CHAPTER XIV

QUEEN VICTORIA’S TORY MINISTRY

“And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet

By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people’s will, And compass’d by the inviolate sea.”

--_Tennyson._

In September, 1841, the Queen found herself face to face with another political crisis, and Melbourne tendered his resignation once more. He went to Windsor to accomplish this dread deed, and it is said that he showed no appearance of depression, but seemed to consider the change only as it might affect the Queen.

“For four years I have seen you every day,” he said, “but it is so different now from what it would have been in 1839; the Prince understands everything so well.” Indeed, he warmed the Queen’s affectionate heart by the way he both spoke and wrote of Albert. “I have formed the highest opinion of His Royal Highness’s judgment, temper, and discretion, and cannot but feel a great consolation and security in the reflection that your Majesty has the inestimable advantage of such advice and assistance. I feel certain that your Majesty cannot do better than have recourse to it whenever it is needed, and rely upon it with confidence.” This made the Queen very pleased and proud, coming as it did from a man who was, as she herself said, no flatterer.

Thenceforth Melbourne had to endure not only loss of occupation, but of the society of one whom he had grown to love as a daughter, and in whose company he had for years passed several hours each day. “He consorted constantly with the Queen on the most easy and delightful footing, and he is continually banished from her presence.”

However, he fell naturally into those habits which were his before his long spell of power, and ere a year had passed he had a slight stroke of paralysis, which kept him a prisoner for months.

The resignation of the Whig Government naturally brought once more to the front the vexed question of the Bedchamber Ladies. Extraordinary care was taken that the Queen’s susceptibilities should not be hurt; Melbourne, on the one hand, conferring with the Royal pair and with Anson and Peel, and being approached by the last-named with pacific suggestions. Peel was terribly nervous, and desirous to do nothing that would give pain to Her Majesty, saying, “_I would waive every pretension to office, I declare to God, sooner than that my acceptance of it should be attended with any personal humiliation to the Queen._”

The Mistress of the Robes, the sweet-natured Duchess of Sutherland, sent in her resignation, she being the only person who for the future would be required to be of the same party as the Government, and she was replaced by the Duchess of Buccleuch. The exclusively Whig character of the Household had been broken soon after the crisis in 1839 by the Queen’s invitation to Lady Sandwich, the wife of a Tory peer, to fill a vacant post. The Duchess of Bedford (_i.e._, Lady Tavistock) and Lady Normanby also resigned, and with these changes Peel was content. Thus the principle that the ladies about the Queen should belong to the governing party, and be changed when the party changed, was never established, and after that time the Queen’s ladies were chosen irrespective of political considerations, excepting the Mistress of the Robes.

Victoria was desolate at the loss of Melbourne. Writing to King Leopold, she said: “You don’t say that _you_ sympathise with me in my present heavy trial, the heaviest I have ever had to endure, and which will be a sad heart-breaking to me”--and Melbourne did his utmost to cheer her and to insist upon her showing friendly feelings towards the new Government. But she spent the last evening on which the old Household remained in a sorrowful silence. “Scarcely a word was spoken at dinner, but later on tears and regrets broke forth with little restraint.”

In considering the ways of Queen Victoria during her early career, I am forced to recognise the fact that when once she really accepted an impression she could not let it fade. This is curiously exemplified in several ways, small as well as large. Thus when at the end of August most of the arrangements had been made for the formation of a Tory Administration, she somewhat frightened her husband by telling him that, seeing how the Tories had treated him nearly two years earlier in the matter of the annuity, he ought now to keep them at a distance. They would be sure to come and see him and to flatter him, and his part was to resist them and refuse to see them, at least for some time. A most extraordinary piece of advice! The curious fact about it is that Prince Albert did not laugh at it; he was really troubled, and told his secretary to repeat this to Melbourne, and ask him to influence Her Majesty to different thoughts.

