fact that a few months later the duchess returned to England, and took up her abode at Kendal House, Twickenham, where she lived in comfortable retirement until the end of her days. She no longer appeared at court, but the King and Queen would never permit her to be molested in any way—so she may be said to have enjoyed their protection. She made a cult of her George’s memory, dressing always as a widow and wearing the deepest weeds. She was of a pious, not to say superstitious, turn of mind, and declared that George the First had told her that his devotion was so great that he would return to her even after death. So one day when a raven hopped in at the window the bereaved duchess took it into her head that this was the reincarnation of the dead King. She captured the bird, put it into a golden cage, kept it always by her, and provided for it in her will. Her death took place in 1743, at the advanced age of eighty-five years. Her wealth was divided among her German relations, and Kendal House was converted into a tea garden and afterwards pulled down.

FOOTNOTES TO BOOK III, CHAPTER I:

[1] Pulteney’s Answer to an infamous Libel.

[2] The officers of the Royal Household carried white wands.

[3] Hervey’s Memoirs.

[4] The Earl of Strafford to James, 21st June, 1727.

[5] James to Atterbury, 9th August, 1727.

[6] Lord Orrery to James, August, 1727.

CHAPTER II.
THE QUEEN AND WALPOLE.

George the First was buried at Herrenhausen in accordance with his expressed wish. His funeral did not take place until some three months after his death, and the new King was represented at it by his uncle the Duke of York. His decision not to go to Hanover for his father’s obsequies gave rise to much satisfaction in England, and this combined with his summary dismissal of the Hanoverian favourites was quoted as a proof of his English predilections.

The court mourning came to an end soon after the funeral, and preparations were pushed forward with all speed for the coronation. George the Second determined that it should be a pageant from which no splendid detail was missing. The King and Queen ordered robes of extraordinary richness, but Caroline was badly off for jewels. Queen Anne had possessed a great number of beautiful gems, but Schulemburg, Kielmansegge, and the other German favourites had so despoiled Anne’s jewel-chest, that nothing was left for the new Queen but a solitary pearl necklace. Caroline, however, rose to the occasion and gathered together for the coronation not only all her personal jewels which went to make her crown, but many more. When the great day arrived she appeared, we are told, wearing “on her head and shoulders all the pearls she could borrow from ladies of quality from one end of the town, and on her petticoat all the diamonds she could hire of the Jews and jewellers at the other”.

The coronation of King George the Second and Queen Caroline took place on October 11th, 1727, with all the solemnity suitable for the occasion, and more than the usual magnificence. The day was gloriously fine, and multitudes of people lined the gaily decorated streets. Caroline was the first Queen Consort to be crowned at Westminster Abbey since Anne of Denmark, consort of James the First, from whose daughter Elizabeth the House of Hanover derived its title to the British Crown. The coincidence was hailed as a propitious omen. The Queens-Consort subsequent to Anne of Denmark had been Roman Catholics, and Anne and Mary the Second were Queens-Regnant. Caroline was determined that she would not be relegated to the background, and, so far as circumstances permitted, the ceremonial at this coronation followed more closely that of William and Mary than of James the First and Anne of Denmark. Yet Mary was a Queen-Regnant who placed all her power in her husband’s hands; Caroline was a Queen-Consort who took all her power from her husband’s hands. No two women could be more unlike.

On the day of the coronation the King and Queen set out from St. James’s Palace before nine o’clock in the morning. The King went to Westminster Hall direct. The Queen, who put on everything new for the occasion “even to her shift,” was carried down through St. James’s Park in her chair to Black Rod’s Room in the House of Lords. There she was vested in her state robes, and waited until the officials came to escort her to Westminster Hall. She took her place there by the King’s side at the upper end of the hall, seated like him in a chair of state under a golden canopy; the Queen’s chair was to the left of the King’s. The ceremony of presenting the sword and spurs was then gone through, and the Dean and Canons of Westminster arrived from the Abbey bearing the Bible and part of the regalia. The King’s regalia was St. Edward’s crown, borne upon a cushion of cloth of gold, the orb with the cross, the sceptre with the dove, the sceptre with the cross, and St. Edward’s staff. The Queen’s regalia consisted of her crown, her sceptre with the cross, and the ivory rod with the dove. All these were severally presented to their Majesties, and then delivered to the lords who were commissioned to bear them.

At noon a procession on foot was formed from Westminster Hall to the Abbey. A way had been raised for the purpose, floored with boards, covered with blue cloth, and railed on either side. The procession was headed by a military band, and began with the King’s herbwoman and her maids who strewed flowers and sweet herbs. It was composed in order of precedence from the smallest officials (even the organ blower was not forgotten) up to the great officers of state. The peers and peeresses wearing their robes of state and carrying their coronets in their hands walked in this procession in order mete, from the barons and baronesses up to the dukes and duchesses. The Lord Privy Seal, the Archbishop of York and the Lord High Chancellor followed. Then, after an interval of a few paces came the Queen, preceded by her crown which was borne by the Duke of St. Albans. The Queen was supported on either side by the Bishops of Winchester and London, and she majestically walked alone “in her royal robes of purple velvet, richly furred with ermine, having a circle of gold set with large jewels upon her Majesty’s head, going under a canopy borne by the Barons of the Cinque Ports, forty gentlemen pensioners going on the outsides of the canopy, and the Serjeants of arms attending”.[7] The Queen’s train was borne by the Princess Royal and the Princesses Amelia and Caroline, who were vested in purple robes of state, with circles on their heads; their coronets were borne behind them by three peers. The princesses were followed by the four ladies of the Queen’s Household, the Duchess of Dorset, the Countess of Sussex, Mrs. Herbert and Mrs. Howard. Immediately after the Queen’s procession came the Bishop of Coventry bearing the Holy Bible on a velvet cushion. Then, under a canopy of cloth of gold, walked “His Sacred Majesty, King George II., in his royal robes of crimson velvet, furred with ermine and bordered with gold lace, wearing on his head a cap of estate of crimson velvet, adorned with large jewels, and turned up with ermine”. The King was supported on either side by bishops, and his train was borne by four eldest sons of noblemen and the Master of the Robes, and he was followed by a numerous and splendid company of officials. At the great west door of the Abbey the procession was met by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Dean of Westminster and other ecclesiastical dignitaries. It moved slowly up the nave to the singing of an anthem.

The King and Queen seated themselves on chairs of state, facing the altar, and the coronation service, which is really an interpolation in the office of Holy Communion, began. The Archbishop proceeded with the Communion service until the Nicene Creed, after which a special sermon was preached by the Bishop of Oxford. The sermon over, the King subscribed the Declaration against Transubstantiation and took the Coronation Oath.

The King then approached the altar, and knelt to be crowned. He was anointed by the Archbishop of Canterbury upon his head, his breast, and the palms of his hands. He was presented with the spurs, girt with the sword, and vested with the armills and the imperial pall; the orb with the cross was placed in his left hand, and the ring was put upon the fourth finger of his right hand. The Archbishop also delivered to the kneeling King the sceptre with the cross, and the rod with the dove, and, assisted by the other bishops present, “put the crown reverently upon His Majesty’s head, at which sight all the spectators repeated their loud shouts, the trumpets sounded, and upon a signal given the great guns in the Park and the Tower were fired. The peers then put on their coronets.” When the shouts ceased the Archbishop proceeded with the divine office. He delivered the Bible to the King and read the benedictions. “His Majesty was thereupon pleased to kiss the Archbishops and Bishops as they knelt before him one after another.” Then the Te Deum was sung and the King was lifted upon his throne and the peers did their homage. During this ceremony medals of gold were given to the peers and peeresses, and medals of silver were thrown among the congregation.

THE CORONATION BANQUET OF GEORGE II. AND QUEEN CAROLINE.

The Queen now advanced for her coronation. “Her Majesty, supported by the Bishops of London and Winchester, knelt at the steps of the altar, and, being anointed with the holy oil on the head and breasts, and receiving the ring, the Archbishop reverently set the crown upon her Majesty’s head, whereupon the three princesses and the peeresses put on their coronets, and her Majesty having received the sceptre with the cross and the ivory rod with the dove, was conducted to her throne.”

The King and Queen then made their oblations and received the Holy Communion.

When the long service was over their Majesties proceeded to St. Edward’s Chapel, where the King was arrayed in a vesture of purple velvet, but the Queen retained her robes of state. Their Majesties, wearing their crowns, then returned on foot to Westminster Hall, and the long train of peers and peeresses, all wearing their coronets, followed.

In Westminster Hall the King and Queen took their seats on a daïs at a high table across the upper end of the hall; the three princesses sat at one end of this table. The nobility and other persons of quality bidden to the feast seated themselves at tables running down the hall, and the coronation banquet began. After the first course had been served, the King’s Champion, who enjoyed that office by virtue of being Lord of the Manor of Scrivelsby in Lincolnshire, entered. He was completely armed in a suit of white armour and was mounted on a “goodly white horse richly caparisoned”. The Champion carried a gauntlet in his right hand, and his helmet was adorned with a plume of feathers—red, white, and blue. Approaching their Majesties’ table the Champion proclaimed his challenge in a loud voice:—

“If any person of what degree soever, high or low, shall deny or gainsay Our Sovereign Lord King George II., King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc., and next heir to Our Sovereign Lord King George I., the last King deceased, to be the Right Heir to the Imperial Crown of this Realm of Great Britain, or that he ought not to enjoy the same; here is his Champion who saith that he lyeth and is a false Traytor, being ready in person to combat with him and in this quarrel will adventure his life against him on what day soever he shall be appointed.”

Then the Champion cast down his gauntlet, which, when it had lain some few minutes, was picked up by a herald and re-delivered to him. The Champion went through this performance three times, and after the third he made a low obeisance to the King. Whereupon the cup bearer brought to the King a gold bowl of wine with a cover, and his Majesty drank to the Champion and sent him the bowl by the cup bearer. The Champion, still on horseback, put on his gauntlet, received the bowl and drank from it, and after making a second reverence to their Majesties, departed from the hall, taking with him the bowl and cover as his fee. As soon as the Champion had gone out, the heralds, after three obeisances to the King, proclaimed his style as follows in Latin, French and English:

“Of the Most High, Most Mighty and Most Excellent Monarch George II., by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith.”

These ceremonies over the King and Queen proceeded with their dinner. “The whole solemnity,” we read, “was performed with the greatest splendour and magnificence, and without any disorder; and what was most admired in the hall were the chandeliers, branches and sconces, in which were near two thousand wax candles, which being lighted at once, yielded an exceeding fine prospect.” Their Majesties did not leave Westminster Hall until eight o’clock in the evening, when they returned to St. James’s Palace to rest after their labours. But their loyal subjects prolonged the rejoicings far into the night with bonfires, illuminations, ringing of bells, and other demonstrations of joy.

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who was present at the coronation, wrote a lively account of the scene, though she was more concerned with the deportment of her friends and acquaintances than with details of the ceremonial. She comments on the “great variety of airs” of those present. “Some languished and others strutted,” she writes, “but a visible satisfaction was diffused over every countenance as soon as the coronet was clapped on the head. But she that drew the greater number of eyes was indisputably Lady Orkney. She exposed behind a mixture of fat and wrinkles, and before a very considerable protuberance which preceded her. Add to this the inestimable roll of her eyes, and her grey hairs, which by good fortune stood directly upright, and ’tis impossible to imagine a more delightful spectacle. She had embellished all this with considerable magnificence, which made her look as big again as usual; and I should have thought her one of the largest things of God’s making, if my Lady St. John had not displayed all her charms in honour of the day. The poor Duchess of Montrose crept along with a dozen black snakes playing round her face, and my Lady Portland, who has fallen away since her dismissal from Court,[8] represented very finely an Egyptian mummy embroidered over with hieroglyphics.”[9]

The magnificence of the coronation was the talk of the town for a long time. As London was very full of persons of quality who had come from far and near to attend it, the theatre of Drury Lane seized the opportunity to give a highly ornate performance of King Henry the Eighth, with the coronation of Anne Boleyn at the end of the play, a scene on which £1,000 (an unheard of sum to spend upon mounting a scene in those days) was expended. The scene at Drury Lane rivalled in mock splendour the ceremonial at the Abbey. All the town flocked to see it, both those who had been present at the real coronation and those who had not. The King and Queen and the young princesses came more than once, and graciously expressed their approval. “The Coronation” was repeated in the provinces for a year or two later.

The City of London was not backward in showing its loyalty to George the Second; an address was presented to the King, and the Lord Mayor’s Show was conducted on a scale of unprecedented splendour. The King and Queen attended in state the banquet at the Guildhall, and some idea of the entertainment may be gathered from the fact that two hundred and seventy-nine dishes adorned the feast, and the cost amounted to £5,000.

When the excitement and loyal emotions called forth by the coronation had subsided the English people were better able to take the measure of their second King from Hanover. The process of disillusion soon set in. George the Second had even fewer good qualities than his father. On the battlefield, like all princes of his house, he had shown physical courage, though he had no claim to generalship. He had a certain shrewdness and a vein of caution which kept him from committing any flagrant errors, however foolishly he might talk. But this was the most that could be said in his favour. He was vain and pompous, mean, spiteful and avaricious. All he cared for, it was said, was “money and Hanover”. He neither spoke nor acted like a King, and his small mind was incapable of rising to the height of his position. If he were straightforward it was because he was too stupid to dissemble, and if he seldom lied it was because it involved too great a strain upon his narrow imagination. On the surface it would be impossible to imagine two persons more unsympathetic than the King and Queen, yet the fact remains that they were devoted to one another. George knew that his consort was absolutely loyal to his interests, and in the great loneliness that surrounds a throne he could appreciate the benefit of having one disinterested person whom he could trust and in whom he could confide. In his heart of hearts he knew that his Queen was infinitely his superior, though he would never admit it to himself, to her, or least of all to the world. Yet in public affairs she swayed him as she would.

