In the year 1836 my eldest brother was married to Miss Ogle, in my opinion the most beautiful bride I have ever seen, before or since. They came to reside with us for a time, but the arrangement did not last long, and they went abroad and settled in Paris. The year 1837 was one of great sorrow for my sister, and indeed for all of us, as the health of her dear kind master, William the Fourth, began to fail.
In the month of May I went with my mother to pay a visit of a few days to Princess Mary, Duchess of Gloucester, at her house in Park Lane. We had been more than once the guests of this dear and kind Princess, at her delightful residence at Bagshot Park, but this was the first time I had slept under her hospitable roof in London. She was a most gracious lady, and full of delightful old-world anecdotes of her father’s court, and ever ready to appreciate and to promulgate a joke or a good story.
MRS JORDAN
I would sit and listen with gratitude to all she had to tell me of old days. I had a great admiration (what in the modern vernacular is called a “cult”) for the talent of Mrs Jordan, although it was only inspired by hearsay, as she was before my time. My mother had often told me that she would have considered it worth her while to go to the theatre, merely to hear the silvery ringing laugh of that actress behind the scenes, even if she had not waited for the performance of the play. I spoke of Mrs Jordan to the Duchess, and she told me she quite concurred in my mother’s opinion. She also gave me a very interesting account of accompanying her royal parents to the play one night, when the actress in question was to perform one of her favourite characters. “I was much excited, my dear Mary,” said the Duchess, “at the prospect of seeing the woman in whom I knew my brother William was deeply interested; but that evening was destined to be one of terrible excitement.”
It was the occasion on which the king’s life was attempted in the theatre. His escape was miraculous, and as he was most popular with his subjects, the alarm and consternation, with the subsequent enthusiasm and rejoicing of the audience, baffled all description. The performance was interrupted, the National Anthem loudly demanded, and the king vociferously called for, having to bow his thanks from the front of the Royal Box. When Mrs Jordan made her appearance her reception was warmer than usual, and, connected as she was with the interests of the Royal family, her excitement and agitation were such that she fairly broke down, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing, which did not help to calm down the general ferment of the evening. It was during our visit at Gloucester House that William the Fourth’s health failed, and, his days being numbered, all eyes were fixed on his young successor, Princess Victoria.
“To-night,” said the Duchess to my mother, “I am dining with the Duke of Cambridge, and you and little Mary can either dine at home, or I will order my carriage earlier, and send you to dine with a friend.”
The latter alternative was chosen, and we entered the Royal carriage in state, with the coachman and foot-men resplendent in scarlet and gold. It was Derby Day, and as we proceeded down Grosvenor Place, what wonder that the lowly occupants of that coach should be mistaken for the highest personages in the land. As we moved along, all heads were bowed, all hats raised. I took advantage of the occasion. I was about the same size, and of the same fair complexion and the same coloured hair as Princess Victoria, and I knew in a moment for whom I had the honour to be mistaken; so I imitated the courtesy which I felt sure Her Royal Highness would have evinced in the same circumstances, and I bowed repeatedly, first from one and then the other window, but that with such deceitful haste that the imposture could not be detected. My mother expostulated with me on my effrontery, but to no purpose; I was so much pleased with my own joke that I continued it the whole length of Grosvenor Place. How well I remember how entirely I sympathised, even while I deplored the death of our good kind king, in the love and enthusiasm which that young, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish Sovereign excited. There was something so picturesque, so romantic, to me, so like some fairy-tale of old, in the fair creature who reigned over this mighty Empire! I saw her one night at the Opera House, where she went in state, and a brilliant reception awaited her. I do not think I had ever seen her since two or three years before, when at the opening of Parliament she mounted the steps of the throne, and kissed the hand of her uncle, William the Fourth, while the dear old king, in his sailor’s uniform, surrounded by royal robes, stooped down and embraced the little princess, who was so soon to succeed him.
CORONATION OF QUEEN VICTORIA
In recalling that night at the Opera, I remember how, later in the evening, the door of the Royal Box opened to admit the Duke of Wellington, who naturally shared in the honours of the evening. It was to me a touching, beautiful sight, to see the young Queen give her hand to the old warrior and lead him forward to the front to obtain a reception from the audience, scarcely second in enthusiasm to her own.
Another time I saw her, in circumstances indelibly impressed on my memory. It was on her Coronation day, and the splendour and brilliancy of that scene, the gorgeous dresses, the magnificent solemnity of the whole ceremony, do not recur so often to my recollection as the time when, seated on her Regal chair, she received the homage of the Peers of England. One of the eldest among them, Lord Rolle, who had passed the allotted span of life, in approaching to do her honour, tottered, and nearly fell to the ground, while she, with a gracious and merciful impulse, rose with outstretched arms to save him from what might have been a painful fall. I was just above the spot in question, and well remember the sort of buzz or whisper that spread far and near among those who witnessed this touching incident.