Lewis Melville

LAST YEARS

The King's health was a matter of great anxiety to the royal physicians, even after his recovery in 1789, and during the hot weather of the following year their watchfulness had to be redoubled. "The present object of the doctors was to prevent the King from dozing during the day, and also to try and keep him from brooding over things too closely. The French Revolution was going on, and affairs in that country were becoming very serious. Holland, too, was unsettled, and they were very anxious that his Majesty should be called upon to do as little business as possible. The King could not be on horseback after twelve o'clock, as the heat of the sun on his head was much feared. The Queen, therefore, had three double carriages made with cane bodies, and covered in with silk or oilskin, according to the weather, and thus they were enabled to pay noon visits to the sweet country seats near at hand, and beguile the time until dinner, at four."[300] This trouble passed in due course, and it seemed as if George was in thoroughly good health, and likely to continue so indefinitely. "It is impossible to describe to you how perfectly well the King is," Lord Auckland wrote to Morton Eden on December 12, 1791. "He is quite an altered man, and not what you knew him even before his illness. His manner is gentle, quiet, and, when he is pleased, quite cordial. He speaks, even of those who are opposed to his government, with complacency, and without sneer or acrimony. As long as he remains so well, the tranquillity of this country is on a rock, for the public property is great and the nation is right-minded, and the commerce and resources are increasing."[301]

Years passed without any mental trouble, but gradually events happened that preyed upon the mind of the King, who, now no longer a young man, was less able to resist them. For a long time he had been perturbed by the unhappy relations between the Prince and Princess of Wales and, when in 1801 Pitt demanded permission to introduce a measure for the emancipation of the Catholics, he brooded over the matter until his mind became again unhinged.[302] On February 15 he took a severe cold, always the first symptom of one of his attacks—but this apparently gave way to treatment. "As for my cold, it is well," he said then to Lord Chatham; "but what else I have, I owe to your brother." On the 22nd inst., however, his mind wandered, and on the following day he was unconscious until evening when he exclaimed, "I am better now, but I will remain true to the Church—I will remain true to the Church,"[303] and anathematized Pitt and other ministers favourable to the obnoxious measure. He was seriously ill on March 2, but from that day grew slowly better, and on the 6th instructed Dr. Willis to write to the minister. "Tell him I am now quite well—quite recovered from my illness; but what has he not to answer for who is the cause of my having been ill at all?" It was then that Pitt, much perturbed and perplexed, told George he would never re-introduce the subject during his reign, whereupon the King exclaimed joyfully, "Now my mind will be at ease!"[304] He received in person and with much kindliness the resignation of Pitt on March 14, and handed the seals of office to Henry Addington.

The excitement attendant upon these political events caused a relapse, and George remained for some time at Kew under the care of the Willises. "I'm very, very sorry the poor King has been, and continues ill, for it has been and will be a public calamity from its consequences, but exclusive of public ills among which the loss of Lord Cornwallis here is irreparable, the private misfortunes of the royal family goes to one's heart," Lady Sarah Napier wrote from Dublin to Lady Susan O'Brien on April 20, 1801. "Great people suffer sorrow doubly; poor souls, they are not made to it, till it comes with violence, and then it drives to indifference or despair."[305] In May those who were allowed to see George inclined to the belief that he was well, but the Duke of Clarence declared that "he pitied the (royal) family, for he saw something in the King that convinced him he must soon be confined again." Still, in spite of this distressing prognostication, on May 25 Dr. Thomas Willis was able to send an assuring report to Lord Eldon: "This morning I walked with his Majesty, who was in a perfectly composed and quiet state. He told me, with great seeming satisfaction, that he had a most charming night, 'he could sleep from eleven to half after four,' when, alas! he had but three hours sleep in the night, which, upon the whole, was passed in restlessness—in getting out of bed, opening the shutters, in praying violently, and in making such remarks as betray a consciousness of his own situation, but which are evidently made for the purpose of concealing it from the Queen. He frequently called out, 'I am perfectly well, and my Queen, my Queen has saved me.'"[306] However, the improvement was not sustained, for on June 12 Willis wrote in a different strain: "His Majesty still talks much of his prudence, but shows none. His body, mind, and tongue are all upon the stretch every minute; and the manner in which he is now expending money, which is so unlike him when well, all evince that he is not so right as he should be."[307] A few days later, however, the King pronounced himself well when he, who hated the Willises, father and son, dismissed from attendance Dr. Robert Willis, and, in spite of the Lord Chancellor's remonstrances, declined to reinstate the physician.