From the time that Caroline became Queen, until her death, she governed England with Walpole; she did not merely reign but she ruled, and though she was only Queen Consort, admitted by the English Constitution to no share in affairs of state, yet practically she was Queen Regnant, and a more powerful one than any England had known except Elizabeth. Caroline regarded Elizabeth as her great exemplar, and resembled her in many ways—in her love of dominion, her jealousy of any rival near her throne, her diplomatic abilities, her breadth of view in matters of religion, her contempt for trivialities, and her superiority to mere convention. She differed from Elizabeth in that she had a good heart, and though she loved to rule, she was neither tyrannical nor despotic. Elizabeth exercised her power directly, appropriating even the credit due to her Ministers; Caroline’s power was indirect and found its way through tortuous channels. The extent of her power, though suspected, was never fully realised during her lifetime, except by a few persons such as Lord Hervey, who came into daily contact with her, and of course Walpole. Caroline had to be careful not to arouse the King’s jealousy, for, like many weak men, he loved the outward semblance of authority, and this the Queen was more than ready to yield him. The King could have all the show provided she had the substance.

The Queen and Walpole soon came to an understanding, and in the governing of the King and the kingdom they worked in accord. The Prime Minister discussed fully with her affairs of state, and together they planned what should be done. When everything was settled between them, Caroline undertook to bring the King round to their way of thinking. This process generally took place in private, but sometimes, if the matter were urgent, Caroline and Walpole would play into each other’s hands in another way. The Prime Minister would have a conference with the Queen over-night, and the next morning, when he was summoned by the King, Caroline would, as if by accident, enter the royal closet. She would make a deep obeisance and humbly offer to withdraw. The King would tell her to stay; she would take a chair, occupy herself with knotting or something of the kind, and apparently take no interest in the conversation. The King would ask her opinion. “I understand nothing of politics, your Majesty knows all,” she would modestly answer. Delighted with this tribute to his powers George would press for an answer to his question, and then the game of hoodwink would begin. From certain secret signs agreed upon between her and Walpole, the Queen spoke or was silent, gave a qualified opinion or expressed herself plainly. It was all so well managed that neither the King nor other ministers present, if there were any, noticed the least thing. Walpole played with his hat, fidgeted with his sword, took snuff, pulled out his pocket handkerchief or plaited his shirt frill: each detail of this dumb show had its secret meaning. This farce was played not once but many times, over and over again, and though the means were sorry enough, the end was the good of the nation. The personal rule of the monarch as it had existed in the days of the Stuarts was gone for ever; still the King was a force to be reckoned with, and, in foreign politics especially, Walpole would have found the choleric little George a terrible stumbling-block in his path had it not been that the Queen bent him to her will. The King would often announce his intention of doing something incredibly foolish, she would apparently agree with him, yet before long she would bring him round to her point of view, though it was in flat contradiction to his first declaration. When the King set his face against a certain plan of the Prime Minister’s or a certain appointment, Walpole would leave the matter in the Queen’s hands, and by and by the King would suggest to him the very policy or appointment he had opposed, as though it were an idea of his own. Caroline talked her sentiments into her husband’s mind and he reproduced them as faithfully as words talked into a phonograph.

In public the Queen was always obedient, and her manner to the King was submission itself. “She managed this deified image,” says Lord Hervey, “as the heathen priests used to do the oracles of old, when, kneeling and prostrate before the altars of a pageant god, they received with the greatest devotion and reverence those directions in public which they had before instilled and regulated in private. And as these idols consequently were only propitious to the favourites of the augurers, so nobody who had not tampered with our chief priestess ever received a favourable answer from our god; storms and thunder greeted every votary that entered the temple without her protection; calms and sunshine those who obtained it.” The most farcical thing about it was that the little domestic tyrant took all this homage as his due, and to hear him talk his courtiers might think that he was as despotic as the Cæsars and as autocratic as the Tsar. On one occasion his mind ran back over English history (with which, by the way, he was imperfectly acquainted), and he recalled his predecessors on the throne and contrasted them unfavourably with himself. To quote the same authority: “Charles I.,” he said, “was governed by his wife; Charles II. by his mistresses; James II. by his priests; William III. by his men; and Queen Anne by her women-favourites. His father, he added, had been by anyone that could get at him. And at the end of this compendious history of our great and wise monarchs, with a significant, satisfied, triumphant air, he turned about smiling to one of his auditors, and asked him—‘And who do they say governs now?’”

The courtier, we may be sure, was too discreet to say, but ill-affected persons blurted out the truth, and the disaffected journals, from the Craftsman downwards, railed at Walpole for having bought the Queen, and at the King for being governed by her. This was repeated over and over again in ribald verse of which the following will serve as a specimen:—

You may strut, dapper George, but ’twill all be in vain;

We know ’tis Queen Caroline, not you, that reign—

You govern no more than Don Philip of Spain.

Then if you would have us fall down and adore you,

Lock up your fat spouse, as your dad did before you.

The Queen and Walpole were always striving to keep these lampoons away from the King, but some one about the court, probably in the apartments of Mrs. Howard, told him of the existence of this one, and he was exceedingly annoyed. He asked Lord Scarborough if he had seen it. Scarborough admitted that he had. George then asked him who had shown it to him, but he said he had pledged his honour not to tell. The King flew into a passion, and said: “Had I been Lord Scarborough in this situation and you King, the man would have shot me, or I him, who had dared to affront me, in the person of my master, by showing me such insolent nonsense”. Scarborough replied that he had not said it was a man who had shown it to him, which made the King, who regarded this as a pitiful evasion, angrier than ever. By way of showing his independence the King for some time after was more than usually testy with the Queen, contradicting her flatly before all the court whenever she ventured an opinion, snubbing her unmercifully, pooh-poohing her wishes, and generally treating her with almost brutal rudeness. The Queen received this with meekness, and abased herself before the King more than ever. But all the while her power increased.

Soon after the coronation the country was plunged into a general election. The Jacobites came off very badly at the polls, and the Tories little better. Even with the aid of the malcontent Whigs, the Opposition made a poor muster in point of numbers, and when the new Parliament met in January, 1728, the Ministerial majority was even greater than in the last reign. Walpole had won all along the line. The result no doubt was largely due to the way in which the Government had bought owners of pocket boroughs, and to the wholesale bribery wherewith its agents seduced the voters; under such a system of corruption it was impossible for the voice of the nation to make itself effectually heard. Even many of those members of Parliament who were returned to the House of Commons in opposition to Walpole were eventually bought by him. “Every man has his price” was his cynical maxim, and he acted upon it so thoroughly that his name became a byword for corruption. True, the standard of political morality was not high in those days, the party in power, whether Whig or Tory, frequently abused the public trust and misused the public money. But it remained for Walpole to bring organised corruption to such a pitch that it paralysed popular government, and placed the balance of power, neither in the Sovereign, nor in the people, but in the hands of a Whig oligarchy. Such an oligarchy was at this period synonymous with Walpole himself, for the great Minister brooked no rivals in the King’s (or rather in the Queen’s) councils. “Sir Robert,” said the shrewd old Sarah of Marlborough, “likes none but fools and such as have lost all credit.” His earlier Administrations had included a few strong men, but one by one they had to go, unable to work with so jealous and domineering a chief. By bribery Walpole also reduced Parliament to such a condition of impotence that it was hardly more to be reckoned with than the King. The Prime Minister had really no one to consider but the Queen, with whom he had a perfect understanding.

SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

From the Painting by J. B. Van Loo in the National Portrait Gallery.

Thus did Caroline and Walpole rule England. The means whereby they ruled were tainted at the source; the end may, or may not, have justified the means, but at this distance of time, when the fierce controversies which gathered around Walpole’s policy have passed into history, it must be admitted that the results were good. England was sick unto death of internal and external strife, what she needed was a strong hand at the helm and a settled government, and under Caroline and Walpole she secured both, and ten years of peace abroad and plenty at home in addition. This long peace enabled England to recover herself within her borders; British credit, which had sunk to zero, rose higher than it had been for years, trade and commerce increased, land went up in value, wheat became cheaper, and everywhere signs of prosperity were manifest. By degrees, and it was here that Caroline’s tact came in, the different classes of the community were reconciled to the Hanoverian dynasty; the Church and the country squires held out the longest, but though they retained a tender sentiment for the exiled Stuarts they came in some vague way to connect their material prosperity with the maintenance of the Hanoverian régime. This result was not achieved without some loss, chiefly to be found in the lowering of the old ideals. The clergy, from causes on which we shall dwell more fully later, became indifferent, and the Church sank into apathy; the country gentry lost, together with their old passionate loyalty to the King, some of their sense of personal responsibility towards their poorer neighbours, and took a lower view of their duties to the State. Much of the grossness and selfishness which disfigured the eighteenth century was due to an excess of material prosperity, and a consequent lowering of ideals in our national life.

Very soon the King, who when Prince of Wales had always posed as English in all his sentiments, began his father’s game of sacrificing English interests to those of Hanover. So subservient was the new House of Commons, and so unscrupulous were Walpole’s tactics, that only eighty-four members were found to vote against a proposal to pay £280,000 to maintain Hessian troops for the benefit of Hanover; and the subsidy of £25,000 a year for four years to the Duke of Wolfenbüttel, in return for his promise to furnish troops for a similar purpose, was passed with very little opposition. The maintenance of the Hessian troops was part of the price Walpole had to pay the King for preferring him to Compton, and the Duke of Wolfenbüttel’s subsidy was hush-money pure and simple, paid for his handing over the late King’s will.

Though the Opposition was weak in numbers, and suffered from a lack of cohesion in its different groups, it was strong in the quality of its individual members. Pulteney headed the opposition to Walpole in the House of Commons, more especially that part of it which included the malcontent Whigs and the more moderate Tories who supported the Hanoverian succession. It was Bolingbroke who built up this party, and he invented for it the name of “Patriots”. Carteret, and later Chesterfield, were among its leading lights, but Pulteney was the chief. This remarkable man was in the prime of life, and endowed with natural and acquired advantages. He was of good birth, and the owner of great wealth; he had a handsome person, a dignified manner and a cultured mind. His wit and scholarship almost rivalled Bolingbroke’s, and as an orator he had few equals, and no superior, in his generation. Pulteney’s abilities as a statesman were of the highest order; he had been a colleague of Walpole in earlier days, and stood by him in many a hard fought fight. He had therefore the strongest claims for place. But Walpole, jealous of Pulteney’s powers, passed him over for Cabinet office and offered him a minor post in the Government, and a peerage. The latter was refused, the former accepted for a time, but Pulteney soon resigned and went into active opposition. He joined forces with Bolingbroke, and the first fruit of their union was the Craftsman, a journal which fiercely attacked Walpole and his policy, the second was the formation of the Patriots’ party. Bolingbroke, though still excluded from the House of Lords, was able through the medium of the Craftsman to address himself to the wider constituency of the nation. His articles against his lifelong enemy were masterpieces of damaging criticism and polished invective. Besides Bolingbroke, the ablest political writers of the day contributed to the Craftsman.

The most remarkable feature of the Opposition was the fact that it included men who, though differing widely among themselves, were united in common hatred of Walpole. There became practically only two parties in the State, those who were for Walpole and those who were against him; and the differences between malcontent Whig and Tory, Jacobite and Hanoverian, sank into comparative insignificance. Thus Pulteney and Carteret were staunch Hanoverians and Whigs, Barnard was a Hanoverian Tory, Wyndham a Tory with Jacobite leanings, and Shippen a Jacobite out and out; Bolingbroke stood among these parties, partaking a little of them all, and concentrating into himself the essence of their hatred of Walpole.

No English Minister has ever been hated more than Walpole and none has had abler foes. The combination of two such master-minds as Bolingbroke and Pulteney would, under ordinary circumstances, have broken down any Minister. But the circumstances were not ordinary, and no statesman was more successful than Walpole in overcoming his enemies. His success was largely due to the steady support he received from the Queen. To her wise counsels was also something due. Walpole now refrained from violent measures against his political opponents, even under intense provocation. Hitherto in English politics the party in power had consistently persecuted the party in the minority. But now a new era set in; it was possible to oppose a powerful Minister and yet not be sent to the Tower or impeached as a traitor. This more generous policy may be directly traced to Queen Caroline, for Walpole in George the First’s reign had been anything but conciliatory, and no Minister had urged more fiercely than he the impeachment, the exile, and even the death of his political opponents. It was he who had clamoured for the execution of the Jacobite peers. But Caroline now exercised a restraining hand. During her ten years of queenship great freedom of speech was allowed in Parliament and outside it, and the widest liberty was given to the press. Impeachment, fining and imprisonment of politicians in opposition to the Government were things unheard of, and Caroline was careful to conciliate, or to endeavour to conciliate, such members of the Opposition as were loyal, or professed themselves to be loyal, to the Hanoverian dynasty. She remained on good terms with John, Duke of Argyll, who had been the King’s favourite when he was Prince of Wales, but who had now gone into the cold shade of Opposition, and resigned all his offices about the court. She even received Pulteney much against Walpole’s wish, and she had a smile and a gracious word for many of the Patriots when they came her way, always excepting Bolingbroke, whom she never would admit to the least atom of her favour. In Caroline’s wise policy may be seen the germs of that strict impartiality which the Sovereign ought to show towards prominent statesmen, whether they are in office or in opposition. This has now become almost an unwritten law of the English Constitution.

In a far lesser degree Caroline’s influence may also be traced in the way in which Walpole, though possessing the power to force through Parliament any measure he would, refrained from running counter to the popular will, when that will was unmistakably declared. True, here his own inherent statesmanship came in, and counselled moderation. But Caroline also had theories about the popular will and civil liberty which she had acquired in her youth from Sophie Charlotte of Prussia, the “Republican Queen,” and this at least may be claimed for her, that she taught Walpole the art of making his concessions gracefully. Her love of liberty in matters of religion showed itself in the zeal with which she urged indulgence to Protestant dissenters; the time was not supposed to be ripe for the repeal of the penal laws against them, but annual Acts of Indemnity were passed which practically gave them the relief they desired, and drew the fangs of the Test and Corporation Acts. Caroline’s power was most noticeable in the dispensing of patronage; it is not too much to say that in all the ten years she was Queen no important appointment, either in Church or State, was made without her having some voice in it. In this transition period the judicious distribution of patronage influenced largely the future of the nation, and the Queen, who saw further ahead than most of her contemporaries, was fully conscious of its importance. Thus this princess, who little more than a decade before was a stranger to the English laws and constitution, was able to shape and guide the destinies of England.

FOOTNOTES TO BOOK III, CHAPTER II:

[7] “A particular account of the solemnities used at the Coronation of His Sacred Majesty King George II. and of his Royal Consort Queen Caroline on Wednesday the 11th October, 1727,” London, 1760. From the pamphlet the other particulars of the coronation are taken.

