At length, his Majesty having been informed of the Queen’s serious indisposition, and her desire to withdraw, took her by the hand to lead her away, roughly noticing, at the same time, that she had ‘passed over’ the Duchess of Norfolk. Caroline immediately repaired her fault by addressing a few condescending words to that old well-wisher of her family. They were the last words she ever uttered on the public scene of her grandeur. All that followed was the undressing after the great drama was over.
In the evening Lord Hervey again saw her. He had been dining with the French ambassador, and he returned from the dinner at an hour at which people now dress before they go to such a ceremony. He was again at the palace by seven o’clock. His duty authorised him, and his inclination prompted him, to see the Queen. He found her suffering from increase of internal pains, violent sickness, and progressive weakness. Cordials and various calming remedies were prescribed, and while they were being prepared, a little ‘usquebaugh’ was administered to her; but neither whisky, nor cordials, nor calming draughts could be retained. Her pains increased, and therewith her strength diminished. She was throughout this day and night affectionately attended by the Princess Caroline, who was herself in extremely weak health, but who would not leave her mother’s bedside till two o’clock in the morning. The King then relieved her, after his fashion, which brought relief to no one. He did not sit up to watch the sufferer, but, in his morning gown, lay outside the bed, by the Queen’s side. Her restlessness was very great, but the King did not leave her space enough even to turn in bed; and he was so uncomfortable that he was kept awake and ill-tempered throughout the night.
On the following day the Queen was bled, but without producing any good effect. Her illness visibly increased, and George was as visibly affected by it. Not so much so, however, as not to be concerned about matters of dress. With the sight of the Queen’s suffering before his eyes, he remembered that he had to meet the foreign ministers that day, and he was exceedingly particular in directing the pages to see that new ruffles were sewn to his old shirt-sleeves, whereby he might wear a decent air in the eyes of the representatives of foreign majesty. The Princess Caroline continued to exhibit unabated sympathy for the mother who had perhaps loved her better than any other of her daughters. The princess was in tears and suffering throughout the day, and almost needed as much care as the royal patient herself; especially after losing much blood by the sudden breaking of one of the small vessels in the nose. It was on this day that, to aid Broxholm, who had hitherto prescribed for the Queen, Sir Hans Sloane and Dr. Hulse were called in. They prescribed for an obstinate internal obstruction which could not be overcome; and applied blisters to the legs—a remedy for which both King and Queen had a sovereign and silly disgust.
On the 11th, the quiet of the palace was disturbed by a message from the Prince of Wales, making enquiry after the condition of his mother. His declared filial affection roused the King to a pitch of almost ungovernable fury. The royal father flung at the son every missile in his well-stored vocabulary of abuse. There really seemed something devilish in this spirit at such a time. In truth, however, the King had good ground for knowing that the assurances of the prince were based upon the most patent hypocrisy. The spirit of the dying Queen was nothing less fierce and bitter against the prince and his adherents—that ‘Cartouche gang,’ as she was wont to designate them. There was no touch of mercy in her, as regarded her feelings or expressions towards him; and her epithets were not less degrading to the utterer and to the object against whom they were directed, than the King’s. She begged her husband to keep her son from her presence. She had no faith, she said, in his assertions of concern, respect, or sympathy. She knew he would approach her with an assumption of grief; would listen dutifully, as it might seem, to her laments; would ‘blubber like a calf’ at her condition; and laugh at her outright as soon as he had left her presence.
It seems infinitely strange that it was not until the 12th of the month that the King hinted to the Queen the propriety of her physicians knowing that she was suffering from rupture. Caroline listened to the suggestion with aversion and displeasure; she earnestly entreated that what had hitherto been kept secret should remain so. The King apparently acquiesced, but there is little doubt of his having communicated a knowledge of the fact to Ranby, the surgeon, who was now in attendance. When the Queen next complained of violent internal pain, Ranby approached her, and she directed his hand to the spot where she said she suffered most. Like the skilful man that he was, Ranby contrived at the same moment to satisfy himself as to the existence of the more serious complaint; and having done so, went up to the King, and spoke to him in a subdued tone of voice. The Queen immediately suspected what had taken place, and, ill as she was, she railed at Ranby for a ‘blockhead.’ The surgeon, however, made no mystery of the matter; but declared, on the contrary, that there was no time to be lost, and that active treatment must at once be resorted to. The discovery of the real malady which was threatening the Queen’s life, and which would not have been perilous had it not been so strangely neglected, cost Caroline the only tears she shed throughout her trying illness.
