"This was very hard upon me; but I did go, and there was an attorney from c.u.mberland, and one from Northumberland, and I do not know how many other persons. Pretty late, in came Jack Lee, as drunk as he could be.
" "I cannot consult to-night; I must go to bed," he exclaimed, and away he went. Then came Sir Thomas Davenport.
" "We cannot have a consultation to-night, Mr. Wordsworth" (Wordsworth, I think, was the name; it was a c.u.mberland name), shouted Davenport. "Don"t you see how drunk Mr. Scott is? it is impossible to consult." Poor me! who had scarce had any dinner, and lost all my wine-I was so drunk that I could not consult! Well, a verdict was given against us, and it was all owing to Lawyer Fawcett"s dinner. We moved for a new trial; and I must say, for the honour of the Bar, that those two gentlemen, Jack Lee and Sir Thomas Davenport, paid all the expenses between them of the first trial.
It is the only instance I ever knew, but they did. We moved for a new trial (on the ground, I suppose, of the counsel not being in their senses), and it was granted. When it came on, the following year, the judge rose and said,-
" "Gentlemen, did any of you dine with Lawyer Fawcett yesterday? for, if you did, I will not hear this cause till next year."
"There was great laughter. We gained the cause that time."
On another occasion, at Lancaster, where poor Bozzy must needs be going the Northern Circuit, "we found him," says Mr. Scott, "lying upon the pavement inebriated. We subscribed a guinea at supper for him, and a half-crown for his clerk"-(no doubt there was a large Bar, and that Scott"s joke did not cost him much),-"and sent him, when he waked next morning, a brief, with instructions to move for what we denominated the writ of _quare adhaesit pavimento?_ with observations duly calculated to induce him to think that it required great learning to explain the necessity of granting it, to the judge before whom he was to move."
Boswell sent all round the town to attorneys for books, that might enable him to distinguish himself-but in vain. He moved, however, for the writ, making the best use he could of the observations in the brief. The judge was perfectly astonished, and the audience amazed. The judge said, "I never heard of such a writ-what can it be that adheres _pavimento_? Are any of you gentlemen at the Bar able to explain this?"
The Bar laughed. At last one of them said,-
"My lord, Mr. Boswell last night _adhaesit pavimento_. There was no moving him for some time. At last he was carried to bed, and he has been dreaming about himself and the pavement."
The canny old gentleman relishes these jokes. When the Bishop of Lincoln was moving from the deanery of St. Paul"s, he says he asked a learned friend of his, by name Will Hay, how he should move some especially fine claret, about which he was anxious.
"Pray, my lord bishop," says Hay, "how much of the wine have you?"
The bishop said six dozen.
"If that is all," Hay answered, "you have but to ask me six times to dinner, and I will carry it all away myself."
There were giants in those days; but this joke about wine is not so fearful as one perpetrated by Orator Thelwall, in the heat of the French Revolution, ten years later, over a frothing pot of porter. He blew the head off, and said, "This is the way I would serve all kings."
Now we come to yet higher personages, and find their doings recorded in the blushing pages of timid little Miss Burney"s _Memoirs_. She represents a prince of the blood in quite a royal condition. The loudness, the bigness, boisterousness, creaking boots and rattling oaths, of the young princes, appeared to have frightened the prim household of Windsor, and set all the tea-cups twittering on the tray. On the night of a ball and birthday, when one of the pretty, kind princesses was to come out, it was agreed that her brother, Prince William Henry, should dance the opening minuet with her, and he came to visit the household at their dinner.
"At dinner, Mrs. Schwellenberg presided, attired magnificently; Miss Goldsworthy, Mrs. Stanforth, Messrs. Du Luc and Stanhope, dined with us; and while we were still eating fruit, the Duke of Clarence entered.
"He was just risen from the king"s table, and waiting for his equipage to go home and prepare for the ball. To give you an idea of the energy of his royal highness"s language, I ought to set apart an objection to writing, or rather intimating, certain forcible words, and beg leave to show you in genuine colours a royal sailor.
"We all rose, of course, upon his entrance, and the two gentlemen placed themselves behind their chairs, while the footmen left the room. But he ordered us all to sit down, and called the men back to hand about some wine. He was in exceeding high spirits, and in the utmost good humour. He placed himself at the head of the table, next Mrs. Schwellenberg, and looked remarkably well, gay, and full of sport and mischief; yet clever withal, as well as comical.
