In 1761 not a more gorgeously attired queen, in presence of the public, was to be found than ours. But we learn that, in 1762, the first thing of which the Queen got positively weary was her jewels. At first, seeing herself endowed with them, her joy was girlish, natural, and unfeigned. But the gladness was soon over. It was the ecstacy of a week, as she herself said a quarter of a century later; and there was indifference at the end of a fortnight. ‘I thought at first,’ said she, ‘I should always choose to wear them; but the fatigue, and trouble of putting them on, and the care they required, and the fear of losing them; why, believe me, madam, in a fortnight’s time I longed for my own earlier dress and wished never to see them more.’

This was said to Miss Burney, subsequently her dresser and reader, who adds that the Queen informed her that dress and shows had never been things she cared for, even in the bloom of her youth; and that neatness and comfort alone gave her pleasure in herself as in others. The Queen confessed that ‘the first week or fortnight of being a Queen, when only in her seventeenth year, she thought splendour sufficiently becoming her station to believe she should choose thenceforth constantly to support it. But it was not her mind,’ says Miss Burney, ‘but only her eyes that were dazzled, and therefore her delusion speedily vanished, and her understanding was too strong to give it any chance of returning.’

This is pretty, but it has the disadvantage of not being exactly true. The Queen may have been indifferent for a while to the wearing or the value of diamonds, but later in life, if she did nurse a cherished passion, it was for these glittering gewgaws. The popular voice, at least, accused her of this passion, and before many years elapsed it was commonly said that no money was so sure to buy her favour as a present of diamonds. That she could, however, condescend to very simple tasks is well known. This is illustrated by her visit to Mrs. Garrick, at Hampton. The Queen found the ex-actress engaged in peeling onions, and Charlotte sat down, and, by helping her in her employment, saved her from the annoyance of being ashamed of it.

In 1763 the country hailed the advent of peace and the retirement of Lord Bute from office. The Queen’s popularity was greater than that of the King, and even men of extremely liberal politics greeted her ‘mild and tender virtues.’ She now encouraged trade by her splendid fêtes, and was one of those persons who, by enjoying festive grandeurs calmly, acquire a reputation for calmly despising them. In August 1763 she became the mother of a second prince, Frederick, afterwards Duke of York.

One of the first acts of the Queen, this same year, was a graceful act of benevolence. The young mother had thought and a heart for young orphans—of gentility. For parentless children of gentle blood she established a home in Bedfordshire. At the head of the house was placed a lady who, with many comforts, enjoyed the liberal salary of 500l. per annum. In return for this she superintended the instruction of the young ladies (who were not admitted till they had attained the age of fifteen—age of folly and of fermentation, as some one has called it) in embroidery. The first produce of their taste and toil was the property of their patroness, the young Queen, and was converted into ornaments for window curtains, chairs, sofas, and bed furniture for Windsor Castle and the ‘Queen’s House’ in St. James’s Park.

This was, perhaps, rather a calculating benevolence; but the Queen paid 500l. a year for fifty years for it, and her Majesty was not wanting in true charity. In a later period of her reign the middle classes of Windsor were thrown into much misery by the breaking of the bank there. Many individuals of the class alluded to held the 1l. notes of this bank; and the paper had now no more value than as paper. The Queen, on hearing the case, ordered her treasurer to give cash for these notes on their being presented, and this was done to the extent of 400l. Her daughters acted as clerks, and never was there so hilarious a run upon the bank as on this royal house at Windsor.

The year 1765 opened in some sense auspiciously—with a royal marriage. Caroline Matilda was the posthumous daughter of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and was born in July 1751. The terms of her marriage with Christian, Crown Prince of Denmark, were settled in January of this year; but, on account of the extreme youth of the contracting parties, they were not carried into effect until two years had elapsed. Meanwhile, the young bride, who had been remarkable for her beauty, grace, and elegance—and above all for her vivacity—seemed almost to fade away, so nervously anxious did she become as to the obligation by which she was bound and its possible results. Before the espousals were completed her affianced husband had become King of Denmark, and when Queen Charlotte congratulated her sister-in-law she little thought of the hard fate that was to follow upon the ceremony. As for the following year, it was a time of much anxiety and distress, and the people were scarcely good-humoured enough in 1765 to welcome the birth of a third prince, in the person of William Henry, afterwards Duke of Clarence.

The reports circulated at this time, to the effect that the Queen interfered in state affairs, were discredited by those who certainly did not lack the means of getting at the truth. The rumour appears to have been believed by Mr. Stanhope; but Lord Chesterfield, in writing to his son, and noticing his belief in the good foundation of such a rumour, says: ‘You seem not to know the character of the Queen; here it is. She is a good woman, a good wife, a tender mother, and an unmeddling queen. The King loves her as a woman, but I verily believe has never yet spoken one word to her about business.’

