Society from the time of the Revolution had gradually drifted into an independent existence, and was no longer dominated by the influence of the Court. The hatred entertained by Queen Mary, the Consort of William III., towards the supporters of her father was probably responsible for this in a great measure. The Jacobites in their turn entered into intrigue. As Queen Anne’s reign drew to a close, often beneath those old trees in Hyde Park, meetings were arranged under the very eyes of the Whigs. Signs and tokens communicated place and time, surrounding the conspirators still with that touch of romance which always clung to the fortunes of the Stuarts.

Meanwhile another vast social change had been creeping over London and London life.

The Great Fire had proved a dominating factor in the growth and development of Society in the capital. The poor, starving, homeless wretches at Islington and Moorfields, in 1666, could see nothing in the disaster but calamity and despair. The wealthy merchant bemoaned his losses. Those who had lost nothing and suffered nothing regarded the flames as a disinfectant from the Plague, an unrivalled opportunity for improving streets and houses. Despondency soon gave place to the excitement and interests of rebuilding the town. Many of the wealthy merchants and aristocratic residents of the City, finding themselves homeless, erected houses in Holborn and thereabouts, a neighbourhood which before that time had been occupied by mansions of great noblemen, the laws of Elizabeth and James I. against building between Temple Bar and Whitehall having kept the district fairly clear.

This exodus from the City had the same effect in those days that the modern red brick villa has on the present generation. The aristocracy fled before it and moved westwards. Lord Burlington went to Sir John Denham’s house, enlarged it, and named it Burlington House; Lord Berkeley built Berkeley House, which was burnt down later, on the site where Devonshire House now stands. Many others of the nobility followed suit. Added to this, the introduction of the coach brought country gentry so much more frequently to town that they also needed houses of their own, and joined the westward “trek.”

The student of social development finds a yet deeper change in the migration. Class distinction became strongly marked. It was no longer considered dignified to belong to the City of London, and trade devolved on the middle class, who henceforth held positions that had been filled by the younger branches of the nobility. Thus the Society of the City of Westminster looked down on the Society of the City of London, and nowhere was this more emphasised than in Hyde Park, which the aristocracy regarded as their own. It was only on Sundays that the City of London hied thither, and on these occasions My Lady turned up her nose and My Lord sniffed high in the air, while the Londoners stared and remarked on the fine inhabitants of the western city.

Under the Georges this feeling did not abate; in fact, during the week the high-born aristocracy regarded Hyde Park as so exclusively their happy playground, that in the early Georgian days ladies and gentlemen spoke without introductions. Everybody knew who everybody else was. The chief course of study the Society lady pursued was that of heraldry and pedigree. It must be borne in mind that the aristocracy were not so numerous as in these times. At the beginning of the eighteenth century the whole population of London was but half a million.

Livery servants were allowed to enter Hyde Park, although still excluded from St. James’s and Kensington Gardens, and when ladies walked in the Park they were attended by a flunkey carrying a long staff as his rod of office, and often by a little black slave-boy.

Manners and morals were sadly missing in this fashionable centre. The licentiousness established under Charles II. had spread and thrived throughout the realm, and George I. and his son publicly encouraged it. In fact, when the former attended the theatre he was carried in his sedan-chair with a guard before and behind, and his two mistresses—popularly known as the “Elephant” and the “Maypole,” from their respective breadth and length,—brought up the rear, borne by men in the Royal livery.

It is hard for the Londoner of 1908 to realise that two hundred years ago neither children, nor the “man in the street,” nor the loafer, nor the orator, were permitted to enter Hyde Park. In fact, the only part the poor labouring folk ever knew of it was its high brick wall.

When the Jacobite risings were fermenting, a military camp was formed in Hyde Park. The newspapers contain grand accounts of the rejoicings among the troops, and the feast given to the men by the Duke of Montague, who was in command, in honour of the Prince of Wales’s birthday.

Joseph Addison, writing to a friend in June 1715, says:

An incident that happened during their stay well shows the temper of the times. May 29th came round, and two soldiers picked a sprig of oak from the old trees and stuck it in their caps,—a mere boyish fancy, no doubt, but one that savoured strongly of Jacobitism, for it called to mind Charles I., as well as the birthday and return of Charles II. So these unfortunate youths were drummed out of the army, and flogged almost to death.

