(Charles Huntingon has returned to London in August 1761 following his election as Member of Parliament for Bereton)
None of the best families would usually have been found in London at the height of summer, but this year was different and the whole town was a-buzz with excitement. The coronation was to take place in September, and what was more, our young King had announced his intention to marry!
My friends could talk of little else. I
learned that our future Queen was named Charlotte, that she came from a small principality
in north Germany and was only seventeen years old. According to Lady Teesdale,
this announcement had caught the Privy Council as much by surprise as anyone
else, for the marriage had been negotiated solely by Lord Bute’s agents. It
showed, her husband said, how much reliance King George placed on his
particular friend.
However, my thoughts at that time were not on these
high events. Instead, on my very first day back in London I despatched a note
to Elizabeth Newstead requesting permission to call on her. I donned my best
clothes for the occasion, and finding her alone, described how I had triumphed
in my election to Parliament and had now returned to claim immediately my right
to her favours. To this demand she put up only the most token resistance.
In contrast to her earlier coyness, I found
her passionate beyond all expectation as a lover. Many were the hours we now
spent together and many too were the tricks she taught me, terminating only
when I was utterly exhausted. I took to passing night after night, and many
days too, at her home. Her servants must surely have been aware of everything that passed:
at first I wondered what stories they might tell of us around the town, but
eventually came to the conclusion that either they were unalterably loyal to
her, or that she and they no longer cared.
I
mentioned none of this when I found the time to write to Louisa Wilbrahim: instead,
I told her the romantic story of the German princess, no older than Louisa
herself, summoned to our shores to become the Queen of England, and of our new
King eagerly awaiting the arrival of his future bride. She wrote in reply that
she had begged her father to take her to London for the coronation, but he had
refused.
“He grumbled that it would be vastly
expensive, the city would be full of crowds, who would be a magnet for every
pickpocket and cut-throat in England, and that we would be lucky to catch as
much as a glimpse of the new King and Queen driving through the streets. I said
I would be happy if we did catch just a glimpse, but he was not to be moved!”
I wondered whether Sir James’s reluctance to
attend was because he did not recognise George III as the rightful King of
England. I was sure that I could have procured suitable lodgings in London for
them, but knew that it was no use battling against Sir James’s obstinacy. I
promised to send Louisa a full and detailed description of everything I saw and
heard.
Sir James was undeniably correct about
London being hopelessly overcrowded for the coronation. Places in the Abbey for
the ceremony were impossible to obtain, but Elizabeth and I were able watch the
procession from a high window in Palace Yard, courtesy of one of her friends. She
was very fortunate to have such friends, for I heard that other houses along
the route were hired out for up to a thousand guineas!
There we encountered a most extraordinary
couple. The man, who wore a lavender-coloured suit with lace cuffs, was slight
of build and walked with affected delicacy, as if he was treading with caution
on a dangerously wet floor. He escorted a lady who was much advanced in years
but elegant in appearance. Elizabeth, who knew everyone in town, introduced
them as Mr Horace Walpole, the son of the former Prime Minister, and the
dowager Countess of Suffolk. Mr Walpole’s appearance might have been
effeminate, but his eyes, set in a very pale face, were bright, and his voice,
though not strong, was most pleasant. His talk was lively and interesting, and
he had a waspish wit. He resembled his august father not at all, for Sir Robert
was by all accounts a large, heavy man.
He had little confidence in our new King,
and was suspicious of the intentions of his particular friend Lord Bute; but I
soon discovered that he was just as contemptuous of the old Duke of Newcastle
as some of Lord Teesdale’s friends had been. Lady Suffolk had been Mistress of
the Robes to the late Queen Caroline, and, by common repute, mistress in a
different manner to King George II. She also talked with spirit and wit, though
because she was extremely deaf, conversation was difficult. I learnt that they
were both great letter-writers, and that the Countess included Lady Teesdale
among her friends. I asked her if she ever dined at Teesdale House, but she
said that her increasing infirmity meant that these days she seldom left her
home in the evenings.
I mentioned to Mr Walpole that my aunt, Mrs Isobel
Andrews, had been one of his correspondents. He replied by praising her
learning and her literary skills, and said that he had always opened a letter
from her with eager anticipation. Whether he actually remembered her at all it
was impossible to tell.
After a long wait, the growing sound of cheering
and shouting told us that the royal couple were approaching. They were brought
separately in sedan chairs from St James’s palace to Westminster Hall, and from
there were escorted to the Abbey on foot, under a canopy.