Victoria’s treatment of her mother and her uncle Leopold arose, I feel convinced, from the same limitation, aided, perhaps, by a strong dislike to appear in leading-strings to anyone. The articles in _The Times_ could hardly have had influence enough to cause this dislike, which was probably the outcome of her character, but those articles may have indicated a certain policy to her which she followed too rigidly. This led her to slight her mother and to exclude her uncle, as he reminded her, from the ceremonies attending her accession, her coronation, and her marriage. In his letter written in January, 1841, a slight bitterness of spirit and a wounded heart is shown when he says:--

“I should not have bored you by my presence, but the act of christening is, in my eyes, a sort of closing of the first cyclus of your dear life.” He then reminds her of his actions at her father’s death, how he went down to Sidmouth two days before that happened, and how so great was the Duchess’s need that she could not have left Sidmouth had he not been there to settle everything for her; and how, when the little party arrived in London, they were treated very unkindly by George IV. The copy of this letter, which is to be found in “The Letters of Queen Victoria,” recently published by command of His late Majesty, ends with: “I wished to assist at the christening of the little Princess, an event which is of great importance....” It is something of a relief to know that he _was_ one of the sponsors to the Princess Royal.

When about a year later the Prince of Wales was christened, a great debate arose as to who should be the chief godfather, and Stockmar advised the exclusion of Leopold on the ground that both he and the King of Hanover could not be invited, and if the Belgian King were sponsor the Hanoverian King would be very angry; so to avoid this a mutually friendly Sovereign was asked to stand, and the King of Prussia accepted the invitation, Ernest of Hanover being furiously angry and considering himself slighted. This led to an attempt at pacification when Princess Alice was christened, and he was then invited to be sponsor. He promised to fill the post, and arrived in London two or three days after that fixed for the ceremony, “everyone asking why the King did not arrive or why the christening was not put off.” He stayed some weeks, showing that he resented the fact that Victoria occupied the throne of his fathers, and trying to belittle Prince Albert. During his visit Princess Augusta, daughter of the Duke of Cambridge, was married to the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. All the Royalties were at the wedding, and there was a little amusing byplay in the vestry when names were appended to the register. While Victoria was signing the King of Hanover slipped to her side, intending to take the pen from her and add his name in front of Prince Albert; but the Queen saw his design and moved quickly round the table to where the Prince stood, had the book passed to her there, made her signature, and then gave the pen to the Prince, so by the time Ernest had also got round the table the deed was done. Once while in London the King asked the Prince to go for a walk with him, but the latter objected that they might be troubled with crowds.

“Oh, never mind that,” replied the King; “I was still more unpopular than you are now, and used to walk about with perfect impunity.”

Altogether he seems to have annoyed his niece very much, for she refused to go to Ascot that year, and it was currently reported that the reason was that she would have been obliged to have a houseparty at Windsor, which would have necessitated the inclusion of the King of Hanover among her guests.

While writing of christenings, I might tell the story of how the escort for the King of Prussia went to fetch him from Ostend. The squadron was under the command of Lord Hardwick, and it had a series of adventures which ought to justify the theory of ill-luck. His ship was the _Firebrand_, and it, with several other steamers and frigates, prepared to start on the Tuesday. Just as steam got up the _Firebrand_ upheld its name by bursting its boiler. This was repaired during the day, and they started at night, promptly going aground in the darkness without getting damaged; but in the fog, which was very thick, one of the companion steamers ran into the _Firebrand_ and broke off its figure-head. The third steamer ran ashore and could not be moved. In defiance of the advice of the pilots, Lord Hardwick insisted upon pushing on to the Nore. There it was found that the two frigates would, though the reason was not given, be unable to cross the Channel, and the second steamer broke her paddles, so the _Firebrand_ steamed alone into Ostend Harbour at about the time that the King arrived there. The King decided to remain with the King of the Belgians that night, and Lord Hardwick remained on his ship. Just as he got to bed his cook walked over the ship’s side into the water, and one of the sailors slipped down the ladder and got hold of him. Lord Hardwick rushed on deck in his shirt, and, shouting for a boat, threw out a rope to the sailor and asked if he had got the cook safe.

