The const.i.tutional question was complicated by personal feeling, so that all London society was ranged on one side or the other. Selwyn was a ministerialist, though he seems to have kept a cooler head than many of his friends. But the rapid recovery of the King rendered these discussions abortive and put an end to the political hopes and fears which were aroused by his illness. Pitt remained in office, the Whigs in opposition.
Presently, however, the French Revolution became all-important.
Events in France were watched with the keenest interest by Selwyn, to whom many of those who figured in the tragic scenes in Paris were personally known. But he regarded the state of affairs in France with greater calmness than many, though he was shocked at revolutionary violence. It is, however, the picture in these letters of the society of the French emigres in and about London that gives so much interest to the last group of correspondence. Of this, however, it will be more fitting to speak when the letters which touch on it are reached.
(228) 22 Geo. III. c. 82, 1782. An Act for enabling his Majesty to discharge the debt contracted upon his Civil List Revenues, and for preventing the same from being in arrear for the future, by regulating the mode of payments and by suppressing or regulating certain offices.
(229) He metriculated at Christchurch, October 19, 1790.
(1786, Oct. 25,) Wednesday m., Richmond.--I was in London on Monday, but returned hither to dinner. I propose to go there this morning, and to lie in town. I am to dine with Williams, who is quite recovered, as I am; he is kept in London, Lord North being there, on account of his son"s ill health--Mr. Frederick N(orth).(230) I hear no news, and am sorry that that which Lord Holland told me is not true, of his uncle"s annuity, which I mentioned in my last.
The Princess Amelia(231) is thought to be very near her end; there is to be no Court to-day, which is unusual on this day of the Accession. But I do not know that the Princess"s illness is the cause of it. I intended to have gone to the Drawing Room and have put on my scarlet, and gold embr(oidery), for the last time. Pierre I believe has contracted for it already. I cannot learn from any of your family when you propose to return; I hope in less than three weeks. I wrote to Lady C(arlisle) yesterday.
I have no thought myself of settling in London, nor am I desirous of it, while the Thames can be kept in due bounds. At present it is subdued, and all above is clear after a certain hour, and my house is the warmest and most comfortable of any; and when I came here to dinner on Sat.u.r.day last, having given my servants a day"s law, everything was in as much order, as if I had never left it.
The Duke [of Queensberry] dines with me when he is here, a little after four, and when we have drank our wine, we resort to his great Hall,(232) bien eclairee, bien echauffee, to drink our coffee, and hear Quintettes. The Hall is hung around with the Vand.y.k.e pictures ( as they are called), and they have a good effect. But I wish that there had been another room or gallery for them, that the Hall might have been without any other ornament but its own proportions. The rest of the pictures are hanging up in the Gilt Room, and some in a room on the left hand as you go to that apartment. The Judges hang in the semicircular pa.s.sage, which makes one think, that instead of going into a n.o.bleman"s house, you are in Sergeants" Inn.
There is, and will be, a variety of opinions how these portraits should be placed, and with what correspondence. I have my own, about that and many other things, which I shall keep to myself. I am not able to encounter constant dissension. I will have no bile, and so keep my own opinions for the future about men and things, within my own breast. I am naturally irritable, and therefore will avoid irritation; I prefer longevity to it, which I may have without the other. I have had a letter from Lady Ossory, who is impatient to tell me all that has pa.s.sed this summer in her neighbourhood, but she is afraid of trusting it to a letter. I can pretty well guess what kind of farce has been acted, knowing the dramatis persons. The Duke of B(edford?) was to wait on her Grace. . . .
I thought that Boothby had been with you. Mrs. Smith a.s.sures me that you have fine weather, and fine sport; so I wish the fifth-form boy [Lord Morpeth] had been with you, and his sister Charlotte, to make and mark his neckcloths.
I hear no more of Eden, but my neighbour Keene"s conjectures on his refusal, which are very vague, et tant soit peu malignes. I expect more satisfaction to-day from Williams: not that I want really any information about him. I have already seen and known as much as I desire of him; he is a man of talents and application, with some insinuation, and cunning, but I think will never be a good speaker, or a great man. But what he is I do not care.
My best compliments to the Dean,(233) and Corbet. I have not heard from you, nor do I expect it. Mrs. Smith says, that sometimes you do not return till 8 in the evening. Then I suppose que vous mangez de gran appet.i.t, et que vous dormez apres; so how, and when, am I to expect a letter? Write or not write, I am satisfied that you are well, and be you, that I am most truly and affectionately yours.
