On the following morning, the long-awaited twenty-eighth of June, a Thursday, Emily and I were awoken by the noise of cannon at four o’clock. To our consternation it was raining! Our first thought was for ourselves and our dresses, our second for the poor Queen. However, much may happen in the space of several hours, as Emily remarked, so we dressed ourselves with what philosophy we could, Upton having had permission to go out as early as possible in order to obtain a good place for the procession.
Mr. Vavasour had informed us that there was to be a breakfast at the Athenaeum from 7.30 till 10, so we sallied forth shortly after seven, determined to be in time. Smart showers had been falling at intervals, and we feared for the condition of the streets, but so well had they been strewn with gravel along the line of the route, that we were sensible of very little inconvenience. My father, who proposed to spend the day at White’s, accompanied us as far as the Athenaeum, which is a fine building in the classical style, surmounted by a Grecian frieze. As the regular police force would be fully occupied, a number of special constables had been sworn in. These had tapes tied round their wrists to distinguish them from the crowd, and we heard many derisive or abusive shouts of ‘Tapemen’ from the mob, which, though good-humoured, was not disposed to pay very much attention to these temporary officers of the law.
Although it was so early it was already difficult to get along some of the streets, and from remarks that we heard in the crowd we gathered that many people had arrived at five o’clock or even earlier in order to obtain a place in the front rank. Here we witnessed a very ludicrous occurrence. One of the new cabs with a door at the back was proceeding down St. James’s Street. The vehicle which followed it was drawn by a large black horse, whose driver could only with difficulty hold him in. As the crush in the road increased, the black horse, pressed from the rear, made a plunge forward and put his head in at the door of the cab.
His driver pulled him back, and no damage was done, but what was our amusement to see an elderly gentleman in court dress put his face out at the door and stare gravely into the countenance of the quadruped who had so rudely intruded upon him. The crowd cheered loudly. The elderly gentleman took off his hat, bowed, and retired once more into the cab. These little incidents are all part of that diversified whole which is London.
The clubs in St. James’s Street and Pall Mall were indeed a triumph of the decorator’s art. Nearly every house had its front hidden by wooden galleries, tastefully draped with material of various hues. Crockford’s in particular made a magnificent display, and we observed that the galleries everywhere were mostly filled by members of the fair sex, the gentlemen preferring the windows. Among those buildings which were in remarkable taste I may mention English’s Hotel at the corner of Pall Mall, the United University Club, and the Carlton Club, where elegant balconies were raised from the two floors, and filled with company evidently of the highest order.
Outside the Athenaeum Club Mr. Vavasour was waiting, and he conducted us to our places on the stand, which were facing Pall Mall and commanded an excellent view of the route. They were also sheltered by a canopy, affording a grateful protection from both rain and sun. The streets, which had earlier been like a sea of umbrellas, now became visible in all their glory, as the sun struggled forth, to take his share in honouring our young Queen. On the stand we found Mrs. Vavasour, who inquired whether we had breakfasted, and hearing that we had been too much excited to take more than a cup of tea, conducted us to the room where a breakfast was being served. Mr. Vavasour informed us that ladies were the only strangers privileged to be admitted to the club on this occasion, and that over a thousand of the fairer sex, in many cases accompanied by one or more of their offspring, were present, besides about four hundred members of the club.
While we were eating, Mr. Vavasour pointed out several celebrities to us, one of whom was that odious Mr. Croker who wrote so vilely about Marshal Soult. On being told who he was I took a violent dislike to him and luckily had occasion to show it. He reached across me in a very impertinent manner to obtain something from the buffet, upon which, with many apologies, I contrived so to jog his elbow that the contents of his plate were upset, and I had the satisfaction of seeing a jelly fall onto his boots. He looked at me with an expression that would have annihilated any poor author whose book he was to review, but as I was perfectly unknown to him and had no fear of being cut up in the Quarterly, I could meet his glance with disdain. Mr. Vavasour, who had observed the scene, could not help smiling.
