Diamond – mark of a monarch’s 60th anniversary
Jubilee – derived from the Latin verb iūbilō, “shout for joy”
The last Jubilee celebrated by a monarch other than Her Majesty was that of her grandfather, George V. This is fitting. She has always followed in her grandpa’s footsteps.
Our Lilibet
She perched on a little chair between the King and me, and the King gave her biscuits to eat and to feed his little dog with, the King chortling with little jokes with her–she just struggling with a few words, ‘Grandpa’ and ‘Granny’ and to everyone’s amusement had just achieved addressing the very grand-looking Countess of Airlie as ‘Airlie.’ After a game of bricks on the floor with the young equerry Lord Claud Hamilton, she was fetched by her nurse, and made a perfectly sweet little curtsey to the King and Queen and then to the company as she departed.
– an observer of the Princess Elizabeth of York as reprinted in King George V by Kenneth Rose (1983)
Winston Churchill noted at Balmoral, later that year:
There is no one here at all except the family, the household and Princess Elizabeth–aged 2. The latter is a character. She has an air of authority and reflectiveness astonishing in an infant.
Those were the thirties. Grim years of Depression and a war looming over a country exhausted and heartbroken after the last. George V had not been popular in the first years of his reign because he lacked the flash and warmth of his father, Edward VII. During the Great War he kept to a behind-the-scenes role, conscious of other monarchies falling all around him. He was also mindful of Britain’s rising republicanism and felt he must persuade his government to deny asylum to his own cousin, the Tsar of Russia.
He never aimed to be popular. When the wind blew the other way, he kept to his convictions that would never sacrificed for “good press.” He even rebuffed his son, the man who could not rule without the woman he loved, for prosing on about giving great press.
“I do things because they are my duty, not as propaganda.”
He was a Sailor King like William IV, another monarch doomed to follow a predecessor (George IV) given to indulge in self-acclaimed brilliance. He was frugal, modernizing his father’s Britannia for a second racing career even as the yachtsmen of England urged the king to have the 1892 boat replaced. He refused and kept the vessel throughout his reign.
In personal matters, he was even less like his popular father. Edward VII eschewed the bed of Alexandra, Europe’s loveliest princess, for that of another woman. George V remained devoted throughout his life to the redoubtable Queen Mary (who will someday receive the richly-deserved devotion of several posts on this blog):
“I can never sufficiently express my deep gratitude to you, darling May, for the way you have helped and stood by me in these difficult times. This is not sentimental rubish, but what I really feel.”
On the sixth of May in 1935, George V celebrated his Silver Jubilee, astonished at how many people were lining the streets. But none of this went to his head, as he indicated upon leaving St. Paul’s after the service of Thanksgiving. 
“The Queen and I are most grateful. Just one thing wrong with it–too many parsons getting in the way. I didn’t know there were so many damn parsons in England. It was worse than a levee.”
Duty renews us all, year after year. It binds us to the past so that we can live in the future. I suppose that is why the Lebowitz portrait of Her Majesty is so apposite of the Reign, funereal in its depiction of an order that is everlasting.
Long live the Queen.
When George V died, Britannia was towed into deep water south of the Isle of Wight and sunk.
The official website for Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee is here: http://www.thediamondjubilee.org/
Old Trout
Elizabeth Fox, Baroness Holland, was the daughter of a Jamaican planter. Married off to Lord Webster, a man twenty years her senior, she gave birth to three children before falling in love with another man, bearing him a child out-of-wedlock. Not two days divorced, she married her lover Lord Holland.
The ton could not forget her scandalous past and so declined to receive her. No matter, Lord and Lady Holland did their own receiving, hosting the most influential men of the day at Holland House. The few women who came were fellow Whigs, the Duchess of Devonshire and that fashionable marchioness from Berkeley Square, Lady Lansdowne.
Baroness Holland was the complete opposite of her husband. She was gruff where he was affable, imperious when he would give way. Long, boring discourse was not tolerated at her table–her ladyship was known to dispatch her footman to admonish the offending guest.
Thomas Moore, which this blog christened Regency Poet of Wine and Love, once said, “poets inclined to a plethora of vanity would find a dose of Lady Holland now and then very good for their complaint.”
“I’m sorry you are going to publish a poem,” she said to Lord Portchester. “Can’t you suppress it?”
And to the great English poet, Samuel Rogers, she advised, ”You’re poetry is bad enough, so pray be sparing about your prose.”
