orge III's
sister, a grim old princess, who took the British envoy aside, and told
him wicked old stories of wicked old dead people and times; who came to
England afterwards when her nephew was regent, and lived in a shabby
furnished lodging, old, and dingy, and deserted, and grotesque, but
somehow royal. And we go with him to the duke to demand the princess's
hand in form, and we hear the Brunswick guns fire their adieux of salute,
as H.R.H. the Princess of Wales departs in the frost and snow; and we
visit the domains of the Prince Bishop of Osnaburg--the Duke of York of our
early time; and we dodge about from the French revolutionists, whose
ragged legions are pouring over Holland and Germany, and gaily trampling
down the old world to the tune of _Ca ira_; and we take shipping at Slade,
and we land at Greenwich, where the princess's ladies and the prince's
ladies are in waiting to receive her royal highness.

[Illustration]

What a history follows! Arrived in London, the bridegroom hastened eagerly
to receive his bride. When she was first presented to him, Lord Malmesbury
says she very properly attempted to kneel. He raised her gracefully
enough, embraced her, and turning round to me, said,--

"Harris, I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy."

I said, "Sir, had you not better have a glass of water?"

Upon which, much out of humour, he said, with an oath, "No; I will go to
the queen."

What could be expected from a wedding which had such a beginning--from such
a bridegroom and such a bride? I am not going to carry you through the
scandal of that story, or follow the poor princess through all her
vagaries; her balls and her dances, her travels to Jerusalem and Naples,
her jigs, and her junketings, and her tears. As I read her trial in
history, I vote she is not guilty. I don't say it is an impartial verdict;
but as one reads her story the heart bleeds for the kindly, generous,
outraged creature. If wrong there be, let it lie at his door who wickedly
thrust her from it. Spite of her follies, the great, hearty people of
England loved, and protected, and pitied her. "God bless you! we will
bring your husband back to you," said a mechanic one day, as she told Lady
Charlotte Bury with tears streaming down her cheeks. They could not bring
that husband back; they could not cleanse that selfish heart. Was hers the
only one he had wounded? Steeped in selfishness, impotent for faithful
at