The immediate danger of a Jacobite rising was thus warded off, but so long as James and his two sons lived the House of Hanover could not enjoy undisputed title to the throne of England. In these early days, as Caroline knew well, it behoved the princes of the new dynasty to walk warily and court the popular goodwill, for there was always an alternative king in James, who by a turn of Fortune’s wheel might find himself upon the throne of his fathers. Though the official world and most of those in high places were all for the Hanoverian succession, and though Walpole had the means to corrupt members of Parliament and buy constituencies as he would, yet the heart of the people remained very tender towards the exiled royal family and felt a profound compassion for their misfortunes.
The excitement consequent on the new reign continued for some months, and the King, not having had time to make himself enemies, was, to outward semblance, popular. A good deal was due to interested motives. The court was crowded with personages struggling for place. Lord Orrery wrote to James inveighing bitterly against “the civility, ignorance and poor spirit of our nobility and gentry, striving who shall sell themselves at the best price to the court, but resolved to sell themselves at any”. Yet he is constrained to add: “There do not appear to be many discontented people”.[6] Pope, too, who was now quite out of favour at court, wrote to a friend that the new reign “has put the whole world into a new state; but,” he adds enviously, “the only use I have, shall, or wish to make of it, is to observe the disparity of men from themselves in a week’s time; desultory leaping and catching of new modes, new manners and that strong spirit of life with which men, broken and disappointed, resume their hopes, their solicitations, their ambitions”. The political Jeremiahs of the time bewailed the wholesale trafficking in places, and the universal corruption. The King himself did not set a high example of public or private honesty; he had wrung the highest sum he could from Parliament for his Civil List, and at one of his early Councils he distinguished himself by an act which can only be described as dishonest. The timid and time-serving Archbishop of Canterbury, old Dr. Wake, produced the late King’s will, which had been entrusted to him, and handed it to George, fully expecting him to open it and read it to the Council. The King took it without a word, put it into his pocket, and walked out of the room. The Archbishop was so taken aback at this proceeding, that neither he nor the other privy councillors present raised a word in protest. George probably burnt the will after reading it, in any case it was never seen again. But the old King, who probably feared that some such fate would befall his testament, had taken the precaution to make a second copy, which he entrusted to the safe keeping of his cousin, the Duke of Wolfenbüttel. The duke soon intimated this fact to the new King of England, and at the same time hinted that he had no wish to make matters disagreeable (which he could easily do if he wished, for the King and Queen of Prussia were furious), if his silence were made worth his while. George took the hint, and despatched a messenger to Wolfenbüttel promising the duke a subsidy. In return the messenger brought back the duplicate of the will, and this too was destroyed.
The only excuse that can be urged for the King’s conduct, which probably defrauded among others his sister, the Queen of Prussia, and his son Prince Frederick, was that George the First had treated the will of his consort, Sophie Dorothea of Celle, in the same way, to the detriment, it was suspected, of both his son and his daughter. George the Second also, when Electoral Prince of Hanover, had reason to believe that his father had unjustly deprived him of a substantial inheritance which had been left him by his maternal grandfather, the Duke of Celle. The burning of wills seems to have been a peculiarity of the Hanoverian family at this time, for a year or two later, Frederick, Prince of Wales, accused his father of destroying the will of his uncle Ernest Augustus Duke of York and Bishop of Osnabrück. He died a year after his brother, George the First, and both Prince Frederick and the Queen of Prussia declared that they would have largely benefited by his death had it not been for the chicanery of George the Second. Queen Caroline always stoutly denied this imputation, and maintained that the Duke of York had nothing to leave, except £50,000 which he left to his nephew King George, and his jewels which he bequeathed to his niece the Queen of Prussia, to whom they were immediately sent. But neither the King nor the Queen of Prussia were satisfied with this explanation, and they also had a further dispute with George about the French possessions of his mother, Sophie Dorothea, which she had inherited through her mother, Eléonore d’Olbreuse, who was descended from an ancient Huguenot family of Poitou.