" "Well, this is the first day I have ever dined with the king at St.
James"s on his birthday. Pray, have you all drunk his majesty"s health?"
" "No, your royal highness; your royal highness might make dem do dat,"
said Mrs. Schwellenberg.
" "Oh, by --, I will! Here, you" (to the footman). "bring champagne; I"ll drink the king"s health again, if I die for it. Yes, I have done it pretty well already; so has the king, I promise you! I believe his majesty was never taken such good care of before; we have kept his spirits up, I promise you; we have enabled him to go through his fatigues; and I should have done more still, but for the ball and Mary;-I have promised to dance with Mary. I must keep sober for Mary." "
Indefatigable Miss Burney continues for a dozen pages reporting H.R.H."s conversation, and indicating, with a humour not unworthy of the clever little author of _Evelina_, the increasing state of excitement of the young sailor prince, who drank more and more champagne, stopped old Mrs.
Schwellenberg"s remonstrances by giving the old lady a kiss, and telling her to hold her potato-trap, and who did not "keep sober for Mary". Mary had to find another partner that night, for the royal William Henry could not keep his legs.
Will you have a picture of the amus.e.m.e.nts of another royal prince? It is the Duke of York, the blundering general, the beloved commander-in-chief of the army, the brother with whom George IV had had many a midnight carouse, and who continued his habits of pleasure almost till death seized his stout body.
In Puckler Muskau"s _Letters_, that German prince describes a bout with H.R.H., who in his best time was such a powerful toper that "six bottles of claret after dinner scarce made a perceptible change in his countenance".
"I remember," says Puckler, "that one evening,-indeed, it was past midnight,-he took some of his guests, among whom were the Austrian amba.s.sador, Count Meervelt, Count Beroldingen, and myself, into his beautiful armoury. We tried to swing several Turkish sabres, but none of us had a very firm grasp; whence it happened that the duke and Meervelt both scratched themselves with a sort of straight Indian sword so as to draw blood. Meervelt then wished to try if the sword cut as well as a Damascus, and attempted to cut through one of the wax candles that stood on the table. The experiment answered so ill, that both the candles, candlesticks and all, fell to the ground and were extinguished. While we were groping in the dark and trying to find the door, the duke"s aide de camp stammered out in great agitation, "By G--, sir, I remember the sword is poisoned.!"
"You may conceive the agreeable feelings of the wounded at this intelligence! Happily, on further examination, it appeared that claret, and not poison, was at the bottom of the colonel"s exclamation."
And now I have one more story of the baccha.n.a.lian sort, in which Clarence and York, and the very highest personage of the realm, the great Prince Regent, all play parts. The feast took place at the Pavilion at Brighton, and was described to me by a gentleman who was present at the scene. In Gilray"s caricatures, and amongst Fox"s jolly a.s.sociates, there figures a great n.o.bleman, the Duke of Norfolk, called Jockey of Norfolk in his time, and celebrated for his table exploits. He had quarrelled with the prince, like the rest of the Whigs; but a sort of reconciliation had taken place; and now, being a very old man, the prince invited him to dine and sleep at the Pavilion, and the old duke drove over from his castle of Arundel with his famous equipage of grey horses, still remembered in Suss.e.x.
The Prince of Wales had concocted with his royal brothers a notable scheme for making the old man drunk. Every person at table was enjoined to drink wine with the duke-a challenge which the old toper did not refuse. He soon began to see that there was a conspiracy against him; he drank gla.s.s for gla.s.s; he overthrew many of the brave. At last the First Gentleman of Europe proposed b.u.mpers of brandy. One of the royal brothers filled a great gla.s.s for the duke. He stood up and tossed off the drink. "Now,"
says he, "I will have my carriage, and go home." The prince urged upon him his previous promise to sleep under the roof where he had been so generously entertained. "No," he said, he had had enough of such hospitality. A trap had been set for him; he would leave the place at once and never enter its doors more.
The carriage was called, and came; but, in the half-hour"s interval, the liquor had proved too potent for the old man; his host"s generous purpose was answered, and the duke"s old grey head lay stupefied on the table.
Nevertheless, when his post-chaise was announced, he staggered to it as well as he could, and stumbling in, bade the postilions drive to Arundel.
