he ceremonial arrangements
lay bungled their business badly, causing fierce heartburnings by
confusions in precedence, and displaying a lamentable ignorance of the
names and the whereabouts of many wearers of stately and ancient
titles. When the King expressed his annoyance at some of the blunders,
Lord Effingham, the Earl Marshal, offered, for amazing apology, the
assurance that the next coronation would be conducted with perfect
order, an unfortunate speech, which had, however, the effect of
affording the King infinite entertainment. The one tragic touch in the
whole day's work may be legend, but it is legend that might be and that
should be truth. When Dymoke, the King's Champion, rode, in accordance
with the antique usage, along Westminster Hall, and flung his glove
down in challenge to any one who dared contest his master's right to
the throne of England, it is said that some one darted out from the
crowd, picked up the glove, slipped back into the press, and
disappeared, without being stopped or discovered. According to one
version of the incident, it was a woman who did the deed; according to
another it was Charles Edward himself, the Young Pretender--now no
longer so very young--who made this last protest on behalf of his lost
fortunes and his fallen House. It is possible, it is even probable,
that Charles Edward was in London then and thereafter, and it seems
certain that if he was in London King George knew of it and ignored it
in a chivalrous and kingly way. The Young Pretender could do no harm
now. Stuart hopes had burned high for a moment, fifteen years earlier,
when a handsome young {14} Prince carried his invading flag halfway
through England, and a King who was neither handsome nor young was
ready to take ship from Tower Stairs if worse came of it. But those
hopes were quenched now, down in the dust, extinguished forever. No
harm could come to the House of Hanover, no harm could come to the King
of England, if at Lady Primrose's house in St. James's Square a party
should be interrupted by the entrance of an unexpected guest, of a man
prematurely aged by dissipation and disappointment, a melancholy ruin
of what had once been fair and noble, and in whom his amazed and
reverent hostess recognized the last of the fated Stuarts. There were
spies among those who still professed adherence to Charles Edward and
allegiance to his line, spies bearing names honorable in Scottish
history, who were always re