Memoir of Queen Adelaide, Consort of King William IV.

Less, perhaps, by way of championship, than in the character of consolers, did the bishops, or a certain number of them, with the Archbishop of Canterbury at their head, address Queen Adelaide. They had, previously, "been up" to the King, who was just then being counselled in various ways, by everybody, from wary old politicians to the 'prentice-boys of Derry. They brought to his Consort the usual complimentary phrases, – but, in the present instance, they carried weight with the Queen, for amid the din of abuse with which she was assailed, a few words of assurance and encouragement, of trust, counsel, and consolation, must have fallen pleasantly upon her ear. She said as much, at least, in a brief phrase or two, indicative of the satisfaction she experienced at hearing such words from such men, at a period when she was the object of so much undeserved calumny and insult.

The scene was, undoubtedly, made the most of by those who rejoiced most in its occurrence; perhaps, too much was made of it; and this induced the ridicule of the opposite side. The "Times" courageously denied its existence. The presentation of the prelates was admitted, but the Queen's speech was defined as a hoax. There was nobody by, it was said, but the knot of diocesans and a body of maids of honour, – and, of course, any report emanating from such a source was to be received with more than ordinary suspicion.

Long before the press had commenced directing an undesired notice upon the Queen, private circles were canvassing her conduct with regard, especially, to this matter of reform. "By-the-bye," says Moore in his Diary, "the Queen being, as is well known, adverse to the measure which is giving such popularity to her royal husband, reminds me a little of the story of the King of Sparta, who first gave his assent to the establishment of the Ephori. His wife, it is said, reproached him with this step, and told him that he was delivering down the royal power to his children, less than he had received it. 'Greater,' he answered, 'because more durable.' This is just such an answer as William the Fourth would be likely to give to his wife. But the event proved the Spartan Queen to have been right, for the Ephori extinguished the royal power; and if Queen Adelaide's bodings are of the same description, they are but too likely to be, in the same manner, realized," – a curious avowal from Lord Lansdowne's Whig friend.

There are few things which more forcibly strike a student of the political literature of this period, than its wide difference from that which now generally prevails. It seemed, in those days, as if no public writer could command or control his temper. The worst things were expressed in the worst forms, and writers had not reached, or did not care to practise, the better style by which a man may censure sharply without doing undue wrong to the object of his censure, without losing his own self-respect or forfeiting that of his readers.

Taken altogether, the year 1832 may be said to have been the most eventful, and the least felicitous, in the life of Queen Adelaide. It was a year which opened gloomily for the court, both politically and personally. At one of the small festivities held at the Pavilion, the King's old friend, Mr. Greenwood, of the firm of Cox and Greenwood, Army Agents, was playing whist, after dinner, with the Queen for a partner, and the King and Sir Herbert Taylor for adversaries. During the progress of the game he was taken ill, became insensible, and, on being removed from the room by Sir Herbert and Lord Erroll, died in an adjoining apartment, within a quarter of an hour. The Queen was very much shocked at this incident, and the elder ladies about court who thought it ominous of a fatal year, – for already were movements hostile to monarchy becoming active, – considered the next month's omen of unpleasant significance too, when the fog in London, on the night of the anniversary of the Queen's birth-day, was so dense, that not a lump of the illuminations was visible through the mist. Then ensued, in the subsequent spring, the unpleasant feud with the Sefton family, in which Queen Adelaide's name was so prominent.

