Lady Yarmouth was the last instance of a mistress of the King of England who received a peerage. Her title did not give her much prestige, and her presence at court did not add to its lustre. During her ten years’ reign Queen Caroline had set an example of virtue and decorum, which was not forgotten, and the presence of a recognised mistress standing in her place was resented by many of the wives of the high nobility. Some of these ladies abstained from going to St. James’s on principle, others, and these the more numerous, because the assemblies there had become insufferably dull and tedious. If the court had been conducted on the lavish scale which marked the reigns of the Stuarts, if beauty, wit and brilliancy had met together, some slight lapses from the strict path of virtue might have been overlooked. But a court, which was at once vicious and dull, was impossible.

The Princess-Dowager of Wales, who prided herself on the propriety of her conduct and the ordered regularity of her household, was the most conspicuous absentee, and though she now and then attended St. James’s as in duty bound, she never took her daughters to court, but declared that the society there would contaminate them. She rarely, if ever, honoured the mansions of the nobility with a visit, and her appearances in public were few and far between. She lived a life of strict seclusion, which her children shared. During the ten years that elapsed between Frederick’s death and George III.’s accession to the throne, the Princess-Dowager was little more than a name to the outer world; the time had not come when the veil of privacy was to be rudely torn from her domestic life, and the publicity from which she shrank turned on her with its most pitiless glare.

The policy of the Princess was to keep in the background as much as possible and devote herself wholly to the care and education of her numerous family. She did her duty (or what she conceived to be her duty) to her children to the utmost in her power, and in her stern, undemonstrative way there is no doubt that she loved them. She ruled her household with a rod of iron, her children feared and obeyed, but it could hardly be said that they loved her. Despite her high sense of duty, almsgiving and charity, the Princess-Dowager was not a lovable woman. Her temperament was cold and austere, her religion was tinged with puritanism, and her views were strict and narrow. She had many of the virtues associated with the Roman matron. There was only one flaw in the armour of the royal widow’s reputation, and this her enemies were quick to note. That flaw was her friendship with Lord Bute.

John, third Earl of Bute, had been a favourite of Frederick Prince of Wales. He owed his introduction to the Prince to an accident which, slight though it was, served to lay the foundations of his future political career. He was watching a cricket match at Cliveden when a heavy shower of rain came on. The Prince, who had been playing, withdrew to a tent and proposed a game of whist until the weather should clear. At first nobody could be found to take a fourth hand, but presently one of the Prince’s suite espied Bute and asked him to complete the party. The Prince was so much pleased with his new acquaintance that he invited him to Kew, and gave him a post in his household. Bute soon improved his opportunities, and the Princess also extended to him her confidence and friendship; perhaps she found in his cold, proud temperament and narrow views some affinity with her own character and beliefs. Frederick rather encouraged this friendship than otherwise. He was very much attached to his excellent and virtuous wife, but no doubt her serious way of looking at things wearied his more frivolous nature occasionally. According to the scandalous gossip of Horace Walpole: “Her simple husband when he took up the character of the regent’s gallantry had forced an air of intrigue even upon his wife. When he affected to retire into gloomy allÉes of Kew with Lady Middlesex, he used to bid the Princess walk with Lord Bute. As soon as the Prince was dead, they walked more and more, in honour of his memory.”[12]

At the corrupt court of George II., where the correct conduct of the Princess was resented as a tacit affront, the intimacy between the Princess and Lord Bute was soon whispered into an intrigue. Once at a fancy dress ball during the lifetime of Frederick when the Princess was present, the beautiful Miss Chudleigh appeared as Iphigenia and so lightly clad as to be almost in a state of nudity. The Princess threw a shawl over the young lady’s bosom, and sharply rebuked her for her bad taste in appearing in so improper a guise. “Altesse,” retorted Miss Chudleigh, in no wise abashed, “vous savez, chacun a son but.” The impertinent witticism ran like wildfire round the court, and henceforth the names of the Princess and Lord Bute were associated together in a scandalous suggestion, which had nothing to warrant it at the time beyond the fact that the Princess treated Lord Bute as an intimate friend.

After Frederick’s death the scandal grew, for the Princess was very unpopular with the Walmoden and her circle, and they delighted to have the chance of painting her as bad as themselves. Yet Bute was some years older than the Princess. He was married to a beautiful wife, the only daughter and heiress of Edward Wortley Montagu, by whom he had a large family, and he was devoted to his wife and children. He was a man of high principle, and lived a clean life in an age of uncleanness. Lady Hervey writes of him: “He has always been a good husband, an excellent father, a man of truth and sentiments above the common run of men”. Bute was not a great man, but his abilities were above the average, and he possessed considerable force of character. He acquired complete ascendency in the household of the Princess-Dowager, and exercised unbounded influence over the young Prince of Wales. Princess Augusta and Prince Edward disliked him, and secretly resented his presence and his interference in family matters. The other children were too young to understand, but Lord Bute was a factor which made itself felt in the daily life of them all, and not a welcome one. Life had become appreciably duller with the royal children since their father’s death. Gone were the little plays and masquerades, the singers and dancers. Gone were the picnics and the children’s parties. Even the cards were stopped, and the utmost the Princess-Dowager would allow was a modest game of comet. The children suspected Lord Bute of aiding and abetting their mother in her Spartan treatment of them, and disliked him accordingly.

The Princess-Dowager had need of a friend and counsellor, whether Lord Bute was the wisest choice she could have made or not. She was quite alone in the world, and had to fight against many intrigues. She was not a woman to make friendships quickly, and she disliked the society of her own sex. Thus it came about that in the secluded life she led, except for the members of her household, two persons only were admitted to Carlton House and Kew. One was Lord Bute, the other Bubb Dodington.

