A QUEEN OF TEARS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE LOVE OF AN UNCROWNED QUEEN:

SOPHIE DOROTHEA, CONSORT OF GEORGE I., AND HER CORRESPONDENCE WITH PHILIP CHRISTOPHER, COUNT KONIGSMARCK.

New and Revised Edition.

With 24 Portraits and Illustrations.
8vo., 12s. 6d. net.

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.,
LONDON, NEW YORK AND BOMBAY.

Queen Matilda in the uniform of Colonel of the Holstein Regiment of Guards.
After the painting by Als, 1770.

A QUEEN OF TEARS

CAROLINE MATILDA, QUEEN OF DENMARK AND NORWAY AND PRINCESS OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND

BY

W. H. WILKINS
M.A., F.S.A.

Author of “The Love of an Uncrowned Queen,” and “Caroline the Illustrious, Queen Consort of George II.”

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

IN TWO VOLUMES
Vol. II.

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1904

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

1771.

Struensee had now reached the highest pinnacle of power, but no sooner did he gain it than the whole edifice, which he had reared with consummate care, began to tremble and to rock; it threatened to collapse into ruins and involve in destruction not only the man who built it, but those who had aided him in the task. The winter of 1770-1771 had been a very severe one in Denmark, and the harvest of the summer that followed was very bad. In the country there was great distress, and in Copenhagen trade languished, largely in consequence of the new order of things at court, which had caused so many of the nobles to shut up their town houses and retire to their estates. The clergy did not hesitate to say that the bad harvest and the stagnation of trade were judgments of heaven upon the wickedness in high places. The nobles declared that until the kingdom were rid of Struensee and his minions, things would inevitably go from bad to worse. In every class there was discontent; the people were sullen and ripe for revolt; the navy was disaffected, and the army was on the verge of mutiny. All around were heard mutterings of a coming storm. But Struensee, intoxicated by success, would not heed, and so long as he was sure of himself no one dared to dispossess him.

The rats were already leaving the sinking ship. Rantzau was the first to break away; he had never forgiven either Struensee or the Queen for having so inadequately (as he considered) rewarded his services. He had expected a more prominent post in the Government, and failing this had demanded that his debts, which were very heavy, should be paid. But to his amazement and anger, Struensee had refused. Rantzau was jealous of the Privy Cabinet Minister for having arrogated to himself all power and all authority. He could not forget that this upstart favourite, this ex-doctor, had been a creature of his own making, employed by him not so long ago for base purposes, and he hated and despised him with a bitterness proverbial when thieves fall out. Rantzau had often traversed the dark and slippery paths of intrigue, and, finding that nothing more was to be got from the party in power, he resolved to traverse them once again. Not being burdened with consistency, this time they led him in the direction of the exiled Bernstorff, whom he had been instrumental in overthrowing. It seemed to him that if Bernstorff would but return to Copenhagen, supported as he was by the powerful influence of Russia and England, and the whole body of the Danish nobility, Struensee would surely be overthrown. But Bernstorff, though he lamented the evil days that had fallen upon Denmark, refused to have anything to do with a scheme in which Rantzau was concerned. “He knows,” said Bernstorff, “that I cannot trust him, and I would rather remain here in exile than return to office through his means.”

Rantzau then determined on another plan; he shook the dust of the Struensee administration off his feet; he took formal leave of the King and Queen while they were at Hirschholm, and ostentatiously went to live in retirement. This was only a preparatory move, for he now determined to gain the confidence of the Queen-Dowager and her party, to which he felt he naturally belonged. After all he was the inheritor of a great and an ancient name, and his family was one of the most considerable in the kingdom. His place was rather with the nobles, who were his equals, than in filling a subordinate position in the councils of a mountebank minister. The Queen-Dowager, like Bernstorff, listened to all that Rantzau had to say, but, unlike Bernstorff, she did not repulse him. On the other hand, she refused to commit herself to any definite plan, for she knew well the character of Rantzau as a liar and traitor. He was the very man to carry out some desperate attempt, but Juliana Maria had not yet made up her mind whether her cause would be better won by waiting or by a coup d’état. At present she was inclined to agree with Catherine of Russia, who repeatedly said that if Struensee had rope enough he would hang himself before long, and so save others the trouble.

Osten also had differences with Struensee, which at one time he carried to the point of sending in his resignation.[1] But he was “told that his services in the post he now filled could not be dispensed with, that he was not only useful but necessary, and that he might be assured his remonstrances would always have their weight”.[2] So Osten, though he hated and despised Struensee quite as much as Rantzau did, consented to remain, and, wily diplomatist that he was, performed the difficult task of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. For he saw more clearly than any one that the present administration could not last long, and he therefore determined, while taking all he could get from Struensee, to put himself in the right with the other side, so that when Struensee’s ship went down in the tempest, he would ride on the crest of the wave. To this end he paid assiduous court to the English and Russian envoys, though careful to keep on good terms with those of France and Sweden. He also managed to convey to the Queen-Dowager and her party the idea that he wished them well, and that he only remained in his present post under protest, for the good of the country.

[1] Gunning’s despatch, Copenhagen, June 15, 1771.

[2] Ibid.

General Gahler, the minister for war, was also disaffected, and had frequent quarrels with Struensee on matters connected with the army. But Gahler was too deeply committed to Struensee’s policy to make any course possible to him except that of resignation. And Gahler was reluctant to resign, not only because he was a poor man and loved the emoluments of office, but also because his wife was a great friend of the Queen, and one of the ladies of her household. Both Osten and Gahler from time to time remonstrated with the arbitrary minister on the wanton way in which he stirred up public feeling against his administration, and counselled more conciliatory policy; but Struensee would not hear.

Even Brandt, whom Struensee trusted absolutely, and whom he had loaded with benefits, was jealous and discontented, and ready at any moment to betray his friend if thereby he could benefit himself. Brandt was greatly dissatisfied with his position, though Reverdil had relieved him of his most onerous duties, and said with regard to some reproaches he had received from the Queen, “that alone is hell”. He made so many complaints to Struensee that the Minister requested him to formulate them in writing. Brandt then addressed him a lengthy letter in which he complained bitterly of Struensee’s interference in his department at the court, which, he declared, rendered him contemptible in the eyes of all. He told Struensee that his was a reign of terror. “No despot ever arrogated such power as yourself, or exercised it in such a way. The King’s pages and domestics tremble at the slightest occurrence: all are seized with terror; they talk, they eat, they drink, but tremble as they do so. Fear has seized on all who surround the Minister, even on the Queen, who no longer has a will of her own, not even in the choice of her dresses and their colour.” He also complained that Struensee compelled him to play cards with the King and Queen, with the result that he lost heavily, and his salary was thereby quite insufficient. He therefore requested permission to leave the Danish court, and resign all his offices in consideration of the yearly pension of five thousand dollars a year. With this handsome annuity he proposed to live in Paris and enjoy himself. He also asked for estates in Denmark to sustain his dignity as count. His letter ended with a covert threat that if his requests were not granted it was possible that he might be drawn into a plot against Struensee, or put an end to an intolerable position by “poison or steel”.[3]

[3] This letter is still preserved in the archives of Copenhagen. It is not worth while quoting it in full.

THE ROSENBORG CASTLE, COPENHAGEN.

This letter was not only very insolent, but also incoherent, and showed every sign of an unbalanced mind. Yet Struensee, who apparently cherished a peculiar tenderness for Brandt, treated the epistle quite seriously, and instead of dismissing him from court, as he might well have done, he replied in a lengthy document which almost assumed the importance of a state paper. He traced the whole of Brandt’s discontent to his amour with Countess Holstein, whom he disliked and distrusted. He justified his interference in court matters on the ground that Countess Holstein and Brandt together had introduced changes which were displeasing to the Queen, and with respect to the Queen’s dresses he wrote: “The Queen, though a lady, is not angry with me when I recommend retrenchment in respect to her wardrobe.” With regard to Brandt’s losses at cards, he replied that loo was the only game the King and Queen liked, and therefore it was impossible to change it, and if Brandt and Countess Holstein did not understand the game and consequently lost, he recommended them either to learn it better or put on more moderate stakes. He took no notice of Brandt’s demand for a pension, but he declared that neither for him, nor for himself, would he ask the King to grant estates to maintain their new dignities. Brandt received Struensee’s letter with secret anger and disgust. The minister’s evident wish to conciliate him he regarded as a sign of weakness, and he immediately began to plot against his friend.

Thus it will be seen that Struensee’s colleagues were all false to him, and were only waiting an opportunity to betray him. The Queen still clung to him with blind infatuation, and lived in a fool’s paradise, though her court was honeycombed with intrigues and she was surrounded with spies and enemies. Even her waiting women were leagued against her. They sanded the floor of the passage from Struensee’s chamber to the Queen’s at night, that they might see the traces of his footsteps in the morning; they put wax in the lock, and listened at the keyhole; they laid traps at every turn, and the unconscious Queen fell readily into them. All these evidences of her indiscretion were carefully noted, and communicated to the Queen-Dowager at Fredensborg. In Copenhagen and in the country the discontent daily grew greater, and the boldness of Struensee’s enemies more and more manifest. In giving freedom to the press he had forged a terrible weapon for his own undoing, and papers and pamphlets continually teemed with attacks on the hated minister. Threatening and abusive letters reached him daily, coarse and scurrilous attacks were placarded on the walls of the royal palaces, and even thrown into the gardens at Hirschholm, that the Queen and Struensee might see them on their daily walks.

When such efforts were made to fan the embers of popular discontent, it is no wonder that they soon burst into a flame. The first outbreak came in this wise. An inglorious and expensive naval war against the Dey of Algiers, inherited from the Bernstorff administration, was still being prosecuted, and Struensee had ordered new ships to be constructed, and sent to Norway for sailors to man them. Such was the maladministration of the navy department that the work proceeded very slowly, and the Norwegian sailors who had been brought to Copenhagen wandered about in idleness, waiting for the vessels to be finished. The Government, with manifest injustice, would neither give these sailors their pay nor allow them to return to their homes. The only effect of their remonstrances was that the dockyard men were ordered to work on Sundays so that the vessels might be finished sooner. The dockyard men asked for double pay if they worked on Sundays, and this being refused, they struck off work altogether, and joined the ranks of the unemployed sailors, who had been waiting eight weeks for their pay, and were almost starving. The Norwegians had always taken kindly to the theory of the absolute power of the King. Their political creed was very simple: first, that the King could do no wrong, and secondly, that he must be blindly obeyed. It therefore followed naturally that, if an act of injustice like the present one were committed, it must be committed by the King’s subordinates, and not by himself, and he had only to know to set matters right. Having petitioned the Government repeatedly without receiving any redress, they determined to take matters in their own hands. Early in September a body of Norwegian sailors, to the number of two hundred, set out from Copenhagen for Hirschholm with the resolution of laying their grievance before the King in person, in the confident hope that they would thus obtain redress.

When the sailors drew near to Hirschholm the wildest rumours spread through the court, and the greatest panic prevailed. It was thought to be an insurrection, and the mutineers were reported to be swarming out from Copenhagen to seize the King and Queen, loot the palace, and murder the Minister. The guard was called out and the gates were barred, and a courier despatched to Copenhagen for a troop of dragoons. At the first sound of alarm the King and Queen, Struensee, Brandt, and the whole court, fled by a back door across the gardens to Sophienburg, about two miles distant. Here they halted for a space, while the Queen and Struensee seriously debated whether they should continue their flight to Elsinore, and seek refuge behind the stout walls of the ancient fortress of Kronborg. Eventually they resolved first to despatch an aide-de-camp back to Hirschholm to reconnoitre, and to parley with the supposed insurgents. The aide-de-camp, who was a naval officer, met the malcontents outside the palace gates, and was surprised to see no mutineers, but only a body of Norwegian sailors, whose sufferings and deprivations were clearly marked upon their countenances. He asked them what they wanted. “We wish to speak with our little father, the King,” was the reply; “he will hear us and help us.” The aide-de-camp galloped back with this message to Sophienburg, but Struensee thought it was a trap, and made the officer return and say that the King was out hunting.

The sailors replied that they did not believe it, and prepared to force their way into the palace that they might see the King face to face; the guard, which had now been reinforced by a troop of dragoons, tried to drive them back. The sailors, whose intentions had been quite peaceful, now laid hands on their knives, and declared that they would defend themselves if the soldiers attacked them. Fortunately the aide-de-camp was a man of resource, and resolved to act on his own initiative and avoid bloodshed; he saw that the men were not insurgents. He made a feint to go back and presently came out of the palace again and announced that he had a message to them from the King. His Majesty commanded him to say that if his loyal sailors would return quietly, he would see justice done to them. With this the sailors professed themselves to be content, and they walked back to Copenhagen as peacefully as they had come. The promise was kept, and more than kept, for the sailors, on their return to Copenhagen, were treated with spirits, temporarily appeased by a payment on account, and all their arrears were settled a few days later. The aide-de-camp had gone again to Sophienburg and told Struensee that this was the only way to pacify them, and a courier had been sent in haste from Hirschholm to the admiralty at Copenhagen to order these things to be done, for Struensee was by this time frightened into promising anything and everything.

When the sailors had gone and quiet was restored, Struensee was persuaded to return to Hirschholm, but only after great difficulty; the guard round the palace was doubled, and the dragoons patrolled all night, for Struensee greatly feared that the sailors would shortly return more furious and better armed. The Queen, who was determined, whatever happened, not to abandon her favourite, ordered that her horses should be kept saddled and in readiness, so that at the first sign of tumult she might fly with him and the King to Kronborg. She went to bed in disorder, had her riding-habit laid in readiness by the side of the bed, and in the middle of the night rose to have her jewellery packed up. Struensee was in abject terror all night, and would not go to bed at all. With the morning light came reflection and renewed courage, and then the court was ashamed of the panic it had shown, and did the best to conceal it; but the news travelled to Copenhagen.

The way in which Struensee had capitulated to the demand of the Norwegian sailors on the first hint of tumult led other bodies of men, whose claims were less just, to have their demands redressed in a similar way. Therefore, a fortnight later a body of some hundred and twenty silk-weavers proceeded on foot from Copenhagen to Hirschholm to complain that they were starving because the royal silk factories had been closed. Again the alarmed minister yielded, and orders were given that work in the factories should be continued, at least until the silk-weavers could obtain other employment. These demonstrations roused the fear that others would follow, and the guard at Hirschholm was increased, and soldiers were now posted round the palace and the gardens day and night. For the first time in the history of the nation the King of Denmark lived in a state of siege for fear of his own people.

Keith wrote home on the subject of the recent disturbances: “The general discontent here seems to gain strength daily, and the impunity which attended the tumultuous appearances of the Norwegian sailors at Hirschholm has encouraged the popular clamours (which are no more restrained by the nature of this Government) to break out in such indecent representations and publications as even threaten rebellion....

“I pray Heaven that all lawless attempts may meet with the punishment they deserve, and I sincerely trust they will. But if, unfortunately, it should happen that the populace is ever stirred up to signalise their resentment against its principal objects, the Counts Struensee and Brandt, your Lordship will not be surprised if the vengeance of a Danish mob should become cruel and sanguinary.”[4]

[4] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, September 25, 1771.

The “indecent representations and publications” became so bad that Struensee was provoked into revoking his former edict and issuing a rescript to the effect that, as the press had so grossly abused the liberty granted to it by foul and unjustifiable attacks on the Government, it would again be placed under strict censorship. This edict had the effect of stopping the direct attacks upon Struensee in the papers; but the scribblers soon found a way of evading the censorship by attacking their foe indirectly, and bitter pasquinades were issued, of which, though no names were mentioned, every one understood the drift. For instance, one of the leading publications, The Magazine of Periodical Literature, propounded the following questions for solution: “Is it possible that a woman’s lover can be her husband’s sincere friend and faithful adviser?” and again: “If the husband accepts him as his confidant, what consequences will result for all three, and for the children?” The answers to these questions contained the fiercest and most scurrilous attacks on the Queen and Struensee, under the cover of general and abstract statements.

The alarm which the Norwegian sailors had caused Struensee was followed by the discovery of a plot against his life which increased his terror. There were about five thousand men employed in the Government dockyards at Copenhagen as ship-builders and labourers of every description. These men were also dissatisfied at the changes which had lately been introduced into the naval department, and their attitude for some time had been sullen and mutinous. To punish them for their discontent Struensee had excluded them from the festivities on the King’s last birthday, but now, fearing another outbreak, more formidable than that of the Norwegian sailors, he swung round to the other extreme, and determined to give these dockyard men a feast of conciliation in the grounds of Frederiksberg to compensate them for the loss of their perquisites on the King’s birthday. September 29 was the day chosen for the fête, and it was announced that the King and Queen, the Privy Cabinet Minister and all the court would drive over from Hirschholm to honour the gathering with their presence. The corps diplomatique were invited to meet their Majesties, and a detachment of the new Flying Body Guard was told off to form the royal escort.

The fête was favoured with fine weather, and the day was observed as a day of gala; the dockyard men, with their wives and children, and drums beating and banners flying, went in procession to the gardens of Frederiksberg, where they were lavishly regaled. Oxen were roasted whole, and sheep, pigs, geese, ducks and fowls were also roasted and distributed. Thirty tuns of beer were broached, a quart of rum was given to each man, a pipe of tobacco and a day’s wages. After dinner there were games, dancing and music. All day long the revellers waited for the coming of the King and Queen, but they waited in vain.

In the morning, at Hirschholm, the King and Queen made themselves ready and were about to start, when a rumour reached the palace that a plot had been formed to assassinate Struensee at the festival. Immediately all was confusion. The King and Queen retired to their apartments, and Struensee summoned Brandt and Falckenskjold to a hurried conference. Falckenskjold urged Struensee to treat the rumour as baseless, go to the festival and present an unmoved front to the people. This display of personal courage would do more than anything else to give the lie to the rumours of his cowardice at Hirschholm, and now that he was forewarned he could be safely guarded. Nothing would induce Struensee to go; he shuddered at the slightest hint of assassination. Falckenskjold then advised him cynically, as he was so much afraid, to be more careful in the future how he stirred up his enemies, or he might find himself not only dismissed from office and disgraced, but dragged to the scaffold on a charge of high treason. Struensee said such a charge was impossible, as he had done nothing without the consent of the King. “Well, at any rate see that your papers are in order,” said Falckenskjold significantly. “My papers are arranged,” Struensee replied; “on that account I have nothing to fear, if my enemies will only behave fairly in other respects.” Brandt also joined in urging Struensee to modify some of his more objectionable measures, and attempt to conciliate his enemies. But Struensee, though he trembled at the mere hint of personal violence, was obstinate as to this. “No,” he said emphatically; “I will withdraw nothing which in my belief promotes the welfare of the state.” “The time will come,” said Brandt emphatically, “when you will have to yield.” Struensee went to see the Queen, and shortly after a message came countermanding all orders, as neither the King nor the Queen would attend the festival.