Elizabeth thought the King looked very fine, and admired the dress of Queen Charlotte, but Lady Suffolk, speaking loudly because of her deafness, exclaimed, “But the poor girl is very plain indeed! Why, even the most flattering portrait painter could scarcely make her pretty! Could not some princess who was more handsome have been found for our new King?”
Mr Walpole, who prided himself on knowing all the court gossip, told us the following story. His Majesty, he said, was a passionate young man, and desperately in love with the daughter of the Duke of Richmond. He confessed this to the man he trusted above all: his old tutor Lord Bute; and sought his advice. That nobleman told him that it was wholly improper for the King to marry one of his subjects, and so instead he was commanded to scour Europe in search of a suitable princess to marry. However, the supply of Protestant princesses whose families were untainted by insanity or by alliances with the French was very limited: in fact, only Charlotte of the tiny and blameless north German principality of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was found to fit the bill; and so the girl was summoned forthwith to become Queen of England. It was said that George blenched when he first set eyes on her. “But what does any of this matter?” Mr Walpole continued. “Her task is to produce an heir to the throne, and as for the rest, the King can take mistresses, as his predecessors have done." This might have been intended as a hit at Lady Suffolk, which however her deafness did not allow her to hear.
Elizabeth countered this by saying she had
heard that they were already deeply in love, and that Charlotte was a fine girl
and would make an excellent Queen. Lady Suffolk told us that, as one of the few
remaining ladies who could remember the coronation of George II back in 1727,
she had been consulted about the etiquette proper for the occasion, especially
what diamonds the new Queen should wear. And so we parted. I was not to see Lady
Suffolk again, for she died not long afterwards; but Mr Walpole remained a
friend.
Lord Teesdale later gave me an account of
the coronation. He said the poor young Queen must have been utterly exhausted,
for the procession had set out at eleven o’clock in the morning, they were not
crowned until half past three, and then the banquet continued until near ten
o’clock that night. He described the memorable occasion to me; contriving to
make it sound very confused.
“When the Archbishop of Canterbury placed
the crown on the King’s head, there was a tremendous cheer from the boys of
Westminster School. At the King’s request, Zadok the Priest, by Handel, was
sung as the anthem, and sung very well too. But then, when the Archbishop came
to deliver his sermon, the congregation felt it was a good occasion to eat the
cold pies and drink the wine that were brought by their servants, and there was
a tremendous clatter of cutlery and plates!
“The banquet at Westminster Hall was presided
over by the Lord Steward, the Lord High Constable and the Deputy Earl Marshal,
all mounted on horseback; and as a grand dramatic gesture the King’s Champion
rode in, dressed in full armour, and cast down a gauntlet as a challenge to
anyone who presumed to dispute the King’s right to the throne. I suppose it was
to see if any Jacobites might be present; but if there were, none dared make a
move.
“When the feasting began, the spectators up
in the galleries let down baskets to their more fortunate friends down below,
who filled them with meat and bottles of wine, and so a fine time was had by
all!
“At least we were to be spared the
disgraceful scenes that attended the end of the coronation banquet of George II.
My father told me that when the great doors of the Abbey were opened and the
crowd allowed to enter, not only were the remains of the banquet seized
forthwith, but so were the table linen and the plates and dishes, and in less
than half an hour everything had been pillaged, even down to the tables and
chairs!”
As soon as Louisa Wilbrahim heard of the
coronation she wrote to me, demanding full details about our new King and
Queen. What did they look like? What did they wear? And when would I be
presented to them? I wrote a long letter in reply recounting what I had seen
and heard, though I did not mention Queen Charlotte’s plainness. I explained
that I was not likely to experience the honour of being presented to Their
Majesties in the near future, but should it so happen, I would not fail to tell
her.
I told
Elizabeth about Louisa and her father Sir James. She expressed great sympathy
for the poor child, trapped in a remote country with no friends and a “brute”,
as she termed him, for her only parent.
“Do you suppose,” she asked me, “that he is
in any way exerting himself to find her a husband?”
I replied that I had no reason to believe
that this was the case.
“And she is already, you think, fifteen, and
an heiress? Then he is failing most lamentably in his duty! How will she ever
come to meet a suitable gentleman in the present situation? Except you, of
course!”
“Perhaps her father is waiting for someone
from the East India Company!” I countered, referring to her own absent husband.
She ignored this, and instead her voice took
on a more serious note.
