Susannah’s letter to her mother in Birmingham would arrive later that day, but the police were faster; Sergeant Otway had taken the seven o’clock train from Euston Station to Birmingham, one of the first intercity train routes in Britain. He found Hannah among her relatives. Hannah received the news badly, responding with a hysterical fit, by one account, and fainting, by another. She would take the afternoon train to London and be there by the evening.
Inspectors Pearce and Hughes bundled Oxford past his sister and uncle, out the back of the station, where the three jogged through the Horse Guards’ parade ground and into the back entrance to the Home Office, at Whitehall. Oxford ran, without handcuffs, and in a jocular mood. He was clearly enormously excited at the prospect of his examination by all the leading Whig politicians: Melbourne, Russell, Palmerston, and the rest would be giving him their focused attention: he had wanted to make a noise—and the examination proved to him that he had done exactly that. If he had known of his uncle Marklew’s attempts to find him counsel, he would certainly have disapproved. He had, at that moment, no desire to let anyone speak for him, and no desire to be found innocent. If his pistols had indeed been empty, he preferred everyone not to know that, seeing him instead as a dangerous conspirator with high if mysterious political connections. He was placed to wait in a room adjoining the room where depositions were to be taken, and a reporter, seeing him there, noted his self-centered pleasure: “he paced up and down the room with perfect self-possession, and an air of consequence and satisfaction, as if he felt pleased to find himself an object of so much interest.”
At eleven, Oxford was examined first by the Home Secretary and his undersecretaries, Phillipps and Maule; Normanby then decided upon a fuller examination by a larger body, at two o’clock. The ministers discussed the constitution of that larger body. Precedent was unclear as to whether the Privy Council or the Cabinet should examine the evidence. In the end, they decided upon the Cabinet. One of that body, John Cam Hobhouse, recorded his less than impressed opinion of Oxford in his diary. “He was young,” Hobhouse wrote,
… and under the middle size, neatly made, with a darkish olive complexion.* He had black eyes and eyebrows, dark chestnut hair. He had not a bad expression, but with a curl on his lips, as if suppressing a smile or sneer. He was dressed as became his condition, which, we were told, was that of a barman at a pothouse. There was nothing displeasing in his look or manner, until he spoke, when his pert audacity and his insolent carelessness gave him the air of a ruffian.
Maule orchestrated the examination to convince those assembled that Oxford was the shooter, and his pistols were loaded. Establishing the first point was simple: several witnesses stated that, without any doubt, they had seen Oxford shoot; three of these testified as to Oxford’s incriminating statement, upon his capture, that he had done the shooting. Establishing that the pistols had been loaded was more difficult, as no ball had been found despite an intensive search. One witness, however, claimed that the ball “passed directly before my face,” with a whizzing sound, and another that he had seen a mark left by one of the balls on the wall.
Oxford was given the opportunity to question each of the witnesses, and his questions—punctuated by his uncanny bursts of laughter—did little to further his case, and nothing in particular to challenge the flimsy evidence that his pistols had been loaded. Rather, he quibbled about details: some witnesses claimed that he had shot his two pistols with his two hands, some that he shot both using one hand; one witness claimed that he was between five and eight yards away from the royal carriage when he shot the second time, another that he was thirty yards away. Allowed to make a final statement, Oxford reiterated these discrepancies, and couldn’t resist impugning Albert’s reported courage, claiming that he jumped up at the sound of the first pistol and shrank back at the sight of the second. “Then,” Oxford said, “I fired the second pistol. This is all I shall say at present.”
Nothing Oxford did or said affected the cabinet’s decision, and he was bound over for trial on the charge of High Treason. Home Secretary Normanby drew up a warrant for Governor William Wadham Cope of Newgate Prison to take in Oxford as soon as he could be transferred from the Home Office. Oxford was removed, still apparently in good spirits. If he had considered the government’s line of questioning more closely, however, he might have been more concerned. Although Inspector Hughes did tell the Cabinet about Oxford’s box of secrets, that was as far as any reference to Young England went. The police still took the conspiracy theory very seriously: they had gotten it into their heads that the handwriting on all of Oxford’s documents was not actually Oxford’s, and considered it possible, at the very least, that another person might have encouraged Oxford to shoot the Queen—a Truelock to Oxford’s Hadfield. But the government was not interested in establishing Oxford as a conspirator. Already, the image that Oxford had worked so hard to create—the myth of the valiant Bravo—was on the decline. The caricature of the foolish potboy was on the ascent.
Outside of the examination room, Oxford once again saw his family: Susannah, flanked by her husband William and uncle Edward. This time, Oxford was able to embrace his sister. Her distress was palpable and infectious, and Oxford began to cry. The police separated the two forcibly. Oxford did however manage to recover his highwayman’s mien for one act of gallantry before leaving for Newgate, laughing and flourishing his hat to some girls in the building’s lobby. At a few minutes before six, Hughes and Pearce clapped a cap on Oxford’s head to disguise him, and put him in a coach for the journey up the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate Hill, up Old Bailey to the door of Newgate Prison, where he was taken into custody by Governor Cope.