Shipton and the able and octogenarian Bussier were now called in to confer with the other medical men. It was at first proposed to operate with the knife; but ultimately it was agreed that an attempt should be made to reduce the tumour by less extreme means. The Queen bore the necessary treatment patiently. Her chief watcher and nurse was still the gentle Princess Caroline. The latter, however, became so ill, that the medical men insisted on bleeding her. She would not keep her room, but lay dressed on a couch in an apartment next to that in which lay her dying mother. Lord Hervey, when tired with watching—and his post was one of extreme fatigue and anxiety—slept on a mattress, at the foot of the couch of the Princess Caroline. The King retired to his own bed, and on this night the Princess Amelia waited on her mother.
The following day, Sunday, the 13th, was a day of much solemnity. The medical men announced that the wound from which the Queen suffered had begun to mortify, and that death must speedily supervene. The danger was made known to all; and of all, Caroline exhibited the least concern. She took a solemn and dignified leave of her children, always excepting the Prince of Wales. Her parting with her favourite son, the young Duke of Cumberland, was touching, and showed the depth of her love for him. Considering her avowed partiality, there was some show of justice in her concluding counsel to him that, should his brother Frederick ever be King, he should never seek to mortify him, but simply try to manifest a superiority over him only by good actions and merit. She spoke kindly to her daughter Amelia, but much more than kindly to the gentle Caroline, to whose care she consigned her two youngest daughters, Louisa and Mary. She appears to have felt as little inclination to see her daughter Anne, as she had to see her son Frederick. Indeed, intimation had been given to the Prince of Orange to the effect that not only was the company of the princess not required, but that should she feel disposed to leave Holland for St. James’s, he was to restrain her, by power of his marital authority.
The parting scene with the King was one of mingled dignity and farce, touching incident and crapulousness. Caroline took from her finger a ruby ring, and put it on a finger of the King. She tenderly declared that whatever greatness or happiness had fallen to her share, she had owed it all to him; adding, with something very like profanity and general unseemliness, that naked she had come to him and naked she would depart from him; for that all she had was his, and she had so disposed of her own that he should be her heir. The singular man to whom she thus addressed herself acted singularly; and, for that matter, so also did his dying consort. Among her last recommendations made on this day, was one enjoining him to marry. The King, overcome, or seemingly overcome, at the idea of being a widower, burst into a flood of tears. The Queen renewed her injunctions that after her decease he should take a second wife. He sobbed aloud; but amid his sobbing he suggested an opinion that he thought that, rather than take another wife, he would maintain a mistress or two. ‘Eh, mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Caroline, ‘the one does not prevent the other! Cela n’empêche pas!’
A dying wife might have shown more decency, but she could hardly have been more complaisant. Accordingly, when, after the above dignified scene had been brought to a close, the Queen fell into a profound sleep, George kissed her unconscious cheeks a hundred times over, expressed an opinion that she would never wake to recognition again, and gave evidence, by his words and actions, how deeply he really regarded the dying woman before him. It happened, however, that she did wake to consciousness again; and then, with his usual inconsistency of temper, he snubbed as much as he soothed her, yet without any deliberate intention of being unkind. She expressed her conviction that she should survive till the Wednesday. It was her peculiar day, she said. She had been born on a Wednesday, was married on a Wednesday, first became a mother on a Wednesday, was crowned on a Wednesday, and she was convinced she should die on a Wednesday.
Her expressed indifference as to seeing Walpole is in strong contrast with the serious way in which she did hold converse with him on his being admitted to a parting interview. Her feeling of mental superiority over the King was exhibited in her dying recommendation to the minister to be careful of the Sovereign. This recommendation being made in the Sovereign’s presence was but little relished by the minister, who feared that such a bequest, with the Queen no longer alive to afford him protection, might ultimately work his own downfall. George, however, was rather grateful than angry at the Queen’s commission to Walpole, and subsequently reminded him with grave good-humour, that he, the minister, required no protection, inasmuch as the Queen had rather consigned the King to the protection of the minister; and ‘his kindness to the minister seemed to increase for the Queen’s sake.’