The Letter-Bag of Lady Elizabeth Spencer-Stanhope, vol 1 | Page 7

in their manners whereby to
enhance that fictitious value in the eyes of those who did not dare to
emulate such foibles, was the end and aim of their existence. Yet it is
doubtful whether posterity remembers them less faithfully. Side by side
with the great names of their century there has come down to us the
record of these apparently impudent pretenders to fame, and it is
questionable whether a Nash, a Brummell, or a D'Orsay are less
familiar to the present generation than those whose claim to the
recognition of posterity was not so ephemeral.
Thus, while the circle of acquaintance with which the lives of Stanhope
and his family at this date mingled serves to throw into sharper relief
his own divergence of character from that of many of his
contemporaries-- those men who to great abilities, and sometimes to
great achievement, joined the pettiness of a fop and the follies of a
mountebank--still more did the typical man-about-town, with his
whims and his foibles, his shallow aims and his lost opportunities,
compare strangely with the larger souls of his generation. For the
moment was one which called forth the greatness or the littleness of
those who met it, and which heightened that contrast of contemporary
lives.

With the coming of the nineteenth century the political outlook for
England had waxed grave. The air was full of wars and rumours of
wars. Napoleon, the mighty scourge of the civilised world, was minded
to accomplish the downfall of the one Power which still defied his
strength. "The channel is but a ditch," he boasted, "and anyone can
cross it who has but the courage to try." Boats were in readiness at
Boulogne and at most of the French ports, fitted up for the attempt,
while the Conqueror of Europe dallied only for the psychological
moment to put his project into execution. With bated breath Europe
awaited the possible demolition of the sole barrier which yet lay
between the Tyrant and universal monarchy, while upon the other side
of the "ditch" the little Island expected his arrival in a condition of
prolonged tension and stubborn courage. At any moment her blue
waters and green fields might be dyed with blood. At any moment a
swarm of foreign invaders might trample her pride in the dust, and
crush her as other nations had been effectually crushed. But she meant
to sell her liberty dear. Out of a population averaging 9,000,000 souls
there were 120,000 regular troops, 347,000 volunteers, and 78,000
militia; and still Napoleon paused.
Upon the threatened throne still sat good Farmer George and his prim
German consort, models of dull domesticity, of narrow convictions, of
punctilious etiquette--the epitome of respectable and respected
mediocrity, save when, with a profound irony, the recurring blast of
insanity transformed the personality of the stolid monarch, and
shattered the complacency of the smug little Court. Within its shelter
hovered the bevy of amiable Princesses, whose minutest word and
glance yet lives for us in the searchlight of Fanny Burney's adoring
scrutiny. Afar, the sons pursued their wild careers. The Prince of Wales,
the mirror of fashion, diced and drank, coquetted with politics and
kingship, and--a very travesty of chivalry--betrayed his friend, broke
the heart of the woman who loved him, deserted the woman who had
wedded him, and tortured with petty jealousy the sensitive soul of the
child who might rule after him.
In secret silence Mrs Fitzherbert endured the calumny of the world, and
ate out her heart in faith to the faithless. With flippant and undignified

frivolity the Princess of Wales strove to support an anomalous position
and find balm to her wounded pride and weak brain; while the
passionate, all-human child-princess, Charlotte, awakening with pitiful
precocity to the realities of an existence which was to deal with her but
harshly, pitted her stormy soul against a destiny which decreed that
before her the sweets of life were eternally to be flaunted, to be
eternally withheld.
* * * * *
But with the dawning of 1805 the crisis of England's fate approached
consummation. Napoleon's plans were known to be completed. Pitt's
Continental Allies were secretly arming. The sea-dogs who guarded the
safety of our shores--Nelson, Collingwood, Cornwallis, Calder--were
on the alert. Yet while England's very existence as a Nation hung in the
balance, in the gay world of London those who represented the ton
danced and flirted, attended routs and assemblies, complaining fretfully
of the unwonted dullness of the town, or in their drawing-rooms
discussed the topics of the hour--the acting of the wonder-child Roscius;
the lamentable scandal relating to Lord Melville; or, ever and
again--with a tremor--the possibilities of invasion.

THE LETTER-BAG OF LADY ELIZABETH
SPENCER-STANHOPE
CHAPTER I
1805-1806
LETTERS RELATING TO THE WORLD OF TON
Mrs Spencer-Stanhope to John