“Yes,” said the man, who was so deep in the water that it was up to his neck, “yes, I’ve got his head tight between my knees.”

Fortunately at that moment a boat took them both in, the cook apparently dead. However, hot blankets, rubbing, and the pump restored animation, and Lord Hardwick was the longest sufferer, as he caught a very severe cold.

The economic conditions were so bad at this time that scarcely anything could raise the mob to enthusiasm. Why should a man with an empty stomach throw his hat in the air and shout for joy because his Queen passes him in the street? It is far more likely that he will scowl and say, “She has every luxury; I have nothing,” as he would say it of any rich person. Fanny Kemble discoursed upon the attitude of the people during the visit of the King of Prussia, saying that the concourse was immense, but that she was much surprised at the entire want of excitement and enthusiasm in the vast multitude who thronged and all but choked up the Queen’s way. All hats were lifted, but there was not a hatful of cheers, and the whole thing produced a disagreeable effect of coldness, indifference, and constraint. She went on to say that one person believed that it was nineteenth-century breeding which was too exquisite to allow of the mob shouting; and another person, who was a very warm Whig, thought the silence was to be accounted for by Paisley starvation and Windsor banquets. She concluded that when Horace Wilson was crossing the Park at the time that the Queen was driving through it, there was some, but not much, decided hissing.

When Queen Victoria found herself compelled to accept Peel as her chief Minister, she did not attempt to break off all intercourse with Lord Melbourne, though great pressure was put upon her from all sides, and especially by Stockmar, to make her refrain from either seeing him or writing to him. Both she absolutely refused to do, and for a time letters passed constantly between them. The German Baron grew almost hysterical over these letters, and did not hesitate to convey to Lord Melbourne his conviction that he was acting dishonourably and jeopardising the Queen’s honour, for nothing would convince him that Melbourne was not basely discussing politics with Her Majesty, doing all in his power to undermine Peel’s work, and nursing the prospect of a return to the headship of affairs himself. Stockmar acted always upon the supposition that men were evil, and Melbourne’s honour and magnanimity had no weight with him. Peel, however, was more just. Before he went to the Queen, Melbourne sent him a message, advising him of the things that the Queen liked or disliked, and doing his utmost to help his rival to obtain the Queen’s favour. On the receipt of this message Peel said how kind it was of Lord Melbourne, and, on the subject of the Queen’s friendship for her old Minister being mentioned, added that it was ridiculous to suppose that he could feel any jealousy, that he had full reliance on the Queen’s fairness, and that implicit confidence was the wisest course.

It is worthy of note that at the first dinner-party given to her new Ministers the programme of the evening was changed. The Queen was very gracious and good-humoured with Aberdeen, Peel, the Duke, and others. But when they went into the drawing-room Melbourne’s chair was gone, and, instead of showing herself interested in her guests, all the Ministers were set down to whist, so that there was no possibility of conversation. Victoria herself sat at her round table with Lady de la Warr and Lady Portman, and there was practically silence. That an exchange of ideas, not on political matters, might have been pleasant to the gentlemen, did not enter the little lady’s head.

Melbourne behaved with great courtesy to Stockmar, but he did not promise not to write to the Queen nor to answer her letters. Of all the people he knew, he loved her best; for four years he had been her constant companion and adviser; he had watched her with fatherly care through her trials, her mistakes, and her good fortune, and he took a pride in the development of character which he detected. He was ambitious for her, and believed that she was capable of greatness, and he did not in the least share Stockmar’s Teutonic hope that the Queen would be gradually absorbed in the nursery and leave affairs of State to other minds. The letters that passed between them had little or no reference to State affairs, and could have in no way been objected to by Peel if he had seen them.

