I have often met Sheridan, but never knew him intimately. He was too much my senior and superior. While he was in high repute, I was at laborious duties: while he was eclipsing every body in fame in one country, I was labouring hard to gain money in another. He professed whiggism: I did not understand it, and have met very few patriots who appear to have acted even on their own definition thereof—if any certain definition there is.
QUEEN CAROLINE.
Reception of the late Queen Caroline (then Princess of Wales) at the drawing-room held after the “delicate investigation”—Her depression, and subsequent levity—Queen Charlotte and the Princess compared and contrasted—Reflections on the incidents of that day and evening—The Thames on a Vauxhall night.
I have often mused on the unfortunate history and fate of the late Queen Caroline. It is not for me here to discuss her case, or give any opinion on the conduct of the ruling powers in the business. I shall only observe, that though it was not possible to foresee such events as subsequently took place, I had, from the time of my being presented to that princess by Lord Stowell, felt an unaccountable presentiment that her destiny would not be a happy one.
Upon the close of the “delicate investigation,” a drawing-room of the most brilliant description was held at St. James’s, to witness the Princess’s reception by her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. I doubt if a more numerous and sparkling assemblage had ever been collected in that ancient palace;—curiosity had no small share in drawing it together.
The sun was that day in one of his most glaring humours; he shone with unusual ardour into the windows of the antique ball-room—seeming as if he wished at the same moment to gild and melt down that mass of beauty and of diamonds which was exposed to all his fervour. The crowd was immense, the heat insufferable; and the effects resulting therefrom liberally displayed themselves, though in different-tinted streams (from the limpid to the crimson), upon the fine features of the natural and aided beauties.
I was necessitated to attend in my official dress: the frizzled peruke, loaded with powder and pomatum (covering at least half the body of the sufferer), was wedged in amongst the gaudy nobles. The dress of every person who was so fortunate as to come in contact with the wigs, like the cameleon, instantly imbibed the colour of the thing it came in collision with; and after a short intimacy, many a full-dress black received a large portion of my silvery hue, and many a splendid manteau participated in the materials which render powder adhesive.
Of all the distressed beings in that heated assembly, I was most amused by Sir Vicary Gibbs, then attorney-general.—Hard-featured and impatient—his wig awry—his solids yielding out all their essence—he appeared as if he had just arisen (though not like Venus) from the sea. Every muscle of his angular features seemed busily employed in forming hieroglyphic imprecations! Though amused, I never pitied any person more—except myself. Wedged far too tight to permit even a heaving sigh at my own imprisonment, I could only be consoled by a perspective view of the gracious Charlotte, who stood stoutly before the throne like the stump of a baronial castle to which age gives greater dignity. I had, however, in due rotation, the honour of being presented, and of kissing the back of her Majesty’s hand.
I am, of course, profoundly ignorant of her Majesty’s manner in her family, but certainly her public receptions appeared to me the most gracious in the world: there could not be a more engaging, kind, and condescending address than that of the Queen of England. It is surprising how different a queen appears in a drawing-room and in a newspaper.
At length, the number of presentations had diminished the pressure, and a general stir in the crowd announced something uncommon about to take place. It was the approach of the Princess of Wales.