The person who probably lost most by the destruction of George the First’s will was the Duchess of Kendal, but she did not venture to lift her voice in protest. George the Second no doubt felt that she had amassed more than she deserved during the late King’s lifetime, and if he allowed her to remain in peaceable possession of her plunder it was as much as she had any right to expect. The duchess seems to have thought so too, but her daughter, Lady Walsingham, who was also the late King’s daughter, was not so complaisant. When a few years later Lord Chesterfield married her in the belief that she was a great heiress (in which hope he was disappointed), she confided to him that George the First had left her £40,000 in his will, which had never been paid. Lord Chesterfield, who was then out of favour at court and had no hope of regaining it, instituted, or threatened to institute, legal proceedings to recover the legacy. The case never came into court, for half the sum, £20,000, was offered, and accepted, as a compromise.
The aged Duchess of Kendal was the only person in the world who really mourned the late King. Within a week of his death George the First was as completely forgotten as though he had never been; the only reminder of his reign was the official mourning. The Duchess of Kendal had accompanied him on his last journey, but, being indisposed by the sea voyage, she had tarried at the Hague a day to recover, and, like Lord Townshend, was following the King on the road to Hanover, when a messenger rode up to her coach with the tidings of his death. The duchess was overwhelmed with grief; she beat her breast, tore her hair, and rent the air with her cries. But her sorrow did not get the better of her prudence, for, not being sure of the reception that awaited her from the new King, she resolved to remove herself from his Hanoverian dominions, and repaired to the neighbouring territory of Wolfenbüttel. Her fears proved to be groundless, for Queen Caroline harboured towards the ex-mistress no feelings of ill-will, and it followed that the King did not either. On the contrary, Caroline had liked the duchess, who, unlike Lady Darlington, was no mischief-maker, and had personally interceded with George the First, though unsuccessfully, to restore her children to the Princess. Moreover she was such an old-established institution that Caroline had come to look upon her almost in the light of the late King’s wife. The Queen wrote the following letter to her within a fortnight of George the First’s death:—
“Kensington, June 25th, 1727.
“My first thought, my dear Duchess, has been of you in the misfortune that has befallen us; I know well your devotion and love for the late King, and I fear for your health; only the resignation which you have always shown to the divine will can sustain you under such a loss. I wish I could convey to you how much I feel for you, and how anxious I am about your health, but it is impossible for me to do so adequately. I cannot tell you how greatly this trouble has affected me. I had the honour of knowing the late King, you know that to know him was sufficient to make one love him also. I know that you always tried to render good service to the King (George II.); he knows it too, and will remember it himself to you by letter. I hope you realise that I am your friend, it is my pleasure and my duty to remind you of the fact and to tell you that I and the King will always be glad to do all we can to help you. Write to me, I pray you, and give me an opportunity to show how much I love you.—Caroline.”
It is impossible to accept literally these expressions of affection. Allowing for exaggeration they do credit to Caroline’s heart, but the letter was probably dictated as much by prudence as by sympathy, for the Duchess of Kendal was then at Wolfenbüttel, and the Duke of Wolfenbüttel had the duplicate of the late King’s will. Caroline was anxious to avoid a family scandal, for she knew by experience how bad these things were for the dynasty, and in the negotiations which passed between George the Second and the duke it is probable that the Duchess of Kendal played a part, though it is improbable that she received any portion of the subsidy. That matters were amicably arranged is shown by the fact that a few months later the duchess returned to England, and took up her abode at Kendal House, Twickenham, where she lived in comfortable retirement until the end of her days. She no longer appeared at court, but the King and Queen would never permit her to be molested in any way—so she may be said to have enjoyed their protection. She made a cult of her George’s memory, dressing always as a widow and wearing the deepest weeds. She was of a pious, not to say superstitious, turn of mind, and declared that George the First had told her that his devotion was so great that he would return to her even after death. So one day when a raven hopped in at the window the bereaved duchess took it into her head that this was the reincarnation of the dead King. She captured the bird, put it into a golden cage, kept it always by her, and provided for it in her will. Her death took place in 1743, at the advanced age of eighty-five years. Her wealth was divided among her German relations, and Kendal House was converted into a tea garden and afterwards pulled down.
FOOTNOTES TO BOOK III, CHAPTER I:
[1] Pulteney’s Answer to an infamous Libel.