May Fair, which had been abolished in 1708, was revived for the amusement of the soldiers. This fair first originated in the May-Day games that were held in Brookfields, on the banks of the Tyburn before it crossed Piccadilly. The whole thing had become so disorderly, however, that it was stopped by Queen Anne, probably in consideration for the owners of new houses near the fair ground. After its revival the fair was held annually until 1760. While the camp thus had brought disorder to Mayfair, it was a safeguard to Kensington, for it temporarily dispersed the bands of highwaymen who infested that part.

There are many records extant describing the immediate surroundings of Hyde Park at this time, those in the Muniment Room at Westminster Abbey being of special interest. Among them is a plan of the area of Knightsbridge abutting on Hyde Park Corner in 1719. The West-bourne flowed out where the Albert Gate now stands. On, or close to, the site of the French Embassy was the Lazar Hospital and some stocks, and nearer Hyde Park Corner, the Knightsbridge Chapel. On the opposite side of the road stood the “Roase Inn,” to which belonged a tract of land stretching east, and containing both a smithy and sheep-pens belonging to the inn. All this sounds strange, and yet there are several old farmhouses standing right in the heart of London to-day. The “Roase” was in existence until 1860, and was then known as “The Rose and Crown.” What a different scene was this ordinary drinking house from that on the other side of the brick wall.

The 18th century were the days of the beaux, who appeared in Hyde Park in their chairs to lounge, chaff the orange-girls and flower-sellers, and exchange comments with the fair occupants of the coaches and calèches.

In the Ring these chariots now acquired a splendour which represented great wealth. A curious incident had happened in the desire of Beau Fielding to figure as a descendant of the House of Hapsburg, from which he claimed descent. Appearing in a chariot of unparalleled gorgeousness, with the Hapsburg arms upon it, he excited the ire of Lord Denbigh, who had the undisputed right to the arms. This nobleman engaged a house-painter to await Fielding’s arrival in the Ring, and at the first opportunity this individual, taking the brush from a huge can of yellow paint which he carried, proceeded to cover the splendid coach of the aspirant with daubs, entirely obliterating the offending arms. Beau Fielding was left with the choice of retiring amidst the laughter the event created, or of reviving the joke each time he drove round the favoured circle.

We talk of our gay throng in Hyde Park to-day, as one of the most brilliant gatherings of beauty and fashion in the world. But what must the gorgeousness have been of those scenes a century and a half ago, when men as well as women wore bright colours and rich materials, and added airs and graces to their frills and laces?

Retiring to bed in the early hours of the morning, the dandy of the early Georges lay till noon, and then donned a shirt much befrilled, belaced, and embroidered, for the benefit of any chance visitor who might call. His periwig lay in full display somewhere in the room, curled, powdered, and scented according to the latest fashion. About midday he rose and performed his toilet, donning his gorgeous silken hose and coloured shoes glorified with silver buckles, his velvet breeches, embroidered waistcoat, and silken coat, then his periwig; and, posing before his mirror, he arranged his gay cravat, stuck on his patches, painted his face if necessary, scented his lace handkerchief—the fashionable lace was Valenciennes—attached his dangling sword, and took his meal. After this, his mirror was again resorted to for adjusting his hat in exactly the proper manner, his snuff-box was the finishing touch, and his chairmen then bore to the Park, or some other pleasure resort, this gentleman of fortune whose personal attire alone must have represented hundreds of pounds.

Any one who had been in the army always wore his scarlet uniform, while the private individual bedecked himself with coats of silks and brocades, velvets and satins, embroidered with gold. These garments the habitués of Hyde Park carried with such graceful bearing that a City of London man could be discerned at once from the gaucheries he performed. Few of the merchants wore silken coats, for so late as this the sumptuary laws of Elizabeth could be traced in the various grades and trades of the people. Even in 1908 have we not the blue smock of the butcher and our ’Varsity gowns surviving voluntarily as a relic of these old laws?

The daily appearance in the Park meant much more to the early eighteenth-century ladies than it does to Society dames of the present day. They saw little of their husbands, and were—so far as their home life went—often alone. They read practically nothing; in fact, their intellects were starved. Dress was their one and only idea, and engrossed much of the day, until they went to the Park in their grand equipages drawn by four horses, running footmen preceding, others following.