"Kew, June 21, 1801.

"The King would not do justice to the feelings of his heart, if he an instant delayed expressing his conviction of the attachment the Lord Chancellor bears him, of which the letter now before him is a fresh proof; but at the same time he cannot but in the strongest manner decline having Dr. Robert Willis about him. The line of practice followed with great credit by that gentleman, renders it incompatible with the King's feelings that he should—now by the goodness of Divine Providence restored to reason—consult a person of that description. His Majesty is perfectly satisfied with the zeal and attention of Dr. Gisborne, in whose absence he will consult Sir Francis Milman, but cannot bear consulting any of the Willis family, though he will ever respect the character and conduct of Dr. Robert Willis. No person that ever had a nervous fever can bear to continue the physician employed on the occasion; and this holds much more so in the calamitous one that has so long confined the King, but of which he is now completely recovered.

"George R."[308]

"The subject of the Princess of Wales is still in the King's mind, to a degree that is distressing, from the unfortunate situation of the family," Princess Elizabeth wrote to Dr. Thomas Willis during the illness of her father, who was no sooner able to go out than he visited his persecuted daughter-in-law. "The first time he rode out after his illness he rode over Westminster Bridge to Blackheath, never telling any one where he was going till he turned up to the Princess's door. She was not up, but jumped out of bed, and went to receive him in her bed-gown and night-cap. He told Lord Uxbridge that the Princess had run in his head during his illness perpetually, and he had made a resolution to go and see her the first time he went out, without telling anybody."[309] After this visit George went to Weymouth, returning to London on October 29 to open Parliament in person, after which he settled down at Windsor, where at the end of November Lord Malmesbury visited him. "I was with the King nearly two hours. I had not seen him since the end of October, 1800—of course not since his last illness. He appeared rather more of an old man, but not older than men of his age commonly appear. He stoops rather more, and was apparently less firm on his legs; but he did not look thinner, nor were there any marks of sickness or decline in his countenance or manner. These last were much as usual—somewhat less hurried and more conversable; that is to say, allowing the person to whom he addressed himself more time to answer and talk than he used to do when discussing on common subjects, on public or grave ones." [310]

This illness aged him considerably, and though henceforth he lived very quietly and almost entirely secluded at Windsor, "his health, both as regards his bodily ailments, and the state of his mind, became daily more and more unsatisfactory." [310] Indeed, it is a moot point if he was ever for any length of time quite well after this year, and even during the periods when he was free from a suspicion of his malady, the fear of its recurrence undoubtedly influenced his whole life. It was not until 1804, however, that he was again seriously ill, and then the attack was probably precipitated by his furious indignation at the publication of some of his letters by the Prince of Wales, though this fact was, of course, suppressed in the physician's report.[311] "The fact is I believe, as I have always done, that the regal function will never more be exercised by him," Creevey wrote on April 2: and on May 2 stated, "I feel certain he is devilish bad."[312] A regency was again in sight, but to the general surprise George recovered, and early in May was able to drive through the streets by the side of the Queen, but after this, as General Harcourt told Lord Malmesbury, he was "in looks, manners, conduct, and conversation, quite different from what he had been before his illness."[313]