The reports regarding her were at once atrocious and absurd. They were the falser because they spoke of her having insisted on a repetition of her marriage ceremony with the King, and that the same was performed by Dr. Wilmot, at Kew Palace. The motive for this proceeding was ascribed to the alleged fact of the death of Hannah Lightfoot, with whom rumour was resolved that the King had been wedded, and that now a legal marriage might be solemnised between the Queen and himself. The atrocity of rumour was illustrated by a report that in consequence of an attack of illness which had affected, for a short time, the King’s mental faculties, the Queen, armed with a law which, in the case of an interruption in the exercise of the royal authority, gave a power of regency to her Majesty, or other members of the royal family, assisted by a council, had exercised the most unlimited sway over the national affairs, to the injury of the nation.

The only part of this which is true is where the King’s illness is referred to. That he had been mentally affected was not known beyond the palace, and to but a very few within it. He went with the Queen to Richmond in the month of April, announcing an intention to spend a week there; but, on the third day, he appeared unexpectedly at the levée held by the Queen. This was so contrived in order to prevent a crowd. He was at the drawing-room on the following day, and at chapel on Good Friday. He looked pale, but it was the fixed plan to call him well, and far-seeing people hoped that he was so. His health was considered as very precarious, but what was chiefly dreaded was—consumption.

He acted with promptitude in this matter, by going down to the House, and in an affecting and dignified spirit, urging the necessity of appointing a regency, in case of some accident happening to himself before the heir-apparent should become of age. The struggle on this bill was one of the most violent which had ever been carried on by two adverse factions. By a mere juggle practised on the King, the clauses of the bill passed by the Lords, after some absurd discussion as to what was meant by the ‘royal family,’ excluded his mother, the Princess-dowager of Wales, as though she were not a member of it. The struggle was as fierce in the Commons; for ministers dreaded lest, with the Princess-dowager, they might get her protégé, Lord Bute, for ‘King!’ The political antagonists professed a super-excellence of what they did not possess—patriotism; and after a battle of personalities, the name of the Princess-dowager was inserted next after that of the Queen (whom some were desirous to exclude altogether), as capable, with certain assistance named, of exercising the power of regency, and the Lords adopted the bill which came to them thus amended.

The Queen, it is hardly necessary to observe, had no opportunity under this bill to exercise any present power, had she been ever so inclined. It was only in after years that her enemies made the accusation against her, when they wanted the memory which mendacious persons are said to chiefly require. With respect to the desired omission of the name of the King’s mother from the regency, it was fixing on her a most unmerited stigma. The attempt to prove that she was not of the royal family was to say, in other words, that she was not akin to her own son. It is not known whether the Queen herself thought so, nor did people care what a fiction of law might say thereupon. The Princess-dowager’s name was placed next to that of Queen Charlotte in the new Regency bill.

There is little more of personal detail connected with the Queen this year that is of much interest. Her eldest son already wore a long list of titles, had been honoured with the Order of the Garter, and returned brief answers to loyal deputations. He was born twice a duke, once an earl and baron, and Lord High Steward of Scotland. He was Duke of Cornwall and Rothsay, Earl of Carrick, and Baron of Renfrew; and a few days after his birth his mother smilingly laid upon his lap the patent whereby he was created Prince of Wales. His brother Frederick had been, ere he could speak, named Bishop of Osnaburgh; and Queen and King were equally hurt by the ‘Chapter,’ who acknowledged their diocesan, but refused to entrust to him the irresponsible guardianship of the episcopal funds. The Queen’s thoughts were drawn away from this matter, for a moment, by the birth (already noticed) of William Henry, on the 21st of August—the second of her children destined to ascend the throne. This was the little prince who so delighted the good Mrs. Chapone, and by his engaging ways won the heart of Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Winchester.

But while some princes were flourishing, others were fading. The health of the Duke of Cumberland, the dearly loved son of Caroline, had long been precarious. As early as April in this year his favourite sister, Amelia, residing at Gunnersbury, had felt much alarm on his account. ‘The Duke of Cumberland is actually set out for Newmarket to-day; he, too, is called much better, but it is often as true of the health of princes as of their prisoners, that there is little distance between each and their graves. There has been lately a fire at Gunnersbury which burned four rooms; her servants announced it to Princess Amelia with that wise precaution of “Madam, do not be frightened!”—accordingly, she was terrified. When they told her the truth, she said, “I am very glad; I had expectation my brother was dead.”’46 The expectation seemed natural. A few months more only were to elapse before he who was so over-praised for his generalship at Culloden, and so over-censured for his severity after it, was summoned to depart.