CHAPTER V

QUEEN VICTORIA’S ACCESSION

“Oh, maiden, heir of Kings, A King has left his place, The Majesty of death has swept All other from his face. And thou upon thy mother’s breast No longer lean adown-- But take the glory for the rest, And rule the land that loves thee best! The Maiden wept; She wept to wear a crown!”

_Elizabeth Barrett [Browning]._

On May 24th, 1837, Princess Victoria attained her majority, being eighteen years of age; and the King knew that his prayer had been answered. He arranged a magnificent State ball in honour of the event; but his day for balls was over, for just as the nine months he had asked for expired, he was taken ill, and though he rallied several times he did not again show himself in public. Queen Adelaide did not fill the part of hostess either, for she was too anxious about her husband to leave him. She was a good wife and, notwithstanding all the evil said of her, a good woman. I have not in all my researches come across--apart from her political bias--a single instance of any act or word on her part which could be brought forward to her discredit. But to be no lover of pomp, show, or dress was a sufficiently serious omission to condemn any Queen in the eyes of her Court.

This wonderful birthday meant a busy time for the Princess. She was awakened in the morning by music outside her window, composed and arranged by Mr. Rodwell, concerning which a sneering comment was made that Rodwell had made “an ass of himself on the Princess’s birthday by braying under her window.” There were many costly gifts to receive--the King sent her a beautiful piano--and many deputations from public bodies to take her attention. With these the Duchess was in her element, for she was almost as fond of making speeches as was the King; but the Princess still, and for the last time, played the part of the child in public, standing by and listening to the wise and indiscreet sayings of her mother. Well, it was the Duchess’s last chance, too, though she did not know it, for her sun was setting just when she thought it was rising to the mid heavens.

When a deputation from the City of London came to make a pretty speech, Her Royal Highness was true to her custom of not forgetting an injury. Though eighteen years had passed, and George IV. had long been in his grave, she still nourished the slights that had been put upon her on her arrival in England. The Duchess of Clarence had not been welcomed with open arms, the Duchess of Cumberland had for years been ignored by the Royal Family, but these two ladies treated the matter in dignified silence. However, the Duchess of Kent had done everything she could to keep alive bad feeling, and on this day, which should have been given over to kindliness, she reminded the gentlemen from the City that when the Duke of Kent died she and the Princess “stood alone, almost friendless and unknown in this country. I could not even speak the language of it.” Then she went on to point out that, in spite of all, she had done her best to bring up her daughter to be the true Sovereign of the nation; that she had put her into intercourse with all classes of people, and had taught her that the protection of popular liberties and the preservation of the constitutional prerogatives of the Crown were the proper aims of a Monarch.

It was not a long speech, but it was scarcely calculated to be soothing reading for the irascible and ailing King.

The village of Kensington--it was a village in those days, the Duchess appreciating for her child the good air of the country lanes--was _en fête_ for the birthday; a great flag of white silk, inscribed in gold with the name of Victoria, was hoisted over the Palace, and Union Jacks were run up on the church and on the Green, to say nothing of every house showing its regard by the exhibition of flags. A general holiday was declared, and at the State ball given that night it is safe to believe that Victoria grieved at the absence of the King and Queen, even though there was always fear of discomfort when they and her mother met. There had been further strained relations in April of this year, when Lady de Lisle, one of the King’s--his favourite--daughters, died at Kensington Palace, of which she was the custodian. During her illness the Duchess carried her resentment so far as to pay her no attention, and the _Court Journal_ announced that a party, of distinguished guests who had been invited to dinner, was not put off, though Lady de Lisle lay dead in the Palace. A bitter comment upon this was made that, when the Duchess’s confectioner, being insane through drink, had committed suicide a little while earlier, all festivities had been stopped out of sympathy for the man’s wife.

At the May Drawing Room, probably in retaliation for this, all the men attached to the Duchess’s household were excluded by Royal mandate from being present, giving rise to the remark that “the necessity for this suspension of privilege must have been very great, as from what everybody knows of the kind disposition of the King, he would not have exercised his prerogative in a way that cannot otherwise be understood than as an act of censure.”

