May 12th, 1834
There was a report yesterday that Palmerston was out and Durham in his place. The latter was under the gallery when Palmerston made that woful exhibition the other night, and must have been well satisfied. I met Peel at dinner yesterday, and after it he talked to me of this report, which he concluded was not true; but he said that Palmerston had seemed bereft of his senses, and that in his speech he had attempted a new line quite unusual with him—that of humour—and anything so miserable he had never heard. He then talked of Stanley; expressed his indignation at hearing O’Connell bepraised by the men he is always vilifying, especially by Stanley himself, of whom he had spoken in the early part of the same night in such terms as these: ‘The honourable gentleman, with his usual disregard of veracity, ...’ and again ‘he attacked him, but took care how he attacked others, who he knew were not restrained by obligations such as he was under to bear with his language;’ in other words, calling him a liar and a coward; and after this Stanley condescended to flatter him and applaud his speech. He said that he had expected better things of Stanley, and was really distressed to hear it.
I dined with the Duke of Wellington on Saturday. Arbuthnot was there, and he said the Duke is in a state of unutterable disgust with the present Government and their proceedings, particularly with their foreign policy, which he fancies they shape in systematic and wilful opposition to his DUKE OF WELLINGTON AND THE WHIGS. own. This, of course, is merely his imagination, and rather a preposterous notion. He says the Duke does not think well of the state of the country, but that he grasps with eagerness at any symptoms of returning or increasing prosperity, and (what is rather inconsistent with his bad opinion of affairs) he is always telling the foreigners (i.e. the Ambassadors) who talk to him that they will fall into a great error if they think the power or resources of England in any way impaired. His antipathy to the Whigs, is, however, invincible, and of very ancient date, as this proves. Arbuthnot said that he was looking over a box of papers the other day, and hit upon the copy of a letter he had written to Lord Liverpool, by desire of some of his principal colleagues, to dissuade him from quitting office, which, he thought of doing at the time of the first Lady Liverpool’s death. With it there was a scrap on which was written, ‘Taken down from the Duke of Wellington’s own lips;’ and this was an argument that, in the event of his refusing, he (the Duke) should think himself at liberty to join any other party or set of men, but that his great object was to keep the Whigs out of power, as he was convinced that whenever they got in they would ruin the country. Lord Liverpool said that they (The Tories) had been too long in possession of the Government.
May 23rd, 1834
Newmarket, Epsom, and so forth. Nothing remarkably new. In the House of Commons the Poor Law Bill has been going on smoothly; in the House of Lords little of note but one of Brougham’s exhibitions. Old Wynford brought in a very absurd Bill for the better observance of the Sabbath (an old sinner he, who never cared three straws for the Sabbath), which Brougham attacked with excessive virulence and all his powers of ridicule and sarcasm. His speech made everybody laugh, very heartily, but on a division, the Bishops all voting with Wynford, the latter carried the second reading by three in a very thin House. The next day the Chancellor came down with a protest, written in his most pungent style, very smart, but more like a bit of an article in the ‘Edinburgh Review’ than a Parliamentary protest. Wynford was in the House when he entered his protest, and he called out to him, ‘Holloa, Best, look at my protest!’
There is a very strong impression abroad that the King is cracked, and I dare say there is some truth in it. He gets so very choleric, and is so indecent in his wrath. Besides his squabble with old Lord de Saumarez, he broke out the other day at the Exhibition (Somerset House). They were showing him the pictures, and Sir Martin Shee (I believe, but am not sure), pointing out Admiral Napier’s, said, ‘That is one of our naval heroes; to which his Majesty was pleased to reply that if he served him right he should kick him downstairs for so terming him. But the maddest thing of all is what appeared in the ‘Gazette’ of Tuesday—the peerage conferred on ——. She is a disreputable, half-mad woman! he, perhaps, thought it fair to give her this compensation for not being Queen, for he wanted to marry her, and would have done so if the late king would have consented.