The dockyard men were much disappointed at the non-appearance of their Majesties, and their disappointment was changed to indignation when they learned that it was fear which kept them at Hirschholm. It seemed incredible that the King of Denmark should distrust his own people. The King, in point of fact, did not distrust them; he showed himself quite indifferent whether he went to Frederiksberg or stayed at home; it was Struensee who feared for himself, and the Queen who feared for her favourite. The proceedings at Frederiksberg passed off without any disturbance, though the dockyard men jestingly remarked that the ox sacrificed for them was not the ox they had been promised—an allusion to Struensee’s corpulence. Struensee probably showed discretion in keeping away from the festival, for there was a deep-laid plot to capture him, alive or dead, when he mingled with the crowd.[5]

[5] In 1774 Baron Bülow gave Mr. Wraxall a detailed account of the plot to murder Struensee and his partisans on this occasion.—Wraxall’s Posthumous Memoirs.

The terror and irresolution displayed by Struensee were quite foreign to the character before conceived of him both by friends and foes. “I have begun to see his character in a different light from that in which it appeared formerly,”[6] writes Keith; and again: “It has been whispered about that, upon the late disturbances, he betrayed some unexpected signs of personal fear, and the natural result of this suspicion is to loosen the attachment of the persons whom he has trusted, and to diminish that awe which is necessary for the maintenance of his unbounded authority.”[7]

[6] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, September, 1771.

[7] Ibid.

Struensee’s cowardice, now twice proved, dealt a fatal blow to his prestige: the man of iron had feet of clay; the despotic minister, “the man mountain,” whose reign, according to Brandt, was based on the terror he inspired, was himself stricken with craven fears. It seemed inconceivable that a man who had dared everything, and braved every risk to gain power, should, the moment he reached the goal of his ambition, reveal himself a poltroon. For two years Struensee had shown an unmoved front to the threats of his enemies; for two years he had carried his life in his hand; but now the mere hint of insurrection, or assassination, made him tremble and cower behind the skirts of the Queen. This inconsistency has never been satisfactorily explained in any of the books written on Struensee and his administration. His admirers pass it over as lightly as possible. His enemies say that it reveals the man in his true colours as a sorry rogue; but this theory will not hold, for the courage and resource which Struensee showed all through his career until the last few months give it the lie. The key to the mystery is probably to be found in physical causes.

Struensee was still a young man as statesmen go; he was only thirty-four years of age—an age when most men are entering upon the prime and full vigour of their manhood—and he came of a healthy stock; but the herculean labours of the last two years had told upon him. No man could overthrow ministers, reform public offices, formulate a new code of laws, and change the whole policy of a kingdom without feeling the strain. For two years Struensee had been working at high pressure, toiling early and late. He left little or nothing to subordinates; his eagle eye was everywhere, and not a detail escaped him, either in the Government or in the court. He was a glutton for work, and gathered to himself every department of the administration. No step could be taken without his approval; no change, however slight, effected until it had first been submitted to him. We have seen how Osten complained that Struensee meddled in his department; we have seen how Brandt complained that even the comedies and dances, the colour and shape of the Queen’s dresses, had to receive the dictator’s approval. It was not humanly possible that any man, even though he were a “beyond-man,” could work at this pitch for any length of time. He could not do justice to matters of high policy and government, and supervise every petty detail of a court; either one or the other must suffer, and with Struensee the more important, in the long run, went to the wall. He lost his sense of the proportion of things, and became burdened with a mass of detail. It was not only the work which suffered, but the man himself; overstrained, he lost his balance, overwrought, he lost his nerve. To this must be ascribed the fatal errors which characterised the last few months of his administration. To this and his self-indulgence.

It was almost impossible that a man could work at so high a pressure without injury; it could only be possible if he took the greatest heed of himself, carefully guarded his bodily health, and led a regular and abstemious life. Two of Struensee’s greatest contemporaries, who achieved most in the world, Frederick the Great and Catherine the Great, were careful to lead simple, abstemious lives;[8] but Struensee was by nature a voluptuary, and he lived the life of the senses as well as the life of the intellect. In early years he had to check this tendency to some extent, for he lacked the means to purchase his pleasures; but when, by an extraordinary turn of fortune’s wheel, he found himself raised from obscurity to power, from poverty to affluence, with the exchequer of a kingdom at his disposal, and unlimited means whereby to gratify every wish, he gave full rein to his appetites. He was a gourmand; the dishes which came to the royal table were made to tickle his palate, and what he did not like was not served, for this mighty minister even superintended the cuisine, and took a pleasure therein. Rich food called for rare vintages, and the choicest wines in the royal cellar were at Struensee’s disposal. He did not stint himself either with food or drink; he was a wine-bibber as well as a glutton, and habitually ate and drank more than was good for him. All his life he had been a scoffer at morality, and now he deliberately made use of his opportunities to practise what he preached. In fine, when he was not at work, his time was spent in the gratification of carnal pleasures. He never took any real rest; a few hours’ sleep, generally not begun until long after midnight, were all he allowed himself, and the moment his eyes opened he was at work again. The result of this excess, both in work and pleasure, was a nervous breakdown; he became corpulent and flabby, his physical and mental health was shattered, and he was no longer able to keep that firm grasp upon affairs which the position he had arrogated to himself demanded from the man at the helm. He relaxed his hold, and the ship of state, which he had built with so much care, began to drift rapidly and surely towards destruction. In the royal archives at Copenhagen may be seen many specimens of Struensee’s signature which he inscribed upon documents during his brief rule, and in the last months of his administration this signature is no longer bold and firm, but wavering and disjointed, as though written with a trembling hand. This was accounted for at the time by the statement that Struensee had hurt his wrist in a heavy fall from his horse, while riding with the Queen at Hirschholm towards the end of September. But the cause probably lay deeper than that, and the trembling signature was an evidence of the rapidly failing powers of the man, who, until he showed fear at the arrival of the handful of sailors at Hirschholm, had been considered almost superhuman.

[8] Catherine the Great, of course, broke her rule in one respect, but then she was an exception of all rules.

STRUENSEE.
From the Painting by Jens Juel, 1771, now in the possession of Count Bille-Brahe.

This theory of physical collapse also explains much that is otherwise inexplicable in the closing days of Struensee’s career. When, by royal decree, he had arrogated to himself the kingly authority, and wielded without let or hindrance absolute power, it was thought that he would use this power to complete the work he had begun, and to revolutionise the whole political government of the kingdoms. But, to the astonishment of all, Struensee did nothing; the power lay idle in hands that seemed half-paralysed, or only showed intermittent signs that it existed by some feeble revocation of previous acts, as, for instance, the re-imposition of the censorship of the press.

As Keith wrote: “It would seem as if the genius of the Prime Minister had wasted itself by the hasty strides he made to gain the summit of power. Daily experience shows us that he has formed no steady plan either with regard to the interior affairs of Denmark or her foreign connections. From such a man it was natural to expect that the most decisive and even headlong acts would distinguish an administration of which he had the sole direction; instead of which, the business accumulates in every department of the state, and only a few desultory steps have been taken, which lead to no important or permanent consequences.”[9]

[9] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, September 20, 1771.

To the same cause must be attributed the apathy with which Struensee regarded the treachery of his followers, and the increased activity of his enemies. Though beset by dangers on every side, he disregarded alike warnings and entreaties, and drifted on to his doom. It is true that this indifference was broken by spasms of unreasoning panic; but the moment the threatened peril had passed he fell back into apathy again.

CHAPTER II.

THE GATHERING STORM.

1771.

The Queen’s love for Struensee was not lessened by the discovery that her idol had feet of clay, but she lost some of her blind faith in his power to mould all things to his will. She once told her ladies that “If a woman truly loved a man, she ought to follow him, even though it were to hell”; it seemed likely that her words would before long be put to the test. During those autumn days at Hirschholm, when the popular discontent seethed to the very doors of the palace, the Queen came out of her fool’s paradise and realised that she and her favourite were living on a volcano that might at any moment erupt and overwhelm them. She frequently discussed with her court, half in jest and half in earnest, what they should do when the catastrophe came. Once at the royal table the Queen laughingly suggested to her friends the advisability of all taking flight together, and each began to consider what he, or she, would do to gain a livelihood in exile. The Queen, who had a very sweet voice, and played on the harpsichord, said she would turn singer, for she was sure by that means she would never starve. Struensee said he would take a lonely farm, and devote himself to agriculture and the consolations of philosophy. Brandt said he should turn his dramatic talents to use, and become the acting manager of a theatre. “And as for you, my fair lady,” he said to one of the Queen’s ladies, probably Madame Gahler, “with your peerless form, you need do nothing, but simply sit as a model for artists.” The lady winced, and the rest of the company laughed, for it was known, though she was very beautiful, that she had a defect in her figure, which she was at great pains to conceal. Despite this levity in public, they were all secretly uneasy, and brooded much over the situation in private. Except the Queen, who thought only of Struensee, each one sought how he might save himself—if necessary at the expense of his fellows.

Struensee was thrown into a fresh panic by the appearance of a placard setting a price upon his head, which was posted up by night in the principal street of Copenhagen, and ran:—

“As the traitor Struensee continues to ill-treat our beloved King, to mock his faithful subjects, and to seize with force and injustice more and more of the royal authority, which the Danish people have entrusted to their King alone, this Struensee and his adherents are hereby declared outlawed. The man who puts an end to this traitor’s life shall receive five hundred dollars reward, his name kept secret, and a royal pardon granted him.”[10]

[10] Translated from the original document now preserved in the royal archives at Copenhagen.

According to Keith this placard was probably a hoax, but it had a dire effect upon Struensee. “A paper,” Keith writes, “was fixed up in the public squares of this city, setting a price upon his head, and this stratagem—for I can only look upon it as such—had like to have produced a very strange effect, as I am assured for some days he was preparing to leave Denmark, and that the appearance of fifty men in a threatening manner would have decided his flight.”[11] But Keith was far more prejudiced against Struensee than Gunning was, and he may have exaggerated.

[11] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, November 18, 1771.

Struensee at this time certainly considered the possibility of flight; he spoke to Reverdil on the subject, and declared that he was only prevented by his devotion to the Queen, who, if he deserted her, would again become the victim of intrigue. But probably Brandt’s reasoning weighed more with him. “Whither would you go,” said Brandt, “where you would be Prime Minister and favourite of a Queen?” Whither indeed? Struensee’s enemies sought to frighten him into resignation. But they little knew their man. He would cling to office and power until they were wrenched from his grasp. Thinking himself secure behind the shelter of the Queen he did not heed the plots of the Queen-Dowager and the nobles against his authority. What he dreaded was assassination, or an insurrection of the people. Keith, a foreigner, took something of the same view: “The persons who are most incensed against this Ministry,” he wrote, “seem both by their principles and their timidity inclined to pursue their ends by dark and secret methods, and if they are to succeed at all, it must be by seizing a moment of popular frenzy and striking their blow all at once.”[12] Brandt, though he counselled Struensee to stay, was really very uneasy at the aspect of affairs: “I wish all this would come to an end,” he said one day to Falckenskjold, “for I have a foreboding that this regime will soon be overthrown.” “You will fare badly if it is,” replied Falckenskjold. “Oh,” said Brandt, “I have studied law, and shall be able to take care of myself.”

[12] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, September, 1771.

It was a pity that Brandt’s knowledge of law did not prevent him from committing an act which the law of Denmark punished with death, and which, in any case, was cowardly and brutal. Allusion has been made to the fact that the King and Brandt frequently quarrelled, and, though, since the arrival of Reverdil, Brandt was relieved of some of his more onerous duties, he was still on bad terms with the King. One morning at the Queen’s déjeuner, the King, who rarely joined in the conversation, suddenly, without provocation, shouted across the table to Brandt: “You deserve a good thrashing, and I will give you one. I am speaking to you, Count. Do you hear?” The incident created an unpleasant sensation among the company, but Brandt, with his usual presence of mind, ignored the affront, and turned the conversation to other channels. After breakfast Struensee and the Queen took the King aside, and rebuked him sharply, but the King only said: “Brandt is a coward if he refuses to fight with me.” He also told Brandt he was a cur, and afraid to accept his challenge. It had always been one of the King’s manias, even in his comparatively sane years, to try his strength with his attendants. He had frequently fought with Holck and Warnstedt, and also with Moranti, the negro boy, and they had consented to act on the defensive at his request, with the result that he was always permitted to come off conqueror. The game was a perilous one for the other combatant, for the King sometimes hit hard; on the other hand, the law of Denmark made it an offence punishable with death for any man to strike the King’s sacred person.

Brandt had never yet fought with the King, for he had a love of a whole skin, and shirked this disagreeable pastime; but now, goaded by the King’s insults, he determined to give him a lesson in manners. Apart from his dislike of the King, his self-esteem was wounded by having been insulted before the Queen, Countess Holstein and the other ladies, and he resolved to be avenged. That he acted on a set plan is shown by the fact that he hid a whip in a piano in the ante-chamber of the King’s room the day before he carried his design into execution. In the evening of the following day, when Reverdil was absent, Brandt took the whip from the piano, hid it under his coat, and went into the King’s apartment, where he found the semi-imbecile monarch playing with the two boys who were his constant companions. Having turned Moranti and the other boy out, Brandt locked the door, and then told the King, who by this time was somewhat frightened, that he had come to fight with him according to his wish, and asked him to take his choice of pistols or swords. The King, who had not contemplated a duel, but a scramble, said he would fight with his fists. Brandt agreed, and the struggle began; but the King soon found that this particular adversary had not come to act on the defensive, but the offensive. Brandt, who was much the stronger of the two, for the King was weak and ailing, made use of his strength without stint, and, rage urging him on, he first beat his royal master unmercifully with his fists, and then thrashed him with the whip until Christian cried for quarter. Brandt, when he had beaten him until he could beat no longer, granted the request, and then left the room, leaving the King much bruised and frightened.

After he had put his dress in order, Brandt proceeded to the Queen’s apartments, and joined the company at the card tables as if nothing had happened. When the game was over, he told Struensee what he had done. The Minister said he was glad to hear it; it would give them peace from the King in future; but he cautioned Brandt to say nothing about it. But the next day rumours of what had taken place were all over the palace. The King’s valet had found his master bruised and weeping, and Moranti and the other boy had heard sounds of the scuffle. Reports of the affray travelled to Copenhagen, and aroused general indignation. Apart from the cowardly brutality of the attack, it was deemed a monstrous thing that a man should raise his hand against the Lord’s anointed. Juliana Maria affected to find in it a confirmation of her worst fears, and colour was given to the reports that the King was systematically ill-treated, and his life was in danger. It was said that the Queen and Struensee not only approved, but encouraged this attack upon the King, and Brandt’s appointment shortly after as master of the wardrobe to the King, conferring on him the title of “Excellency,” was regarded as a proof of this. Without doubt, Brandt’s promotion was ill-timed, but the Queen had nothing to do with it. Struensee granted these favours to Brandt in order to bind him more closely to the court which he desired to leave.

Struensee, under panic from recent disturbances, had shown himself more conciliatory, and promised to consider the possibility of re-appointing the Council of State. He had also been induced, by Falckenskjold’s advice, to make the court pay more civility to the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick, and occasionally the King and Queen invited them to Hirschholm. But when the threatened danger seemed to pass away, and nothing more happened, he regained his confidence, and became as unyielding and overbearing as before. The Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick received fresh affronts; the idea of reviving the council was dropped, and the dictator already considered the advisability of new and more aggressive measures. Several more officials of high rank were dismissed, and Struensee’s favourites put in their places. He learned nothing from the past; although he was told that the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick would put themselves at the head of a party with a view of overthrowing him, he took no heed, and merely replied: “The purity of my views is my protection.”[13] The man was drunk with self-conceit.

[13] Mémoires de Falckenskjold.

Meanwhile alarming rumours reached the Court of St. James’s of the state of affairs in Denmark, and grave fears were entertained for the safety of the King’s sister, who seemed blindly rushing to her ruin. Keith’s despatches with reference to the late disturbances were laid before the King, who took serious counsel with his mother as to what could be done to save Matilda from the peril that threatened her, and to preserve the honour of his house. George III. had remonstrated with his sister in vain; of late he had heard nothing from her, and the last communication he received from her was to the effect that, if he wrote again, his letters must be sent through Struensee, which, under the circumstances, was little short of an insult. The King, at least, so regarded it, and for some time could not bring himself to write to his sister, if his letters were delivered through such a medium. In the meantime Lord Suffolk was commanded to send Keith the following despatch:—

“Your own delicacy and sentiment must have suggested the wish that the critical state of things at the court where you reside may affect the Queen of Denmark as little as possible. Your desire, therefore, to mark your regard for her Majesty will be gratified by the instructions I now give you, to endeavour most assiduously to prevent the disagreeable incidents, which, if I am rightly informed, her Majesty is exposed to in the present moment. You are already directed upon large public considerations to promote upon all proper occasions of interference the return of M^r Bernstorff to lead in the administration, and I am happy to understand that, at the same time, no minister is more inclined to support the united interests of Great Britain and Russia, and there is none more likely than M^r Bernstorff to preserve that respect for the King’s sister, which, amidst the revenge and violence of party rage, might, on a change of ministers, be too little attended to, or perhaps even violated. If, therefore, M^r Bernstorff should meet with success, and owe it, as probably would be the case, in great measure to your good offices and interposition, he cannot but be gratefully disposed to acknowledge so important a service, and he cannot acknowledge it more essentially than by giving full scope to his well-known attachment to the King’s (George III.’s) person and family, and by providing for the honour and security of his royal mistress, in case they are liable to danger from the unhappy condition of the country.”[14]

[14] Lord Suffolk’s despatch to Keith, London, November 1, 1771.

