After receiving the king's assent, the Chambers of Lüneburg had the monument erected by Professor Oeser, of Leipzig, and to the present day it is an ornament of the Jardin François, which travellers gaze on with sympathy and regret.
The governor of Celle, a prince of Mecklenburg Strelitz, also had a monument erected in memory of Caroline Matilda in his English garden, and it is well known that the Danish poets Baggesen and Oehlenschläger have erected permanent memorials to her in their works.
Some years ago, the following letter was discovered in the secret archives of Hanover.[59] It was probably written by Caroline Matilda in the first days of her illness, when she had a presentiment of her death. When she was first attacked, she had said to her faithful valet—"Mantel, I am very ill, and fully believe I shall die."
SIRE,
In the most solemn hour of my life, I turn to you, my royal brother, to express my heart's thanks for all the kindness you have shown me during my whole life, and especially in my misfortune.
I die willingly, for nothing holds me back—neither my youth, nor the pleasures which might await me, near or remote. How could life possess any charms for me, who am separated from all those I love—my husband, my children, and my relatives? I, who am myself a queen and of royal blood, have lived the most wretched life, and stand before the world an example that neither crown nor sceptre affords any protection against misfortune!
But I die innocent—I write this with a trembling hand, and feeling death imminent—I am innocent! Oh, that it might please the Almighty to convince the world after my death, that I did not deserve any of the frightful accusations, by which the calumnies of my enemies stained my character, wounded my heart, traduced my honour, and trampled on my dignity!
Sire! believe your dying sister, a queen, and even more, a Christian, who would gaze with terror on the other world, if her last confession were a falsehood. I die willingly: for the unhappy bless the tomb.
But more than all else, and even than death, it pains me that not one of all those whom I loved in life, is standing by my dying bed, to grant me a last consolation by a pressure of the hand, or a glance of compassion, and to close my eyes in death.
Still, I am not alone: God, the sole witness of my innocence, is looking down on my bed of agony, which causes me such sufferings. My guardian angel is hovering over me, and will soon guide me to the spot, where I shall be able to pray for my friends, and also for my persecutors.
Farewell, then, my royal brother! May Heaven bless you, my husband—my children—England—Denmark—and the whole world! Permit my corpse to rest in the grave of my ancestors, and now the last, unspeakably long farewell from your unfortunate
CAROLINE MATILDA.
We have further and valuable testimony to the unstained memory of Queen Caroline Matilda in the following extract from Falckenskjold's "Memoirs:"—
In 1780, I had an opportunity at Hanover of forming the acquaintance of M. Roques, pastor of the French Protestant Church in Celle. One day, I spoke to him about Queen Caroline Matilda:—
"I was summoned almost daily by that princess," he said to me, "either to read or converse with her, and most frequently to obtain information relative to the poor of my parish. I visited her more constantly during the last days of her life, and I was near her a little before she drew her last breath. Although very weak, she retained her presence of mind. After I had recited the prayers for the dying, she said to me, in a voice which seemed to become more animated:
"M. Roques, I am about to appear before GOD: I protest that I am innocent of the crimes imputed against me, and that I was never faithless to my husband."
M. Roques added, that the queen had never spoken to him, even indirectly, of the accusations brought against her.
I wrote down on the same day (March 7, 1780) what M. Roques said to me, as coming from a man distinguished by his integrity of character.
"M. Roques, I am about to appear before GOD: I protest that I am innocent of the crimes imputed against me, and that I was never faithless to my husband."
Such is everything that can be learned of the death of Caroline Matilda. Sacrificed in the first bloom of youth, and decked with the fillets of misery, she was sent, an inexperienced victim, to become the bride of a man who was a compound of insanity and brutality. In less than seven years she experienced all the honours, but also all the wretchedness, which a royal throne can offer. Then she died in the flower of life in exile, the victim of the most scandalous conspiracy.
Several descriptions of Caroline Matilda were written at the period of her death in England—among others, one in the "Annual Register," by my grandfather. From among them I have selected the one I consider the best, which first appeared in the "Universal Magazine" for May, 1775:—