On Monday last I went to Petworth, and saw the finest fête that could be given. Lord Egremont has been accustomed some time in the winter to feast the poor of the adjoining parishes (women and children, not men) in the riding-house and tennis court, where they were admitted by relays. His illness prevented the dinner taking place; but when he recovered he was bent upon having it, and, as it was put off till the summer, he had it arranged in the open air, and a fine sight it was; fifty-four tables, each fifty feet long, were placed in a vast semicircle on the lawn before the house. Nothing could be more amusing than to look at the preparations. The tables were all spread with cloths, and plates, and dishes; two great tents were erected in the middle to receive the provisions, which were conveyed in carts, like ammunition. Plum puddings and loaves were piled like cannon balls, and innumerable joints of boiled and roast beef were spread out, while hot joints were prepared in the kitchen, and sent forth as soon as the firing of guns announced the hour of the feast. Tickets were given to the FÊTE AT PETWORTH. inhabitants of a certain district, and the number was about 4,000; but, as many more came, the old Peer could not endure that there should be anybody hungering outside his gates, and he went out himself and ordered the barriers to be taken down and admittance given to all. They think 6,000 were fed. Gentlemen from the neighbourhood carved for them, and waiters were provided from among the peasantry. The food was distributed from the tents and carried off upon hurdles to all parts of the semicircle. A band of music paraded round, playing gay airs. The day was glorious—an unclouded sky and soft southern breeze. Nothing could exceed the pleasure of that fine old fellow; he was in and out of the windows of his room twenty times, enjoying the sight of these poor wretches, all attired in their best, cramming themselves and their brats with as much as they could devour, and snatching a day of relaxation and happiness. After a certain time the women departed, but the park gates were thrown open: all who chose came in, and walked about the shrubbery and up to the windows of the house. At night there was a great display of fireworks, and I should think, at the time they began, not less than 10,000 people were assembled. It was altogether one of the gayest and most beautiful spectacles I ever saw, and there was something affecting in the contemplation of that old man—on the verge of the grave, from which he had only lately been reprieved, with his mind as strong and his heart as warm as ever—rejoicing in the diffusion of happiness and finding keen gratification in relieving the distresses and contributing to the pleasures of the poor. I thought how applicable to him, mutatis mutandis, was that panegyric of Burke’s on the Indian kings: ‘delighting to reign in the dispensation of happiness during the contracted space of human life, strained with all the reachings and graspings of a vivacious mind to extend the dominion of his bounty ... and to perpetuate himself from generation to generation as the guardian, the protector, the nourisher of mankind.’
May 24th, 1834
The Chancellor, who loves to unbosom himself to Sefton because he knows the latter thinks him the finest fellow breathing, tells him that it is nuts to him to be attacked by noble Lords in the Upper House, and that they had better leave him alone if they care for their own hides. Since he loves these assaults, last night he got his bellyful, for he was baited by a dozen at least, and he did not come out of the mêlée so chuckling and happy as usual. The matter related to the Pluralities Bill, which he had introduced some nights before, in an empty House, without giving notice, and after having told many people (the Archbishop of York among others) that there was nothing more to be done that night. In short, he was at his tricks again, lying and shuffling, false and then insolent, and all for no discernible end. The debate exhibits a detail of his misstatements, and of all his wriggling and plunging to get out of the scrape he had got himself into. It is because scarcely any or rather no motive was apparent that it is with difficulty believed that he meant to deceive anybody. But it is in the nature of the man; he cannot go straightforward; some object, no matter how trivial, presents itself to his busy and distempered mind, and he immediately begins to think by what artifice and what underhand work he can bring it about; and thus he exposes himself to the charges of dishonourable conduct without any adequate consideration or cause. He reminds me of the man in ‘Jonathan Wild’ who was a rogue by force of habit, who could not keep his hand out of his neighbour’s pocket though he knew there was nothing in it, nor help cheating at cards though he was aware he should not be paid if he won. It is thought that the exhibition of last night will not be without its influence upon the fate of this Administration.