But the return of Bernstorff was of all things the most difficult to effect at that juncture. He was living in exile, he was not in the secret councils of the Queen-Dowager, who alone could head, with any hope of success, a revolution against Struensee, and he had already refused Rantzau’s overtures. All this, of course, was unknown to the court of St. James’s, though most of it was known to Keith. The King of England had not realised that his envoy had absolutely no influence in the affairs of Denmark. All this, and much more, Keith strove to explain in a despatch which he wrote in reply to Lord Suffolk’s. He reviewed the situation in much the same way as Gunning had done before him:—

“I found, upon my arrival in this country,” he wrote, “that the whole weight of government had, with the King’s consent, devolved upon his Royal Consort. M^r Struensee was already (I must add, unhappily) in possession of that unlimited confidence on the part of her Danish Majesty which has given him a dictatorial sway in every department of government.... The genius of Count Struensee, though active, enterprising and extensive, appears to be deficient in point of judgment and resolution. His temper is fiery, suspicious and unfeeling; his cunning and address have been conspicuous in the attainment of power; his discernment and fairness in the exercise of it have fallen short of the expectation of those who were least partial to him. His morals are founded upon this single principle—that a man’s duties begin and end with himself, and in this life. The wickedness of avowing openly a tenet so profligate and dangerous can only be equalled by the ingratitude with which he has acted up to it, in his haughty and imperious behaviour to the Person (the Queen) who, with unwearied perseverance, continues to heap upon him all possible obligations. It is almost unnecessary to add that he is arrogant in prosperity and timid in danger.”

Keith described again in detail the disturbances of the autumn, and went on to say:—

“During that period, my most anxious attention was continually turned to the painful situation of the Queen of Denmark, whose partiality for Count Struensee seemed to gather strength from opposition. The circumstances were truly alarming; yet, after weighing them maturely, I had the heartfelt comfort to think that the removal of the Minister, by whatever means effected, would soon restore her Majesty to the affection of the nation, and re-establish her legal authority. If any dangerous crisis had taken place, I was firmly determined to offer my services to her Majesty in the best manner they could be employed for the security of her person and dignity, and I trusted to my conscience and to the humanity of my gracious Sovereign (George III.) for the justification of the steps which my dutiful attachment to the Royal Family might in such a moment have suggested. But, my Lord, it was indispensably necessary that I should wait for the approach of such a crisis before I declared to her Majesty my earnest intentions, as the Prime Minister had from the first day excluded me (together with all my colleagues) from the possibility of access to her Majesty.... It may appear extraordinary that in the five months I have passed in Denmark I have not had the honour of exchanging ten sentences with the Queen.”

Keith then referred again to the terrors of Struensee, and the precautions which had been taken to guard the palace of Hirschholm. He related how for a short time Struensee appeared to be more amenable to advice, but, on the passing of danger, he had again resumed his overbearing manner; and added: “I am now fully persuaded that he must again be driven to extremity before he yields any share of power to those ministers who were formerly accustomed to treat him as a mean inferior, and whose late expulsion had been a result of all his efforts.” With reference to the return of Bernstorff, he pointed out that the Queen had a prejudice against the ex-minister on account of his supposed wish to exclude her from the regency; but he did not consider this objection insuperable, and wrote: “If M^r Struensee can ever be brought to recall Count Bernstorff, the Queen will not oppose it. If M^r Struensee quits the helm, or is forced from it, there is but one set of men to whom her Majesty can have recourse (the nobility), and, amongst them, almost every voice is in favour of Count Bernstorff.... I shall endeavour most assiduously to prevent every disagreeable incident, to which her Danish Majesty may be exposed by the violence of party rage. This seems at present (November 18) much abated, and I have had the satisfaction to observe that its greatest fury has at all times been principally levelled at the person of the Prime Minister.... How sorry am I, my Lord, that I dare not look for a nearer and more pleasing hope for his dismission than the prospect of his wearing out the patience and generosity of his powerful protectress!”[15]

[15] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, November 18, 1771.

So matters stood up to the end of November. A truce seemed to be declared. The court remained at Hirschholm (it was said because Struensee dared not enter the capital), and, his fears being now to a great extent allayed, the days passed as before in a round of amusement.

Hirschholm in the late autumn was damp and unhealthy, but still the court lingered, and it was not until the end of November that a move was made. Even then the King and Queen did not proceed to the Christiansborg Palace, but went to Frederiksberg. At Frederiksberg there was a court every Monday, but these courts were very sparsely attended; the King, it was noticed, spoke to no one, and moved like an automaton; the Queen looked anxious and ill. Sometimes Struensee and the Queen went a-hawking; sometimes the King and Queen drove into Copenhagen to attend the French plays or the opera; but the citizens saw with astonishment that their Majesties now never drove into their capital city without their coach being guarded by forty dragoons with drawn sabres. At Frederiksberg, too, most elaborate military arrangements were made for the security of the court. A squadron of dragoons was quartered in an out-building, and there was not only a mounted guard day and night round the palace, but the surrounding country was patrolled by soldiers. The dread of assassination was ever present with Struensee, and though he would not alter his methods of government, he took the most elaborate precautions for his personal safety, and all these precautions were on his behalf.

In addition to the guarding of Frederiksberg, he gave orders to the commandant of the troops in Copenhagen, an officer whom he had himself appointed, to have everything in readiness to maintain order by force in the event of a rising or tumult. Copenhagen looked like a city in a state of siege. The heaviest guns in the arsenal were planted on the walls in front of the guard-house, and at the town gates. The guns on the walls were turned round, and pointed at the city every evening after sunset; the soldiers had their cartridges served out to them, and patrolled the streets at all hours; even loaded cannon were placed in front of the palace, and any one who wished to enter to transact business was escorted in and out by two soldiers. All these extraordinary precautions were carried out with the knowledge and consent of the Queen; but the King was not consulted; he was surprised to find himself living in a state of siege, and asked Struensee, in alarm, what was the meaning of it all. Struensee, who knew well how to trade on the fears of the King, replied that it was done for the better protection of the King’s royal person, for his subjects were rebellious and disaffected, and it was feared that, if not checked, there would be a revolution, like that which took place in Russia a few years before. He even hinted that the King might meet with the same fate as the unhappy Emperor Peter III., who was assassinated. Christian was greatly frightened on hearing this. “My God!” he exclaimed, “what harm have I done, that my dear and faithful subjects should hate me so?”

This display of armed force still more enraged the populace against the favourite. The pointing of loaded cannon was regarded as an attempt to over-awe the people by force, and a report was spread abroad that Struensee intended to disarm the corps of burghers, or citizen soldiers, who were charged with the keeping of the city. The colonel commanding the burghers declared that if his men were deprived of their muskets, they would defend their King, if need be, with paving stones. Without doubt, these military preparations hastened the impending crisis, for the Queen-Dowager and her adherents imagined they were really directed against them. The whole kingdom was seething with rebellion, and tumults sooner or later were inevitable. Yet, even now, at the eleventh hour, the worst might have been averted, had it not been for the incredible foolhardiness of Struensee. He had offended every class and every interest; he could only hope to maintain his rule by force. For this the army was absolutely necessary; but, by a wanton act of provocation, Struensee aroused the army against him.

The ill-feeling which had been stirred up by the disbandment of the Horse Guards in the summer had to some extent subsided. The officers of the Household Cavalry, who were most of them wealthy and of noble birth, had been extremely arrogant, and the other officers, both of the army and navy, were not ill-pleased to see their pride humbled by their privileges being taken away. But Struensee, who cherished a hatred against all the guards, now resolved to disband even the battalion of Foot Guards, and merge the officers and men into other regiments, on the pretext that the existence of any favoured regiment was injurious to the discipline of the rest of the army. Falckenskjold first opposed this design, but, as Struensee was determined, he reluctantly yielded the point, and the Privy Cabinet Minister sent an order, signed with his own hand, to the war department for the regiment to be disbanded forthwith. But General Gahler, who was the head of this department, called his colleagues together, and they declared they could not act without an order signed by the King in person, as they considered Struensee’s decree extremely dangerous, and likely to lead to mutiny. Struensee was at first very indignant at this demur, but, finding Gahler resolute, he had to give way, and he obtained an order signed by the King. This he forwarded to the war department, who, in duty bound, immediately yielded.

ENEVOLD BRANDT.
From a Miniature at Frederiksborg.

The next day, December 24, Christmas Eve, when the guards were drawn up in line, the King’s order for their disbandment and incorporation was read to them, and they were commanded to hand their colours over to the officers who were present from other regiments. The men refused, and when they saw their colours being taken away, they rushed forward in a body, and dragged them back by force, shouting: “They are our colours; we will part from them only with our lives.” The men were now in a state of mutiny. Their officers had withdrawn, unwilling to risk a contest with the authorities; so a non-commissioned officer assumed the command, and led the insurgents. They marched to the Christiansborg Palace, broke the gate open, drove away the guard stationed there, and took their places. Some of them were hindered from entering the palace by the other troops, who attempted to take them prisoners. The result was a free fight, and in the course of it one of the guardsmen was killed, and several soldiers were wounded. Copenhagen was in a state of riot. Meanwhile Falckenskjold hurried to Frederiksberg with the news of the mutiny. Once more Struensee was thrown into unreasoning panic, and quite unable to act. Brandt and Bülow, the Queen’s Master of the Horse, hurried to the Christiansborg, and endeavoured to appease the rebellious guards, but without success. The categorical reply was: “We must remain guards, or have our discharge. We will not be merged into other regiments.” It should be mentioned that they were picked men, and drawn from a superior class; they ranked with non-commissioned officers in other regiments, and such punishments as flogging could not be inflicted on them. The envoys returned to Frederiksberg with the news of their ill-success, and the terror of Struensee increased.

The guards now had a council of war, and it was resolved that a party of them should march to Frederiksberg, and request an interview with the King in person, as the Norwegian sailors had done. When the party set out, they found the western gate of the city closed and held against them; but at the northern gate the officer of the guard allowed them to pass. On the road to Frederiksberg they met the King driving, a postilion and an equerry formed his only escort, and Reverdil was alone with him in the carriage. The soldiers, who had no grievance against the King, formed into line and saluted him, and Christian, from whom the knowledge of the mutiny had been carefully kept, returned the salute. When the guards reached Frederiksberg, Struensee’s fears deepened into panic. As at Hirschholm, hurried preparations were made for flight, and orders were given to reinforce the palace guard. The whole of the army sympathised with the guards, and it may be doubted whether the soldiers would have resisted their comrades by force of arms. Fortunately, one of the officers of the guards had hurried before them to Frederiksberg to protest against extremities; he was now sent out by Struensee to parley with them in the King’s name. The men repeated their demand: they must remain guards, or receive their discharge. The officer went back to the palace, and pretended to see the King, in reality, he saw only Struensee. Presently he returned to inform the mutineers that the King did not wish to keep any men in his service against their will, and they were therefore discharged, and were at liberty to go where they pleased. The detachment thereupon returned to Christiansborg to report to their comrades, but these refused to trust a verbal statement, and requested that a written discharge should be handed to each man before they surrendered the palace.

General Gahler, who had disapproved of Struensee’s action throughout, and now feared there would be bloodshed, on hearing this went to Frederiksberg, and insisted that a written discharge for the whole body must be made out, duly signed and sealed by Struensee himself. This he brought back to the guards; but the men, imagining there was some deception, took exception to the form of the order, and the fact that the King had not signed it. When this was reported to him, Struensee lost patience, and threatened to storm the Christiansborg if the mutineers were not removed before midnight—a most imprudent threat, and one practically impossible to carry out, for the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick were occupying their apartments in the Christiansborg at the time, and no doubt secretly abetting the mutineers. Moreover, the whole of Copenhagen sided with the guards. Citizens sent in provisions, wines and spirits, in order that they might keep their Christmas in a festive manner; the sailors sent word that they would help the mutineers if the matter came to a crisis, and the gunners secretly conveyed to them the news that they would receive them into the arsenal and join them. Midnight struck, and still the mutineers held the palace. Struensee, finding his threat had no weight, then veered round to the other extreme, and was soon hastily filling up the required number of printed discharges, which were taken to the King to be signed one by one.

In the morning—Christmas morning—glad news came to the mutinous guards. All their demands were complied with, and more than complied with; a separate discharge, signed by the King, was presented to every guardsman, and a promise that three dollars would be paid him, and any advance he owed would be wiped off. So on Christmas morning the disbanded guards marched out of the Christiansborg, which they had occupied for twenty-four hours, and the danger was averted. The city continued in a great state of excitement all day, and some street fights took place, but nothing of importance. The King and Queen drove into Copenhagen to attend divine service at the royal chapel, as this was Christmas Day, and the fact was considered significant, for now they rarely went to church. Another concession was made to public opinion, for the following Sunday evening they were not present at the French play, as was usually the case.

Unfortunately, these attempts at conciliation, trifling though they were, came too late. The people had now made up their minds about Struensee; he was a coward and a bully, who would yield everything to violence, and nothing to reason. They had found him out; he was a lath painted to look like iron. His wanton attack upon the guards and subsequent capitulation filled the cup of his transgressions to the brim. It was said that at this time Keith thought fit to intervene. Hoping to shield his Sovereign’s sister from the danger which threatened her, he saw Struensee privately, and offered him a sum of money to quit the country. If this be true (and no hint of it appears in Keith’s despatches), it had no result, for Struensee still clung to his post. Rantzau, also, who had not quite settled his terms with the Queen-Dowager, and, true to his character, was ready to sell either side for the higher price, also saw Struensee, through the medium of the Swedish minister, and urged him to resign, or at least to reverse his whole system of policy; but Struensee would not listen, probably because Rantzau wanted money, and he did not wish to give it him. Still Rantzau did not desist; he went to Falckenskjold, and told him as much as he dared of a conspiracy against Struensee, and offered to help to detect it for a pecuniary consideration. Falckenskjold heard him coldly, and merely said: “In that case, you should address your remarks to Struensee himself.” “He will not listen to me,” said Rantzau, and turned away. From that moment Struensee’s luck turned away from him too.

CHAPTER III.

THE MASKED BALL.

1772.

On January 8, 1772, the King and Queen returned to the Christiansborg after an absence from their capital of seven months. It required some courage to enter a city on the verge of insurrection, but the court could not remain away from Copenhagen for ever, and Struensee at last came to the conclusion that it would be better to put on a bold front, and meet his enemies on their own ground. Extraordinary precautions were taken to ensure his personal safety, and that of the King and Queen. They entered Copenhagen as though it were a hostile city. Keith thus describes the entry: “The court returned to Copenhagen on Wednesday, and the apprehensions of the Prime Minister are still very visible by the warlike parade with which the court is surrounded. Dragoons are posted on the market places, and patrols in the streets, and twelve pieces of cannon are kept constantly loaded in the arsenal. The entrance into the French play-house is lined with soldiers, and their Majesties in going from the palace to the opera-house, though the distance is not above three hundred yards, are escorted by an officer and thirty-six dragoons. Notwithstanding all these precautions, I see no reason to apprehend the smallest danger to the persons of their Majesties, and am willing to hope that the popular discontent may soon subside, if the Minister does not blow up the flame by some new act of violence.”[16]

[16] Keith’s despatch, January 11, 1772.

There was certainly no danger to the King. The people regarded him as a prisoner in the hands of the unscrupulous Minister, and their desire was to deliver him from that bondage. The Queen was only in danger because of her blind attachment to Struensee. If he could be removed, or induced to resign quietly, all would be forgiven her, for her youth, her inexperience and her infatuation aroused pity rather than anger in the breast of the multitude. But, as Struensee’s accomplice, she shared in his unpopularity, and the wrath of the Queen-Dowager and the clergy was especially directed against her. Matilda had no fear for herself; all her fears were for the man whom she still loved with unreasoning adoration; she trembled lest he might be forced to leave her, or fall a victim to the vengeance of his enemies. During the dangers and alarms of the last six months, she alone remained true to him; the hatred of his enemies, the treachery of his friends, the warnings and remonstrances of those who wished her well, made no difference. His craven fears, the revelation that her hero was but a coward after all, even the ingratitude and brutal rudeness with which he sometimes treated her, forgetting the respect due to her as Queen and woman, forgetting the sacrifices she had made for him, and the benefits she had rained upon him—all this did not make any change in her devotion; she still loved him without wavering or shadow of turning. Even now, when the popular execration was at its height, she bravely stood by his side, willing to share the odium excited by his misdeeds. Though all should fail him, she would remain.

The day of the return to Copenhagen there was a ball at the Christiansborg Palace; on the following Saturday there was the performance of a French play at the royal theatre; on the following Monday there was a court. On all these occasions the Queen, heedless of murmurings and averted looks, appeared with Struensee by her side, as though to support him by her presence. Indeed, she sought by many a sign and token to show to all the world that, however hated and shunned he might be, her trust and confidence in him were unbroken; and he, craven and selfish voluptuary that he was, set his trembling lips, and sought to shelter himself from the popular vengeance behind the refuge of her robe.

It was at this time—the eleventh hour—that George III. made one more effort to save his sister. Mastering his pride, he wrote to her yet another letter, urging her for the good of her adopted country, for her own personal safety, and for the honour of the royal house from which she sprang, to send away the hated favourite, and recall Bernstorff. So anxious was the King of England that this letter should reach his sister that he overcame his repugnance to Struensee sufficiently to command Keith to deliver it to the Queen through Struensee’s hands, according to her wishes.[17] The letter was duly delivered, but before an answer could be returned it was too late.

[17] “I have the honour to enclose a letter from his Majesty to the Queen of Denmark, which I am commanded to direct you to deliver to Count Struensee for him to convey to her Danish Majesty, and you will observe the same mode of conveyance for all the King’s private letters to the Queen of Denmark. You are to take the earliest opportunity to acquaint M^r Osten privately that this mode is adopted at the express desire of the Queen of Denmark.”—Suffolk to Keith, January 9, 1772.