The poor old King was still in fear about his country; he did not believe, as many did, that Victoria was too delicate to live long, but he did think her too young to reign, for he knew that her general attitude was one of gentle obedience to her mother, and he thought that when he was dead the Duchess of Kent would be virtually Queen of England. It is said that about five days before he died he praised God for the good sleep he had had, and the Queen said:

“And shall I pray to the Almighty that you may have a good day?”

“Oh, do!” answered the King. “I wish I could live for ten years for the sake of the country. I feel it my duty to keep well as long as possible.”

Just after the birthday King William wrote to the Duchess of Kent, offering to form an independent household for the Princess; but this she sharply declined, and we are told the reply was couched “in very unsatisfactory terms.”

But William could not bear that this girl should not benefit in some way personally from her majority, so he wrote her a letter, offering her the sum of ten thousand a year from his own purse which was to be regarded as her very own, independent of her mother’s income. This letter was given to the Lord Chamberlain, then Lord Conyngham, with instructions that he was to give it to no one but the Princess. Conyngham went to Kensington and was received by Sir John Conroy, who met his request to see the Princess by asking on what authority did he make such a demand--which certainly seems to justify the King’s doubt as to there being fair play at Kensington, and also proves that Victoria was not allowed to receive visitors.

“On the authority of His Majesty the King,” replied Lord Conyngham.

Upon this Conroy disappeared, and after an interval the Chamberlain was ushered into the presence of the Duchess and the Princess. Bowing low, Conyngham said he had been charged by His Majesty with a letter for the Princess Victoria, and at this the masterful mother at once held out her hand to receive the precious missive.

“Pardon me, madam,” said the courtier, “I have been expressly commanded by the King to deliver this into the Princess’s own hand.”

It must have been a humiliating moment for the proud woman, and it was but the first of many such. The Princess took the letter, and Conyngham bowed himself out of the room. To the intense anger of the Duchess, her daughter wrote affectionately to her uncle, accepting the kind offer made to her. William then named a responsible person who was to receive this money for her, and the usual dispute began, for the Duchess thought she should be the disburser of the sum, of which she proposed taking six thousand pounds and giving Victoria four thousand.

This is true, though it reads with all the dramatic interest of fiction, and the effect is heightened by our ignorance of the girl who was the unhappy and unwilling cause of these quarrels. For seven years she had suffered from these violent and futile disputes between two persons whom she loved, and who, though loving her well, yet loved their own conception of what was good for her so much that they were ready to make her miserable. Who uttered the last word in this quarrel no one knows, for it was never settled, and Victoria had no need of the ten thousand a year.

Everyone knew now that the King was dying. The Court dreaded death, for there was no forecasting events. What would happen to the country with a bit of a girl at its head--a girl who had been rarely seen among them, who never came to Court, and who seemed timid and retiring? One cannot wonder that the forgotten dislike of Leopold rose to fever heat, that the wildest stories were told of the Camarilla at Kensington, and that it was reported that the new Royal Household was all planned and the members of it named--all entirely without taking the Princess into consideration. She did not count with the public or with the Press; she was the merest cipher. She would be Queen, of course--that was admitted--but the people with whom England would have to deal would be the Duchess and Leopold, Conroy and Lord Durham, the Coburgs, and the tribe of Germans who had already inflamed resentment in some quarters. Lord Durham was on his way home, and his return was regarded with keen curiosity, for it was felt that he would probably play a great political part, and would influence materially the Councils of the Queen.

A few years later, however, it was a well-known fact, though since forgotten, that the whole of the appointments to be filled in the Royal Household upon the death of William IV. and the formation of Her Majesty’s domestic establishment had been arranged in accordance with the political notions, not of the Duchess of Kent, but of Victoria’s uncle, the Duke of Sussex, in conjunction with Lord Melbourne, in both of whom she reposed great confidence.

England--that part of it which was interested--watched breathlessly while William fought his last fight, and the social and political forces gathered themselves together for some great and unknown change. In this state of tension there was one man, loyal and upright, who seemed always ready to give good advice and who would neither lose nor gain by the change; this was the Duke of Wellington. To him on Waterloo Day the King sent a message, bidding him hold the usual banquet in commemoration of the great fight; just as it pleased him that Victoria should go in state to Ascot on June 12th, for which he sent seven carriages for her _cortège_, her own being drawn by six grey horses.

Cumberland, still troubled with a lingering hope that his ambition might be satisfied, went to the Duke, asking what he should do.

