May 14th, 1829
I have been at Newmarket for three weeks, and have had no time to write, nor has anything particular occurred. The King came to town, and had a levee and drawing-room, the former of which was very numerously, the other shabbily attended. At the levee he was remarkably civil to all the Peers, particularly the Duke of Richmond, who had distinguished themselves in opposition to Government in the late debates, and he turned his back on the bishops who had voted for the Bill. O’Connell and Shiel were both at the levee; the former had been presented in Ireland, so had not to be presented again, but the King took no notice of him, 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, LADY CONYNGHAM. 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 he never utters a word in their presence, and he always sends them away when he sees anybody or speaks on business of any kind. Batchelor thinks that this new disorder is a symptom of approaching decay, and that the King thinks so himself.
In the meantime the influence of Knighton and that of Lady Conyngham continue as great as ever; nothing can be done but by their permission, and they understand one another and play into each other’s hands. Knighton opposes every kind of expense, except that which is lavished on her. The wealth she has accumulated by savings and presents must be enormous. The King continues to heap all kinds of presents upon her, and she lives at his expense; they do not possess a servant; even Lord Conyngham’s valet de chambre is not properly their servant. They all have situations in the King’s household, from which they receive their pay, while they continue in the service of the Conynghams. They dine every day while in London at St. James’s, and when they give a dinner it is cooked at St. James’s and brought up to Hamilton Place in hackney coaches and in machines made expressly for the purpose; there is merely a fire lit in their kitchen for such things as must be heated on the spot. At Windsor the King sees very little of her except of an evening; he lies in bed half the day or more, sometimes goes out, and sometimes goes to her room for an hour or so in the afternoon, and that is all he sees of her. A more despicable scene cannot be exhibited than that which the interior of our Court presents—every base, low, and unmanly propensity, with selfishness, avarice, and a life of petty intrigue and mystery.