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.
"With all the virtues blent, and every grace,
To charm the world and dignify her race,
Life's taper losing fail its feeble fire,
The fair Amelia, thus bespoke her sire:
Faint on the bed of sickness lying,
My spirit from its mansion flying,
Not long the light these languid eyes will see:
My friend, my father, and my King,
O, wear a daughter's mournful ring,
Receive the token, and 'Remember me.'"
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]