“Do?” said the Duke. “The best thing you can do is to go away as fast as you can. Go instantly, and take care that you are not pelted.”

This is given on good authority, and, if true, could not have been very pleasant for the Duke to hear, as he probably had hoped for very different advice. He had always held that the Salic law, as applied to the Hanoverian dynasty, should also apply to Great Britain, and as Victoria had no right to rule in Hanover, she had therefore no right to rule in England. It was about this period that he asked of his aide-de-camp, already mentioned:

“Would you and your troop follow me through the streets of London if I were proclaimed King?”

“Yes, and to the Tower the next day,” was the indignant reply.

“You have cut your own throat, my boy, by that remark. As King of England I could make you a great man. What will the Princess Victoria do for you and yours?”

It was to the Duke of Wellington that Lord Melbourne went a month later for advice as to how best to initiate the Queen into her various duties. Indeed, though Wellington had not taken the popular side in the long struggle over Reform, he was by no means a keen party man; in each question he followed the line that he believed would be best for the nation, and, in spite of plots and innuendoes, he was, with one, perhaps with two, exceptions, loyal to the Crown, no matter who wore it.

When it was almost certain that William would not recover, “Grandmamma,” or, to use its better name, _The Times_, proceeded to mould “the child” Victoria into shape. It began with a fairly mild article, not, of course, insinuating anything, but just devoutly praying that her education had been conducted under a noble and lofty regard to her fitness for the duties of Queen of England, that she had been prepared to think for herself, to employ her _own_ discernment, to take nothing upon trust; and asserting that she ought not to be made the subject of jealous or vexatious restraint or be kept in a state of pupilage, &c.

Two days later it went a step further in a leader, expressing the fear that the Princess had received a narrow, or a jealous, or otherwise ill-framed education, and roundly impressing upon the Duchess that she had no political status, no political duties whatever beyond that of obedience to laws. They said that she had no more power over the Sovereign (who happened to be her offspring) than any other Duchess of the Royal Family. They considered that she could not be a sound adviser to an inexperienced Queen because of her foreign connections, while her _entourage_ at home would form no desirable Cabinet for a Queen of England. Then the article concluded with the avowal that it had been written on purpose to meet the eye of Victoria, that she might learn how vital it was that her earliest advisers should be men in whom the better part of England could repose entire confidence.

Strongly Whig over the Catholic Emancipation Bill, _The Times_ had gone as strongly Tory on the Reform Bill, and was furious at the idea that the Whig Ministry, of which the King could not rid himself, was still likely to keep in power. They were entirely without information as to the character of King William’s successor, and thought, as did most of the world, that England would be ruled by the Duchess of Kent and her circle. What influence these articles may have had upon the Princess there is no written evidence to show, but it is certain that from the moment that this docile little daughter attained the Throne she followed out exactly in this matter the policy thus urged upon her by a paper the general policy of which she did not in the least approve.

When King William died, _The Times_ entirely lost its head. It had struck these sledge-hammer blows at the Duchess of Kent, but it did not believe in the Princess Victoria. The day after the new Queen had read her Declaration, _The Times_, as _The Examiner_ said, insulted her understanding by declaring that she did not comprehend the import of the words she delivered, and they took particular exception to her statement that she congratulated herself on succeeding a monarch whose “desire to promote the amelioration of the laws and institutions of the country has rendered his name an object of general attachment and veneration.” From their standpoint this was, of course, pure Radicalism, for, as good Tories, they held concerning the laws as Leibnitz did of the world, that the laws we had were “the best of all possible” laws, and needed no amelioration. Neither _The Times_ nor any other paper grumbled when, in 1901, King Edward declared at his first Council that he was determined, “as long as there is breath in my body, to work for the good and amelioration of my people.” Yet Victoria’s was the better sentence. Of course, it is possible to ameliorate people, but it is easier to perform the operation on laws or even on lives.

From Victoria the editorial turned to Lord Melbourne and became really funny, asking, “Has this Whig-Radical Ethiopian changed his skin? this leopard of Popery his spots?” and it finished up with the fine patriotic intimation that it was the strength of devotion to the Constitution which prompted “us to ring the alarm bell throughout the British Empire until we shall have helped to achieve its salvation, have seen it perish, or have ourselves ceased to exist.”

