The king blew a loud note of alarm, with regard to the Chevalier, on the last occasion of the opening Parliament during his reign. Lord Chancellor King read the royal speech, in which the announcement was made that the Emperor and the King of Spain had entered into an offensive alliance, the object of which was to place the Pretender on the British throne and to destroy the established religion and government. The Emperor’s representative in London, Von Palm, made a bold comment on this speech. It was conveyed in a Latin letter to his British Majesty, in which the writer impertinently stated that there were many assertions in the speech which were misstatements, meant truthfully, perhaps, but much strained to make them wear a truthful appearance. Other assertions were (if well meant) based on erroneous grounds; but the declaration that the Emperor had joined, secretly or openly, with the King of Spain to effect the restoration of the Stuarts, was denounced by Von Palm as an unmitigated falsehood. For this audacity, the Imperial representative was ordered to leave the kingdom. The envoy’s great offence had been made greater by the publication of the Imperial Memorial (translated) in London, by the Emperor’s order. This appeal to the nation against the sovereign manifested a vulgar impudence on the part of his sacred, imperial, and catholic Majesty which thoroughly disgusted the people of these kingdoms. PATRIOTIC JACOBITES. To the great honour of the Jacobites in Parliament, they exhibited a true English spirit. They became, in fact, for the first time, ‘his Majesty’s Opposition.’ Shippen and Wyndham, especially, in Parliament, supported by their political colleagues, branded this ignoble attempt to put dissension between king and people as one which touched the honour of the nation, and which the nation would resent, to sustain the honour of its king. If this display of spirit led some to believe that Jacobitism, as a Stuart sentiment, was dead, the belief was erroneous. Soon after Palm was compelled to leave the kingdom, an outrage was committed on the recently erected double-gilt equestrian statue of George I., in Grosvenor Square. The statue, which was ‘by Nost,’ according to the papers, Van Ost was pulled down, horse and rider. The kings sword was broken, his truncheon beaten out of his hands, his legs and arms hammered off, and a significant hacking at his neck was a token of beheading him in effigy. A gross libel was stuck to the pedestal; and that unoccupied pedestal still remains as a monument of the Jacobite virulence of the time. A reward of 100l. was offered in vain for the discovery of the perpetrators.
VOLTAIRE.
At this moment there was a Frenchman in London who was sufficiently distinguished, even then, to have his name turned to account in a partisan political paragraph,—Voltaire. The Jacobites were probably not aware of Voltaire’s approval of the martyrdom of their king and saint, Charles I. ‘On the 30th of January,’ said Voltaire, ‘every King wakes with a crick in the neck.’ On January 28th, the ‘British Journal’ had the following well-turned paragraph: ‘Last week, M. Voltaire, the famous French poet, who was banished from France, was introduced to his Majesty who received him very graciously. They say he has received notice from France not to print his Poem of the League, “La Henriade,” a Prosecution still depending against him, by the Cardinal de Bissy, on the Account of the Praises bestowed in that Book on Queen Elizabeth’s behaviour in Matters of Religion, and a great many Strokes against the Abuse of Popery, and against Persecution in Matter of Faith.’ This allusion to religious liberty had, unconsciously, a startling comment. While Voltaire was kissing the royal hand, a soldier was being ‘whipt’ in the Park, for being a Papist! He was neither the first nor the last who suffered for no worse cause. At the same moment, the ultramontane authorities in France were hanging men for belonging to the reformed religion! What an excellent thing it is for Christian brethren to live together in love and unity!
THE NEW REIGN.
On the 3rd of June, the royal and imperial courts having become reconciled, and peace seeming established among nations, the king set out for Hanover. That day week he was lying dead on a sofa at Osnaburg. A heavy supper and much cold melon, the night before, had done the work which, as some thought, might prove a Jacobite opportunity. It proved otherwise. A paragraph of a few lines in the newspapers, unencumbered by any mourning border, told the people that a new reign had begun. The old king was soon forgotten. The younger one and his queen, Caroline, mourned officially, but they inaugurated their own accession, joyously. It may be added, ‘wisely,’ too. Their water-pageants made the then silver Thames glad and glorious. They went afloat in state, followed by gay Court barges full of high-born ladies and gallant gentlemen. The royal musicians in another vessel played the last new opera airs. According to the tide, these great folk went up the river to Chelsea or down to Shadwell. They received warm welcome whithersoever they went; more particularly when the royal barge pulled in near the shore, and the pleased occupants graciously took the flowers offered to them by good people, who might be hanged before the month was out, for stealing half of one of the nosegays. On these occasions, the broad river could hardly be seen for the compact mass of boats, fearfully laden, that drifted or were rowed upon it. As in the first George’s time, these popular pageants continued afloat long after the moon was up. Often on these occasions, the king and queen did not land at Whitehall, till after ten had struck. There, the sedan chairs were in waiting, and with one individual in each, gentlemen of the chamber and maids of honour being carried in the rear, and torchbearers, if need were, flanking the procession, the whole party were daintily lifted through the park to St. James’s palace.
CORONATION.
The coronation was to have taken place on the 4th of October. It was put off for a week. At this postponement, people speculated on the possibility of some Jacobite daring to take up the Champion’s gage. The Jacobite that was really feared was named Spring Tide. An invasion of Westminster Hall was both possible and probable; and thence, the postponement for a week. On the 11th the ceremony was performed with somewhat of maimed rites. The queen went in a close sedan to Westminster, with the Lord Chamberlain and a Maid of Honour in hack chairs; and they returned in the same unroyal fashion. There was no interruption in Abbey or Hall, as timid people anticipated, and at night all London was drunk, or nearly so, according to custom.
On the king’s birthday in October, there was a singular sort of rejoicing in one part of the metropolis. There were Jacobite and other prisoners in Newgate who ‘lay there for their fines,’—in fact, could not be discharged for lack of cash to pay their fees. They celebrated the day ‘by illuminating the windows of the gaol with candles;’ they drank the health of their Majesties who would do nothing to deliver them, the Judges who had condemned, and the Magistrates who had previously committed them. They forgave everybody, and went to bed almost as drunk as their keepers. It is due to the king however to say that when he with the queen and royal family dined with the Mayor and chief citizens in the Guildhall, he left a thousand pounds for the relief of poor debtors. Some ‘state prisoners’ in Newgate were also liberated on their recognizances.
PRINCE FREDERICK.
In December, Frederick, Prince of Wales, in obedience to his father’s commands, left Hanover suddenly in the night. He travelled to the coast, and embarked on board an ordinary packet-boat from Holland to Harwich. Thence, he went on his way posting to Whitechapel; there he hired a hackney-coach, drove to St. James’s, and walked by the back stairs to the queen’s room, where he was decently welcomed, though the greeting was neither affectionate nor enthusiastic.