“I must confess”, she said, “what you have
told me makes me most uneasy. You say that the child is eager to break free of
her cage, yet knows nothing of the world? Then there is great danger that some
plausible fortune-hunter, knowing that she is an heiress, will seek her out and
woo her without her father’s knowledge, and she will fall for his blandishments
and allow herself to be abducted, and all will be lost. You must be on your
guard to preserve the poor girl from this fate!”
“But what could I do?”
“When you are in the country, keep watch,
even if your attention makes her father suspicious! And keep me informed of
what passes!”
Elizabeth advised me never to hint at this
when writing to Louisa, but to keep my letters entirely innocuous, since her
father would assuredly read them. Elizabeth’s warnings worried me, but for the
moment I did nothing.
(The old Palace of Westminster: a recreation by Peter Jackson)
Mr
Walpole offered to conduct me round the Palace of Westminster and show me its
antiquities. This kind proposal was most welcome, since I had never before set
foot inside that hallowed building, and I greatly wished to know my way around
before being sworn in as a Member of Parliament.
We halted in Old Palace Yard, where the
Gunpowder traitors and many others had met their deaths in the past. Mr Walpole
pointed out how the setting was dominated by the west towers of the Abbey, and
how low the other ancient buildings were. We then entered Westminster Hall.
It was said to be for many centuries the grandest space in Europe, which I could well believe. Mr Walpole drew my attention upwards to the roof supported on a curious wooden structure called hammer-beams, erected by King Richard II, and which he greatly admired. The glories of the work of these ancient craftsmen, he said, were insufficiently appreciated nowadays. We walked past several statues of old Kings of England, set in niches lining the wall, their robes painted red and green and their crowns gilded.
But we could not contemplate the great hall in peace, for it contained a great turmoil of lawyers and other folks scurrying about their business, and the noise was considerable. Mr Walpole indicated where the Court of King’s Bench would sit, and where the other courts, and where the most unfortunate King Charles the First was sentenced to death. Several different trials, he informed me, might take place at the same time in different parts of the hall, though there was none in session during my visit. Because the hall was so much used, the floor was very dirty and the statues covered with the grease and soot from centuries of candles.
From the hall we entered a most confusing
rabbit-warren of ancient rooms, where without my guide I could easily have
become lost. Mr Walpole led me to the chamber where the House of Commons sat.
I beheld a room that had once been St
Stephen’s chapel. There were three tall windows at the far end, and before them
raised on a dais was the Speaker’s chair where the altar had once stood. It
resembled a throne, with a marble pediment supported by columns in the
Corinthian style. The room was panelled in oak and immense brass chandeliers
hung from the ceiling. The benches for the Members rose in tiers on either side,
amongst which were slender columns supporting the Strangers’ Galleries above.
My guide indicated the front bench to the Speaker’s right where his father,
the great Sir Robert Walpole, had sat for the duration of his minstry. I felt a great amazement that I, who a year ago had been a man of no
significance, was now entitled to sit in the assembly and listen to the words
of Pitt and other leading men.
My guide sensed my awe at viewing the hallowed
scene, and hastened to disabuse me. “When studied in the light of reason, the
chamber is most unsuitable for an assembly of the representatives of the
British nation; for it is far too small, and consequently overcrowded and
uncomfortable. It is as memorable for its inconvenience as for its noble
oratory. The great Sir Christopher Wren performed some work here, but not even
his genius could greatly improve it. See how dark it is, made worse with the
panelling and the galleries above! For my part, I only rarely take my place
here, and never open my mouth in debates; but if you wish to be a great man, it
is here that you must make your name. Now let us proceed to the Painted
Chamber, where the Lords meet, and which is, if possible, even worse-suited to
its purpose.”
I had heard that the Painted Chamber was the room
where the death warrant of King Charles had been signed, but Mr Walpole pointed
out that the ceiling that gave the room its name could hardly be seen for the
smoke of candles, and that there and in the Upper Chamber above, the old
tapestries were so tarnished that scarcely anything could be distinguished. He
deeply deplored the centuries of neglect that had led to this: the beauties
created by our ancestors, he said, had for too long been ignored.
Parliament would not open until the autumn.
But already plans were being laid, and soon I received a letter from the Duke
of Newcastle, requesting to know of my political intentions. I was to meet the
great man before long, but before then momentous events were to take place.
Sir James Wilbrahim was not present at my
swearing-in as a member of the House of Commons. Instead, Sir Anthony
Pardington and Mr Braithwaite acted as my sponsors as I swore fealty to our new
monarch and abjured the church of Rome. Lord Staines and his brother-in-law Sir
Headley Graham were also sworn in, the latter having been returned for a Scotch
borough which he largely owned. The public prints placed the three of us
together and dubbed us “Teesdale’s tea-boys”, or some such trivial name.