"Mrs. Harcourt confirms all that Lady Uxbridge had told me; that the King was apparently quite well when speaking to his ministers, or those who kept him a little in awe; but that towards his family and dependents his language was incoherent and harsh; quite unlike his usual character. She said that Dr. Symonds did not possess in any degree the talents required to lead the mind from wandering to steadiness; that in the King's two former illnesses, this had been most ably managed by the Willises, who had this faculty in a wonderful degree, and were men of the world, who saw ministers, and knew what the King ought to do; that the not suffering them to be called in was an unpardonable proof of folly (not to say worse) in Addington; and that now it was impossible, since the King's aversion was rooted; that Pitt judged ill in leaving the sole disposal of the Household to the King; that this sort of power in his present weak (and, of course, suspicious) state of mind had been exercised by him most improperly; he had dismissed, and turned away, and made capricious changes everywhere, from the Lord Chamberlain to the groom and footman; he had turned away the Queen's favourite coachman; made footmen grooms, and vice versÂ, and what was still worse, because more notorious, had removed Lords of the Bedchamber without a shadow of reason; that all this afflicted the royal family without measure; that the Queen was ill and cross; the Princesses low, depressed, and quite sinking under it; and that unless means could be found to place some very strong-minded and temperate persons about the King, he would either commit some extravagance, or he would, by violent carelessness and exercise, injure his health, and bring on a deadly illness."[314]

Though the King was now suffering from an increasing deafness and a defective sight, he was better towards the end of 1805 than he had been for years. According to Lord Henley he was quite cheerful, and troubled only by his blindness. "He talked to me, indeed, in an affecting manner, of his situation, saying that he had tried this morning, but in vain, to read the docket of one of the despatches, but is convinced that he perceives an amendment, and that even with the left eye he can perceive the light.[315] Lady Henley says that he presented the muffins to the ladies last night in his old jocose and good-humoured manner.[316]

"Our Sovereign's sight is so much improved since last spring, that he can now clearly distinguish objects at an extent of twenty yards. The King, in consequence of this favourable change, has discontinued the use of the large flapped hat which he usually wore, and likewise the silk shade. His Majesty's mode of living is now not quite so abstemious. He now sleeps on the north side of the Castle, next to the Terrace, in a roomy apartment, not carpeted, on the ground floor. The room is neatly furnished, partly in a modern style, under the tasteful direction of the Princess Elizabeth. The King's private dining-room and the apartments en suite, appropriated to his Majesty's use, are all on the same side of the Castle.

"The Queen and the Princesses occupy the eastern wing. When the King rises, which is generally about half-past seven o'clock, he proceeds immediately to the Queen's saloon, where his Majesty is met by one of the Princesses; generally either Augusta, Sophia or Amelia; for each in turn attend their revered parent. From thence the sovereign and his daughter, attended by the lady-in-waiting, proceed to the Chapel in the Castle, wherein Divine service is performed by the Dean or Sub-Dean: the ceremony occupies about an hour. Thus the time passes until nine o'clock, when the King, instead of proceeding to his own apartment, and breakfasting alone, now takes that meal with the Queen and the five Princesses. The table is always set out in the Queen's noble breakfasting-room, which has been recently decorated with very elegant modern hangings; and, since the late improvements by Mr. Wyatt, commands a most delightful and extensive prospect of the Little Park. The breakfast does not occupy half-an-hour. The King and Queen sit at the head of the table, and the Princesses according to seniority. Etiquette in every other respect is strictly adhered to. On entering the room, the usual forms are observed, agreeably to rank.

"After breakfast, the King generally rides out on horseback, attended by his equerries, three of the Princesses, namely, Augusta, Sophia, Amelia, are usually of the party. Instead of only walking his horse, his Majesty now proceeds at a good round trot. When the weather is unfavourable, the King retires to his favourite sitting-room, and sends for Generals Fitzroy or Manners to play at chess with him. His Majesty, who knows the game well, is highly pleased when he beats the former, that gentleman being an excellent player.

