When Piccadilly was “the way to Redinge,” and before Buckingham House—the red-brick precursor of the present Palace—had risen on the site of Tart Hall, the site of the Green Park was waste land, with here and there a little ditch, and here and there a willow; and yet it has had “its scenes, its joys and crimes,” in common with every square foot of ground in the metropolis. We may be sure it felt the tread of armed men in 1554, when Wyatt’s rebellion threatened to upset the throne of “bloody Mary”; and a century later, in 1643 to be precise, cannot we in imagination see the crowd of men, women, and children streaming across it to give a helping hand in the formation of those fortifications which were to prevent a king from entering his capital? As to its crimes, it is certain that there were plenty of those committed when the guardianship of the peace was a very different thing from what we pampered mortals are accustomed to consider it. Why, the duels alone that were fought here would make matter for a good-sized chapter. Beau Fielding fights Sir Henry Colt, in 1696, and, they say, runs him through the body before he has time to draw his sword, but, nevertheless, gets disarmed himself; and “That thing of silk, Sporus,” as I have already indicated, meets William Pulteney here, some thirty years later, what time the Park had become so favourite a place for such encounters that it is specifically mentioned as “a rendezvous for duels,” in a guide to London of the period.
Had Queen Caroline—that clever woman who managed George II. and ruled the kingdom with Walpole—had her way, a royal residence might now be actually in the Park. She did build a library here, practically where Stafford House now stands, but that is as far as she went. Her royal husband, who, with his many faults, was a brave man, and knew how to fight—and on foot, too, as he did at Dettingen—liked reviews of all things, and used to have his troops manœuvring about in the Park on all sorts of occasions. One such review is mentioned in 1747, when “the regiment (Sir Robert Rich’s Dragoons) made a very fine appearance, and his Majesty was greatly pleased with them,” we are told. The Duke of Cumberland’s Dragoons, which distinguished themselves, or otherwise, according to the Stuart or Hanoverian sympathies of the time, in “the ’45,” were out, for the same picturesque reason, some days later. Then there was that great celebration for the conclusion of the War of Succession, when a huge temple was erected, and fireworks blazed to the accompaniment of a military overture written by the illustrious Handel himself.
Sir Robert Peel wanted to transform the Park into something analogous to what we have seen occurring to the Mall, but surely with less happy results; one of its very charms lies in the fact that in the midst of Urbanism (to coin a word) it remains rustic, in the very centre of conventionalism it is unconventional. The great minister, when advocating such an alteration, could little have supposed that his death would be so closely connected with this spot; but here it was that, riding down Constitution Hill yonder, his horse threw him, on June 29th, 1850, and three days later he was no more.
CONSTITUTION HILL.
This Constitution Hill, about the origin of which name no good explanation is forthcoming, was in Strype’s day known simply as the “Road to Kensington,” as may be seen on his plan dated 1720.
Here it was that Charles II. was walking towards Hyde Park when—according to Dr. King’s well-known anecdote—he met the Duke of York in his coach, just as he was about to cross Hyde Park Corner. The Duke, on being informed that his Majesty was walking, immediately alighted, and going up to the King told him he was surprised to find him on foot and with so few attendants; intimating that Charles was exposing himself to some danger. “No kind of danger, James,” replied the Merry Monarch, “for I am sure no man will kill me to make you king.” But the road has not always been so safe for kingly heads, for here, it will be remembered, the lunatic Oxford shot at Queen Victoria, as she was driving, on June 10th, 1840.
The wall of Buckingham Palace grounds runs the entire length of Constitution Hill, to which additional width is just being given, and as we wend our steps across the Park, at an angle, towards the little paved way that leads by Stafford House, we can see the commencement of that great memorial which will perpetuate in stone, as they are enshrined in the hearts of the people, the virtuous life and great qualities of Queen Victoria.
Stafford House lies in front of us, to the right. A wondrous pile, it was originally built for that Duke of York whose effigy stands on the top of the great pillar in Carlton House Terrace. Although glorious within, externally—except from its size—it is not imposing, and its plainness gives point to the remark of some wit of the period that it looked like a packing-case out of which Bridgewater House, the graceful building on our left, had been taken.
When Fielding, as we have seen, fought with Colt, he did so in sight of the windows of Cleveland House, which originally stood close by, the ground having been given by Charles II. to that Duchess of Cleveland who caused him so much trouble, and who had a partiality for the Beau who fought beneath her windows.
CLEVELAND ROW.