On the evening of June 19th, 1837, King William saw all his children, and at two o’clock on the morning of the 20th he died. We all know the story of how the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham, the Lord Chamberlain, rode to Kensington to convey the news to Victoria that she was now Queen. Miss Wynn, who published her diaries under the pseudonym of “A Lady of Quality,” gives a rather amusing account of the occurrence. The two gentlemen arrived at Kensington Palace at about five in the morning; they knocked, rang, and thumped for a considerable time before they could rouse the porter at the gates; then, having been kept waiting in a courtyard, they were turned into one of the lower rooms and forgotten by everyone. They rang, and desired the attendant who appeared to tell the Princess’s maid that they requested an audience. Nothing followed, and they rang again. The maid, who now answered the bell, said that the Princess was in such a sweet sleep that she could not disturb her. “We are come to the Queen on business of State, and her sleep must give way to that,” was the answer.

In a few minutes Victoria appeared in a loose white nightgown and shawl, her hair falling about her shoulders, her feet in slippers, tears in her eyes, but perfectly cool and collected.

[Illustration: LORD MELBOURNE.]

The following morning a Council was called for eleven o’clock, but the summonses were sent out so late that many were not received until the hour appointed. Lord Melbourne, as Prime Minister, had to teach the Queen her part, which he had first to learn himself, and he found her quiet, dignified, and eager to bear herself well. The Lords assembled in one room of Kensington Palace, and were solemnly informed by the Lord President of the events, which they all knew perfectly, that the King was dead, and that they were gathered together to swear allegiance to the new Sovereign. This little form observed, the Lord President, the two Royal Dukes--Cumberland was quite sure now that he had not a chance left at present--the two Archbishops, the Chancellor, and the Prime Minister went into the next room, where with great formality the news of William’s death was conveyed to the girl who stood there alone, not in her nightgown this time, but in a sober garment of black. The doors between the rooms were then thrown open, and the Queen entered that in which stood a great crowd of nobles and office-holders. Greville says, “The Queen entered, accompanied by her two uncles, who advanced to meet her,” which certainly might have been more lucid had it been differently worded.

The Duke of Sussex spoke later of the Queen’s nervousness, saying that she continually took his hand as though to reassure herself; he added that Lord Melbourne never took his eyes off her, and seemed more nervous than she, fearing that she might make a slip. Half a century later, when the Queen was asked if she did not feel nervous at her first Council, she replied, “No, I have no recollection of feeling in the slightest degree nervous.” Nervous or not, she behaved with grace and dignity, as everyone should have expected; but all present seemed to think that something like a scene would take place, or that they were going to swear their loyal oaths to a person wanting in understanding, if we may judge by the chorus of praise which arose later. “It was extraordinary and far beyond what was looked for”; she actually “read her speech in a clear, distinct, and audible voice”; Peel said how amazed he was at her manner and behaviour, at her apparent deep sense of her position, her modesty, and her firmness.

Did these wise men really think that a girl brought up in such an atmosphere of self-control and restriction as Victoria had been would have shamed herself by crying, or stuttering, or fainting, or giggling? Their extenuation lies in the fact that scarcely any among them knew anything at all of the Princess, and that very fact excited such intense curiosity to see how she would behave, that the crowd of Privy Councillors assembled was so great that, according to one who was present, the scene of swearing allegiance was more like that at the bidding in an auction-room than anything else.

Cumberland, who now became King of Hanover, was the first to take the oath, and Sussex, who was very infirm, and some distance from Her Majesty, was met half-way across the room, the Queen kissing them both. Greville noted with satisfaction that her courtesy did not break down when the heads of either party greeted her, that she was as pleasant to Wellington and Peel as to Melbourne and the Ministers. Really, his social knowledge should have saved him any doubts on that point, and rendered it unnecessary for him to “particularly watch” her when the Tory lords approached.

Creevy was much more pleasing when he wrote, “I cannot resist telling you that our dear little Queen in every respect is _perfection_.” Here is exaggeration, it is true, but no insistence upon doubt as to her being ordinarily well-mannered.

