im,
and when he went by said to somebody near him, 'Damn the fellow!
what does he come here for?'--dignified.

There was an odd circumstance the day of the drawing-room. The
Duke of Cumberland, as Gold Stick, gave orders at the Horse
Guards that no carriages should be admitted into the Park, and
Peel and the Duke of Wellington, when they presented themselves
on their way to Court, were refused admission. The officer on
guard came to the Duke's carriage and said that such were his
orders, but that he was sure they were not meant to extend to his
Grace, and if he would authorise him he would order the gates to
be opened. The Duke said 'By no means,' and then desired his
carriage to go round the other way. Many people thought that this
was a piece of impertinence of the Duke of Cumberland's, but the
Duke says that the whole thing was a mistake. Be this as it may,
the Duke of Cumberland and the Duke of Wellington do not speak,
and whenever they meet, which often happens in society, the
former moves off.

Yesterday morning Batchelor called on me, and sat with me for an
hour, telling me all sorts of details concerning the interior of
Windsor and St. James's. The King is well in health, except that
since last September he has been afflicted with a complaint in
his bladder, which both annoys and alarms him very much. There is
no appearance of stone or gravel, but violent irritation, which
is only subdued by laudanum, and always returns when the effect
of the opiate is gone off. The laudanum, too, disagrees much with
his general health. He is attended by Sir Henry Holland, Brodie,
and O'Reilly. Sir A. Cooper, who did attend him, is not now
consulted, in consequence (Batchelor thinks) of some petty
intrigue in some quarter. This O'Reilly, who has gradually
insinuated himself into the King's confidence, and by constantly
attending him at Windsor, and bringing him all the gossip and
tittle-tattle of the neighbourhood (being on the alert to pick up
and retail all he can for the King's amusement), has made himself
necessary, and is not now to be shaken off, to the great
annoyance of Knighton, who cannot bear him, as well as of all the
other people about the King, who hate him for his meddling,
mischievous character, The King's _valets de chambre_ sit up
alternately, and as he sleeps very ill he rings his bell every
half-hour. He talks of everybody and everything before his valets
with great freedom, except of politics, on which