[8] She had been appointed governess to the three eldest princesses by George I., but was dismissed by Queen Caroline.

[9] Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Letters and Works. Edited by Lord Wharncliffe.

CHAPTER III.
THE COURT OF QUEEN CAROLINE.

The court of King George the Second and Queen Caroline was conducted on a larger scale than any court England had known since the days of Charles the Second, though it lacked much of the gaiety and more of the grace that enlivened and adorned the court of the Merry Monarch. George the Second was a great lover of show, but he had neither wit nor good taste, and when he assumed the crown he seemed to think that he ought also to assume a stiffness and pomposity of manner to maintain his regal dignity. Like all German princes he was a great stickler for etiquette, and he modelled his court not only on Versailles, which then served as a pattern for all the courts of Europe, but imported to it some of the dulness of Herrenhausen, and further regulated it with strict regard to English precedents in previous reigns. The court officials were often very hard put to it to unearth them. But the King was exceedingly precise and resented the most trifling breach of etiquette as a reflection on his royal dignity. He was a great authority on dress and ceremonial; he could tell to a hair’s-breadth the precise width of the gold braid which should adorn the coat of a gentleman of the bedchamber, and recall with accuracy the number of buttons required for the vest of a page of the backstairs. The Queen encouraged and applauded his bent in this direction; it occupied his mind and left her free to arrange with Walpole the weightier affairs of the nation.

Leicester House was given up and the court made St. James’s Palace its headquarters in London. All the Hanoverian mistresses and favourites who had occupied apartments there during the last reign were turned out without ceremony. The court of Queen Caroline was more select than that of George the First. Drunkenness was still a venial offence, but it was not approved of in the royal presence, and women of notoriously ill repute were no longer received at St. James’s. When the court was at St. James’s, drawing-rooms were held several times a week, public days as they were called, and the King and Queen gave frequent audiences besides. Court balls often took place, and at the evening drawing-rooms cards and high play were still in vogue. Every movement of the King and Queen in public was made the occasion of ceremonial; they attended divine service at the Chapel Royal in state; they walked in St. James’s Park followed by a numerous suite, the way kept clear by guards; they seldom drove out unless preceded by an escort; their visits to the theatre or opera were always announced beforehand, and their coming and going made the occasion of a spectacle. The people, with whom the pomp and circumstance of Royalty is always popular, loved these sights mightily, and all classes were pleased that there was once more a court in London. The King and Queen also revived the custom of dining in public on Sundays. One of the large state rooms of St. James’s Palace was set apart for the occasion, and at a flourish of trumpets the King and Queen and the Royal Family entered and sat down to table in the centre of the room surrounded by the officers of the household. The courses were served with much ceremony on bended knee. The table was decked with magnificent plate and a band played during dinner. The enclosure was railed around, and the public were admitted by ticket, and allowed to stand behind the barriers and watch the royal personages eat, a privilege of which they freely availed themselves. After dinner the King and Queen withdrew to their apartments, their going, as their coming, being made the occasion of a procession.

One of the first acts of the new King and Queen was to make a tour of the royal palaces, which had been practically closed to them since their rupture with George the First. The old King had disliked Windsor and rarely went there, its grandeur oppressed him, and he and his German mistresses felt out of their element in a place steeped in traditions essentially English. George the Second did not care for Windsor any more than his sire, and excused himself from going there often on the ground that it was too far from London. He visited the castle chiefly for the purpose of hunting in the forest. But Caroline loved royal Windsor greatly, and used to go there during the King’s absences at Hanover. In one of the recesses of the picture gallery, now the library, she arranged an extensive and valuable collection of china; the collection was afterwards dispersed, but some of the china remains at Windsor Castle until this day, and is the only relic of Queen Caroline’s occupation.[10]

The King and Queen paid their first visit to Windsor in the autumn of 1728, and great preparations were made to welcome them to the royal borough. “Last Saturday,” we read, “when their Majesties arrived at Windsor, the Mayor, aldermen, and capital burgesses were ready in their formalities to receive them, and the balconies were hung with tapestry and vast crowds of spectators, but their Majesties came the Park way. The King and Queen walked in the Park till dinner time. The next day their Majesties dined in public, when all the country people, whether in, or out of, mourning, were permitted to see them.”[11] On this occasion George the Second assumed his stall in St. George’s Chapel as Sovereign of the Order of the Garter, and made his offering at the altar. The Queen, with the Duke of Cumberland, the Princess Royal, and the Princesses Caroline, Mary and Louisa, were present, and the Queen was seated under a canopy erected on the south side of the choir. A ball was given in the evening. The royal pair hunted the stag in Windsor Forest frequently during the visit, and on one occasion remained out until nine o’clock at night, and on another hunted all day through the rain, chasing the stag as far as Weybridge. The Queen followed the hounds in a chaise with one horse, in the same way that Queen Anne used to hunt in Windsor Forest. During their sojourn at Windsor the King and Queen received one Mrs. Joy, “a widow lady in the ninety-fourth year of her age, who had kissed Charles the First’s hand; she was very graciously received”.[12] The Queen celebrated her first visit to Windsor by giving £350 at Christmas for releasing insolvent debtors confined in the town and castle gaol—her favourite form of charity. The prisoners, to the number of sixteen, were set free.

Kensington was George the Second’s favourite palace, as it had been his father’s. King George the First rebuilt the eastern front and added the cupola. He also improved the interior, notably by making the grand staircase. Then, as now, Kensington Palace was an irregular building with little pretence to beauty and none to grandeur. But our first Hanoverian kings loved it; its homeliness reminded them of Herrenhausen. The Kensington promenades were now revived, and the King and Queen accompanied by the Royal Family would pace down the walks between an avenue of bowing and smiling courtiers. Throughout this reign, and far into the next, Kensington Gardens formed a fashionable resort, and with the promenades are associated many of the great names of the eighteenth century. People were admitted to the gardens by ticket obtainable through the Lord Chamberlain. Thus the promenades developed into a sort of informal court and were much resorted to by persons who did not attend drawing-rooms and levées in the ordinary way, as well as by those who did. The King and the Queen on these morning walks would make many a person happy by singling him out from the crowd with a bow, a smile, or the honour of a few words; or, on the other hand, they would plunge many an aspirant to Court favour into gloom by ignoring him. The origin of these promenades may be traced to the daily walks of the Electress Sophia in the gardens of Herrenhausen, when she used to give audience to her supporters. Like the old Electress, her grandson and his Queen were great walkers. The little King used to walk very fast, with a curious strutting step, and generally forged ahead, leaving his taller and stouter consort to pant along behind him. In a political skit of the day there is an amusing reference to Caroline’s custom of dropping behind her husband. It is headed: “Supposed to be written on account of three gentlemen being seen in Kensington Gardens by the King and Queen while they were walking”. It was written either by Pulteney or Chesterfield, and these two were doubtless represented in it, the third being Wyndham or Bolingbroke. “The great river Euphrates” is the Serpentine, which Caroline created out of a string of ponds. It runs:—

“Now it came to pass in the days of Nebuchadnezzar, the King of Babylon, in the eighth month, of the sixth year, the beginning of hay harvest, that the King and Queen walked arm in arm in the gardens which they had planted on the banks of the river, the great river Euphrates, and behold there appeared on the sudden three men, sons of the giants. Then Nebuchadnezzar the King lifted up his voice and cried: ‘Oh men of war, who be ye, who be ye, and is it peace?’ They answered him not. Then spake he and said: ‘There is treachery, oh my Queen, there is treachery,’ and he turned his face and fled. Now when the Queen had seen what had befallen the King she girt up her loins and fled also, crying: ‘Oh my God!’ So the King and Queen ran together, but the King outran her mightily, for he ran very swiftly; neither turned he to the right hand nor the left, for he was sore afraid where no fear was, and fled when no man pursued.”

The King and Queen probably saw Pulteney, Chesterfield and Bolingbroke coming towards them, and as they were no doubt just then opposing some pet measure of Walpole and of the court, the King not wishing to receive their salutations, and not caring to ignore them, turned on his heel, and, followed by the Queen, hurried off as fast as he could.

Richmond Lodge had now become Caroline’s personal property, and the Queen continued to be very fond of it, and spent large sums of money in enlarging the gardens. Soon after Caroline became Queen she gave £500 for railing and improving Richmond Green, and we read: “A subscription is set on foot among the inhabitants of the town of Richmond for erecting the effigy of her Majesty in the middle of the green”.[13] But this intention was apparently never carried out. The Queen also had a cottage at Kew where she often drove to breakfast from Richmond. She gave the use of it to her favourite, Mrs. Clayton, afterwards Lady Sundon.

HAMPTON COURT, TEMP. GEORGE II.

Hampton Court, more than any other royal palace, has memories of Queen Caroline, and many of its rooms remain to this day much as she left them. The Queen’s dressing-room is almost the same as it was one hundred and seventy years ago; her high marble bath on one side of the room may still be seen, and on the other side is the door that led to her private chapel. Under Caroline’s supervision Hampton Court was altered in many ways, and in some improved. The great staircase was completed and decorated; the Queen’s presence chamber and the guard chamber were altered in a way characteristic of the early Georgian period. The public dining room, which is one of the finest rooms in the palace, was also redecorated, and the massive chimney-piece of white marble which bears the arms of George the Second was placed in it. Nor did the Queen confine her alterations only to the palace. She had a passion for gardening, especially landscape gardening, and the grounds of Hampton Court were considerably changed under her supervision. It was she who substituted wide sweeping lawns for the numerous fountains and elaborate flower beds which until then had ornamented the great fountain garden. Her alterations in many respects were severely criticised.[14]

Both the King and the Queen had pleasant memories of the place where they had celebrated their only regency when Prince and Princess of Wales. The summer after the coronation they came to Hampton Court for some time, and, as long as the Queen lived, a regular practice was made of spending at least two months there every summer. From Hampton Court the King did a great deal of stag hunting; he was especially fond of the pleasures of the chase and would not forego them on any account. His enthusiasm was not shared by the lady members of the royal household. “We hunt,” writes Mrs. Howard from Hampton Court to Lady Hervey, “with great noise and violence, and have every day a very tolerable chance to have a neck broke;”[15] and her correspondent, writing of the same subject, declares her belief that much of Mrs. Howard’s illness was due to this violent riding. The following is a description of one of these expeditions:—

“On Saturday their Majesties, together with their Royal Highnesses the Duke (of Cumberland) and the Princesses, came to the new park by Richmond from Hampton Court and diverted themselves with hunting a stag, which ran from eleven to one, when he took to the great pond, where he defended himself for half an hour, when he was killed. His Majesty, the Duke, and the Princess Royal hunted on horseback, her Majesty and the Princess Amelia in a four-wheeled chaise, Princess Caroline in a two-wheeled chaise, and the Princesses Mary and Louisa in a coach. Her Majesty was pleased to show great condescension and complaisance to the country people by conversing with them, and ordering them money. Several of the nobility attended, amongst them Sir Robert Walpole, clothed in green as Ranger. When the diversion was over their Majesties, the Duke, and the Princesses refreshed themselves on the spot with a cold collation, as did the nobility at some distance of time after, and soon after two in the afternoon returned to Hampton Court.”[16]

The Queen always accompanied the King in her chaise, but she cared nothing for the sport. She took with her her vice-chamberlain, Lord Hervey, “who loved hunting as little as she did, so that he might ride constantly by the side of her chaise, and entertain her whilst other people were entertaining themselves by hearing dogs bark, and seeing crowds gallop”.[17] The King cared only for stag-hunting and coursing; he affected to despise fox-hunting, though the sport was very popular among his subjects. Once, when the Duke of Grafton said he was going down to the country to hunt the fox, the King told him that: “It was a pretty occupation for a man of quality, and at his age to be spending all his time in tormenting a poor fox, that was generally a much better beast than any of those that pursued him; for the fox hurts no other animal but for his subsistence, while those brutes who hurt him did it only for the pleasure they took in hurting.” The Duke of Grafton said he did it for his health. The King asked him why he could not as well walk or ride post for his health; and added, if there was any pleasure in the chase, he was sure the Duke of Grafton can know nothing of it; “for,” added his Majesty, “with your great corps of twenty stone weight, no horse, I am sure, can carry you within hearing, much less within sight, of the hounds.”[18]

At Hampton Court, as at St. James’s, the King and Queen dined in public on Sundays, and the people came in crowds to see the sight. On one of these occasions an absurd incident took place. “There was such a resort to Hampton Court last Sunday to see their Majesties dine,” writes a news-sheet, “that the rail surrounding the table broke, and causing some to fall, made a diverting scramble for hats and wigs, at which their Majesties laughed heartily.”[19] On private evenings at Hampton Court the only amusement was cards, but now and then the King and Queen held drawing-rooms, in the audience chamber.[20] Often in summer, when the nights were fine, the Queen and her ladies would go out and walk in the gardens. We may picture her pacing up and down the avenues of chestnut and lime in the warm dusk, or viewing from the gardens the beautiful palace bathed in the moonbeams. So little is changed to-day that it requires no great effort of the imagination to re-people Hampton Court with the figures of the early Georgian era.

One of the most prominent personages at the Court of Queen Caroline was her favourite, Lord Hervey, whom she had now appointed her vice-chamberlain, and who enjoyed her fullest confidence. The Queen delighted to have him about her at all times, and would converse with him for hours together, asking him questions about a hundred and one things, and laughing at his clever talk. Lord Hervey was a man of considerable wit and ability, and undoubtedly an amusing companion. But he was a contemptible personality, diseased in body and warped in mind, incapable of taking a broad and generous view of any one or anything; ignorant of lofty ideals and noble motives himself, he was quite unable to understand them in others, and always sought some sordid or selfish reason for every action. The Queen, however, overlooking his faults, with which she must have been familiar, and his effeminacies and immoralities, of which she could not have been ignorant, believed that he was a faithful servant to her, and trusted him in no ordinary degree. As a sign of her favour she increased his salary as vice-chamberlain by £1,000 a year, allowed him considerable patronage, which was worth a good deal more, and made him many valuable presents. She treated him rather as a son than as a subject. “It is well I am so old,” she used to say (she was fourteen years Hervey’s senior), “or I should be talked of over this creature.” No one, however, ever talked scandal of her Majesty, though some doubted her judgment in choosing her friends, and it must be confessed that she was unwise in admitting Hervey to so many of her secrets. Notwithstanding that she heaped favours upon him, he repaid her with ingratitude, and when she was dead endeavoured to befoul her memory. But to the Queen’s face he was a fawning and accomplished courtier, and expressed the greatest zeal in her service.