Lady Holland reminds me of the Gosford Park character Constance, Countess of Trentham. There is something sinfully joyous about her acidic observations. This one she offers to the American film and radio star Ivor Novello:
LadyTrentham: It must be hard to know when it’s time to throw in the towel… What a pity about that last one of yours… what was it called? “The Dodger”? Novello: The Lodger. LadyTrentham: The Lodger. It must be so disappointing when something just flops like that.
Lady Holland lived to the age of seventy-four. When tentatively shown Byron’s memoirs, which were none too complimentary of his hostess at Holland House, she shrugged.
“Such things give me no uneasiness; I know perfectly my station in the world, and I know all that can be said of me. As long as the few friends I am really sure of speak kindly of me, all that the rest of the world can say is a matter of complete indifference to me.”
Its turrets and gables lacked the elegance of London’s newer, Palladian town homes. Its “relics and curios” were dusty books and historic English papers. Its location was staid Kensington, not fashionable Mayfair. Its mistress was not even received at court. But this Regency seat of influence was nontheless a formidable rival to glittering Lansdowne House:
Holland House
Yet great things were done at Holland House–reforms planned and accomplished, literary lions fed with appreciation and encouragement. All the great names of that period may be found on the lists of the Holland House entertainments.
– Charles Dickens, “Holland House,” All the Year Round, A Weekly Journal, Vol. 66, 1890
With the Regency barely on the horizon, the house was known as Cope Castle and practically a ruin when it came into the possession of Lord Henry Richard Fox, third Baron Holland. He was a mere baby and presumably not ready to take on any renovations even though the house had an illustrious history. Its best days, it seemed, were behind it.
Those days began when Queen Elizabeth I granted a part of Kensington Manor to one Walter Cope–that part that once belonged to the Abbot of Abingdon–and built a multi-turreted Jacobean mansion that others mockingly called Cope’s Castle. The Renaissance had penetrated English architecture by the time of its construction in 1607 but classical features like columns, arcades, parapets and the like were applied in a more freeform style rather than with any strict order that characterized the later Palladian movement. Cope Castle, unlike Lansdowne House, was more like a free spirit.
the haunted Gilt Room
Cope’s daughter inherited the house and it became greatly enlarged upon her union with the Rich family, also grown wealthy on confiscated church property when its patriarch had prosecuted Sir Thomas More on Henry VIII’s behalf. Her husband was Henry Rich, Earl of Holland, from whom the house takes its present name. He negotiated the marriage of Henrietta Maria to Charles I and built the house’s famous gilt-room in expectation of entertaining the new Queen there. This did not come to pass, nor was the Earl to survive the coming storm. His ghost was said to be seen in that very room, richly dressed as he had been on the scaffold, holding his head in his hands.
After the Restoration of Charles II, the house was sold to Henry Fox, whose sire had the distinction of fathering this first of three sons at the age of seventy-three. Fox eloped with one of the famous Lennox sisters and it was his grandson, also named Henry, third Baron Holland, who made Holland House a rival in Regency gatherings, as we shall soon see. Today, Holland House is a ruin, destroyed by a fire-bomb in World War II.
Holland House library – World War II
“Ah, Lord Grenville,” said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared in the doorway of the box, “you could not arrive more a propos. Here is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest news from France.”
The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands with the ladies.
“Alas!” he said sadly, “it is of the very worst. The massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day.”
—The Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy
The year was 1792 and Lord William Wyndham Grenville (1759 – 1834), First Baron Grenville, was Foreign Secretary. He was a member of the Tory cabinet formed by Prime Minister William Pitt the Younger and was tasked with managing the blood bath and upheaval that was occurring on the Continent. To complicate matters, there was conflict among the ministers. Lord Grenville was positive that greater success against the French in the War of the First Coalition could be had with military action on the continent, as opposed to skirmishes at sea and jousting with the colonies as proxies.
He was up against Pitt’s great friend, Henry Dundas, First Viscount Melville and the kingdom’s Secretary of War: “a man so profoundly ignorant of war that he was not even conscious of his own ignorance.” Dundas was a wealthy man, purely by virtue of his first wife. He divorced her over adultery, and ensured she would never see her children again. This was a sentence imposed for the rest of her life. She lived another sixty-nine years.
Pitt could not be persuaded to abandon Dundas, even when the man became instrumental in stopping all efforts to abolish the slave trade. It is almost certain that at this time Grenville began to rethink his Tory connections. Then came the King’s refusal to consider the question of Catholic emancipation and the Pitt government resigned.