The ignorance of the age was deplorable. The gatherings of the wits and literary men, so famous under Anne, had been dispersed by the strong political force of Sir Robert Walpole. Addison, Swift, and Pope alone remained in prominence.

The Duchesses of Marlborough and Buckingham still vied with each other as to who should be the most important factor in Society. The Duchess of Shrewsbury; Miss Lepell, who afterwards married Lord Hervey; Mary Bellenden, the lady who refused the attentions of the Prince of Wales and married Colonel Campbell; Miss Howe, Lord Hervey, Sir Robert Walpole, and Lord Chesterfield, were all familiar figures in the haunts of Hyde Park. Added to these was Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose sprightly conversation was in great request in those days.

Her tongue and pen had a somewhat sharp edge. She waged war on the ignorance of the day, and her Letters have come down to us full of the culture and cleverness for which she was distinguished. Writing to the Countess of Mar in 1723, she said:

The explanation of the “dying adventure” is too good to pass over.

Mrs. Lowther was a sister of Lord Lonsdale, unmarried, and of high repute. All middle-aged unmarried women were addressed as “Mrs.” in those days, just as wives of our own time look upon that title as their prerogative. She happened to be sitting at breakfast with a friend when a new footman—an awkward country lad—announced “there was one as begged to see her.”

“What is his name?” she inquired.

“Don’t know,” was the reply.

“What sort of a person is he—a gentleman?”

“Can’t say rightly.”

“Go and ask him his business.”

The footman disappeared and returned with a broad grin on his face:

“Why, Madam, he says as how—he says he is——”

“Well, what does he say, fool?”

“He says he is one as dies for your Ladyship.”

“Dies for me!” exclaimed the lady, annoyed beyond measure at the smile on the faces of her friend and the footman. “Was there ever such a piece of insolence? Turn him out of my house this minute. And, hark ye, shut the door in his face!”

The yokel obeyed, but setting about the matter with more force than the visitor would put up with, there was a scuffle, the neighbourhood was roused, the constable or watchman arrived, and the affair became serious. Finally, when matters were arranged by the arm of the law, and the caller could calmly explain himself, he proved to be one of Mrs. Lowther’s tradesmen, a dyer whom she often employed to freshen up her gowns.

One can quite imagine the glee with which the ladies related the story to their friends when they saw the pink gown appearing in the distance every evening.

Lady Mary seems to have bestowed much criticism on her contemporaries, both male and female. Pope—who, by the way, spent many of his young days near Hyde Park—was to her the “little wasp of Twickenham,” and in another letter of hers we find the following, in which runs a rich vein of sarcasm:

These two instances are, perhaps, typical of the chatter that was rife in those daily drives and walks in Hyde Park when George II. came to the throne. Men enjoyed the gossip, as they do now. Would that we had a bioscope that would reproduce those picturesque groups lounging under the trees: Lord Hervey with his debonair appearance, the worldly Lord Chesterfield, and the numerous others who figure in the witty correspondences which became an art in the eighteenth century. Hyde Park supplied the subjects for many a long letter from Horace Walpole, George Selwyn, and their friends, written in such racy style that one can almost hear the chuckle with which a bit of “talk about town” was indited, or the approving laugh of the recipient as he read.

Under George II. change was busy. The spirit of gardening was abroad. People were tired of clipped hedges, trimmed shrubs, and the formality of the Dutch style. Queen Caroline beautified Kensington Gardens, and in doing so robbed Hyde Park of three hundred acres to give her greater scope. “Natural” gardening was the vogue, and this addition leant itself to her scheme.

The greatest change of all, for which habitués of the Park remain indebted to Queen Caroline, Consort of George II., was the Serpentine. It is still the finest sheet of water in any of the London parks, and has entirely altered the aspect from the large area over which it is visible.

Why “Serpentine”?

