A presentation at Court may be a very exciting thing to those who are unused to such scenes; but to me, nothing whatever could prove a source of excitement yet, for no man is more self-possessed, less interested in a mere spectacle, or in whom the feeling of curiosity is so dead, for a time at least, as one who has served a campaign or two.
During the reign of the late king and the early part of his successor's, drawing-rooms occurred very frequently, and royalty presented itself to the nobility and gentry at least twice weekly; but from various circumstances—perhaps the recent mourning, so hastily laid aside—on this occasion the attendance was unusually great, and when the carriage of the Duke, who wore the uniform of Colonel of the Greys, with the star and dark green ribbon of the Thistle, reached Kensington Palace-gate, we found it quite blocked up by brilliant equipages, sedan chairs, and livery servants, having huge cocked hats, long canes, and in some instances bouquets of artificial flowers.
From the portico of the Palace to the presence chamber, the Yeomen of the Guard, under Viscount Torrington, and the Gentlemen Pensioners, under the Lord Berkeley of Stratton, lined all the corridors and guarded the entrances, their showy uniforms contrasting powerfully with my patched and war-worn suit of harness, which, sooth to say, seemed odd enough, for my silver epaulettes were reduced to mere tufts of black wire; my once crimson sash to dingy fritters, my jack-boots were of no particular tint, and my spurs, like my scabbard, were a mass of rust.
But I carried over my left arm the standards of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne; and they secured me some interest, in the eyes of the ladies at least—the beauty and fashion of the first court in the world—as they thronged past, in hoops and brocades, their fine hair dredged with powder, and their soft cheeks obscured by rouge and patches.
My grandfather had disinherited me; true! I had nothing in the world but my sword and my wretched pay as a sub; I was not the Lord of Netherwood, moor and hill, hall and river; but I was Basil Gauntlet, of Minden and Zierenberg—and they, at least, were something to be heir to.
As we entered the gallery which leads to the black marble staircase, two gentlemen, one of whom was dressed in scarlet richly embroidered with gold, and who wore a very full perriwig—the other, who was attired in a purple velvet suit corded with silver, and who had on a sword of unusual length, and a bag wig, entered into conversation with the Duke, who presented me to them as an officer of his regiment.
The first was the groom of the stole, the famous Earl of Bute, the future premier, the foe of Wilkes and the London mob; the other was my Lord Huntingdon, Master of the Horse, and both were pleased to say many handsome things concerning our regiment and its services during the war. Moreover, the Lord Bute was pleased to manifest his friendship for me, by presenting his snuff-box of light-blue sevres china, which he always carried in the flap-pocket of his waistcoat.
The heat and crowd were great; many had already been presented, and some were withdrawing as we passed slowly through several rooms of the old summer palace, the walls of which were hung with rich tapestry and ornamented by many pictures and busts on pedestals. Among others, my Lord Bute and his Grace pointed out to me the Venus of Titian and the Infant Saviour by Rubens, the dark Holbeins, some works of Albert Durer, and the full-lengths of Orange William and Mary Stuart, his queen—the former all nose and white wig, the latter with a mass of frizzled locks and a very bare bosom; and so, by gently pressing onward, we found ourselves in the presence-chamber, amid all the glitter and splendour of the court.
At the further end, on a chair of state under a rich canopy of crimson velvet, heavily laced, sat a fair-complexioned and smooth-faced young man, of a mild but most undignified and somewhat flabby aspect, who wore the uniform of the Foot Guards, with the magnificent collar and order of the Garter sparkling on his breast, and who had his powdered hair brushed back, queued, and simply tied with a black ribbon.
"'Tis the king!" whispered the Duke of Argyle and my Lord Bute at the same time.
I had never been in a palace or stood in such a presence before, and, until now, had been more occupied by the beauty of the ladies and the splendour of their jewels and dresses; but I felt a strange thrill in my heart—blasé as it was by the excitement of campaigning—when I looked on the mild face of this same young king, who was then in his twenty-third year, who had a threefold ball and treble sceptre to wield, and who had declared it to be his proudest boast that he was the FIRST of his race who had drawn breath on British soil, and that he gloried in it!