They drove him for half an hour round and round the Pavilion lawn; the poor old man fancied he was going home. When he awoke that morning he was in bed at the prince"s hideous house at Brighton. You may see the place now for sixpence: they have fiddlers there every day; and sometimes buffoons and mountebanks hire the Riding House and do their tricks and tumbling there. The trees are still there, and the gravel walks round which the poor old sinner was trotted. I can fancy the flushed faces of the royal princes as they support themselves at the portico pillars, and look on at old Norfolk"s disgrace; but I can"t fancy how the man who perpetrated it continued to be called a gentleman.
From drinking, the pleased Muse now turns to gambling, of which in his youth our prince was a great pract.i.tioner. He was a famous pigeon for the play-men; they lived upon him. Egalite Orleans, it was believed, punished him severely. A n.o.ble lord, whom we shall call the Marquis of Steyne, is said to have mulcted him in immense sums. He frequented the clubs, where play was then almost universal; and, as it was known his debts of honour were sacred, whilst he was gambling Jews waited outside to purchase his notes of hand. His transactions on the turf were unlucky as well as discreditable: though I believe he, and his jockey, and his horse Escape, were all innocent in that affair which created so much scandal.
Arthur"s, Almack"s, Bootle"s, and White"s were the chief clubs of the young men of fashion. There was play at all, and decayed n.o.blemen and broken-down senators fleeced the unwary there. In Selwyn"s _Letters_ we find Carlisle, Devonshire, Coventry, Queensberry, all undergoing the probation. Charles Fox, a dreadful gambler, was cheated in very late times-lost 200,000_l._ at play. Gibbon tells of his playing for twenty-two hours at a sitting, and losing 500_l._ an hour. That indomitable punter said that the greatest pleasure in life, after winning, was losing. What hours, what nights, what health did he waste over the devil"s books! I was going to say what peace of mind; but he took his losses very philosophically. After an awful night"s play, and the enjoyment of the greatest pleasure but _one_ in life, he was found on a sofa tranquilly reading an Eclogue of Virgil.
Play survived long after the wild prince and Fox had given up the dice-box. The dandies continued it. Byron, Brummell-how many names could I mention of men of the world who have suffered by it! In 1837 occurred a famous trial which pretty nigh put an end to gambling in England. A peer of the realm was found cheating at whist, and repeatedly seen to practise the trick called _sauter la coupe_. His friends at the clubs saw him cheat, and went on playing with him. One greenhorn, who had discovered his foul play, asked an old hand what he should do. "Do!" said the Mammon of Unrighteousness, "_back him, you fool_." The best efforts were made to screen him. People wrote him anonymous letters and warned him; but he would cheat, and they were obliged to find him out. Since that day, when my lord"s shame was made public, the gaming-table has lost all its splendour. Shabby Jews and blacklegs prowl about racecourses and tavern parlours, and now and then inveigle silly yokels with greasy packs of cards in railroad ears; but Play is a deposed G.o.ddess, her worshippers bankrupt, and her table in rags.
So is another famous British inst.i.tution gone to decay-the Ring: the n.o.ble practice of British boxing, which in my youth was still almost flourishing.
The prince, in his early days, was a great patron of this national sport, as his grand-uncle Culloden c.u.mberland had been before him; but, being present at a fight at Brighton, where one of the combatants was killed, the prince pensioned the boxer"s widow, and declared he never would attend another battle. "But, nevertheless,"-I read in the n.o.ble language of Pierce Egan (whose smaller work on Pugilism I have the honour to possess),-"he thought it a manly and decided English feature, which ought not to be destroyed. His majesty had a drawing of the sporting characters in the Fives Court placed in his boudoir, to remind him of his former attachment and support of true courage; and when any fight of note occurred after he was king, accounts of it were read to him by his desire." That gives one a fine image of a king taking his recreation;-at ease in a royal dressing-gown;-too majestic to read himself, ordering the prime minister to read him accounts of battles: how Cribb punched Molyneux"s eye, or Jack Randall thrashed the Game Chicken.
Where my prince _did_ actually distinguish himself was in driving. He drove once in four hours and a half from Brighton to Carlton House-fifty-six miles. All the young men of that day were fond of that sport. But the fashion of rapid driving deserted England; and, I believe, trotted over to America. Where are the amus.e.m.e.nts of our youth? I hear of no gambling now but amongst obscure ruffians; of no boxing but amongst the lowest rabble. One solitary four-in-hand still drove round the parks in London last year; but that charioteer must soon disappear. He was very old; he was attired after the fashion of the year 1825. He must drive to the banks of Styx ere long,-where the ferry-boat waits to carry him over to the defunct revellers, who boxed and gambled and drank and drove with King George.