Even such a grave event as a first Privy Council meeting may provide food for laughter, and there is one little incident in connection with this Council which was not only amusing, but should have given those present some clear idea of their young Sovereign’s character. Sir Bernard Bosanquet, who was present, tells us that, “With the utmost dignity, before her assembled Privy Councillors, with her clear young voice, the Queen began reading:

“‘This Act intituléd’--which is the legal way of spelling entitled.

“‘Entitled, your Majesty, entitled,’ hastily corrected Lord Melbourne in a loud aside.

“The young Queen slowly drew herself up and said, quietly and firmly, ‘I have said it.’

“Then, after a pause, once more the beautiful childish voice rang out:

“‘This Act intituléd----’”

A curious mistake, or change of mind, took place over the Queen’s name. The Peers took the oath of fidelity to Alexandrina Victoria, and all the forms were duly made out in those names. Later in the day the Queen announced that she would be known as Victoria only, which caused a great stir officially, as new parchments with the amended style had to be procured in every case.

Her accession seems to have made a great difference to the little Queen. While only Princess everyone agreed in describing her as quiet, timid, shy; she was always hidden under the wing of her mother, who thought for her, acted for her, and spoke for her. As soon as she stood alone she became openly what she had probably always been in private, gay and high-spirited; she rode almost every day and drove in the Park; she courted publicity, saying, “Let my people see me,” and everywhere she met smiling faces and affectionate regards. There were, of course, those who foretold the usual sad tale, among them being Frances Anne Kemble, who wrote:

“Poor young creature! at eighteen to bear such a burden of responsibility! I should think the mere state and grandeur, and slow-paced solemnity of her degree enough to strike a girl of that age into a melancholy, without all the other graver considerations and causes for care and anxiety which belong to it. I dare say, whatever she may think now, before many years are over, she would be glad to have a small pension of £30,000 a year, and leave to ‘go and play,’ like common folk of fortune. But, to be sure, if _noblesse oblige_, Royalty must do so still more, or, at any rate, on a wider scale; and so I take up my burden again--poor young Queen of England.”

If anyone ever was, by nature, position, and training, born to a life of hard work, that person was Queen Victoria, and so long as she had the spirit and the ability to meet her life bravely, I cannot see that there was any need to pity her. It was inevitable that she should make mistakes and repent of them, for by such comes growth. If she had great responsibilities, she was surrounded by those who upheld her arms and practically took all those responsibilities upon their shoulders.

Carlyle only mentioned Queen Victoria two or three times in his letters, always with a fatherly, personal note, which yet held more than a hint of pity, indicating that he saw some immediate cause for disquiet. A few months after her accession he wrote: “Yesterday, going through one of the Parks, I saw the poor little Queen. She was in an open carriage, preceded by three or four swift red-coated troopers; all off for Windsor just as I happened to pass. Another carriage or carriages followed with maids of honour, &c.; the whole drove very fast. It seemed to me the poor little Queen was a bit modest, nice, sonsy little lassie; blue eyes, light hair, white skin; of extremely small stature: she looked timid, anxious, almost frightened; for the people looked at her in perfect silence; one old liveryman alone touched his hat to her: I was heartily sorry for the poor bairn--though perhaps she might have said, as Parson Swan did, ‘Greet not for me, brethren; for verily, yea verily, I greet not for mysel’.’”

At that first Privy Council, the day after the death of King William, a somewhat curious document was prepared or passed in the form of a proclamation from Queen Victoria: “For the Encouragement of Piety and Virtue, and for the Prevention and Punishing of Vice, Profaneness, and Immorality.” George III. had issued such a proclamation, and whether it had been the custom for all our Sovereigns to do so I do not know, but this one seems curious enough to be noted. Part of it ran as follows:

“To the intent therefore that religion, piety, and good manners may (according to Our most Hearty desire) flourish and increase under our administration and government, We have thought fit by the advice of our Privy Council to issue this Our Royal Proclamation, and do hereby declare Our Royal Purpose and Resolution to discountenance and punish all manner of Vice, Profaneness, and Immorality in all persons of whatsoever degree or Quality within this Our Realm, and particularly in such as are employed near Our Royal Person; and that, for the encouragement of Religion and morality, We will upon all occasions distinguish persons of piety and virtue by marks of Our Royal Favour. And We do expect and require that all persons of honour, or in place of authority, will give good example by their own virtue and piety, and to their utmost contribute to the discountenancing persons of dissolute and debauched lives, that they, being reduced by that means to shame and contempt for their loose and evil actions and behaviour, may be thereby also enforced the sooner to reform their ill habits and practices, and that the visible displeasure of good men towards them may (so far as it is possible) supply what the laws (probably) cannot altogether prevent.”