Many presentations went forward before it came to my turn. I saw Carolina, Countess of Ancrum, a stately woman, in a dress of white satin, superbly spangled with gold, and drawn up in festoons by cords of gold, to display an under-petticoat of scarlet velvet, studded with seed-pearls, advance towards the throne. Her hair was powdered white as snow, and tied over a cushion about five inches high. With a low courtesy she was presenting to his majesty, who bowed graciously, a very graceful girl, whose back, unfortunately, was towards us; but I could admire the wonderful fairness of her neck and shoulders, over which some heavy ringlets fell from the high cushion or pad, above which her golden hair, all undisguised by powder, was dressed and tied with knots of scarlet ribbon. Her dress was of scarlet and white striped satin, embroidered with gold on all the seams, and as they withdrew, courtesying backward—
"Gauntlet, 'tis our turn now," said the Duke, while he took me by the left hand and led me forward to the steps of the throne, which were covered with crimson cloth.
"Permit me," said he, "to present to your majesty Sir Basil Gauntlet, of my regiment, the 2nd Dragoons—an officer who, by his personal bravery, has contributed not a little to maintain their old historic character of being Second to None.
"Good!—second to none—good, very good!" said the young king, bowing very pleasantly, and presenting his hand, which I suppose I was expected to kiss; but which, in my ignorance, I shook very cordially, to the amusement of many fine lords and macaronies who stood by. I coloured, but said confidently—
"Commissioned by his Serene Highness Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, General of the allies, I have been sent from our camp at Warburg in Westphalia, to lay at your majesty's feet these trophies, the standards of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, captured in our late attack on Zierenberg."
From my hands the king took the colours, which were of blue silk, with the royal crown and cypher of France. One bore the silver fleurs-de-lys; the other the golden dolphin of Dauphiné in a field ermine, and both exhibited the holes where many a bullet had passed. He thanked me in a very handsome manner, while all the brilliant groups which crowded that magnificent apartment drew near to observe and to listen.
Something of my story, perhaps of my early misfortunes, my unmerited wrong, and my enlistment, with a hundred fables tacked thereto, had been buzzed or whispered about; thus I found many bright eyes and well-powdered personages in fashionable pasteboard skirts regarding me with well-bred interest.
"Good!" said the king, whose eloquence seldom overflowed; "this is very good, and your services shall be duly appreciated. Did you serve at Minden?"
"I had the honour."
"In the cavalry?"
"Yes, sire—in the Scots Greys."
At those words, a gentleman in a brigadier wig and suit of grey, corded with silver, turned abruptly and surveyed me with a louring eye. He was no other than my Lord George Sackville, who hated the Scots—as he afterwards did the Americans—because ten of the sixteen generals who found him guilty of misconduct at Minden were born north of the Tweed; and so blindly did he hate that portion of Britain, that for a time he was universally believed to be the author of "Junius' Letters;" thus, at the mention of the Greys, 'tis no wonder that he started as if a wasp had stung him.
The king gave the standards to my Lord Huntingdon, and bowed to us again, as we now withdrew to make way for others. In retiring, I then perceived near the throne one who had good reason to remember with gratitude and respect the uniform of a Scots Grey, the little Prince Edward Augustus, Duke of York, whom Jack Charters had saved from drowning when the man-o'-war's boat was smashed by a cannon shot near Querqueville Point at Cherbourg.
I was mentioning this episode to the Duke of Argyle, who felt an interest in everything that related to his regiment, when suddenly a charming voice said, "Basil!" in my ear, a hand was laid softly and timidly on my arm, two smiling blue eyes looked calmly into mine, and I found before me the fair girl, she with the golden-hair, the scarlet-striped dress and blue crape petticoat—my cousin, Aurora!