The bravery of the Brunswicks, that all the family must have it, that George possessed it, are points which all English writers have agreed to admit; and yet I cannot see how George IV should have been endowed with this quality. Swaddled in feather-beds all his life, lazy, obese, perpetually eating and drinking, his education was quite unlike that of his tough old progenitors. His grandsires had confronted hardship and war, and ridden up and fired their pistols undaunted into the face of death.
His father had conquered luxury, and overcome indolence. Here was one who never resisted any temptation; never had a desire but he coddled and pampered it; if ever he had any nerve, frittered it away among cooks, and tailors, and barbers, and furniture-mongers, and opera dancers. What muscle would not grow flaccid in such a life-a life that was never strung up to any action-an endless Capua without any campaign-all fiddling, and flowers, and feasting, and flattery, and folly? When George III was pressed by the Catholic question and the India Bill, he said he would retire to Hanover rather than yield upon either point; and he would have done what he said. But, before yielding, he was determined to fight his ministers and Parliament; and he did, and he beat them. The time came when George IV was pressed too upon the Catholic claims: the cautious Peel had slipped over to that side; the grim old Wellington had joined it; and Peel tells us, in his _Memoirs_, what was the conduct of the king. He at first refused to submit; whereupon Peel and the duke offered their resignations, which their gracious master accepted. He did these two gentlemen the honour, Peel says, to kiss them both when they went away. (Fancy old Arthur"s grim countenance and eagle beak as the monarch kisses it!) When they were gone he sent after them, surrendered, and wrote to them a letter begging them to remain in office, and allowing them to have their way.
Then his Majesty had a meeting with Eldon, which is related at curious length in the latter"s _Memoirs_. He told Eldon what was not true about his interview with the new Catholic converts; utterly misled the old ex-chancellor; cried, whimpered, fell on his neck, and kissed him too. We know old Eldon"s own tears were pumped very freely. Did these two fountains gush together? I can"t fancy a behaviour more unmanly, imbecile, pitiable. This a Defender of the Faith! This a chief in the crisis of a great nation! This an inheritor of the courage of the Georges! Many of my hearers no doubt have journeyed to the pretty old town of Brunswick, in company with that most worthy, prudent, and polite gentleman, the Earl of Malmesbury, and fetched away Princess Caroline for her longing husband, the Prince of Wales, Old Queen Charlotte would have had her eldest son marry a niece of her own, that famous Louisa of Strelitz, afterwards Queen of Prussia, and who shares with Marie Antoinette in the last age the sad pre-eminence of beauty and misfortune. But George III had a niece at Brunswick: she was a richer princess than her Serene Highness of Strelitz:-in fine, the Princess Caroline was selected to marry the heir to the English throne. We follow my Lord Malmesbury in quest of her; we are introduced to her ill.u.s.trious father and royal mother; we witness the b.a.l.l.s and fetes of the old Court; we are presented to the princess herself, with her fair hair, her blue eyes, and her impertinent shoulders-a lively, bouncing, romping princess, who takes the advice of her courtly English mentor most generously and kindly. We can be present at her very toilette, if we like, regarding which, and for very good reasons, the British courtier implores her to be particular. What a strange Court! What a queer privacy of morals and manners do we look into!
Shall we regard it as preachers and moralists, and cry, Woe, against the open vice and selfishness and corruption; or look at it as we do at the king in the pantomime, with his pantomime wife, and pantomime courtiers, whose big heads he knocks together, whom he pokes with his pantomime sceptre, whom he orders to prison under the guard of his pantomime beefeaters, as he sits down to dine on his pantomime pudding? It is grave, it is sad, it is theme most curious for moral and political speculation; it is monstrous, grotesque, laughable, with its prodigious littlenesses, etiquettes, ceremonials, sham moralities; it is as serious as a sermon, and as absurd and outrageous as Punch"s puppet-show.