Hervey had a nimble and superficial pen, and sometimes employed himself in writing anonymous pamphlets in defence of the Government and Court against members of the Opposition. A great many of these anonymous pamphlets were showered upon the town at this time, and Pulteney chancing to come across one of them, entitled Sedition and Defamation Displayed, which attacked him and Bolingbroke in no measured terms, thought it was from Lord Hervey’s pen (it afterwards turned out to be not so), and wrote a violent answer, also anonymous, called A Proper Reply to a Late Scurrilous Libel. This pamphlet abused Walpole, and by implication the Court, and applied several opprobrious epithets to Hervey, speaking of him by his nickname “Lord Fanny,” describing him as “half-man and half-woman,” and dwelling malignantly on his peculiar infirmities. The pamphlet was warmly resented at court. Like many who set no bounds to their own malice, Hervey was extremely sensitive to attack, and wishing to curry favour with the King and Queen he wrote to Pulteney to know if he were the author of the pamphlet. Pulteney answered that he would inform him on that point if Hervey would tell him first whether he was the writer of Sedition and Defamation Displayed. Hervey sent back word to say that he had not written the pamphlet, and again demanded an answer to his question. Pulteney returned a defiant message saying that “whether or no he was the author of the Reply he was ready to justify and stand by the truth of every word of it, at what time and wherever Lord Hervey pleased”. This was tantamount to a challenge, and Hervey, though not given to duelling, could not in honour ignore it. A duel was arranged. “Accordingly,” writes an eye-witness,[21] “on Monday last, between three and four in the afternoon, they met in Upper St. James’s Park, behind Arlington Street, with their two seconds, who were Mr. Fox and Sir J. Rushout. The two combatants were each of them slightly wounded, but Mr. Pulteney had once so much the advantage of Lord Hervey that he would have infallibly run my lord through the body if his foot had not slipped, and then the seconds took the occasion to part them. Upon which Mr. Pulteney embraced Lord Hervey, and expressed a great deal of concern at the accident of their quarrel, promising at the same time that he would never personally attack him again, either with his mouth or his pen. Lord Hervey made him a bow without giving him any sort of answer, and, to use a common expression, thus they parted.” Sir Charles Hanbury Williams wrote some lines on this duel, in which, addressing Pulteney, he says:—

Lord Fanny once did play the dunce,

And challenged you to fight;

And he so stood to lose his blood,

But had a dreadful fright.

Among minor figures about the court two of the most familiar were Lord Lifford and his sister, Lady Charlotte de Roussie. They were the children of a Count de Roussie, a French Protestant who came over to England with William of Orange in 1688, and was created by him Earl of Lifford in the peerage of Ireland. They were typical courtiers of the baser sort, and would perform the meanest offices and indulge in the grossest flattery in order to win some rays of the royal favour. They were not popular with any of the English people about the court. Hervey tells us: “They had during four reigns subsisted upon the scanty charity of the English Court. They were constantly, every night in the country and three nights in the town, alone with the King or Queen for an hour or two before they went to bed, during which time the King walked about and talked to the brother of arms, or to the sister of genealogies, whilst the Queen nodded and yawned, till from yawning she came to nodding, and nodding to snoring. These two miserable Court drudges, who were in a more constant waiting than any of the pages of the backstairs, were very simple and very quiet, did nobody any hurt, nor anybody but His Majesty any pleasure, who paid them so ill for all their assiduity and slavery that they were not only not in affluence, but laboured under the disagreeable burdens of small debts, which £1,000 would have paid, and had not an allowance from the Court, that enabled them to appear there even in the common decency of clean clothes. The King nevertheless was always saying how well he loved them, and calling them the best people in the world, but though he never forgot their goodness he never remembered their poverty.”

Another foreign dependent was Schütz, a Hanoverian. Pope, who had lost the favour of the Court, was very bitter upon those who retained it; in one of his ballads he sings:—

Alas! like Schütz I cannot pun,

Like Grafton court the Germans,

Tell Pickenbourg how slim she’s grown,

Like Meadows run to sermons.

Hervey satirises Schütz’s dulness as follows:—

And sure in sleep no dulness you need fear

Who, ev’n awake, can Schütz and Lifford bear.

And again—

Charlotte and Schütz like angry monkeys chatter,

None guessing what’s the language or the matter.

While in another of his satires occur these lines:—

There is another Court booby, at once hot and dull,

Your pious pimp Schütz, a mean Hanover tool.

A personage of quite a different order to the foregoing was Henrietta Louisa, Countess of Pomfret, the authoress of the correspondence with Lady Hertford. Lady Pomfret was the granddaughter on the paternal side of Judge Jefferies, on the maternal of the Earl of Pembroke, and on the strength of the latter claimed descent from Edward the First. Lady Pomfret accepted the post of lady of the bedchamber, but she was of a different type to many of the Queen’s ladies. She was a matron of unimpeachable virtue, the mother of six lovely daughters—all beauties—of whom, perhaps, the best known was Lady Sophia Fermor, afterwards Lady Carteret. Lady Pomfret had a keen sense of her dignity, and she affected a knowledge of literature and the fine arts. The celebrated “Pomfret Letters,” much admired in their day, are packed with platitudes, and so dull that they leave no doubt as to the correctness of her principles. Lady Pomfret was considered by many of her contemporaries to be a prodigy of learning; she seems rather to have been a courtly Mrs. Malaprop. She once declared that “It was as difficult to get into an Italian coach as for Cæsar to take Attica”—by which she meant Utica. On another occasion some one telling her of a man “who talked of nothing but Madeira, she asked gravely what language that was”. But despite her eccentricities she had sterling qualities, and was as much a credit to the court as her daughters were its ornaments.

The Queen’s household was numerous, and included the Mistress of the Robes, the Duchess of Dorset, six ladies of the bedchamber, all countesses; six bedchamber women and six maids of honour. The two most prominent members of it were two bedchamber women, Mrs. Clayton, the Queen’s favourite, and Mrs. Howard, the King’s favourite, who hated one another thoroughly.

Mrs. Clayton had now great influence with the Queen, more indeed than any one except Walpole, with whom she came frequently into collision. She was an irritating woman with an overwhelming sense of self-esteem. Horace Walpole calls her “an absurd pompous simpleton”. Lord Hervey credits her with all the virtues, and declares that she possessed an excellent understanding and a good heart. She undoubtedly possessed cunning and ability, which she used to such advantage that she ultimately procured for her stupid husband a peerage, as Viscount Sundon, and she foisted a large family of needy relatives on to the public service. She acted as a sort of unofficial private secretary to the Queen and became the medium of all manner of communications to her mistress. Many of the letters written to her were really addressed to Caroline. Walpole heartily disliked Mrs. Clayton and tried in vain to shake her influence with the Queen. Her ascendency was inexplicable to him for years, but at last he thought that he had discovered the reason. When Lady Walpole died, the Queen asked him many questions about his wife’s last illness and persistently referred to one particular malady from which, in point of fact, Lady Walpole had not suffered. The Prime Minister noticed it, and when he came home he said to his son: “Now, Horace, I know by the possession of what secret Lady Sundon has preserved such an ascendant over the Queen”. Whether her influence was wholly due to this cause is open to question, for she stood in high favour before her mistress’s malady began. But for long years Caroline suffered from a distressing illness of which she would rather have died than have made it known, and Mrs. Clayton was one of the few who knew her secret.

All the maids of honour except Miss Meadows had changed since the King and Queen were last at Hampton Court, but these young ladies were still of a lively temperament. One evening in the darkness several of them played at ghost, and stole out into the gardens and went round the palace rattling and knocking at the windows. Lady Hervey, who had heard of these frolics, writes to Mrs. Howard: “I think people who are of such very hot constitutions as to want to be refreshed by night walking, need not disturb others who are not altogether so warm as they are; and it was very lucky that looking over letters till it was late, prevented some people being in bed, and in their first sleep, otherwise the infinite wit and merry pranks of the youthful maids might have been lost to the world.”[22]

But, however lively may have been the young maids of honour, one member of the Queen’s household found Hampton Court dull under the new reign and its glory departed. Writing to Lady Hervey Mrs. Howard says:—

“Hampton is very different from the place you knew; and to say we wished Tom Lepell, Schatz and Bella-dine at the tea-table, is too interested to be doubted. Frizelation, flirtation and dangleation are now no more, and nothing less than a Lepell can restore them to life; but to tell you my opinion freely, the people you now converse with” (books) “are much more alive than any of your old acquaintances.”[23]

Mrs. Howard had a good reason to be dispirited, for the new reign had proved a sad disappointment to her. She had expected, and so had her friends, that the King’s accession to the throne would bring her an increase of power, wealth and influence, which would have helped to compensate her for the equivocal position she occupied, a position which, as she was a modest woman, could not have been altogether congenial to her. “No established mistress of a sovereign,” says Horace Walpole, “ever enjoyed less brilliancy of the situation than Lady Suffolk.” The only benefit she received was a peerage for her brother, Sir Henry Hobart, and at the end of a long and trying career at court she managed to amass a sum, not indeed sufficient to give her wealth, but to save her from indigence. The Queen once said that Mrs. Howard received £1,200 a year from the King all the time he was Prince of Wales, and it was increased to £3,200 a year when he became King. He also gave her £12,000 towards building her villa at Marble Hill, near Twickenham, besides several “little dabs” both before and after he came to the throne. But this represented all that Mrs. Howard gained, if indeed she gained so much; patronage or influence she had none, and those who placed their trust in her found themselves out of favour. After a while the courtiers began to find out that it was more profitable to pay their suit to Mrs. Clayton, who had the ear of the Queen, than to Mrs. Howard, who had not the ear of the King. Yet the King still continued to visit Mrs. Howard for some three or four hours every evening, at nine o’clock, “but with such dull punctuality that he frequently walked up and down the gallery for ten minutes with his watch in his hand if the stated minute was not arrived”.[24] The Queen was doubtless glad to get rid of him for a time, but Mrs. Howard must have suffered sadly from the tedium of entertaining her royal master on these daily visits, and certainly deserved more than she got in the way of recompense. She had, as one puts it, “the scandal of being the King’s mistress without the pleasure, the confinement without the profit”. The Queen took care that the profit was strictly limited.

The King was so mean that at one time he even suggested, indirectly, that the Queen should pay Mrs. Howard’s husband out of her privy purse for keeping himself quiet. This was too great a tax even on Caroline’s complaisance and in one of her bursts of confidence she told Lord Hervey that when Howard insisted on his wife returning to him, “That old fool, my Lord Trevor, came to me from Mrs. Howard, and after thanking me in her name for what I had done, proposed to me to give £1,200 a year to Mr. Howard to let his wife stay with me; but as I thought I had done full enough, and that it was a little too much not only to keep the King’s guenipes” (in English trulls) “under my roof, but to pay them too, I pleaded poverty to my good Lord Trevor, and said I would do anything to keep so good a servant as Mrs. Howard about me, but that for the £1,200 a-year I really could not afford it”. So Howard’s silence was bought out of the King’s pocket, and Mrs. Howard’s maintenance was partly provided by him, and partly by the Queen, who gave her a place in her household and so threw a veil of respectability over the affair.

Mrs. Howard found that she gained so little by the King’s accession, that she wished to retire from court, but was not allowed to do so. Meanwhile all her nominations were refused. She seems to have shown her resentment in divers ways. Her refusal to kneel during the ceremony of the Queen’s dressing was perhaps one manifestation of it. With regard to her uprising and retiring, her dressing and undressing, Queen Caroline followed the custom which had been observed by all kings and queens of England until George the First, who refused to be bound by precedent in this matter. Caroline performed the greater part of her dressing surrounded by many persons. The Queen, who had a great idea of what was due to her dignity, desired that the bedchamber-woman in waiting should bring the basin and ewer and present them to her kneeling. Mrs. Howard objected to this, and, considering the peculiar relations which existed between her and the King, her objection was natural enough. But the Queen insisted. “The first thing,” said Caroline to Lord Hervey later, “this wise, prudent Lady Suffolk” [Mrs. Howard] “did was to pick a quarrel with me about holding a basin in the ceremony of my dressing, and to tell me, with her little fierce eyes, and cheeks as red as your coat, that positively she would not do it; to which I made her no answer then in anger, but calmly, as I would have said to a naughty child, ‘Yes, my dear Howard, I am sure you will; indeed you will. Go, go! fie for shame! Go, my good Howard; we will talk of this another time.’”

Mrs. Howard went, and in her dilemma wrote to Dr. Arbuthnot to inquire of Lady Masham, who had been at one time bedchamber-woman to Queen Anne, whether this disputed point was really according to precedent. She got little comfort from Lady Masham, who through Arbuthnot replied:—

“The bedchamber-woman came into waiting before the Queen’s prayers, which was before her Majesty was dressed. The Queen often shifted in a morning; if her Majesty shifted at noon, the bedchamber-lady being by, the bedchamber-woman gave the shift to the lady without any ceremony, and the lady put it on. Sometimes, likewise, the bedchamber-woman gave the fan to the lady in the same manner; and this was all that the bedchamber-lady did about the Queen at her dressing.

“When the Queen washed her hands the page of the backstairs brought and set down upon a side-table the basin and ewer, then the bedchamber-woman set it before the Queen, and knelt on the other side of the table over against the Queen, the bedchamber-lady only looking on. The bedchamber-woman poured the water out of the ewer upon the Queen’s hands.

“The bedchamber-woman pulled on the Queen’s gloves when she could not do it herself.[25]

“The page of the backstairs was called in to put on the Queen’s shoes.

“When the Queen dined in public the page reached the glass to the bedchamber-woman, and she to the lady in waiting.

“The bedchamber-woman brought the chocolate, and gave it without kneeling.

