On the right of the throne stood the
Lord Chancellor, with scarlet robe and flowing wig, holding the
speech, surrounded by the emblems of his office; a little farther,
one step lower down, Lord Lansdowne, holding the crown on a crimson
velvet cushion, and on the left the Duke of Wellington, brandishing
the sword of State in the air, with the Earl of Zetland by his side.
The Queen's train of royal purple, or rather deep crimson, was borne
by many train-bearers. The whole scene seemed to me like a dream or
a vision. After a few minutes the Lord Chancellor came forward and
presented the speech to the Queen. She read it sitting and most
exquisitely. Her voice is flute-like and her whole emphasis decided
and intelligent. Very soon after the speech is finished she leaves
the House, and we all follow, as soon as we can get our carriages.
Lord Lansdowne told me before she came in that the speech would be
longer than usual, "but not so long as your President's speeches."
It has been a day of high pleasure and more like a romance than a
reality to me, and being in the very midst of it as I was, made it
more striking than if I had looked on from a distant gallery.
LETTER: To W.D.B. and A.B.
LONDON, February 7, 1847
My dear Sons: . . . On Friday we dined with two bachelors, Mr.
Peabody and Mr. Coates, who are American bankers. Mr. Peabody is a
friend of Mr. Corcoran and was formerly a partner of Mr. Riggs in
Baltimore. Mr. Coates is of Boston. . . . They mustered up all the
Americans that could be found, and we dined with twenty-six of our
countrymen.
Monday Morning
Last evening we were at home to see any Americans who might chance
to come. . . . I make tea in the drawing-room, on a little table
with a white cloth, which would not be esteemed COMME IL FAUT with
us. There is none of the parade of eating in the largest evening
party here. I see nothing but tea, and sometimes find an informal
refreshment table in the room where we put on our cloaks.
I got a note yesterday from the O'Connor Don, enclosing an order to
admit me to the House of Commons on Monday. . . . You will be
curious to know who is "The O'Connor Don." He is Dennis O'Connor,
Esq., but is of the oldest family in Ireland, and the representative
of the last kings of Connaught. He is called altogether the
O'Connor Don, and begins his note to me with that title. You
remember Campbell's poem of "O'Connor's Child"?
Sunday, 14th February
. . . Yesterday morning was my breakfast at Sir Robert Inglis's.
The hour was halfpast nine, and as his house is two miles off I had
to be up wondrous early for me.