Soon after the temporary resignation of the Grey ministry, King William invited the Jockey Club to dinner at St. James's Palace. Among the invited was old Lord Sefton, who was a Whig and something more, and who was resolved to avenge on the King the wrongs inflicted, as he assumed, by that dissembling monarch on his friends of the late administration. Lord Sefton, accordingly withdrew from the club, in order that he might be able to decline the royal invitation, as a member. The unsuspicious King at once invited him as a friend, but Lord Sefton was ungracious enough to absent himself, and did not condescend to restore the sovereign to favour, till Lord Grey was once more at the helm of the national ship, – steersman and captain too. His lordship and family appeared at the ball given by the Queen, in May to which, of course, they had been all invited. Meanwhile, however, the King had learned how he stood in the estimation of the Earl, meeting whom in the Queen's ball-room, he turned his royal back upon him, publicly. Thence arose embittered feelings on the part of the offended peer. Vivere sat, vincere, "to conquer, is to live enough," is the Sefton motto, and the bearers of it seem to have been determined to have this taste of life, by putting down the royal offenders, and appearing before them to enjoy their humiliation. "Lord Molyneux" (Lord Sefton's son, says Mr. Raikes, in his Diary,) "has attended a public meeting at Liverpool, where he made a speech, and actuated by his father's feelings, alluded very bitterly to the conduct of both the King and Queen. He afterwards came to town, and appeared, with his family, at the ball. On the following day, the King commanded Mr. W. Ashley, as vice-chamberlain to the Queen, to write to Lord Molyneux, and request he would not appear at court again. Nothing could be more just. This is only a slight instance," adds the Tory Diarist, "of Whig insolence and ingratitude. Sefton has been made a peer, and treated with the most marked courtesy and attention by the present King."

In the following June, Lord Lichfield, master of the buck hounds, prepared a list of guests invited by him to meet the King, at the conclusion of Ascot races; at dinner, at Lord Lichfield's house, Fern Hill. The King expressly ordered that Lord Sefton should not be invited. Considering the offence, it was singular that any one should have thought of winning the Queen over to use her interest in influencing her husband to withdraw the command. Lady Lichfield, however, did so, intimating to Her Majesty, that if the King had been moved by what was reported to have passed at the Jockey Club, she was enabled to say how that matter had been much misrepresented. The Queen confined all reply and comment to the words, coldly uttered, that, she hoped it was so.

It certainly was not a period when Queens could expect to be cordial with people who insulted them, and whose speeches in public were exercising a very unwholesome influence on the more ignorant of the lower orders. At the above very Ascot races, the King was grievously assaulted, in the Queen's presence, by a ruffian in the crowd. Their Majesties had just taken their seats in the grand stand, and the King had then risen to salute the people in view, when the ruffian in question flung a stone at him, which struck the King on the forehead, but did not inflict any serious mischief. The assailant was let cheaply off; but Queen Adelaide was much distressed by his act; and the impression it made upon her was only increased, a week later, when she appeared with the King at the review in Hyde Park. There she was treated with such incivility and rudeness, that at the fête, at the Duke of Wellington's, in the evening, where they held a little court, the Queen wore a spiritless and sorrowing aspect, while King William, his buoyant spirits all quenched, looked aged and infirm, weary of his vocation and vexations.

The season, certainly, was not one for monarchs to be abroad in, with joyous exterior. In the summer of this year, there passed through London a princess whose story bore with it a great moral to the wearers of crowns. I allude to the Duchess of Angoulême, the daughter of Louis XVI. She had experienced the widest extremes of fortune, but had been longest and most intimately acquainted with misfortune. She was again a fugitive and an exile, – one never destined to behold her country again. The Queen visited her at her modest apartments in Charles Street, Grosvenor Square; and she took leave of that illustrious victim of many revolutions, with evil forebodings of the issue of the spirit of the then present time. Her Majesty did not, indeed, lack a certain spirit of her own, wherewith to meet the other and revolutionary spirit. Thus, when her friend and faithful servant, Lord Howe, was compelled to give up his office of chamberlain to the Queen, his mistress would never accept the nomination of any other person to the same post. Lord Howe remained in attendance upon his mistress unofficially; but he positively refused to be reinstated by Lord Grey, to whom his reply was, "That he had been wantonly dismissed by him, and would receive no favour at his hands." The act of Lord Grey was, probably, far more keenly felt at court, than that of the two new radical members (Messrs. Wigney and Faithful) returned for the royal borough of Brighton; and who, "under the very nose of the court," as it was said, "talked openly of reducing the allowance made to the King and Queen." This was a foolish speech; but there was an even more indiscrete tongue within the Pavilion, than those of the new radical senators without. In 1833, the King himself declared in favour of a republican form of government! What must the feelings of Queen Adelaide have been, – she who had a horror of revolutions, and a hatred for republicanism, – on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday evening, the 6th of January, 1833? The American Minister was a guest at the dinner table that evening. At the dessert, the King, instead of wisely going to sleep, as he was accustomed to do after his second glass of wine, would be lively and talkative. When he was in this vein, he was addicted to make speeches, and on this occasion, before the ladies had retired, he delivered himself of a very notable one, considering the times and the speaker, in which he expressed his great regret that he had not been born a free, independent, American: seeing that he entertained deep respect for the United States, and considered Washington to be the greatest man that ever lived. Queen Adelaide must have been astounded when listening to this profession of political faith, and to this eulogy of a man who had struck the brightest jewel out of the crown of his panegyrist's royal father!