“In general, the bedchamber-woman had no dependence on the lady of the bedchamber.”[26]

As Mrs. Howard was not a lady of the bedchamber but bedchamber-woman only, she found that the Queen had asked of her nothing more than etiquette required, and after a week of indecision she yielded the point, and knelt with the basin as commanded. Horace Walpole, who was fond of imputing base motives to others, says that the Queen delighted in subjecting her to such servile offices, though always apologising to her “good Howard”. But there is no evidence to show that the Queen was capable of such petty spite; she required nothing more than the duties the office involved, however menial they may seem now. The Queen, who bore no malice, soon forgave Mrs. Howard this little display of temper, for she told Lord Hervey: “About a week after, when upon maturer deliberation, she had done everything about the basin that I would have her, I told her I knew we should be good friends again; but could not help adding, in a little more serious voice, that I owned of all my servants I had least expected, as I had least deserved it, such treatment from her, when she knew I had held her up at a time when it was in my power, if I had pleased, any hour of the day to let her drop through my fingers—thus——.”

HENRIETTA HOWARD (COUNTESS OF SUFFOLK).

The Queen’s morning toilet was generally made by her the occasion of an informal levée, and to it she would command all those whom she wished to see on any subject. While her head was being tired a group would be standing around her, and in the ante-chamber divines rubbed shoulders with poets, and learned men with politicians and court ladies. On the Queen’s toilet table would be found not only the requisites for dressing but a heap of other things—a sermon, a new book, a poem in her praise, a report as to her gardens and building plans, a pile of letters on every conceivable subject, and the memorandum of a minister. All these she would deal with quickly and characteristically. She would also on these occasions have retailed to her the latest news, or engage a philosopher and a divine in a dispute upon some abstract question, and would put in a word in the interval of having her head tired and washing her hands. Prayers would be read to her in an adjoining room while she was dressing, in order to save time. The door was left a little ajar so that the chaplain’s voice might be heard. The bedchamber-woman was one day commanded to bid the chaplain, Dr. Maddox, afterwards Bishop of Worcester, to begin his prayers, but seeing a picture of a naked Venus over the fald-stool, the divine made bold to remark: “And a very proper altar piece is here, madam!” On another occasion the Queen ordered the door to be closed for a minute, and then, not hearing the chaplain’s voice, she sent to know why he was not going on with his prayers. The indignant clergyman replied that he refused to whistle the word of God through the keyhole. This latter anecdote is sometimes told of Queen Anne, though, as she was always very devout in her religious observances, it is far more likely to be true of Queen Caroline. It is borne out by the following passage, which occurs in “a dramatic trifle” which Lord Hervey wrote to amuse the Queen, entitled The Death of Lord Hervey or a Morning at Court. The scene is laid in the Queen’s dressing-room. “The Queen is discovered at her toilet cleaning her teeth, with Mrs. Purcell dressing her Majesty’s head, and the princesses, and ladies and women of the bedchamber standing around her. The Litany is being said in the next room”:—

First Parson (behind the scenes): “From pride, vain glory and hypocrisy, from envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness”.

Second Parson: “Good Lord deliver us!”

Queen: “I pray, my good Lady Sundon, shut a little that door; those creatures pray so loud, one cannot hear oneself speak.” [Lady Sundon goes to shut the door.] “So, so, not quite so much; leave it enough open for those parsons to think we may hear, and enough shut that we may not hear quite so much.”

The King seldom honoured these morning levées of his Queen with his presence, for he disliked cosmopolitan gatherings, but sometimes he would strut in and clear out the crowd with scant ceremony. On one occasion he came into the room while the Queen was dressing, and seeing that his consort’s bosom was covered with a kerchief, he snatched it away, exclaiming angrily to Mrs. Howard who was in waiting: “Is it because you have an ugly neck yourself that you love to hide the Queen’s”? The Queen’s bust was said by sculptors to have been the finest in Europe.

The Queen was pleased with Mrs. Howard’s submission in the matter of the basin, and by way of marking her appreciation, she did her the honour of dining with her at her new villa at Marble Hill—that famous villa of which Lords Burlington and Pembroke designed the front, Bathurst and Pope planned the gardens, and Swift, Gay and Arbuthnot arranged the household. But the Queen would allow Mrs. Howard no political influence. Compton and Pulteney, Bolingbroke and other Opposition leaders who had trusted to her found that they had leant on a broken reed. Indeed Mrs. Howard’s goodwill seemed fatal to all her friends. It was through her, unwittingly, that Lord Chesterfield lost the favour of the Queen, though Walpole’s jealousy, and the remembrance the Queen had of his mocking her in the old days at Leicester House, had something to do with it.

Chesterfield, who had been appointed in the last reign Ambassador at the Hague, came over to England some little time after King George the Second ascended the throne to see his friends and pay his respects to their Majesties. He at once repaired to Walpole, who said to him jealously: “Well, my Lord, I find you have come to be Secretary of State”. Lord Chesterfield declared that he had no such ambition, but he said: “I claim the Garter, not on account of my late services, but agreeably with the King’s promise to me when he was Prince of Wales; besides, I am a man of pleasure, and the blue riband would add two inches to my size”. The King kept his word, and Chesterfield was given the Garter, and also the sinecure of High Steward of the Household. All would have gone well with him if he had not been so unfortunate as to get again into the Queen’s bad books. “The Queen,” says Horace Walpole, “had an obscure window at St. James’s that looked into a dark passage, lighted only by a single lamp at night, which looked upon Mrs. Howard’s apartment. Lord Chesterfield, one Twelfth-night at Court, had won so large a sum of money that he thought it imprudent to carry it home in the dark, and deposited it with the mistress. Thus the Queen inferred great intimacy; thenceforward Lord Chesterfield could obtain no favour from Court.” The sum which Lord Chesterfield was said to have won on this occasion was £15,000, which gives some idea of the high play then in vogue. But he lost far more than he gained—the Queen’s goodwill, without which no statesman could hold place in the councils of the King.

FOOTNOTES TO BOOK III, CHAPTER III:

[10] After Queen Caroline’s death George II. rarely went to Windsor, and so neglected the Castle that when George III. ascended the throne it was found to be in a ruinous condition.

[11] Stamford Mercury, 19th September, 1728.

[12] Daily Post, 27th December, 1728.

[13] Country Journal, 22nd June, 1728.

[14] Most of them, both in the palace and the gardens, were carried out by Kent, an unworthy successor to Sir Christopher Wren. Some of Kent’s work at Hampton Court is very incongruous and inferior.

[15] Accidents were not infrequent at these hunting parties. For instance, we read in the newspapers of the day:—

“25th August, 1731.—The Royal Family were hunting, and in the chase a stag started upon the Princess Amelia’s horse, which, being frightened, threw her.

“28th August, 1731.—The Royal Family hunted in Richmond Park, when the Lord Delaware’s lady was overturned in a chaise, which went over but did no visible hurt.”

[16] Stamford Mercury, 22nd August, 1728.

[17] Hervey’s Memoirs.

[18] Ibid.

[19] Stamford Mercury, 25th July, 1728.

[20] The canopy of crimson silk under which Caroline stood is still affixed to the wall of the Queen’s audience chamber at Hampton Court—or was there until lately.

[21] Thomas Pelham to Lord Waldegrave, 30th June, 1730.

[22] Lady Hervey to Mrs. Howard, 7th July, 1729. Suffolk Correspondence.

[23] Mrs. Howard to Lady Hervey, September, 1728.

[24] Walpole’s Reminiscences. Mrs. Howard was lodged at Hampton Court in the fine suite of rooms until recently occupied by the late Lady Georgiana Grey.

[25] Queen Anne’s hands were swollen with gout.

[26] Dr. Arbuthnot to Mrs. Howard, 29th May, 1728. Suffolk Correspondence.

CHAPTER IV.
THE ROYAL FAMILY. 1728.

Frederick Louis, the eldest son of George the Second, still remained at Hanover, though now direct heir to the throne of England, and his father made no sign. Remembering perchance what a thorn he, when Prince of Wales, had been in his father’s side, the King was afraid lest his heir should treat him likewise, and the Queen, whose affection had gone to her younger son, William, Duke of Cumberland, agreed with her husband as to the advisability of keeping their first-born away from England as long as possible. This is more extraordinary when it is remembered that the policy of George the First in keeping Frederick at Hanover was, in the early part of his reign, one of his son’s grievances against him, and he and the Princess frequently urged, both in private and public, that their son should be brought to England. But after the birth of William, Duke of Cumberland, they completely changed their minds, and were as anxious to keep Frederick at Hanover as they had formerly been to have him in England. They would have liked to supplant the elder brother by the younger, who was born on British soil—to give Prince Frederick Hanover only, and reserve the throne of England for Prince William. They forgot that the English crown was not theirs to give. In the latter days of George the First’s reign Walpole urged upon the old King the advisability of bringing his grandson to England, and George would, it was said, have brought him back with him after his last visit to Hanover. But his death on the road thither changed all this.

Neither the King nor the Queen had any affection for their eldest son, who had grown up a stranger to them, and of whom they received unfavourable accounts. On the other hand, it is only fair to say that Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who was by no means given to flattering any one, were he prince or peasant, on her visit to Hanover in 1716 spoke strongly in Frederick’s favour. She writes: “Our young Prince, the Duke of Gloucester, has all the accomplishments that it is possible to have at his age, with an air of sprightliness and understanding, and something so very engaging and easy in his behaviour that he needs not the advantage of his rank to appear charming. I had the honour of a long conversation with him last night before the King came in. His governor retired on purpose, as he told me afterwards, that I might make some judgment of his genius by hearing him speak without constraint, and I was surprised by the quickness and politeness that appeared in everything that he said, joined to a person perfectly agreeable, and the fine fair hair of the Princess.”

The fact that Frederick had grown up under his grandfather’s influence prejudiced his parents against him, more especially when they heard that he espoused the old King’s side in the family quarrel. On the other hand, his father’s tardiness in summoning him to England after his accession and his refusal to pay the debts he had made at Hanover created a bad feeling on Frederick’s part towards his parents. Thus matters stood for more than a year after the coronation, despite the representations of Walpole and the clamours of the Opposition, who attacked the Government for not forcing the King’s hand in this matter. The Privy Council represented the dangers that would ensue from suffering the heir to the throne to remain so long away from the country over which he would one day, under Providence, reign. The King listened very unwillingly, but while he was hesitating an incident occurred which hastened his decision.

Prince Frederick, it will be remembered, was betrothed, more or less formally, to Princess Wilhelmina of Prussia, and his grandfather had promised that the nuptials should be solemnised when he next came to Hanover, but his death postponed the marriage. George the Second and Caroline, though they did not absolutely refuse the alliance, declined to be bound by the late King’s word, and stipulated that their daughter Amelia should marry the Crown Prince of Prussia as a compensation. The Queen of Prussia was more than willing, but the King of Prussia did not want Amelia for a daughter-in-law any more than the King and Queen of England wanted Wilhelmina, and so matters came to a standstill, to the despair of Queen Sophie Dorothea. “I will not have a daughter-in-law,” said the King of Prussia to his Queen, “who carries her nose in the air and fills my Court with intrigues as others are already doing. Your Master Fritz [the Crown Prince] shall soon get a flogging at my hands; and then I will look out for a marriage for him.”[27] The Crown Prince was quite ready to marry Amelia or any one else, if it would give him some independence and protection from his father’s ill-usage. Prince Frederick at Hanover declared himself in love with Wilhelmina, whom he had never seen, but Wilhelmina was anything but in love with Frederick. Her mother had so dinned him into her ears, and had given her such accounts of him, that she had grown to dislike him. “He is a good-natured prince,” the Queen said to her daughter; “kind-hearted, but very foolish; if you have sense enough to tolerate his mistresses, you will be able to do what you like with him.” Wilhelmina declared that this was not the ideal husband of her young dreams; she wanted some one whom she could look up to and respect, and she certainly could not respect Frederick.

Prince Frederick’s vanity was piqued at the delay and he was indignant at his father’s neglect, so, early in the year 1728, he determined to take matters into his own hands. He sent Lamotte, a Hanoverian officer, on a secret mission to Berlin to Sastot, one of the Queen’s chamberlains. When Lamotte reached Berlin he went to Sastot and said: “I am the bearer of a most important confidential message. You must hide me somewhere in your house, that my arrival may remain unknown, and you must manage that one of my letters reaches the King.” Sastot promised, but asked if his business were good or evil. “It will be good if people can hold their tongues,” replied the Hanoverian, “but if they gossip it will be evil. However, as I know you are discreet, and as I require your help in obtaining an interview with the Queen, I must confide all to you. The Prince Frederick Louis intends being here in three weeks at the latest. He means to escape secretly from Hanover, brave his father’s anger, and marry the Princess. He has entrusted me with the whole affair, and has sent me here to find out if his arrival would be agreeable to the King and Queen, and if they are still anxious for this marriage. If she is capable of keeping a secret and has no suspicious people about her, will you undertake to speak to the Queen on the subject?”[28]

The same evening the chamberlain went to Court and confided to the Queen the weighty communication with which he was entrusted. The Queen was overjoyed, and the next day communicated the glad news to her daughter. “‘I shall at length see you happy, and my wishes realised at the same time; how much joy at once,’ cried the Queen. ‘I kissed her hands,’ said Wilhelmina, ‘which I covered with tears.’ ‘You are crying,’ my mother exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’ I would not disturb her happiness, so I answered: ‘The thought of leaving you distresses me more than all the crowns of the world could delight me.’ The Queen was only the more tender towards me in consequence, and then left me. I loved this dear mother truly, and had only spoken the truth to her. She left me in a terrible state of mind. I was cruelly torn between my affection for her, and my repugnance for the Prince, but I determined to leave all to Providence, which should direct my ways.”[29]

The Queen held a reception the same evening, and, as ill-luck would have it, the English envoy Bourguait came. The Queen, forgetting her prudence, and thinking the plan was well matured, actually confided to him the Prince’s project. Bourguait, overwhelmed with astonishment, asked the Queen if it were really true. “Certainly,” she replied, “and to show you how true it is, he has sent Lamotte here, who has already informed the King of everything.” “Oh! why does your Majesty tell me this? I am wretched, for I must prevent it!” exclaimed the envoy. Greatly dismayed, the Queen asked him why. “Because I am my Sovereign’s envoy; because my office requires of me that I should inform him of so important a matter. I shall send off a messenger to England this very evening. Would to God I had known nothing of all this!” The Queen entreated him not to do so, but he was firm, and despatched the messenger to England. Thus did Queen Sophie Dorothea defeat the scheme for which she had toiled many years at the very moment of its fruition.