"The King dines regularly at two o'clock; the Queen and Princesses at four. His Majesty visits, or takes a glass of wine and water with them at five. After this period, public business is frequently transacted by the King in his own study, wherein he is attended by his private secretary, Colonel Taylor. The evening is, as usual, passed at cards in the Queen's drawing-room, where three tables are set out. To these parties many of the principal nobility, etc., residing in the neighbourhood are invited. When the Castle clock strikes ten, the visitors retire. The supper is set out, but that is merely a matter of form, and of which none of the family partake. These illustrious personages retire at eleven o'clock, to rest for the night. The journal of one day is the history of a whole year."[317]

Slowly but surely his sight gave way, and in the winter of 1806 he was nearly blind. Pitt noted "a great change of handwriting ... it has grown much larger, and the characters are very indistinct and ill-formed;"[318] and in 1810 Lady Jerningham wrote, "John Bedingfield has shewn to me the poor King's signature, and it would be impossible to read in it George Rex if the paper did not announce it had that official signature."[319] George bore the affliction bravely. "I am quite resigned," he said, "for what have we in this world to do, but to suffer and perform the will of the Almighty."[320] Soon he could ride only when the horse was led by a servant; while on foot he had to grope his way with a stick. In spite of his determination to bear his ills with fortitude he grew morbid, frequently asked to hear Handel's "Total Eclipse," and one day was overheard by the Queen to quote Milton's lines on his blindness:[321]

* * * * *

O, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!
O, first created Beam, and thou great Word,
'Let there be light, and light was over all';
Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree?"

In 1810 the King was greatly worried by the failure of the Walcheren expedition, and the notorious "Duke and Darling" scandal that brought disgrace upon the Duke of York and resulted in his resignation of the office of Commander-in-Chief. On October 24 he was very unwell, and at the Drawing-room on the next day every one noticed his excited manner. On the 29th the Prime Minister and the Lord Chancellor visited him at Windsor, where they came to the conclusion that he was not in a fit state to discharge his kingly duties, and orders were given that only physicians and medical attendants should have access to the royal apartments. Then came the crowning blow in the form of the death of his youngest and favourite daughter, Amelia, on November 2. She was deeply attached to him, and placed on his finger a ring, containing a lock of her hair, enclosed under a crystal tablet and inscribed "Remember me." Even that inveterate opponent of royalty, "Peter Pindar," was touched, and commemorated the event in some of the worst lines he ever wrote.

On November 7, Sir Henry Halford, Dr. Reynolds and Dr. Baillie were called in, and, with the approval of the Queen, in spite of his Majesty's known wish, Dr. Willis was sent for. Prayers were publicly offered for his recovery, and though once or twice he was a little better, there was little or no hope of permanent improvement and on December 21 Perceval introduced a Regency Bill, which became law on February 4, 1811.

Hitherto all the attacks had been of short duration, none of them continuing much beyond six months, but when deprived of his reason in 1810, he was never again in a fit state to be entrusted with the cares of sovereignty. He had made his last appearance at a social function at Windsor on the anniversary of his accession in 1810, haggard, infirm, nearly blind and almost deaf, leaning on the arm of the Queen, and speaking in the hurried, almost unintelligible manner that was an invariable sign of a forthcoming illness. On May 20, 1811, he was seen for the last time by any one outside his immediate family and entourage. "On Sunday night, May 20, our town was in a fever of excitement at the authorized report that the next day the physicians would allow his Majesty to appear in public," an inhabitant of Windsor wrote. "On that Monday morning it was said that his saddle-horse was to be got ready. This truly was no wild rumour. We crowded to the park and the castle-yard. The favourite horse was there. The venerable man, blind but steady, was soon in the saddle, as I had often seen him, a hobby groom at his side with a leading rein. He rode through the Little Park to the Great Park. The bells rang. The troops fired a feu de joie. The King returned to the Castle within an hour. He was never again seen without those walls."[322]

It was thought that the King could not long survive. "The general opinion is that the King will die before the 22nd inst., (the date to which Parliament was prorogued),"[323] Creevey wrote on July 12; and a fortnight later Lord Grenville expressed the same opinion when writing to Lord Auckland: "It is, I believe, certainly true that the King has taken for the last three days scarcely any food at all, and that, unless a change takes place very shortly in that respect, he cannot survive many days."[324] Lord Buckinghamshire, however, was able to state on August 13, "The King, I should suppose, is not likely to die soon, but I fear his mental recovery is hardly to be expected."[325]

According to Mrs. Papendiek, who obtained her information from "private sources," the King's malady was caused more by a loss of mental power than an aberration of intellect, and it never assumed a condition of actual insanity.[326] There was some hope in February 1811 that the King would recover, and some members of the Council were actually of opinion that at this time he was in full possession of his faculties, so calmly and sensibly had he spoken on various topics, and they were prepared to pronounce him restored and able to resume his power, Lord Ellenborough using the words of Pilate, "I find no fault at all in that just person." To this opinion Sir Henry Halford could not subscribe, for, knowing the cunning of mad persons, he was aware that often only the greatest vigilance could detect the existence of the delusions from which the patient suffered.

