Irrevocably dark! Total eclipse
Without all hope of day!
Oh first created beam, and thou great word,
Let there be light, and light was over all;
Why am I thus deprived thy prime decree!
Indeed, although a royal, it was a troubled household. Circumstances in the lives of two of the sons of the King—York and Cumberland—caused him great anxiety; but the death of his youngest, and perhaps best-loved daughter, Amelia, in 1810, finished the ravage which care and other causes had inflicted on his intellect. Walcheren and Amelia were said to be ever in his thoughts, as long, at least, as he had the power to think and the privilege to weep. The idea of the loss of his royal authority, too, pressed heavily upon him. The time came, in 1811, when such deprivation was necessary, and that year commenced the unbroken period of what may be termed his gentle insanity.
When the unquestionable presence of this calamity necessarily introduced into Parliament the Regency question, ‘Scott (Eldon) made one of the most extraordinary assertions that Parliament was ever called upon to listen to.’ He affirmed that, when the King was incapable, the sovereignty, for the time being, resided in the Great Seal. He added that Parliament had a right to elect the Regent, the principle of hereditary right not being here applicable. The right of the Queen was spoken of; but it was intimated, as if from authority, that the Queen was not likely to oppose the government of her son.
That government was established; but the care of the King’s person remained with the Queen, who was assisted by a council. This rendered an almost constant attendance at Windsor necessary; but the restraint was compensated for by an additional ten thousand a-year.
The Queen’s letters to Lord Chancellor Eldon are all expressive of the utmost gratitude for services rendered, and of suggestions touching offices expected. She is anxious that at ‘her council’ the great officers of state should be present, to receive the reports of his Majesty’s health made by the physicians who are in daily attendance upon him. When a gleam of improvement manifests itself in the King’s gloomy condition, she is anxious that too much should not be made of nor expected from it. Of these promises of amelioration no one was more readily sensible than the King himself; and his inclination to believe that he was well, or on the point of becoming perfectly so, was an inclination which she thought was by no means to be encouraged. Her urgency on this point is remarkable, and is singularly at variance with common sense; for a quiet acquiescence in the King’s often-expressed conviction that he was convalescent would seem to have been less likely to agitate him than as often a repeated assurance that he was entirely mistaken. The Queen’s letters on this melancholy matter do not exhibit much dignity, either of sentiment or expression; nor, indeed, was she a woman to affect either. She cared as little for sentiment as she did for grammar, and she is said at this time to have exhibited a disregard for a consistent use of pronouns. In ‘Lord Eldon’s Life,’ by Horace Twiss, is a note of hers, addressed to the Lord Chancellor, which commences with ‘The Queen feels,’ passes into an allusion touching how severe ‘our’ trials have been, and ends with an ‘I hope Providence will bring us through.’
But she could write merry little notes too, and to the same august person. With the establishment of the Regency it seemed as if a great burthen had been taken from her, and her sprightliness at and about her son’s festivals was quite remarkable in an aged and so naturally ‘staid’ a lady. On occasion of the Regent’s birthday, in 1812, she despatched a letter to the Lord Chancellor, in court. It commences merrily with a sort of written laugh at the surprise the grand dignitary will doubtless feel at seeing a lady’s letter penetrate into his solemn court; and thus sportively it runs on with a gay invitation to come down to Frogmore, to spend the Regent’s birthday. ‘You will not be learnedly occupied, perhaps,’ suggests the mirthful old lady, ‘but you will be, at least, legally engaged, in the lawful occupation of dining.’ In 1814, the old monarch’s first love, Lady Sarah Lennox, afterwards Lady Sarah Bunbury, and, lastly, Lady Sarah Napier, had become a charming old lady; but she had not passed through life without affliction. In the above year, the Dean of Canterbury preached at St. James’s Church, for the benefit of the infirmary for the cure of diseases of the eye. The Dean alluded to the miserable condition of the monarch. George Tierney was present, and he wrote in a letter now extant: ‘On the seat immediately before me was an elderly lady, who appeared to be deeply affected by the whole of this part of the discourse. She wept much, and I observed that she herself was quite helpless from the entire loss of sight, and was obliged to be led out of church. The tears which I saw thus shed in commiseration to the sufferings of the King fell from the eyes of ——’, the once young and beautiful Lady Sarah Lennox, the innocent rival of Queen Charlotte herself.