The contents of the King’s letter of course are not known, but that the gist of it was probably that given above may be gathered from Lord Suffolk’s previous communication to the English envoy at Copenhagen.

The continued favour shown by the Queen to Struensee, the close guarding of the royal palaces, the display of military force in the city, and the disbanding of the guards, who were regarded in a special sense the bodyguard of the monarch, all lent confirmation to the rumour that a coup d’état was imminent—that Struensee meant to seize the person of the King, depose him, or otherwise make away with him, marry the Queen, and proclaim himself Regent, or Protector of the King. Moreover, it was whispered that he had become acquainted with the Queen-Dowager’s intrigues against his authority, and was contemplating the arrest of Juliana Maria and her son. This rumour, to which the military preparations gave colour, was told the Queen-Dowager by interested persons, with a view to forcing her at last to act. Juliana Maria was an imperious, hard, intriguing woman. From the first she had disliked Matilda, and wished her ill, but there is no evidence to show that she would have headed a revolution against her had she not been driven into it by force of circumstances. That the Queen-Dowager desired and plotted the overthrow of Struensee was natural and excusable. He had treated herself and her son with marked disrespect; he had privately insulted and publicly affronted them. His reforms both in church and state were entirely opposed to her views; his intrigue with Queen Matilda she considered dishonouring to the royal house, and his influence over the King harmful to the monarch and the nation. Juliana Maria and her son represented the old regime and were naturally looked up to at a crisis; in any event, she would have been forced into opposition to the existing state of affairs.

But Juliana Maria was above all things cautious. She was fully alive to the peril of provoking the powerful minister and the reigning Queen, who, holding, as they did, the King’s authority, were omnipotent. The Queen-Dowager had been anxious to bring about the dismissal of Struensee by peaceful and constitutional means; but these had failed; neither warnings nor threats would make him quit his post. Moreover, she distrusted Rantzau, who headed the conspiracy against him. She was averse from violent measures, which, if unsuccessful, would assuredly involve both her and her son in ruin. Therefore, though she had been cognisant of the growth of the conspiracy against Struensee for many months—though she had conferred with the conspirators, and secretly encouraged them—yet up to the present she had hesitated to take action. Even the mutiny of the guards, when the mutineers were shut up in the palace with her, had not moved her to make the decisive step. It was not until information was brought her of a threatened coup d’état, and the probable imprisonment of herself and her son, that she determined to hold back no longer. Rantzau, who knew well the Queen-Dowager’s reluctance to commit herself, finally secured her adhesion to the conspiracy by means of a forged paper, which contained a full account of Struensee’s supposed coup d’état. A copy of this plan, which never existed in the original, was given by Rantzau to Peter Suhm, the Danish historiographer royal, who stood high in the opinion of the Queen-Dowager. According to it January 28 was the day fixed for the King’s abdication, the appointment of the Queen as Regent and Struensee as Protector. Suhm at once took the document to Juliana Maria, and urged her to immediate action. There was no time to be lost, he told her, for the man who meditated usurping the regal power would not long hesitate before committing a further crime. The assassination of the King would assure him of the couch of the Queen, and the Crown Prince, either imprisoned, or succumbing to the rigours of his treatment, would make way for the fruit of this intercourse. For this motive and no other had Struensee revoked the law which prohibited a repudiated wife from marrying the accomplice of her infidelity. The man who had abolished the Council of State would repeal, if need be, the Salic law, which had hitherto prevailed in Denmark. The Queen-Dowager was fully persuaded by this document; she resolved to call a meeting of the conspirators, and nip Struensee’s alleged plot in the bud. The situation, she agreed, was desperate, and admitted of no delay.

These conspirators included Rantzau, who has already been spoken of at length. Prince Frederick, the King’s brother, who, being weak in body and not very strong in mind, was entirely under the control of his mother. Ove Guldberg, Prince Frederick’s private secretary, who had acted as a means of communication between the other conspirators and the Queen-Dowager, and finally won her over to the plot. He was a man of great ability, a born intriguer, and exceedingly cautious; Juliana Maria placed implicit confidence in him, and was confident that he would not embark on a desperate enterprise of this kind unless it was sure of success.

Two prominent officers also joined. One was Colonel Köller, who commanded a regiment of infantry, a bold, rough soldier, brave as a lion, and strong as Hercules—a desperado, of whom Struensee said: “He looks as if he had no mother, but was brought into the world by a man.” The other was General Hans Henrik Eickstedt, who commanded the regiment of Zealand dragoons, which had now taken the place of the discharged guards, and did duty at the palace of Christiansborg. Eickstedt was not a man of any special ability, but he was honourable and trustworthy, which is more than could be said of most of the other conspirators. He honestly believed that Struensee’s overthrow, by whatever means, was necessary for the salvation of Denmark, and, when he learned that the Queen-Dowager had thrown her ægis over the conspiracy, he joined it without asking any questions; otherwise the character of some of the conspirators might have made him pause.

The last of these active conspirators was Beringskjold, who had much experience in intrigue. He had played the part of Danish spy at St. Petersburg, where he made the acquaintance of Rantzau, and, like him, took part in the conspiracy which resulted in the deposition and murder of Peter III. Beringskjold later came back to Denmark and got into pecuniary difficulties. It was at this time that he renewed his acquaintance with Rantzau, who, seeing in him the tool for his purpose, made him acquainted with the plot against Struensee, which Beringskjold eagerly joined. He was especially useful in maturing the conspiracy, for his spying proclivities and Russian experiences were invaluable in such an undertaking. It was he who insisted that the Queen-Dowager must take an active part in the conspiracy, for he well knew that without her it would stand no chance of success. Beringskjold also knew that no revolution could be carried through without the aid of the army, and it was he who won over Eickstedt and Köller.

A subordinate conspirator was Jessen, an ex-valet of Frederick V. He was now a prosperous wine merchant in Copenhagen, and was much esteemed by the Queen-Dowager, who knew him as a tried and faithful servant. Jessen was employed as a medium between Juliana Maria and Guldberg at Fredensborg and the other conspirators in Copenhagen. He informed her of the state of feeling in the capital, and circulated rumours detrimental to Struensee and Queen Matilda. He sent reports of the progress of the plot to Fredensborg, addressing his letters, for greater security, under cover to the Queen-Dowager’s waiting woman. When Juliana Maria returned to Copenhagen and took up her residence at the Christiansborg, it was Jessen who arranged the secret meetings of her party. They were held at the house of a well-known clergyman named Abildgaard, rector of the Holmenskirke. The house was close to the palace, and had entrances from two different streets.

Here, when the Queen-Dowager at last determined to act, a meeting of the conspirators was summoned and the details of the plot were arranged. It was decided to seize Queen Matilda, Struensee, Brandt and their adherents, obtain possession of the King and force him to proclaim a new Government. Once get possession of the King and the rest would be easy, for Christian VII. could be made to sign any papers the conspirators might require, and as absolute monarch his orders would be implicitly obeyed. To this end Jessen produced a plan of the Christiansborg Palace, showing the King’s apartments, the Queen’s, and the private staircases that led from her rooms to those of the King and Struensee; the situation of Brandt’s apartments, and of others whom it was resolved to arrest. The conspirators decided to strike their blow on the night of January 16-17(1772). On that evening a masked ball was to be given at the palace, and in the consequent bustle and confusion it would be easy for the conspirators to come and go, and communicate with each other, without being noticed. Moreover, on that night Köller and his Holstein regiment had the guard at the palace, together with a troop of Zealand dragoons under the command of Eickstedt. Therefore the whole military charge of the palace would be under the control of two of the conspirators, and the inmates would be at their mercy.

QUEEN JULIANA MARIA, STEP-MOTHER OF CHRISTIAN VII.
From the Painting by Clemens.

The night of January 16 came at last. In accordance with their recent policy of showing a bold front to their enemies, the Queen and Struensee had arranged the masked ball, the first given since the return of the court to Copenhagen, on a scale of unusual magnificence. The royal hospitality on this occasion was almost unlimited, for all the nine ranks of society, who by any pretext could attend court, were invited. This in itself was a proof of Struensee’s false sense of security, for, at a time when the city was seething with sedition, to give a masked ball to which practically every one was admitted was to lay himself open to the danger of assassination. The ball was held in the royal theatre of the Christiansborg Palace, which had lately, under Brandt’s supervision, been elaborately redecorated. Crystal chandeliers sparkled with thousands of lights, and the boxes round the theatre were gorgeous with new gilding and purple silken hangings. The auditorium was on this occasion raised level with the stage, so that the whole formed one large hall for the dancers. The band was placed at the back of the stage, and the wings were converted into bowers of plants and flowers, lit with coloured lamps.

The King and Queen, with Struensee, Brandt, and all their court, entered the theatre at ten o’clock, and dancing immediately began. The King, who no longer danced, retired to the royal box where card-tables were arranged, and played quadrille with General and Madame Gahler, and Justice Struensee, brother of the Prime Minister. The Queen, who was magnificently dressed[18] and wore splendid jewels, danced continually, and seemed in high spirits. Every one remarked on her beauty and vivacity. The Queen-Dowager never attended masked balls, so that her absence called forth no comment; but Prince Frederick, contrary to his usual custom (for he was generally waiting on these occasions to receive their Majesties), was more than an hour late, and when he at last arrived, his flushed face and nervous air revealed his agitation. But the Queen, who thought that his unpunctuality accounted for his nervousness, rallied him playfully and said: “You are very late, brother. What have you been doing?” “I have had some business to attend to, Madam,” he replied in confusion, as he bowed over her extended hand. “It seems to me,” said the Queen gaily, “that you would do better to think of your pleasure than your business on the evening of a ball.” The Prince stammered some reply, which the Queen did not heed; she dismissed him good-humouredly, and resumed her dancing.

[18] The dress the Queen is said to have worn at this ball—of rich white silk, brocaded with pink roses—is still preserved in the Guelph Family Museum at Herrenhausen. It was sent to Hanover after her death.

Several of the conspirators were present to disarm suspicion, including Köller and Guldberg, who strolled about as though nothing was impending. Presently Köller sat down to cards in one of the boxes, and played in the most unconcerned manner possible. When Struensee went up to him and said: “Are you not going to dance?” Köller replied with covert insolence: “Not yet. My hour to dance will arrive presently.” As usual at the court entertainments, Struensee, after the Queen, was the most prominent figure. Richly clad in silk and velvet, and with the Order of Matilda on his breast, he played the part of host in all but name. Whatever might be the feeling outside the palace walls, within there appeared no hint of his waning power; he was still the all-powerful minister, flattered, courted and caressed. The Queen hung on his lightest word, and a servile crowd of courtiers and place-hunters courted his smile or trembled at his frown. He was the centre of the glittering scene, and, though there were few present who did not secretly hate or fear him, all rendered him outward honour, and many envied him his good fortune.

Though the ball was brilliant and largely attended, the company was hardly what one might expect to find at the court of a reigning monarch. The bearers of some of the oldest and proudest names in Denmark were absent; and their places were taken by well-to-do citizens of Copenhagen and their wives. A few of the foreign ambassadors were present, including the English envoy, General Keith. He probably attended in pursuance of his determination to be at hand to help and defend his King’s sister, in case of need. Keith feared some outbreak of violence, which would place the Queen in personal danger. He does not seem to have had the slightest inkling of the organised plot against her honour and her life. He was not ignorant, of course, of the dislike with which the Queen-Dowager and her son, representing the nobility, the clergy and the upper classes generally, viewed the Struensee regime, for which Matilda was largely responsible; but he thought they would act, if they acted at all, in a constitutional manner, by promoting the recall of Bernstorff, and the overthrow of the favourite.

The evening was not to pass without another display of Struensee’s insolence, and a further affront to Prince Frederick. The favourite supped in the royal box with the King and Queen, but the King’s brother was not admitted, and had to get his supper at a buffet, like the meanest of the guests. The insult was premeditated, for Reverdil tells us that he heard of it the day before, and interceded for the Prince in vain. The Prince probably did not mind, for he knew that the favourite’s hour had struck. But for Struensee, as he feasted at the King’s table, there was no writing on the wall to forewarn him of his doom.

The King left the ballroom soon after midnight, and retired to his apartments; the Queen remained dancing for some time longer. The company unmasked after supper, and the fun became fast and furious; the ceremony usual at court entertainments was absent here, and all etiquette and restraint were banished. The Queen mingled freely with her guests, and enjoyed herself so much that it was nearly three o’clock before she retired. Her withdrawal was the signal for the company to depart, and soon the ballroom was deserted and in darkness.

The Countess Holstein had invited a few of her intimate friends, including Struensee, Brandt and two ladies, to come to her apartments after the ball. But one of the ladies, Baroness Schimmelmann, excused herself on the plea of a severe headache, and the other lady, Baroness Bülow, was unwilling to go alone, and therefore the party fell through. Had the Countess Holstein’s party taken place, as by the merest chance it did not, it would probably have upset the plans of the conspirators, or at least rendered them more difficult to carry out, for the principal men marked down for prey would have been gathered together in one room, and would have resisted or tried to escape.

The stars in their courses seemed to be fighting for the Queen-Dowager, for this evening also the conspiracy had been on the brink of failure owing to the vacillation of Rantzau. This traitor, whose only wish was to get his debts paid, had no more faith in the promises of the Queen-Dowager than in those of Struensee (though the event proved that he was wrong), and at the eleventh hour considered that the enterprise was too hazardous. He therefore resolved to be on the safe side, and reveal the whole conspiracy. To this end, about eight o’clock in the evening, before the ball, he drove secretly to the house of Struensee’s brother. But the Justice had gone out to dinner, and Rantzau therefore left a message with the servant, bidding him be sure to tell his master, directly he came home, that Count Rantzau desired a visit from him immediately on a matter of great importance. Justice Struensee returned soon after, and the servant gave him the message, but he knew the excitable character of Rantzau, and said: “The visit will keep until to-morrow morning. The Count is always in a fuss about trifles.” He therefore went on to the ball, where he played cards with the King.

Rantzau, meanwhile, wondered why the Justice did not come, and worked himself up to a state of great alarm. He would not go to the ball, but wrapped his feet in flannel, went to bed and sent Köller word that a violent attack of gout prevented him from keeping his appointment in the Queen-Dowager’s apartments as agreed. The other conspirators were much disturbed by the message, for they feared treachery. Beringskjold was sent to persuade the Count to come, and when Rantzau pointed to his feet, he suggested a sedan chair. Still Rantzau made excuses. Then Köller, who knew the manner of man with whom he had to deal, sent word to say that if he did not come forthwith he would have him fetched thither by grenadiers. The threat was effectual, and Rantzau, finding that Struensee’s brother did not appear, yielded, and was carried to the Christiansborg in a sedan chair. When there, he regained his feet, and became in a short space of time miraculously better.

Köller early quitted the masquerade, where he only showed himself for a short time to disarm suspicion, and had a hurried conference with Eickstedt in another part of the palace. The two officers, each possessed of an order signed by the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick, then separated—Köller to look after the garrison, and Eickstedt the palace guard. Eickstedt went to the guard-room and summoned the officers of the guard. The proceedings were conducted with the greatest secrecy, and, when the officers had all arrived, Eickstedt lit a candle, which he placed under the table, so that no one might see the assembly from without. By this dim light he read an order, signed by the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick, to the effect that, the King being surrounded by bad people, and his royal person in danger, his loving brother and stepmother hereby commanded Colonels Köller and Eickstedt to seize that same night Counts Struensee and Brandt, and several other persons named, and to place them under arrest. The Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick had not the slightest right to command the troops; the document was, in fact, a usurpation of the royal authority; but that was a matter which concerned Eickstedt and Köller. The subordinate officers, who, in common with the whole army, hated Struensee, were only too glad to carry the order into effect, the responsibility resting not with them, but with the Queen-Dowager and their commanders. After they had all sworn obedience, Eickstedt gave them their orders. When all was ready, they were to advance at half-past three o’clock, or as soon as the ball was quite over, occupy all the doors of the palace, and allow none to go in or go out. They were at first to try to stop them politely, and if that failed, to use force. A picket of dragoons, with their horses bitted and saddled, were also to be in readiness.

At the same time Köller went the round of the garrison, collected all the officers on duty, and read to them a similar order. The aid of the garrison was requested in case of need. The officers of the city guard promised obedience, and returned to their several posts.

Everything was at last in readiness. Except in the Queen-Dowager’s apartments, the whole palace was perfectly quiet. The lights were put out; the last of the revellers had gone home; the King and Queen, Struensee and Brandt, and the rest of the court had retired to their apartments, and were, most of them, asleep. Within and without the palace was held by armed men; the net was so closely drawn that there was no possibility of the prey escaping.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PALACE REVOLUTION.

1772.

At four o’clock in the morning the little group of conspirators assembled in the apartments of the Queen-Dowager. They were eight in all—Juliana Maria, Prince Frederick, Guldberg, Rantzau, Eickstedt, Köller, Beringskjold and Jessen—not, at first sight, a powerful list to effect a revolution; but they had the army at their command, and the whole nation at their back. Moreover, some, at least, of them were sustained by the high consciousness that they were doing a righteous work, and the others were desperate men, who had all to gain and nothing to lose. Guldberg rehearsed to each one of the conspirators his separate duty, that nothing might be forgotten. Then, at the request of the Queen-Dowager, all knelt down, and a prayer was offered, invoking the Divine blessing on the undertaking.[19]

[19] The following account of the palace revolution is based on several authorities: some are favourable to the Queen, others against her. They more or less agree on the main facts, which are those set forth in this chapter, though they conflict as to details. Among them may be mentioned the Memoirs of Falckenskjold, Köller-Banner and Reverdil, all of whom played a part in the affair; Mémoires de mon Temps, by Prince Charles of Hesse (privately printed), the Private Journal of N. W. Wraxall, who claims to have based his narrative on the statements of Bülow and Le Texier, the Memoirs and Correspondence of Sir R. Murray Keith, and sundry depositions made at the Queen’s trial. There are a great many other accounts in printed books, but they are nearly all based on these sources.