"One day when the King fancied himself surrounded by servants only, and when a medical attendant was watching unseen, he took a glass of wine and water and drank it to the health conjugia meÆ dilectissimÆ ElizabethÆ, meaning Lady Pembroke. Here was a delusion clearly established and noted down immediately: the use of Latin, which was not to be understood by those whom he supposed only to hear him, affording a singular proof of the old cunning of insanity. A few days later, Sir Henry was walking with him on the Terrace; he began talking of the Lutheran religion, of its superiority to that of the Church of England, and ended with growing so vehement that he really ranted forth its praises without mentioning that which Sir Henry believes to have been the real motive of this preference—the left-handed marriages allowed. He was very anxious to see whether traces of this delusion would appear again, and went to the Duke of York to ask for information as to the tenets, practices, etc., etc., of the Lutheran Church. The Duke said, "Watch him in Passion Week; if he fancies himself a Lutheran, you will see an extraordinary degree of mortification and mourning," etc., etc. When Sir Henry returned to the assembled physicians he wrote down the substance of this conversation, and without communicating it to anybody, requested those present to seal the paper and keep it in a chest where their notes and other papers of importance are kept, under locks of which each had a separate key. When the Monday in Passion Week arrived, and Sir Henry had nearly forgotten the conversation, he went into the King's dressing-room while he was at his toilet, and found the attendants in amazement at his having called for and put on black stockings, black waistcoat and breeches, and a grey coat with black buttons. It was curious to hear that his delusions assumed, like those of other madmen, the character of pride, and that a Sovereign ever fancied himself in a station more elevated than his own. He would sometimes fancy himself possessed of a supernatural power, and when angry with any of his keepers, stamp his foot and say he would send them down into hell."[327]

It was during the lucid interval to which reference has just been made that Sir Henry Halford was deputed to broach an awkward subject to the King. George had known of the death of Princess Amelia, and every day his attendants dreaded lest he should ask questions as to her property and her will. There had been a close intimacy between the Princess and General Fitzroy—there was the rumour of a secret marriage—and the trouble was that she had left everything to him. The Queen was afraid to mention this to the King, and Perceval and the Lord Chancellor successively undertook the disclosure and shrunk from it, imposing it upon Sir Henry. "Never," said the latter subsequently, "could I forget the feelings with which, having requested some private conversation with the King, after the other physicians were gone, I was called into a window with the light falling so full on my countenance that even the poor nearly blind King could see it. I asked whether it would be agreeable to him to hear now how Princess Amelia had disposed of her little property. "Certainly, certainly, I want to know," with great eagerness. I reminded him at the beginning of his illness he had appointed Fitzroy to ride with her at Weymouth; how it was natural and proper she should leave him some token for these services; that, excepting jewels, she had nothing to leave, and had bequeathed them all to him; that the Prince of Wales, thinking jewels a very inappropriate bequest for a man, had given Fitzroy a pecuniary compensation for them (his family, by the bye, always said it was very inadequate) and had distributed slight tokens to all the attendants and friends of the Princess, giving the bulk of the jewels to Princess Mary, her most constant and kindest of nurses. Upon this the poor King exclaimed, "Quite right, just like the Prince of Wales," and no more was said."[328]

It was in the summer of 1814 that the Queen entered the King's apartment during one of these lucid intervals, and found him singing a hymn and accompanying himself on the harpsichord. When he had concluded, he knelt down and prayed aloud for his consort, for his family, for the nation, and, lastly, for himself, that it might please God to avert his heavy calamity, or, if not, give him resignation under it. Then his emotions overpowered him, he burst into tears, and his reason fled. He was never again sane.[329]