With the shooter safely shut away in the decaying bowels of Newgate Prison, Oxford’s motive became the focus of discussion, and rumors connecting others with the crime began to fly. One of these held that the letters E R were stamped on Oxford’s pistols or his pistol case—suggesting Oxford was acting on the orders of Ernestus Rex, the King of Hanover. And while many (Baron Stockmar and Albert’s personal secretary George Anson among them) could not believe that Hanover was directly involved, many took seriously the possibility that “Young England” was real: a reactionary, ultra-Tory movement bent on destroying the British constitution (as Uncle Ernest had abolished the Hanoverian one) and bringing absolutist government to Britain. Daniel O’Connell, the defender of Irish Catholics, was not alone in holding this view, but was its strongest articulator, seeing in the threat of Victoria’s death a particular danger to her Irish subjects. Ten days after the shooting, in a letter addressed to the people of Ireland, O’Connell railed against the “underlings of that Orange-Tory faction which naturally detests the virtues of our beloved Queen.” If Victoria had died, O’Connell thundered,
I shudder even to think of the scenes that would have followed. I have no doubt that the Tory party in England would submit to be converted into another Hanover. They would sacrifice to the last remnant all constitutional liberty for the sake of enjoying irresponsible power. The gratification of trampling upon Ireland and the Irish would amply repay that worthless faction for the loss of any vain boast of ancient freedom.
O’Connell was convinced that Oxford had had assistance: how else, he argued, could this potboy obtain respectable clothing, serviceable pistols, and the training to use them? One persistent rumor in support of this theory held that a respectable, older man had stood near Oxford as the Queen’s carriage approached, and gave him the signal to fire.
Other rumors held Oxford to be a creature of the left, not the right. After all, in the years leading up to 1840, the greatest threat to the constitution through political violence came from the working-class Chartist movement, a movement that had only grown stronger with the weakened economy of the early 1840s, a movement whose agitation had burst into violence in July of the year before, when the national convention of Chartists in Birmingham devolved into riots, violence that culminated in an attempted insurrection in Newport in
November. Oxford’s Birmingham working-class origins helped fuel this theory. The Northern Star, the leading Chartist newspaper, attempted energetically to dispel the rumor that “the diabolical deed was a premeditated act of a band of Chartists”—floating the counter-rumor that Oxford had acted in collusion with the police.
Most concluded that Oxford was a pathetic madman, and that shooting at the young and innocent Queen offered on the face of it solid evidence for his insanity. Even then, however, he may not have acted alone: rumors persisted (helped by reports of police investigations) that the Young England documents were not written in his hand, and that he was the “tool” of a “designing villain”—one either taking political advantage of Oxford’s insanity, or perhaps someone equally deranged. Oxford’s own mother for a time believed that some malefactor must have goaded her son into this act.
Victoria however, simply could not accept the idea that Oxford was a part of conspiracy of any stripe, for in accepting such a belief, she would have to acknowledge a life-threatening opposition to her among a portion of the British public, and thus relinquish the trust she had in her people, and lose the absolute trust she was certain they had in her. Trust in her subjects was instinct to her, and that instinct ruled her actions after Oxford’s attempt, though she would be shaken, after every attempt to follow. Oxford was an aberration, apart from and antithetical to her public, and she refused to allow him to change her relationship with them. In shooting at her, Oxford forced the nation to contemplate what might have been. The Morning Chronicle stated that had Oxford succeeded, “We should have been at this moment the vassals of a now foreign potentate. We should have been breathing in the dominions of King ERNEST of Hanover! … The oppressor would soon have been abroad, and close on his track the insurgent whom the oppressor makes and infuriates.” Victoria, in response to Oxford’s threat, over the next few days provided the public with every opportunity to celebrate what was. After the worst had almost happened, she demonstrated to the nation that nothing had happened. She refused to hide or allow any visible sign of heightened security. She and Albert repeatedly exposed themselves to danger, to show that no such danger existed. In this way Victoria successfully (and virtually singlehandedly) converted an act of public discord into a new concord.
And the public responded enthusiastically, realizing that it had dodged a bullet just as its monarch had: if she labored to demonstrate her trust for them, they demonstrated their trust in her and their personal joy in her preservation. Throughout the country, organizations submitted addresses to the Queen protesting their loyalty and deploring Oxford’s act. Theatres altered their programs to honor the Queen. At Her Majesty’s Theatre, the night after the attempt, the entire troupe assembled for the opening curtain. “The effect was electrical; and the ‘God Save the Queen’ that broke forth was responded to by enthusiastic shouts of approbation from her Majesty’s lieges.” At Drury Lane Theatre, a lead singer, “to the warmest welcome and applause,” sang a revised version that reflected the recent event: “God Saved the Queen.” And at dinner at the Middle Temple on Thursday, when the usually “unostentatious” toast to the Queen was made, “one simultaneous burst of cheering arose, and then the members … gave a round of nine times nine in loyal testimony of their heartfelt pleasure for the escape of the Queen from the shot of the assassin.” A similar scene occurred at Gray’s Inn, the enthusiasm there helped along by a much larger allowance of wine than usual.