When they rose from their knees, all the conspirators, guided by Jessen and headed by the Queen-Dowager, went silently along the dark passages to the apartments of the King. In the ante-chamber they found the King’s valet fast asleep. They roused him, and told him they wished to see his Majesty immediately. Seeing the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick, the valet was willing to obey without demur; but the main door of the King’s bed-chamber was locked from within, and they were therefore obliged to go round by the secret staircase. The valet went in front to guide them, and immediately behind him came Guldberg, carrying a candle. The others followed in single line, and soon found themselves in Christian’s bedroom.

The King awoke with a start, and, seeing in the dim light the room full of men, cried out in terror. The Queen-Dowager approached the bed, and said in reassuring accents: “Your Majesty, my dear son, be not afraid. We are not come hither as enemies, but as your true friends. We have come——” Here Juliana Maria broke down, and her voice was stifled by her sobs. Rantzau, who had agreed to explain the plan to the King, hung back. But Köller thrust him forward, and then he told the King that his Majesty’s brother and stepmother had come to deliver him and the country from the hated yoke of Struensee. By this time the Queen-Dowager had recovered her nerve, and, embracing her stepson, she repeated what Rantzau had said with ample detail. The King, who was almost fainting with excitement and terror, demanded a glass of water, and, when he had drunk it, asked if the commandant of the palace guard were present. Eickstedt stepped forward, and confirmed what the Queen-Dowager and Rantzau had said, and added that the people were in a state of revolt, for a plot was being carried out to depose the King, in which Struensee and the Queen were concerned. When the King heard the Queen’s name, he refused to believe that she had anything to do with it, and said the story must be a mistake. But the Queen-Dowager assured him that Matilda was privy to it, and told him the whole of the supposed plot against his royal authority and person. Guldberg confirmed the Queen-Dowager’s statement in every particular, and declared there was no time to be lost.

The bewildered King, at last half-convinced, asked what was to be done. Rantzau then pulled out of his pocket two written orders, and asked him to sign them. By the first, Eickstedt was made commander-in-chief, and by the second, Eickstedt and Köller were vested with full powers to take all measures necessary for the safety of the King and the country. Thus the obedience of the army would be assured. When Christian read these orders, he feared a conflict between the people and the military, for he exclaimed: “My God! this will mean rivers of blood.” But Rantzau, who by this time had regained his assurance, replied: “Be of good cheer, your Majesty. With God’s help, I take everything upon myself, and will as far as possible prevent bloodshed.” The King sat up in bed and signed the two orders; Prince Frederick counter-signed them.

Eickstedt took the first and immediately left the room; he placed himself at the head of the picket of dragoons waiting below, and rode to the garrison to inform the officers on duty of his new appointment as commander-in-chief. He promptly strengthened the palace guard, had all the gates of the city closed, and bade the garrison hold itself in readiness for any event.

Köller also took his order, and with the others retired to an ante-chamber, as the King had expressed a wish to get up. By the time Christian was dressed, he was quite convinced that Struensee had plotted against his life, and he was as eager to sign orders as he had at first been reluctant. First of all Juliana Maria impressed upon him that it was necessary to convey the Queen to some place where she could not work any further mischief, and the King, after some hesitation, wrote and signed an almost incoherent message to his consort:—

J’ai trouvé à propos de vous envoïer à Cronbourg, comme vôtre conduite m’y oblige. J’en suis très faché, je n’en suis pas la cause, et je vous souhaite un repentir sincére.[20]

[20] In his agitation the King dated it 17th Jan., 1771.

The King then signed orders, drawn up by Guldberg, for the arrest of Struensee, Brandt and fifteen other persons. He did this with alacrity, and seemed delighted at asserting his authority, and the prospect of being freed from the dominion of Struensee and Brandt. The orders which concerned Queen Matilda he copied out himself in full from Guldberg’s drafts; the others he merely signed. The orders concerning the Queen included the order to Rantzau to arrest her, the order to the head of the royal stables to make ready the coaches to convey her to Kronborg, and an order to the commandant of Kronborg to keep her in close confinement. These important matters settled, Juliana Maria persuaded Christian to remove to Prince Frederick’s apartments in another part of the palace. She had much more for him to do, and she was fearful of interruption. For hours the King remained in his brother’s apartments, signing orders, which were to give him, as he thought, freedom and authority, but which were really only forging the links of new chains, and transferring him from the comparatively mild rule of Struensee and Matilda to the strict keeping of the Queen-Dowager.

Meanwhile, in different parts of the palace the King’s orders were being carried out without delay. On quitting the King’s apartments, Köller went to perform his task of arresting Struensee, accompanied by two or three officers of the palace guard and several soldiers. That Köller feared resistance may be gathered from the fact that he made the senior officer promise him, in the event of his being killed, to shoot Struensee dead. Köller had a bitter hatred of Struensee, dating, it was said, a long while back, when the doctor had seduced the object of Köller’s affections. He had solicited the task of arresting Struensee, and now went to fulfil it with an eagerness born of revenge.

The door of the outer room of Struensee’s apartments was firmly locked, and his favourite valet slept within. The youth was aroused (as he afterwards said from dreams of ill-omen) by the noise of men trying to force the door. On asking who was there, he was commanded to open in the King’s name, under pain of instant death. Taken by surprise, the valet had no time to give his master warning to escape by the private staircase, which led to the apartments of the Queen, but he hurriedly secreted certain jewels and papers, and threw open the door. There he saw Köller, holding a wax taper and dressed in full uniform, and his companions. Two soldiers pointed pistols at the valet’s head, and a third directed one to his breast. “Have you woke the Count?” Köller whispered, and, on the trembling youth replying in the negative, Köller made him give up the key of Struensee’s bedroom, which was also locked. The door was opened as silently as possible, and Köller, with a drawn sword in his hand, entered the room, followed by three officers.

The voluptuary had furnished his chamber with great luxury. The walls were hung with rich figured damask, the mirrors were of the purest glass, and the washing service was of wrought silver. The bed was canopied with purple velvet and gold, and the canopy was shaped in the form of a royal crown. The carpet was of velvet pile, and the room was scented with costly perfumes. Struensee was sleeping heavily—so heavily that neither the light of the taper nor the entrance of Köller roused him. He was sleeping with his head on his arm, and the book with which he had read himself to sleep had fallen to the floor.

For a moment Köller stood and looked down on his victim; then he shook him roughly by the shoulder, and Struensee awoke to the horror of the situation. He sprang up in the bed, and shouted: “In God’s name, what is this?” Köller answered roughly: “I have orders to arrest you. Get up at once and come with me.” “Do you know who I am,” said the omnipotent minister of an hour ago haughtily, “that you dare to command me thus?” “Yes,” said Köller with a laugh; “I know who you are well enough. You are the King’s prisoner.” Struensee then demanded to see the warrant for his arrest, but as Köller did not yet possess this, he replied shortly that the warrant was with the King, but he would be answerable with his head that he was carrying out the King’s orders. Struensee still refused to move; but Köller thrust his sword point against his breast, and said: “I have orders to take you either dead or alive. Which shall it be?” Struensee, shivering with terror, sank back on the bed, and asked for time to think; but Köller told him he must come at once. Struensee then asked that his valet might bring him a cup of chocolate, but Köller refused this also. “You will at least allow me to dress myself?” said Struensee. Köller said he would give him two minutes to do so; but he would not suffer either Struensee or the valet to go into the next room for clothes. Struensee was therefore obliged to hurry into the clothes he had worn at the ball, and which lay, where he had thrown them off, on a chair by the bed—breeches of pink silk and a coat and waistcoat of light blue velvet—gay attire especially ill-suited for his melancholy journey.

Struensee’s hands were bound, and he was hurried down to the guard-room, where his legs were bound as well. Here he waited a few minutes, guarded by soldiers with drawn swords and loaded pistols, until the coach was brought round to the door. He was thrust into it, followed by Köller, and driven under a strong escort to the citadel. On the way he groaned: “My God, what crime have I committed?”—to which his companion vouchsafed no answer. When he got out of the coach he asked that something might be given to the driver, who was one of the royal coachmen. Köller handed the man a dollar, for which he thanked him, but said in Danish, with a vindictive look at Struensee: “I would gladly have done it for nothing.” There was hardly a menial in the King’s household who would not rejoice over the favourite’s fall.

Struensee was led into the presence of the commandant of the citadel, and formally delivered over to him by Köller. By this time he had regained something of his self-possession, and said to the commandant, whom he knew well: “I suppose this visit is totally unexpected by you?” “Not at all,” replied the discourteous officer; “I have been expecting to see you here for a long time.” The prisoner was then marched to a small cell, which had previously been occupied by a notorious pirate. On entering this gloomy chamber, Struensee, who had expected to be treated as a state prisoner, with every comfort, if not luxury, started back and said: “Where is my valet?” “I have not seen any valet,” said the jailor shortly. “But where are my things?” “I have not seen them either.” “Bring me my furs. It is cold here. I have no wish to be frozen to death.” But the man did not move. As there was nothing but a wooden stool and pallet bed, Struensee asked for a sofa. “There are no sofas here,” said the man, and backed up his words by a coarse insult. Struensee then lost his self-command, burst out into raving and cursing, and tried to dash out his brains against the wall, but the jailor held him back. When the commandant was informed of the prisoner’s refractory conduct, he ordered him to be fettered hand and foot, which was promptly done. This hurt Struensee’s pride more than all the other treatment, and he broke down and wept, exclaiming: “I am treated en canaille!” Certainly it was a change from the bed of down and the purple velvet hangings of an hour ago.

Brandt was arrested at the same time as Struensee. Colonel Sames, formerly commandant of Copenhagen, who had been deprived of his post by Struensee, accompanied by a guard, went to his apartments, but they found the door locked. For some time Brandt refused to answer, but on Sames threatening to break the door down unless it were opened, he at last turned the key and met his opponents, ready dressed and with a drawn sword. When the soldiers advanced to disarm him, he made no resistance, but said: “This must be a mistake. I have committed no offence for which I can be arrested.” Sames told him it was no mistake, but that he was acting on the King’s order, and it would be better for him to yield. Brandt, who was perfectly self-controlled, said: “Very well, I will follow you quietly.” He was taken down to the guard-room, put into a coach, and conveyed to the citadel, immediately following Struensee. When he entered the presence of the commandant, he said gaily: “I must apologise, sir, for paying you a visit at so early an hour.” “Not at all,” replied the commandant, with elaborate politeness; “my only grief is that you have not come before.” While some formalities were being gone through, Brandt hummed a tune with an air of unconcern, and looking round him, said: “Upon my word, these are mighty fine quarters you have in this castle!” To which the commandant replied: “Yes, and in a minute you will have an opportunity of seeing even finer ones.”

Brandt was presently conducted to his cell, which was even worse than Struensee’s, and on entering it he said good-humouredly to the jailor: “On my word, the commandant spoke truth!” Brandt bore his privations with firmness, and presently pulled a flute from his pocket and amused himself by playing it. He altogether showed much greater courage and self-control than the miserable Struensee, who did nothing but weep and bemoan his fate.

The arrest of Struensee’s principal confederates quickly followed. Falckenskjold was placed under arrest at the barracks. Justice Struensee and Professor Berger were conveyed to the citadel: General Gahler and his wife were arrested in bed; the lady jumped out of bed in her nightdress, and tried to escape by the back-stairs, but she was captured and removed with her husband to the citadel. Several others, including Bülow and Reverdil, were placed under “house arrest,” that is to say, they were confined to their houses, and had sentries posted over them. The servants of Struensee and Brandt were imprisoned in the Blue Tower. The morning dawned before all these imprisonments were carried out. The new rulers had reason to congratulate themselves that everything had been effected without bloodshed.

Meanwhile the most dramatic scene of the palace revolution was enacted in the Queen’s apartments of the Christiansborg. Upon retiring from the ball Queen Matilda went to see her infant daughter, and it was nearly four o’clock before she retired to rest. Even then she did not sleep, for the noise made by Köller in arresting Struensee, whose apartments were beneath, was indistinctly heard by the Queen. But she imagined it was due to the party which she understood was to be held in Countess Holstein’s rooms; she thought it had now been transferred to Struensee’s. She therefore sent one of her servants down to request them to be less noisy in their revels. The woman went, but did not return; and, as the noise ceased, the Queen thought no more about it, and presently fell asleep.

About half an hour later Matilda was aroused by the entrance of one of her women, white and trembling, who said that a number of men were without demanding to see her immediately in the King’s name. In a moment the Queen suspected danger, and her first thought was to warn her lover. She sprang out of bed, and, with nothing on but her nightrobe, rushed barefooted into the next room, with the idea of gaining the secret staircase which led to Struensee’s apartments.

In the ante-chamber the first object that greeted her eyes was Rantzau, seated in a chair and twirling his moustachios: he was dressed in full uniform, and had thrown over his shoulders a scarlet cloak lined with fur. At the Queen’s entrance he rose and bowed with great ceremony, evidently delighting in his part, of which any honest man would have been ashamed. In the ante-chamber beyond were several soldiers and frightened women. When the Queen saw Rantzau, she remembered her undress, and cried: “Eloignez-vous, Monsieur le Comte, pour l’amour de Dieu, car je ne suis pas présentable!” But, as Rantzau did not move, she ran back to her chamber, and threw on some more clothes; the delay was fatal to her.

KING CHRISTIAN VII.’S NOTE TO QUEEN MATILDA INFORMING HER OF HER ARREST.

When she came forth again she found the room full of armed men, and the officer in command opposed her passage. She haughtily ordered him to let her pass, saying that his head would answer for it if he did not. Rantzau retorted that his head would answer for it if he did. The officer, in evident distress, said: “Madame, I only do my duty, and obey the orders of my King.” The Queen then turned to the door, behind which was a staircase leading down to Struensee’s apartments. But the door was closed and a soldier posted before it. “Where is Count Struensee?” she demanded; “I wish to see him.” “Madame,” said Rantzau with elaborate irony, “there is no Count Struensee any more, nor can your Majesty see him.” The Queen advanced boldly towards him, and demanded his authority for these insults. Rantzau handed her the King’s message. She read it through without displaying any alarm, and then threw it contemptuously on the ground.[21] “Ha!” she cried, “in this I recognise treachery, but not the King.” Amazed at the Queen’s fearless air, Rantzau for the moment changed his tone, and implored her to submit quietly to the King’s orders. “Orders!” she exclaimed, “orders about which he knows nothing—which have been extorted from him by terror! No, the Queen does not obey such orders.” Rantzau then said that nothing remained for him but to do his duty, which admitted of no delay. “I am the Queen; I will obey no orders except from the King’s own lips,” she replied. “Let me go to him! I must, and will, see him!” She knew that if she could only gain access to the King she was safe, for she could make him rescind the order and so confound her enemies. Full of this thought she advanced to the door of the ante-chamber, where two soldiers stood with crossed muskets to bar her progress. The Queen imperiously commanded them to let her pass, whereupon both men fell on their knees, and one said in Danish: “Our heads are answerable if we allow your Majesty to pass.” But, despite Rantzau’s exhortations, neither man cared to lay hands on the Queen, and she stepped over their muskets and ran along the corridor to the King’s apartments. They were closed, and, though she beat her hands upon the door, no answer was returned, for, fearing some such scene, the Queen-Dowager had, only a few minutes before, conveyed the King to the apartments of Prince Frederick. The corridor led nowhere else, and failing to gain entrance, the Queen, hardly knowing what she did, went back to her ante-room.

[21] Rantzau picked the paper up and put it in his pocket. It was found a year or two after his death among his papers at Oppendorft (the estate that came to him through his wife), and has since been preserved.

Rantzau now addressed her in the language of menace. Perhaps some memory of the homage he had paid her at Ascheberg, when she was at the zenith of her power, flashed across the Queen. “Villain!” she cried, “is this the language that you dare to address to me? Go, basest of men! Leave my presence!” These words only infuriated Rantzau the more, but he was crippled with gout, and could not grapple with the infuriated young Queen himself, so he turned to the soldiers, and gave them orders to use force. Still the soldiers hesitated. Then an officer stepped forward and touched the Queen on the arm with the intention of leading her back to her chamber. But half beside herself she rushed to the window, threw it open and seemed about to throw herself out. The officer seized her round the waist, and held her back; though no man dared to lay hands on the Queen, it was necessary to defend her against herself. The Queen shrieked for help and struggled wildly; she was strong and rendered desperate by fear and indignation. A lieutenant had to be called forward, but the Queen resisted him as well, though her clothes were partly torn off her in the struggle. At last her strength failed her, and she was dragged away from the window in a half-fainting condition. The officers, who had showed great repugnance to their task, and had used no more force than was absolutely necessary, now carried the Queen back to her chamber, and laid her on the bed, where her women, frightened and weeping, crowded around her, and plied her with restoratives.

Rantzau, who had watched this unseemly spectacle without emotion, nay, with positive zest, now sent a messenger to Osten, and asked him to come and induce the Queen to yield quietly. Although he had threatened to remove her by force, it was not easy to carry out his threat, for the soldiers would not offer violence to the person of the Queen, nor would public opinion, if it came to be known, tolerate it. Rantzau, who was alternately a bully and a coward, had no wish to put himself in an awkward position. He therefore did the wisest thing in sending for the foreign minister. Osten, who at the first tidings of Struensee’s arrest, had hastened to the Christiansborg, was in the Queen-Dowager’s apartments, making his terms with her. This astute diplomatist, though he plotted for the overthrow of Struensee, and was aware of all the facts of the conspiracy, had refrained from taking active part in it until its success was assured. Now that the King had thrown himself into the arms of the Queen-Dowager, and Struensee and Brandt were in prison, he no longer hesitated, but hastened to pay his court to the winning side. He came at once, on receipt of Rantzau’s message. He realised quite as much as Juliana Maria that the revolution could only be carried out thoroughly by Matilda’s removal. She had gained great ascendency over the King, and, if she saw him, that ascendency would be renewed; if she were separated from him, he would speedily forget her. Therefore, it was above all things necessary that the King and Queen should be kept apart.