"The public bulletins which have been issued for some months past, have all stated that his Majesty's disorder remains undiminished; and we understand that it is the opinion of the medical gentlemen attending him that nothing far short of a miracle can bring about a recovery from his afflicting malady, "so runs a contemporary account. "At times, we are happy to learn, he is tolerably composed. The number of persons specially appointed by the doctors is reduced from six to two, and his principal pages are admitted, and have been for some time, to attend upon him, as when he enjoyed good health. His Majesty dines at half past one o'clock, and, in general, orders his dinners: he invariably has roast beef upon the tables on Sundays. He dresses for dinner, wears his orders, etc.

"He occupies a suite of thirteen rooms (at least, he and his attendants) which are situated on the North side of Windsor Castle, under the State rooms. Five of the thirteen rooms are wholly devoted to the personal use of the King. Dr. John Willis sleeps in the sixth room, adjoining, to be in readiness to attend his Majesty. Dr. John attends the Queen every morning after breakfast, and about half-past ten o'clock, and reports to her the state of the afflicted monarch; the Doctor, afterwards, proceeds to the Princesses, and other branches of the Royal family, who may happen to be at Windsor, and makes a similar report to them. In general the Queen returns with Dr. Willis, through the state rooms, down a private staircase, leading into the King's suite of rooms, appropriated to this special purpose. Sometimes she converses with her Royal husband. The Queen is the only person who is admitted to this peculiar privilege, except the medical gentleman, and his Majesty's personal attendants. In the case of Dr. John Willis's absence, Dr. Robert Willis, his brother, takes his place. The other medical gentlemen take it in rotation to be in close attendance upon the King.

"The suite of rooms which his Majesty and his attendants occupy, have the advantage of very pure and excellent air, being on the North side of the terrace round the Castle; and he used to occasionally walk on the terrace; but, we understand, he now declines, owing to the bad state of his eyes, not being able to enjoy the view. The Lords and Grooms of the King's Bedchamber, his Equerries and other attendants are occasionally in attendance at Windsor Castle, the same as if the King enjoyed good health. Two King's Messengers go from the Secretary of State's offices daily to Windsor, and return to London, as they have been accustomed to do for a number of years past. The messenger who arrives at noon brings a daily account of the King's health to the Prince Regent, and the Members of the Queen's Council. His Majesty has never been left since his afflicting malady, without one of the Royal Family being in the Castle, and a member of the Queen's council, appointed under the Regency Act."[330]

During his last years George III was subject to harmless and not unpleasing delusions. "The good King's mania consists in pleasant errors of the mind,"[331] said Lady Jerningham; and this statement was confirmed by Princess Elizabeth: "If anything can make us more easy under the calamity which it has pleased God to inflict on us, it is the apparent happiness that my revered father seems to feel."[332] He found much comfort in religion, and on one occasion declared, "Although I am deprived of my sight, and am shut out from the society of my beloved family, yet I can approach my Blessed Lord," and thereupon administered to himself the Sacrament.[333] Indeed, he was unhappy only when he could not have his favourite dinner of cold mutton and salad, plover's eggs, stewed peas, and cherry tart; and fearful—he who in his senses had never known fear—only when it was proposed to shave his beard. "If it must be," he said, "I will have the battle axes called in."[334]

The King loved to wander through the corridors, a venerable figure with long silvery beard, attired in a silk morning gown and ermine night cap, holding imaginary conversations with ministers long since dead, "rationally as to the discourse, but the persons supposed present"; and so pleasantly did he while away the time that sometimes his dinner was ready before he expected it. "Can it be so late?" he would ask. "Quand on s'amuse le temps vole."[335] He was fully convinced that Princess Amelia—"my poor Am"—was alive and happy at Hanover, enjoying perennial youth and beauty; and believed that he was prosecuting an amorous intrigue with Lady Pembroke, whom he often believed to be his wife, and whose absence angered him. "Is it not a strange thing, Adolphus," he said to the Duke of Cambridge, "that they still refuse to let me go to Lady Pembroke, although every one knows I am married to her; but what is worse, that infamous scoundrel Halford was at the marriage, and has now the effrontery to deny it to my face."[336] He considers himself no longer an inhabitant of this world, and often, when he had played one of his favourite tunes, observes that he was very fond of it when he was in the world. He speaks of the Queen and all his family, and hopes they are doing well now, for he loved them very much when he was with them," Princess Elizabeth remarks, and the belief that he was dead was one of his regular delusions. "I must have a new suit of clothes, he said one day, "and I will have them black in memory of George the Third, for he was a good man."[337]