Perhaps five persons out of six, if asked to give the reason why this particular name was applied to the newly fashioned lake, would not be able to guess correctly. It was so called because of its shape. In fact, the bend is very small, barely noticeable, yet in its day it marked a revolt from the existing order of things. Hitherto no one in laying out ornamental water in a landscape garden had dared to depart from the perfectly straight line or square form which had been brought over from Holland, and was considered the acme of good taste. Queen Caroline was wise enough to break away from these absurd limitations, and the example she was among the first to set has since been followed with the happiest results. But so established was the idea of a square or oblong lake from which she departed, that map-makers (as will be seen in the accompanying map) represented the stretch of water in a quadrilateral form for some years.

Some ten or a dozen separate pools and ponds existed in Hyde Park before the work was undertaken. They were fed by the West-bourne, which trickled from one to another, and, leaving the grounds at their southern boundary, finally found a way into the river Thames. In the forest days these were the haunt of the heron, which is especially mentioned by Henry VIII. among the game to be strictly preserved. About these pools and marshes, as we know, bluff King Hal and his daughter Elizabeth flew their hawks. Later the brook itself became greatly fouled, and the ponds, which were almost stagnant, an offence rather than an addition to the amenities of the Park.

Queen Caroline had the advice and assistance of Charles Withers, then Surveyor-General of Woods and Forests, in constructing the Serpentine. George II., believing that all the cost was being borne out of the Queen’s privy purse, generously abstained from interference in her schemes. It was not until after her death that he discovered that £20,000 of his own money had been expended in this and other improvements in the Park and gardens. The West-bourne was first drained by an embankment being thrown across it. The soil excavated for the foundation of the single great lake was then dumped down to raise the level of the ground at the south end of Kensington Gardens. On the summit of the little hill so formed was placed a small temple, which has since disappeared.

A couple of hundred men were employed on the work, which was begun in 1730. The “Old Lodge” was destroyed in order to form the new ornamental water, and the Ring, which had been the vogue for upwards of a century, went with it. The latter had ceased to be a gay and fashionable resort when the camp afforded a counter-attraction, and never recovered its popularity. Moreover, Newmarket had become the great racing centre, and the Ring thus passed out of existence ingloriously. The cost of the Serpentine is said to have been only £6000. Some years before, the Chelsea Waterworks had been granted the rights of supplying the new western suburbs with water from Hyde Park and St. James’s Park; but they now accepted compensation of £2500, and handed over their rights in Hyde Park for the new design. The Serpentine continued to derive its waters from the West-bourne until the stream became too polluted by the increase of population on its banks, when it was turned underground.

Major Hussey, of His Majesty’s Board of Works, kindly tells me that the present arrangements are as follows:

That Queen Caroline made such extensive improvements in the Park “for the good of Londoners generally,” was much doubted at the time. Indeed, there was some talk of a Royal Palace being erected there, and of further encroachments. Nevertheless, Queen Caroline’s work has proved a lasting benefit to the chief pleasure ground of the Metropolis.

The King was busy meanwhile with a new road through the Park to Kensington. The Princess Amelia was devoted to horses and riding, and frequently appeared in Hyde Park. George II.’s Road appears to have been assigned for carriages simply passing through the Park, while the older way of William III., known as “The King’s Old Road,” was allotted to the dallying of pleasure-seekers, and the term “Rotten Row” came to be applied to it by the succeeding generation. This is said to be a corruption of “Route du Roi,” but other writers derive it from “rotteran,” to muster. The new road was the cause of many disasters, coaches frequently sticking in the mud and overturning. The King’s daughters were driving into London on pleasure bent one evening, when a chaise capsized and the horse attached fell under the feet of the leaders in the royal coach-and-four. The young princesses were not hurt, but were so frightened that they returned home, and were bled, according to the custom of that time.

Riding became a passion. Favourite steeds were shown off in Hyde Park, wagers were made, and just as we proclaim that our Charron, our Panhard, our Mercedes, or our Daimler did such and such a distance in so many hours without a check, so in the early half of the eighteenth century the long journey accomplished at top speed by some favourite horse was the talk of the day. It is said that the Duchess of Bedford appeared in the Row in a particularly smart riding-habit of dark blue cloth with white facings, which George II. admired so much that he took the idea for his new naval uniforms in 1748, and abolished the scarlet dress hitherto worn by ships’ officers.