In a short time Queen Matilda became more composed, and even recovered sufficiently to dress herself with the aid of her women. When Osten entered her chamber, he found her sitting at the side of the bed, weeping. All defiance had faded away; she only felt herself a betrayed and cruelly injured woman. Osten came to her in the guise of a friend. He had been a colleague of Struensee’s, and had never outwardly broken with him, and the Queen had confidence in his skill and judgment. She therefore listened to him, when he persuaded her that more would be gained by complying with the King’s orders, at this time, than by resisting them. He hinted that her sojourn at Kronborg would only be for a time, and by-and-by the King’s humour would change. Moreover, the people were in a state of revolt against the Queen’s authority, and it was necessary for Matilda’s safety that she should be removed from Copenhagen to the shelter of Kronborg. “What have I done to the people?” the Queen asked. “I know that a good many changes have taken place, but I have done my utmost to further the welfare of the King and country according to my conscience.” Osten merely replied with quiet insistence that she had herself contemplated flight to Kronborg at the time of the tumult of the Norwegian sailors at Hirschholm. Believing the man to be her friend, the Queen yielded to his advice. “I have done nothing; the King will be just,” she said. She signified her willingness to go, provided that her children accompanied her. Here again difficulties were raised, but the Queen was firm, and said she would not budge a step unless her children went with her. Finally, a compromise was arrived at; Osten made her understand that the Crown Prince must not be removed, but she might take the little Princess, whom she was herself nursing. This being settled, the Queen’s preparations for departure were hurriedly made, and Fräulein Mösting, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, was ordered to go with her, and one of her bed-chamber women.

The bleak January morning was still dark when Matilda, dressed for the journey, carrying her child in her arms and followed by two of her women, came out of her bedroom, and signified her readiness to start. Rantzau, who was still sitting in the ante-chamber, waiting, rose, and pointing to his gouty foot, said with covert insolence: “You see, Madam, that my feet fail me; but my arms are free, and I offer one to your Majesty to conduct you to your coach.” But she repulsed him with scorn, and exclaimed: “Away with you, traitor! I loathe you!” She walked alone down the stairs to the coaches, which were waiting in the back-yard of the palace. She entered one, but refused to part with the little Princess, whom she placed upon her knees. Fräulein Mösting sat by the Queen’s side, and the opposite seat was occupied by an officer with his sword drawn. In the second coach followed the bed-chamber woman, the nurse of the Princess Louise Augusta, and some absolutely necessary luggage. The coaches were guarded by an escort of thirty dragoons, and the cavalcade clattered at a sharp trot through the streets of the still sleeping city, and was soon outside the gates of Copenhagen.

The first part of the journey was in darkness, but, as the day broke, the Queen looked out on the frost-bound roads and the dreary country over which she was hurrying. She had ample time for reflection, and bitter her reflections must have been. A few hours before she had been Queen, vested, it seemed, with unlimited power, and the centre of a brilliant court; now she was a prisoner, stripped of all her power, and nearly all the semblance of her rank—a fugitive, she believed herself to be, fleeing from the vengeance of her people. Yet even now, in this supreme moment of her desolation, her thoughts were not of herself, but of the man who had brought her to such a pass. The road passed by the grounds of Hirschholm, the scene of many happy days, and the memory of them must have deepened the Queen’s dejection; but she said nothing, and throughout the long and tedious journey uttered no word, but sat motionless, the image of despair.

Kronborg, whither the royal prisoner was being hurried, was a gloomy fortress erected by Frederick II. in the latter part of the sixteenth century, and restored, after a fire, by Christian IV., nearly eighty years later. It had changed little with the flight of centuries, and remains much the same to-day. Built strongly of rough-hewn stone, which has taken on itself the colour of the rocks around, the massive and imposing castle springs directly from the sea, on the extreme point of land between the Cattegat and the narrowest part of the Sound, which separates Denmark from Sweden. Its massive walls, turrets and gables frown down upon the little town of Helsingor at its base.[22] Tradition says that deep down in its casemates slumbers Holgar Danske (“the Dane”), who will rise and come forth when his country is in peril.[23] He might have come forth in 1772, for Denmark was never in greater peril than on the eve of the palace revolution.

[22] Helsingor, or Elsinore, now a busy town, is the scene of Shakespeare’s play, “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,” and, on “the platform before the castle of Elsinore”—in other words, the flagged battlements of Kronborg—the ghost of “Hamlet” appeared. Local tradition also points out “the grave of Hamlet” and “the spring of Ophelia,” both, of course, legendary. Hamlet, in fact, never visited Elsinore, but was born and lived in Jutland. But Shakespeare shows a curious knowledge of Elsinore and Kronborg, and some light has been thrown on this subject by the discovery among the archives of Elsinore of a manuscript, which shows that in 1585 a wooden theatre, in which a troop of English comedians had been acting, was burned down. The names of the actors are given. Nearly all of them have been proved to belong to Shakespeare’s company, though the name of the poet is not among them. A monument is now being erected to Shakespeare at Kronborg, to which Queen Alexandra has contributed.

[23] A well-known character in Hans Andersen’s fairy-tales. Two fragments of stone in the dungeons beneath Kronborg are still shown; one is said to serve as Holgar Danske’s pillow, and the other as his table.

Kronborg was distant some twenty-four miles from Copenhagen, and the journey was covered in less than three hours. The day had broken when the melancholy cavalcade clattered through the street of Helsingor, and pulled up under the storm-beaten walls of Kronborg. At the outermost gate the officer in command of the Queen’s escort produced the King’s letter to the commandant, which gave his consort into his charge, and ordered her to be kept a strict prisoner. The commandant of Kronborg must have been much surprised at this communication, but he was a stern soldier, not given to questioning, and he obeyed his instructions to the letter. The outer gate was thrown open, and the little procession passed over the drawbridge, which spanned the green water of the moat, to the guard-house, where the escort from Copenhagen remained. The soldiers of the fortress then took charge of the two coaches, and they wound their way up the incline under the castle walls. They crossed another drawbridge, spanning a deep, dry ditch, and passed through the rough-hewn, tunnel-like entrance of stone, and out into the gloomy courtyard of the castle—a place where it would seem the sun never shines. Here the Queen, still carrying her child in her arms, alighted, and was hurried to a doorway on the left of the courtyard, up the winding stone stairs, and through a large room into the chamber set apart for her. This was a low, circular apartment in a tower, not more than ten feet high, and very small, with four windows, iron-barred, looking out upon the sea. The grey waves broke directly beneath the windows, and were separated from the walls only by a strip of rampart, on which cannon were placed.[24]

[24] The traveller De Flaux, who visited Kronborg about 1850, thus wrote of the room: “In a tower is a small oval room, the windows of which are still lined with iron bars. It was here that the Queen was confined. I was shown the prie-dieu used by this unfortunate princess. It was on the faded velvet that covered it that she rested her beautiful head. Who knows whether the spots on it were not produced by the tears of despair she shed?” [Du Danemark.]

I was at Kronborg in 1902. The Queen’s room is now destitute of any furniture, but the iron bars guarding the windows are still there. I looked through them at the sea beneath. It was a grey, windy day; the waves were lead-coloured and flecked with white, and overhead were drifting masses of cloud. On such a scene Queen Matilda must have often gazed during the five months of her captivity.

The unhappy Queen looked round the narrow walls of this room, which was almost a cell, with astonishment not unmixed with indignation. She had hardly realised until now that she was a prisoner, for the crafty Osten had conveyed to her the idea that she was going to Kronborg more for her own safety than as a captive. But the iron-barred windows, and the guard outside her door, brought home to her her unfortunate condition. At least she, the daughter of kings, the wife of a king, and the mother of a king to be, had the right to be treated with the respect due to her rank and dignity. Whatever offences were charged against her nothing was yet proved. Even if she were a prisoner, she was at least a state prisoner, and though her liberty might be curtailed, every effort should have been made to study as far as possible her comfort and convenience. But locked into this little room, barely furnished and without a fire, she found herself treated more like a common criminal than the reigning Queen, and when she protested against these indignities, the commandant told her that he was only obeying his strict orders. The Queen, whose spirit was for the moment broken by fatigue and excitement, and who was nearly frozen from the cold of the long journey, sank down upon the pallet bed, and burst into bitter weeping. Her women endeavoured in vain to comfort her, and it was only at last, when they reminded her of her child, that she was roused from the abandonment of her grief. “You are here too, dear innocent!” she exclaimed. “In that case, your poor mother is not utterly desolate.”

THE ROOM IN WHICH QUEEN MATILDA WAS IMPRISONED AT KRONBORG.

For two days the Queen remained inconsolable, and did little but sit in a state of stupor, looking out upon the waves; nor could she be prevailed upon to take any rest, or food, or even to lie down upon the bed. It was true that the food offered her was such that she could not eat it, unless compelled by the pangs of hunger, for she was given at first the same food as that served out to the common prisoners. In these first days it was a wonder that she did not die of hunger and cold. It was a bitter winter, violent gales blew across the sea, and the wind shrieked and raged around the castle walls; but there was no way of warming the little room in which the Queen was confined. In her hurried departure from Copenhagen she had brought with her very few clothes. No others were sent her, and she had hardly the things necessary to clothe herself with propriety, or protect herself against the severity of the weather. She was not allowed to pass the threshold of her room, not even to the large room beyond, where there was a fire. This room was occupied by soldiers, who acted as her jailors, and the women who passed in and out of the Queen’s room were liable to be searched.

This treatment of the Queen, for which there was no excuse, must be traced directly to Juliana Maria; it was she who caused instructions to be sent to the commandant as to how he was to treat his royal prisoner. The King was too indifferent to trouble one way or another, and the commandant would not have dared to inflict such indignities on the King’s consort unless he had received strict orders to do so from those in authority—nor would he have wished to do so. Later the Queen acquitted him from all responsibility in this respect. After the first few days, when she had recovered from the shock of recent events, Queen Matilda accepted her imprisonment more patiently, and bore her hardships with a dignity and fortitude which enforced respect even from her jailors, and proved that she was no unworthy daughter of the illustrious house from which she sprang.

CHAPTER V.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE QUEEN-DOWAGER.

1772.

When day dawned on January 17, the citizens of Copenhagen awoke to the fact that the hated rule of Struensee was gone for ever. The constant driving through the streets during the night had attracted little attention, for the noise was thought to arise from the guests returning from the ball at the palace; but when morning came, and the streets were seen to be full of soldiers, the people realised that something unusual had happened. First there came a rumour of a fresh outrage on the part of Struensee, and of an attempt to assassinate the King. But swift on the heels of this came the truth: the King, with the aid of the Queen-Dowager and his brother, had asserted himself; the favourite and his colleagues were in prison, and Queen Matilda had been conveyed to Kronborg. During the silent hours of the night a revolution had been effected, and the mob, like all mobs, shouted on the winning side. The news ran like wildfire round Copenhagen, and soon every one was in the streets. On all sides were heard shouts of “Long live King Christian VII.!” and many cheers were raised for the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick. The people converged towards the Christiansborg Palace, and completely filled the space in front of it, shouting and cheering.

At ten o’clock in the morning the King, who, until now, had been busy signing orders of arrest, and sanctioning appointments of others to fill the place of those arrested, appeared upon the balcony, with his brother by his side, while the Queen-Dowager, more modest, showed herself at the window in an undress. Their appearance was greeted with deafening shouts by the crowd, to which the King and the Prince responded by bows, and Juliana Maria by waving her handkerchief. The enthusiasm grew more and more, until at last the King joined in the cheers of his people. The Queen-Dowager had not miscalculated her forces: without doubt the people were on her side.

The citizens now began to deck their houses with flags and bunting, and everywhere kept high holiday. Even the heavens seemed to rejoice at the downfall of the hated administration, for the sun came out, and shone with a brilliance that had not been known in January in Copenhagen for years. About noon the gates of the Christiansborg Palace were thrown open, and the King, splendidly dressed, with his brother seated by his side, drove forth in a state coach drawn by eight white horses to show himself to his people. For the first time for months the King dispensed with all escort, and, except for the running footmen and postilions, the royal coach was unattended. The King drove through all the principal streets. The crowd was so great that it was with difficulty the coach could make way, and the people pressed and surged around it, and in their enthusiasm wanted to take out the horses and drag the coach themselves. The women especially were wild with delight, and waved their handkerchiefs frantically; some even pulled off their headgear, and waved it in the air, the better to testify their joy at seeing their beloved Sovereign safe and sound, and freed from his hated guardians. The King, however, when the novelty of the situation was over, relapsed into his usual apathy, and did not respond to the greeting of his loving subjects, but kept his window up, and stared through it indifferently at the crowd; but Prince Frederick, who was usually undemonstrative, had let the window down on his side of the coach, and bowed and smiled incessantly.

The King held a court in the afternoon at the palace, and was supported on one side by the Queen-Dowager and on the other by his brother. The court was crowded, and by a very different class of people to those who had appeared during the brief reign of Struensee. Many of the nobility, who had heard the glad news, hurried into Copenhagen to personally offer their congratulations to the three royal personages on the overthrow of the detested German Junto. All the Queen-Dowager’s party, all the principal clergy, and all who had taken part in the conspiracy, directly or indirectly, were present; and many more who knew of it, but held aloof until it was an accomplished fact, were now eager to pay their court. The King remained only a short time, and left the Queen-Dowager and Prince Frederick to receive the rest of the company, and they did with right good will, rejoicing in their new-found dignity and importance. It was their hour of triumph, and the inauguration of the clique which governed Denmark for the next twelve years.

In the evening the three royal personages drove to the opera through cheering crowds, and when they entered their box the whole house rose in enthusiasm. Their return to the palace was a triumphal procession, the people forming their guard as before. At night the city was illuminated; every house displayed lights in its windows, and bonfires were kindled in the streets. Salvoes of artillery were fired from the ramparts, and rockets were sent up. The whole population seemed mad with joy. So great was the illumination that the sky was lit up for miles around. At far-off Kronborg Queen Matilda, peering through her iron bars, saw the light in the sky over towards the capital, and asked what it meant. She was told that it was Copenhagen rejoicing over her downfall.[25]

[25] Mémoires de Reverdil.

The popular rejoicings were marred by gross excesses, though considering the excited state of public opinion it is a wonder that more were not committed. Some of the lowest characters had turned into the streets, and the sailors and dockyard men, who especially hated Struensee, were drunk with wine and excitement. The mob, not content with bonfires, soon showed signs of rioting. They broke into the house of one of Struensee’s supporters and wrecked it, carried off the furniture, and smashed the windows. In the cellar there was a large stock of spirits. The rioters broke the casks open, drank what they would, and upset the rest, with the result that they waded up to their ankles in liquor. Inflamed by drink they next attacked other houses. The police, unable to check the riot, which had grown to dangerous proportions, applied to Eickstedt for soldiers to aid them. But the Queen-Dowager was unwilling to call out the military, as she thought a conflict might bring about bloodshed and so damp the popular enthusiasm. Therefore, instead of soldiers, Prince Frederick’s chamberlain was sent to the scene of disturbance, with instructions to thank the people for the rejoicings they had manifested on the King’s deliverance from his enemies, and a promise that the King would especially remember the sailors (who were among the most tumultuous of the rioters), if they would now go quietly home. But the mob had by this time got out of hand, and either did not, or would not, listen. They rushed towards the royal stables, with the intention of smashing Struensee’s coach, but were prevented by the palace guard. They then endeavoured to wreck the house of the chief of the police, but being foiled in this attempt also, they began to plunder the mont-de-pieté. At this point the soldiers had to be called out, and they succeeded in dispersing the rioters without bloodshed. Next day the streets were patrolled by the burgher guard, and in the afternoon heralds rode round the city, and at certain points read a message from the King, in which he thanked his loyal people for their enthusiasm, but regretted that their zeal had got the better of their discretion. He forbade any further plundering or excesses under heavy penalties. After this the people gradually quieted down, but it was a week before the patrol could be removed.

Meanwhile the Queen-Dowager was occupied in distributing honours among her adherents. The arch-conspirator, Rantzau, at last received the reward of his intrigues. He was made General-in-Chief of the infantry, and a Knight of the Elephant, and his debts were paid in full from the royal treasury. It may be that the part he had played in the arrest of Matilda, and the callousness and insolence he had shown to the unfortunate Queen, quickened the sense of Juliana Maria’s gratitude; for she rewarded him promptly and handsomely. Eickstedt and Köller were promoted to be full generals, and decorated with the order of the Dannebrog. Köller, who was a Pomeranian by birth, was offered naturalisation, with the name of Banner, an extinct Danish noble family. Köller accepted, saying that he intended henceforth to devote his life to Denmark, and was known from this time as Köller-Banner. He was also given a court appointment as aide-de-camp to the King, with apartments in the royal palace. Beringskjold was appointed Grand Chamberlain, and received a pension of two thousand dollars, and a further present of forty thousand dollars paid down. His elder son was appointed a court page, and the younger was promised a captaincy. All the officers of the palace guard who had done duty on the eventful night were promoted a step. Major Carstenskjold, who had conducted Matilda to Kronborg with his drawn sabre and forty dragoons, was made a lieutenant-colonel. Colonel Sames, who had arrested Brandt, received a present of ten thousand dollars. Jessen was created a councillor of justice, and received a gift of two thousand dollars. Rewards were also given to minor personages.

The only one of the conspirators who received no reward, though he was in reality the chief among them, was Guldberg, who declared that the success of the enterprise was sufficient reward for him, and he required neither money nor titles.[26] Guldberg was sure of his influence with the Queen-Dowager; he knew, too, that his apparent disinterestedness would carry weight with the people, and so strengthen his position. He had reserved for himself the power behind the throne, and he filled in the new government something of the place that Struensee had filled in the old. That is to say, he had great influence over the Queen-Dowager; he was the indispensable man, he directed the policy, and no appointments were made of which he did not approve. But unlike Struensee he conducted himself with infinite tact and discretion.

[26] He later took the name of Hoegh-Guldberg, and became a minister of state.