She now presented me to her chaperone, the Countess of Ancrum, who had been Lady Caroline d'Arcy, only daughter of the Earl of Holderness. She in turn presented me to several ladies, who plied me with the usual simple and silly questions about the war and certain officers who were serving with the army, until Aurora passed her arm through mine and we began to converse about ourselves.
Aurora was indeed very beautiful, and when I looked on her delicate skin and brilliant English complexion, "how," thought I, "could I ever admire a dark Frenchwoman, or any but a blue-eyed girl!"
"I was so proud when I saw you led forward to the king!" said Aurora, "and to see you looking so well and gallant, Basil. Do you know that all the ladies here quite envy my cousinship?"
"Aurora, how you flatter! One would think that you had been among the French and not I."
"And what think you of the young king?"
"I am charmed by his condescension."
"Yet scandal says he is married to a pretty quakeress named Hannah Lightfoot, though about to espouse the Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz," whispered Aurora. "What think you of that forsooth?"
"I wish you would not say such things, cousin."
"Your loyalty is shocked, is it? Well, I shall not whisper treason, even in your ear," replied Aurora, who proceeded to point out several persons to me, and to make remarks on them that were witty enough at times.
"Who is that tall man with the blue ribbon?"
"He with the military stride, who seems to go right, left—right, left, head up, and queue straight?"
"Yes," said I, laughing.
"That is the gallant old Earl of Crawford, who led the Scottish Horse Guards in Flanders."
"And that dapper little man in the orange-coloured suit, whom he is now presenting?"
"The Chevalier Chassegras de Lery, the first of his Majesty's new Canadian subjects that has appeared in London, where, I can assure you, he is greatly run after. He was wounded in the siege of Quebec, and assisted to bury the Marquis of Montcalm. But look you, cousin, look!" continued Aurora, laughing and blushing behind her large scarlet fan; "do you see that grim-looking old gentlewoman in green brocade?"
"Whom a bishop is presenting—yes."
"The late king died in her arms. She is the Countess of Yarmouth."
"Sophia de Walmoden!"
"Yes. Listen!—she is returning thanks for her pension of 4000l. per annum, for services rendered to his Majesty's royal grandfather. For all his victories over the French the brave Sir Edward Hawke gets exactly half that sum."
With some interest I surveyed this old personage in paint, patches, and brocade; she who had wrought poor Charters such mischief in his youth when he was about eighteen, and she perhaps six and thirty.
But now the dusk was setting in; I missed his grace of Argyle, or perhaps he thought his duty to me ended at the foot of the throne, and it was an odd coincidence that Aurora also lost her chaperone, Lady Ancrum; thus I had to escort her to the Palace-gate.
"You must come to Netherwood for the shooting, Basil," said she, as we traversed the long corridors of the palace; "at the Hall I keep a strange souvenir of you," she continued, laughing—"an old blunderbuss—do you remember it?"
"No."
"You cannot have forgotten that night on Wandsworth Common, and the old blunderbuss which so terrified John Trot?"
"How could I forget the first time I met you, Aurora!—but here is your chair."
Two yeomen of the guard made way for us with their partisans; John Trot was in attendance with cane and link, as I handed Aurora into her sedan, hooped-petticoat, skirt, toupée and all.
"While in London, Basil, remember that you make our house in Piccadilly your home."
"Our!" thought I in perplexity, as two soft hands held mine during this speech, and two blue eyes looked kindly into mine. I was becoming a timid fellow again, or I know not what privilege of cousinship I might have claimed had we been elsewhere than amid that crowd at Kensington Palace-gate.
"I live in Piccadilly with an old lady-friend, or rather, I should say she lives with me—my companion, an officer's widow. You will lunch with us to-morrow—two is the hour, and we shall expect you. Adieu."
She was borne off at a trot by her chairmen in the Gauntlet livery, while I set out on foot to return to "mine inn," the King George the Third, in Pall Mall.