This lengthy document went on to deal with the observance of the Lord’s Day, with gambling, card-playing, and drinking.

One wonders whether the Queen or her advisers believed that such a proclamation could lead to any raising of the standard of morals. The Queen, in her youthfulness, might think so, but the men around her must have been very doubtful of it even while doing the will of their Sovereign, or conforming to a custom, by letting such a document be issued. Yet it is a notable thing that this proclamation embodies in a paragraph the form which improvement in social manners took during the Queen’s reign.

The Proclaiming of the Sovereign was the next ceremony in the new life which was opening up for this young person, and she drove to St. James’s Palace with the Duchess of Kent and another lady, while in the carriage which preceded her were the Earl of Jersey, Lord Conyngham, the Lord Chamberlain, and Lord Albemarle, the Master of the Horse; in the third carriage were Sir John Conroy and Lady Flora Hastings. Lady Flora had attended the Duchess for some years, and should have been thoroughly well known to the Queen, but yet two years later she had the misfortune to be grievously misjudged and tragically ill-used by her Sovereign.

There were moments at the commencement of her reign when Queen Victoria felt horribly nervous, but she had more than enough self-control to prevent herself from being overcome by emotion. When she came out of the door at Kensington Palace arrayed in black, she looked a veritable child. Her eyes were full of tears, her hands clasped and unclasped, and she trembled at the ordeal before her; yet she turned and looked at the body of Guards drawn up on either side of her door, and bowed in acknowledgment of their salute. Lord Melbourne was by her side, watching her with a fatherly look, and so began that cordial friendship between the Queen and the peer which lasted for years, and ended only in death on one side and something like forgetfulness on the other.

On the route to St. James’s, Greville says, there was very little shouting and very few hats were raised, but other recorders tell of the repeated cheers of the multitude. In the courtyard, as has been said, there was no cheering until a given signal, when Daniel O’Connell led the way, and the noise was then so hearty that the Queen burst into tears.

After this, events crowded thick and fast, and one of the first was the Royal removal to the New, or Buckingham, Palace, a place which Creevy stigmatised as “the Devil’s Own,” saying that there were raspberry-coloured pillars without end, enough to turn you sick to look at, and that the costly ornaments in the State rooms exceeded all belief in their bad taste and every kind of infirmity. It seems to-day strange to regard the London residence of the Monarch as being at Pimlico, and yet that is its true locality. On this removal _The Times_ condescended to ask a conundrum: “Why is Buckingham Palace the cheapest that was ever built?” and proceeded to supply the answer, “Because it was built for one sovereign and furnished for another.” When the simply arranged bedroom at Kensington, which had for nearly eighteen years been shared by mother and child, was finally deserted, Victoria gave orders that the room should remain as it was, and nothing be removed or added.

There was the necessary Levée to be held, and so great was the curiosity that such a crowd attended as had never before been seen at such a function. Over two thousand people were present to kiss the Queen’s hand; diamond buckles were broken and lost, orders and decorations torn from their wearers, and epaulettes rubbed from the shoulders of officers. The Drawing Room the next day, in spite of torrents of rain, was more fully attended than it had been for many years. At the Levée Her Majesty was “black as a raven from head to foot, her hair was plainly dressed without ornament, but she wore the Ribbon of the Garter, with the Star on her left breast and the buckle on her left arm.”

When she found that the Garter had to be worn, the Queen sent for the Duke of Norfolk, and asked anxiously, “But, my Lord Duke, where _shall_ I wear the Garter?” The Duke could only think of a portrait of Queen Anne, in which the Garter was placed on the left arm, and Victoria decided to follow that precedent.

At the Levée there is room for suspicion that the Queen did forget her good manners, though the lapse was not caused by girlish fright or nervousness. Among those whom she received was Lord Lyndhurst, and although she had shown “her usual pretty manner” to all who preceded him, as soon as he approached she drew herself up as though she had seen a snake, at which Lyndhurst turned as red as fire, and afterwards looked as fierce as a fiend.