As the Struensee administration had been destroyed root and branch, it was necessary to make several new appointments to carry on the government of the country. The first care of the Queen-Dowager was to appoint some one to act as the King’s keeper—some one who would guard him well—for Christian VII.’s formal consent was absolutely necessary for every step she took. The King was now in so weak-minded a condition, and so easily influenced, that any one who had possession of him could make him sign any order he would. All the same Juliana Maria had some difficulty in getting the King to consent to a new guardian, or “personal attendant,” as he was called, to take Brandt’s place. A long list of names was submitted to him, but he refused them one by one until at last, when the Queen-Dowager mentioned Osten’s name, the King said: “Yes, I will have him.” But Osten did not care to exchange his influential post as minister of foreign affairs for that of the King’s companion, and declined the honour. So Köller-Banner, who was a great favourite of the Queen-Dowager, was appointed to the office. The Queen-Dowager was anxious to win the support of the old Danish nobility to the new Government. Therefore, Count Otto Thott and Councillor Schack-Rathlou, who had been dismissed by Struensee, were invited to take part again in the business of state. Bernstorff’s recall was urged by a powerful section, but Osten and Rantzau both opposed it violently, for they feared the return of this upright and conscientious man.[27] Guldberg, too, was afraid that a statesman of Bernstorff’s eminence would prove a rival to his ambition. The Queen-Dowager also did not wish to recall Bernstorff, because of his well-known devotion to the royal house of England. She feared that he would interfere on behalf of Matilda, of whom she was very jealous. She determined to make her feel the full weight of her vengeance.

[27] In spite of this opposition in time Bernstorff might have come back, but his health was failing, and he died in the autumn of 1772, at the age of sixty years, at Grabow.

COUNT BERNSTORFF.

The bitter feeling against Struensee seemed to increase as the days went by, and on every side were heard cries for vengeance. On January 19, the first Sunday after the revolution, Te Deums were sung in all the churches of Copenhagen; and throughout the kingdom, wherever the news had penetrated, there was a thanksgiving to Almighty God for the overthrow of the godless Government. The clergy, who had been especially hostile to Struensee, and done much to bring about his fall, did not hesitate to improve the occasion from their pulpits, and spoke of “the fearful vengeance of the Lord” which had fallen upon wickedness in high places. Nor did they spare in their condemnation the unfortunate Matilda, but likened her to Rahab and to Jezebel, and urged their congregations to hate and execrate her name. The celebrated Dr. Münter, who had often come into conflict with the Queen and Struensee in the days of their power, preached in the royal chapel of the Christiansborg Palace before the King, the Queen-Dowager, Prince Frederick and the court, and took for his text St. Matthew, chapter viii., verses 1-13. His sermon was nothing but a violent diatribe against the fallen minister, more especially for his policy in granting toleration in matters of religion. “Godless men ruled over us,” cried the preacher, “and openly defied God. They, to whom nothing was sacred either in heaven or earth, despised and mocked the national faith. Yet, while they were meditating violent measures to secure their power for ever, the vengeance of the Lord fell upon them.” So on for many pages, concluding with: “Our King is once more ours; we are again his people.” The eloquence of the preacher so moved the Queen-Dowager that she shed tears.

The fanaticism of the clergy was only equalled by the fury of the press. That the journals of Copenhagen, which were more or less subsidised, should indulge in violent language was only to be expected, but the most eminent writers of the time joined in the cry, including the historian Suhm, a man who was a Dane of Danes, and who had already urged the Queen-Dowager to action. This learned man published an open letter to the King, which was sold in pamphlet form throughout the kingdom. Like many other professors, Suhm was only admirable when he confined himself to the subjects which he professed, and the moment he quitted the realm of history for contemporary politics he became unfortunate and of no account. His open letter out-Müntered Münter in the violence of its abuse and the fulsomeness of its adulation. “Long enough,” runs the pamphlet, “had religion and virtue been trampled under foot; long enough had honesty and integrity been thrust aside. A disgraceful mob of canaille had seized the person of the King, and rendered access to him impossible for every honourable man. The country swam in tears; the Danish land became a name of shame; the rich were plundered; the sun of the royal house was dimmed, and every department of the Government was given up to unscrupulous robbers, blasphemers and enemies of humanity.” After recounting at great length the danger to which the nation had been brought by the “monster Struensee,” the pamphlet burst forth into an eloquent exhortation to Danes to arise and defend their heritage. It called on all to rally to the standard of the Queen-Dowager and her son, who had delivered the King and the country from imminent peril. “Who would not praise and esteem that dangerous but honourable night?” wrote Suhm. “Future Homers and Virgils will sing its praises, and so long as there are any Danish and Norwegian heroes left in the world the glory of Juliana Maria and Frederick will endure. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but their glory shall not pass away.” This precious pamphlet was greeted with praise from the highest to the lowest in the land. Suhm soon issued a second exhortation addressed: “To my Countrymen—Danes, Norwegians and Holsteiners,” in which he demanded vengeance upon Struensee. Such vengeance, he declared, was imperatively demanded for the honour of Denmark, for “all the nations of Europe would regard a people that suffered itself to be governed by a Struensee as a vile, cowardly people”. Suhm’s example was followed by a number of anonymous scribblers, who flooded town and country with pamphlets calling aloud for the blood of the fallen minister. So unanimous were these pamphlets, and with such regularity did they appear, that it provoked the suspicion that the new Government had some hand in thus inflaming public opinion against its enemies. Not only were Struensee, Brandt and their colleagues denounced by every conceivable epithet, but the name of the Queen, who, though imprisoned, was still the reigning Queen, was dragged into these effusions, and covered with dishonour. Everything was done to foment the public rage against her, and “Justice against Matilda” was shouted by hirelings in the streets.

Before matters had reached this pitch, Keith had intervened on behalf of the imprisoned Queen. It was unfortunate that Matilda, at the time of her arrest, had not demanded to see the English minister, and thrown herself on his protection as a princess of Great Britain. But the thought did not cross her mind, for though Keith was anxious and willing to help her, the Queen, in her madness for Struensee, had rejected both the assistance and advice that had been offered by her brother of England, and had treated his representative with reserve. But Keith, we see by his despatches, realised the situation, and cherished no feeling of resentment. He felt for the Queen nothing but chivalrous pity, and determined, if possible, to shield her from the consequences of her rashness and indiscretion. To this end he had attended the masked ball, where he saw the Queen radiant and happy, with no thought of the mine about to explode beneath her feet.

In the morning of January 17 Keith heard with astonishment and alarm of the Queen-Dowager’s conspiracy, and that the Queen, abandoned by the King, had been conveyed a prisoner to the castle of Kronborg. Rumours were current that she was in imminent peril, and that it was proposed to execute her before the sun went down. With characteristic determination Keith lost not a moment in acting on behalf of the Queen. He hastened through the crowded streets to the Christiansborg Palace, and demanded instant audience of the King. This was denied him, and so was his request that he might be admitted to the presence of the Queen-Dowager or her son. Nothing daunted, Keith demanded an immediate interview with Osten, who still acted as minister of foreign affairs. Osten, who well knew the nature of Keith’s errand, tried at first to put him off with excuses, but the envoy would not be denied, and at last almost forced his way into Osten’s cabinet, where he found him in council with some of the other conspirators. In answer to the envoy’s inquiry, “Where is the Queen?” Osten replied that his Majesty had found it necessary to remove his royal consort to the fortress of Kronborg, where she would be detained until the King further signified his pleasure, and the grave charges against her of conspiracy against the King’s authority and infidelity to his bed had been disproved. Keith, under these circumstances, could do nothing but lodge a protest, and demand that the Queen, as a princess of Great Britain, should be treated with all the respect and consideration which her birth demanded, and that, as Queen of Denmark, any proceedings against her should follow the regular and constitutional rule of that country. He referred to the rumours that were current of foul play, and said that he held the Danish Government responsible for her safety, and warned them that the King, his master, would undoubtedly declare war against Denmark if a hair of her head were touched. After delivering this ultimatum, Keith left the Christiansborg Palace, returned to his own house, and wrote a long despatch to England, detailing all that had occurred, and what he had said and done. He asked for instructions as to how he was to proceed with regard to the new Government and the imprisoned Queen. This done, he shut himself up in his house until the answer should arrive.[28]

[28] Memoirs of Sir R. Murray Keith, vol. i. It is impossible to quote this despatch of Keith’s, as it has been destroyed. The last available despatch of Keith’s is previous to the catastrophe, and thenceforward, until after the Queen’s divorce, all the despatches relating to the Queen are abstracted from those preserved in the State Paper Office in London. These despatches were destroyed by order of King George III. There is no trace either of the despatches sent by Keith to England at this period, or of those from England to Keith, beyond an order, later, that Keith was to bring them to England.

The popular rejoicings came to an end within a week of the palace revolution, but the court festivities were continued some time longer. The King frequently drove about the city in company with his brother, and, as the ground was covered with snow, he often appeared in a sleigh. The Queen-Dowager also showed herself in public on every possible occasion, in marked contrast to her previous habits of rigid seclusion. She now occupied at Frederiksberg the apartments of the imprisoned Queen, but at the Christiansborg she retained her former suite. Within a week of Matilda’s disgrace a state banquet and ball were held at the Christiansborg, at which the Queen-Dowager took the place of the reigning Queen. The King’s twenty-third birthday, January 29, was celebrated all over the kingdom with great rejoicing, and Copenhagen was decorated and illuminated in honour of the event. In the evening the King, attended by a very large suite, witnessed the performance at the palace theatre of two new French vaudevilles. With a singular lack of good taste, the titles of these pieces were “L’Ambitieux,” and “L’Indiscret,” and, as might be judged, they abounded in allusions to Struensee and scarcely veiled insults of the imprisoned Queen, who only a few days before had been the centre of the court festivities. After the play there was a grand supper in the knights’ hall, to which the foreign envoys, ministers, and the most distinguished of the nobility were invited. The English envoy was absent.

The object of all these court festivities was to persuade the public that the King shared in the universal joy. There is reason, however, to believe that after the first few days of excitement were past, the King began to realise that he had bettered his condition very little by the change. He was glad to be rid of Brandt and Struensee, especially of Brandt, but he missed the Queen, who was always kind and lively, and no doubt if he could have seen her he would have forgiven her on the spot. The Queen-Dowager was fully aware of this danger, and determined at all hazards to prevent it. Already she was beginning to feel some of the anxieties of power. Popularity is a very fleeting thing, and there were signs that the popularity of the new Government would be ephemeral; the recent riots of the mob, which were comparatively unchecked, had given them a taste for similar excesses. The court lived in continual dread of further disturbance.

A ludicrous instance of this occurred at the theatre some few days after the revolution, when the court was at the French play. Owing to the house being inconveniently crowded, some slight disturbance took place in the cheaper seats. Immediately a rumour flew round the theatre that a riot had broken out in the city, Struensee and Brandt had escaped from prison, and the mob were setting fire to houses and plundering everywhere. The news ran like wildfire through the audience, and in an incredibly short space of time a scene of panic prevailed. Every one began to make for the doors, with the result that the confusion became worse confounded. The King was the first to take fright, and rushed from his box, with wild looks, followed by the Hereditary Prince. The Queen-Dowager tried in vain to detain them, and when they were gone she was so much overcome that she fainted. A curious crowd had collected outside the theatre, and it was not until some time that order was restored, and the whole affair discovered to be a hoax. But the Queen-Dowager was not reassured, and the result of this panic was seen in a series of police regulations for the better preservation of the public peace. The city gates, which had been left open, were again locked at night; masters were ordered to keep their apprentices at home after dark, and public houses were ordered to be closed at ten o’clock.

The first step taken by the Queen-Dowager was to re-establish the Council of State, which had been abolished by Struensee. It consisted of Prince Frederick and the following members: Count Thott, Count Rantzau, Councillor Schack-Rathlou, Admiral Rommeling, General Eickstedt and Count Osten. All resolutions were discussed by the Council of State before they received the royal assent, and the net result of the new regulations was to take the power out of the King’s hands, and vest it in the Council, for the King’s signature was deprived of all force and validity except in council. The members of the Council of State received in their patents the titles of Ministers of State and Excellencies. Count Thott acted as president of the Council in the absence of the King, and received a salary of six thousand dollars—the other members five thousand dollars. Guldberg, who really drew up the plan of the Council with the Queen-Dowager, and afterwards the instructions, was not at first a member, but for all that he was the most influential man in the Government. He and the Queen-Dowager worked in concert, and they ruled the situation. It was said that Juliana Maria at first entertained the idea of deposing the King, and placing her son upon the throne, but Guldberg opposed it, and pointed out that such a step would surely be followed by a protest from the nation and from the foreign powers, with England at their head.

The Queen-Dowager therefore continued to play the rôle of one who had only come forward with the greatest reluctance because her action was urgently needed for the salvation of the King and country. This was the line she took in a conversation with Reverdil, who was set at liberty a few days after his arrest by her orders, and summoned to her presence. When Reverdil entered the room, she apologised for his arrest, and said it was a mistake, and contrary to her orders. She continued: “I only wish I could have spared the others, but the Queen had forgotten everything she owed to her sex, her birth and her rank. Even so, my son and I would have refrained from interference had not her irregularities affected the Government. The whole kingdom was upset, and going fast to ruin. God supported me through it all; I felt neither alarm nor terror.”[29]

[29] Mémoires de Reverdil.

The Queen-Dowager felt well disposed towards Reverdil, who had more than once remonstrated with Struensee on the disrespect shown by him and his minions to her and Prince Frederick. She would probably have reinstated him in his post, but Osten and Rantzau disliked him. They feared he might gain an influence over the King, or enter a plea of mercy for the prisoners, or suggest to the Queen-Dowager the recall of Bernstorff, or induce her to summon Prince Charles of Hesse to court—both of whom disliked them. So Osten saw Reverdil and worked upon his fears. He advised him for his own sake to leave the court, and the honest Swiss needed no second warning, but within a week shook the dust of Copenhagen off his feet, and so disappears from this history.[30]

[30] After leaving Copenhagen, Reverdil lived for some time at Nyon, and afterwards at Lausanne. He maintained a correspondence with Prince Charles of Hesse, and lived on friendly terms with a number of distinguished personages, including Necker, Garnier, Mesdames Necker and De Stael, and Voltaire, who said of him: “On peut avoir autant d’esprit que Reverdil, mais pas davantage.” Reverdil lived to an advanced age, and died in 1808 at Geneva.

The next step of the Queen-Dowager’s Government was the appointment of a commission of inquiry to conduct the investigation of Struensee, Brandt, and the ten other prisoners, and send them for trial. This Commission consisted of eight high officials, to whom a ninth was eventually added. They were all known to be enemies of Struensee and his system of government. The Commission was appointed in January, and made it its first duty to search the houses of the prisoners, and examine all their papers. For the purpose of taking evidence the Commission sat daily at the Christiansborg Palace, but either because the commissioners were uncertain how to proceed, or because of conflicting counsels, five weeks passed before the examination of the principal prisoners began. Every one knew that the trial was a foregone conclusion. Keith wrote to his father before it took place: “Count Struensee is loaded with irons, and, which is worse, with guilt, in a common prison in the citadel. Without knowing either the particulars of the accusations against him, or the proofs, I believe I may venture to say that he will soon finish his wild career by the hands of the executioner. The treatment of Count Brandt in the prison, and the race he has run, bear so near an affinity to those of Struensee that it may be presumed his doom will be similar.”[31]

[31] Sir R. M. Keith to Mr. Keith, February 9, 1772.—Memoirs and Correspondence of Sir Robert Murray Keith.

Struensee and Brandt were kept confined closely to their cells, and treated with hardship and ignominy, which would have broken the spirits of far stronger men than they, who had been rendered soft by luxury and self-indulgence. The day after their arrival at the citadel iron chains were specially forged for them. These chains weighed eighteen pounds each, and were fastened on the right hand and on the left leg, and thence, with the length of three yards, to the wall. They wore them day and night and never took them off. Struensee felt this indignity bitterly, and made pitiful efforts to conceal his fetters. Curiously enough, the smith who forged them and fastened them upon him was a prisoner who only a year before had been in chains himself, and then had begged Struensee for alms and his liberty. The minister had contemptuously tossed him some pence, but refused to set him free, saying: “You do not wear your chains on account of your virtues.” When the man, therefore, fettered Struensee to the wall, he reminded him of the incident by saying: “Your Excellency, I do not put this chain on you on account of your virtues.”[32]

[32] Gespräch im Reiche der Todten (a pamphlet).

Most of the severities inflicted on the prisoners, and especially those on Struensee, seem rather to have been dictated from a fear that they would attempt to commit suicide, and not in any vindictive spirit. Neither of the prisoners was entrusted with knives and forks, but the jailors cut up their food and carried it to their mouths. Struensee at first tried to starve himself, but after three days the commandant sent him word that he was to eat and drink, otherwise he would be thrashed until his appetite returned. His buttons were cut off his clothes, because he had swallowed two of them; his shoe-buckles were removed, and when he tried to dash his head against the wall he was made to wear an iron cap. Brandt escaped both the strait-waistcoat and the iron cap, for he showed no disposition to take his life; on the contrary, he was always cheerful, and bore his fate with a fortitude which shamed the wretched Struensee.

FREDERICK, HEREDITARY PRINCE OF DENMARK, STEP-BROTHER OF CHRISTIAN VII.

CHAPTER VI.

“A DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND.”

1772.

The ill-news from Denmark travelled to England in an incredibly short space of time, considering how slow and difficult was the transmission of news in the eighteenth century. Though nothing definite was known, the air was full of rumours, and the gossips of the clubs and coffee-houses were much exercised over the fate of the Queen of Denmark. The greatest care had been taken to prevent any whisper of the current scandal at the court of Denmark reaching the ears of the English people. The less reputable members of the Opposition, it was thought, would be sure to use the intrigue between the Queen and Struensee as another weapon against the King and the Government. So long back as December 20, 1771, we find Keith writing to Lord Suffolk a private letter detailing the case of one Ball, an English naval surgeon, who had offered his services in aid of the Danish expedition against Algiers. Struensee, who hated every one English, had dismissed his application with scant courtesy, and in revenge Ball had written an angry letter to Struensee, threatening to expose his conduct. Keith continues: “I can hardly suppose that Count Struensee will deign to send an answer to this letter, but, as Mr. Ball has picked up here a number of scandalous stories which might make a figure in a catch-penny pamphlet, I think it my duty to let your Lordship know what may be the possible consequence of his revenging his disappointment by appearing in print. If the Minister was the only person whose name might be mixed up in this altercation, I should be less anxious. Perhaps the Danish envoy in London may obtain for Mr. Ball some additional gratuity which will put an end to the dispute.”[33]

[33] Keith’s despatch, Copenhagen, December 20, 1771.

