The King himself occasionally committed errors that must have considerably annoyed those of his family and cabinet who entertained more correct views and opinions. Thus, it is pretty well known that George III. was very reluctant to admit Sir Arthur Wellesley to act as commander-in-chief. It is mentioned by Lord Holland, in his ‘Memoirs of the Whig Party,’ that Nelson himself was looked coldly upon at court, even when he made his first appearance there after the glorious victory of the Nile. Incompetent and unsuccessful officers were there conversed with, while scarcely a word of recognition was vouchsafed to the diminutive conqueror. He had doubly offended. His connection with Lady Hamilton was an offence to both King and Queen. He had besides accepted an ‘order’ from the King of Naples, without first asking permission. He had been told not to wear it above the order of the Bath, but his reply was that the latter order was in its right place; and as the King of Naples had affixed his own on the spot which it then occupied on the admiral’s coat, he would let it remain where the Neapolitan king had graciously condescended to put it. This independent line of conduct was not likely to gain favour either with the King or Queen; and though they submitted to have victories gained for them by his head and hand, they had very little esteem for him who won their battles. The King is known to have been very averse to the public funeral with which honour, poor enough, was done to the remains of the hero. He was nevertheless sensitive touching the honour of the country, and fierce in his remarks against the public men who seemed to disregard it.
The remaining years of the King’s life were years of gradual decay on his part, and of watchfulness over him on the part of the Queen. Apart from state occasions, the royal couple lived in a retired manner, but with all the elegancies of refinement around them. The most marked incident of 1805 was the visit of the Princess of Wales, with the Princess Charlotte, to Windsor Castle, where the Queen paid her daughter-in-law less attention than the King, who treated her with a distinction that was offensive alike to Queen and Prince. With something of like distaste the Queen acquiesced in the King’s wish to make a permanent residence of Windsor, for which purpose nearly the whole of the splendid library was removed from the Queen’s House to the castle.
Queen Charlotte preserved her quiet dignity and self-possession on all public occasions. Her bearing, according to Sir Jonah Barrington, ‘was not that of a heroine of romance, but she was the best bred and most graceful lady of her age and figure I ever saw; so kind and conciliating that one could scarcely believe her capable of anything but benevolence. She appeared plain, old, and of dark complexion; but she was unaffected, and commanded that respect which private virtues ever will obtain for public character.’
The King, too, still enjoyed all occasions on which he could display any magnificence. The retirement was rather a sanitary than a voluntarily adopted measure; and exciting scenes injured himself and alarmed his consort. Thus, at the gorgeous installation of the Knights of the Order of the Garter, on St. George’s day, 1805, his conduct was marked by the petulant vivacity of a boy rather than by the gravity of a monarch who had occupied the throne for nearly half a century. The Queen witnessed it with amazement. He was ostentatiously patronising with the Princess of Wales, joking with some of the lords, solemnly trifling with others; and he spoke of the spectacle with the sentiment of a stage-manager who had ‘got up’ a showy piece with unqualified success.
The following picture of the ‘economy of the royal family at Windsor,’ at this time, is quoted as interesting from its faithfulness, showing the position of the Queen in her household, and being generally ‘germane to the matter.’
‘Our Sovereign’s sight is so much improved since last spring that he can now clearly distinguish objects at the 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 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, where 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 breakfast-room, which has been recently decorated with very elegant modern hangings; and, since the late improvement 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, attended by his equerries; three of the princesses, namely, Augusta, Sophia, and Amelia, are usually of the party. Instead of only walking his horse, his Majesty now generally 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 and 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, where he is attended by his private secretary, Colonel Taylor. The evening is, as usual, passed at cards in the King’s drawing-room, where three tables are set out. To these parties many of the principal nobility 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 to rest for the night at eleven o’clock. The journal of one day is the history of a whole year.’ The history is not a lively one, perhaps, but it shows agreeably the domestic simplicity of the court. He who was at the head of the latter did not want for a certain religious heroism under affliction. On his growing blindness being compassionately alluded to by some one in his hearing the King remarked: ‘I am quite resigned, for what have we in this world to do but to suffer and perform the will of the Almighty!’ He was resigned, however, partly because he was not yet deprived of hope. In 1809, the jubilee year of his reign, he was unable to attend the grand fête given by Queen Charlotte at Frogmore in honour of the event; and though he rode out, his horse was now led by a servant. On foot, he felt his way along the terrace by the help of a stick. Stricken with such an infliction as rapidly advancing blindness, his predilection for the ‘Total Eclipse’ of Handel was, at least, singular. It affected him to tears, and the Queen could not listen to the performance of this composition without being similarly affected. And yet the King himself seemed mournfully attached to both the music and the words. One morning, we are told, the Queen, or the Prince of Wales—for each has been mentioned—but probably the former, on entering the King’s apartment, found him pathetically reciting the well-known lines from Milton—
Oh dark! dark! dark! amid the blaze of noon