“. . . Yesterday Lady
Sefton, her two eldest daughters and myself, sallied forth in
the yellow coach to dine with the Queen
at our own old Pavilion. Lord Headfort, a
chattering, capering, spindle-shanked gaby, was in waiting, and handed
Lady Sefton into the drawing-room, where I was glad to
see Glenelg, and besides him were
Tom Bland and a Portuguese diplomat, as black in the
face as one’s hat, but with a star on his stomach, I assure you!
Presently Headfort was summoned away, and on his return he
came up to me with his antics and said:—‘Mr. Creevey, you are to sit on the Duchess of Kent’s right hand at
dinner.’—Oh, the fright I was in about my right ear! . . Here comes
in the Queen, the Duchess of Kent the least bit in the
world behind her, all her ladies in a row still more behind; Lord Conyngham and Cavendish on each flank of the Queen. . . . She was told by
Lord Conyngham that I had not been presented, upon
which a scene took place that to me was truly distressing. The poor little
thing could not get her glove off. I never was so annoyed in my life; yet what
could I do? but she blushed and laughed and pulled, till the thing was done,
and I kissed her hand. . . . Then to dinner. . . . The Duchess of
Kent was agreeable and chatty, and she
said:—‘Shall we drink some wine?’ My eyes,
however, all the while were fixed upon Vic To mitigate the
harshness of any criticism I may pronounce upon her manners, let me express my
conviction that she and her mother are one. I never saw a more pretty or
natural devotion than she shows to her mother in everything, and I reckon this
as by far the most amiable, as well as valuable,
disposition to start with in the fearful struggle she has in life before her.
Now for her appearance—but all in the strictest confidence. A more homely
little being you never beheld, when she is at her ease,
and she is evidently dying to be always more so. She laughs in real earnest,
opening her mouth as wide as it can go, showing not very pretty gums. . . . She
eats quite as heartily as she laughs, I think I may say she gobbles. . . . She
blushes and laughs every instant in so natural a way as to disarm anybody. Her
voice is perfect, and
| 1837-38.] | THE MARQUESS WELLESLEY. | 327 |