And Londoners, in huge numbers, gathered about the Palace over the next few days, both to see the scene of the crime and to have “oracular demonstration of the well-being of their Sovereign.” Constitution Hill was of course thronged, as all there exchanged the latest news and rumors, and all gathered around to hear the accounts of several witnesses (and, surely, several pretend witnesses) to Oxford’s attempt. The wall to the Palace gardens was a particular focus of attention, as everyone (including the Dukes of Cambridge and Wellington) squeezed in between the police officers, still busy seeking, in vain, balls from Oxford’s pistols.
On the day after the shooting, at about ten o’clock, much of the crowd shifted to the gates of the Palace, where a new show was beginning. The appropriate time for visiting the Palace had arrived, and a seemingly unceasing stream of carriages drove up throughout the morning and afternoon, filled with aristocracy and gentry who came to leave their cards, to sign the Palace register, and to inquire after the health of the Queen. (They were invariably and reassuringly told that she suffered from no ill effects whatsoever.) It was an unprecedented show of loyalty to the Queen by the social elite. Among these carriages were those of Victoria’s family, of members of the Queen’s government, of a number of foreign ministers and high church officials; throughout the day Victoria and Albert met personally with these.
By the afternoon, Victoria somehow made it clear to the masses outside that she and Albert would take their usual airing by carriage.
The Queen and the Prince were careful to give this ride the appearance of all their other rides: they would have the same number of attendants they had had the day before—two outriders ahead, two equerries behind—in the same low, very exposed carriage, and without any discernible increase in police presence (although most certainly the officers of A Division were on their guard). Soon after six, the outriders trotted through the gates and Victoria and Albert emerged into a deafening sea of humanity that “all but impeded the progress of the royal party.” The Queen bowed repeatedly, and Albert doffed his hat. A spontaneous procession of riders formed behind the royal carriage and followed in a parade up Constitution Hill and to Hyde Park. A reporter from the Times was waiting there, and described the scene:
The loyalty of the English was never more finely exhibited than it was during the afternoon of yesterday.… About 6 o’clock it was evident that the Royal party were approaching, and upon one of the Royal outriders appearing through the gateway leading from Constitution-hill to Piccadilly, the cheers within the park were plainly heard. In an instant after an open carriage and four was driven through the archway containing Her Majesty and her Royal Consort, followed by a numerous cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen. The cheers of a vast assemblage of British subjects instantly burst forth with an animation and sincerity we have seldom witnessed—every hat was waved, and every heart seemed gladly to beat on seeing their Sovereign apparently in good health and spirits still among them. From the highest to the lowest there seemed to be but one feeling, and we can hardly imagine a much greater punishment of the wretch whose attempt was so providentially frustrated than to have seen how joyous the multitude were that his effort was not successful. Both the Queen and Prince looked exceedingly well. They drove twice round the Park—on the first occasion being loudly cheered all the way round, and on the second having every hat raised to them. The scene was one of deep and affecting interest.
On the next day, Friday, the Queen and Albert were prevented from riding as both Houses of Parliament paraded from Westminster to the Palace to present a congratulatory address. Three to four thousand spectators gathered before the Palace gates, and a substantial detachment of police from A Division was needed to clear a space before the Marble Arch. The Members set out from Parliament in a parade of 190 carriages, the first of which reached the Palace gates before the last had left Westminster. The Commons arrived formally dressed: in court clothing, or, if they had them, full regimentals, red and blue Windsor uniforms, or uniforms of deputy lord-lieutenants; members of the bar wore wigs and gowns. The Speaker, who led the procession, wore the state robes. “Never on any previous occasion in our recollection,” stated the Times, “has such a brilliant array of the Commons of England attended the presentation of an address to the throne.” The Lords—in their various formal uniforms—followed behind the Commons, in order of ascending hierarchy: barons first, then bishops, earls, marquises, dukes—and finally Victoria’s uncles Cambridge and Sussex, and the Lord Chancellor in his state carriage. It was a formal display of Parliamentary unanimi
ty and a complete repudiation of the partisanship the Queen had herself shown months before in wishing to exclude the Tories from her wedding. The crowd outside the Palace, on the other hand, displayed a strong sense of party spirit, showing its hostility to the beleaguered Whig government: Lord Melbourne, on leaving the Palace, was hissed “loud and deep,” while the Duke of Wellington was cheered, and Robert Peel’s carriage was followed and “cheered until out of sight.” That the crowds could hiss the Queen’s ministry while cheering the monarch reveals a sea change in attitude toward the Queen: she was no longer “Mrs. Melbourne,” a Whig Queen: she had turned away from the partisanship she, and her uncles and grandfather before her, had always exhibited. Victoria was anticipating Albert’s ideal of a neutral monarchy—before Albert had had a chance to promote it.
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