From this time until his death there was an element of tragedy in the life of the ex-Premier. He was given by Stockmar--who first instructed the Prince as to his decisions and what he should say, and then acted as the mouthpiece for the Prince’s borrowed sentiments--the alternative either of obliterating himself as a politician, or of banishing himself entirely from the Queen’s friendship. A short time after the change of Government Victoria asked him to come and stay a few days at Windsor, and not knowing how this would be regarded, yet wishing to accept, Melbourne wrote to Prince Albert to know if such a visit would be feasible. Albert was afraid to accept the responsibility, and consulted Stockmar, who wrote a memorandum charging the late Prime Minister with committing an _essential injustice_ to Sir Robert Peel by continuing to correspond with the Queen, and also by asking the Prince to give an opinion upon this suggested visit.

He sent Anson, who admired and loved his old master, to deliver this condemnation. Melbourne read the memorandum twice attentively with compressed lips. Then Anson repeated the lesson Stockmar had taught him in addition, saying that he had better meet the Queen first in general society in London, that the Prince thought that Melbourne’s own sense of right should have enabled him to decide about his visit, and that his recent speech in the House of Lords, which identified him with the Opposition, added another impediment to his seeing Her Majesty.

Melbourne had been sitting on a sofa, and at this he jumped up, striding up and down the room exclaiming “in a violent frenzy,” I quote from Baron Stockmar, “God eternally damn it!--&c., &c. Flesh and blood cannot stand this. I only spoke upon the defensive, which Ripon’s speech at the beginning of the session rendered quite necessary. I cannot be expected to give up my position in the country, neither do I think that it is to the Queen’s interest that I should.”

Melbourne continued to lead the Opposition, and when affairs were more settled he occasionally went to see the Queen, but after he had a slight stroke he seemed a broken man, never recovering his strength. In December, 1843, Georgiana Liddell wrote of him: “Lord Melbourne goes away to-day. He was not well yesterday, and had a slight touch of gout; it always makes me sad to see him, he is so changed.” When the Queen visited Chatsworth Melbourne was invited to make one of the guests, which gave him great pleasure, though it was doubtful whether the excitement was good for him, for a dreadful depression seized upon him afterwards, for he knew that his day was over, and chafed and fretted under the knowledge.

Another man who was beginning to show many signs of age was the Duke of Wellington, of whom Greville said, I think erroneously, that “he was a great man in little things, but a little man in great matters.” All through the years from about 1834 Society seems to have been watching for the Duke’s collapse. In June, 1838, one diarist remarked: “It is a sad thing to see how the Duke is altered in appearance, and what a stride old age has made upon him. He is much deafer than he was, he is whiter, his head is bent, his shoulders are raised, and there are muscular twitches in his face, not altogether new, but of a more marked character.”

Prince Albert had the good sense to make a personal friend of this the most remarkable man in the kingdom. Someone gives an account of the two pacing the garden together in earnest conversation, and on passing them being amused to find that the Duke was giving a long discourse about larders, “it might have been a French cook instead of the great hero of Waterloo.” When the changes of administration occurred in 1841, it was the Duke who gave expression to Albert’s desire that those who came into office should be of “spotless character.” However strongly Wellington at one time opposed the repeal of the Corn Laws, he lived to be proud of the deed, for his death did not take place until 1852.

[Illustration: THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.]

As to the “spotless character” upon which the Prince insisted from the men forming the new Tory Administration, it naturally caused terrible mortification and anger among those able men who could not show a clean bill morally; and in spite of the excellent principle it contained it was likely to be a public danger, as it is by no means proved that the most moral man is also the best statesman. However, the Prince adhered to this all his life, thus doing much to purify English society, and after his death the Queen became much more strict than he had been on this point; indeed, it is doubtful whether Mrs. Norton would have been as kindly received in 1870 as she was in 1840. Lady Cardigan remarks that in 1857 “the Court was as narrow-minded as when poor Flora Hastings had been the victim of its lying slander.” But there was a difference; in 1839 the persecution of Flora Hastings had nothing to do with principle, it was caused by impulse and prejudice; in later years it became a principle that no woman, innocent or guilty, against whom slander had breathed, should set foot within the Palace. It was not so much a horror of sin itself as a conventional idea that the Court must set a good example, and according to the lax standard of Victorian times it was enough that the woman should suffer, the man was only banished if he were extremely and publicly bad. Even now our standard has risen, and we are beginning to think a light man as odious as a light woman, and are certainly not in favour of punishing one and letting the other off.