A quiet interlude followed while Grenville was out of office. A time for reflection and for preparation of his greatest life’s work that still lay ahead. He had heard of the ideas being discussed in a Palladian home in Berkeley Square. He did not have to visit there for long before he found himself surrounded by a circle of Whig supporters.
Grenville’s chance came in 1806 when Pitt died, leaving a vacuum of power. Enter his lordship with the backing of Lansdowne House and he was elevated to the position of Prime Minister. It was an extraordinary moment as he became head of a coalition government known as the “Ministry of All Talents.” And none too soon. War with France had reached a fever pitch and national unity was vital. Grenville’s charm united politicians from almost every persuasion. He even managed to placate His Majesty to accept such persons to whom he had been previously hostile.
It was then one of the most important goals cherished in Lansdowne House was achieved–the abolition of the slave trade.
In 1823 Grenville retired. He and his wife withdrew, childless, to a country home he had built, Dropmore House, near Windsor Castle. He established one of the largest stands of conifer trees in Britain at his pineturn there.
Sadly, Dropmore was badly damaged by a fire that took four days to put out in 1990. Another in 1997 left the house uninhabitable. The property has since been restored by a developer interested in turning the mansion into luxury apartments. It is a pity the firm in charge of this endeavor has gone into liquidation.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4y5fybV7vW4 at 52.51 is a lovely clip from the 1934 movie production of the Scarlet Pimpernel. It is the ballroom scene in which his lordship plays a slight role.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvctyYcUIaE at 6:03 is also a clip from the Dr. Who series showing the exterior of Dropmore before it was destroyed by fire.
Sir James Mackintosh was a doctor in Lansdowne House. But you may remember from an earlier post that his presence was required for something other than practicing medicine. He was called to exercise his great conversational power.
He might have needed a doctor. He died from a chicken bone lodged in his throat.
Jane Austen’s World has a lovely article on physicians during the Regency. I particularly enjoyed the discussion on a doctor’s place in society.
Dr. Frank Harrison from the 2007 BBC series Cranford, set in the 1840s
The Beau Monde’s collection of articles is another favorite source of mine. Alicia Rasley contributed a very comprehensive outline on the subject here.
Actually, this post was inspired by a recent article in a major newspaper http://on.wsj.com/IKwNny. Click on the link to test your knowledge of old medical terms. See if you can match them with the modern ones.
If someone were to become ill at Lansdowne House, they might be suffering from the following:
Stopping (constipation)
Humid tetter (exzema)
Ship fever (typhus)
Morphew (scurvy blisters)
Podagra (gout)
Catarrh (inflammation of the sinuses)
Brain fever (could mean meningitis, encephalitis or malaria
Grippe (influenza)
I thought these terms were interesting. I hope you did, too.
This clip from Monty Python’s Holy Grail on the matter is amusing: http://bit.ly/JTg8f at 3:00.
“They’re doctors?”
He was Lord Brougham and Vaux. Before he gave his name to a special sort of carriage and legions of General Motors vehicles, he came down to London from Scotland to be a member of the House of Commons as a Whig. This gained him entry to Lansdowne House. His renown came from his heroic defense of Queen Caroline of Brunswick, the erstwhile wife of the Regent.
“He was a man of marked abilities, distinguished as a statesman, as an orator, a historian, a lecturer, an essayist, a political economist. As a lawyer, he rose to the top of his profession; as a statesman, he rose to the office of Lord High Chancellor, as an orator, his reputation was among the first of his time, as an essayist, he was one of the brilliant band of writers who made the Edinburgh Review the leading literary authority in the world.”
They left out the part of his dalliance with the Regency’s most celebrated courtesan, Harriette Wilson. Her clients included the Prince of Wales, four Prime Ministers, as well as the Lord High Chancellor.
Hmmm. 
Sydney Smith was another visitor to Lansdowne House. He was a minister, with a lively sense of fun that had everyone rolling in London, as well as in the church aisles.