‘I see, Miss Harcourt,’ said he, ‘that you are a doughty champion of our friendly enemy Marshal Soult. If he knew how valiantly you had avenged him, he would venture to make a special bow in your direction when he passes in the procession. Would,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘that Miss Harcourt could be at hand when the Quarterly reviews Jocelyn FitzFulke?
‘That reminds me, Mr. Vavasour,’ said I, ‘that I have never yet had the courage to speak to you about your novel. I cannot tell you how much Miss Dacre and I admire it. But it was very wrong to enclose the verses. Imagine my feelings if any one had seen them.’
‘We poor poets,’ said Mr. Vavasour, bending over me so that his curls almost touched my face, ‘must needs speak the truth, though we flaunt every convention. If my verses offended Miss Harcourt, I can but apologize, deeply and humbly. But I think I see in your eyes that I am forgiven, am I not?’
I turned away in confusion and at that moment Emily approached us.
‘Oh, Mr. Vavasour,’ said she, ‘you know every one. Pray who is the gentleman with the very auburn hair who looks as if he were some one? See, there he is, talking to a lady in violet silk.’
‘He is indeed some one,’ said Mr. Vavasour, ‘and so is his fair companion. You have picked out perhaps two of the most interesting of the stars in our literary galaxy. The gentleman is Mr. Bulwer, the lady Mrs. Norton.’
‘Lassy me!’ cried Emily, thus disgracing me publicly, but it is of no use speaking to Emily, though there are moments when I could willingly pretend that I did not know her.
‘My aunt will, I am sure, have great pleasure in presenting you to Mrs. Norton,’ said Mr. Vavasour. ‘I will find her at once.’
Before I could protest he had left us. What was I to do? Mr. Darnley had intimated that she was not the person a young unmarried woman should know, and Mr. Darnley’s good opinion was dear to me. On the other hand, Mr. Darnley was far away at the Reform Club, mixing with his Radical friends, and need never know.
‘What shall we do?’ said I to Emily.
‘Lord!’ said Emily, ‘you are not thinking of what Darnley said, are you? My dearest Fanny, do not put on the country mouse. Mrs. Norton’s books are read by every one, and what harm can it do to speak to her? If Darnley were your husband it would be different, but he has no right to dictate to you whom you may meet. I must say I would like to see what a female writer who is separated from her husband is like.’
Emily’s indelicacy really shocked me, but as her sentiments coincided with my own, I said nothing. Mr. Vavasour now returned with his aunt, who led Emily and me to the two celebrities. Emily, I regret to say, made a dead set at Mr. Bulwer, plying him with the most outspoken flattery, to which, like most of his sex, he did not seem averse. I was therefore left tête-à-tête with Mrs. Norton.
‘Are you happy, Miss Harcourt?’ she asked, fixing her large expressive eyes on me.
This was such a difficult question to answer that I stood dumb before her. I felt I ought to be unhappy, but could not think of any sufficient cause.
‘I have embarrassed you, child,’ said she. ‘You must forgive me. Perhaps I touch a tender chord.’
‘Not at all, madam,’ said I, not quite knowing how to address an honourable, especially one in her peculiar position, ‘I am afraid you will think me very stupid not to be unhappy, but it is all Mr. Vavasour’s fault, who would be kind enough to ask his aunt to present me. I would never have presumed to address the author of The Sorrows of Rosalie.’
‘You like my poems then?’ asked Mrs. Norton eagerly.
Luckily I had procured and read a copy after Mr. Darnley had spoken so strongly against her, and I must say I had thought the poems were full of feeling.
‘Oh, indeed I do,’ said I. ‘They are so like what one thinks oneself, only one could never have said it so well. The poem which begins, “I do not love thee!” struck me particularly.’
‘Poor child,’ said Mrs. Norton, gazing at me with compassion, ‘is that then your feeling? My own heart has long since turned to stone, but I can yet feel for the young and ardent. If it is Vavasour, I pity you indeed. He would be another Norton. He would brush the bloom from the flower and leave it, broken, to face a cold world. Look at me, Miss Harcourt, and take warning.’