Hyde Park was more than ever the playground of the higher classes. Cricket matches, first introduced in the reign of William III., were the fashion; teams were formed from the ranks of the nobility, and graced by royalty, who batted merrily across the sward on summer days. Though cricket is no longer permitted in Hyde Park, it is still played in its much more beautiful rival, Regent’s Park. Skating on the Serpentine, too, was established on the first occasion that Jack Frost cast his silent grip over the new ornamental water.

Queen Caroline instituted a Drawing-Room every Sunday at Kensington Palace, and thither beauty and birth flocked in costly array, and then to the Park. She was a clever diplomat, possessing great tact and a far better idea of ruling than her husband. Under her sway literature was encouraged, though Society remained as licentious as ever.

Meantime Hyde Park was still the goal of that western migration. Grosvenor Gate had been erected in the reign of George I. at the expense of the inhabitants of the new mansions. Viscount Lanesborough had treked as far as Hyde Park Corner, and built what his friends called “his country house.” In fact, he himself had the following words inscribed on its front:

When, in 1733, a “difference of doctors” arose at Westminster Hospital, the dissenting physicians purchased Lanesborough House, and founded St. George’s Hospital.

Lord Chesterfield, writing to Mr. Dayrolles in 1748, evidently thought little of the new quarter. “As my new house is situated among a parcel of thieves and murderers, I shall have occasion for a house-dog,” is the best he can say. Chesterfield House was within a stone’s-throw of Hill Street, where the famous Mrs. Montagu resided for a time. It was not the spick-and-span locality of the present day, but was unpaved and ill-kept, the road being in a fearful condition, and Mrs. Montagu, the originator of the “blue stocking” assemblies, gives a wonderful description of it in her Lady of the Last Century.

The leaders of Society living near by found it easier to come frequently into Hyde Park; it was so much a matter of routine that even those voluminous letters of the period speak as if that part of the day’s amusement was as necessary as their dinner. Instead of driving some distance to the Park, they were now quite close; while their shopping was a much more serious affair, for until the end of the century the best shops were still in Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, and St. Paul’s Churchyard. This may account for the fashionable ladies visiting Newgate so often, for they passed it on their shopping expeditions, and probably in the absence of organised charity they felt that they were doing a kindness in taking gifts to the condemned criminals.

Four years later, the Duke of Rutland moved to a country residence he had built on the site of the present Rutland Gate, known in those days as “Well-fields,” and for which he paid a rental of thirty pounds per annum—the area being seven acres. To him was granted the privilege of a private gate into Hyde Park, and this was the origin of the small gate still in existence on that spot.

Near at hand stood Kingston House, erected by the beautiful Miss Chudleigh and the Duke of Kingston, and there it was that the lady gave those wonderful masquerades and fêtes described by Horace Walpole, to celebrate the royal birthdays, at which the fireworks were so extensive that stands were put up in Hyde Park for onlookers anxious to witness the display.

The fact of seven hundred and thirty coaches passing Hyde Park Corner in three days is chronicled by Horace Walpole as a most wonderful thing. It is interesting to note in the Report of the recent Royal Commission on London traffic, that during a certain day between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., 29,320 vehicles passed the Marble Arch.

These numbers are much greater now—and the motors run into several thousands. Over 3000 vehicles pass the Marble Arch during a busy hour. More traffic passes the scene of old Tyburne in twenty-four hours than any other spot in London, and yet the police organisation is so perfect there is rarely a mishap.

Of the most famous highwaymen of former times succeeding chapters will tell. The great rendezvous of the footpads who preyed on the passers-by was at the “Halfway House” in Knightsbridge, and numerous attacks on people in Hyde Park were recorded.

Horace Walpole and his relations seem to have been favourite prey for the highwaymen. Elsewhere a story of a tragic encounter is given, but there is a comic incident as well.

One night, about thirty years later than the period of which I am writing, he was driving with a lady to Twickenham, to some evening entertainment, when the coach was held up by a highwayman. With the greatest calmness and promptitude the lady at once handed the errant of the road her purse, bulging with money. The man seized it and rode off, well pleased with the spoil. But the lady was more happy still, for she had come provided for emergencies. The purse only contained counterfeit coin!