His quotes from http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/s/sydney_smith.html are amusing, and speak for themselves: 
A comfortable house is a great source of happiness. It ranks immediately after health and a good conscience.A great deal of talent is lost to the world for want of a little courage. Every day sends to their graves obscure men whose timidity prevented them from making a first effort.Among the smaller duties of life I hardly know any one more important than that of not praising where praise is not due.As the French say, there are three sexes – men, women, and clergymen.Bishop Berkeley destroyed this world in one volume octavo; and nothing remained, after his time, but mind; which experienced a similar fate from the hand of Mr. Hume in 1737.Correspondences are like small clothes before the invention of suspenders; it is impossible to keep them up.Do not try to push your way through to the front ranks of your profession; do not run after distinctions and rewards; but do your utmost to find an entry into the world of beauty.Errors, to be dangerous, must have a great deal of truth mingled with them. It is only from this alliance that they can ever obtain an extensive circulation.Find fault when you must find fault in private, and if possible sometime after the offense, rather than at the time.Great men hallow a whole people, and lift up all who live in their time.Have the courage to be ignorant of a great number of things, in order to avoid the calamity of being ignorant of everything.Heaven never helps the men who will not act.I have, alas, only one illusion left, and that is the Archbishop of Canterbury.I look upon Switzerland as an inferior sort of Scotland.I never read a book before previewing it; it prejudices a man so.In composing, as a general rule, run your pen through every other word you have written; you have no idea what vigor it will give your style.It is safest to be moderately base – to be flexible in shame, and to be always ready for what is generous, good, and just, when anything is to be gained by virtue.It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do little – do what you can.It resembles a pair of shears, so joined that they cannot be separated, often moving in opposite directions, yet always punishing anyone who comes between them.
Sir James Mackintosh (1765-1832) was born in Aldourie, Scotland, on the banks of Loch Ness. He had been described by himself and others as “indolent and dilatory at every period of his life.” When taking his degree, he put off writing his thesis until an hour after the appointed time of his examination by the entire faculty enclave who were kept waiting for him in patient condescension. How did this obscure Scotsman come to the notice of Lansdowne House, particularly when admittance within its halls was habitually sought after by the industrious and the prompt? 
The man was just so very interesting!
His mind was stored with the wisdom of the ancient and modern world; and his remarkable memory enabled him to retain all that he had read. His conversation was enriched with wit, philosophy, history and anecdotes, and so extensive was his range of knowledge that it was said of him that he could pass from Voltaire’s verses to Sylvia up to the most voluminous details of the Council of Trent. – from an 1894 article entitled Lansdowne House in the Chautauquan (a journal of the Chatauquan Literary and Scientific Circle)
He was trained as a doctor and as a lawyer, but was continually drawn to the spheres of philosophy and politics. His speeches were well-attended but it was his response to Edmund Burke’s criticism of the Revolution in France made Mackintosh one of the Whig party’s most erudite writer and orator. Later he deplored the actions of the revolutionaries that led France to descend into a military dictatorship, but he remained a passionate defender of the rights of man and a vociferous opponent of the system that supports a titled nobility.
In 1798 he formed an exclusive Whig club in London, called the King of Clubs. Good conversation was already the rage in London and membership to this group was in great demand. Conversation Sharp was prevailed upon to join. He later reminisced about those days long after the club had disappeared:
Ah yes! – our King of Club days with Mackintosh, Bobus, Dumont and Romilly, were days that the Gods might envy !”
Aldourie, Scotland - the bank of Loch Ness
For me, however, this frequent visitor to Lansdowne House could not have been more moving in his writings or his orations than when he exerted himself in the cause of Love. To the dismay of his family and hers, he married Catherine Stuart, one of the most “fortunate circumstances of his life.” She was prudent where he was excessive, she was industrious where he was indolent. She was the making of him and his success to such an extent her disapproving brothers not only became reconciled to the marriage, but became Mackintosh’s most ardent champions. But when she died, he could scarcely contain his grief. She was his beloved and in an age where women’s achievements were subordinate to men’s, he was passionate that she be remembered for her efforts. He sought advice from one Dr. Parr as to how he should form a suitable epitaph to “my dearest Catherine:”
“To her I owe that I am not a ruined outcast; to her whatever I am; to her whatever I shall be.”
Dr. Parr was astonished at this letter and agreed to arrange for the Latin inscription on Catherine’s tomb. He replied,
“I never received from mortal man a letter which, in point of composition, can be compared with that which you wrote me the other day.”
He did not think it bad at all.
Henry Luttrell (1765 – 1851) was the illegitimate son of the earl of Carhampton. As if that were not bad enough, he had little funds and showed even less promise as an Irish politician. But in Lansdowne House “he set the table at a roar” and became the “great London wit,” as Sir Walter Scott dubbed him, of the Regency.