Having just held a brief for the Queen’s good manners, I feel that this incident is somewhat awkward, especially as I cannot really tell why she was rude to Lyndhurst. She may have been affected by his lordship’s wonderful system of “ratting,” for he had a habit of making a speech against a Bill, say the Catholic Emancipation Bill, for example, or the Municipal Reform Bill, which became famous, and then when he found it good policy to change his views, would make another notable speech in its favour. Early in his career he held republican opinions, and thought little of the Whigs because their notions of reform were so mild; but when he showed himself extremely clever in defending a noted case, Lord Castlereagh--“carotid-cutting Castlereagh”--is reported to have said, “I can discover in him something of the _rat_, and I will set my trap for him, baited with Cheshire cheese”--meaning that he would offer him the office of Chief Justice of Cheshire.

The trap was set, and Lyndhurst, then plain John Copley, quietly--and perhaps gratefully--walked into it, and on the first vacancy became Solicitor-General to the King. It was said about him that he had danced round the Tree of Liberty to the tune of “Ça ira,” and yet became one of the most virulent opponents of all movements towards freedom. However, as Mackintosh said to Lord John Russell, it was with the Whig _prospects_, not their _views_, that he quarrelled, and it may have been just this which made the young Queen scorn him, and feel, as she once owned to Lord Melbourne, a personal dislike of him.

There is a little incident on record which shows just how complaisant he could be in any matter affecting his interest. A story got about, and was published in the newspapers, that the Duke of Cumberland had called upon Lady Lyndhurst, of whom Creevy said “she has such beautiful eyes and such a way of using them that quite shocked Lady Louisa and me,” and so grossly misbehaved himself that he was turned out of the house. He went a second time, when he contented himself with uttering coarse abuse of Lyndhurst. When this affair was made public, Cumberland sent a copy of a journal in which the paragraph appeared to the Lord Chancellor, as Lyndhurst then was, and asked that he should have Lady Lyndhurst’s permission to contradict “the gross falsehood.”

The thing was true, however, and the Chancellor felt in a fix; he could not fight a Royal Duke, and yet he wished to warn him not to repeat the offence. So he temporised; said he had not before seen the paragraph, which was no doubt one of a series of calumnies to which Lady Lyndhurst had for some time been exposed. This, however, did not satisfy Duke Ernest, who was anxious that his shady character should be cleared of this stain; so he wrote again, demanding a definite sanction to contradict the report. Upon this Lyndhurst, it is said, though seeing the result one hardly believes it, went to the national adviser, the Duke of Wellington, who counselled him to reply that he did not wish to annoy Lady Lyndhurst by speaking of this matter to her. To this he added that, as to excluding the Duke from their home, the grateful attachment they both felt for their Sovereign made that impossible. So the matter ended. Lyndhurst had cleverly evaded giving the Duke a straightforward answer--which was more like himself than like the Duke of Wellington--and had practically assured him that he would be received as a guest again in the house which he had abused. Lyndhurst would have seemed more admirable if he had been more of a man and less of a diplomatist; and it is quite likely that other incidents of this kind had occurred to make the young Queen, in her youthful zeal for probity, show her dislike for him publicly. Besides, had she not just inculcated virtue by proclamation, and declared the way in which she would reward evil-doers?

To do Lyndhurst justice, however, he seemed to bear her no malice, and when the storm, raised by _The Times_, gathered strength from her friendship for Melbourne and broke in fury upon her before she had been Queen many weeks, Lyndhurst sincerely lamented it. The Tories could not control their disappointment and anger when it was announced that Lord Melbourne was to continue Prime Minister, and they vilified the Queen at every opportunity. To quote from Lord Campbell, a contemporary: “The practice was to contrast her invidiously with Adelaide, the Queen Dowager, and at public dinners to receive the Queen’s health with solemn silence, while the succeeding toast of the Queen Dowager was the signal for long continued cheers. Some writers went so far as to praise the Salic law, by which females are excluded from the throne, pointing out the happiness we should have enjoyed under the rule of the Duke of Cumberland, but consoling the nation by the assurance that his line would soon succeed, as the new Queen, from physical defects, could never bear children.”

Well, after all, there _was_ some reason for pitying the young, sonsie lassie who was then Queen of England!