One curious prejudice that the Queen developed was her strong sentiment against a second marriage, she herself being the child of a happy second marriage, and feeling a great affection for her half-sister. This must have arisen from the sentimental side of her love for her husband, making her feel that so intimate a union as that of marriage could only be possible with one person, only she translated “possible” into “moral.” I do not think it was caused by any excess of religious convictions, for the Queen was not a slave to religious form, though she was devout. In 1844 she held a Drawing Room on the 25th of March, which was not only in Lent, but on the day of the Annunciation. “The Calverts are so shocked, and seem to think that Her Majesty will come to a sense of the enormity she is committing as Head of the Church and put off the Drawing Room. However, that remains to be seen!” writes a chronicler of small events.

Victoria gradually became absorbed in her new Government and new Prime Minister, and by 1844 had forgotten the old party almost as though it did not exist; indeed, in spite of the desire for aloofness from party politics expressed by Albert, she now seemed to regard the Whigs much as she once had regarded the Tories. Thus when the Russian Emperor came to England, and she gave parties in his honour, she invited all the Tories to meet him, and made a sparing choice among her old friends. So Lord John Russell, the then most noted leader among the Whigs, was left out of everything, and was never presented to the Emperor at all. Melbourne was, however, included, and the Emperor thanked him for coming to the breakfast and affording him the opportunity of meeting him.

But as the years went, Her Majesty saw less and less of the man without whom at one time she seemed unable to exist; the letters between them became restricted to the briefest notes at long intervals, and four years after their official parting a contemporary noted that Melbourne could not speak of the Queen without tears in his eyes, and another remarked, “She never cared a farthing for any of the late Cabinet but Melbourne, and has apparently ceased to care for him.”

This was not really according to fact; the Queen always felt an affection for her old Prime Minister, but as she grew more experienced she realised that his advice, though the best he could give, had not always been perfect, and that she in her girlish enthusiasm had not always seen things in their right proportion; thus, too late, she grew critical, and that somewhat altered her estimation of him. She also became more and more confident of Peel’s power to help her, and had little time to spend in writing to the man who was no longer of importance. “She never forgot to write him on his birthday,” one biographer announces triumphantly, but she did more than that, though the poor lonely Melbourne brooded sometimes until he felt himself neglected. It was unfortunate that he allowed his mind to dwell so much on his few years of Royal companionship and favour, that he found the knowledge of his failing powers so painful, and that he ever dreamed of taking the leadership of the House again. When the O’Connell trial was nearing its close, he remarked:

“There is not much chance of the House of Commons coming to a vote against Government; but still such a thing is possible, and I was kept awake half the night thinking, suppose such a thing did occur, and I was sent for to Windsor, what advice I should give the Queen.”... “It kept me awake,” he repeated, “and I determined that I would advise her not to let Mr. O’Connell be brought up for judgment.”

Once the Queen’s prejudice against Peel had disappeared, she felt more comfortable under his Government and its large majorities than she had done with the Whigs; and when Peel resigned at the end of 1845 in consequence of the publication by Delane of his new Corn Law policy, she felt as upset, they say, as when Melbourne resigned in 1839. She could do nothing, however, but send for Lord John Russell, and knowing how Melbourne would feel about being left out she wrote to him, saying that she knew that his health would preclude his taking office, but she hoped he would come and give her his counsel. She was at Cowes at the time, and he replied that he could not face the little crossing, it would be as bad for him as a voyage over the ocean. However, in spite of Russell’s gallant attempts, the somewhat overbearing Palmerston stood in the way of a Whig Cabinet. The Queen feared his foreign policy, and many of his colleagues disliked him. “Lord Palmerston is redeemed from the last extremity of political degradation by his cook,” was the spiteful saying of one of his opponents. So Peel came to the Queen’s assistance, and she received him back as joyfully almost as she had received Melbourne in 1839. It was not the Queen’s ladies this time, but the Queen’s Foreign Minister, who reinstated the old Government.