Sketch by Count d'Orsay, French amateur artist and dandy
“I know of no more agreeable member of society than Mr. Luttrell. His conversation, like a limpid stream, flows smoothly and brightly along, revealing the depths beneath the surface, now sparkling over the object it discloses or reflecting those by which it glides. He never talks for talk’s sake. The conversation of Mr. Luttrell makes me think, while that of many others only amuses me.” — Lady Blessington
“Full of well-bred facetiousness and a sparkle of the first water.” — Tom Moore
“He delighted in society and was the delight of it.” – R. R. Madden
“The best sayer of good things, and the most epigrammatic conversationist I ever met.” — Byron
His poetry was equally admired. His Advice to Julia (1820) was more than just “Letters of a Dandy to a Dolly,” this poem made him a “wit among lords and a lord among wits.” It also contained some rather good advice to a young lady and how she should treat her lover, couched in a popular discourse on fashionable society during the Regency. In one amusing anecdote, Luttrell tells of a hopeful applicant to Almack’s. Evidently the young lady, “a stranger to London” sent her portrait to the Patronesses, along with a letter requesting a subscription.
“But Beauty itself is seldom current in high life without the stamp of Fashion; and the device, though ingenious, was not successful.”
Sadly, no one remembers Luttrell, unless one comes across his name, which one frequently does, in the memoirs of Byron, the diaries of Moore and echoed in the halls of Lansdowne House.
“Mama, I’m as concerned about Diana as you are. If she truly needs me, I will always be there to help her.”
“Of course.” She poked her elegant finger among the brooches and earrings in the ornate box. “You’ve managed everything quite well up to now, have you not? But beware, my darling. We have only just arrived in London. Inevitably, Diana is bound to choose another improper friend. One that may not be as amenable to your carte blanche as Miss Swynford.”
“Did you say Diana’s gone out riding? I should go call for my horse.”
The dowager cocked her head. “Your niece is all the way to Hyde Park by now, most likely. Quite keen, she was, to try out her new mare.”
“That wretched animal she picked up from the horse knackers? The dealers at Tattersall’s were glad to be rid of her after she injured one of their grooms.”
“The very one. She tried to kick one of ours in the head just this morning.”
Diana’s Garnet was never a favorite of her Uncle Russell’s. She was an ill-tempered mare and he always said Diana rode her just to spite him. But in his heart he was proud of his niece for saving the animal from the knackers, and for trying to make something of the tall, angular chestnut. He knew Diana needed Garnet, just as Garnet needed Diana. The Marquess of Wimberley was only too aware that the victim of abuse, be it man or beast, can sometimes be set upon the road to healing when given a purpose–a destiny. And his lordship fervently hoped this first step for Diana would lead her toward recovery. Little did he know it would lead him there as well.
The notion of rescuing animals–saving them from ill-treatment–was a topic of considerable discussion in the Regency period. Philosophy was motivated in those days by new ideas about the rights of man. A century before, Locke, and later Kant, had already raised the notion that animal abuse was a bad thing–not for the animals, but for man. In the mid-eighteenth century Rousseau argued the matter one step further. The beasts of nature, by virtue of them being sentient, have their own right to the mercies of natural law, even if they cannot reason on their own.
The entire idea of introducing laws to protect animals remained, however, purely philosophical.
Jeremy Bentham's body with wax head - mummification gone wrong
It was also something of a comedy. Wollstonecraft’s In Defense of the Rights of Woman at the close of the eighteenth century was met with another tract published under the satirical title, Vindication of the Rights of Brutes. In other words, if we give rights to women, we shall dashed well have to give them to the beasts!
Enter Lansdowne House and one of the Marquess’ most illustrious guests–Jeremy Bentham (1748 - 1832). He was a philosopher well-known for his radical notions about freedom and equal rights, getting the C out of the E (ie, separating church and state), and abolishing slavery. When it came to animal rights, he brushed aside natural law as “nonsense upon stilts” and made an argument that was unanswerable:
“…The question is not, Can they reason?, nor Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?”
It must be said he did not oppose the use of animals for medical research. He gave his own body to a medical college for public dissection and ordered that his corpse be put on display in an auto-icon.
When not engaged in philosophical dialogue, Bentham was known for courting women with “clumsy jocularity” (Michael St. John Packe’s The Life of John Stuart Mill). The women in particular were members of the Marquess of Lansdowne’s family. It appears from some of Bentham’s correspondence the ladies had refused to receive him when he called at Lansdowne House. His style of rebuke, a mixture of pleasantries and irony so typical of the Regency, is amusing:
“I am glad to find you have begun to feel something like remorse; it is a virtuous sentiment–do not struggle to suppress it.”