In October of 1761 the world was
astonished to learn that the great William Pitt had resigned as Secretary
of State. Lord Teesdale, who had many contacts within the Cabinet, explained to
me how this had come about. Pitt had demanded an attack on Spain, which was
preparing to enter the war on the side of France while that country was still
unprepared. But he found the majority of the Cabinet was opposed to such a
step. The Duke of Newcastle was alarmed a the ever-rising costs of the war,
disappointed that peace talks had broken down through Pitt’s intransigence, and
resentful Pitt’s taking the sole direction of the war himself, and Lord Bute
was wavering in his views (as he always did when under pressure, Lord Teesdale
said), but in the end sided with Newcastle, apparently with the King’s
approval. Finding himself outvoted, Pitt therefore resigned his office. The
ministry was now balanced between the Duke of Newcastle at the Treasury and the
Earl of Bute as Secretary of State, but, as Lord Teesdale said, there could be
little doubt as to which way the wind was blowing.
Mr Walpole’s opinion was that it was
difficult to know who exulted most on this occasion, France, Spain or Lord
Bute, for Mr Pitt was the common enemy of all three. The Duke of Newcastle, he
told me, was not displeased to see Pitt depart, but he would have counselled the
Duke not to die for joy on the Monday, or for fear on the Tuesday, for everyone
knew it was Lord Bute who held the King’s trust.
The news of Pitt’s departure was received
with stunned amazement. The opinion of the nation was strong for Pitt, and
addresses in his favour flooded in from all over England. London especially was
alarmed and indignant. Soon after the resignation, the King and all the royal
family dined at the Guildhall in the City with the Lord Mayor, and I myself
witnessed how Pitt, in his way there in a chariot, was acclaimed. Lord Bute, by
contrast, would certainly have suffered injury from the mob had he not prudently
hired a large company of bodyguards for the occasion. That night Londoners
erected a gallows, from which they hanged a jackboot, to indicate the royal
favourite, and a petticoat, to indicate the supposed influence of the Princess Augusta,
the King’s mother.
My hopes of meeting Pitt were to be
frustrated for the moment, for the great man now withdrew to his home in Kent,
being greatly afflicted by the gout. Lord Staines declared that Pitt was
incurably mad, and passed on stories that the great man could not bear to leave
his room or to receive any visitors, and that even his servants were ordered
never to come within his sight, but to leave meals outside his room without
entering.
Although
I did not meet Mr Pitt, I did succeed in meeting another of our great men. I
was in the Palace of Westminster in company with Mr Walpole, when I beheld a gentleman
with a party of acolytes in attendance hastening towards me. He wore a
full-bottomed wig of a pattern no longer in fashion with younger men, a dark
blue coat and a finely embroidered waistcoat. I wondered if this personage
could be none other than Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle; formerly
Secretary of State and now First Lord of the Treasury: a man of whom I had
heard much reported, most of it contemptuous or critical, yet who had contrived
to remain a pillar of the British state since before I was born! Mr Walpole
must have read my thoughts, since he confirmed, in a voice loud enough for the
approaching party to hear, that this was indeed the case.
I stood in silence as the Duke approached. He
acknowledged Mr Walpole with a minimal stiff formal bow, to which the latter
responded with one of such extreme obsequiousness that it bordered on parody,
no doubt deliberately so; and accompanied it by expressions of how delightful
it was to encounter His Grace. The Duke did not respond: he was surely well
aware of how much Mr Walpole despised him.
I was introduced as the newly-elected Member
for Bereton.
“Ah yes, Mr Huntingdon!” said the Duke, “I
was most gratified by your success at Bereton, sir: most gratified. I have
received notification that your defeated opponent, Mr Cave, intends to petition
to have the result overturned on the grounds of corruption, but I can assure
you, sir, that his petition stands not the slightest chance of being accepted,
not the slightest; we shall make sure of that. Your position is secure and
assured. I trust that you will be our friend in the new Parliament? That is my
expectation, sir”.
I replied that I was zealously attached to
the cause of bringing the war to a victorious conclusion, but that I hoped to
remain independent of all political connexions.
“Quite so, quite so”, he replied. He
appeared a trifle disappointed at my protestation. It occurred to me that
throughout his long life in politics he must have heard numberless declarations
of loyalty from men who subsequently betrayed him.