In 1842 the Queen and the Prince went on a visit to Scotland by boat. They were from all accounts charming on the journey, which was a slow one, taking three days; they took great interest in the ship, dining on deck in the midst of the sailors, making them dance, talking to the boatswain, &c. But Victoria got tired and impatiently wanted to land; as it was useless to do that before she arrived at Grantham Pier she became annoyed; as Greville says, her fault was impatience, inability to bear contradiction, and a desire always to go ahead. Thus as soon as she got into her carriage at Edinburgh, orders were given that the coachman should drive as fast as possible. At first they could scarcely move, for in its enthusiasm the crowd broke all bounds, pressed the soldiers out of the procession, and crushed close up to the carriage. When at last it was disengaged, the coachman went at a gallop through the city, the Queen being seen by no one. People had then, as now, been foolish enough to give great sums for windows and seats, the crowds which lined the streets had been waiting for hours, great labour had been spent to decorate the place, and all that a carriage might dash along bearing a Queen who did not see her subjects through a multitude of people who did not believe that she would have treated them so badly.

Honestly I think the explanation of her motive given by Greville and others is wrong, and that the dash through Edinburgh was caused by nervousness. Paisley was looked upon as one of the centres of disaffection, and Peel was in a state of fear about the whole expedition, acknowledging at the end of one day that “we have just completed the very nervous operation of taking the Queen in a low open carriage from Dalkeith to Dalway, sixteen miles through Canongate and High Street, and back by Leith in the evening.”

Thus when the street crowd hustled the soldiers and pressed so unceremoniously upon the Royal _cortège_, I think the whole party was inspired with fear for the Queen’s safety, and got out of the town as quickly as possible. This very nearly brought about the result dreaded, for the Edinburgh people were very angry; they talked of abandoning the illuminations, and a public riot nearly took place. This was prevented, however, by the immediate arrangement being made for a great procession on another day.

In 1843 the Royal pair went to visit the French King at Eu, Victoria’s first visit to the Continent. Everything was done to please the visitors, but Lady Bloomfield gives an amusing account of the details. She says that there were curious contradictions in the stateliness of the arrangements made by the King for their comfort. The carriages sent to fetch the Royal party from the shore were char-a-bancs, and though the first was drawn by twelve caparisoned horses they were large and clumsy animals. There was but one driver in front, and three footmen in State livery behind, with many outriders in all kinds of liveries on all sorts of horses, some of them wretched beasts. The chief amusement each day was to go for a picnic, driving for several hours to a wood or a ruin over unmade roads with deep ruts and huge stones, the folk in the char-a-bancs being bumped and shaken to pieces. One night the Corps de l’Opera came from Paris to play before the visitors, and brought with them two pieces for selection, one ridiculing the English, and the other too improper to be acted before the Queen.

It was on the 29th of May in 1842 that a second mad attempt was made on Her Majesty’s life, and it needed but one instance of this sort to prove how courageous were both the Queen and her husband. She was returning from church on the Sunday, and the ladies in the second carriage noticed that the Royal carriage stopped in Birdcage Walk. On reaching the Palace they also noticed that the Prince looked very annoyed and went away with the equerries; the Queen, who was quite calm and collected, going as usual up the grand staircase to her apartments, talking to her ladies, discussing the sermon and dismissing them as was her custom. The next day Matilda Paget and Georgiana Liddell remained all the afternoon expecting a summons to drive with the Queen, but none came, and at about six o’clock Her Majesty departed with Prince Albert in an open carriage. Georgiana went for a walk in the Palace gardens, grumbling that she had been kept in for nothing, but when she got back she was horrified to learn that the Queen had been shot at by a lad named Francis. In the evening Victoria broke off a conversation with Sir Robert Peel to say:

“I dare say, Georgy, you were surprised at not driving with me this afternoon, but as we returned from church yesterday a man presented a pistol at the carriage window, which flashed in the pan; we were so taken by surprise that he had time to escape, so I knew what was hanging over me, and was determined to expose no life but my own.” She added that when the young man had fired again that afternoon the report had been less loud than it was when Oxford fired at her, and that she should not have noticed it had she not been expecting it the whole time she was driving.