To old royalists, such a speech as the above savoured of that period which is called "the end of the world." Speculative individuals who heard of it, were amazed. "The aristocracy are hourly going down in the scale; royalty is become a mere cypher." Well might Mr. Raikes make this entry in his journal, when a King of England manifested a liking for "rowdyism." The influences of these passing events, even on men of intellect, are well marked by a contemporary passage in the diary of the merchant, whose commercial affairs were going the way he fancied the monarchy was tending. "I was walking the other day," he writes, in February 1833, "round the Royal Exchange, the enceinte of which is adorned with the statues of Kings. Only two niches now remain vacant; one is destined to our present ruler, and that reserved for his successor is the last. Some people might say it was ominous." So, indeed, it proved to be; half-a-year after the accession of Queen Victoria, when there were as many niches as there had then been sovereigns, and room for no more, destruction ensued, but it was the Royal Exchange that fell (by fire), and not the monarchy. That has grown stronger. May it ever so flourish!

Meanwhile, it is to be observed, that Queen Adelaide after this time began to re-conquer the popular esteem. When, in July 1834, she embarked at Woolwich as Countess of Lancaster, on board the royal yacht, for Rotterdam, in order to visit her relations in Germany, the spectators of the scene received her with demonstrations of great respect, and, on her return, in the following month, she landed at the same place amid acclamations of loyalty and welcome.

It was after her return that the King began to bear symptoms of restlessness and fatigue, which betokened that decay which gradually made progress, and was ultimately accelerated in 1837, when his daughter, Lady de Lisle, died to the grief of many, but especially to the heart of her father.

As the King's health began to give way, so also did his temper more easily yield before small provocations, and more freely did he indulge in that early acquired habit of using strong expletives which has been noted, in her diary, by Fanny Burney. William the Conqueror, it is said, used to ungallantly beat his wife, Matilda, of whom he was otherwise so fond. William the Fourth was guilty of an offence only next to it in criminality, – by swearing in presence of his Consort, Adelaide. There is a well-known instance of this told in connection with a visit to the Royal Academy, in 1834. The occasion was that of a private view, with a very large public attendance, at Somerset House. The President of the Royal Academy received the illustrious visitors, and accompanied them through the rooms. In the course of their progress, he pointed out to the King the portrait of Admiral Napier, who had recently been in command of the Portuguese fleet, for Don Pedro. The King's political wrath was too strong for his infirmity, and, without forgetting the presence of his wife, nay, making such presence an excuse for not breaking forth into greater unseemliness, he exclaimed: – "Captain Napier may be d – d, sir! and you may be d – d, sir! and if the Queen was not here, sir, I would kick you down stairs, sir." Such a scene indicated as much infirmity as bad taste on the part of the chief actor, and must have sorely tried the patience and shaken the dignity of the Queen. She now, perhaps, as much or more than ever, required the support of those nearest to her. The old prejudices of the reform time against her had not yet died out, and to these was to be added certain malignity in foreign papers; a malignity which culminated in 1835 in the "Gazette de France," which paper seriously asserted that England was endeavouring to revolutionize Spain and Portugal, with ulterior purposes of pursuing the same course in Germany and Italy, as she had done in Belgium and in Greece; – and that at the head of this conspiracy for reconstructing Europe, were William the Fourth, the Duke of Wellington, and Queen Adelaide! Thus, the lady who had seldom during her life desired more than to be permitted to enjoy it tranquilly, and who had but little perplexed herself touching the ways of others, was held up, after being accused of being a political meddler at home, as being a political conspirator abroad.