Towards the end of George II.’s reign two figures appeared in Hyde Park that startled Society—two fortuneless Irish girls, the daughters of an Irish squire, and nieces of Lord Mayo. Horace Walpole describes them as “the two handsomest women alive.” “Those goddesses the Gunnings” was Mrs. Montagu’s term for them.

Such was their poverty, that when they were presented at Dublin Castle, Mrs. Peg Woffington, the actress, lent them dresses in which to appear. They made their début at the English Court in 1751, and from that time crowds used to come daily to the Park to have a sight of them. They were mobbed wherever they went; in fact, at the Drawing-Room when the younger one, Elizabeth, was presented on her marriage with the Duke of Hamilton, the ladies clambered on to chairs and tables to see her. Walpole writes:

They were fêted and feasted by everybody, and their own heads evidently became turned as well as other people’s. It was at Chesterfield House that the younger sister met the Duke of Hamilton, who fell in love at first sight, but the story of their romantic marriage with the curtain ring is well known. The elder one married Lord Coventry about a fortnight later. Both romances were a godsend to the gossiping habitués of Hyde Park, who, however, were plenteously supplied with dainty morsels such as they loved, in the form of secret marriages. It was the heyday of the Keith marriages at Mayfair Chapel, and at the Fleet. Tit-bits from the gaming-tables were told and passed from one another, until Mrs. Montagu, disgusted with the scandal in these meetings and the gambling that went on at parties, made a new departure in Society.

She was resolved to institute réunions where conversion and literature should entertain, and cards and gambling should never be seen. The result was that quite a new intellectual element appeared in Society. She brought such minds into contact as Mrs. Vesey, Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Barbauld, Hannah More, Lucy Aikin, Fanny Burney, Jane Austen, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, Johnson, Pulteney, Earl of Bath, the first Lord Lyttelton, Horace Walpole, Dr. Burney, Garrick, and Reynolds, and the force of such gatherings was bound to influence both men and women.

In Jane Austen and Her Times (G. E. Mitton), a delightful volume recently published, there is an interesting picture of the habits of the day:

It is amusing to find that the struggles of a century and a half ago are still unsolved to-day, half the pleasure of visiting being knocked on the head by the uncertainty of the rightful proportion of the tips to follow. Jane Austen herself alludes to her difficulties:

In a letter to the Times in 1795, the vexed subject of tips is discussed:

Jane Austen herself came late enough for the old days of rigid severity towards children to be past. She says: “No longer were mere babies taken to see executions and whipped on their return to enforce the example they had beheld.”

Londoners still flocked to the west on Sundays in their best attire, and on one occasion, in 1759, Lady Coventry was mobbed in Hyde Park. The King, hearing of it, ordered that a guard of twelve sergeants should disperse in the Park on the following Sunday, and that a reinforcement of a sergeant and twelve men should be ready in case of need. This Lady Coventry knew, of course, and she went to the Park the following Sunday, immediately pretended to be frightened, summoned the guard, and walked about for some time with the twelve sergeants in front of her, her husband and Lord Pembroke beside her, and the sergeant and twelve men behind her.

“It is at present the talk of the whole town,” says the Hon. J. West in a letter to a friend.

It was this same Lady Coventry who, when conversing with George II., one day remarked: “The only sight I am eager to see is a coronation.”

The old King laughed heartily, and repeated it as a good story. She did not realise her wish, because she died a few days before His Majesty.

That gay stream of fashion on the south side was a wondrous sight, and yet Hyde Park had a vast extent of quiet bosky acres, where old ladies took their favourite lap-dogs for a run, as Mrs. Thrale speaks of doing when she lived in Hanover Square. At Hyde Park Corner, where a woman named Allen had sold apples and other refreshments from a small portable stall, was erected an ugly little building by special permission of the King, who recognised in the woman’s husband a soldier who had fought under him at Dettingen—the last battle in which a King of England ever took part. This land was afterwards sold by Allen’s descendants to Apsley, Lord Bathurst, who built Apsley House, afterwards the home of the famous Duke of Wellington. George II. also rewarded a pilot who had saved his life on one of his journeys to Hanover by allowing him to “vend victuals” in Hyde Park—kindly deeds which soften many ugly lights in his character.

