[36] Walpole’s Reign of George III., vol. iv.
The dishonour of her youngest daughter, coming on the top of all her other mortifications, proved too much even for the indomitable spirit of the Princess-Dowager, and without doubt hastened her death. In any case the end could not have been long delayed, for she was dying of cancer, and her sufferings the last year of her life had been agonising. Yet to the end she would not admit that she was ill, and bore her pains, like her sorrows, in stern silence. George III., whose pride was deeply wounded by these family scandals, which brought discredit on the throne and the dynasty, greatly sympathised with his mother. Doubtless he took counsel with her as to how he was to act to save his sister Matilda from the worst consequences of her indiscretion, but at first he seems to have done nothing. Perhaps this inaction was due to his great anxiety concerning his mother’s health. He had always been devoted to her, and was now unremitting in his attentions. He visited her every evening at eight o’clock, and remained some hours; but though the Princess was gradually sinking before his eyes, even he did not dare to hint to her that the end was near.
The night before she died the King was so anxious that he anticipated his visit by an hour, pretending that he had mistaken the time, and he brought with him Queen Charlotte. Even then, with the hand of death upon her, the Princess-Dowager rose up and dressed as usual to receive her son and daughter-in-law. She made not the slightest allusion to her state of health, though she kept them in conversation for four hours on other topics. On their rising to take their leave, she said that she should pass a quiet night. The King, who feared she might die at any moment, did not return home, but, unknown to his mother, remained at Carlton House. The Princess-Dowager fought hard for life the first part of the night, but towards morning it became evident even to herself that the end was imminent. She asked her physician how long she had to live. He hesitated. “No matter,” she said, “for I have nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing to leave.”[37] An hour later she was dead. She died so suddenly that the King, although he was resting in an adjoining room, was not in time to be with his mother when she breathed her last. He gained her bedside immediately after, took her hand, kissed it, and burst into tears.
[37] Mrs. Carter’s Letters, vol. iv.
The Princess-Dowager of Wales died in the fifty-third year of her age, at six o’clock in the morning, on February 8, 1772, not long after the terrible news had arrived from Denmark. She therefore died without hearing again of her daughter Matilda. “The calmness and composure of her death,” wrote Bishop Newton, her domestic chaplain, “were further proofs and attestations of the goodness of her life; and she died, as she lived, beloved and lamented most by those who knew her best.”[38] No sooner was this princess, who was cruelly abused all her life, dead, than the papers were filled with praise of her virtues. “Never was a more amiable, a more innocent, or a more benevolent princess,” wrote one, and this was the theme, with variations, of the rest. Without endorsing all this eulogy, it must be admitted that the Princess-Dowager of Wales was in many ways a princess high above the average. Few women have been more harshly judged, and none on so little evidence. Insult and calumny followed her to the grave. A few days before she died a scandalous libel appeared, and the disgrace of the daughter was seized on as a weapon to attack once more the mother. An indecent scribbler, who signed himself “Atticus,” wrote in the Public Advertiser of the revolution at Copenhagen as follows:—
“The day was fixed: a Favourite fell. Methinks I hear the Earl of Bute whisper to his poor affrighted soul, and every corner of his hiding places murmur these expressions: ‘God bless us! A known and established Favourite ruined in a single night by a near neighbour—the frenzy may reach this country, and I am undone. Englishmen too are haters of favourites and Scotchmen. Those old rascally Whig families, whose power and virtues seem almost lost, may reunite. In the meantime, I must do something—a lucky thought occurs to me. I’ll fill the minds of the people with prejudices against those haughty Danes. Bradshaw Dyson shall bribe the printers to suppress any contradictory reports. Englishmen are always ready to vindicate injured virtue at any expense; therefore nothing shall be heard but the honour of the King’s sister!’”
[38] Bishop Newton’s Life of Himself, vol. i.
Thus, even when the poor woman lay dying, the old prejudice was revived. Then, as for a quarter of a century before, the pivot on which all this slander turned was the precise nature of the friendship between the Princess and Lord Bute—a matter which surely concerned no one except themselves. Her arch-maligner, Horace Walpole, put the worst construction on this intimacy, and her political enemies endorsed his verdict. But Walpole hated the Princess-Dowager, because she refused to recognise in any way the marriage of his favourite niece to the Duke of Gloucester. The evil construction placed upon the friendship, as Lord Chesterfield said, “was founded on mere conjectures”. The whole life of the Princess-Dowager—the decorum of her conduct, the order and regularity of her household, her strict principles, the reticence of her character, and the coldness of her temperament—give it the lie. The eighteenth century, with its gross pleasures and low ideals, could not understand a disinterested friendship between a man and a woman, and, not understanding, condemned it. Yet there is much to show that this friendship was of that high order of affection which eliminates all thought of self or sex. It lasted for long years; it was marked by complete trust and confidence on the woman’s side, by loyalty and chivalry on the man’s. It never wavered through good report or ill; opposition and insult served to strengthen it, and it was broken only by death. There must have been something very noble in the woman who won such allegiance, and in the man who rendered it.
The news from Copenhagen created an extraordinary sensation in London. The ladies were whispering all sorts of naughtiness behind their fans concerning Queen Matilda and Struensee; the gossips in the coffee-houses were retailing fresh bits of scandal every day, and the politicians were betting on the possibilities of a war with Denmark. Public opinion at first seemed to be on the side of the young Queen. Some of the papers already demanded that a fleet should be sent to Denmark to vindicate the honour of the British Princess, who was generally spoken of as the “Royal Innocent”. The following may be quoted as a specimen of these effusions:—
“Recollect the manner in which that lady [Queen Matilda] was educated, and that, when delivered into the hands of her husband she was in the full possession of every virtue. All the graces were in her; she knew nothing but what was good. Can it then, with any degree of reason, be concluded that in so short a time the lady could forget every virtuous precept, and abandon herself to infamy? My dear countrymen, it cannot be, and until we have a certainty of guilt, believe it not, though an angel from Copenhagen should affirm it.”[39]