This youth of twenty was transported, but six weeks later a hunchback named Bean was seen to present a pistol at Her Majesty, and was taken into custody, but there was a difficulty in that the police would not at first believe in the charge, and let the man go. Thus, when convinced that the matter was serious, they collected all the hunchbacks they could find until they had about sixty at the police station. Admiral Knox says of this in one of his letters:

“Did you see in the papers the account of the attempt on the life of the Queen? You know it was by a hunchback boy, and I heard that when the police set out in pursuit of him, all the hunchbacks in the neighbourhood were arrested. There were no less than fifty or sixty assembled at the station house, and they were all quarrelling and fighting, each saying to the other, ‘Now confess that you did it, and let us off.’ I think it must have been a most absurd scene.”

Bean, however, was recognised, and as his attempt had been only of a half-hearted sort, he was sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment. These foolish actions were really induced by a desire for notoriety, and they bring to mind the boy Jones who on several occasions was found secreted in the palace, his inquisitiveness leading to definite results and much needed reform.

This boy, when about fifteen, first appeared in December of 1838, in the dress of a sweep, being found in the marble hall of Buckingham Palace at five o’clock in the morning. He made a dart for the door, but was captured in the Palace gardens. He had either come down a chimney or tried to get up one, for marks of soot were found in many bedrooms. A sword and some linen had been taken from one room, in another he had well larded himself with bear’s-grease, in another he had broken a valuable picture of Queen Victoria and abstracted two letters. He told various tales, saying that he had lived in the Palace for months and had been behind a chair when Cabinet meetings had been held, also that he came from Hertfordshire. However, he was proved to be the son of a tailor named Jones, who lived in York Street, Westminster, and it was also proved that he had always stated a determination to see the inside of the Palace. When he was tried the matter was regarded as an escapade, and he went free.

This youth had been entirely forgotten when, eleven days after the birth of the Princess Royal in 1841, a young man was discovered lying under the sofa in the Queen’s dressing-room, which adjoined the chamber in which she lay. He was short, dirty, repulsive-looking, and about seventeen. It was Jones again, who said he had entered the Palace twice by scaling the wall and getting in at a window, and had been there from Tuesday night to one o’clock on Thursday morning, secreting himself under different beds. He said he had sat on the throne and heard the baby cry. His punishment was three months in the House of Correction. Of him Samuel Rogers said he must be a descendant of In-i-go Jones, and _The Satirist_ and other papers treated him to a few remarks, among them being:--

“Now he in chains and in the prison garb is Mourning the crime that couples _Jones with darbies_.”

Jones left prison on March 2nd, and on the 15th of that month one of the extra sergeants of police put on in the Palace in consequence of these incursions, saw someone peeping through a glass door in the Marble Hall. It was Jones again, who had raided the pantries and carried a selection of food to a Royal apartment, where he had been feasting. He had another three months in the House of Correction with the addition of hard labour, and when that was over he was persuaded--persuaded sounds better than compelled, though it sometimes means the same thing--to go to sea. _Punch_ gave an amusing account of his exploits, which ended with the following lines:--

“One night, returnin’ home to bed, I walked through Pim-li-co, And twiggin’ of the Palass, sed, ‘I’m Jones, and In-i-go.’ But afore I could get out, my boys, Polliseman 20A, He caught me by the corderoys, And lugged me right away.

My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and On Johnny Russ-al-so, That forced me from my native land Across the vaves to go-o-oh. But all their spiteful arts is vain My spirits down to keep; I hope I’ll soon git back again, To take another peep.”