Malmesbury tells us of the private life of the duke, Princess Caroline"s father, who was to die, like his warlike son, in arms against the French; presents us to his courtiers, his favourite; his d.u.c.h.ess, George III"s sister, a grim old princess, who took the British envoy aside, and told him wicked old stories of wicked old dead people and times; who came to England afterwards when her nephew was regent, and lived in a shabby furnished lodging, old, and dingy, and deserted, and grotesque, but somehow royal. And we go with him to the duke to demand the princess"s hand in form, and we hear the Brunswick guns fire their adieux of salute, as H.R.H. the Princess of Wales departs in the frost and snow; and we visit the domains of the Prince Bishop of Osnaburg-the Duke of York of our early time; and we dodge about from the French revolutionists, whose ragged legions are pouring over Holland and Germany, and gaily trampling down the old world to the tune of _ca ira_; and we take shipping at Slade, and we land at Greenwich, where the princess"s ladies and the prince"s ladies are in waiting to receive her royal highness.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
What a history follows! Arrived in London, the bridegroom hastened eagerly to receive his bride. When she was first presented to him, Lord Malmesbury says she very properly attempted to kneel. He raised her gracefully enough, embraced her, and turning round to me, said,-
"Harris, I am not well; pray get me a gla.s.s of brandy."
I said, "Sir, had you not better have a gla.s.s of water?"
Upon which, much out of humour, he said, with an oath, "No; I will go to the queen."
What could be expected from a wedding which had such a beginning-from such a bridegroom and such a bride? I am not going to carry you through the scandal of that story, or follow the poor princess through all her vagaries; her b.a.l.l.s and her dances, her travels to Jerusalem and Naples, her jigs, and her junketings, and her tears. As I read her trial in history, I vote she is not guilty. I don"t say it is an impartial verdict; but as one reads her story the heart bleeds for the kindly, generous, outraged creature. If wrong there be, let it lie at his door who wickedly thrust her from it. Spite of her follies, the great, hearty people of England loved, and protected, and pitied her. "G.o.d bless you! we will bring your husband back to you," said a mechanic one day, as she told Lady Charlotte Bury with tears streaming down her cheeks. They could not bring that husband back; they could not cleanse that selfish heart. Was hers the only one he had wounded? Steeped in selfishness, impotent for faithful attachment and manly enduring love,-had it not survived remorse, was it not accustomed to desertion?
Malmesbury gives us the beginning of the marriage story;-how the prince reeled into chapel to be married; how he hiccupped out his vows of fidelity-you know how he kept them; how he pursued the woman whom he had married; to what a state he brought her; with what blows he struck her; with what malignity he pursued her; what his treatment of his daughter was; and what his own life. _He_ the first gentleman of Europe! There is no stronger satire on the proud English society of that day, than that they admired George.
No, thank G.o.d, we can tell of better gentlemen; and whilst our eyes turn away, shocked, from this monstrous image of pride, vanity, weakness, they may see in that England over which the last George pretended to reign, some who merit indeed the t.i.tle of gentlemen, some who make our hearts beat when we hear their names, and whose memory we fondly salute when that of yonder imperial manikin is tumbled into oblivion. I will take men of my own profession of letters. I will take Walter Scott, who loved the king, and who was his sword and buckler, and championed him like that brave Highlander in his own story, who fights round his craven chief. What a good gentleman! What a friendly soul, what a generous hand, what an amiable life was that of the n.o.ble Sir Walter! I will take another man of letters, whose life I admire even more,-an English worthy, doing his duty for fifty n.o.ble years of labour, day by day storing up learning, day by day working for scant wages, most charitable out of his small means, bravely faithful to the calling which he had chosen, refusing to turn from his path for popular praise or princes" favour;-I mean _Robert Southey_.
We have left his old political landmarks miles and miles behind; we protest against his dogmatism; nay, we begin to forget it and his politics: but I hope his life will not be forgotten, for it is sublime in its simplicity, its energy, its honour, its affection. In the combat between Time and Thalaba, I suspect the former destroyer has conquered.
Kehama"s curse frightens very few readers now; but Southey"s private letters are worth piles of epics, and are sure to last among us, as long as kind hearts like to sympathize with goodness and purity, and love and upright life. "If your feelings are like mine," he writes to his wife, "I will not go to Lisbon without you, or I will stay at home, and not part from you. For though not unhappy when away, still without you I am not happy. For your sake, as well as my own and little Edith"s, I will not consent to any separation; the growth of a year"s love between her and me, if it please G.o.d she should live, is a thing too delightful in itself, and too valuable in its consequences, to be given up for any light inconvenience on your part or mine.... On these things we will talk at leisure; only, dear, dear Edith, _we must not part!_"