I shall keep this half sheet for the news I may hear in Town, and as this letter is not to go till to-morrow.
Thursday m., Cleveland Court.--I met no news in Town when I came, but the Princess Amelia has at present, in Dr. Warren"s(234) estimation, but a few days to live. If her own wishes were completed in this respect she must have died yesterday, being on the same day in October that the late King died. It is a pity that she should not have been gratified. But she still hopes it will be in this month, that she may lose no reputation in point of prevoyance, which would be a pity.
It is not an unnatural thing, with our German family, to make a rendezvous as to death, and it has in more instances than one been kept. K(ing) G(eorge) 1st took a final leave of the Princess of Wales, afterwards Queen Caroline, the night before he went to Hanover for the last time; and the Queen afterwards prophesied that she should not outlive the year in which she happened to die.
But her R. H. is firm and resigned, and, as Dr. Warren says, declares herself ready. She flaps her sides as she sits up in her bed, as a turtle does with its fins, and says, "I am ready, I am ready."
I heard yesterday that I have lost two other friends, whom I valued as much, and for the same reason, that their faces were familiar to me for above five and forty years. I mean little Compton, Bully"s friend and minister, and Sturt of Dorsetshire, both victims to the gout. I am also told that Sir G. Metham is dying. . . .
Harry Fox is to have a tolerable good fortune with his wife, which I am glad of. But that she could like his person would amaze me, if I did not know that, for particular reasons, women will like anything.
(230) Frederick North, afterward fifth Earl of Guildford (1766-1827), the famous Greek scholar. He was Lord North"s third and youngest son.
(231) Princess Amelia (1783-1810) was the youngest and most beloved of the children of George III. Always delrcate, the King was constantly concerned about her, and her dying gift of a ring with a lock of her hair is said to have helped to bring on his last mental illness.
(232) Queensberry Villa, which stood by the riverside, was purchased by the Duke of Queensberry in 1780. It was built by the third Earl of Cholmondely in 1708, and subsequently became the property of the Earl of Brooke and Warwick, and then of Sir Richard Lyttleton. It was purchased by John Earl Spencer for his mother, the Countess Cowper, on whose death, in 1780, it was sold. The Duke of Queensberry bequeathed the house to Maria f.a.gniani (Mie Mie). In 1831 it became the property of and was rebuilt by Sir William Dundas. The old house was of red brick with a balcony running round it above the first floor windows. ("The History and Antiquities of Richmond," by E. B. Chancellor, p. 160.)
(233) Dr. Jeffrey Ekins, Dean of Carlisle (1782-1792).
(234) Richard Warren (1731-1797). The most eminent physician of the time. He was a man of great ability and judgment. In 1762 he was appointed physician to George III.
In the summer of 1788 Selwyn was laid up by an illness. "Mr. Selwyn has been confined in Town by fever and I have not seen him since the royal progress was intended," wrote Walpole to Lady Ossory in July.
The visit of the royalties to Matson took place later. "Mr. Selwyn, I do not doubt, is superlatively happy. I am curious to know what relics he has gleaned from the royal visit that he can bottle up and place in his sanctum sanctorum." Such was Walpole"s news in August to the same correspondent. Selwyn recovered from his illness, and left Matson to join the Carlisles. "The Selwyns I do not expect soon at Richmond for the Carlisles are going to Cheltenham; but so many loadstones draw him, that I who have no attraction seldom see him."
But in the autumn Walpole could again enjoy his friend"s society. For --as the following letter to Lady Carlisle shows he had returned to Richmond for a time.
(1788,) November 2, Richmond.--It must seem, dear Lady Carlisle, very shabby that on this day I do not afford a sheet of gilt paper for my letter to you, but it is to no purpose giving any other reason when I have that to give of having none by me. But truth on plain paper is better than a compliment without sincerity, with all the vignettes which could be found to adorn it, and nothing can be truer than that I rejoice at the return of this day, which gave birth to what I have on so many accounts reason to value and esteem.
I wrote yesterday such a long epistle to Lady Caroline, as would have worn out anybody"s patience but hers. . . .