I did look at her, but she was so beautiful and so exquisitely dressed that it was difficult to divine the canker that was doubtless gnawing at her heart. Her way of speaking of Mr. Vavasour made me rather uncomfortable, and I was glad when she turned to some other friends. I then made my way to Emily, who was all excitement.
‘Imagine, my dear Fanny,’ she cried, ‘Mr. Bulwer has told me that he is to bring out a sequel to Ernest Maltravers! You remember the orphan Alice, whom Ernest adopted or worse, at least I suppose it was worse, for the child appears to have been his, and how she met him at an inn in after years and fainted at his sight, though he did not see her. Well, he is to write a continuation of her story, and it is to be called Alice, or the Mysteries, and it is to have all sorts of things in it. What did Mrs. Norton say to you?’
‘Do not ask me, Emily,’ said I impressively, ‘and whatever you do, do not let Mr. Darnley know that I met her. Remember, I have never let my father suspect that there is any understanding between you and Ned.’
Emily laughed and pressed my hand.
It was now high time to take our seats for the procession, which was to leave the New Palace at ten o’clock. A gun announced that the Queen had started, and as the moments passed and the sound of cheering began to reach our ears, we became violently excited. How can I describe our sensations as we saw the first soldiers turning the corner of St. James’s Street, and riding proudly along Pall Mall? It would be idle to attempt to describe the glittering throng, for my children may read the account for themselves in the newspapers of the day, but I must mention a few circumstances which seemed to me peculiarly noteworthy.
Our chief interest, apart from our young sovereign, was Marshal Soult, the Duke of Dalmatia. Let no tongue of calumny say that Britons are not magnanimous to a noble foe. The cheers that rent the welkin as the French Ambassador’s coach came in sight were positively deafening, and every rank appeared to vie in doing honour to our whilom enemy. His coach, which Mr. Vavasour told me was one of the old Bourbon equipages, was painted a rich cobalt relieved with gold, and had a lamp with a massive silver coronet at each corner, while the harness and furniture were white and silver. We could only catch a glimpse of the celebrated warrior himself, but we could see that he had a dark complexion and was of a considerable age.
‘Long live Soult!’ burst from the crowd, some saying Sowlt and some Soolt, ‘huzza, huzza!’ I added my voice to the general tumult, flags were waved from every balcony, and Emily agitated her scarf so violently that I was obliged to look as if she did not belong to my party. By the time the Queen’s carriage arrived my eyes were so full of tears of emotion that I could hardly see her, and many must have shared my feelings. I also saw with emotion the Duchess of Kent, whose maternal heart must have been filled with pride on that eventful day.
When the last of the carriages had passed, there was a general movement. Mr. Vavasour suggested that we should take a stroll in the Park while the Royal party were in the Abbey, which we accordingly did. The Ambassadors’ carriages were ranged in the Bird Cage Walk and were magnificent in the extreme. The coachmen and other servants had thrown off their dignity and were sitting or standing about, cocked hats and wigs off, smoking their pipes or partaking of refreshment. We met several of our acquaintance here, including a Quaker lady from Norwich, who presented us to Miss Caroline Fox, a lively lady of the same persuasion. I have ever been friendly towards the Quakers, who abound near my father’s seat in Norfolk. They seem to be a useful and philanthropic sort of persons, and as for their religion, I have been brought up an Anglican and can tolerate any form of worship which does not attempt to foment discord among the lower orders. As the Quakers have no lower orders to speak of, being wonderfully blessed with the good things of this world, they can never constitute a menace to society. Miss Fox pointed out to us the Belgian Ambassador’s carriage, which though it was very grand, yet had part of the harness tied up with string. We observed that in the park a chair was being hired for five shillings and a table for twenty. Miss Fox told us that it was computed that over two hundred thousand pounds had been spent on seats alone.