Bubb Dodington, whose diary we have quoted before, was a wealthy parvenu whose ambition in life was to become peer. Walpole had refused him his coveted desire, and he therefore attached himself to Frederick Prince of Wales, who borrowed money from him, and invented a post in his household for his benefit. As far as it was possible for Dodington to be attached to any one, he seems to have been attached to his “Master,” as he calls him. After Frederick’s death, when, to use his own phrase, “there was little prospect of his doing any good at Leicester House,” he again courted the favour of the government. But he retained a sentimental attachment to his master’s widow, or (for he was a born intriguer) he wished to keep in touch with the young Prince of Wales. In either case he was careful not to break off his friendship with the Princess-Dowager, and often waited upon her at Carlton House. The Princess, though she did not wholly trust him, clung to him as a friend of her husband’s. He was useful as a link with the outer world, he could retail to her all the political gossip of the day, and she, in turn, could make him the medium of her views, for she knew what she told him in apparent confidence would be retailed to all the town before the day was over. Dodington was an inveterate gossip, and his vanity was too much flattered by being made the confidant of the Princess-Dowager for him to conceal the fact. Moreover, he was wealthy, and a shrewd man of business. The Princess sorely needed advice in money matters, for her dower was only £50,000 a year, and out of that sum she had to keep up Leicester House, Carlton House and Kew, educate and maintain her numerous family, and to pay off by instalments her husband’s debts—a task which she voluntarily took upon herself, though it crippled her financially for years. She did all so well that her economy was a triumph of management.

From Dodington’s diary we get glimpses of the domestic life of the Princess-Dowager and her children after her husband’s death. For instance, he writes: “The Princess sent for me to attend her between eight and nine o’clock. I went to Leicester House expecting a small company, or little musick, but found nobody but her Royal Highness. She made me draw a stool and sit by the fireside. Soon after came in the Prince of Wales, and Prince Edward, and then the Lady Augusta, all in an undress, and took their stools and sat round the fire with us. We continued talking of familiar occurrences till between ten and eleven, with the ease and unreservedness and unconstraint as if one had dropped into a sister’s house that had a family to pass the evening. It is much to be wished that the Prince conversed familiarly with more people of a certain knowledge of the world.”[13]

This last point Dodington ventured to press upon the Princess more than once, for it was a matter of general complaint that she kept her children so strictly and so secluded from the world. They had no companions or playmates of their own age besides themselves, for the Princess declared that “the young people of quality were so ill-educated and so very vicious that they frightened her.... Such was the universal profligacy ... such the character and conduct of the young people of distinction that she was really afraid to have them near her children. She should be even in more pain for her daughters than her sons, for the behaviour of the women was indecent, low, and much against their own interests by making themselves so cheap.”[14]

We have dwelt thus on Augusta Princess of Wales not only because she was the mother of Princess Matilda, but because so little is known of her. The scandalous tales of Whig pamphleteers, and the ill-natured gossip of her arch-maligner Horace Walpole cannot be accepted without considerable reserve. No adequate memoir has ever been written of this Princess. Yet she was the mother of a king whose reign was one of the longest and most eventful in English history, and the training she gave her eldest son moulded his character, formed his views and influenced his policy. It influenced also, though in a lesser degree, the life of her youngest daughter. Matilda inherited certain qualities from her father, but in her early education and environment she owed everything to her mother. To the strict seclusion in which she was brought up by this stern mother, who won her children’s respect but never their confidence, and to her utter ignorance of the world and its temptations (more particularly those likely to assail one destined to occupy an exalted position), may be traced to some extent the mistakes of her later years.

There were breaks in the children’s circle at Carlton House and Kew. Prince Frederick William died in 1765 at the age of fifteen, and Princess Elizabeth in 1759 at the age of nineteen. Of the first nothing is recorded, of the latter Horace Walpole quaintly writes: “We have lost another princess, Lady Elizabeth. She died of an inflammation in her bowels in two days. Her figure was so very unfortunate, that it would have been difficult for her to be happy, but her parts and application were extraordinary. I saw her act in Cato at eight years old when she could not stand alone, but was forced to lean against the side scene. She had been so unhealthy, that at that age she had not been taught to read, but had learned the part of Lucia by hearing the others studying their parts. She went to her father and mother, and begged she might act; they put her off as gently as they could; she desired leave to repeat her part, and, when she did, it was with so much sense that there was no denying her.”[15]

The following year a life of much greater importance in the royal family came to a close. George II. died at Kensington Palace on October 25, 1760, in the seventy-seventh year of his age, under circumstances which have always been surrounded by a certain amount of mystery. The version generally received is as follows: The King rose in the morning at his usual hour, drank his chocolate, and retired to an adjoining apartment. Presently his German valet heard a groan and the sound of a heavy fall; he rushed into the room and found the King lying insensible on the floor with the blood trickling from his forehead, where he had struck himself against a bureau in falling. The valet ran to Lady Yarmouth, but the mistress had some sense of the fitness of things, and desired that the Princess Amelia should be sent for. She arrived to find her father quite dead. His death was due to heart disease and was instantaneous.

George II. was buried in Henry VII.’s Chapel, Westminster Abbey. His last wishes were fulfilled to the letter. He had desired that one of the sides of Queen Caroline’s coffin (who had predeceased him by twenty-three years) should be removed and the corresponding side of his own coffin should be taken away, so that his body might lie side by side with hers, and in death they should not be divided. This touching injunction was piously carried out by command of his grandson, who now succeeded him as King George III.