On receipt of the news George the Second sent Colonel Lorne to Hanover, with commands to bring the Prince over to England without an instant’s delay. When Lorne arrived at Hanover a few days later he found Prince Frederick giving a ball at Herrenhausen. He gave the King’s message, and acted with so much despatch that at the end of the ball the Prince, escorted by Lorne, and attended by only one servant, quitted Hanover for ever. His plot had failed; there was nothing else to be done. The rage and disappointment when the news of the Prince’s departure reached the Court of Berlin was very great. The King blustered and swore, called Wilhelmina “English canaille,” and beat her and her brother in a shocking manner; the Queen broke down and took to her bed; Wilhelmina fainted away. But it was all to no purpose; not only her marriage, but the double marriage scheme, vanished into thin air.[30]

Frederick did not find a warm welcome awaiting him from his parents. The Prince landed in England the first week in December (1728), and made his way to London; he arrived at St. James’s without any ceremony, and was smuggled up the backstairs as though he had been a pretender rather than the heir-apparent to the crown. “Yesterday,” we read, “His Royal Highness Prince Frederick came to Whitechapel about seven in the evening, and proceeded thence privately in a hackney coach to St. James’s. His Royal Highness alighted at the Friary, and walked down to the Queen’s backstairs, and was there conducted to her Majesty’s apartment.”[31]

It must have been a strange meeting between mother and son. The Queen received him amiably; the succession could not be altered, so she determined to make the best of him, but the King was very harsh. George had an unnatural and deep-rooted aversion to his eldest son, whom he regarded as necessarily his enemy. This peculiarity was hereditary in the House of Hanover for some generations, for the Sovereign and his first-born were always at war with one another. Some pity must be extended to the young Prince, who never had a fair chance. He was only twenty-two years of age when he came to England, and he found himself among strangers and enemies in a country of which he knew nothing. He was very shy and frightened at first, and his father’s manner did not tend to reassure him. Lord Hervey says that, “Whenever the Prince was in the room with him (the King) it put one in mind of stories that one has heard of ghosts that appear to part of the company but are invisible to the rest; and in this manner, wherever the Prince stood, though the King passed him ever so often, or ever so near, it always seemed as if the King thought the Prince filled a void of space”. The Prince did not dine in public at St. James’s the Sunday after his arrival, but the Queen suffered him to hand her into her pew at the Chapel Royal, and this was his first appearance before the English Court. But, however much his parents might slight him, the fact remained that he was, by Act of Parliament, heir to the throne, and, through the insistence of the Privy Council, the King soon after his arrival created him Prince of Wales. But he was careful not to give him the allowance of £100,000 a year which had been voted by Parliament for the Prince of Wales in the Civil List. True, Parliament had given the King control over the Prince’s income, and he exercised it by giving him only a small allowance. The young Prince quickly made friends, some of them not of a very desirable character. He had been taught to speak English fairly well, and he had pleasant manners. He had inherited from his mother a taste for letters, and he also possessed the art of dissimulation and a love of intrigue. He had not the slightest affection for either of his parents—how could he have?—and he soon began to deceive them, a task in which he found plenty to help him. Lady Bristol in one of her letters gave a very flattering account of him as being “the most agreeable young man it is possible to imagine, without being the least handsome, his person little, but very well made and genteel, a loveliness in his eyes that is indescribable, and the most obliging address that can be conceived.” The poets praised him; and one sycophant rhapsodised over him as follows:—

Fresh as a rose-bud newly blown and fair

As op’ning lilies: on whom every eye

With joy and admiration dwells. See, see

He rides his docile barb with manly grace.

Is it Adonis for the chase arrayed

Or Britain’s second hope?

The first hope presumably was the King, the other hopes were the rest of the royal children. They were not a lovable family, nor was there any love lost among them. They disliked one another thoroughly, but, with the exception of Frederick, they were all devoted to their mother, and they all united, Frederick included, in disliking their father, who on his part disliked them. The King had rarely a kind word for any of his children, and in his old age he admitted it. “I know I did not love my children,” he said. “When they were young I hated to have them running about the room.” Caroline, on the other hand, was devoted to all her children, except the Prince of Wales, whom long absence had estranged from her. One of her first acts after becoming Queen was to dismiss the state governess, and have her daughters educated under her immediate supervision. She was a Spartan mother, and a firm believer in the proverb: “Spare the rod, spoil the child”. The Duchess of Marlborough relates how on one occasion when she went to see the Queen, then Princess of Wales, she found her chastising little Prince William, who was roaring and kicking lustily. The Prince was looking on complaisantly. The duchess tried to soothe the youthful delinquent. “Ah, see,” cried George Augustus, “you English are none of you well-bred, because you were not whipped when you were young.” “Umph!” quoth her Grace. She afterwards said, “I thought to myself, I am sure you could not have been whipped when you were young, but I choked it in”.

Anne, Princess Royal, was now in her twentieth year. She had little beauty, and her figure was short and squat, but she had fair abilities and several accomplishments; she could paint well, speak three languages, and was an excellent musician. Her favourite recreation was the opera, and she loved to get professional singers and players around her, and practise with them. She was vain and ambitious, and once told her mother that she wished she had no brothers, so that she might succeed to the throne. On the Queen’s reproving her, she said: “I would die to-morrow to be Queen to-day”. Unfortunately for her ambition, heirs to thrones or reigning monarchs were in no wise attracted to her, and so far no eligible candidate for her hand had come forward. The Queen also once rebuked her for her lack of consideration to her ladies. She noticed one morning that she kept her lady standing for a long time, conversing with her on some trifling matter, while she herself remained seated. In the evening Anne came to her mother to read to her and was about to sit down. “No, my dear,” said the Queen, “you must not sit down at present, I intend to keep you standing for as long a time as you kept Lady —— in the same position this morning.”

The second daughter, Princess Amelia, or Emily, as she was more generally called, was better looking than her sister and far cleverer. In her youth she had considerable pretensions to beauty, and her ready wit made her the most popular of the princesses. “The Princess Amelia,” writes Lady Pomfret enthusiastically to Mrs. Clayton, “is the oddest, or at least one of the oddest princesses that ever was known; she has her ears shut to flattery and her heart open to honesty. She has honour, justice, good-nature, sense, wit, resolution, and more good qualities than I have time to tell you, so mixed that (if one is not a devil) it is impossible to say she has too much or too little of any; yet all these do not in anything (without exception) make her forget the King of England’s daughter, which dignity she keeps up with such an obliging behaviour that she charms everybody. Do not believe her complaisance to me makes me say one silible more than the rigid truth; though I confess she has gained my heart and has added one more to the number of those few whose desert forces one’s affection.”[32]

This paragon of a princess had been the destined bride of the Crown Prince of Prussia afterwards Frederick the Great, but as the double marriage scheme fell through she continued single. Several minor German princes offered themselves, but she did not think them worthy of her acceptance. Yet she was far from indifferent to admiration, and had a liking for men’s society. She was of a masculine turn of mind, and her happiest hours were passed in the hunting field, and the stables and kennels. She liked to spend much time with her horses and discuss their points minutely with the grooms, and one Sunday she shocked the good people of Hampton Court by going to church in a riding costume with a dog under each arm. She shared her father’s passion for hunting, and was a far better rider than he. She used to hunt in a costume which was masculine rather than feminine, and rode hard and fearlessly, followed by her favourite groom, Spurrier. There is a curious portrait of her in a round hunting cap and laced scarlet coat, which makes her look like a man. She had flirtations with the Duke of Newcastle and the Duke of Grafton; that with the latter was serious. It went on for a long time, and the Princess seems really to have been attached to him, though he was much older than she.

THE PRINCESS AMELIA.

(SECOND DAUGHTER OF GEORGE II.)

The Duke of Grafton, the Lord Chamberlain, was a grandson of Charles the Second, and had the personal beauty and charm of manner characteristic of the Fitzroys. He made no secret of his attentions to the Princess, and she received them with a great deal of favour. Queen Caroline was annoyed at what she considered was the duke’s presumption in aspiring to be her daughter’s lover. She also resented his familiar manner towards herself; he frequently addressed her as though he were her equal, and indeed he considered himself to be a scion of royalty. He once told her that he believed it was not in her nature to love any one, to which she replied: “But I love the King”. He answered: “By God, ma’am, I do not know, but if I were King of France I would soon find out whether you did or not”. He used to tease her also with the tale that she was in love with some German prince before her marriage to the Electoral Prince of Hanover, and ended by saying: “God, ma’am, I wish I could see the man you could love”. As she could not repress him, Caroline affected to treat these familiarities as a joke, but she secretly resented them. She did her best to put an end to the intimacy between her daughter and the duke, but without much effect. The Princess Amelia and the duke would go a-hunting together two or three times a week, and frequently rode away from the rest of the party. On one occasion at Windsor their attendants lost them altogether, and they did not return to the castle until long after it was dark. It was said that they had gone together to a private house in Windsor forest and there remained. The King was absent from England at the time this happened, but the Queen was highly incensed, and soundly rated Amelia on her imprudence. She would have complained to the King about the Duke of Grafton, but Walpole dissuaded her from doing so. The duke would not have cared, and it would have done the princess harm.

The year after the King’s accession to the throne Princess Amelia went to Bath to drink the waters, attended by Lady Pomfret. Royal visits to Bath were as yet few and far between, indeed the only royal personages who had visited Bath before the Princess were Queen Anne (before she came to the throne) with her husband Prince George of Denmark.[33] Princess Amelia was received by the Mayor and Corporation in full state, and a hundred young men on horseback met her coach at the North Gate and formed an escort to her lodgings. Bath had already become a gay and fashionable place, and many persons of quality and of no quality at all, who suffered from gout, rheumatism, the results of dissipation, or that mysterious ailment which the ladies of the eighteenth century called “vapours,” flocked thither to drink the waters and kill the time. The pump room and assembly-rooms were “elegantly fitted” and a band played daily. Breakfast parties were much the vogue at “one and twenty pence a piece,” and the forenoon was passed in drinking the waters and listening to the concert. In the afternoon there were the bowling greens and the promenade in the gardens skirting the river, the toy shops and the coffee-houses where the beau monde loitered, drinking “dishes of tea” and eating Bath buns. In the evening there were cards and dancing—and there was scandal all day long. Bath was then under the reign of “King” Nash, who had become its arbiter elegantiarum. Opinions differ as to the services Nash rendered to Bath. Some say he made the place; others that he merely cloaked the grossness and licentiousness of the fashionable world there by throwing over it a garb of mock ceremony. Certainly Bath was a hotbed of gambling, and many undesirable characters were attracted thither simply by the high play.

Princess Amelia’s arrival caused quite a flutter in the gay world of Bath. She took the waters in the morning, and after drinking them strolled in Harrison’s walks, all the men and women of fashion following after her or keeping within a respectful distance. But there was one who would not pay her homage, and she was Lady Wigtown, a Jacobite peeress. One day in the public garden Lady Wigtown met the Princess face to face, and without taking the slightest notice of her, she pushed aside the ladies-in-waiting and walked past. Of this incident Lady Pomfret writes to Mrs. Clayton: “Lady Frances Manners asked me if I knew my Lady Wigtown (a Scottish countess). I said I had never heard of her in my life, and believed she had not yet sent to the Princess; upon which both she and the Duchess of Rutland smiled, and said: ‘No, nor will, I can tell you; for seeing the Princess coming to the pump the morning before, she had run away like a Fury for fear of seeing her; and declares so public an aversion for the King, etc., that she would not go to the ball made on the Queen’s birthday; and some of that subscription money remaining, the company had another ball, which she denied going to, and told all the people it was because the Queen’s money made it’.”[34]

These balls began at six o’clock in the evening, and were under the direction of Beau Nash, who commanded that they should be over by eleven at the latest. When the first stroke of the hour sounded the Beau waved his wand, and the music ceased, though it were in the middle of a dance. Once the Princess Amelia objected to this summary ending. “One more dance, Mr. Nash; remember I am Princess.” “Yes, madam, but I reign here and my law must be kept.”

It was creditable to the Princess Amelia that Lady Wigtown’s rudeness made no difference to her courtesy to the other Jacobites and Roman Catholics, of whom just then Bath was full. Acting under instruction from her mother, she had a gracious word and a smile for all of them who came her way. Among others were the unfortunate Lord Widdrington and his lady. Lord Widdrington was one of the Jacobite peers condemned to death for the part they had taken in the rising of ’15, but he was ultimately pardoned, though his estates were forfeited. He brought his broken health and ruined fortunes to Bath, where he was living in comparative poverty when the Princess Amelia came there. The Princess noticed Lady Widdrington in the Pump Room, and asked who she was. When she was told she talked to her, walked with her, and generally took much notice of her. “Her kindness,” writes Lady Pomfret, “had such an effect upon all that sort [Jacobites] in this city that is hardly to be imagined, and they all speak of the Princess Amelia as of something that has charmed them ever since.” But another lady in waiting, Mrs. Tichburne, was perturbed lest the Princess’s graciousness to a “rebel’s wife” should be misunderstood, and Lady Pomfret thought well to ask Mrs. Clayton to explain matters to the Queen. She need not have troubled, for the Princess had only done as the Queen wished.

It is a pity that we cannot take leave of the Princess Amelia with this pleasing illustration of her amiability. But truth compels us to add that as she grew older her character sadly deteriorated. She developed into a hard, mean, inquisitive woman, and was often insolent without provocation. Perhaps this was due to the crossing of her young affections, and her nature, driven back upon itself, grew warped in the cramped atmosphere of the court. In later life Bath continued to be a favourite resort of the Princess Amelia, for here she could indulge in her love of cards and scandal without let or hindrance; she used to play night after night for very high stakes, refreshing herself with pinches of snuff during the game. One night when she was playing in the public card room at Bath an old general, who was seated next her, ventured to take a pinch of snuff out of her box, which stood by him on the table. She haughtily stared at him without making any remark, and then beckoning to her footman, ordered him to throw the snuff in the fire and bring her a fresh box. Little peculiarities like this did not tend to make her popular, and she grew to be generally disliked. She lived far into the reign of her nephew George the Third, and died unmarried.