The King lived on, recognizing no one, and knowing nothing of contemporary events. Waterloo was fought and won, and Napoleon overthrown; Princess Charlotte of Wales married and died, his consort went down to her grave, and his sons and daughters contracted matrimonial alliances, yet he lived on. Indeed, his constitution was so sound that, in spite of all infirmities, his physical health continued good. "In 1818, however, he had ceased even to walk, being conveyed in his chair from his bed to another room, and placed near an old harpsichord of Queen Anne's, said not to have been tuned since her time. On this he would play for hours, in the belief that he was making music."[338]

Queen Charlotte had been ailing for a long time. "The severe affliction and constant anxiety she was in was probably the cause, and from this time (1789) her Majesty's health was less uniformly good," wrote Mrs. Papendiek. "The dropsy, which had been floating in her constitution since the birth of Prince Alfred, now made its deposit, and caused her at times much suffering." She had been much upset by the King's various outbreaks of violence in 1804, and was, indeed, so alarmed that thereafter she saw little of him. "The Queen lives upon ill terms with the King. They never sleep or dine together; she persists in living entirely separate," wrote Lord Colchester; and Lord Malmesbury recorded: "The Queen will never receive the King without one of the Princesses being present; never says in reply a word. Piques herself on this discreet silence, and when in London, locks the door of her white-room—her boudoir—against him." On April 23, 1817, she was seized with a severe spasmodic attack, but with indomitable endurance she continued to hold Drawing-rooms and was present at the royal weddings that took place during the year. She was anxious to be taken to Windsor, but the step was long delayed, and she never got further than Kew, where she died after a lingering and painful illness, on November 16, 1818.

In that year Byron wrote, "the poor good King may live to 200; he continues in good bodily health, and is perfectly happy, conversing with the dead, and sometimes relating pleasant things. They say it is a most charming illusion."[339]

Early in January, 1820, it became known that the old King was unwell, and though a reassuring bulletin was issued—"His Majesty's disorder has undergone no sensible alteration. His Majesty's bodily health has partaken some of the infirmities of age, but has been generally good during the last month"—it was still believed that he would not recover. He could not get warm, his food did not nourish him, and his frame grew more and more emaciated; but it was not until January 27, when for the first time he kept his bed, that the physicians pronounced his life in danger. Two days later death claimed him. "A few minutes before this venerable monarch expired, he extended his arms, and bade his attendants raise him up—the doctors signified to his attendants not to do so, in the supposition that the effort would extinguish life,—but upon his repeating the request, they obeyed, and he thanked them. His lips were parched, and occasionally wetted with a sponge. He, with perfect presence of mind, said: 'Do not wet my lips but when I open my mouth.' And when done he added, thank you, it does me good.'"[340]

So on January 29, 1820, died George III in the sixtieth year of his reign, and at the patriarchal age of eighty-one, unhonoured and unsung, the monarch of the greatest country that the world has yet seen, yet unenvied by the lowest of his subjects. "What preacher need moralize on this story; what words save the simplest are requisite to tell it? It is too terrible for tears." So runs Thackeray's exquisite passage on the downfall of George III, with which this work may fittingly conclude. "The thought of such misery smites me down in submission before the Ruler of kings and men, the Monarch supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable Dispenser of Life, death, happiness, victory.... Low he lies, to whom the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest: dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven off his throne, buffeted by rude hands; with his children in revolt; the darling of his old age killed before him untimely; our Lear hangs over her breathless lips and cries, 'Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little!'

Hush! Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave! Sound, trumpets, a mournful march! Fall, dark curtain, upon his pageant, his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy!"