There was one disquieting person who was partially removed from Victoria’s life upon her accession, and that was the Duke of Cumberland, who became King of Hanover on the death of his brother. William had in 1833 granted a liberal constitution with representative government to his Hanoverian dominions, where his brother, the Duke of Cambridge, was Viceroy. On William’s death Cambridge returned to England, and Cumberland left England to harass his new subjects. One of his first acts was to reverse all that his brother had done, to abolish the constitution, make himself arbitrary King, and prosecute the Liberal Professors of Göttingen. This was not done in spite, but from a sincere conviction that reform of any sort was wrong. He was a Tory of the Tories, but, I believe, quite honest in his politics. He really thought that England was going to destruction—a myth which is cherished by some up to the present day—the first step downwards being the repeal of the Corporation and Test Act in 1828, the next the Catholic Emancipation Act, while the climax of our ruin was the Reform Bill. It was in his private and social life that King Ernest was so odious. His wife, who admired him as a man of intellect, was terrified by his fits of ungovernable temper; his sister in Hanover said that the loss of her brother Cambridge nearly killed her, “the whole thing is so changed one’s mind is quite overset;” while his lax ideas of morality really made him detestable. The papers abounded in announcements that he was unpopular. At the coronation of William IV. The Times drew a gentle contrast between the way in which the Duke and the Ministers were received: “The Duke of Cumberland experienced in the course of yesterday proofs, we dare say not unexpected by His Royal Highness, of the extraordinary estimation in which most Englishmen hold him. The Duke of Wellington whom, if he had never been a politician, his countrymen would gladly, gratefully, and for ever have recognised as an illustrious military chief, was treated respectfully by the spectators in the Abbey; but Lord Grey and Lord Brougham received every testimony of the warmest and most eager approbation.” In turning to the article in the Dictionary of National Biography, I find a very partial account given of the Duke of Cumberland, the impression made being that he was a brave, clever man, much maligned by the Whigs and Radicals. This, however, was not exactly the case, the Duke’s delinquencies being recorded by every shade of opinion, and though it is most likely that those opposed to him in politics shouted the loudest, the undoubted fact remains that all joined in the cry.
In the election of July, 1837, the Whigs were returned to power, having lost in the counties but gained elsewhere; this confirmed Lord Melbourne in his place as Prime Minister, and put him into the position of guardian to Her Majesty. Melbourne must in some ways have been a wonderful man for that position. He was then in his fifty-eighth year, a man of the world, somewhat sceptical, “but honourable, well-meaning, honest, clever, highly educated, and a moderate Liberal.” He was a peace lover, and perhaps sometimes was inclined to say, like the over-indulgent parent, “anything for peace!”—one of his favourite utterances being, “Damn it! why can’t everyone be quiet?” He was constitutionally incapable of sustaining a quarrel, for he had no jealousy or rancour in his disposition, a dispute bored him, and he felt no interest in getting the better of an argument; he could easily forgive, and do so without humiliating the aggressor. With these good qualities went indolence and a certain amount of carelessness. But that he was neither a place-hunter nor a flatterer is amply proved by the fact that at first everyone approved of his position with the Queen. No one could suggest any other course to pursue, and it was not until a little later that the Tories saw how entirely they had given the Crown into the hands of the Whigs.
Melbourne’s sufferings in life came from the fact that he was in advance of his age in one respect. To-day no one could have had any excuse for trying to blackmail him or to damage his reputation. Eighty years ago matters were different, and no man could make a friend of a charming lady, go to see her as often as he pleased, and expect to be free from danger. As Melbourne did this sort of thing, he naturally had to account for it.
In 1828 Lord Brandon, who was a Doctor of Divinity, found letters which seemed to prove that there was a too warm friendship between his wife and Mr. William Lamb, which was Melbourne’s name before he came into his title. The parson-peer thereupon wrote to his wife telling her what he had found, and what conclusion he drew from it. Then he added that if she would use her influence with Mr. Lamb to procure him a Bishropic he would overlook the offence and give her back the letters. To this the lady replied that she would neither degrade herself nor Mr. Lamb by such a course, and that the letter just received from him she should show to the latter gentleman. The result was a suit for divorce brought by Lord Brandon, which he lost through insufficient evidence; the production of his letter would, however, have been sufficient to make a jury decide against him.
A few years later Melbourne met again the Hon. Mrs. Norton, whom he had known in her childhood. She was both beautiful and clever, and being a grand-daughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, had inherited a shade of his genius. Unfortunately when she was but nineteen, she had married a man named George Norton, a younger brother of Fletcher Norton, third Lord Grantley, who was also an unsuccessful barrister of twenty-seven, coarse in disposition, greedy and brutal, though, like most young people, he managed to hide his faults from the girl he wooed until after the marriage. Mrs. Norton was a poet, clever rather than spontaneous, and she published a little volume called “The Sorrows of Rosalie: A Tale, with Other Poems.” This was Byronic in style, and the praise poured upon it effectually opened a literary career for its author. From that time her labours practically kept her household going, with the exception that, having begged Lord Melbourne to do something for her husband, George Norton was given a Metropolitan police magistracy in 1831. Norton was anything but satisfactory at his work, and thus a coolness arose between him and Melbourne; but the latter still visited at his house, feeling a kindly friendship for Mrs. Norton, whose lively Irish mind and conversation charmed him.
THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
Norton was scarcely the man to make home a pleasant place, and at last matters between husband and wife came to an open rupture. Upon this, it was said that a little plot was hatched. Everyone knew that before long a young Queen would be upon the throne, and everyone also knew the integrity and strict sentiments of the Duchess of Kent. From these the conclusion was drawn by “some of the less reputable members of the Opposition,” that if Melbourne were publicly discredited he would never be Prime Minister under the new rule. “The Court is mighty prudish, and between them our off-hand Premier will find himself in a ticklish position.” Thus, remembering the former case against Lord Melbourne, and remembering that mud is likely to stick closest the more frequently it is flung, George Norton was incited to institute a divorce case against his wife, with Melbourne as co-respondent.
Lord Melbourne had this thunder-cloud hanging over him for months, and in spite of his brave words to Mrs. Norton, it at last made him absolutely ill.
“Since first I heard that I was to be proceeded against, I have had neither sleep nor appetite, I have suffered more intensely than I ever did in my life, and I attribute the whole of my illness (at least the severity of it) to the uneasiness of my mind. Now what is this uneasiness for? Not for my own character, because, as you justly say, the imputation upon me is as nothing. It is not for the political consequences to myself, although I deeply feel the consequences which my indiscretion may bring upon those who are attached to me and follow my fortunes. The real and principal object of my anxiety is you, and the situation in which you have been so unjustly placed.” Again he writes: “I hope you will not take it ill if I implore you to try at least to be calm under these trials. You know what is alleged is utterly false, and what is false can rarely be made to appear true.”