When her royal Consort's indisposition assumed an appearance of increased gravity, Queen Adelaide at once took her place by his couch, and never left it but when compelled by gentle restraint put upon her by those who loved her, and who feared for her own health. "Les reines" (says a French writer) "ont été vues pleurantes comme de simples femmes," and she was one of them. Her constancy only gave way, and she broke into profuse but silent tears, on the eve of the old King's death, as the Archbishop of Canterbury concluded the service of the sick, by pronouncing the solemn words of the benediction as contained in the Liturgy of the Church. The good old monarch looked with affection upon his sorrowing Queen, and with as cheerful a voice as he could put on, and almost in nautical phrase, begged her to be of good heart and to "bear up! bear up!"

The Rev. Mr. Browne, Vicar of Atwick, rendering testimony to her conduct on this occasion, said in a funeral sermon: "She was by the King's bedside, a being so full of devoted love and pious resignation: of such meekness, gentleness, and goodness, and sweetness; that an angel might have beheld her with satisfaction and delight, and, almost with advantage." She did her duty like a true wife and tender woman; and Mr. Browne thought that, altogether, Queen Adelaide might have afforded an useful hint or two even to angels! It is more than the good Queen ever dreamed of.

I do not know that I can cite a worthier witness to the Queen's conduct on this occasion, than the Archbishop of Canterbury. That reverend prelate was in close attendance upon the King during the last days of his life, in 1837, and in the course of his ministrations, saw more of Queen Adelaide than any other individual there present had the opportunity of doing. At a meeting of the Metropolitan Churches' Fund Society, the primate went fully, but tenderly and sensibly, into this solemn matter; and after rendering due, but not over-piled, measure of justice to the King, spoke in these words of his Consort: – "For three weeks prior to his dissolution, the Queen sat by his bedside, performing for him every office which a sick man could require, and depriving herself of all manner of rest and refection. She underwent labours which I thought no ordinary woman could endure. No language can do justice to the meekness and to the calmness of mind which she sought to keep up before the King, while sorrow was preying on her heart. Such constancy of affection, I think, was one of the most interesting spectacles that could be presented to a mind desirous of being gratified with the sight of human excellence."

The spectacle at the close was one most touching of all, for old King William, threescore and twelve, died at last in a gentle sleep, as he sat up on his couch, his head resting, where it had lain undisturbed for hours, on the shoulder of the Queen. Such had been her office at various times, daily, for the preceding fortnight; and when it shall have been a little more hallowed by time, it will be a fitting subject to be limned by some future artist, competent to treat it.

Since the death of Charles II., no King of England had died under the same roof with his wife; and then there was no such touching scene as the above, but only a few words of decent reconciliation before the royal pair parted for ever; and the wife, (leaving the husband to die at leisure and commend worthless women to his brother's protection) went to her chamber to receive the formal news of his death, and finally to receive the condolence of visitors, laying the while on a state bed of mourning, in a chamber lighted with tapers, the walls, floor, and ceiling covered with black cloth. Queen Adelaide stayed by her husband to the last, then laid his unconscious head upon the pillow, and quietly withdrawing to her chamber, looked for consolation to other sources than the visits of courtiers shaping their faces to the humour of the hour.

The respect of the royal widow for the deceased King did not cease here. On Saturday night, the 8th of July, she attended the funeral ceremony, at Windsor, being present in the royal closet during the whole ceremony. She is the only Queen of England who saw a King, her Consort, deposited in the tomb.

In the following month, the Dowager Queen left Windsor Castle, to which the shouts of a joyous people welcomed her successor. From that time, she may be said to have commenced her own course of dying. Her story is really, henceforward, but the diary of an invalid. The nation, through the legislature, condoled with her upon her bereavement, and as she descended the steps of the throne to resume her old unostentatious privacy, there was not a man in the realm who failed, in some wise, to greet her, or who did not acknowledge that she had borne greatness with honour, and had won the hearts of a people who had been once forward to censure her.

