Reception of the late Queen Caroline (then Princess of Wales) at the drawing-room held after the “delicate investigation”—Her depression, and subsequent levity—Queen Charlotte and the Princess compared and contrasted—Reflections on the incidents of that day and evening—The Thames on a Vauxhall night.

I have often mused on the unfortunate history and fate of the late Queen Caroline. It is not for me here to discuss her case, or give any opinion on the conduct of the ruling powers in the business. I shall only observe, that though it was not possible to foresee such events as subsequently took place, I had, from the time of my being presented to that princess by Lord Stowell, felt an unaccountable presentiment that her destiny would not be a happy one.

Upon the close of the “delicate investigation,” a drawing-room of the most brilliant description was held at St. James’s, to witness the Princess’s reception by her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. I doubt if a more numerous and sparkling assemblage had ever been collected in that ancient palace;—curiosity had no small share in drawing it together.

The sun was that day in one of his most glaring humours; he shone with unusual ardour into the windows of the antique ball-room—seeming as if he wished at the same moment to gild and melt down that mass of beauty and of diamonds which was exposed to all his fervour. The crowd was immense, the heat insufferable; and the effects resulting therefrom liberally displayed themselves, though in different-tinted streams (from the limpid to the crimson), upon the fine features of the natural and aided beauties.

I was necessitated to attend in my official dress: the frizzled peruke, loaded with powder and pomatum (covering at least half the body of the sufferer), was wedged in amongst the gaudy nobles. The dress of every person who was so fortunate as to come in contact with the wigs, like the cameleon, instantly imbibed the colour of the thing it came in collision with; and after a short intimacy, many a full-dress black received a large portion of my silvery hue, and many a splendid manteau participated in the materials which render powder adhesive.

Of all the distressed beings in that heated assembly, I was most amused by Sir Vicary Gibbs, then attorney-general.—Hard-featured and impatient—his wig awry—his solids yielding out all their essence—he appeared as if he had just arisen (though not like Venus) from the sea. Every muscle of his angular features seemed busily employed in forming hieroglyphic imprecations! Though amused, I never pitied any person more—except myself. Wedged far too tight to permit even a heaving sigh at my own imprisonment, I could only be consoled by a perspective view of the gracious Charlotte, who stood stoutly before the throne like the stump of a baronial castle to which age gives greater dignity. I had, however, in due rotation, the honour of being presented, and of kissing the back of her Majesty’s hand.

I am, of course, profoundly ignorant of her Majesty’s manner in her family, but certainly her public receptions appeared to me the most gracious in the world: there could not be a more engaging, kind, and condescending address than that of the Queen of England. It is surprising how different a queen appears in a drawing-room and in a newspaper.

At length, the number of presentations had diminished the pressure, and a general stir in the crowd announced something uncommon about to take place. It was the approach of the Princess of Wales.

Whoever considered the painfully delicate situation in which this lady was then placed, could not help feeling a sympathy for her apparent sufferings. Her father, the Duke of Brunswick, had not long before expired of his wounds received at Jena; and after her own late trials it was, I thought, most inauspicious that deep mourning should be her attire on her reception—as if announcing at once the ill-fate of herself and of her parent: her dress was decked with a multiplicity of black bugles. She entered the drawing-room leaning on the arm of the Duke of Cumberland, and seemed to require the support. To her it must, in truth, have been a most awful moment. The subject of the investigation, the loss of her natural protector, and the doubts she must have felt as to the precise nature of her reception by the Queen, altogether made a deep impression on everyone present. She tottered to the throne: the spectacle grew interesting in the highest degree. I was not close; but a low buzz ran round the room that she had been received most kindly, and a few moments sufficed to show that this was her own impression.

After she had passed the ordeal, a circle was formed for her beyond the throne. I wished for an introduction, and Lord Stowell (then Sir William Scott) did me that honour. I had felt in common with every body for the depression of spirits with which the Princess had approached her Majesty. I, for my part, considered her in consequence full of sensibility at her own situation: but so far as her subsequent manner showed, I was totally mistaken. The trial was at an end, the Queen had been kind, and a paroxysm of spirits seemed to succeed and mark a strange contrast to the manner of her entry. I thought it was too sudden and too decisive: she spoke much, and loud, and rather bold: it seemed to me as if all recollection of what had passed was rapidly vanishing. So far it pleased me, to see returning happiness; but still the kind of thing made no favourable impression on my mind. Her circle was crowded; the presentations numerous: but on the whole, she lost ground in my estimation.

This incident proved to me the palpable distinction between feeling and sensibility—words which people misconstrue and mingle without discrimination. I then compared the two ladies. The bearing of Queen Charlotte certainly was not that of a heroine in romance: but she was the best-bred and most graceful lady of her age and figure I ever saw: so kind and conciliating, that one could scarcely believe her capable of any thing but benevolence. She appeared plain, old, and of dark complexion; but seemed unaffected, and commanded that respect which private virtues will ever obtain for public character. I liked her vastly better than her daughter-in-law.—I mention only as a superficial, not an intellectual feeling, that I never could reconcile myself to extra-natural complexions.

I returned from the drawing-room with a hundred new thoughts excited by circumstances which had never occurred to me on any former occasion, and by the time I arrived at the Adelphi, had grown from a courtier into a philosopher! Even there, however, my lucubrations were doomed to interruption. From my chamber at the Caledonian, the beauty of the animated Thames quite diverted my mind from the suffocating splendour, under the pressure of which I had passed three hours. The broad unruffled tide, reflecting the rich azure of the firmament, awakened in my mind ideas of sublimity which would have raised it toward heaven, had not dinner and a new train of observation recalled me to worldly considerations, which I fancied I had for one evening completely laid aside. Another scene of equal brilliance in its own way soon rivetted my attention. It was a Vauxhall evening—and thousands of painted and gilded skiffs darted along under my windows, crowded with flashy girls and tawdry cits, enveloped in all their holiday glories, and appearing to vie in gaudiness with the scullers of which they were the cargo. Here elegance and vulgarity, rank and meanness, vice and beauty, disease and health, mingling and moving over the waters, led me to the mortifying reflection, that this apparently gay and happy company probably comprised a portion of the most miserable and base materials of the British population.

I soon became fatigued by the brilliant sameness of the scene; and a sort of spurious philosophy again led me back to the Queen’s drawing-room, and set me reflecting on numerous subjects, in which I had not the remotest interest! but as solitary reasoning is one of the very greatest incentives to drowsiness, that sensation soon overcame all others; the sensorial powers gradually yielded to its influence; and, in a short time, the Queen and the Princess of Wales—the drawing-room and the gilded boats—the happy-looking girls and assiduous gallants—all huddled together in most irreverent confusion, sheered off (as a seaman would say), and left a sound and refreshing slumber in place of all that was great and gay—dazzling and splendid—in the first metropolis of the European hemisphere.