Miss Gunning(235) is I find at the Park with Mrs. Stewart and to-morrow morning I shall go in my coach to see her. I wish it were possible for her to accept a corner in my coach, and go with me to C(astle) Howard, but I am afraid that it is not. I take for granted that you have fixed upon the 20th for our setting out, and that you intend that Lord Morpeth should come to my house the day before, which will be on Monday fortnight. He wishes to have leave to come from Eton on Sat.u.r.day, and, as he has told me in a letter which I have received from him to-day, he has hinted it to his father. I promised to second his motion, and I hope it will be complied with.
I shall remove with my family to town from hence in about ten days.
As yet we have leaf and verdure and air, and the country is very agreeable. We have a few to a.s.sociate with, and not too many. Old Mrs. Crewe is my pa.s.sion, and her house free from that cohue with which others are filled; and as we have no connection with those who make a public place of this situation, I find it a much more private one than I expected.
The Duke seems for this year to have deserted us. Monsieur de Calonne engrosses all the time which he can spare from Newmarket.
Frederick St. John"s match is, as I am told, at an end. But then the d.u.c.h.ess of R(utland"s) widowhood is just begun. I have lost myself the opportunity of being his rival. Her Grace was in this house last summer with me, and alone, but how could I foresee the event which has since happened? and a survivance at my age could not be thought an object. I do not hear who are to compose the next Court at the Castle. You see whom the papers name, and perhaps can say who are the most likely to go there. . . .
(235) Charlotte Margaret, daughter of Sir Robert Gunning, K.C.B., Minister at the Courts of Copenhagen, Berlin, and St. Petersburg.
Miss Gunning, who was Maid of Honour to the Queen, must not be confused with the two celebrated sisters of an earlier period, or with Miss Elizabeth Gunning, a well-known and much-talked-of beauty at this time,
The correspondence from 1788 to the end of Selwyn"s life is entirely with Lady Carlisle. Carlisle himself appears to have been much in London during that period, and thus in companionship with his old friend. But letter-writing had become at once a habit and a necessity. It was--and can always be where there is what he has called an epanchement de Coeur--an unceasing pleasure and solace.
There is only required pen, paper, and ink, and the last bit of news, the thought of the moment can be written down and exchanged with the friend at a distance. It matters not that the letter does not reach its destination for some time to come. In the transcribing of the thought, there is the sharing of it with another, and imagination antic.i.p.ates its reception.
(1788, November) 20, Thursday, Cleveland Court.(236)--George, you know, set out on Tuesday, and to-morrow I hope that you will see him, and as well as when I took leave of him. I will own fairly to you, that it was some degree "of anxiety to me, that he had no servant to go with him so long a journey. . . . When I left him in Grosvenor Place I came here to write to you a letter, . . . but condemned it to the flames. This Lord C., with whom I have breakfasted, has reproved me for: he was sorry that I did not send it; you should not be left out of the secret, you should know as much as your neighbours, &c. You shall do so, if I can furnish you with any intelligence, and although you never tell me anything which I have not seen before, a fortnight past, in the Gazette, I shall not use the same reserve with you. I intend to write constantly to you, or to my Lord, what comes to my knowledge, true or false, and when I may cite the authors of my news I will, and what I ought to keep secret I must, but I think that there will be no occasion for that; I desire to be trusted with no secrets myself. Those who are, tell them soon enough for me. . . .
The account of the K(ing) this morning in the papers, and which, to a certain degree, is generally true, is as bad as it can be, and from such information I dare say, with regard to his health or the continuance of his disorder, the whole world can have but one and the same opinion. But I am obliged, I find, to be cautious of saying in one place what I am ordered to believe from authority in another; and when I am enquiring or saying anything concerning the present state of things, I am precisely in the situation of Sir R. de Coverley, enquiring, when he was a boy, his way to St. Ann"s Lane.
Nothing, it is supposed, will be said to-day in either House. We shall meet about three or four, and agree to adjourn, about which I hope and presume there will be no difference of opinion. Lord C(arlisle) thinks that there will not, and that the adjournment will be for a fortnight.
To-day, I have heard, is fixed upon to speak reason to One who has none. Dr. Warren, in some set of fine phrases, is to tell his Majesty that he is stark mad, and must have a straight waistcoat. I am glad that I am not chosen to be that Rat who is to put the bell about the Cat"s neck. For if it should be pleased (sic) G.o.d to forgive our transgressions, and restore his Majesty to his senses, for he can never have them again till we grow better, I suppose, according to the opinion of Churchmen, who are perfectly acquainted with all the dispensations of Providence, and the motive of his conduct; I say, if that unexpected period arrives, I should not like to stand in the place of that man who has moved such an Address to the Crown. If the Dr. should, as it was told me, say simply that he must be under government, the K. will not be surprised at what, bon gre, mal gre, has happened to him so often. But what happens, when it comes to my knowledge, I will write it, and something or other I shall write to C(astle) H. every day. . . .