Her Majesty was expected to pass down Pall Mall again about 4 o’clock, and long before that time we were settled in our places. Here we had occasion to admire the discipline of the police. The crowd, who had stood all day in considerable heat, and had indulged in deep potations, began to get restive, and we were apprehensive that some might break through the line of march. The police were, however, more than equal to the occasion, and turned the open space near the Athenaeum into a kind of penal settlement, for no sooner did an offender make himself so conspicuous as to become their captive, than he was forthwith consigned to that particular station.
The return of the procession did not greatly differ from what we had already seen, and after the fatigue of the day we were ready enough to go to our lodgings. One incident I must mention which showed that Britons are yet Hearts of Oak. As we were making our way homewards through the crowd under Mr. Vavasour’s escort, we heard a noise which appalled me, the noise of an angry mob booing and hissing. I shrank closer to Mr. Vavasour, who drew us into a doorway. Here, standing on the step, he could better see what was going on.
‘They are hissing O’Connell,’ said he to us, ‘and I must applaud the good old English spirit which makes the crowd hoot such a dangerous demagogue as the so-called Liberator. If I stand for Parliament as I shall probably do, I shall oppose such men in every way in my power.’
‘But do authors get into Parliament?’ asked Emily.
‘I might mention among contemporary author-politicians,’ said Mr. Vavasour, ‘Disraeli, whom you met the other night, Bulwer, Macaulay, who by the way returns from India this summer, and is sure to be in the House next year, and half a dozen more equally well known. Because we are poor scribblers, Miss Dacre, our hearts are not the less patriotic.’
When we reached our door, I ventured to ask Mr. Vavasour if he would join us at the Ingoldsbys’ that evening, but he replied with seemingly real regret that he was engaged to go with his aunt and Lady Almeria Norbourne to a musical party.
‘But I trust I may see Miss Harcourt again before long,’ he said. ‘The acquaintance — or may I presume to say the friendship — of the last few weeks cannot be permitted to languish. I might say more, but this is hardly the time, nor the place. Miss Harcourt, may I see you to-morrow, when I am less agitated?’
While hardly seeing any cause for agitation, I gave the desired permission, and running upstairs, told Emily what had been said.
‘Depend on it, Fanny,’ said she, ‘Mr. Vavasour is going to propose to you. I am not surprised, but I shall regret it if you accept him.’
‘Why so?’ I asked. ‘Not that I for a moment anticipate that he will do any such thing.’
‘My dearest Fanny,’ replied Emily, ‘it is difficult to be explicit without embarrassment. I will only observe that whether I marry or not, Tapton must be my home as long as my father lives, and that Tapton Hall is within a few minutes’ walk of the Rectory. If my Fanny is to live in London, I shall see her but seldom.’
‘This is indeed a most improper conversation,’ said I, ‘but I must say, with as much delicacy as possible, that i
f you and Ned do make a match of it, your home will be in Norfolk after your father’s death, and Norfolk is farther from London than Kent.’
We agreed that it is impossible to foretell what has not yet occurred, but our philosophical confabulation was interrupted by Mrs. Bellows and Upton, who had just returned from Hyde Park Corner, where they had stood for nearly ten hours and obtained an excellent view of the procession.
‘I’m sure you’ll excuse me and Mrs. Upton coming in like this, miss,’ said Mrs. Bellows, whose good-natured countenance was almost purple with her exertions, ‘but I thought you’d like to know we was back.’
‘I hope you had good places,’ said I.
‘Indeed we did, miss, being as I have my nephew, my own younger sister’s son as you might say, working as porter at St. George’s Hospital. They had closed the hospital for the day, unless it was for any poor creature that got hurt in the crowd, so my nephew was able to get off duty for a bit and he got us with our backs nicely up against the hospital wall and fetched us a couple of stools, so that we could see over the people’s heads. Lor, miss, what do you think happened? It put me all of a tremble. There was a great ugly bird flying backwards and forwards, and I said to Mrs. Upton, “Depend upon it, Mrs. Upton, that’s a goose, and it means no good, I’ll be bound”; didn’t I, Mrs. Upton?’
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