The third daughter, Princess Caroline, was of a very different disposition to her elder sisters; she had no beauty, and suffered from delicate health, but she had much quiet goodness and unobtrusive piety. When she was a child her parents used to say of her: “Send for Caroline, and then we shall know the truth”. She was the Queen’s favourite daughter, and was greatly attached to her. Constantly with her mother, she was thrown a good deal into the companionship of Lord Hervey, and conceived for him a deep and lasting love, a most unfortunate attachment, as Lord Hervey was by no means a worthy object for her devotion, even if he had been able to requite it properly, which he could not, as he was married to the beautiful Lepel. Her attachment flattered his vanity, and he must have secretly encouraged it. The hopelessness of her passion made no difference to the gentle Princess; she continued to cherish it until Lord Hervey’s death, and even after his death she testified her devotion to his memory by showing great kindness to his children. After she lost her mother she became a confirmed invalid, and spent her life in retirement and works of benevolence. She died unmarried.

William, Duke of Cumberland, the second surviving son of George the Second and Caroline, was at the time they came to the throne a boy, and had not yet developed those unamiable qualities he displayed in later life, which earned for him undying infamy as “the butcher of Culloden”. He was a precocious youth, very grave and solemn in his demeanour, not caring to play like other boys, but preferring to mope in a corner over a book, or to gaze at uniforms and military evolutions—for quite early in life he showed a strong predilection for the army. Some characteristic anecdotes are related of his early years. When a child he was taken on one of his birthdays to see his grandfather, George the First. The King asked him at what time he got up in the morning; the young duke replied: “When the chimney-sweepers are about”. The King asked: “Vat are de chimney-sweepers”? “Have you been so long in England,” said his grandson, “and do not know what a chimney-sweep is? Why, he is like that man there;” and he pointed to Lord Finch, afterwards Earl of Winchelsea and Nottingham, who was in attendance. Lord Finch, like the rest of his family, “the black funereal Finches,” had a very swarthy complexion, and after this he was generally known by the nickname of “The Chimney Sweep”. On another occasion, after a display of temper, his mother ordered the duke to be locked up in his room. When he came out he was downcast and sullen. “William,” inquired the Queen, “what have you been doing?” “Reading,” he said shortly. “Reading what?” “The Bible.” “And what did you read there?” “About Jesus and Mary.” “And what about them?” asked the Queen. “Why,” replied William, “that Jesus said to Mary: ‘Woman, what hast thou to do with me?’”

Lady Strafford has left an account of the Duke of Cumberland’s birthday reception, a sort of children’s party which represents the young prince in a more amiable light:—

“My love” (her son, Lord Wentworth), she writes, “is perfectly well and vastly delighted with his Court ball. I took him to Court in the morning, and the Queen cried out: ‘Oh! Lord Wentworth! how do you do? you have mightily grown! My lady, he is prodigiously well dressed. I hope you will let him come to our ball to night.’ After the drawing-room was over the duke had a levée in his own room, so I desired my brother to take him there, and the duke told him he hoped he would do him the favour to come at night. But as a great misfortune Lady Deloraine fell in labour, and was just brought to bed of a dead son; so they could not have the room they used to dance in (it being next to hers), so they had a bad little room and they did not dance French dances. Princess Amelia asked Lord Wentworth to dance one with her, and afterwards the duke gave him Lady Caroline Fitzroy for his partner. They had a supper of cold chicken, tongue, jelly and sweetmeats, but they were (served) in an odd manner, for they had neither knives nor plates, so that well as my love loves eating, he says he ate but a leg of a chicken, for he says he did not (think) it looked well to be pulling greasy bones about in a room full of princesses; the way of getting rid of the bones was the children threw them out of the window. The King was present to see them dance, but not the Queen. The ball ended about half an hour after ten. The duke was quite free and easy, and extremely civil.”

Of the two younger princesses, Mary and Louisa, there is little to be said, as they were children during their mother’s lifetime. Mary, like her sister Caroline, was of a soft and gentle disposition. Some years after her mother’s death she was married to Frederick, Hereditary Prince of Hesse-Cassel, an obstinate, ill-tempered prince, who treated his wife with cruelty and infidelity, and her life was a very unhappy one. She survived her husband a few years.

Princess Louisa, the youngest of them all, was by far the most beautiful of Queen Caroline’s daughters, and inherited her mother’s abilities and accomplishments. She married Frederick, Crown Prince of Denmark, and in due time became Queen of Denmark. Her married life was not altogether happy, but she had her mother’s philosophy and made the best of it. She died of the same illness as Queen Caroline, and curiously enough from the same cause—concealing the nature of her malady until it was too late.

Though the King enjoyed an enormous Civil List he was exceedingly mean to his children. To his daughters, though three of them had now grown up, he gave little or nothing. Anne and Amelia were often in need of pocket-money, and not above borrowing of the people about the court. Their dress allowance was exceedingly small, and if their mother had not helped them, they would scarcely have been able to make a presentable appearance at their father’s drawing-rooms. There is a curious old paper extant,[35] endorsed “Mrs. Powis,” who was probably dresser to the Princesses, which gives some idea of their wardrobe. The following extracts may be quoted:—

“What was delivered yearly for each Princess (Anne, Amelia and Caroline):

“Winter Clothes:—

Two coats embroider’d, one trim’d or rich stuff, and one velvet or rich silk without.

Three coats brocaded or damask.

A damask night-gown.

Two silk under petecoats, trim’d with gold or silver.

“Summer Clothes:—

Three flower’d coats, one of them with silver.

Three plain or stripped lastrings.

One night-gown and four silk hoops.

Shoes: a pair every week.

Gloves: sixteen dozen in the year; 18s. per dozen.

Tans: no allowance, but they did not exceed eight guineas per annum.

Mouslines and lawns were bought as wanted, no settled price.

“Sundries:—

No certain allowance for ribbons or artificial flowers.

Powder, patches, combs, pins, quilted caps, band boxes, wax, pens and paper, came to about £40 per annum for the three princesses, paste for hands and pomatum came from the apothecary, Mr. Tagar, and did not come into my bill.

I paid the tire woman 129 guineas a year.

I paid for tuning the harpsichord, food for their birds, and many other little things belonging to their Royal Highnesses, which were too trifling to mention, which whilst the Duke was with them came to £50 per annum.

Their Royal Highnesses had each a page of honour and gentleman usher at £100 sallary.

Each one had a dresser at £50, and one chambermaid, I do not know at what sallary.

Also one page of the backstairs.

The Princesses used the Queen’s coaches, footmen and grooms.”

The Princesses led singularly idle, purposeless lives; Anne and Amelia chiefly occupied themselves with card-playing and the petty intrigues of the court, and the way their father treated them led them early to lie and practise the arts of dissimulation. Even Princess Caroline, when we have credited her with all the virtues, remains a colourless nonentity. The Princesses always appeared at court festivities and took part in whatever was going on, and the Queen would often relax some of the stiffness of etiquette for the benefit of the young people. For instance, sometimes after the evening drawing-rooms she would turn the function into a ball. We read:—

“On Monday night His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and the Princess Royal opened a ball at Court with a minuet, and afterwards they danced several set dances with several of the quality till between four and five o’clock next morning. Her Majesty was richly dressed, and wore a flowered muslin hood with an edging. The Princess Royal had the like, which makes it believed that muslins will come into fashion. There never was seen so great an appearance, either for number or magnificence as on the like occasion.”[36]

Nor was the King to be outdone in the splendour of his attire; indeed he outshone the Queen, for he loved dress and display far more. We read: “His Majesty appeared in a suit of crimson velvet with gold buttons and button holes, sleeves faced with rich tissue, and a waistcoat of the same.”

The great days at court were the royal birthdays. The birthdays of the Prince of Wales and all the royal children were duly celebrated. The Queen’s birthdays were always largely attended, and so were the King’s at the beginning of the reign. But after his visits to Hanover he became very unpopular, and he noted with ire that not only was the attendance meagre at his drawing-rooms, but there were no new clothes for the occasion. If any of the great nobility absented themselves from the drawing-rooms for any time, as some occasionally thought fit to do, they were generally conciliated by the Queen and persuaded to put in an appearance again. The birthday drawing-rooms were chiefly remarkable for the splendour of the clothes, every one appearing in his best, and even the royal footmen being arrayed in new liveries. “There was his Majesty in scarlet and gold,” writes a correspondent; “the Duke of Cumberland in blue trimmed with silver; the Princess Anne in silver and colours of yellow; the Princess Louisa in a dark green velvet, embroidered in gold; my Lady Browne in scarlet, with great roses not unlike large silver soup plates, made in an old silver lace, and spotted all over her gown.”

But these were great occasions; in the ordinary way the private life of the court was dull, even in these early days of the reign, and there was little doing except ombre or quadrille. Peter Wentworth, who was now one of the Queen’s equerries and was sometimes in attendance on the Prince of Wales and sometimes on the Princess Royal, gives a fair description of how the Royal Family spent their evenings. Writing to his brother Lord Strafford, he says:—

“The quadrille table is well known, and there is a large table surrounded by my master (the Prince of Wales), the Princesses, the Duke of Cumberland, the bedchamber ladies, Lord Lumley, and all the belle-assemblée, at a most stupid game, to my mind, lottery ticket. £100 is sometimes lost at this pastime. The maids play below with the King in Mrs. Howard’s apartment, and the moment they come up, the Queen starts up and goes into her apartment.... T’other night Lord Grantham and the Queen had a dispute about going to a room without passing by the backstairs; she bade him go and see; he did, and came back as positive as before. ‘Well,’ says she, ‘will you go along with me if I show you the way?’ ‘Yes, madam,’ says he. Up she starts, and trots away with one candle, and came back triumphant over my Lord Grantham. The belle-assemblée was in an uproar, thinking the King was ill, when I told them ’twas a wager between the Queen and my Lord Grantham.”[37]

The Queen was fond of these little jokes, for on another occasion we find Peter Wentworth writing: “Sunday, in the evening the Queen commanded me to order her a chaise and one horse, and a coach and six to follow, for Monday, at six o’clock in the morn, and six Life Guards and two Grenadiers, and your humble servant a-horseback, which was to be kept a great secret. When I had put her Majesty into her chaise with Princess Mary, she bid me ride and tell the Colonel of the Guard not to beat the drum as she passed out [of St. James’s]. We drove to the foot ferry at Kew, where there was a barge of four oars which carried her Majesty, Princess Mary, Mrs. Purcell and I to the Queen’s house at Kew. The whole joke of keeping this a secret was upon Lord Lifford, who had said ’twas impossible for her Majesty to go out at any time but he should know it. When we came there, therefore, the Queen sent for the other Princesses, Lord Hervey and Lord Lifford to breakfast with her. Lord Hervey, Princess Caroline and Princess Louisa came before ten; the Queen, Mrs. Purcell and I walked twice round the garden before they came. We had a fine breakfast, with the addition of cherries and strawberries we plucked from the garden, some of which the Queen gave me with her own hand; and said to Lord Hervey C’est un très bon enfant, and repeated it several times, Lord Hervey assenting. I never suspected she spoke of me, which she, perceiving, said in English: ‘We are speaking of you; you know I love you, and you shall know I love, I do really love you’. I made low bows, but had not the impromptu wit nor assurance to make any other answer.”[38]

And again:—

“On Saturday when the Queen was at Kew, the Blue Horse Guards in stocks stood sentry there. As she goes up the court she says to Lord Lifford and me: ‘I’ll lay you what you will he of the right is a Scotsman, and he of the left an Englishman and a Yorkshireman’. When she came up to them, she asked him of the right, who was a handsome young fellow and a gentleman volunteer: ‘What countryman are you?’ ‘A Scotsman, your Majesty.’ ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Hamilton.’ ‘Of what family?’ ‘The dukes of that name.’ ‘How long have you been in the regiment?’ ‘Ever since it has been the Duke of Argyll’s.’ Then she turns to t’other man, and asks what countryman he was? ‘An Englishman, your Majesty.’ ‘Your name?’ ‘Hill.’ ‘What county?’ ‘Yorkshire.’ The Queen was pleased and so was I, for I would always have her pleased, and turned about to my lord and me, and said: ‘N’est-ce pas que j’ay dit vray? Je connais bien la physiognomie.’”

FOOTNOTES TO BOOK III, CHAPTER IV:

[27] Memoirs of Wilhelmina, Margravine of Baireuth.

[28] Memoirs of Wilhelmina, Margravine of Baireuth.

[29] Memoirs of Wilhelmina, Margravine of Baireuth.

[30] Wilhelmina states in her Memoirs that the whole thing was a plot of George II., who wished to find an excuse for keeping his son away from England altogether, but the candour of the Queen of Prussia spoilt it all. But there is nothing to support this statement.

[31] Daily Post, 5th December, 1728.

[32] The Countess of Pomfret to Mrs. Clayton, 22nd April, 1728. Sundon Correspondence.

[33] Thackeray says in his Four Georges: “As for Bath, all history went and bathed and drank there; George II. and his Queen,” etc. In point of fact, neither George II. nor Queen Caroline went to Bath. Princess Amelia went in 1728; the Prince of Orange in 1734, the Prince and Princess of Wales in 1738, and Princesses Caroline and Mary in 1840.

[34] The Countess of Pomfret to Mrs. Clayton, Bath, 6th May 1728.

[35] In the Manuscript Department, British Museum.

[36] Daily Advertiser, 3rd March, 1731.

[37] The Hon. Peter Wentworth to the Earl of Strafford, 10th August, 1730.

[38] The Hon. Peter Wentworth to the Earl of Strafford, London 3rd June, 1735.

CHAPTER V.
CAROLINE’S FIRST REGENCY. 1729.

In May, 1729, the King, who had been for some time anxious to visit his Hanoverian dominions, which he had not seen since 1714, got a short Act passed through Parliament appointing the Queen to act as Regent in his absence. The King’s visit to Hanover was very unpopular with his English subjects, who hoped that they had heard of the last of these journeys when George the First died. As Prince of Wales, George the Second had always declared that he loved England far better than Hanover, but this was only in opposition to his father, and soon after he ascended the throne he avowed himself strongly Hanoverian in his tastes and found fault with everything in England. In this mood the best thing for him to do was to return to his own country for a time, and Walpole no doubt was glad to get him out of the way, while the Queen eagerly grasped at the authority which the deed of regency granted her. But she showed none of this eagerness to the King, and when he announced his intention of leaving England she deplored his absence with tears, and received his commission on her knees with all due humility. The King gave the royal assent to the Act of Regency on May 14th, and three days later he set out for Hanover, accompanied by a numerous retinue, and Lord Townshend as Minister in attendance.