From this period, her life was one of suffering, but it was a suffering that never rendered her selfish. In her worst hours of anguish, her ear was open, her heart touched, her hand ready to relieve her sisters in affliction, and to remedy the distresses of all who really stood in need of the royal succour. For nearly twelve years she may be said to have been dying. The sunniest and most sheltered spots in this country were visited by her, but without resulting in permanent relief. The winter of 1837-8 was spent at St. Leonard's. An attack of bronchitis, in the autumn of the latter year, drove her for refuge and remedy to Malta, where the church raised by her at Valetta, – the cathedral church of Gibraltar, – at an expense of £10,000, will long serve to perpetuate her memory. On her return in May 1839, she became, for a time, the guest of various noble hosts in England. In 1840, she visited the lakes, and established her home, subsequently and for a brief period, at Sudbury. Her next homes, – the frequent changes indicating increased virulence of disease, – were at Canford Hall, Dorset; Witley Court, Worcester; and Cashiobury, near Watford: thence she departed on one short and last visit to her native home, from which she returned so ill that, in 1847, she repaired, as a last resource, to Madeira, whither she was conveyed in a royal frigate.

The progress of the sick Queen over the water, was not without its stateliness and solemnity, mixed with a certain joyousness, acceptable to, though not to be shared in by the royal invalid. Before the squadron departed from Spithead, on Sunday, the 10th of October, full divine service was celebrated on board the Howe, the ship's chaplain reading the prayers, the Queen Dowager's preaching the sermon, on a text altogether foreign to so rare and interesting an occasion: – "But now the righteousness of God without the law is manifested, being witnessed by the law and the prophets," (Rom. iii. 21.) After service, the squadron stood forth to sea, no incident marking its way till the following Tuesday. On that day, a bird winging from the Bay of Biscay, fluttered on to the Howe, perched on the yards, and then flew from one point to another, and back again, as if he had made of the gallant steamer a home. A sailor, named Ward, attempted to capture the little guest, in pursuing which into the chains, being more eager than considerate, he fell headlong over into the waves, while the Howe pursued her forward way. In an instant after alarm was given, however, the life-buoy was floating on the waters, a boat was pulling lustily towards the seaman, and the Howe slipped her tow ropes, and made a circuit astern to pick up rescued and rescuers. Ward, meanwhile, had by skilful swimming, gained fast hold of the buoy, and was brought on board little the worse for his plunge and his temporary peril. Queen Adelaide was more moved by this accident than the man was himself. On the following Sunday, the Queen was better able than she had previously been, to turn the accident to some account, for Ward's own benefit. Her Majesty had attended the usual service on board, and had listened to another sermon from the ship's chaplain, this time on a subject as unappropriate as that of the preceding Sunday: – "And almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission," (Heb. ix. 22), – the ship's company were repairing to their respective quarters, when Ward was told that the Queen Dowager requested to see him. If this message disconcerted him more than his fall into the Bay of Biscay, he soon recovered that self-possession which no man loses long, who has a proper feeling of self-respect. Besides, the widowed Queen, in her intercourse with persons of humble station, wore habitually that air —

" – which sets you at your ease, Without implying your perplexities."

She spoke to the listening sailor kindly, on his late peril, and the position in which it suddenly placed him near to impending death. A few words like these, wisely and tenderly offered, were likely to be more beneficial to a man like Ward, than a whole course of the chaplain's sermons on doctrinal points in the Epistle to the Hebrews; and I cannot but hope that the artists of the next generation, when Time shall have poetized the costume of the incident, will not forget this picturesque passage in the life of the Queen and the man-of-war's-man.

And now, as they glided by the coast of Portugal, on the evening of Monday, the 18th of October, there was dancing on board, and again on the Wednesday evening. Princesses waltzed with commanders, the Grand-Duchess tripped it on the poop with a knight, and the midshipmen went dashingly at it with the maids of honour, while the gun-room officers stood by awaiting their turn. On the fore part of the quarterdeck, as many of the ship's company as were so minded, got up a dance among themselves; and the suffering Queen below heard the echoes of the general gladness, and was content.