In another chapter of the family romance we find the aunt of the Princess—the Abbess of Gandersheim—exhorting her niece to put no trust in men at all; assuring her that her husband would deceive her, that she would not be happy, ‘and all the nonsense of an envious and a desiring old maid.’ The gaiety of the Princess was eclipsed, for a moment, by the chill cloud thrown across it by the remarks of her aunt. The envoy, however, restored the ordinary sunshine by requesting the Princess, the next time the Abbess held similar discourse, to ask her whether, if she proposed to give up the Prince to her aunt, and take the Abbey of Gandersheim in place thereof, she would then ‘think men to be such monsters, and whether she would not expose herself to all the dangers and misfortunes of such a marriage?’ This sally, with good counsel to garnish it, not only restored the good-humour of the Princess, but made her more desirous than ever to attach the envoy personally to her service as soon as her household as Princess of Wales should be established. Lord Malmesbury avoided an explicit answer, but entreated her not to solicit anything in his behalf. ‘I had,’ he says, ‘the Duke of Suffolk and Queen Margaret in my thoughts.’ He, further, was more anxious than ever with reference to the results of this marriage. With a steady man, he thought, the impulsive bride might have a chance of bliss; but with one that was not so he saw that her risks were many and great indeed. In the meanwhile he poured counsel into her mind—as Mr. Gradgrind used to pour facts into the juvenile intellect at Coketown—by the imperial gallon. The Princess continued to take it all well, but the giver of it was shrewd enough to see that ‘in the long run it must displease.’ He was right in his conclusion, for the night after he expressed the conviction the Princess remarked, on some grave monition of his, that she should never learn it all, and that she was too light-minded ever to do so.
Ward and guardian had been running a parallel between the former and her sister-in-law, younger than herself, the hereditary Princess of Brunswick. The Princess Caroline had asked Lord Malmesbury which he thought would make the better Princess of Wales, herself or her sister-in-law? To this difficult question the envoy replied gallantly that he knew which would be the Prince’s choice; that she possessed by nature what the hereditary Princess neither had or could ever acquire—beauty and grace. He added, in his character of mentor, ‘that all the essential qualities the hereditary Princess has she might attain—prudence, discretion, attention, and tact.’ ‘Do I want them?’ ‘You cannot have too much of them.’ ‘How comes my sister-in-law, who is younger than myself, to have them more than I?’ ‘Because, at a very early period of her life, her family was in danger; she was brought up to exertion of the mind, and now she derives the benefit d’avoir mangé son pain bis le premier!’ ‘I shall never learn this,’ was the remark of the Princess, with some confession of her defects. Lord Malmesbury encouraged her by saying that when she found herself in a different situation she would be prepared for its exigencies if she questioned and communed deeply with herself now. In short, he gave excellent advice, and if counsel could have cured the radical defects of a vicious education, Caroline would have crossed the seas to her new home peerless among brides.
At length the hour approached for the departure of the bride, but before it struck there had well-nigh been an angry scene. Lord Malmesbury had faithfully narrated to the Prince all that his commission allowed him to narrate touching his doings. His opinion of the bride he of course kept to himself. The Prince wrote back a complete approval of all he had done, but added a prohibition of the Princess being accompanied to England by a Mademoiselle Rosenzweit, who, as his Royal Highness understood, had been named as ‘a sort of reader.’ The Prince, for what reason is not known, would not have her in that or in any other character. The Duke and Duchess of Brunswick were exceedingly annoyed by this exercise of authority on the part of the royal husband, but they were, of course, compelled to submit. The motive for the nomination of this lady deserves to be noticed, particularly as the Duke, who kept a ‘favourite’ at the table where his wife presided, and the Duchess, who told coarse and indelicate stories there which disgusted the ‘favourite,’ had been particularly boastful concerning the very severe education of the Princess.
When it was agreed that Mademoiselle Rosenzweit should not accompany the Princess as ‘a sort of reader,’ the Duke of Brunswick took Lord Malmesbury aside, and stated that the reason why he wished her to be with the Princess was, that his daughter wrote very ill and spelt ill, and he was desirous that this should not appear. The noble diarist adds, ‘that his Serene Highness was not at all so serenely indifferent on the matter as he pretended to be. He affected to be so, ‘“but at the bottom was hurt and angry.”’
The last day the unhappy bride ever spent in a home which, considering all things, had been a happy home to her, was one of mingled sighs, tears, dignity, and meanness. The Duke rose into something like dignity also, and exhibited a momentary touch of paternal feeling as the hour of departure drew near, and his glory, as well as his paternal affection, was concerned in the conduct and bearing of his daughter.
There was a dinner, which would have been cordial enough but for the arrival of an anonymous letter, warning the Duchess and the Princess of the dangers the latter would run from a profligate ‘Lady ——,’ the blank of which may be filled up with the name of Jersey. The letter had been addressed to the Duchess, but that extremely prudent lady had informed her poor daughter of its contents, and discussed the letter openly with all those who cared to take part in the discussion. Lord Malmesbury suspected the epistle to come from the party of the disappointed Mademoiselle de Rosenzweit. It was a vulgar epistle, the chief point in which was the assertion that the ‘Lady ——’ would certainly do her utmost to lead the Princess into some act of injury to her own husband’s honour. The Princess was not herself much terrified on this point, and for that reason Lord Malmesbury told her very gravely that it was death for a man to approach the Princess of Wales with any idea of winning her affections from her husband, and that no man would be daring enough to think of it. The poor bride, something startled, inquired if that were really the law. Lord Malmesbury answered, ‘that such was the law; that anybody who presumed to love her would be guilty of high treason, and punished with death, if she were weak enough to listen to him; so also would she.’ This startled her. Naturally so; between advice, evil prophecy, menace, dark innuendoes, the necessity of going to church, and the possibility of ending on a scaffold, the bride might well be startled.
Nor was the letter above alluded to the only one which was a source of uneasiness to the Princess. George III. had written to the Duchess, expressing his ‘hope that his niece would not indulge in too much vivacity, but would lead a sedentary and retired life.’ This letter also was exhibited by the injudicious mother to her daughter; and while the latter was wondering what the conclusion of all this turmoil might be, Mademoiselle de Hertzfeldt reiterated that the only way for the Prince to manage her would be by fear. ‘Ay,’ said the virtuous lady, ‘even by terror; she will emancipate herself if care be not taken of her. Watched narrowly and severely, she may conduct herself well!’
Amid such a confusion of scenes, incidents, things, and persons, the Princess Caroline was variously affected. Her last banquet in her father’s halls was an epitome of the sorrows, cares, mock-splendour, and much misery of the time to come.
On Monday, December the 29th, 1795, the bride left Brunswick ‘for good.’ It was two o’clock in the afternoon when the envoy departed from the palace with his fair companion in his charge. To render her safety less exposed to risk, Major Hislop had gone forward ‘to give notice in case of danger from the enemy.’ The cannon from the ramparts of the city thundered out to her their last farewell, and the citizens assembled in crowds to see the Princess pass forth on her path—of roses, as they good-naturedly hoped; but, in fact, on her way strewn with thorns.
For three days the travellers pressed forward in something of long file, making, however, short journeys, and not getting very rapidly over them. On the third day the Princess, weary of being alone with two ladies, invited Lord Malmesbury to ride in the same coach with her. He ‘resisted it as impossible, from its being improper;’ and he continued to discountenance the matter, and she to laugh at him for his inviolable punctilio.