The Queen appointed the Speaker of the House of Commons, Onslow, to be her Chancellor during her Regency, and Keeper of the Great Seal. She held her first Council as Regent five days after the King left. It was reported in the London Gazette as follows:—

“At the Court at Kensington the 22nd day of May, 1729.

“Present.

“The Queen’s Most Excellent Majesty,

“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Chancellor, Lord Privy Seal, Lord Steward, Lord Chamberlain, Duke of Somerset, Duke of Bolton, Duke of Rutland, Duke of Argyll, Duke of Montrose, Duke of Kent, Duke of Ancaster, Duke of Newcastle, Earl of Westmoreland, Earl of Burlington, Earl of Scarborough, Earl of Coventry, Earl of Grantham, Earl of Godolphin, Earl of Loudoun, Earl of Findlater, Earl of Marchmont, Earl of Ilay, Earl of Uxbridge, Earl of Sussex, Viscount Lonsdale, Viscount Cobham, Viscount Falmouth, Lord Wilmington, Mr. Speaker, Mr. Chancellor of the Exchequer, Master of the Rolls, Sir Paul Methuen, and Henry Pelham, Esq.

“The King’s Commission appointing Her Most Excellent Majesty the Queen Regent over this Kingdom, by the Style and Title of Guardian of the Kingdom of Great Britain, and His Majesty’s Lieutenant within the same during His Majesty’s absence, was this day by Her Majesty’s command, opened and read in His Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council, after which His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and all the Lords and others of the Council who were present, had the honour to kiss Her Majesty’s hand.”

Caroline entered with manifest enjoyment upon the duties of her office, and discharged them with great ability; she had so long known the essence of power that it was easy for her to adapt herself to its outward manifestation. Townshend, who was jealous of Walpole’s favour with the Queen, endeavoured to induce the King to modify her powers as Regent, and urged him to send a despatch to that effect from the Hague, but the King, though he listened, declined to do so; in fact, he knew better than any one else that his interests were safe in his consort’s hands.

LETTER OF QUEEN CAROLINE TO THE KING OF FRANCE.

The Queen-Regent had the power of opening and proroguing Parliament, signifying the royal assent to acts and measures, appointing bishops, and of making other important appointments; she also received the foreign ambassadors and envoys as though she were the King, and corresponded with foreign sovereigns. Queen Caroline was especially careful to cultivate and strengthen the good understanding between England and France, and she wrote several letters to the King of France, and sent him a present of a dozen hogsheads of perry and cider.[39]

The most important negotiation in foreign affairs was the Treaty of Seville, which was practically concluded during Caroline’s regency, though it was not signed until a little later (November 9th, 1729). This treaty terminated the long dispute between England and Spain. By its provisions, English trade to America, which had been interrupted, was restored. England was given back all that Spain had captured during the war, and the Asiento Treaty (or contract for supplying negroes, of establishing certain factories, and of sending one ship to the South Sea) was confirmed to the South Sea Company. But the most important feature of the treaty was that Gibraltar was tacitly relinquished by Spain. It would be too much to claim for Caroline the credit of the cession of Gibraltar to England, but there is no doubt that her wise and temperate counsels, and her anxiety not to give needless offence to Spanish susceptibilities by mentioning the fortress by name, materially aided William Stanhope, the English plenipotentiary at Madrid, in conducting the difficult and delicate negotiations which resulted in the Treaty of Seville. Gibraltar was a question which touched Spanish pride very nearly, and to see a fortress on its own shores held and garrisoned by England was as great a humiliation to Spain as England’s possession of Calais had once been to France.

Time had been, and not so long before, when English Ministers advised the recession of Gibraltar to Spain, and George the First had written a letter which contained a promise to restore the fortress at some future time. This letter had been written upon the advice of Townshend and Carteret in 1721, and so lately as 1728 we find that Townshend was still in favour of the cession of Gibraltar. Writing to Poyntz he declared: “What you proposed in relation to Gibraltar is certainly very reasonable, and is exactly conformable to the opinion which you know I have always entertained concerning that place; but you cannot but be sensible of the violent and almost superstitious zeal which has of late prevailed among all parties of this kingdom against any scheme for the restitution of Gibraltar upon any conditions whatsoever.”[40] If the matter had rested with Townshend, who had obtained the ear of the King during his absence at Hanover, Gibraltar would probably have been ceded to Spain.

To Caroline, therefore, acting in conjunction with Walpole, the credit is due of having retained it for England. True, Gibraltar was not mentioned by name in the Treaty of Seville, though the Opposition clamoured for its explicit mention. But the Queen and the Prime Minister were firm; they were content with the kernel and troubled not about the husk. The result justified their wisdom. The treaty was ultimately ratified without conditions, and Gibraltar henceforth became a recognised possession of England.

In this, as in all other matters, the Queen worked in close accord with Walpole, and by way of showing the Opposition how little she heeded their attacks, she publicly marked her favour of the Prime Minister by going to dine with him, accompanied by the Prince of Wales and all the Royal Family, at his house at Chelsea, where a magnificent entertainment was provided for her Majesty. The Queen and the Royal Family dined in one room, and the rest of the party in another, Walpole himself waiting on his illustrious guest. Nor did the Queen neglect the ceremonial side of her office; she kept great state whilst she was at St. James’s, and on the anniversary (June 11th) of the King’s Accession she held a court at St. James’s which was one of the most largely attended of the reign. She also frequently honoured the nobility with her presence at their entertainments.

At Windsor Caroline kept much company, availing herself of the King’s absence to go there. At Windsor she felt Queen of England indeed; she occupied the rooms which had been used by the late Queen Anne, and her favourite sitting room was the closet wherein Anne first heard of the great victory of Blenheim, in which hung the banner annually presented by the Duke of Marlborough, and now by his daughter, who was duchess in her own right. Caroline held drawing-rooms in the state apartments, of which the finest were the magnificent St. George’s Hall and the ball room, hung with tapestry representing the seasons of the year. The celebrated collection of beauties by Sir Peter Lely, afterwards removed to Hampton Court, adorned one of the state apartments, and the private chapel had some exquisite carved work by Grinling Gibbons. Here Caroline attended divine service, and, seated in the royal closet hung with crimson velvet, listened to lengthy discourses from Dr. Samuel Clarke, or some other favourite divine.

It was from Windsor on a notable occasion that she drove to honour the Earl and Countess of Orkney with a visit to their beautiful seat at Clieveden. “Yesterday,” writes Peter Wentworth, “the Queen and all the Royal Family went to dine and supper at Clieveden. How they were diverted I know not, but I believe very well, for they did not come home until almost four in the morning.”[41] According to all accounts the entertainment was very successful, but Lady Orkney’s anxieties as a hostess seem to have weighed heavily upon her, for we find her writing a long letter a few days later to Mrs. Howard, expressing her “anguish” because some little things had gone wrong. Perhaps, Lady Orkney only wanted a more particular expression of the Queen’s satisfaction. Her letter may be quoted as an expression of the fulsome servility to royal personages then in vogue even among the high nobility.

“Clieveden, August 5th, 1729.

“Madam,

“I give you this trouble out of the anguish of my mind, to have the Queen doing us the honour to dine here, and nothing performed in the order it ought to have been! The stools which were set for the Royal Family, though distinguished from ours, which I thought right, because the Princess Royal sits so at quadrille, put away by Lord Grantham,[42] who said there was to be no distinction from princes and princesses and the ladies. He directed the table-cloths so that there must be two to cover the table; for he used to have it so; in short, turned the servants’ heads. They kept back the dinner too long for her Majesty after it was dished, and was set before the fire, and made it look not well dressed, the Duke of Grafton saying they wanted a maître d’hôtel. All this vexed my Lord Orkney so—he tells me he hopes I will never meddle more, if he could ever hope for the same honour; which I own I did too much, as I see by the success, but having done it for the late King,[43] and was told that things were in that order, that it was as if his Majesty had lived here, I ventured it now, but I have promised not to aim at it more.

“But what I have said shows the greater goodness in the Queen to be so very easy. I have seen condescension in princesses, but none that ever came up to her Majesty: nay, not all the good you have ever said could make me imagine what I saw and heard. We all agreed her Majesty must be admired; and, if I may use the term, it was impossible to see her and not love her.

“If you hear of these mismanagements, pray be so good as to say the house was too little for the reception of the Queen, and so many great princes and princesses, who, without flattery, cannot be but respectedly admired. I thought I had turned my mind in a philosophical way of having done with the world, but I find I have deceived myself; for I am vexed and pleased with the honours I have received. I know from your discretion you will burn this, and I hope will always believe me, etc.,

“E. Orkney.”[44]

From Windsor the Queen returned to Kensington, which she made her headquarters for the rest of the summer, paying visits occasionally to Hampton Court, Richmond, and Windsor, for the purpose of hunting. The best idea of the social side of her regency may be gathered from the letters that Peter Wentworth wrote during this period to Lord Strafford.[45] They throw curious sidelights on the manners of the time. To quote seriatim:—

“Kensington, July 25th, 1729.

“I have been at Richmond again with the Queen and the Royal Family, and I thank God they are all very well. We are to go there to-day, and the Queen walks about there all day long. I shall be no more her jest as a lover of drink at free cost, not only from her own observation of one whom she sees every morning at eight o’clock, and in the evening again at seven, walking in the gardens, and in the drawing-room till after ten, but because she has my Lord Lifford to play upon, who this day sen’night got drunk at Richmond. His manner of getting so was pleasant enough; he dined with my good Lord Grantham, who is well served at his table with meat, but very stingy and sparing in his drink, for as soon as his dinner is done he and his company rise, and no round of toasts. So my lord made good use of his time whilst at dinner, and before they rose the Prince [of Wales] came to them and drank a bonpêre to my Lord Lifford, which he pledged, and began another to him, and so a third. The Duke of Grafton, to show the Prince he had done his business, gave him (Lord Lifford) a little shove, and threw him off his chair upon the ground, and then took him up and carried him to the Queen. Sunday morning she railed at him before all the Court upon getting drunk in her company, and upon his gallantry and coquetry with Princess Amelia, running up and down the steps with her. When somebody told him the Queen was there and saw him, his answer was: ‘What do I care for the Queen?’ He stood all her jokes not only with French impudence, but with Irish assurance. For all you say I don’t wonder I blushed for him and wished for half his stock. I wonder at her making it so public. Nobody has made a song; if Mr. Hambleton will make one that shall praise the Queen and the Royal Family’s good humour, and expose as much as he pleases the folly of Lord Grantham and Lord Lifford, I will show it to the Prince, and I know he won’t tell whom he had it from, for I have lately obliged him with the sight of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s litany, and he has promised he will not say he had it from me. So I must beg you to say nothing of this to Lady Strafford, for she will write it for news to Lady Charlotte Roussie, and then I shall have Mrs. Fitz. angry with me, and the Prince laughing at me for not being able to be my own councillor, as I fear you laugh now. But if you betray me I make a solemn vow I never will tell you anything again.

“The Queen continues very kind and obliging in her sayings to me, and gave me t’other day an opportunity to tell her of my circumstances. As we were driving by Chelsea she asked me what that walled place was called. I told her Chelsea Park, and in the time of the Bubbles ’twas designed for the silkworms.[46] She asked me if I was not in the Bubbles. With a sigh, I answered: ‘Yes, that, and my fire had made me worse than nothing’. Some time after, when I did not think she saw me, I was biting my nails. She called to me and said: ‘Oh fie! Mr. Wentworth, you bite your nails very prettily’. I begged her pardon for doing so in her presence, but said I did it for vexation of my circumstances, and to save a crown from Dr. Lamb for cutting them. She said she was sorry I had anything to vex me, and I did well to save my money. The Prince told her I was one of the most diligent servants he ever saw. I bowed and smiled as if I thought he bantered me. He understood me, and therefore repeated again that he meant it seriously and upon his word he thought that the Queen was happy in having so good a servant. I told him ’twas a great satisfaction to me to meet with his Royal Highness’s approbation. He clapped his hand upon my shoulder and assured me that I had it.

“As we went to Richmond last Wednesday our grooms had a battle with a carter that would not go out of the way. The good Queen had compassion for the rascal and ordered me to ride after him and give him a crown. I desired her Majesty to recall that order, for the fellow was a very saucy fellow, and I saw him strike the Prince’s groom first, and if we gave him anything for his beating ’twould be an example to others to stop the way a purpose to provoke a beating. The Prince approved what I said, for he said much the same to her in Dutch, and I got immortal fame among the liverymen, who are no small fools at this Court. I told her if she would give the crown to anybody it should be to the Prince’s groom, who had the carter’s long whip over his shoulders. She laughed, but saved her crown.”

“Kensington, August 14th, 1729.

“The Queen has done me the honour to refer me for my orders to her Royal Highness Princess Anne, and what is agreed by her will please her Majesty; the height of my ambition is to please them all. I flatter myself I have done so hitherto, for Princess Anne has distinguished me with a singular mark of her favour, for she has made me a present of a hunting suit of clothes, which is blue, trimmed with gold, and faced and lined with red. The Prince of Wales, Princess Anne, the Duke of Cumberland, Princess Mary and Princess Louisa wear the same, and looked charming pretty in them. Thursday se’nnight, Windsor Forest will be blessed with their presence again, and since the forest was a forest it never had such a fine set of hunters, for a world of gentlemen have had the ambition to follow his Royal Highness’s fashion.

“On Saturday last at Richmond Park, Major Sylvine made his appearance by the Queen’s chaise, and she did him the honour to take notice of him, telling him she was glad to see he could hunt. He thought to be witty upon me by telling her Majesty I took such delight in waiting that he thought it a pity to deprive me of that pleasure. My good and gracious Queen answered him to my satisfaction and to his mortification, for she said: ‘Does he? So ’tis a sign he loves me, and I love him the better for’t.’ He replied he hoped her Majesty did not think the worse of him. She had the goodness to say ‘No,’ but repeated again that she loved me the better. Princess Amelia, who was in the chaise with her, turned her head from Sylvine and smiled most graciously upon me, which I could answer in no other way than by low bows to mark the sense of the great honour that was done me. And for my life I could not forbear getting behind the chaise to triumph over and insult the major, telling him he had got much by being witty upon me, which Princess Amelia heard, and laughed again upon me.”

“Kensington, August 21st, 1729.