Whether Ball was muzzled or not there is no record to tell, but the events at the Danish court having culminated in the catastrophe of January 16, it was only a question of time for the scandal to be bruited abroad in every court in Europe, and in England too. As early as January 23 a London newspaper created great excitement by the following paragraph: “It is affirmed by letters from the continent that a royal princess is certainly detained in a tower, inaccessible to every creature, except such as are appointed to attend her, but that an absolute silence is imposed throughout the kingdom on this subject.”[34]

[34] General Evening Post, January 23, 1772.

A few days later Keith’s despatch arrived from Copenhagen, containing a full account of the revolution there, and the arrest and imprisonment of the Queen. Lord Suffolk, the foreign secretary, immediately hastened with it to the King, who was about to hold a levee. George III., who had already heard evil rumours, was so much overcome by this confirmation of them that he immediately put off the levee, and the royal family were thrown into grief and humiliation. Queen Charlotte was highly indignant with her sister-in-law, and went into closest retirement, declaring that she was ashamed to appear in public. The Princess of Brunswick, Matilda’s sister, who was staying in London at the time, wept bitterly. The Princess-Dowager of Wales was seriously ill, and the Princess of Brunswick thought that it was better that her mother should not be told; but the King said: “My mother will know everything”; and therefore he went to her directly, and acquainted her with the contents of Keith’s despatch.

The Princess-Dowager was overwhelmed with affliction at the news of this last family disgrace. She had seen it coming for some time, and made every effort to recall her daughter from the error of her ways; but her remonstrances were unheeded, and her advice neglected, and now the ruin which she had foretold had fallen upon the Queen of Denmark. Only a few months before the Princess-Dowager had been annoyed beyond measure by the marriage of her youngest son, Henry Duke of Cumberland, with Mrs. Horton, a beautiful and designing widow,[35] and she had broken off all communication with him in consequence. Her other son, the Duke of Gloucester, who had contracted a similar marriage, soon to be publicly avowed, had added to her anxieties by a dangerous illness. Her eldest daughter, the Princess of Brunswick, was unhappy in her matrimonial relations. Therefore it is no wonder that the proud Princess’s patience gave way under this last disgrace. In the first moments of her grief and anger she turned her face to the wall and prayed for death, and forbade her children and her servants evermore to mention to her the name of Matilda, who, she declared, had ceased to be her daughter. Well might Walpole write: “Such an accumulated succession of mortifications has rarely fallen on a royal family in so short a space. They seem to have inherited the unpropitious star of the Stuarts, from whom they are descended, as well as their crown.”[36]

[35] The Duchess of Cumberland was the widow of Andrew Horton of Catton, and the daughter of Simon Lord Irnham, afterwards Earl of Carhampton. The marriage took place privately on October 2, 1771, at the Hon. Mrs. Horton’s house in Hertford Street, Mayfair. The King, when apprised of the fact, immediately manifested his displeasure by publishing a notice in the London Gazette to the effect that such persons as might choose to wait upon the Duke and the new Duchess would no longer be received at St. James’s. This marriage was the immediate cause of the passing of the Royal Marriage Act, which made such marriages (if contracted without the consent of the reigning sovereign) in future illegal.

[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]

[39] General Evening Post, February 8, 1772.

The popular curiosity was heightened by the profound secrecy observed by the court and government. So far, nothing definite was known; the King and his ministers were naturally silent. The illness and death of his mother had hindered the King from taking action on Keith’s despatch, and while he was hesitating, another communication arrived from Copenhagen. This was a letter addressed by that wily diplomatist, Osten, to the Danish envoy in London, Baron Dieden, with instructions that he was to communicate its contents to Lord Suffolk at once. This letter threw a different complexion on the affair to that of Keith’s despatch. It assumed the guilt of the Queen, and urged that the King of Denmark was only within his rights in removing his consort from the contaminating presence of her favourite. The matter, Osten urged, was of so delicate and personal a nature that it could not be treated properly by ministers or envoys. The King of Denmark, when he had recovered from the affliction into which the knowledge of his consort’s infidelity had plunged him, would write to his brother of England with his own hand, and he trusted that his Britannic Majesty would suspend judgment until then. A few days later Dieden received another despatch from Osten, enclosing a sealed letter from Christian VII. to George III., and the Danish envoy delivered this letter into the King’s hands at once. This letter, which no doubt Christian had been induced to copy by the dictation of the Queen-Dowager and her advisers, took the same line as Osten’s despatch, though of course it was written in a more intimate and confidential tone, not only as between brother monarchs, but near relatives.

George III., who was already prejudiced against his sister by the way in which she had slighted his advice, and ignored his remonstrances, was not averse from dealing with the difficulty in this way. Though he greatly disliked his cousin, the King of Denmark, and knew the insults and cruelties which had been heaped upon his unhappy sister, yet, as he was of a most moral and domestic nature, he could not find in them any justification for her conduct, and he regarded her offence, if proved, with horror. Osten’s representations were so plausible that the King, when he received Christian VII.’s letter, replied to it in no unyielding spirit; he reserved his judgment, but demanded that his sister should be treated fairly, and every possible respect and indulgence be shown to her. He would not go behind his envoy’s back, in the manner suggested by Osten, for he rightly judged that Keith, being on the spot, would be thoroughly informed of the situation. He therefore gave his letter to Suffolk to transmit to Keith, with instructions that he was to have a personal audience of the King forthwith, and to deliver it into his hands. At the same time Lord Suffolk wrote a despatch to Keith asking for fuller information, and conveying to him in a special manner his Sovereign’s approbation of his conduct.

Keith all this time had remained shut up in his house, in Copenhagen, awaiting instructions from England, and unable, until he received them, to do anything on behalf of the unhappy Queen. The answer to his despatch did not arrive for nearly a month. When at last it came, “in the shape of a sealed square packet, it was placed in Colonel Keith’s hands, and they trembled, and he shook all over as he cut the strings. The parcel flew open, and the Order of the Bath fell at his feet. The insignia had been enclosed by the King’s own hands, with a despatch commanding him to invest himself forthwith, and appear at the Danish court.”[40] What instructions the despatch contained will never be known; but that George III. entirely approved of the way in which his representative had acted is shown by a letter which Lord Suffolk wrote at the same time to Keith’s father:—

“I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of acquainting you with the eminent merit of your son, his Majesty’s minister at Copenhagen, and the honourable testimony his Majesty has been pleased to give of his approbation by conferring on him the Order of the Bath. The ability, spirit and dignity with which Sir Robert Keith has conducted himself in a very delicate and difficult position has induced his Majesty to accompany the honour he bestows with very particular marks of distinction."[41]

[40] Memoirs of Sir Robert Murray Keith.

[41] Lord Suffolk, secretary of state for foreign affairs, to R. Keith, Esq., February 28, 1772.

Fortified with these marks of his Sovereign’s approval, and armed with the King’s letter, Keith, for the first time for many weeks, emerged from his house, and proceeded to the Christiansborg Palace, where he demanded a private audience of the King of Denmark. The audience was promised on the morrow, but when Keith again repaired to the palace, and was conducted to the ante-chamber of the King’s apartments, he was astonished at seeing, instead of the King, Osten and some of the newly appointed ministers, who informed him that, his Majesty not being well, they had been charged to receive the envoy’s communication, and convey it to the King. Keith replied with some indignation that his orders were to deliver his letter into the King’s own hands, and he did not understand why his Danish Majesty, after he had consented to give him audience, should refer him to his ministers. But the ministers only politely expressed their regret, and said they were acting under the King’s orders. The whole scene of course was planned by the Queen-Dowager, who had her own reasons for keeping the English envoy away from the King, as she was determined at all hazards that Matilda should be deposed and disgraced. Keith, who realised that there was something behind, and saw the futility of further remonstrance, reluctantly surrendered the letter; but he added that he should not fail to inform his Sovereign of the way in which he had been treated. He moreover said that his royal master’s letter was a private one to the King, but that he himself had authority to state to the ministers that, if the Queen of Denmark were not treated with all the respect due to her birth and rank, her royal brother of England would not fail to resent it in a manner that would make Denmark tremble. He then withdrew.

Keith must have written a very strongly worded despatch to Lord Suffolk, exposing the trickery of the Danish court, and probably hinting at the Queen’s danger, for though the despatches which passed between him and Suffolk at this time are missing, we know that they became graver and more serious in tone. The relations between the two countries seemed likely to be broken off, for the Danish envoy in England, Dieden, followed Keith’s example, and shut himself up in his house until he should receive instructions. When these instructions came, they could not have been satisfactory, for when the Danish envoy next appeared at court, George III. pointedly ignored him, which the minister resented by standing out of the circle, and laughing and talking with the Prussian minister, whose master also had a dispute with England at this time. Moreover, the Prussian minister had given offence to the King by talking too freely about the scandal at the Danish court. On one occasion he asked a court official with a sneer: “What has become of your Queen of Denmark?”—to which the Englishman made quick reply: “Apparently she is at Spandau with your Princess of Prussia”—a princess who had been divorced for adultery.

The secrecy which still reigned over everything concerning the King’s sister, and the dilatory nature of the negotiations, led to much unfavourable comment in England. The mystery of the Queen of Denmark continued to be the only topic of discussion, both in public and private. Notwithstanding all precautions, well-informed people formed a very shrewd idea of what had taken place at Copenhagen. For instance, on February 28, 1772, Mrs. Carter wrote to Mrs. Vesey: “I have very little intelligence to send you from Denmark, as there is a profound silence at St. James’s on this subject. You know that the unhappy young Queen is imprisoned in a castle dashed by the waves, where she is kept in very strict confinement. I am persuaded you would think it an alleviation of her misfortunes if I could tell you it is the very castle once haunted by Hamlet’s ghost, but of this I have no positive assurance, though, as it is at Elsinur, I think such an imagination as yours and mine may fairly enough make out the rest. In the letter that the King of Denmark wrote to ours, he only mentioned in general terms that the Queen had behaved in a manner which obliged him to imprison her, but that from regard to his Majesty her life should be safe.”[42]

[42] Mrs. Carter’s Letters, vol. iv.

The thought that the young and beautiful Queen—a British princess—was ill-treated and imprisoned, and possibly even in danger of her life, and her brother would not interpose on her behalf, created an extraordinary sensation, and the Opposition, thinking any stick good enough wherewith to belabour the King and his ministers, did not fail to turn the situation to account. It formed the subject of one of the most powerful letters of Junius, who made a terrific onslaught on both the King and the Prime Minister, Lord North, from which we take the following extracts:—

“My Lord,

“I have waited with a degree of impatience natural to a man who wishes well to his country for your lordship’s ministerial interposition on behalf of an injured Princess of England, the Queen-Consort of Denmark.... An insignificant Northern Potentate is honoured by a matrimonial alliance with the King of England’s sister. A confused rumour prevails, that she has been false to his bed; the tale spreads; a particular man is pointed out as the object of her licentious affections. Our hopeful Ministry are, however, quite silent: despatches, indeed, are sent off to Copenhagen, but the contents of those despatches are so profound a secret, that with me it almost amounts to a question whether you [Lord North] yourself know anything of the matter.... In private life the honour of a sister is deemed an affair of infinite consequence to a brother. A man of sentiment is anxious to convince his friends and neighbours that the breath of slander hath traduced her virtue; and he seizes, with avidity, every extenuating circumstance that can contribute to extenuate her offence, or demonstrate her innocence beyond the possibility of cavil. Is our pious Monarch cast in a different mould from that of his people? Or is he taught to believe that the opinion of his subjects has no manner of relation to his own felicity? Are you, my Lord, [North] quite devoid of feeling? Have you no warm blood that flows round your heart, that gives your frame a thrilling soft sensation, and makes your bosom glow with affections ornamental to man as a social creature? For shame, my Lord! However wrong you act, you must know better; you must be conscious that the people have a right to be informed of every transaction which concerns the welfare of the state. They are part of a mighty empire, which flourishes only as their happiness is promoted; they have a kind of claim in every person belonging to the royal lineage. How then can they possibly remain neuter, and see their Princess imprisoned by banditti and northern Vandals?... There is a barbarous ferocity which still clings to the inhabitants of the north, and renders their government subject to perpetual convulsions; but the Danes, I fancy, will be found the only people in our times who have dared to proceed to extremities that alarmed Europe, nay, dared to imprison an English princess without giving even the shadow of a public reason for their conduct.... The present Machiavelian Dowager Julia may send the young Queen’s soul to Heaven in a night, and through the shameless remissness of you, Lord North, as Prime Minister of this unhappy country, the public may remain ignorant of every circumstance relative to the murder. Be not, however, deceived: the blood of our Sovereign’s sister shall not be suffered to cry in vain for vengeance: it shall be heard, it shall be revenged, and, what is still more, it shall besprinkle Lord North, and thus affix a stigma on his forehead, which shall make him wander, like another Cain, accursed through the world.”[43]

[43] This letter, signed “Junius,” appeared in the Gentleman’s Magazine, March 3, 1772.

This attack naturally called forth a counter-attack, and before long the guilt, or innocence, of the King’s sister was as hotly debated in the public press as in the clubs and coffee-houses. But neither the thunders of Junius, nor the shrill cries of those who took the opposite view, made any difference to Lord North, and the nature of the negotiations which were going on between England and Denmark remained as much a mystery as ever. When pressed in Parliament on the subject, the Prime Minister contented himself with answering, with his usual air of frankness, that, unless expressly ordered to do so by the House, he would not reveal so delicate a matter, and in this he was supported by the good sense of the House, which had no wish to see the disgrace of the King’s sister form a subject of debate within the walls of Parliament. Moreover, at this stage it was not a question which concerned ministers, but the King, and the blame for what followed must be laid not on their shoulders, but on his. George III. believed his sister guilty, and did not weigh sufficiently the extenuating circumstances, which, whether guilty or innocent, could be urged in her favour. He did not act at first with that firmness which the situation undoubtedly demanded. The Queen-Dowager of Denmark and her advisers believed the King of England to be luke-warm, and consequently proceeded against his unhappy sister with every circumstance of cruelty and malevolence. If even her brother would not defend her, Matilda was indeed abandoned to the vengeance of her enemies.

CHAPTER VII.

THE IMPRISONED QUEEN.

1772.

All this time the unfortunate Matilda remained at Kronborg, with no consolation except that she was permitted to retain the infant princess. She was still very closely guarded, but after Keith’s spirited protest, the rigours of her imprisonment were slightly abated. Some clothes and other necessaries were sent her from Copenhagen, and by way of keeping up the fiction that she was treated with the respect due to her birth and rank, her suite was increased, and two gentlemen of the bed-chamber and two maids-of-honour were sent to Kronborg. Their duties must have been light, for, confined as the Queen was to one small chamber, they could rarely have seen their mistress during the first months of her sojourn in the fortress. But their presence at Kronborg was a device of the Queen-Dowager to throw dust in the eyes of the English and other courts, for the misfortunes of Matilda were now the subject of conversation in every court in Europe. Moreover, the persons sent to Kronborg were all, as Juliana Maria well knew, personally disliked by the young Queen, and they went rather in the capacity of spies than servants of her household. As it afterwards appeared at her trial, even the women who waited on the Queen were really spies, and her most casual expressions and trifling actions were distorted by these menials into evidence against her. Matilda was allowed no communication with the outer world, and she asked her maid, a woman named Arnsberg, what had become of Struensee. The woman told her he was imprisoned in the citadel. The Queen wept, and asked: “Is he in chains? Has he food to eat? Does he know that I am imprisoned here?” These questions, natural enough under the circumstances, were duly noted by the treacherous woman, and afterwards put in as evidence against the Queen at her trial.

When the first shock was over Matilda bore her imprisonment with fortitude. Her youth and strong constitution were in her favour, and she kept well, notwithstanding her deprivations. We find Keith writing a month after the Queen’s imprisonment: “The Queen of Denmark enjoys perfect health in Hamlet’s castle. I wish the punishment of her cruellest enemies, the late Minister, Struensee, and his associates, were over, that the heat of party might subside, and her Majesty’s situation be altered for the better.”[44]

[44] Keith’s letter to his father, February 14, 1772.

THE COURTYARD OF THE CASTLE OF KRONBORG.
From an Engraving.

In her lonely prison Matilda had ample time for reflection. She reviewed the events of the past few months and her present situation, and she saw, now that it was too late, that the advice and remonstrances of her mother and brother had been given in all good faith. She saw, too, that any hope of deliverance must come from England, and that she could expect nothing from her imbecile husband and the relentless Queen-Dowager and her adherents. For weeks she was kept uncertain of the fate that awaited her; her attendants either would not, or could not, give her any information on this head, and she lived in constant dread of assassination. In her anxiety and alarm she is said to have written impassioned appeals from Kronborg to Keith in Copenhagen, and to her brother George III., throwing herself on the protection of Great Britain.[45] Without accepting the genuineness of any particular letter, it is certain that the Queen managed to enter into communication with Keith, though he was not permitted to see her. Keith had great difficulty with Osten, who spoke fair to his face but granted nothing.

[45] These letters were first published in the English papers early in April, 1772, and the fact that they so appeared is sufficient to cast grave doubts upon their genuineness. It is most unlikely that such letters would have been allowed to pass out of safe keeping. On the contrary, the greatest care was taken that every letter and despatch to England bearing on the Queen’s case should be kept secret, and they were afterwards destroyed by order of George III.

In the middle of February the news of the death of the Princess-Dowager of Wales reached Copenhagen, and Keith made some attempt to break the distressing intelligence to the imprisoned Queen by word of mouth. But here, too, he was foiled by Osten, who would only suffer the intelligence to be communicated to the Queen in a formal letter. Matilda was greatly distressed at her mother’s death, for she knew that she had lost not only her mother, but also a protectress, whose influence with the King of England was all-powerful. To her grief must also have been added a sense of remorse, for she had parted with her mother in anger; she knew, too, how the Princess’s proud spirit must have been abased by the news of her misfortunes, and this probably hastened her death. Yet, even so, Matilda could not forget the man who had brought her to this miserable pass; she hardly thought of herself; all her anxiety was for him and his safety. That he had brought her to shame and ruin made no difference to her love; all her prayers and all her thoughts were of him. Her love was now but a memory, but it was one she cherished dearer than life itself.