Just then someone approached to hand him a
letter. The Duke appeared to recognise the handwriting, and as he held a
whispered conversation with the messenger, an expression of acute alarm crossed
his face. With only the briefest of apologies, he turned his back on us and
hurried away. Thus ended my first-ever conversation with a cabinet minister.
“Now he will have to make out a new entry on his lists”, Mr Walpole said,
while the Duke and his entourage were still within earshot, “All the Members of
Parliament feature on his lists, as friends, enemies or ‘doubtful’. He will now
be in a great quandary as to whether or not to write your name down as a
probable friend. Thus does our great First Lord of the Treasury employ his
time!”
I was then asked what impression I had
formed of the great man. After some consideration, I replied that the Duke had
a certain presence, but I thought it improper for a nobleman of his age and experience
to appear to be in such an undignified hurry, as if he was soliciting favours,
whereas I should be the one to be soliciting favours from him. This observation
was received with a smile.
“The Duke’s person is not naturally
despicable, but his incapacity, his mean soul, the general low opinion of him,
and, as you have observed, the constant hurry in his walk, make him ridiculous.
Jealousy and a childish and an absurd all-pervasive fear are predominant in
him. I fancy he would hazard the future of the kingdom rather than dare to open
a letter that might disclose a plot against him.
“As a young man he inherited some thirty
thousand pound a year and influence in half a dozen counties, and to this alone
he owed his every other way unjustified elevation. For forty years now the
country has been blessed with his assistance, but to what purpose? It is to no
purpose that I can discern. His speeches in Parliament are always flowing and
copious of words, but empty and unmeaning. He is always bustling about doing
business, but never does it. He is generally found clutching a bundle of papers
as large as his head, and as devoid of content.”
Mr
Walpole spoke in this vein for several minutes. I had heard it said that he
spent many hours writing long letters concerning politics to his many friends
both at home and abroad, and I wondered whether he was rehearsing some choice
phrases prior to setting them down on paper.
“But now”, he continued, “He has every
reason to be fearful. He knows the King neither likes nor trusts him. The
country is with Pitt, but he betrayed Pitt over the matter of the Spanish war,
and Pitt will not forgive him for that. Together the two of them could have
easily repelled the ambitions of Lord Bute, but what now? We may anticipate
more changes of ministry ere long!”
It
was in the New Year of 1762, and I was in Brown’s club, drinking coffee with
friends, when John Robertson entered in a state of great excitement that was most unusual for him.
“Have you heard the news?” he gasped.
“News? What news? Sit down, sir, and get
your breath back, and then tell us!” came the response from several throats.
“Why, the news from Russia! The Empress
Elizabeth is dead!”
This sudden information caused a heated discussion on the likely future of the war. Although British arms had been triumphant in many far-flung parts of the world, and in Western Germany the French were held at bay, further east the position was perilous. Our gallant ally, Frederick of Prussia, despite the millions he received in subsidies from Britain, was being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Russian armies had driven him from Berlin and roving bands of Cossack horsemen spread terror throughout his lands. It was rumoured that he contemplated suicide. What would happen now?
One gentleman, by name Broderick, who had
undertaken much trading with Russia and had visited St. Petersburg, treated us
to his opinions.
“Elizabeth was the granddaughter of Peter
the Great. She seized the crown from her cousin by violence. She was consumed with hatred
of Frederick of Prussia, and for that reason alone rejected offers of a British
alliance.”
“And did you meet Elizabeth herself?” he
was asked.
“I did not, sir, and I do not regret it! Her court was a disgrace! She was a voluptuary: her love of handsome young officers was as notorious as her love of drinking!” (My mind wandered at this point, for I knew another lady of the same name whom this man might have condemned. I tried to banish this uncharitable thought. And I had never seen my Elizabeth drink to excess)
“And I expect no better in the future!", Mr Broderick
continued, “The Empress had no children, and some years ago she summoned her sister's son back from Germany to Russia and raised him to be her heir. His name is Peter, and he is now
the Tsar. But he is half German by blood and wholly German in sympathy, and by
all reports he is also depraved, vicious, and entirely lacking intelligence or
judgement. The Empress, being aware of this, chose him a bride who possessed
these qualities. She also is German. Her name was Sophia, but it was changed to
Catherine when she was received into the Russian church. It is said that she
and Peter now hate each other!"
“Have they any children?”
“Catherine has had a son, sir, but who can say
whom the father might be? As was the case with Elizabeth, she is very fond of
handsome officers!”
“What will happen now?”
“The Devil alone knows, sir!”