(236) This and all succeeding letters are written to Lady Carlisle
(1788, Nov. 26?) Wednesday m(orning).--I have had the infinite pleasure of receiving your letter this morning, so I shall write to you to-day, and not to Lord C., and I am the more glad to do so, because I think it but fair, as you have married him for better, for worse, that you should divide my nonsense and importunity between you. Je laisse courir ma plume, which would be abominable and indiscreet, if I was not writing to one who is used to hear me say a thousand things which he attributes to pa.s.sion and perverseness, and is not for that the less my friend. Then I like, when my mind and heart are full, and I cannot open the budget before him, to evaporate upon paper, which provokes no tart reply. I wish that we were agreed upon every point of consideration in the Grand Affair(237) which occupies the whole country, so naturally, but I am afraid that we are not, yet he will not be angry with me. For when I change my mind, or my rage is abated, it will be more from cool and friendly advice from him than from anybody, and to make me, as I have told him, quite reconciled to measures. I must, besides, seeing they have not all the evil tendency which I expect, be persuaded that he will be considered as he ought to be, and that they think one person of character, as well as rank, is no disparagement to their connection, but on the contrary will give some credit to it. I shall say no more to you upon this matter.
The K. is so much in the same state he was, and there is so little appearance of any immediate change, that I am not, for the present, solicitous about it. There must be a new Government I see, and it may be a short or a lasting one, for it will, or ought to depend entirely upon his Majesty"s state of mind. For my own part I am free to confess, that if I only see his hat upon the Throne, and ready to be put upon his head, when he can come and claim it, and nothing in the intermediate time done to disgrace and fetter him, as in the [year] 1782, I shall be satisfied. It is a sad time indeed, and if the Arch(bishop)p pleases, I will call it by his affect(ted?) phrase, an awful moment.
I pity the poor Queen, as you do, most excessively, and for her sake, I hope that a due respect will be paid to the K., and while he and she were grudged every luxury in the world, by those mean wretches Burke, Gilbert,(238) and Lansdown, all kind of profusion is not thought of to captivate his R(oyal) H(ighness).(239) In short, I shall be glad, if his Majesty has lost his head, to hear that the P.
has found it. I have given him as yet more credit than I would own, for I will not be accused of paying my court to him while, I say, I see the K."s hat only upon the Throne.
I know that you will say that I am heated with a zeal that in three months" time may be out of fashion. It may be so; but I rather believe myself that this misfortune will add greatly to the veneration which the public has of late had for his Majesty, and make it more necessary for his successor to be cautious with whom and how he acts. He has beau jeu, I hope he will make a right use of it. The K. will be soon removed and in a carrosse bourgeoise but whether to the Q(ueen"s) House or to Kew I cannot learn for certain.
I should prefer Kew, if the physicians did not by that sacrifice too much of the care which is due in their profession to the public.
I cannot get sight of the D.,(240) the P(rince) will have him to himself. I am now confined; my cough must be attended to, or it will increase, and perhaps destroy me. Mie Mie is an excellent nurse, and a most reasonable girl indeed. If her mother was so, I should hear no more of her. But there will be still du management necessaire a avoir; however, I have no fears of the issue of it.
Mie Mie, I believe, will be glad, when your L(ad)y (ship) comes to town, to go to the Chapel with Lady Caroline; you will tell me tout bonnement if you should have any objection; a tout evenement she will have a pew somewhere. She can no longer support the idea of belonging to no communion, that en fait de salut she should be ni chair ni poisson. She pleases me in that, and I shall be completely happy to see her established in the Protestant religion, provided that it is her own desire. But my profession is not that of making converts, et je ne veux me charger de fame de personne.
My dearest William,(241) pray mind your Billiards; whatever you do, do not apply to it slovenly, wish success In it, and be so good, for my sake, as to love reading; you may entertain me, if you do, with a thousand pretty stories of Hector and his wife, of Romulus and Remus, and at last we may come to talk together of M. de St. Simon.
Learn to make a pen, and write a very large clean hand, and then I shall love you, if possible, more than I do at present.