It was just after the death of this monarch that the Park played its part in the romance of his grandson, George III. The story of the love and admiration of the young King for the beautiful Lady Sarah Lennox (daughter of the Duke of Richmond) is well known. Lady Sarah loved Lord Newbattle, and he was probably the cause of her coolness to George III. When she was staying with her aunt at Holland House a meeting was arranged in Hyde Park between the lovers by Lord Newbattle’s sister, Lady George Lennox, and it was there decided that he should at once ask his father’s consent to the marriage. Lord Ancrum, however, would not give permission, and there the matter ended.

But when Cupid walks in high places, Intrigue is busy dogging his footsteps. And in this case Lord Bute in some way heard of the projected meeting in the Park, and not only informed the Royal suitor, but contrived for him to be a witness of it, and thus reconciled him to his marriage with Charlotte of Mecklenburg.

After his union with that lady, George III. bought Buckingham House from the Duke of Buckingham, and called it “The Queen’s House.” The mansion was a red brick building, and was pulled down in George IV.’s reign, when the present palace was erected. Queen Charlotte cleared the Court of immorality, but the Royal couple led too secluded a life to influence a wide circle. Society voted Court life insufferably dull and prosaic. When in London, it was the King’s habit to ride or drive daily in Hyde Park. He used a chariot and four when driving, but his favourite amusement was to trot off for an early morning ride free of ceremony.

Homely as the King appeared on these occasions, there was a still more homely figure to be seen in Hyde Park, and yet on all sides people tendered him homage more spontaneously and more whole-heartedly than to their monarch. This was William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, ambling along on his little Welsh pony. He loved the Park, and went there day by day, and he it was who first pleaded for the “open spaces” of London.

In the year of George III.’s accession, Society was entranced and horrified by the tragedy which brought Earl Ferrers to the scaffold. As this was largely a social event it may not be out of place to describe it here, apart from the story of those of meaner birth who ended their days at Tyburn. Earl Ferrers was a man of such violent and uncontrollable temper that his wife and children had left him, and the Courts had appointed a receiver for his property. The choice had fallen on an old servant of the family named Johnson, the land-steward, on the recommendation of Lord Ferrers himself, who doubtless expected to find in him a pliable tool.

The murder took place on a Sunday afternoon. Earl Ferrers sent for Johnson, who was an old man, to come to his room, and meantime had despatched the servants of the household on various duties so that none should be within earshot. After some minutes of quiet conversation he produced a paper, and demanded of Johnson that he should sign it. The steward refused.

Earl Ferrers walked to the door, which he locked, and going to a table took up a loaded pistol. He then ordered Johnson to kneel. The old man dropped on one knee. The earl insisted that he should fall on both knees. As soon as he had adopted this posture Earl Ferrers shot him through the body. He then loaded the pistol again, as if to fire a second shot, but suddenly turned from his purpose, and, unlocking the door, called a servant.

When assistance arrived Earl Ferrers was quite calm and collected. He had lifted his victim, who had fallen on the floor mortally wounded, into a chair, and was doing his utmost to stay the flow of blood. The earl directed that a surgeon should be hastily summoned, and meantime himself remained tending the dying man. He seems, in fact, to have done everything that was possible. Johnson survived for nine hours, and told the story.

Ferrers was brought up to London, “dressed as a jockey” driving in his own coach and six. Horace Walpole wrote: “Lord Ferrers is in the Tower; so you see the good-natured people of England will not want their favourite amusement, executions.” (See Illustration, page 1).

“Their favourite amusement, executions,” means much from a man like Horace Walpole. He was no newspaper-sensation writer, yet he deliberately noted the fact that the favourite amusement of London was to assist at a public execution. Thank Heaven we are less depraved to-day.

Lord Ferrers pleaded lunacy in his trial before the House of Lords, but was condemned, and then craved permission for his sentence to be carried out in the Tower. This was not granted; the only concession made being that he should be hanged by a silken rope. He dated his troubles from his marriage, and therefore dressed himself in his wedding clothes, “a white suit, richly embroidered in silver”—“as good an occasion,” he observed, “as that for which they were made.” He refused to go to Tyburn in the cart.

Walpole’s description, written two days after the execution, reveals the hold these scenes had on London Society.