They never wrote for their party, or spoke for their
party, or gave their party any other vote than their own; but
they urge their claims,--to something; a commissionership of
anything, or a consulship anywhere; if no place to be had,
they are ready to take it out in dignities. They once looked
to the privy council, but would now be content with an
hereditary honour; if they can have neither, they will take a
clerkship in the Treasury for a younger son. Perhaps they may
get that in time; at present they go away growling with a
gaugership; or, having with desperate dexterity at length
contrived to transform a tidewaiter into a landwaiter. But
there is nothing like asking--except refusing.
Hark! it tolls! All is over. The great bell of the
metropolitan cathedral announces the death of the last son of
George the Third who probably will ever reign in England. He
was a good man: with feelings and sympathies; deficient in
culture rather than ability; with a sense of duty; and with
something of the conception of what should be the character of
an English monarch. Peace to his manes! We are summoned to a
different scene.
In a palace in a garden--not in a haughty keep, proud with the
fame, but dark with the violence of ages; not in a regal pile,
bright with the splendour, but soiled with the intrigues, of
courts and factions--in a palace in a garden, meet scene for
youth, and innocence, and beauty--came the voice that told the
maiden she must ascend her throne!
The council of England is summoned for the first time within
her bowers.
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