When her royal consort’s indisposition assumed an appearance of increased gravity, Queen Adelaide at once took her place by his couch, and never left but when compelled by gentle restraint put upon her by those who loved her, and who feared for her own health. ‘Les reines’ (says a French writer) ‘ont été vues pleurantes comme de simples femmes,’ and she was one of them. Her constancy only gave way, and she broke into profuse but silent tears, on the eve of the old King’s death, as the Archbishop of Canterbury concluded the service of the sick, by pronouncing the solemn words of the benediction as contained in the Liturgy of the Church. The good old monarch looked with affection upon his sorrowing Queen, and with as cheerful a voice as he could put on, and almost in nautical phrase, begged her to be of good heart and to ‘bear up! bear up!’ The Rev. Mr. Browne, Vicar of Atwick, rendering testimony to her conduct on this occasion, said in a funeral sermon: ‘She was by the King’s bedside, a being so full of devoted love and pious resignation, of such meekness, gentleness, and goodness, and sweetness, that an angel might have beheld her with satisfaction and delight, and _almost with advantage_.’ She did her duty like a true wife and tender woman; and Mr. Browne thought that, altogether, Queen Adelaide might have afforded an useful hint or two even to angels! It is more than the good Queen ever dreamed of. The Archbishop of Canterbury was in close attendance upon the King during the last days of his life, in 1837, and in the course of his ministrations saw more of Queen Adelaide than any other individual there present had the opportunity of doing. At a meeting of the Metropolitan Churches’ Fund Society, the primate went fully, but tenderly and sensibly, into this solemn matter; and after rendering due, but not over-piled, measure of justice to the King, spoke in these words of his consort:--‘For three weeks prior to his dissolution the Queen sat by his bedside, performing for him every office which a sick man could require, and depriving herself of all manner of rest and refection. She underwent labours which I thought no ordinary woman could endure. No language can do justice to the meekness and to the calmness of mind which she sought to keep up before the King, while sorrow was preying on her heart. Such constancy of affection, I think, was one of the most interesting spectacles that could be presented to a mind desirous of being gratified with the sight of human excellence.’